Everything Belongs to Us

by Yoojin Grace Wuertz

  “No one is listening,” she said. And it was true. The house was like an empty museum, heavy with the collected silence of artifacts. Only her suite of rooms with the balcony overlooking the garden felt like a living, breathing oasis.

  “But they must know I’m here?”

  “Maybe. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t matter to you or them?”

  “Doesn’t matter means doesn’t matter. How many times are you going to look through the same records?”

  Sunam didn’t understand it but eventually accepted that he could come and go as he pleased and never see anyone other than Jisun. They would lie naked in her bed, sometimes not even having sex, just lying there, her head propped on his shoulder. Whole afternoons would melt away, one into the next. They’d have something classical and repetitive on the stereo, Bach or Handel, and make loose, disjointed conversation until one of them felt sweaty and moved to open a window.

  They talked about nothing important: where to eat mandoo, swimming at the beach, body hair. She showed off her knowledge of penis trivia.

  “Did you know, the gangsters constantly cut the tip to make it scar?”

  “What? No.”

  “The women at the factory told me, they’ve seen it. They keep at it to make more scar tissue. They make them look like flowers on a stalk.”

  “To scare off their rivals? Come on, why would they do that? Some kind of macho mutilation? Don’t tell me it’s just for show.”

  “Not just for show. Better for the ladies.”

  More quickly than he liked to admit, Sunam grew comfortable and then brazen, staying long stretches of the afternoon into evening. Laughing at the irreverent jokes Jisun made at her father’s expense. As long as he was wrapped in her world, he felt insulated from reality. No past or future, only a buried and distorted present in which he was invincible and free.

  Didn’t I tell you—love mucks everything up.

  Sunam hurried to his bus stop, trying to lose Tae, whom he’d unfortunately run into after his economics lecture.

  “Seems like you’ve been keeping yourself busy these days,” Tae was saying. “Hard to see your face around here.”

  To tune him out, Sunam counted steps in his head, resetting to zero each time he reached the twelfth step.

  “Guess you’ve been busy with that genius girlfriend of yours. Must not be easy keeping up with her.”

  Seven eight nine ten.

  “You know, of course, about her sister. I’m sorry to tell you I saw her myself. Last weekend. I mean, not that way, of course. I saw her at the bar. Looks like she’s just pouring drinks now—she having triplets or what?”

  Two three four five six.

  “Must be tough on the family. Well. At least you got the good one.”

  Sunam said, “This is my stop.”

  “What about the car?”

  “What car?”

  Tae indicated the corner, where a long black car was idling, the dark tinted window cracked a sliver on the driver’s side.

  “That’s not for me,” Sunam said, but the driver had come out of the car and was walking toward them with unmistakable purpose. He had a limp and an exaggerated side part in his hair, slick with grease. It was like watching something happen to him in a dream. He felt the urge to run, but his feet stayed rooted to the sidewalk.

  The driver stopped in front of them. “I’m here to take you to your meeting.”

  “I don’t have a meeting.” Sunam glanced at the car. He had heard of student activists being picked up by black cars and never seen again, but he had never been remotely involved in a protest or underground group. It was probably just a mistake, a mix-up—someone saying the wrong name or thinking he looked approximately familiar. He squared his shoulders and forced himself to stay calm. As long as he didn’t get in the car, he would be fine. “You must have me confused with someone else,” he said. “I have nothing to do with you.” He started to walk away, but the man stopped him with a firm grip on his arm.

  “You have a meeting with Mr. Ahn,” he said. “You know who he is?”

  Mr. Ahn. Jisun’s father.

  Satisfied, the driver turned and walked back to the car without waiting to see if Sunam was following. Tae let out a low whistle. “Fancy friends,” he said.

  Sunam knew the story would find its way around campus, the narrative framed as Tae saw fit. With this in mind, he tried to act undaunted, the hero of his story instead of the frightened victim. He tipped his head toward the car. “When the boss calls, you answer,” he said with as much bravado as he could muster. It must have been enough. When the car pulled away from the curb, Tae was still standing there. As they passed, he saluted Sunam with a mixture of amusement and envy.

