by Young-Ha Kim
If he hadn’t answered the phone that night, the day crew would have discovered his cold corpse the next morning.
It was the police. They had found his wife up in the mountains, and he needed to come to the station to identify the body.
The body laid out in the morgue was indeed Mira. While Seongmin was out at a cybercafé, Mira had broken the lock on the kitchen door, got lost in the mountains, and had an accident. Several days later, when her family showed up for the first time in ages, Yunseok attacked them in the near-empty funeral parlor: “Were you all waiting for Mira to die? Why did you wait till now to show up? Why?”
His father-in-law apologized. When Yunseok asked what he was sorry for, he said for not raising Mira properly. This only made Yunseok angrier.
“Sir, what did Seongmin’s mom do? None of it was Mira’s fault. If anyone’s to blame . . .” He couldn’t finish. If anyone was to blame, it was probably Seongmin. For being born, for not crying even when kidnapped, for not helping his mother when they’d barely managed to reunite. But he couldn’t bring himself to say any of this, so he stopped. His brother-in-law nearly grabbed Yunseok by the throat and dragged him out of the funeral parlor.
But Yunseok returned later and waited for his son. He had sent dozens of text messages, so Seongmin would certainly know by now that his birth mother was dead, but his son never showed up. In the end, Yunseok managed the funeral alone. He had her cremated and took home the urn with her ashes. It felt as if Mira had somehow wanted to escape this house drowning in flyers.
Seongmin returned just after the funeral procession ended. Only his son’s gaunt appearance diminished his father’s hurt.
Yunseok asked, “Where were you?”
“Daegu.”
“Why Daegu?”
“I wanted to see my mother at the cemetery.”
“Mother? Which mother? Your mother died here, not in Daegu. All while you were in a cybercafé.”
“Why do you only act like this with me?” Seongmin gazed directly up at him.
“Why do I ‘act like this’?”
Seongmin said, “It wasn’t my fault. Did I want to be kidnapped? Wasn’t my kidnapping your fault, and Mom’s? So why do you keep acting like it’s my fault?”
“If anyone’s to blame, it was your abductor, her alone. That person you call Mom, that crazy woman did this to us.”
Seongmin said, “We can’t change the past, no matter whose fault it is. So can’t we return to living like before?”
“Living like before—how? That woman is dead. You can’t go back. You have to live here, with me.”
“I hate it here.”
“What do you want to do, then?”
Seongmin looked around at the flyers piled everywhere, and the moldy walls, then stared at Yunseok with disgust, making clear that he wanted Yunseok to see his disgust.
“I mean, I really hate it here.”
“Then this is what we’ll do.”
Yunseok had inherited a small plot of land and a storehouse in his hometown from his father. He had long before sold the field in his search for Seongmin; all that was left was the storehouse. It could be converted into a small home, and he still had a few relatives in the area. “How would you like to move out there, live off the land?” he asked. “We’ll make a fresh start together.”
Seongmin said, “Whatever. You’ll get to decide in the end anyway.”
A few months later, they moved back to Yunseok’s hometown. He had a heating system and kitchen installed in the storehouse. Though the structure wasn’t zoned for a residence like that, they were so deep in the country, there was no one around to complain. He rented an abandoned mine in the mountains behind the house and began growing mushrooms there. It wasn’t exactly successful, but life in the country didn’t cost much, and since he could grow basic produce, they were better off than in the city. Seongmin entered middle school, and soon enough started high school. Then one day he left and never came back.
* * *
Two years later, a young woman drove into the village, then waited on a wooden bench until Yunseok returned from the mine. She was young, her complexion still dewy, with a trace of pimples across her forehead.
Yunseok said, “Don’t I know you? You look familiar.”
“I’m Boram, Lee Boram. I used to live just south of here, in Maseok-ri.”
She had disappeared from the area around the same time that Seongmin left home. She had been raised by her grandparents, who cried and pestered Yunseok for months to find Boram. When they finally realized that it was useless to try, they stopped coming over.
He said, “What are you doing here, of all places? Where’s Seongmin?”
“Actually, I was looking for Seongmin. I thought he might be here.”
“No, I haven’t heard from him since he left.”
Boram dawdled, digging her heels in the dirt.
She said, “I need to get back . . .” Only then, she got to the point. “He—Seongmin—took my money with him. It was all my savings.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
He asked, “Was it a lot?”
“To me, yes.”
“How much was it?”
“Five million won.”
He paused.
She said, “I don’t understand. Why did Seongmin do that?”
“Humans are a mystery to begin with.” Yunseok looked straight into her face. “I can’t give you interest on it, but I’ll give you what he took.”
He told her to wait, and from the closet withdrew his savings from the mushroom business. Five million won was a large sum for a young girl. He withdrew the money from an envelope and slowly counted it out. After repeatedly checking that the sum equaled exactly five million won, he hesitated, then added an extra three hundred thousand won to the envelope.
