by Jang Eun-jin
128. For Wajo, the journey must have been a pain. I gently take his bandaged paw in my hand. It’s true that I’ve had a lot of changes in my heart since I met him. I learned for the first time, too, that an animal can change the way a person thinks. I once saw a picture. It was a picture of a girl in Afghanistan who had lost her parents in a war. The girl was staring at the camera with a starved look on her face, sucking on a dirty finger. Her pupils seemed to say that she didn’t know whom to blame, and whom to hate. There was a filthy dog standing next to the girl. If I’d seen the picture before I met Wajo, I would, for sure, have felt sorry for the girl. The filthy dog standing next to her wouldn’t even have caught my attention, and even if it did, I wouldn’t have cared whether or not the dog starved. But oddly, that day, I felt more pity for that filthy dog than I did for the girl. My eyes stayed on the dog longer than they did on the girl. It was because I knew Wajo. I think the photographer who captured the girl and the dog in the same picture had the same belief I did: that whether dogs or humans, they were all living beings.
On my way out after seeing the picture, I tried to figure out the reason why my eyes had focused more on the dog than on the girl. I felt as though someone would point a finger at me if I didn’t. And at last, I have found the reason: dogs have no language. They can’t speak or write letters, or say they’re hungry or sick. Human civilization was made possible through the existence of language. Language meant communication, and communication meant progress. Dogs could not establish a civilization because they did not have a language and could not communicate. I’m sure, of course, that dogs have their own way of communicating that can’t be understood by humans. The problem is that when they meet someone uncaring like me, they can’t communicate, and must suffer in silence for a long time. Dogs can read human emotions, but too often, humans can’t read theirs.
My grandfather always said to me that dogs, who can’t speak, are to be pitied more than are humans. That dogs are better than humans. He was right.
Without letting go of his paw, I try saying something to Wajo. Wajo says nothing.
129. It’s past ten in the evening, and I come out of the hospital with Wajo in my arms. He must be very sick indeed, for he stays close to me like a baby, without struggling to get down. He feels too light. I look up at the sky. The night sky seems darker and vaster than ever. I don’t even know where to go. Then the woman says we should get a room, since it’s so late. With Wajo in my arms, I follow her to the nearest motel. She gets a room and pays for it. Somehow, I don’t feel indebted this time.
130. The woman and I are lying down side by side, looking up at the ceiling, with Wajo between us. The days I’ve spent with Wajo pass through my mind like pieces of a puzzle. Wajo is in every one of them. Wajo, who had made me, as well as the people we met on our journey, laugh and cry. Three years. It certainly wasn’t a short time. For Wajo, it must have seemed like a long, long time, like thirty years. It must have felt longer and farther away because he couldn’t see.
It crosses my mind that what has made such a long journey possible for me was Wajo, not the letters I didn’t get. I’ve been able to hold out for a long, long time because I had Wajo. I have truly enjoyed my journey with Wajo, and I wonder if he has, too.
The woman answers for Wajo, saying, “They say that dogs don’t blame their masters for being poor. So they probably don’t blame them for anything else, either. They don’t complain or harbor resentment. That’s the difference between humans and dogs. Dogs are content just to have a master. Even when they’re hungry or sick. He must’ve enjoyed the journey thoroughly, since you two were never apart for three years.”
“We were apart that one time.”
“But I was with him.”
I feel as though my time is up. I am witnessing the last grain of sand in a hourglass get buried and disappear amid countless other grains of sand. So I’m going to end this journey here. I’m going to end it for the sake of Wajo, who must have been tired and weary despite the good times. The journey, which in a way began with Wajo, comes to an end with Wajo. With Wajo, not with a letter, as I’d expected. That is the only act of consideration I can offer Wajo, and the respect he deserves. And in fact, I’m tired enough myself to put an end to this journey. It was a journey that had to end sometime. Just as everything comes to an end, my journey, too, comes to an end. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t get what I’d aimed for through this journey. I feel that the three years I’ve had with Wajo are enough. The direction he chose has never disappointed me, so once again, all I have to do is follow him.
I recall the beginning of my journey, when I had no confidence and little knowledge of the world, and very little courage to stand up against it. My twenties, which I spent on the road, and my thirties, which I arrived at on the road. And now I’m at the end of the journey. Have I learned anything about the world? Have I become any stronger?
Tomorrow, it’s time to say goodbye to the woman. It seems that our time together has been very short in a way, and very long in a way. The Savannah will be our last motel.
“I’m going home tomorrow,” I say.
“You should. Wajo must be happy that he has a home to go back to. Do you know now? The first thing you’ll do when you get home?” she says.
“It hasn’t hit me yet. It’s been three years, after all. I feel afraid, in a way.”
“Of what?”
“Of whether or not I’ll be able to adjust.”
“What are you worried about, when you have your family, and Wajo?”
“You’re right. And the clock must be ticking, too.”
“And the water may be dripping from your faucet, like mine.”
“What should I do then?”
“Just let it run.”
“ . . .”