  “What is this about? I didn’t know about any appointment.” The plush luxury of the car, which would have impressed him under different circumstances, now filled him with dread. They were heading toward the river, and he wondered if he would be taken to the house and ambushed with some kind of forced confession involving Jisun. His mind instantly supplied the appropriate scenes stolen from movies: Jisun thrown to the ground to grovel for forgiveness, only to be hauled out by her hair. And what would happen to him? A beating in the rain while he maintained undying devotion?

  In fact the sky was cloudless. And Jisun was more likely to laugh in her father’s face than fall to her knees weeping. Nor would Sunam voluntarily endure a beating for love or any other reason.

  “Driver, can you tell me anything? Stop the car.”

  The driver ignored him.

  —

  THE OFFICE WAS a study in navy and light wood, polished to a high sheen. The grain of the wood was wavy and irregular, reminding Sunam of sunlight refracted through a clear lake. He could sense the richness of it, almost smell its vitality. Yet compared with the grandeur of the rooms in Ahn’s house, his office was human-sized, designed for utility.

  On the low table between their armchairs were two steaming cups of tea and a plate of sliced pears, each glistening sliver garnished with a bamboo toothpick. The tea was too hot, but Sunam gulped it anyway, scalding his tongue and sending a searing pain through his mouth. From everything he had heard about the great Ahn Kiyu, he had developed a certain mental picture: a man whose physical presence evoked words such as executive and tycoon. In reality, Ahn, wearing a white buttoned shirt and loose brown trousers, reminded Sunam of a senior mathematics professor. He stood at average height, with slender neck and shoulders, trim waist, and long, wiry limbs. His face, on the brief occasions that he smiled, erupted into a series of vertical wrinkles from cheekbone to chin.

  “I hope I haven’t disrupted your schedule today,” he said in a cordial voice, as if they were business associates conducting the prelude to an important deal.

  “That’s all right,” Sunam said. He had planned to see Jisun today. It struck him that Ahn might know that as well. He cleared his throat and said, “I was just planning to study with my girlfriend in the library. She’s always there, but I’m…not nearly so disciplined. I’ll join her after this.”

  “You mean Namin,” said Ahn.

  “Yes, I forgot you must know her well.”

  “An extremely bright young woman. Very determined. I’m sure she will go far.”

  “Yes.”

  “You say you’re not as disciplined?” said Ahn. “Are you less interested in your future than she is in hers?”

  “Less interested? No. Just not as talented.”

  “Not as motivated, perhaps.”

  It was uncomfortable chatting like this when he still had no idea why he had been summoned. When he’d arrived he was almost certain that Ahn must know about him and Jisun, but the more time passed in small talk, the less likely it seemed. Surely he would have said something by now, or at least given some signal of displeasure. Instead, Ahn seemed…if not exactly jovial, then friendly. His manner of conversation seemed to say he understood more about Sunam than he might have thought. Such as: His g
irlfriend was leagues more motivated and brilliant than he was. And: He did not deserve such an extraordinary young woman’s affections. And: He needed to try harder to keep up with her. But these were gentle, almost sympathetic, criticisms. Despite his formidable reputation, Ahn did not seem to know what was happening under his own roof.

  Ahn helped himself to a piece of fruit, carefully removing the toothpick and popping the morsel into his mouth with his fingers instead. His white teeth flashed as he chewed. He wiped his fingers on a handkerchief before reaching for another slice, once again removing the toothpick and grabbing with his fingers—a strange ritual mixing fastidiousness and blunt appetite.

  “Eat,” said Ahn, pushing the plate in Sunam’s direction. Sunam hastily grabbed the piece closest to him by the toothpick—then removed it and ate with his fingers as Ahn had done. The juice was not sticky, but he did not have anything to wipe his hands on. With a sly look, the old man passed him the handkerchief he had been using and watched as Sunam uncomfortably blotted his hands.

