by Young-Ha Kim
“At the least, he was working incredibly hard. And typing so fast. He didn’t even sleep, he was up all night—”
I was petrified that she would bring up the mysterious state of that one body part, but thankfully she had enough sense not to.
“It was like he was possessed. Writing in that state, whatever comes out will truly be something else. Be honest, you were completely hooked, too.”
Raccoon frowned. “You two must have different literary taste from mine. Not all lunacy is artistic fire. Praying loudly and speaking in tongues don’t make a saint. Trashy fiction can read well, too. Also, what makes a writer a master of his craft? Does typing speed matter? I’ll publish the book as Bak Mansu’s final novel. If I publicize it as your posthumous work, I’ll be able to recover the advance, and if I’m lucky, it may even be a bestseller. Or would it sell better if the media talked it up as your novel-in-progress when you were murdered in New York? It looks like you’ve written well over a hundred manuscript pages, which is enough for a book, and since a shoddy second half doesn’t exist, readers can make up their own ending. They might feel disappointed. They might say, ‘It could have been a masterpiece.’ No matter how I look at it, dying about now is the best solution. Mr. Bak, your death will also help the fate of your books.”
“But aren’t you curious about what happens next? Didn’t Yeong-seon also say that it was a riveting read? First give me a chance to finish writing the book.”
“A book requires a plot to keep a reader curious,” he declared. It was amusing enough, but once I put it down, I lost interest. I’m more curious about what’s happening in this room right now. You see, I’ve dreamed of killing Yeong-seon for years—you’ve no idea for how long.” He looked at his wife. “I’ve killed you countless times in my mind. I’ve even attempted to go through with it. But each time, my plan was flawed. So each time I revised it, then revised it again, but only now does it look perfect. Planning a murder is a little like contemplating immigration. Once you start thinking about it, you can’t stop.”
Yeong-seon snapped, “You think I’ve never wanted to kill you, too? You always think you’re right. You think your plans look perfect this time? You’d be digging your own grave. If I die, you’ll be the prime suspect. Immigration’s also got a record of your entry.”
“I’ve already established the perfect alibi, don’t worry.”
Before they became even more riled up, I interrupted. “A perfect alibi? That itself is an illusion. There’s always a flaw. About writers, those who start with perfectly outlined novels rarely ever write anything worthwhile. They fail because once you start writing, the characters take on a life of their own and the work goes in an entirely different direction. The way I see it, you’ve got an obsessive personality. Like a kid who believes that once he’s made a plan, he has to stick to it. Now, let’s put the gun down. You can’t reverse murder. You don’t want to end up doing something so reckless. Life isn’t a game.”
“Shut up! All you do is talk. If you know so much, why are your novels such a mess?” He raised the pistol again. “Now let me make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
He reached into his pocket and tossed two packets of medicine at us.
“You don’t seem too hot on the gun, so I’ll give you a choice. Either take the meds or take the bullet.”
I said, “What is it?”
“The fun part here is that you don’t know. It could be cyanide, it could be sleeping pills. If you don’t take the pills, I’ll pull the trigger without hesitation. No need to worry—no one’ll call the cops in this neighborhood.”
“Wait a minute,” said Yeong-seon. “If we take this, we could die, right?”
“Right.”
“Do you really have to kill me? You pathetic man.”
“I do. I can’t put up with you anymore. Actually, I can’t endure my desire to kill you anymore.”
“I’ll give you a divorce. I mean it this time.”
“A divorce costs too much. Besides, all my planning would be wasted then, wouldn’t it?”
“Bastard,” she said.
“Curse me all you want—especially since you don’t have much time left for that.”
I sneaked a look at her lovely profile as she bit her lip. Would Raccoon really put an end to such a gorgeous creature? She adopted an innocent, modest pose with her legs folded together, looking outright tragic as she clutched the packet of pills. A guy who’d made it on Wall Street was truly different. His bargaining skills defeated us. Do you want to choose A or B—a 100 percent certain death with the gun, or the pills that at least give you a chance? But if the pills were poisonous, they would clearly be a killer’s preferred method. It would be an unquestioned suicide. The plot was no good for a novel, but it was pretty useful in real life.
“I have one last request,” I said. “I ask that you give my unfinished novel full attention during the editing and copyediting. For your reference, Suji knows best how to edit my work.”
He tossed a pen and a piece of paper at me. “I told you, taking the meds doesn’t mean that you’ll die for sure. Look, let’s make a pact first. If you take the meds and survive, let’s agree that today never happened. We’ll put it down as a reckless joke. I’ll leave you two alone, and you won’t do anything like report this to the police. Deal? Now, let’s put it down on paper.”
