Record of a Journey to Mujin
K
im Sung’ok
The Bus to Mujin
I saw a signpost as the bus
rounded
the
heel
of
the
mountain, “Mujin 10km.” The
sign stuck out from the wild
grass at the side of the road; it
looked exactly as it looked in
the old days. I listened to the
conversation that had started
up again among the people
behind me.
“Just ten kilometers left,
I see.”
“Yes. We’ll be there in
thirty minutes.”
They
seemed
to
be
agricultural inspectors of a
kind, but you couldn’t be sure.
They wore striped, short-sleeve
shirts and tetron pants, and
either
they
were
farming
specialists, or they were just
talking in technical terms about
what they could not help
observing in the villages, fields
and mountains that swept past.
After we got off the train in
Kwangju and changed to a bus,
I continued, half asleep, to
listen to what they were saying.
They were speaking in low
voices,
pretending
to
a
refinement that was not at all
natural to countrymen. Many
of the seats in the bus were
empty.
According
to
the
inspectors, this was because it
was
the
busy
season
for
farmers and they hadn’t time to
go on trips.
“Noted
products
in
Mujin? There isn’t much, is
there?”
“No,
nothing
much.
Strange though … a lot of
people live there.”
“With the sea so near,
you’d imagine it would have
been possible to develop the
town as a port.”
“It’s not that simple, as
you’ll realize when you see for
yourself. The water is shallow.
You go out nearly 500 meters
in the shallows before the real
sea appears; that’s where you
can see the horizon.”
“Well then, it’s farming
country after all.”
“Yes, but there’s no
great fertile acreage in the
area.”
“So what sort of a living
have
those
fifty
or
sixty
thousand people?”
“Well, as the old saying
goes, ‘Not good, not bad.’”
They laughed, as loud as
is becoming for gentlefolk.
“But you’d expect a
factory to produce some one
thing of note,” one man tagged
to his laughter.
It’s not true to say that
Mujin has no noted product. I
know what its noted product is.
It’s the fog. When you got out
of bed in the morning and went
outside, the fog would have
surrounded Mujin, like enemy
soldiers that had advanced in
the night; and the mountains,
which normally surrounded the
town, would be gone, banished
by the fog to some faraway,
invisible place. It was like the
exhaled breath of a female
spirit that visited every night, a
spirit with a grudge against the
world. Before the sun came up
and the wind changed direction
and began to blow out to sea,
man was helpless to disperse it.
It couldn’t be grasped in the
hand, and yet it was clearly
there, surrounding men, cutting
them off from things at a
distance. Fog, Mujin fog, the
fog people met in the Mujin
morning - surely Mujin’s noted
product was its fog; it made
people pray earnestly for sun
and wind.
The rattling of the bus
lessened a little. I could feel
every increase and decrease in
the rattling of the bus in my
chin. I was sitting back limply
in my seat, my chin bouncing
with every wild pitch of the
bus as it sped along the stone
covered country road. I was
aware that if you ride a bus and
sit back so limply in your seat
that your chin bobs freely, the
fatigue is more severe than if
you sit stiffly erect, but the
June wind, blowing through
the open window, tickled my
exposed skin relentlessly, so
that I was half asleep, unable
to
summon
the
strength
necessary to sit stiffly erect.
The wind was made up of
countless tiny particles, and it
seemed to me as if these
particles were saturated with a
soporific. There was fresh
sunshine in this wind and an
untouched coolness where it
had not brushed the sweat
drenched skin of men, and the
smell and feel of salt, telling
that the sea was on the far side
of this range of mountains,
which surrounded and kept
rushing the bus as it sped along
the road; all these things,
strangely gathered together and
fused into one. If it were
possible to make a sleeping
draught
from
ingredients
-
these
three
the
fresh
brightness of sunshine, enough
coolness in the air to give
elasticity to the skin, and the
smell and feel of salt in the sea
breeze - it would become the
most invigorating of all the
medications
in
all
the
showcases of all the drugstores
in the world, and I would
become managing director of
the
most
prosperous
pharmaceutical company in the
world
-
because
everyone
wants to sleep calmly, and
peaceful sleep is invigorating.
A bitter smile came to
my lips. I could actually feel
the nearness of Mujin. It was
always this way when I came
to
Mujin.
Thoughts?
My
thoughts were always these
wild, topsy-turvy fancies. In
Mujin, without embarrassment
and without hesitation, I had
ideas I never had anywhere
else.