  “You must be wondering why I’ve asked you to come,” Ahn said. “Or do you already know?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  Ahn studied him for a long moment. “I’m not surprised to hear you say that, but I am disappointed. Then I’ll be clear. It’s about my daughter, Jisun. I believe you two know each other quite well.”

  A large muscle in Sunam’s eye spasmed, and for a horrifying second, he worried that it had appeared as a wink. Quickly he scrubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. If the old man noticed, his expression did not change. “As you know, I have two children. The elder, my son, has returned to his studies in Germany.”

  “The former president of the Circle,” Sunam said, eager to show his knowledge of Min and steer the conversation away from Jisun. It dawned on him that perhaps Ahn needed him in the same capacity that he might be using Juno. An informant. Perhaps it had come to his attention that he and Jisun were friends and he wanted a closer observer than Juno, who was certainly not her friend. If that was the case, if Ahn wanted another spy, then the matter was simple. He would refuse. Unequivocally. It was sheer relief to have figured it out, to know that he was prepared to do the right thing in the face of pressure.

  “Yes. President of the Circle,” repeated Ahn with thick condescension. “He would like to be president of every circle he stumbles over. Every circle, every square. The triangles, too, why not?”

  “You disapprove of the Circle?”

  “The Circle is not the problem,” he said. “I’m talking about my son. No vision, no discipline, but popular everywhere he goes. Beloved. He lives to be beloved. If I leave my company to him, he will run it competently. And when he feels he has done enough, he will sell it to one of his new foreign friends. Someone as foolish as he, with deep enough pockets.

  “One day I must choose an heir who will not sell my legacy, who will protect what I’ve built and grow it,” Ahn said. “Between my son and daughter, I have one adequate option, and one wild. But I prefer the girl. Even as children, she had the stronger mind. She knew her own will completely. So you see why you must not interfere.”

  Interfere? Sunam had been listening as if hypnotized by Ahn’s voice, stunned by the revelations the old man was sharing. He could not imagine a father who would feel dissatisfied by a son of Min’s capacity and who would perversely bet on the daughter, who despised and opposed him.

  “She may be the stronger, but she will never see it your way.” Sunam didn’t know where he was getting the courage to speak like this, but he had nothing to lose.

  “Have you ever noticed, Sunam, how someone like my daughter, who is so headstrong, so decisive, can change one hundred eighty degrees when she sets her mind to changing? With the right circumstances, the right influences. She is still young and I have time to wait. And watch. So you see.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” Sunam said.

  “I believe I have been exceedingly candid with you, more than the situation required,” Ahn said coldly. “I expect the same courtesy in return. I was notified several weeks ago by a hotel employee. You were at the Intercontinental with my daughter. You were there overnight. These last weeks, you have been in my home a dozen times. I have no need for the details of your relationship, but I will make myself clear. There’s a long way ahead before Jisun finds her proper path. She resists it now, but there is time, as I said, for change. In the meantime I see numerous obstacles which may prove costly for her future.”

  “I have no intention of obstructing her future,” Sunam said. He hoped to match Ahn’s icy tone, but he knew he sounded anything but calm. Ahn knew everything and yet he had conducted this meeting as if his interests were purely abstract. The emotional aspects of his daughter’s entanglements did not factor at all. Sunam understood the facts, but he struggled to catch up to the implications of Ahn’s knowledge. His mind buzzed stupidly. He was a cartoon character after a decisive knockout, his bruised and battered cranium surrounded by whirling stars.

  “You were not the obstacle I had in mind, but let’s begin with you. I’m not an unreasonable man, Sunam, and I remember what it is to be young. To be young is to be passionate and full of unmade mistakes. At this age it is easy to make big swings. Everything is potential. You form attachments that feel life changing, momentous. And suddenly a relationship that should have lasted mere weeks or months becomes a lifetime—and both people are ruined.

