by Young-Ha Kim
3
I have two friends who both have sex partners. One teaches philosophy at a university while writing poetry, and the other writes poetry while running a café. But the café manager writes far more complex poems than the philosophy professor. Anyway, they despise each other. We used to go bar hopping together, but that time’s long past. Once I asked my philosophy friend about his sex partner, and he answered:
“Some people believe there’s an exchange between sex partners. I don’t agree. Exchange? Of what? Just like countries at war don’t exchange war, or baduk players don’t exchange baduk, sex isn’t something sex partners exchange. I don’t meet her for an exchange, but so that I can waste. Together, we use up our time and our energy. But that’s the concept behind sex: positive waste. That heavy concept of ‘to have sex’—I discard it the way a dump truck does sand, and I return home feeling lighter. The way Wittgenstein would see it, we’re sharing a box called ‘sex partner.’ It doesn’t matter what’s inside the box, as we’ve agreed that it’s called ‘sex partner.’ We don’t open the box. So long as we don’t take off the lid, we’re safe.”
The woman that Philosophy is wasting concepts with is Café’s wife.
I asked, “How often do you two meet a month?”
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I can’t say exactly. Sometimes we meet every week, other times we don’t see each other the whole month. Why’re you asking?”
“You know I’m a Proustian kind of novelist, curious about everything. But once a month? When that day approaches, you must stink like a city with its sanitation workers on strike, since the concept of ‘to have sex’ must have piled up in your venerable mind.”
Philosophy spun his beer glass in his hand. He did this when he was in a foul mood. He did this for a while, then said sarcastically, “Then what about you? How do you take care of the concept?”
“I don’t take care of a concept, but the fluids. In all sorts of ways. We fiction writers, we need to be realistic.”
“Do you really think it’s that simple?” he objected. “In your work you actually begin with a concept, then add the flesh of the real to it. You set out with an idea, then add flesh. So no matter what you say, you also first have to deal with a concept.”
“Novels don’t work that way. They’re extremely concrete. When the heart moves, the mind obeys. We’re built differently from poets or critics. We’re the marines of literature, its manual laborers and butcher shop owners.”
He said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about your certainty.”
Cynical. Definitely a philosopher.
* * *
I once asked my café friend, “What do you call your girl?”
My friend, who now resembled the retired pro wrestler he really was, became a little shy when he talked about girls.
He said, “To be honest, we use nicknames for each other. I’ve probably used over a hundred nicknames on her, ’cause we call each other a new name every time we meet. The more meaningless the name, the better. I’ve called her anything from ‘my chair with a broken leg’ to ‘my very empty steamed bun.’”
“Have you ever called her ‘sex partner,’ even as a joke? Or at least abbreviated, like ‘sexpa’?”
“Some moms these days apparently call their sons ‘Son.’ It makes me uneasy every single time—it’s as if the mom has crossed some line. Once she calls her son ‘Son,’ any form of buffer zone between the two disappears. It’s the same for sex partners. What I mean is, if you want to grill something in a frying pan, you’ve got to first surround it with cooking oil. That way, they won’t stick to each other.”
“Wait a minute. That girl, what did you say she does for a living again?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it to you.”
Leading questions are my specialty, but they don’t work so well on someone who’s used to them.
“All right. Then I’ll ask again. What’s she do for a living?”
“She’s an army officer.”
“Really?”
“I drive to Gangwon-do every weekend, since she’s stationed near the border. It’d be problematic for rumors to spread in such a small neighborhood, so she changes out of uniform and disguises herself with makeup, then heads out to a nearby city, farther south from the border, for our rendezvous.”
“I see.”
“I’ve had a thing for girls in uniform since I was young.”
He became even more embarrassed.
“Is the phrase ‘girls in uniform’ a type of cooking oil?”
“Yeah. That’s why I can be ‘the guy into girls in uniform.’ Of course, since you’re a fiction writer, you got it right away.”
“Isn’t she in civilian clothes when you’re together?”
“Civilian clothes, that’s right. But the fact that she has to ‘get changed’ in order to meet me, that gets me excited. Other girls ‘get dressed’ to meet a guy, but she’s got to ‘change clothes’ to meet me.”
Café, rattling on and drunk on his own words, doesn’t know that his wife is sleeping with Philosophy and discarding the heavy concept of “to have sex” with him. Since ancient times, the husband has been the last to know. Likewise, Café’s wife and Philosophy don’t know that Café is sharing cooking oil in a frying pan with a female officer. They just believe that Café is wild about fishing.
4
Suji called, saying that her boss wanted to meet me.
I asked, “Are you coming together?”
She said, “No, he wants to see you alone.”