It
wasn’t
that
I
deliberately formed these ideas
in Mujin; rather it was as if
these ideas formed themselves
at their pleasure outside me
and then pushed their way into
my head.
“What are we going to
do with you? Your color is
really off. Why don’t you take
a few days in Mujin, make the
excuse you’re going to visit
your mother’s grave? Father
and I will fix everything at the
shareholders’ meeting. You’ll
get some fresh air - you
haven’t had any for a long time
- and when you get back you’ll
be managing director of the
prestigious
Pharmaceutical
Reanimation
Company.”
This was my wife’s advice a
few nights ago as she fondled
the collar of my pajamas. I
muttered under my breath, like
a grumbling child forced on an
errand he doesn’t want to do, a
conditioned reflex based on
past experience that invariably
I lost confidence in myself
whenever I went to Mujin.
Trips to Mujin had been
infrequent since I became more
or less adult,; the few trips I
made were all to escape some
failure in Seoul, or to make a
fresh start. Going to Mujin
when I needed a fresh start
wasn’t
totally
coincidental.
Having said that, I didn’t go to
Mujin because I got new
courage there or because some
new plan readily unfolded
itself. Actually, whenever I was
in Mujin, my situation was
always one of being kept in
confinement. With my dirty
clothes and yellow face, I spent
all my time fidgeting in the
lumber-room. When I was
awake, a chain of hours, too
many to be counted, flowed
past me, mocking me as I
stood there vacantly; when I
was
asleep,
long,
long
nightmares cruelly whipped
my
curled-up
body.
The
images I associated with Mujin
were irritability when the old
people who were looking after
me
got
on
my
nerves;
masturbating to drive away the
fancies and sleeplessness of the
lumber-room; strong cigaretteends that always made my
tonsils swell up; fretful waiting
for the postman; images like
these, or actions that were in
some way related to them. Of
course these were not the only
images associated with Mujin.
Standing on some Seoul street
when
hearing
suddenly
focused on things outside me
and I was staggered by the
merciless din, or in a car going
up the asphalt lane outside the
house in Shindang-dong, I
thought of a full river flowing;
a
grass-covered
causeway
stretching three miles into the
sea; tiny woods; many bridges;
many lanes; many mud walls;
schools
with
playgrounds
surrounded by tall poplars;
offices, their yards covered
with black stones collected
from the seashore; and myself
sitting on a bamboo bench,
thinking of the country around
me; this was Mujin. Whenever
I longed suddenly for quiet and
solitude, I thought of Mujin.
But the Mujin of such times
was merely a cozy little place
that I was painting in my
mind’s eye; there were no
people living there. What I
associated with Mujin was a
dark period of my youth. This
does
not
mean
that
dark
memories of Mujin followed
me around like a tail. The dark
times in my life were all in the
past; for the most part I had
forgotten
Mujin.
Yesterday
evening when I was getting on
the train in Seoul, the dark
memories of Mujin did not
come back with any lifelike
vividness. Of course this was
partly because I was so intent
on the many things I had to say
to my wife and the few people
from the company who had
come out to see me off. But
this morning when I got off the
train in Kwangju and was
leaving the station yard, a
crazy woman I saw there
dragged all these memories
violently together and flung
them in front of me. She was
dressed very attractively in a
Korean style skirt and blouse,
and she had a handbag hanging
on her arm that seemed to have
been picked to match the
season. Her face was rather
pretty and she wore heavy
make-up. One could tell that
the woman was crazy by the
ceaseless rolling of her eyes
and
by
the
half-yawning
bootblacks who stood in a ring
around her, teasing her.
“She’s studied so much
they say it’s turned her mind.”
“No, she was jilted by a
man.”
“She speaks American
really well, will I ask her
something?”
The bootblacks spoke in
loud voices. One of them, a
pimply fellow who was a little
older than the others, brazenly
touched the woman’s breast.
Whenever he did this, the
woman screamed, with the
same expressionless face as
before.
Her
screaming
suddenly brought back the
memory of a paragraph in the
diary I wrote in the lumberroom in Mujin long ago.
My mother was still
alive. Lectures at college had
been suspended because of the
outbreak of the Korean War. I
missed the last train leaving
Seoul and walked the three
hundred odd miles from Seoul
to Mujin on feet that were a
mass of continuously bursting
blisters.
Confined
in
the
lumber-room, I missed the
levies of the Volunteer Army
and evaded conscription by the
National
Army.