But when he went outside, the girl was gone. Her car was gone, too. A baby’s car seat was on the bench by the door. A tiny infant gazed up at him, then burst into tears. The girl had tucked a pink slip of paper into the baby’s clothes. It read: The baby is Seongmin’s. Seongmin disappeared, and I’m incapable of raising her. Please take good care of her.
When his right hand grasped the baby’s left, the baby’s tears halted abruptly and she stared wide-eyed at him. He gently shook the baby’s arms from top to bottom. The baby’s feet squirmed as if she were ticklish.
Yunseok sat on the bench. Still holding the baby’s hands, he continued looking at the small, fragile life that had found him.
The Writer
1
Once there was a man in a mental hospital convinced that he was a cob of corn. After extensive therapy and numerous consultations with his doctor, the man only just managed to grasp that he wasn’t a cob of corn, and the doctor recommended his discharge. But within days, the man frantically returned to the hospital, frightened out of his wits.
The doctor asked him, “What happened?”
The man said, “The chickens keep chasing me. I almost died of fright.”
The man was trembling and kept looking fearfully behind him as if he were still being chased by chickens.
The doctor said soothingly, “You’re a human being, not a cob of corn. You’re now well enough to understand that.”
The patient said, “I might understand. But the chickens don’t.”
2
Suji had arrived at the café before me and was solving a sudoku puzzle. She enjoyed games where you filled in the blanks, like sudoku or crossword puzzles.
I said, “You’ve gotten better.”
“How’d you know that?”
“I can tell.”
Actually, I couldn’t.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yeah, I had chicken, teriyaki chicken.”
She turned back to the sudoku. After filling in a few blank spaces with numbers, she pushed it aside.
I asked, “How are you these days?”
At my question, Suji began twirling strands of hair around her finger.
She did this whenever she didn’t want to answer.
“Hard to say. How are you?”
“I was going to say that.”
“Shouldn’t you be sure?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You really don’t know?”
“I don’t.”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “You’re a shameless, pathetic human being.”
I instinctively pulled back. “Sorry,” I said.
“Is that all? Sorry?”
“I’ve got writer’s block. What can I do when the words won’t come? I’ve got to write to earn money, and I’ve got to earn money in order to send you some.”
“You think Jjong and I are beggars?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. Who said anything about beggars?”
She gazed out the window and blew her nose.
I asked, “How is Jjong?”
“So you didn’t forget her name.”
“I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”
“When?”
“A little while ago. Anyway, I’m sorry about how things turned out.”
She blew her nose again, then looked directly at me.
She said, “My boss is about to eat me alive.”
“Why?”
“As soon as he acquired the company, he ordered each editor to submit all their book contracts. Also, he wanted a list of the writers who were paid their advances but haven’t delivered a manuscript.”
“My name must be on the list.”
She said, “Probably at the very top.”
“Where’d you say the new publisher’s from?”
“From Wall Street.”
“Why’d such a hotshot acquire a snot-sized publishing house in Korea?” I asked.
“We’re not that small a company.”
“That so?”
“He wants to run it American-style.”
“So if I don’t turn in my manuscript, he’ll blindfold me and take me to Guantánamo?”
“First he’ll issue an ultimatum, and if you don’t produce, he’ll sue.”
“What? He’ll sue? Is that why he sent you, to deliver the ultimatum? Does he have any clue that we were once hitched?”
“He does. That kind of stuff doesn’t seem to matter in America. Or maybe he thinks that I’ll get through to you fastest.”
“I hate America. Those imperialists!”
“I don’t like the country either.”
“I despise it.”
“What are you going to do? Are you going to cough up the advance? Or do you want to negotiate a new deadline?”
“And if I don’t do either?”
“Then our in-house lawyer will give you a call.”
“When did the publishing world become so brutal?”
Suji said, “Mansu . . .”
She suddenly looked somber. She always called me this when a serious subject—money—came up.
“I hadn’t planned on bringing this up.”
“Then don’t. Preferably forever.”
“I won’t ask for the overdue alimony payments. If—”
“If?”
“Well, Jjong—I don’t know all the details, but your daughter Jjong apparently applied on her own initiative to some American universities.”
“Don’t we have universities in Korea? Anyway, so?”
“They contacted us.”
“The bitter taste of failure can teach you a lot at her age. Tell her not to be too discouraged.”
“UCLA, Iowa, Pennsylvania State University, and about two others whose names I don’t remember. Anyway, believe it or not, five universities sent her acceptances.”
“That’s truly amazing. How did we get such a brilliant daughter when neither of us is all that bright?”
“There’s no scholarship money. She says it’s normal for undergraduate programs.”
“Can I smoke in here?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I knew it. It didn’t make sense. I heard that the good universities give scholarships, even for undergrad.”
“Jjong said that she only applied to universities with low tuition fees on purpose.”
“Does that mean she could’ve gone to the pricy private ones like Stanford, too?”
“If she’d had a more responsible dad, she would’ve applied to those schools, too.”
“Why does everything end up being my fault?”
“Now it all depends on you,” Suji stated solemnly.