When we met, her boss was wearing a well-fitted navy blazer, white slacks, rust-colored loafers. He reminded me of a kid from the Gangnam district with well-off parents, the kind more likely to run a golf shop than a publishing firm. He had large eyes but a small nose and narrow lips, and deep dark circles under his eyes that gave him a raccoon look.
We settled into a bar in the Samcheong neighborhood and drank Bordeaux with a platter of ham and cheese. We brought up the typical topics, from the publishing industry slump to the chaotic political situation in Korea, then dropped them.
Finally he said, “Mr. Bak.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be truthful. I’m a hardcore fan.”
Perhaps. I didn’t respond and just smiled ambiguously. He then pulled out a shopping bag and placed it on the table.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Copies of your books, of course. I brought them for you to sign.”
One glance told me that it was the complete collection of my books, from my debut to my latest. Suji had probably packed them up for him. I didn’t let my guard down and checked the copyright page of a few he pulled out. Unexpectedly, they were all first print runs.
“Are these all really first editions?”
“Yes. I told you, I’m a real fan.”
Raccoon looked embarrassed as he scratched at his hair. I began signing them one at a time. As he’d said, each was a first edition. Even more intriguing was that the margins of the pages were crammed with notes. When I tried to get a better look, he seemed startled and made a dismissive wave.
“Please don’t look. You get lonely living in a foreign land. I get all sorts of thoughts whenever I read your work, and I jot them down each time so I won’t forget, so these precious books are all marked up with my scribbles.”
“Oh, so you put down your reactions into the margins.”
“No, nothing like that. It’s impertinent of me, but I tend to imagine how I would have written it, something like that. I’ve had the habit of making up stories as I read novels since I was a kid.”
“You haven’t tried writing any yourself?”
“I wouldn’t dare. All I do is more or less think up a plot, that level.”
“Did you buy all the first editions while you were in America?”
“Not all of them. Some I bought in Korea. When I was in New York, a friend who knew I liked your work would send me your new books each
time one was published.”
“You have good friends.”
I must have signed at least a dozen books. No writer dislikes a reader who has collected first editions of all his books, then filled page after page with notes. And if that very reader has just bought out a publishing firm, there was nothing more a writer could ask for.
“Mr. Bak, you’ve no idea how it comforted me, while living so far away, to know that such a writer existed in my lifetime.”
“Well, thank you.”
I hadn’t heard such high praise in years, so I was bewildered. He began chatting about my work. But here’s this: a writer doesn’t remember every single line he’s written, and his readers also forget, or misremember. As a result, when a writer and a reader meet and talk about books together, the atmosphere eventually becomes rather awkward. By now I was somewhat used to these situations, but this conversation was especially confusing. Since he’d created alternate plot lines in the margins, he’d come to mistake parts of his story for mine. Or I could be the one remembering incorrectly. I no longer let it bother me. I mean, does the way a reader remembers my work really affect me?
He said, “From what Ms. Lee tells me”—he meant Suji—“you’re working on a new novel.”
“Oh, that? It’s still in the early stages.”
“I heard that—”
“Yes, I’m writing a book about a traveling circus troupe during the Japanese occupation.”
“That’s marvelous! Actually, as soon as I heard this from Ms. Lee, I snapped my fingers and said, ‘That’s it! A traveling circus troupe!’”
He was barely able to stay in his seat as he spoke. Somehow that made me anxious.
I said, “Who would be interested in a traveling circus story? I don’t think it’d sell so well.”
“It doesn’t matter. Whether it sells or not, some books just have to be published. But that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t work hard to sell it. We’ll do our utmost to make sure your reputation isn’t tarnished. And even if it doesn’t sell—no, even if the firm goes bankrupt because of your book—I have to publish it.”
“It would be terrible if you went bankrupt.”
“Did you hear that I worked at Goldman Sachs?”
“I only heard that you worked on Wall Street.”
“I worked at Goldman Sachs, the investment firm of investment firms. It’s a long story. My father was against me dating the woman I loved. You see, her family was poor. He was unconditionally opposed to us, so I took her with me to America with nothing but a vague idea to eventually return with money. And after five years, I came home with three billion won in my pocket.”
“Three billion!?”
“On the surface, banks like Goldman Sachs look flashy. Most imagine bankers in white shirts and Armani suits sitting behind mahogany desks as they meet clients. Hah! We call those guys soldiers. They’re the ants at the very bottom who invest other people’s money. We also call them galley slaves. When the Goldman Sachs people make a toast, you know what they say?”
“What?”
“They say, ‘To OPM.’”
“What does that mean?”
“To other people’s money. Wall Street bankers do everything with other people’s money. They invest, build buildings, and eat with other people’s money. People who invest their own money and take on the risk themselves are fools.”
“OPM, you say.”
