by Jang Eun-jin
I say in a faint voice, “I do it for freer access.”
“The dog is as good an actor as its master,” she says, patting Wajo’s head as though she were proud.
“Wajo isn’t an actor,” I say.
“Is that his name, Wajo? So what is he, if not an actor?”
“He really is a guide dog.”
“What?”
“He was, at one point.”
“Does that mean he isn’t anymore?”
“I’m the guide now, and he’s the blind one.”
“What happened?”
26. My grandfather suffered from diabetes for half his life. And he lived with a visual handicap for one third of that half. It was a formidable disease brought on by complications of diabetes. After losing his sight, he had to resign from his post as an elementary school teacher. His dream had been to be a good father, and to retire as a regular elementary school teacher. My grandfather, no longer able to realize such an ordinary dream, had to stay cooped up in his room, unable to move a step, like an infant. He couldn’t believe that he couldn’t even use his spoon without help, and cried, “I’m going to kill myself!” every time he lifted his spoon. My grandmother could never keep her eyes off him, for fear that he might do something to harm himself. She had security grilles installed over the veranda windows, afraid that he might jump from the apartment, and put sponges on every corner of the furniture for my grandfather, who was always bruised because he kept tripping.
My grandmother’s days were filled with anxiety and difficulties as well. She was no different from my grandfather in that she couldn’t take a single step outside the apartment. She herself seemed to have gone blind. After a while, she began to cry, “I’m going to kill myself!” after putting down her spoon, asking what kind of a life hers was to live. My grandfather, afraid that she might do something to harm herself, called out to her every ten minutes, saying, “Malnyeon, are you there?” For him, silence was more awful than darkness. He feared that she’d die before he did. He began to harbor a desire from then on: to be able to take a step out of the apartment without her help. That was the way to save not only himself, but my grandmother as well.
It was two years after he lost his sight that my grandfather finally got Wajo. The two became a perfect team, and spent every day outdoors. From then on, he became the accompanist for a children’s service at church, and went to church every day to practice the organ, and went for a walk afterward. That gave him a natural workout, and helped regulate the blood sugar. When I think back now, it seems that he took a walk every day because he wanted to show off that he had such a great dog. Perhaps for that reason, he followed wherever Wajo led, like an unthinking machine. He said it was because he trusted Wajo, but it looked to me as if Wajo had control over him. At times, when trust grows deep, it turns into control.
That’s when I first realized that humans can be controlled by animals, too. I feel a little uncomfortable using the word “control,” but my grandfather was the first to use the word. “Do you have any idea how I feel? What’s the big deal about being controlled, when I can move about as I wish? In this damned house, no one’s as good as Wajo!” he’d say. So it was no wonder that he didn’t pay attention to the family’s advice, that he should be the one to control Wajo. In the end, Wajo really did control everything. Even my heart, which was relieved that now no one would have to die.
27. “According to a witness, Wajo forgot his duty and dragged my grandfather in a completely wrong direction, like he was possessed by something,” I said.
“It was a car accident, wasn’t it?”
“My grandfather was hospitalized for three months, after which he passed away, and that’s when Wajo lost his sight, because of the accident.”
“Controlled indeed. How ironic.”
My grandfather did not blame or hate Wajo in the least. In fact, he was sad for Wajo, who would have to live out the rest of his life in frustration, just as he himself had, and quietly called to me and said, “You be his eyes from now on.” Then a few days later, he gently closed his eyes as though relieved. So ended my grandfather’s life, and Wajo’s life was changed in an instant. My grandfather and Wajo had been together for eight years.
“I’ve paid the price for the sandwiches, so I should get going,” I say.
I take Wajo’s leash and get up from the bench in front of the government office. I throw the sandwich wrapping and the empty Coke can into the trash bin. I feel like I sold a piece of my life for a sandwich. Why do I feel that way, when I could have told her the story without price, as I always did with other people? It’s strange, when one of the reasons I came on this journey was because I was dying to talk, and because I wanted someone to talk to me.
