by Jang Eun-jin
The first thing I do after mailing a letter is find a phone booth. Finding a pay phone is even more difficult than finding a mailbox. I walk about four hundred more meters from the mailbox before I finally spot a phone booth. I deposit coins and call my friend. It’s the friend who lives in a filthy, smelly house. After about twenty rings, I finally hear the sound of the coins drop. The sun is high in the sky, but my friend’s voice comes out from the middle of the night.
“I’m your wake-up call now, huh?” I say.
“It doesn’t really wake me up, though,” he says.
“It’s been three years, so you’re too used to it. No wonder it doesn’t wake you up.”
“It’s because you sound smart now. When you stuttered, I felt so frustrated that I just woke up.”
“Should I pretend to stutter?”
“I’d rather hear you groan.”
My friend lets out a long yawn. I wait politely for the yawn to end, and ask, “Any letters?”
I tense up.
“No,” he says.
The answer is simple and clear as usual. The tension subsides, and a sense of frustration takes its place.
“Don’t you find it a little inconvenient?”
“You find me inconvenient?”
“I like getting morning calls from you, but if you had a cell phone, I could call you or text you right away. If I do, that’d be the signal.”
“If that were the case, you and I wouldn’t have talked once on the phone.”
“Well, that’s true . . .”
“And if I took it as a signal when you were just calling to say hi, I’d be really disappointed later on.”
“True . . .”
This friend who lives in a filthy, smelly house lives so close to my house that we’re practically next door neighbors. I call him every other day to ask him if any letters have come for me, and if they have, to ask him to keep them safe so that they won’t get into anyone else’s hands or get wet in the rain. Luckily, he’s out of a job so he has plenty of time on his hands. He must have felt bad for me, because for the first half year, he was faithful in granting my request. He dropped by my house every morning and afternoon to see if there were any letters.
During that half year, however, not a single letter came for me. He must have grown a little tired of coming and going, for he told me that he’d gotten a high-tech telescope. He said that with the telescope, he could see from his apartment whether any letters had been delivered, without going himself. Later he boasted that thanks to me, he’d found a fascinating hobby using the telescope. He seemed completely absorbed in sneaking peeks into apartments in which girls lived alone. He even told me that he had found someone totally hot, and said we should watch her together when I returned.
I knew why he’d gotten the telescope. He must have decided that using a telescope was much more practical than wasting his energy, taking the elevator down and then up again, for letters that never came. The telescope was something useful that kept him from making the trips in vain. And now that he had a telescope, I didn’t feel as bad. My request was no longer a burden to him, and I even wished I had suggested it myself.
“It’s about time you gave up. Not a single letter has come so far—do you think they’ll suddenly start coming?” he says.
In spite of such words, he hasn’t given up, either, because every time I call, he tells me whether or not any letters have come. Maybe he longs for letters even more than I do, as though they were supposed to be for him. Of course, enough time had passed for him to start thinking that maybe they were for him, indeed.
“Things always happen suddenly,” I say, and hang up after telling him I’ll call again.
18. No one wrote today.
19. I stand for a long time in front of the mailbox, not knowing where to go, like a lost child. My mind goes blank. I come to myself at the sound of Wajo barking. I look around me. Which way should I go? My fate depends on the direction I take. I don’t think I can come to an easy decision today. At times like this, it’s best to leave it to Wajo. His instinct in choosing a direction is so brilliant that it’s never disappointed me. At my request, Wajo lifts his head slightly, sniffs, and turns a circle. He’s smelling the wind. Then he decides on a direction, and starts to walk. I follow blindly, with his leash tugging me. At times like this, I feel like Wajo is human, and I’m a dog.
Wajo comes to a stop at the subway station. Subways are somewhat difficult to get on with a dog. Sometimes, entrance is banned; often, people kick Wajo, saying there isn’t enough space for people as it is. It isn’t impossible, though. I think I’m going to resort to what I often do.
20. I go down the stairs and into the restroom in the subway station. I take a piece of yellow fluorescent clothing out of my backpack, and a pair of dark sunglasses from the case. The preparation is simple. All we have to do now is show off great acting skills as a team.
I fix my glance straight ahead, and hold tight onto Wajo’s leash as though it were my lifeline. All eyes turn at once to the words, “Guide Dog,” on Wajo’s fluorescent clothing. There’s quite a difference in the way people see Wajo, when he’s wearing his guide dog outfit, and when he’s just an ordinary dog. Wearing the outfit, Wajo turns into a laudable, marvelous, dignified dog. He becomes a good, meek, clean dog that would never bite or harm humans. On the other hand, Wajo, the ordinary dog, becomes a common mongrel that isn’t even toilet trained. It’s the same with me. All I do is put on a pair of sunglasses, and suddenly, people look at me with pity in their eyes, saying, “Oh, the poor man.” It’s only natural. They look at the disabled in a different light, because in their minds, people with disabilities are different from themselves. They look at the disabled in one of two ways: with pity or exclusion. Despite everything, pity is slightly better than exclusion.
Because of the way people regard us, we pass through the turnstile, the first hurdle, with no restrictions. The act is for Wajo, not for me. We do this not to deceive others, but to protect ourselves.