“But here’s the thing. At the heart of the institution are the executive board members who invest Goldman Sachs’s money. These guys show up for work in Gap T-shirts and Levi’s, and wolf down burgers while they tap away at the keyboard, but they’re the ones that the corporation has absolute faith in. I was one of them.”
“Wow, that’s impressive.”
“I’m telling you all this because you are our firm’s main asset and its most important human resource. What I mean is, you’re no galley slave to us. When it comes to publishing your book, I don’t need OPM. I’m willing to lose my entire net worth to publish you.”
“But, as you know, my books haven’t been doing so well lately—”
“Please stop, please. Wasn’t that when the publishing company was under the former publisher? I’m a professional manager. I learned exactly one thing while on Wall Street. Do you know what that is?”
“OPM?”
“No!” he said in English and shook his head vigorously.
He added, “The bottom line is this: a company’s worth lies in its people. When I first scouted the Korean market to take over a publishing company, there were several options. Many firms were in better financial shape and had a strong backlist, but as soon as I saw your name, I made my decision. Why? If I buy this company, I told myself, I would be this author’s—”
As if he were taking an oath, he placed his hand on the pile of books.
“—companion, since I’d be the publisher of his books. And for a mere two billion won! I couldn’t believe it.”
“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “It is quite a bit of money . . .”
“Money’s no issue. I was determined to do something I cared about before it was too late. What’s the most dignified work a business grunt who loves books, literature, and writers, but has no talent or ability, can do? Isn’t this my best option? Am I wrong?”
He sprayed spittle on my face as he spoke.
“Mr. Bak,” he added.
“Yes?”
“Please, just write me one novel. I’ll wait without fail until the day your precious words fill the bookstores, my undeserving name printed inside its covers.”
“I understand. I’ll do my best.”
His enthusiasm was contagious, and before I knew it I had agreed.
He drank some ice water and asked, “When will you depart for New York?”
“New York?”
“You said that’s where the last surviving member of the circus troupe lives, so you needed to go for research.”
“Oh, yes. I’m thinking of leaving at the end of the month.”
“I’m asking because I need to let the apartment manager know. In case you experience any discomfort while you’re writing there.”
He handed me a business card. “If you get in touch with him, he’ll take care of anything that comes up.”
He added, “It’s in a prime location. The neighborhood’s near the financial district, and you can walk to Wall Street, SoHo, and the East Village. It’s an apartment in a stately, traditional brownstone. It’s got walnut molding, a wood-burning fireplace. The kind of place that’s perfect for writing a book. There are also many restaurants nearby, so it’ll be convenient.”
We left the wine bar. We were heading elsewhere for beer, as he had suggested, when his phone rang. He answered, his face turning grave as he spoke. Then he excused himself, saying, “My son’s suddenly feeling ill. What should we do?”
“You should go,” I said. “We can always meet another time.”
The boss hailed a taxi and quickly left. Alone, I stared into space. I didn’t feel like going home, so I called my philosophy friend.
I said, “It’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“In the Samcheong area.”
“What’re you up to?”
“I met the publisher, and—”
“What’d he say?”
“That he’s a hardcore fan of mine.”
“It’s the same old strategy.”
“Maybe.”
“Anything between him and Suji?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you ask him?”
“How could I ask that?”
“Then how do you know?”
“I can just tell. He’s not that kind of person.”
“Where is he now?”
“His son got sick, so he went home.”
“What kind of fan is that?”
“His son is sick, what else could he do? He got a call.”
“So? Did you agree to go to New York?”
>
“Yeah.”
“So that’s how it ended,” he said, sounding disappointed.
“How about a beer?” I asked.
“I can’t. I have to be up early.”
“All right. Get some sleep.”
I tried to hail a cab, but it proved difficult. Around five cabs passed with customers on board. That’s when I called Suji.
After a long stretch, she picked up. I asked, “Where are you?”
“I was just about to leave.”
“Where, at this time of night?”
“What are you, my husband?”
“You’re right. It’s none of my business.”
“By the way, how did the meeting go?”
“Why’re you using the past tense?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You said, ‘How did the meeting go?’ Not ‘Are you meeting him?’ I didn’t say we’d parted ways.”
“Did I? Then are you still with him?”
Suji had a naïve side to her. She was bad at lying.
“No, he’s gone. He said his kid’s sick.”
“Is that so?”
“To be accurate, his kid conveniently got sick just after the first bar and before we got to the second.”
“You’re so sarcastic.”
“Clever, you mean.”
She said nothing.
“Suji.”
“What?” she said, her voice rising sharply.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“Why’s your boss so set on my manuscript?”
“He says he likes your novels.”
“I met him assuming he only cared about money, but then he didn’t seem that way. But I thought about it after he left and realized he seems exactly like a guy who only cares about money. So why would a guy who only cares about money want my novel that won’t sell well?”