I’ve met countless people, but the woman is a little odd, and has a tendency to be annoying. Maybe I’m just not used to someone like her, who’s very forward in asking questions. Still, something is very strange. It feels like the tables have turned somehow. In most cases, I’m the one to initiate a conversation, but now, I’m trying to run away from a conversation. Should I beg for money and pay her back for the sandwich? Debt. That’s it. That’s why I’m trying to avoid her. I told her my story because I felt like I had to give her something in return. I feel like my story has been exchanged for money.
“You still have to pay me back for the Coke,” she says.
I still owe her. To get her money’s worth for the Coke, she follows me, noisily pulling her cart and asking me one question after another. She’s even noisier than the cart. I wonder if I’ve ever seemed as noisy as a cart to someone else. Now that I think about it, 201 had said something to the effect. “Your voice is like an empty can. It’s loud and noisy, but there’s nothing inside. It’s like words without meaning! You sound like a kindergarten kid who’s out to practice speaking. So stop talking to me!” Maybe that’s why I had the hardest time getting 201’s address.
The reason why 201 got annoyed was because the conversation we had wasn’t quite balanced. Questions should be thrown and received, like a ping pong ball, but because only one side wanted to know about the other, the conversation didn’t turn out very well, and the other felt irritated because he had no intention of answering. So applying the same principle, if I asked the woman questions that were difficult to answer, she wouldn’t follow me anymore. I turn around, and ask her questions that don’t make sense, that are too difficult, or somewhat vulgar. It must be working, because she doesn’t say a word. I turn around again.
She says toward the back of my head in an embarrassingly big voice, “I owe you nothing, so I don’t have to answer you. But if you’d really like to hear the answers, I’ll tell you eventually.”
What does she mean, eventually? Will she keep following me? I pick up speed. Her cart seems to pick up speed as well.
“Do you have a place to sleep?” she asks.
I come to a halt at the question. Since I have no money, I can’t get a room. Fortunately, though, it’s the middle of summer. In summers, we’ve slept out in the open at a terminal or a subway station, and sometimes on a park bench or under a bridge.
I look down at Wajo. It’d be fine if I were alone, but at times like this, I end up taking a step back, thinking of Wajo. I can’t make Wajo, who’d be in his eighties in human years, sleep outdoors. What’s more, Wajo isn’t the dog he was three years ago.
“There’s a motel I know, though it’s a little ways from here,” the woman says.
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
“I’m observing you.”
“Why?”
“For fun.”
“I’m not having fun.”
“What matters is that I am. I don’t care whether you’re having fun or not.”
“You want to sleep with me?”
“I wouldn’t consider that having fun.”
That’s good. Since I owe her anyway, I decide to borrow just enough money for a room. Since I’ve already reported my lost card, all I have to
do is run to the bank early tomorrow morning and get a new one, and everything will be over.
28. It’s not just a little ways to the motel; it’s a long ways. I don’t know how many crosswalks I’ve crossed. The woman must be bored, because her questioning resumes.
“Why is he named Wajo?”
She seems to be asking the question, keeping in mind that I still owe her for the Coke. I don’t like feeling indebted, so I answer gruffly, “My grandfather named him.”
“Does it have a special meaning?”
“My grandfather would mostly say things like ‘Iri wajo (come here)’ and ‘Dowajo (help me)’ to him; that’s how he became Wajo.”
“Shouldn’t it be Wajueo, since it’s iri wajueo, and dowajueo?”
“You don’t get it, do you? It’s how the word is actually pronounced. It isn’t hard to guess how you did in your Korean classes,” I say, revealing my exasperation.
“What do you do for a living?” she asks.
“What do you do?” I return.
“I’m a salesperson, as you saw earlier.”
“I’m a letter traveler.”
“What a great title. It isn’t hard to guess how you did in your Korean classes. That’s why you were standing in front of the mailbox. What did you do before, then?”
“Is that the motel?” I ask, pointing to a neon sign, and she grins, looking at it, as she did on the subway.
