by Jang Eun-jin
“Does she still play the harmonica?”
“She died.”
“How . . . ?”
“A harmonica is just a harmonica; it can’t be a piano. I think it’s a good thing she died. Living like that is a tragedy.”
“I want to hear the songs she wrote.”
“All the songs I played on the harmonica are hers.”
“Don’t you play any other songs on the harmonica?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because my sister’s songs are the only songs I can play on the harmonica, and the harmonica is the only instrument with which her songs can be played.”
While I was listening attentively to her story, the moaning next door came to an end. A calm, comfortable silence remained between us for quite some time. The stillness continued, and it seemed now that it shouldn’t be broken by anyone. Suddenly, I wanted to write a letter. I took out some paper and a pencil from my backpack and lay face down on the floor. The woman took out her harmonica and began to play her sister’s songs, looking up at the ceiling. She held the harmonica with only her right hand. Now that I think about it, it seems that she’s always played the harmonica with just one hand.
75. I write, listening to her playing the harmonica.
Dear Older Brother,
What kind of a little brother was I? The question occurred to me as I listened to someone talk about her little sister today. I don’t think I’ve ever asked a question like that before, either to myself or to you. If I asked you now, would you answer? I probably don’t even need to ask, because you’d probably say, “Hey, buster, you were a little brat who always went around embarrassing me. Can’t you do something about your stuttering? If you did just that, I’ll accept you as my little brother.” Since I no longer stutter, I’m sure you’ll approve, as far as that matter goes. If so, it’ll be the first time you ever approve of me.
I wonder if, perhaps, you aren’t more curious than I am. As to what kind of a brother you were to me. You probably haven’t ever asked that question, either, to yourself or to me. But you probably don’t need to ask. Because you were always someone I approved of. And because you already knew that you were my idol, my pride. You were perfection itself. You never allowed for a single weak spot in you, not enough room for even a needle to penetrate, to the point of frustration. I know, of course, why you had to be so perfect. I know that you had no choice but to live like that, because of me, an idiot who always came home beaten up. I know you had no choice but to give up all the fun in the world and do enough studying for both of us so that you could be a good son to Mother and Father, who were unhappy about me. I really must’ve been an idiot, because back then, I thought you liked studying and had fun doing it. I assumed that you were a dull person who wrote down “studying” as your hobby or specialty. I learned through Eunyeong that you hated studying as much as I did. You remember her, don’t you? The girl who was always in charge of the exposition during student mass because she had a good voice.
Eunyeong was your first love, but she was mine, too. And the first person ever to make you, as well as me, despair. I envied you so much because everyone showered you with attention. As my envy turned into monstrous jealousy, I wanted to defeat you just once before I died. By then I was used to being known as so-and-so’s brother at school or church, which made me want to beat you even more. It was too late to beat you academically, so I had to get busy looking for something else. No matter how perfect you were, I thought, there had to be a weak spot in you. That’s when I noticed Eunyeong. Or I should say, the way you looked at Eunyeong. You were in love. That’s when I realized for the first time that you, too, were a human being with a heart that could love someone. The weak spot, the target of attack, was determined: your heart.
You went to church not to meet Jesus, but Eunyeong, and at last, opportunity came your way. With Christmas a week away, we had to put up a tree. We hung light bulbs and decorations at random on a fir tree, and in the box was the last piece: the gold star for the top. We were all waiting for someone else to do the job, because the tree was too tall and we lacked courage. Then bravely, Eunyeong took the star and went up to the ladder. You stopped her by the arm, as if according to a TV script. Following the script, you climbed up the ladder to the ceiling and hung the star at the top despite your fear of heights. Solely for Eunyeong. I saw her eyes, looking at you, sparkle like that star. You and Eunyeong hid behind the tree on Christmas Eve and shared a very deep kiss. The kiss was a signal to me. A signal to approach Eunyeong.
I met Eunyeong often without your knowledge. It was when you were studying, enduring pains to be number one nationwide. So those moments became even sweeter for me. Eunyeong opened up to me more easily than I’d expected. Later, she even told me that you, such a good student, were a bit overwhelming for her. She also said that she wished you were ordinary like me. For the first time since I was born, I didn’t envy you, and was happy that I was myself. It was while painting Easter eggs that I won her over completely. That day, her breasts were as small as the eggs. Thinking of you, I held the eggs for a long time against my own breast.
I think that was when you missed the top ranking for the first time. Your heart broke down as well. I really couldn’t believe it. That your heart could break down over something so trivial as love. Only when I saw you go into the operating room did I realize what I’d done. You were the unhappiest person I knew. Someone who couldn’t love, someone who couldn’t do anything other than be number one, someone who had to be number one even though he didn’t want to. You didn’t love anyone after that. It wasn’t that you hated me, though. You used the time that could have been used to love or hate someone to study more. You were the real idiot. Not me.