I made a dismissive gesture. “When did writers ever have any money? You already know I’ve gone through the advance. Asking, when you know my situation. I’m drowning in debt.”
“Fine. Then you tell Jjong. Tell her it’s a real shame, but she has to give up because her parents don’t have the money. I can’t tell her.”
“Why’s she so shrewd?” I asked. “Where does a high school student get the idea that she has to go to college in America? Is it watching too many American TV shows? When we were young, we were just so grateful if our parents sent us to a college in Seoul.”
Jjong had had a will of iron since she was young, and she couldn’t stand losing. She would pull all-nighters studying in elementary school, and would wail if she so much as lost playing a board game. The luckiest moment of my life was when her mother and I separated, and little Jjong chose her mother and left me.
I added, “It looks like I’ll be a pauper soon, once the hotshot Wall Street president sues me, so how could I cover her tuition? Does that make any sense?”
Suji sighed and lowered her eyes.
“Jjong said to loan her the first semester’s tuition and dorm housing.” Suji’s voice faltered. “She—she wants a loan. And she said she’ll pull together the rest somehow. Just a kid, but she picks up on everything.”
Suji seemed a blink away from crying.
I tried calming her down right away. “Can’t you help her? Doesn’t Wall Street pay you a salary?”
“You know what publishing is like.”
“All right, all right. Then what should I do?”
“Write that novel quickly. There’s no other way. It’s the only thing you know how to do to make good money. I’ll make things right with the boss. You know it’s been ages since you’ve had a novel out. If you publish one now, it should do well. I’ll cobble something together for the first semester’s tuition, then you find a way to manage the rest from there.”
“Isn’t there another editor in the house besides you? What kind of publisher sends you to collect a manuscript from your ex-husband?”
Suji tried to pacify me. “Stop being angry and just think about it. You’re a good writer. You’ll be recreating the glory of your debut. Stop running away and let yourself really write. This could become a good opportunity.”
“I’ve never run away and I’ve never held back while writing. I’ve given it my best every single time!”
“True, true. That’s true,” Suji agreed halfheartedly. “So, any chance you’re working on something right now?”
This is her playing the role of editor.
“Well. I’ve got some words down, but it’s still a secret.”
“It must be pretty good if it’s a secret.”
“I won’t know till I’m done. Meanwhile, I’m working hard.”
All writers tell their editors the same lie.
“What is it? I’ll keep it to myself.”
All editors pretend they believe what their writers say.
“It’s about a traveling circus troupe during the Japanese colonial period, told in the style of Latin American magical realism.”
I made up whatever came to me.
It’s good to drop in magical realism or surrealism when you’re talking to your editor about a book. That way, you get the editor’s imagination going, and soon enough they’ve taken to your story.
She said, “It sounds fascinating!”
I’ve even won over my ex-wife. This is precisely the magical and real power of m
agical realism.
“But here’s the thing—I heard that the last surviving member of the circus troupe lives in New York. I need to interview him, but it’s not like New York is next door, and it’s outrageously expensive. Plus, there’s no guarantee I’ll actually find him . . . So I’m not making any progress. Even if it is magical realism, it still has to be supported by facts.”
Her eyes flashing, she leaned over the table.
“My boss has a studio apartment in Manhattan. He bought it planning to go back and forth, but it’s empty right now since he’s in Seoul. Should I ask for you? If he knows you’d be writing your novel there, he’d gladly loan it to you.”
“You seem to know a lot about your boss.”
“So will you go or not?”
“Don’t you have to ask him first?”
“First tell me what you think.”
“It’s as if it’s your house.”
“Are you going to keep this up?”
“All right, I’ll go. I’ll go.”
“You’re doing the right thing. It’s a good opportunity.”
“But isn’t your boss married?”
“You’re doing it again. Being pathetic.”
“At least tell me that much. I’m so curious I can barely stand it. Is he married?”
“They’re separated.”
“You sure it’s not, ‘He says they’re separated’?”
“Don’t pick at my words.”
“Separated . . . That’s what they all say.”
This last comment got to her.
“Don’t you feel ashamed when you think about Jjong? How can you say that when you aren’t even a decent father?”
“All right, all right, sorry. Okay, I am kind of pathetic. Fine. Then how about this. Could you politely ask your most respected boss for a free few months’ loan of his amazing New York apartment, in the heart of Manhattan, to a pitiful writer in a slump who can’t even meet his submission deadline? I’ll most gratefully work on my novel and complete it by the due date, so please entreat him in my place to forgive me for the previous breach of contract.”
“You’re being a pain.”
“Okay.”
Suji drove back to work, but I stayed in the café. Whenever I met her, I strangely found myself relapsing into my immature past self. I act like a baby, provoke her, beg for consolation. I’m not a cob of corn anymore, truly not a cob of corn, but since Suji doesn’t realize this, the fact that I’m no longer a cob of corn doesn’t matter one iota. I looked up as I left the café. All I saw in the overcast sky was a swarm of plump pigeons.