131. I keep tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Is it because this is my last night, or because the lights are still on? Suddenly, the thought of a letter comes to my mind. I can’t sleep because I haven’t written a letter. The power of habit is great.
I lie face down on the floor to write a letter. From my backpack, I take out some writing paper and a pencil with an eraser on it. The pencil has grown stubby. The eraser is worn out as well, with only a flimsy layer sitting atop the metal protection cap as if it’s been sliced thin.
I write my last letter on this journey, pressing down so hard that the lead nearly breaks. My fingertips tremble a little, like a stutterer, at the thought that this will be the last. The letter is for Number 1, whom I met on the journey. A letter to 1, a fellow traveler who was with me on the first and last days of my journey. It feels as though the beginning and the end are intertwined, thus leading to a never-ending cycle. Surely this will not be the end. Just as it can’t be considered the beginning. Just as it can’t be determined where the beginning or the end is.
This night, on which I’m writing the last letter of my journey, is more sacred than any other. Wajo’s breathing is as quiet and tranquil as ever. He doesn’t bark once, as though he knows to whom it is I’m writing. When I have finished writing this letter, my hour will be 0 o’clock, and the hourglass will turn over.
132. Before I leave the room, I squeeze in my stiff body underneath the sink, and write a little sentence on it with a marker.
August 10, 2009. Wajo and I and 751 were here.
133. I go out of the motel, holding Wajo in my arms. The woman is waiting for me in front of the motel.
Tapping on the cement ground with one foot, she says, “I think this is where we should say goodbye.”
I don’t know what to say. Perhaps because there’s too much to say, or perhaps because there’s too little. In a way I feel like something should be said, and in a way, like nothing at all. After great hesitation and deliberation, I finally manage to come up with a single sentence.
“You’re the first novelist I’ve met.”
“It’s an honor,” she says, smiling brightly.
Then she stops smiling, and begins to tap
on the cement ground again.
“Are you going to keep traveling?” I ask.
“I think I’ll go home, too,” she says.
“Does that mean that you’ve come up with the last sentence?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When I came out alive from the gosiwon.”
I’m curious as to what the sentence is, but I don’t ask. I’m certain that it’s a great enough sentence to carve on a tombstone, since it’s one that was gleaned in the moment of death. I’ll be able to see it in print before long, when the book comes out. She takes out a book from her backpack and hands it to me. It’s Toothpaste and Soap.
“The cart . . .” I start.
“It was an empty cart. And I’d taken out in advance the last copy I kept for you.”
“I want to buy it the proper way, like everyone else.”
I reach for my wallet, but she stops me.
“I want to give it to you at no cost. We’re Toothpaste and Soap, you know,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the book.
To tell the truth, I’ve been wanting to read it as soon as possible because I, too, wanted to find out why the protagonist ate toothpaste and soap.
“So it turns out that you’re the last person I met on my journey,” I say.
“So it’s not a temporary number anymore?” she asks.
I just smile.
“But I can’t be the last . . . There’s no end to numbers,” she says.
“You’re right. It’s not the end,” I say.
“This probably won’t be the end for us, either.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Goodbye. And take care.”
“You too, 751. Thank you for everything.”
She pats Wajo on the head, bidding him goodbye, and starts to walk backwards, receding little by little.
Then she stops for a moment and says, “Thank you for everything, too.”
“For what?”
“I mean . . . I think being with another person is all right, too . . . It doesn’t seem so bad.”
She beams, and resumes walking backwards. I’m about to say something, but stop myself. I’m about to say that I thought it was all right too, that it wasn’t so bad, but don’t. Because even if I don’t, she probably knows already. Based on the fine tremor in my voice that must have occurred in our many conversations.
She raises her arms high and waves. I wave back. She puts her hands in her pockets and turns around. I turn around only after I see her turn around, looking a little lonely. Thinking back, I realize that of all the people I’ve met so far, she’s the one who asked me the most questions. She’s the one who listened to me the most as well, and the one who knew the most about me. It occurs to me that perhaps it’s all because she’s a novelist.
At that moment, I suddenly remember that I didn’t ask her for her address. I turn around to call out to her. But she’s already disappeared out of view. Where could she have gone? I look down at the book in my hand. When I see the book, I get the feeling that I’ll be able to write her a letter anytime, even if I don’t ask her.
134. I mail the letter I wrote to Number 1, and call my friend.
As soon as he picks up, he asks me in a worried voice, “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“About the letters . . .” he begins.
“It doesn’t matter anymore, whether they’ve come or not,” I interrupt.
“How come?”
“I’m coming home today. I won’t be waking you up with phone calls anymore, either.”
“Is it because of the fire?”
“Wajo is a little sick.”
“Where? Why? Is he hurt?”
“No, he isn’t, but he needs some rest because he’s got some problems.”
“I guess Wajo is getting old, too.”
“You’ve done so much for me.”
“Don’t mention it. Thanks to you, I got into the habit of getting up early.”
“I guess that habit will go away soon.”
“I was a bum when you left, and I’m still a bum.”
My friend seems to be reflecting anew on the past three years. But he, too, must have changed in some way in those three years. Just as I have.