It was around that time that I stopped going to the public bath with you. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the scar on your chest. It was around that time, too, that I came to really like you and trust you. I often did as you did because I wanted your approval, believed every word you said, and did everything you told me to. I couldn’t go wrong when I was doing what you told me to do. It was quicker to ask for your opinion than to sit at church praying to Jesus. When Mother decided what my job would be, I wouldn’t have had the guts to go with it if you hadn’t been at my side, giving me advice. Just as you said, the job was right for me. Maybe I worked harder because I wanted you to be right. You were the person who had the most influence on my life. That night, you held my hand tight and said, “Do what you want with your life.” It was what you said to me on the train when we ran away from home. You know that those words played a part in my decision to come on this difficult journey, don’t you? Thank you. For letting me do what I want with my life. Without you, I wouldn’t have found this overflowing freedom, or enjoyed it.
Now it’s my turn. My turn to save you. I don’t know if it’ll work, but put your trust in me. It’s not too late yet. There’s a chance for you to do what you want with your life. Like we did back then, you can just run and get on a train, and clap your hands when you see a tunnel. And when you come out through the long tunnel, you’ll have changed for sure. Like I did.
I want to end this journey soon, if only to get on a train with you. See you soon. Till then, take care.
Your little brother, from Motel Banana
76. The woman, who went to get some air because she was having trouble falling asleep, comes back with four cans of beer and two bags of squid and peanut flavored snack.
She opens a can and hands it to me, saying, “How about a movie?”
“You want to go to the movies at this hour?”
“Who would go to the movies at this hour?”
She takes out her laptop from her backpack and asks me if there’s anything I’d like to see.
The word “movie” strikes me as unfamiliar. I never went to the movies on my journey. I rarely watched TV, either. Perhaps I thought that a journey began only when you broke free from the habits of civilized people, or city people. How would a j
ourney, undertaken with such trouble, be any different from ordinary life? And if it wasn’t different, it’d be meaningless, I thought. Above all, if there was no difference between a journey and everyday life, I wouldn’t feel that I had come on a journey.
“It’s been so long since I saw a movie that I don’t even know what’s out,” I say.
“Then just watch what I recommend,” she says.
It seems that she’s often watched a movie even while traveling. She goes onto a movie download site and begins a search.
“Are you doing an illegal download?” I ask.
“Don’t worry. I paid for it. It’s going to take a while, because the wireless signal is weak,” she says.
She frets, watching the download bar that’s moving too slowly. I’ve thought this before, but she doesn’t seem to have a knack for waiting patiently.
“Just wait. They’re telling you kindly that there are forty more minutes to go,” I say.
“Should we try moving the laptop near the door?”
“How do you write, when you’re so impatient?”
“Write? I don’t know. It’s strange how mellow I get when I write. All the men in the world would fall in love with me if they saw me working on a novel.”
“Where does that unfounded confidence come from?”
Despite my words, I recall the way she’d looked, tapping away on her laptop on the bus. I’d found her quite sexy.
“So why are you still alone?” I ask.
“Because you usually write novels when you’re alone. It’s something you don’t get to see easily, or show, for that matter,” she says.
“Show me.”
“I can’t, because when I know that someone’s watching, I turn into my usual self. And I can’t write very well, either.”
“So you need to meet a man who likes the way you look when you’re not writing a novel, huh?”
“There’s never been a man like that.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“What?”
“What if there was one?”
“Even if there was, I wouldn’t want him!”
“Why not? Do you plan on staying single?”
“I can’t do anything that involves two or more people. I can’t, because it’s too difficult to keep the rhythm or beat. That’s why I’ve never had sex, or been married.”
There are people in the world who are unhappy because they have no one to keep the rhythm or beat with, even if they want to. Is she happy, compared to such people?
“You’ve never tried it?”
“What? Marriage? Sex?”
“Sex.”
“Of course I have. I made an effort, but something was off and we both felt awkward, so I didn’t really try after that . . .”
She shakes her head from side to side as though she doesn’t want to remember, and shrugs her shoulders.
“Marriage is one thing, but how can you write novels when you don’t understand sex?” I ask.
“A novel doesn’t equal sex,” she replies.
“I guess you’re right.”
“I don’t play badminton, either. People think it’s strange when you’re alone in doing something that’s usually done by two people. Watching a movie or eating, for instance. Like there’s a rule that such things should be done by two or more people. That’s why I like doing things that don’t seem strange at all even when you’re doing them alone.”
“Such as?”
“Going to the beauty salon, jumping ropes, things like that. Well, of course, it’s just as strange to do something with another person that should be done alone.”
“Like?”
“Reading or playing the harmonica.”
“Is that why you became a novelist?”
“I wrote screenplays at first. Once, I stayed cooped up in a little room for days with a close friend of mine, writing a screenplay. We were doing fine, until a little problem occurred. There was a difference in opinions, with my friend saying that the next line should be ‘That’s not possible,’ and me saying that it should be ‘No.’ In a way, it was only a little line that couldn’t possibly have a critical impact on the quality of the work, because no one would know the difference.”
“So what happened?”