“I’ll write it, I’ll write it.” I quickly grabbed the pen.
“I’ll dictate.”
I tightened my grip on the pen.
“I forgive everything,” he recited. “I forgive even the unforgivable, so please also forgive me for what I’ve done.”
I complained, “But it sounds too much like a suicide note.”
“I guess it’s possible to see it that way.”
He smirked and aimed the gun at my forehead. “Now write!”
I had no choice but to write down what he told me. Now that he had a suicide note, his plan was flawless. Only then did I truly see him. He wasn’t a man raging after his wife had cheated on him. Every piece of the plot fitted seamlessly. Now that I think of it, the English word “plot” translates into “conspiracy” or “structure” in Korean. Criminals and writers have something in common that way. They covertly formulate a plan and execute it. They also share the fact that if the plan is obvious, they both get caught. Also, both can be betrayed by their own wits. You could say that the novel I’d been writing lacked structure and had no plot. In contrast, the publisher’s plot felt like a well-structured—and therefore vulgar—mystery novel. And yet it’s the publisher who comes out ahead. Could this mean that a well-constructed plot will ultimately win over a plotless narrative? Am I leaping to conclusions? I gazed at Yeong-seon, who was quietly preparing for her death. The last puzzle piece in this crime-of-passion story is the stunning femme fatale. But this woman seems too resigned for someone facing imminent death.
“Wait a minute!” I lifted my hand.
The publisher said, “What is it this time?”
“Can I switch pills with your wife?”
“Why?”
“If they’re the same pills, it won’t matter whether we switch. Can I do that? And if I can’t, why not?”
He frowned. “You sure you won’t regret it?”
Yeong-seon gripped her packet and didn’t let go.
“Hand that over,” I said, and snatched hers away and swapped.
He said, “You think the ending will be any different now?”
“Possibly . . .”
“Hmm. You know what your problem is? You don’t take life seriously enough. You think you’re writing this novel? Here you’re not a writer but a character! A dependent variable, you understand?”
When I ripped open the packet, a single white pill rolled out.
“Now, swallow the pill. This time I’m really going to shoot. You see, I’ve got to use the bathroom. Here, I’ll count to three. Come on! One, two . . .”
He aimed the gun at me. I shut my eyes tight
and shoved the pill in my mouth. As it reached my tongue, the bitter pill began to melt. Look here, Raccoon, you’re saying I’m only a character? Nonsense! I’m the writer of the complex, erotic, fragmented novel that is my life. I’ve got no real story line. I’m also the main character in a story that no one wants to publish. You call me a dependent variable? Absolutely not. I’m the writer and the first-person narrator, and I’m the one who controls the ending. For this story to end, it’s neither you nor your wife but me who has to die. Only then can the words “The End” be written.
* * *
But why . . . isn’t it ending?
* * *
I slowly open my eyes. The room feels as if it has expanded a little. No, it’s expanded a lot. The ceiling soars and the hall looks so far away. The apartment’s furniture has somehow disappeared. The chair, the bed, even the windows are gone. It’s as if I’m in jail. Those stripes, are they barred windows or the wallpaper pattern? I turn toward the publisher. He looks strange, as if he is slowly becoming something else. A red cockscomb is growing out of the top of his head, and his lips begin jutting out until they become a beak. Next to me, I hear flapping sounds. Yeong-seon is also transforming. Her thin arms become wings; her lovely feet split into three parts. Two enormous chickens stare fiercely down at me. I tremble with fright. I become smaller and the room, bigger. The two chickens raise their heads and make strange clucking sounds. I’m afraid. I’m so afraid.
* * *
Finally a sentence breaks out of the hazy fog of my consciousness and slowly begins to take shape. I read the sentence aloud to myself:
I am not a cob of corn.
I am not a cob of corn.
I am not a cob . . .
And yet I keep thinking that this isn’t enough.
Visit hmhbooks.com to find more books by Young-ha Kim.
About the Author
Young-ha Kim is the author of seven novels—four published in the United States, including the acclaimed I Have the Right to Destroy Myself—and five short story collections. He has won every major Korean literature award, and his works have been translated into more than a dozen languages. He lives in Seoul, South Korea.
Krys Lee is the award-winning author of Drifting House and How I Became a North Korean. She teaches creative writing at Yonsei University’s Underwood International College in Seoul.
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