We hear the subway train approaching. We move toward the safety line. When I pull the leash downward, ever so slightly, Wajo places his rear end precisely and safely outside the yellow safety line. I stop right beside him. People send a round of applause to Wajo, who has accomplished his first mission with great success.
The subway train comes to a stop. The doors open, and people, looking exhausted, get off like loads of baggage. People using the same door we’re using don’t step in before Wajo. When people encounter the disabled, the first thing they do is shrink back. What they’re showing me now is either subconscious courtesy or pity. It’s either consideration or concession. With the courtesy and pity, and consideration and concession extended toward me, I make my way into the subway. A young man who has been shaking his head to the music on his MP3 player springs to his feet, as he has been taught, and yields his seat. It’s possible that he’s trying to avoid us. People don’t yield their seats only because I’m a social minority. Yielding their seats, for them, isn’t a difficult thing. By doing so, they confirm their normality, and feel relieved. I must sit down, so that they may feel relieved. As though I really were blind. As though that were the only role for the disabled to play. If not, they’d feel anxious and uncomfortable.
I observe those who are normal through the eyes of a blind man. I take a peek at their actions and into their hearts, through the dark sunglasses. It’s fascinating to confirm the truth about other people through fake acts. The easiest way to confirm the truth is to put it through the litmus test of deceit. That’s why people are interested in lies, tell them often, and go wild over them. That’s why lies must exist.
21. Both Wajo and I are dozing off. Neither of us has to get off at any station, so we don’t even pay attention to the announcements. It feels like a lot of time has passed. Then I hear a roaring voice. I turn my head toward the voice. But I’m a blind man, and must not look openly. I turn my head slightly, and observe the situation through the movement of my
pupils only.
A woman is standing in the middle of the subway compartment. Like me, she’s carrying a backpack, and next to her is a small handcart with wheels. A plastic bin is tied to the top of the cart, which fits perfectly. She takes something out of the bin and begins to talk to the passengers.
“Hi, I’d like to tell you about a book,” she says.
She’s trying to sell books on the subway. True, the subway is a good place in which to sell things. All kinds of things are sold on the subway, since all kinds of people use it. Things sold on the subway include air freshener, shoe polish, drain cleaners, fan covers, umbrellas, and even globes. So there’s no reason why books shouldn’t be sold. In fact, books seem even more appropriate than fan covers and umbrellas. People might complain if you open an umbrella on the subway, where there’s no chance of rain, but you can open a book without worrying about what people might think. Besides, people have been saying lately that you should read books, at least on the subway. Still, it’s a very strange scene. You can pick out any umbrella, and it would be as good as any other umbrella; books, however, can’t be bought at random. It seems that the woman has only one title. In a day and age when life goes on only when you make choices and decisions, she seems like someone who has come to deprive you of the right to choose and decide. In a way, she’s forcing you.
22. She says what she has to say and places one book on each passenger’s lap, the way all vendors do. She puts one on mine, too. Do I look normal to her? Or is it a way of expressing a progressive statement that equal rights should be given to the handicapped, too, that they shouldn’t be discriminated against?
She returns to the cart, and lifting a book says to the passengers, “If you say the right thing, I’ll give you a discount.”
Then she takes out a harmonica from her pocket, and begins to play. She’s extremely good. She seems to be saying that we should take a look at the product until the music ends. Pretending to fumble with the book, I take a look, my eyes cast down. Toothpaste and Soap, the title reads. I open the book, and quickly take in the first sentence: “Today, I ate toothpaste. Tomorrow, I will eat soap.”
The book is a full-length novel. I want to buy it, because the title and the first sentence fascinate me. But I’m a blind man at the moment, and shouldn’t find it fascinating. I know nothing, for I see nothing. So I can’t buy it. Even the normal people, however, who know everything, don’t buy the book. Most passengers don’t even pay any attention to the book, and focus only on their own thoughts. The books are returned to the woman.
If they had been umbrellas, she might have sold at least one. The normal people might have thought that the normal thing to do is to buy books at a bookstore. They might have felt suspicious because she didn’t seem like a famous writer, or they might have felt offended because they felt as though they were being forced to buy the book. Or maybe they thought it was too expensive compared to other things sold on the subway, which usually cost about one or two thousand won, and didn’t reach for their wallet for that reason. They might have been interested if it had been a book like Making a Hundred Million Won a Month, and not a novel. Maybe the woman’s intention wasn’t to sell the book—maybe she was doing her job as a part of a new marketing strategy designed by a publishing company. If it was indeed a strategy, then at least it informed a few people that a book called Toothpaste and Soap exists in the world.
23. The woman puts the books into the plastic bin, pulls the cart over to a seat across from me, and sits down. We’re sitting face to face. She looks dejected, not having sold a single copy. I wonder, why does she sell books on the subway? And why just one title? And why, of all things, a novel? She stares intently at me, as if she has read my mind. She seems to be looking at me, aware that I’m blind. Then she grins, her teeth showing through. She seems to be grinning at me, aware that I’m not blind. I can’t be found out here, so I, too, stare intently at her without budging an inch, pretending that I’m not aware of her.