“Neither of us backed off a single step. Each insisted that her own line be used. In the end, we both became extremely upset. Furious, I dealt her the first blow. Her nose bled, and she pulled out a fistful of my hair. That’s when I began to dislike doing things with another person, because I was sick and tired of it. The idea of two stirs up a strange feeling in me. Not a very good feeling.”
“You could write a screenplay on your own, couldn’t you?”
“I couldn’t anymore, because writing a screenplay is a task that always leaves the possibility of two people working together. The idea kept making me nervous.”
“But writing novels doesn’t make you nervous?”
“No.”
“It makes you lonely, though.”
“I don’t really know what it’s like to be lonely, because I haven’t been with another person very often.”
“Is it strange to be with me, then?”
“We’re not doing anything together. We’re just with each other.”
“We’re drinking together. We’re going to be watching a movie together in a bit, and we’ve been together this whole time, haven’t we?”
“I guess you’re right.”
She rolls her eyes, taking a gulp of her beer.
“What I do know for sure is that it doesn’t feel the way it did when I was with someone in the past.”
“How does it feel, then?”
“I just feel like I’m alone.”
Disappointed, I gulp down my beer. We still have to wait twenty more minutes for the download to be complete.
77. “How long have you wanted to be a writer?” I ask.
The woman takes careful bites of the shells surrounding the peanuts, and collects the peanuts in the palm of her hand. When she has collected a number of peanuts, she takes a sip of her beer and pops them into her mouth all at once.
“My father owned a print shop,” she says.
Again, she begins to collect the peanuts in the palm of her hand.
“So I grew up breathing in the smell of paper and ink. People didn’t like the smell, saying it gave them a headache, but I really liked it. From time to time, these people, these writers, came to the shop. To see how their books came out, you know. They watched their words being printed on paper, with a look of satisfaction and wonder on their faces. To my father, they must have seemed the happiest people in the world. One day, sitting with his chin in his hand in a corner of the shop and staring at the machine at work, he said, ‘I hope my daughter becomes a happy person, too . . .’” she says.
Again, she pops the peanuts in her palm into her mouth all at once and crunches on them.
“My father must’ve been bored one day, because when the machines in the shop were at rest, he collected all the things I’d written and turned them into a book. It was pretty decent, with a title on the cover and even a profile photo. No, it wasn’t just pretty decent; it was a real book. I took it, with a mysterious feeling in my heart. The numbers on the pages looked like latitudes and longitudes on a map, or like street numbers, like they wouldn’t go anywhere. The sentences, neatly printed on paper, looked elegant and profound, and every sentence smelled of ink. That’s when I first thought, books are quite wonderful,” she says.
She must have grown tired of separating the peanuts from the snack, for she just puts it in her mouth and munches on it.
“But later, I became a little depressed that I was the only one who had and knew about the book. More and more, I wanted to write a book that a lot of people would know about and keep in their possession. Now I understand the value of such. Things went the way my father had hoped and planned for.”
“Your father must’ve been very happy that you became a writ
er.”
“He passed away before he got to see me as a writer. My oldest brother is in charge of the print shop now.”
“Are you happy?”
“I should be, if only for my father.”
78. My father often said such things, too, sitting in a corner of his shop. That he wished he had a child who would take charge of the shop for him. My father, who quit his job as a physics teacher to become an inventor, opened a toy shop that same year. He had my mother to consider, and invention wasn’t something that would bring in money right away, so he needed something that would bring in a regular income. In addition, owning a toy shop was a dream he’d had since he was a child. Now that I think about it, my father, more than anyone else, was someone who did what he wanted with his life, without caring what other people thought.
My father was more suited to be a toy-shop owner than an inventor. He himself wanted to be known more as a toy-shop owner than an inventor, and in his old age, he wanted to remain a toy-shop owner. My mother, of course, wasn’t happy that he had become someone who sold toys. I think she looked down on him a little, too, because what he was doing seemed undignified for someone of his age and social position, like a game played by immature children. Whenever my mother heaved a sigh, my father urged her not to look down on toys. Fortunately, her discontent didn’t last long, because the business thrived and the toys made a solid contribution to the household income.
The three of us—my brother, my sister, and I—often played in the toy shop. My brother usually played with robots, I liked cars and airplanes, and Jiyun, ever the girl that she was, became absorbed in changing doll clothes.
One day, my father asked, looking down at the top of our heads, “Will any of you take charge of this shop for me?”
No one paid attention to his words, because we were engrossed in playing with the toys. Then my father spoke again, in a more earnest voice, saying, “A long time from now, I mean.”
I looked over at my brother and Jiyun. It was obvious to anyone that my brother was more fit for academics than business, and Jiyun didn’t have the patience to spend her life cooped up in a tiny shop. It was obvious that she thought running a business was a boring job that ate away at her time. Then my father’s eyes met mine. I knew. I knew that from the beginning, he’d had me in mind when he spoke those words. I bent my head down toward the toys, avoiding his eyes.