“Hurry up. I miss you. I just found an amazing girl, as it happens. Real deadly this time. It’d be a shame if only I got to see her,” he says.
“Sure, show me when I get back,” I say.
He’s always been a little annoyed by the phone calls, but he must have been a little sad to think that one of his daily habits would come to an end. Our conversation lasted much longer than usual. It’s always sad to say goodbye to a habit. Especially if it’s contributed to the peace in your heart and in your daily life. Just as my journey has. Now I must get into a different kind of habit, and find myself in a different kind of life. For genuine peace and stability of mind.
I come out of the phone booth and hail a taxi. I’ve traveled far, and must travel just as far to reach home. I want to give Wajo a sense of stability on that long road home. The taxi comes to a stop. Wajo and I set out on the road, just the two of us without the woman. The time we spent with her was nothing compared to the three years of our journey, so why do I feel so empty inside? I must’ve grown used to traveling with her, for it feels a little strange to be left without her. Habits do have great power, indeed.
The taxi starts moving quietly with us inside. And so I say goodbye to the last city in which I stayed.
135. I didn’t check with my friend, but probably, no one wrote me.
136. I reach home only when the day has grown dark.
It takes a long time, after the taxi leaves, for me to get up the courage to walk up to the door as if I’m snooping around someone else’s house. The house feels a little unfamiliar, and I feel a little afraid. I feel as if I’ve entered a world I do not know, and as if something has expanded and then contracted.
The first thing I notice is the mailbox, hanging on the right side of the gate like a heart. I gently slip my hand in. I feel cold air instead of hot vibration. My friend hadn’t been lying to me on the phone. There’s nothing there. The empty mailbox is cold inside, as if its heart stopped long ago. Its mouth is rusty as if it’s never been opened. The back of my hand gets stained with rust as I pull my hand out.
I leave the mailbox behind and push the gate open with my fingertips. The gate, unlocked, creaks open. I step in quietly like a thief. Then I turn around and take a look beyond the gate, which I’ve just stepped through. Three years ago, my journey began with me stepping through that gate, and now, it comes to an end with me stepping through it again. Why does it feel as if the boundaries of the beginning and the end are so far apart, when in fact, they’re much too close together. The sense of distance probably comes from the human habit of separating and classifying and distinguishing, which sets the human heart at ease. I turn around, trying to cross the boundaries, and walk past the long yard toward the front door. I pull the door handle. The door, unlocked as expected, opens quietly with a rusty sound.
The house receives me.
137. I put Wajo down on the living room floor, and go from room to room looking for Mother, Father, Older Brother, and Jiyun. They must not be home yet. They were always busy, and always came home late. Soon enough, they will be shocked at my quiet return.
The house is much too quiet, with no one here. Houses are bound to be quiet with no one there, but it’s unusually quiet in here. The only thing moving in this quiet, still house is the clock hanging in each room. The only sound I hear is the sound of the clocks. The second hands of the clocks do not coincide with one another. They’re a little confusing because they all have different tones and vibrations. But the sound of the clocks, if nothing else, seems to make the unfamiliar silence step back. I end up thinking that it’s quite loud, even.
At that moment, I hear a different sound. I move toward the sound as if drawn
by it. I come to a stop in front of the bathroom. I gently push the door with my fingertips, and it opens wide. Water is dripping from the bathtub faucet like teardrops. A drop falls every five seconds. The sound fills up the bathroom. Someone must not have turned it off completely after taking a bath. I put on the slippers and go inside, and try turning it tight. The faucet, however, is turned off as tightly as it can be, and the water continues to drip at regular intervals. The faucet, it seems, is broken, not left on. For how long has it been broken? How many drops of water must have fallen down into the dark ground below while I was gone? I calculate in my mind. A drop every five seconds means . . . 12 drops a minute . . . 120 drops every ten minutes . . . 720 drops an hour . . . 17,280 drops a day . . . 6, 307,200 drops a year . . . 18,921,600 drops in three years.
Would I, too, have thought of home once in a while if I’d known that water was dripping from the faucet? Would I also have felt an urge to come home once in a while? Would I then have been able to return home earlier? I think about fixing the faucet, but decide to leave it as it is. Instead, I plug up the tub with a rubber stopper so that the water may not leak. Drop by drop, the water will make the tub undulate like a lake in no time. I toy around with the silly idea of collecting the drops of water for the next three years. I finish the calculation in my head, and I want to see with my own eyes how much 18,921,600 drops of water would be. I also want to touch the water to see how long three years are, and dip myself in the water.
I chuckle, thinking how silly I am, and turn away from the faucet. I can still hear very clearly the sound of water dripping behind me. It sounds like the sound of teardrops in a way, and the sound of blood, in a way. The sound grows louder and louder, like the sound of someone crying, and then spreads throughout the house like an epidemic. As if the only sounds made in the past three years were the sounds of water dripping and clocks ticking. It was a message for me, trying to tell me something, no, insisting something.
138. I have no family. No mother, no father, no brother, no Jiyun . . . Not one of them exists.