“Yes. ‘The Moon and Sixpence,’” she says.
At that moment, a strange feeling comes over me.
29. As we enter the motel, the proprietor, a man well advanced in years, welcomes the woman. Is she a frequent motel-goer? The two engage in quite a friendly yet serious conversation. A serious conversation with a motel proprietor. It’s a very unusual and awkward scene. I take peeks here and there, eavesdropping on their conversation. Contrary to my assumption, it seems that it’s been exactly a year since she has come to this motel. They take their time catching up, and then she pays for two rooms.
“The Edward Hopper for him, please,” she says.
“That’s the first room you stayed in, isn’t it?” the proprietor asks.
“I must say, you have a great memory.”
“Did you sell a lot of books today?”
“No, not a single one today . . .”
The proprietor nods thoughtfully.
The woman hands me a key, telling me to go up to the second floor. On the key is the name “Edward Hopper,” which sounds familiar somehow, instead of a room number.
30. The Moon and Sixpence is a somewhat unusual motel. No, somewhat peculiar. Or you could say it’s special, I suppose. It’s not a clandestine, immoral place; it looks more like a dormitory. It’s a place where you need to be quiet and civilized. The woman explained that it’s a special motel that refuses couples and receives only travelers and business guests. When she told me that they don’t even sell condoms, the murky city air enveloping me felt sober and clean somehow. I can’t quite believe that such a motel exists, but it does, for I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I’ve been told that the proprietor is really an artist. That’s probably why all the doors of the motel rooms bear a nameplate with the name of an artist, instead of formal numbers. Renoir’s room, van Gogh’s room, Picasso’s room, Klimt’s room . . .
The proprietor had long harbored a dream of owning such a motel. A man who ran a motel for a traveler on the road, worn out from fatigue. Perhaps he wanted to restore the true meaning of a motel, which had become tainted. Now that I think about it, his way of dealing with guests did seem different from that of an ordinary motel proprietor. The way he looked at Wajo didn’t make me feel uncomfortable at all, and he didn’t ask the worn-out question, “Are you here for a rest, or to stay the night?” A quite comfortable and refined motel that did not make a traveler like me feel intimidated or constrained. I don’t know why they came to be that way, but motels have a way of making people feel dishonorable, as if they’ve done something wrong.
The true worth of this motel becomes even more evident when you enter a room. When you open a door bearing the name of an artist, you find that the walls are full of paintings by the artist. You feel as if you’re at an art museum in Europe. Even couples burning with lust will have a hard time undoing each other’s buttons, with great masterpieces before them. On the bedside table are art books and books on artists, and next to the TV are documentary DVDs on the lives of artists, instead of porn videos. If you stayed in this room for a few days with serious intent, you could probably be on your way again with full knowledge on the artist in question. In short, the motel is wholesome to the point of being boring. The bathroom is equipped with a shower booth instead of a whirlpool tub.
The woman also said that the proprietor remembered the faces of all the guests, even a year after they’d stayed at the motel. She said that that’s why she, too, remembered his face and returned. She said that with the right words, you could get a discount on the charge, and possibly, even put it on credit. I wonder if the motel can be sustained when the majority of the customers giving sustenance to most motels are couples who are there for a “rest,” but it seems that thanks to regular customers who are reluctant to stay at shady motels, it doesn’t suffer a loss. It’s at a good location, too, right next to the train station.
31. I’m standing in the middle of the “Edward Hopper Room” recommended by the woman. I grow reverent and solemn, as if I’m at an art museum. Quietly, I take in the paintings on the walls. The paintings make me feel as if there’s cold wind blowing in from somewhere, even though it’s midsummer. Below the frames are written in detail the titles of the paintings, the years in which they were produced, and the techniques used. The places that serve as backdrops in the paintings are the kind of places that can be commonly seen anywhere in big cities, the kind of places that probably everyone has been to. Hotel rooms, cafes, bars, theaters, gas stations, trains . . .