  “I know you are not the one to ruin her,” he said, answering Sunam’s question before it had fully formed in his mind. “The American missionary—Peter, was it?—was a concern. Fortunately they have been separated for the time being. But I would prefer to have more security.

  “Let me speak to you frankly, as men. It would have been smarter to stay where you were with Namin. But now you are mixed up. A girl like her, Namin, who is already on her path, will not tolerate this kind of betrayal. You’ve made it difficult for yourself. No doubt you must see that.”

  Sunam squirmed silently, unable to defend himself. This was a narrative of his present circumstances in the most efficient, factual manner possible. And yet there was the unspoken hint of threat. Sunam had made it difficult for himself, Ahn seemed to say, but it could easily be worse. Was it exposure he was threatening? It would take only a tap for Sunam to tumble the long way down.

  He saw now that the conversation was building to this—the enumeration of his many failures so that Ahn could provide the solution, which he would likely have no choice but to take. Some ruthless answer that would either slay or save him. His adrenaline ratcheted between fear and anticipation, wondering how the boss would play the next step and how he would respond.

  Ahn stood up and walked back to his desk. He opened a drawer and retrieved a black lacquered box. The box was the size of two encyclopedias, stacked atop each other. Its cover was inlaid with fiery bursts of abalone and mother-of-pearl, its brass hinges etched with roses. He placed it on the table. It breathed between them like a living thing, daring Sunam to touch it.

  Ahn lifted the lid to reveal ten-thousand-won notes, neatly cordoned with red bands. As casually as choosing cigarettes from a pack, he selected two bundles and slid them in front of Sunam. The impact of that simple action wiped his mind blank, and he stared at the bills without understanding. He had never seen money so pristine, so utterly divorced from the concept of commerce. These were brand-new bills so stiff and clean they looked as edible as the fruit on the plate. Sunam could pick one up and lick it.

  “This is a payment in good faith,” Ahn said. “A million won. Just a taste of the future if you agree to meet my conditions.”

  Sunam stared at Ahn in alarm. He was so staggered by the easy mention of this amount—as if they were speaking of a simple lunch bill and not the equivalent of a college graduate’s annual salary—that the notion of payment and the accompanying questions—to whom? for what?—came as an aftershock. He could not imagine that Ahn was actually offering him the money stac
ked so neatly in front of him, nor could he fathom the possible meaning of such a gesture.

  Ahn continued calmly, ignoring Sunam’s stupefaction. “My conditions are simple. You will continue to see my daughter. It is my preference that you see her for four years—the remaining years of your education and the year following. You will keep her occupied, away from the American or anyone else who might disrupt my plans for her future. After that she will go abroad to study like her brother. At that time, you will release her without any encumbrances. I call these my preferences, as of course I cannot force you to continue the relationship, as you cannot force her. But if you can manage until graduation, there will be another payment, far more sizable. Furthermore, you may expect a long career of your choice in one of my companies. I never forget a favor—or a job well done.”

  The arrogance and foresight of the plan cut off Sunam’s breath. Now he understood. Ahn had merely been biding his time, calculating the ways in which he might use Sunam to his advantage, devising the perfect solution. And who was he? A placeholder, someone who could safely occupy Jisun’s time until the critical phase of her life could be activated abroad. He was being offered a princely reward for the privilege of distracting Ahn’s daughter. The prize represented the total fulfillment of his wildest ambitions. In his heart, Sunam knew this was the closest he might ever get to achieving them. It should have been an exhilarating prospect, akin to being shown a dazzling future all within his reach. And yet the insult of being considered a voiceless pawn in Ahn’s plan gnawed at his pride.

  Far from being considered a threat, Ahn had cast him as the collaborator, docile and trouble-free. More than anything, it was this realization that humiliated Sunam.

  I know you are not the one to ruin her.

  “Without encumbrances?” he said bitterly, recklessly. “Do you expect people to just turn a switch according to a date on a calendar? And what happens if it doesn’t end in four years, if your schedule is violated?”