Right then, she takes something out of her backpack. It’s a digital camera. She isn’t taking a picture of me, is she? I wonder. But she is. She takes a picture of me with the camera. I’m supposed to be blind, so I can’t stop her. Just then, the announcement comes on. I think I should get off.
I take Wajo’s leash, get up with wavering steps, and walk toward the door as though my destination has finally been announced. I see the woman’s reflection on the window. She’s still staring at me. And she grins once more. It’s starting to get creepy. I wish the subway would come to a stop soon. Why does the number 751 suddenly come to my mind at this moment? Why do I get the ominous feeling that I’ll be designating her with the number? The subway comes to a stop. I get off the subway with quick, nimble steps, not like those of a blind man.
24. Ominous feelings are always right. The woman, pulling her cart, follows as if to tail us. It’s as if she knows me. Could she be someone I went to elementary school with? Or could it be that she’s someone I know but haven’t recognized? It’s true that I’ve met all kinds of people while traveling for three years. There were bad people, of course, but there were a lot more good people. People tend to remember bad things before the good, and more vividly and for a longer period of time, too. She’s still a good person, compared to the person who pulled a knife on me, who remains a vivid bad memory. I might have been mistaken; maybe we’re just going in the same direction, so I suddenly head toward a nearby takeout coffee shop. It’s around dinnertime, so I’m feeling hungry, too. You’re always hungry when you’re on the road, even if you’ve just eaten. I order three sandwiches and a Coke. Will she pass me by, or not? I feel anxious as time goes by.
“Here’s your order. It’s eighty-six hundred won,” the staff says.
I reach for my back pocket to get some money out. But my wallet’s gone. I look to the right. I don’t see the woman. I feel relieved. But whatever happened to my wallet? Where could I have dropped it? I turn my head the other way. The woman is standing next to me, like a ghost. I forget my role as a blind man, and yelp. Not because she’s standing like a ghost, but because she’s holding my wallet. Did she pick my pocket? She’s not decent; how could she steal a blind man’s wallet? She moves her hand holding the wallet twice, distinctly, gesturing for me to take it. The gesture is possible only because she knows that I’m not blind. Did she give me that book on the subway for the same reason?
The staff looks at me, as though to urge me on. Since I have to pay before I do anything else, I take my wallet from her at once. I open it with ease, for I’m not blind. But the wallet is empty. No bills, no cash card, not even a coin. I glare at the woman through my sunglasses. She isn’t a decent person after all. Then she makes an additional order of a sandwich and an ice coffee, and pays for both orders with money from her own wallet. Is she decent?
25. “Wh-who are you?”
In critical situations, I relapse into my stutter without even realizing it. The woman pushes the sandwiches and Coke toward me, as if doing me a generous favor. I feel a little ashamed, but I take them after some hesitation, since my wallet is empty and I’d have to starve if I missed this opportunity. When you travel, you often have to debase yourself. She cuts two of the sandwiches in half and puts them on a sheet of newspaper for Wajo, so that he’d have an easier time eating it. Wajo waits for me to give him the go-ahead. I hesitate, and then tell him to go ahead and eat. He devours them in haste, without a thought as to how I feel.
“I saw a pickpocket stealing your wallet,” the woman says.
“On the subway?”
“When you were going through the turnstile.”
“That’s when you began watching me?”
“I began watching you long before that.”
“When?”
“When you put the letter in the mailbox.”
So she knew everything. I begin to stutter again.
“H-how come you had the wallet th-that the pickpocket stole?”
“He took out the cash a
nd the cards, and threw it in the trash, so I got it out of there.”
“You’re not the pickpocket?”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to suspect me. Why don’t you take those sunglasses off?”
She takes another bite of her sandwich. I, too, take a bite of my sandwich, with nothing more to say.
“So, you followed me to give me my wallet?”
“I thought you wouldn’t have any money for food.”
You have to be careful when people are kind to you for no reason.
I ask, with more caution in my voice, “Why did you follow me before that?”
“It surprised me that someone was putting a letter in a mailbox. What surprised me even more, though, was that you were pretending to be blind. Why? I’m curious,” she said, her daring eyes glowing like light bulbs.
“You must be one of those people who can’t stand not to know the answer to a question,” I say.
“That’s right, though I can stand hunger.”
“Did you buy me the sandwich because you wanted to know my reason? So this is the price?”
“I see that the sandwich is half gone already. And that dog has licked everything up,” she says.
“Why do you keep talking down to me?”
“It’s a quick way to make friends. Don’t you know that a river lies between the honorific and the common forms of speech?”
“I don’t want to be friends with you.”
“There’s nothing for you to lose.”
“Why do you want to be friends with me?”
“Because we seem to be in the same shoes.”
Hearing that, I compare the two of us. We both have a backpack, and always have to pull something with our hand. Travelers like us are quick to recognize other travelers. She gives half her sandwich to Wajo. She seems even more intent on hearing my reason. I can’t throw up what I’ve already eaten, and I don’t have a single coin in my wallet, so I’m caught in her snare.