The cities in the paintings, however, are quite different from the cities I know. Hopper’s cities are not boisterous and glamorous, but infinitely empty, eternally bleak, and perpetually silent. People are sitting alone in hotel rooms or cafes, expressionless, reading a book or looking out the window. Even when there are two or more of them, their eyes never meet. All eyes are directed elsewhere, with a certain distance between them. The people do not look comfortable, probably because they’re not in the comfort of their home, but are staying briefly in a desolate, external environment. Cities that have lost their sense of hearing, without words, without sounds, and without noise. It seems that in a way, the empty streets and the houses on the hills have been painted without a purpose. That’s why the sun shining into the quiet, empty rooms doesn’t look warm. It looks as though the sun will be cold when it touches the body. The bleakness felt in the extended space and the loneliness flickering across the faces of the people, their heads bent, seem to be the smallest, as well as the largest, elements the artist could choose to depict solitude.
I browse through the books on Hopper on the bedside table. They say that Hopper, who was born in 1882 and died in 1967, was a major American realist painter. A painter who traveled like me, and did sketches and paintings on the street. Hopper says, “Unconsciously, probably, I was painting the loneliness of a large city.” A painter who knew what loneliness was, a painter who for that reason was lonely, a painter who thus had no choice but to paint loneliness.
I look at the paintings again. Hopper was someone who knew what a real city was. He painted real cities. No matter how many people came flocking to the city, and no matter how many people he laughed and chatted and talked with, he could only see one person. That one person, with the same expression on his face and in the same posture, was always looking off in a different direction: out the window, at a book, at a coffee cup, or into himself. He was probably looking at his own self. True loneliness comes not from being alone, but from being with someone else. There didn’t seem to be much of a difference between myself, standing in the middle
of a motel room, and the figures in Hopper’s paintings. Paintings that knew better than anyone where I was at this point in my life. Paintings that resembled me and felt familiar to me. I came on this journey because I was lonely, but I’m still lonely. At that moment, someone flashes through my mind like a lightning bolt.
32. Mother! I thought that the painter’s name sounded familiar, and as it turns out, I’ve seen his paintings in my mother’s study.
My mother had a thing for collecting stuff. Just as I began collecting stamps one day, my mother suddenly began to collect things with enthusiasm. My love of collecting comes from my mother. Interestingly, my mother’s collection consisted of emotional things, not tangible objects. In other words, she didn’t collect things like stamps or model cars, but intangible things like sentences from books, dialogues from movies, or incidents from the news.
When she came home from teaching kids at school, my mother would go into her study and read the paper. She often forgot to cook rice for dinner. When she was done reading the paper, she’d cut out articles with scissors. The cutout scraps went into two different scrapbooks. She divided the paper clippings into two categories: happiness and unhappiness. Every day, she collected happiness and unhappiness, keeping it a secret from her family. I never got a chance to ask her why she did that, but I think she wanted to find out whether there was more happiness or unhappiness in the world. I knew that if she came out of the study looking cheerful, she had collected a little more unhappiness that day, and if she came out looking depressed, she had collected a little more happiness. So on days when there was more happiness, I didn’t complain about the food, and tried to help out with the dishes after dinner. Maybe she chose the newspaper because the newspaper is a medium that gets more excited over unhappy incidents than happy ones, I thought.
It was after a certain incident at school that my mother began to collect photographs of paintings. She taught math at a coed high school. She was notorious among the students, who called her “the damned old witch.” She put her students in charge during half the class period. All math teachers liked to call up students at random and make them solve problems on the board, but my mother was somewhat malicious. Her malice was directed at students who failed to solve the problems. She had a way of brutally humiliating those who had no mathematical aptitude. She usually made them go outside the classroom and stand there holding up a chair, and in extreme cases, she’d make them go around the other classes during lunch and solve similar problems, and explain the process through which they solved them. She also made them go around the entire school, holding up a sketchbook with the words “I failed to solve a math problem today” written on it.