When
the
senior class in the local middle
school where I had graduated
bandaged up their third fingers
and paraded to the trucks in the
town
square,
crying
“If
through my death the country
lives…,” and when they got up
on those trucks and left for the
front, I was sitting on my
hunkers in the lumber-room,
listening to the sound of their
parade passing the front of the
house. When news came that
the battle front had moved
north and that college lectures
had begun again, I was hiding
in the lumber-room. I was
hiding because of my widowed
mother. When everyone rushed
to the battlefield, she forced
me to hide in the lumber-room.
I spent the time masturbating.
When
news
neighbor’s
came
that
a
child had been
killed in action, my mother
rejoiced that I was safe, and
when the occasional letter
came from a friend at the front,
she tore it up and never told
me. More and more she was
aware that I would choose the
battle line to the lumber-room.
The pages of my diary at this
juncture - I don’t have them
now, I burned them –were full
of self-hate and the effort to
support my disgrace with a
smile. Mother, if I go crazy, it
will be for these reasons.
Please be aware of them and
try to cure me… Times when I
made this kind of entry in my
diary
were
dragged
back
before me by the crazy woman
I saw in the station yard in the
early
morning.
I
felt
the
nearness of Mujin through that
crazy woman, and right now
again I was vividly aware of it
through
the
dust
covered
signpost sticking out of the
wild grass.
“You’re going to be
managing director this time.
There’s no question about it.
Take a week in the country, get
rid of the tension, have a good
rest. Managing director will
bring heavier responsibilities.”
Actually, my wife and
father-in-law, without knowing
it themselves, had given me
very sound advice. It was wise
to decide on Mujin as the place
where I could get rid of my
tensions; actually it was the
only place where I could get
rid of them.
The bus was entering the
town of Mujin. Tiled roofs,
galvanized
roofs,
thatched
roofs, all silver sparkling, all
trapping the intense, late June
sunlight. The sound of a
hammer beating in a foundry
flew into the bus momentarily
and then rushed out again.
From somewhere or other the
smell of excrement seeped in;
there was the smell of creosol
passing
the
hospital;
and
strains of a battered popular
song flowed from speakers in a
shop.
The
streets
were
completely empty; people were
squatting in the shade of the
eaves; young children, naked,
keeping to the shade, were
peeping out. The town square,
with its asphalt surface, was
almost completely empty. Only
the sunlight boiled blindingly
on the square, and in the
stillness of this blinding sun,
two
dogs
copulated,
their
tongues hanging out.
People Met at Night.
I woke up from my nap just a
little before suppertime and
went down to the street where
all
the
newspaper
branch-
offices were grouped together
My aunt’s house did not
subscribe to a newspaper. But
the newspaper was a part of
my life - city people are all the
same; the paper took care of
the beginning and end of my
day. In the newspaper office, I
wrote down the address of my
aunt’s house, drew a rough
sketch of how to get there and
came out. As I came out, I
could hear the people in the
office whispering. It looked as
if they knew me.
“Is that so? He looks
arrogant”
“He’s
been
very
successful, has he?”
“Long ago… T.B....”
I came out against a
backdrop
of
whispering,
waiting inwardly for the one
word that wasn’t said. No one
said “goodbye.” That’s where
Seoul was different. These
people would be dragged little
by little into a whirlpool of
whispering; and when finally,
lost
to
themselves,
the
whirlpool threw them out again,
they would probably whisper
and whisper and continue to
whisper,
as
if
they
were
unaware of the emptiness they
feel. The wind was blowing
from the sea. The streets were
very busy compared with a few
hours ago when I got off the
bus. Students were coming
home from school. They were
whirling
their
schoolbags,
which were awkward to carry,
flinging
them
shoulders,
tightly
with
across
their
hugging
them
both
hands;
making balls of spit with their
tongues and then sending the
spit flying with a shot of their
lips. Schoolteachers and office
workers, empty lunch-boxes
rattling in their hands, were
passing languidly by. Suddenly
it all seemed like a game to me.
Attending
school,
teaching,
going to the office and coming
home;
all
these
suddenly struck
me
things
as
a
senseless game. It seemed
laughable that people should
be so bound up in a struggle
with such things.
Back in my aunt’s house,
I had a visitor while I was
eating supper. His name was
Pak; he was a few years behind
me in Mujin Middle School. In
my bookworm days, he gave
the impression that he had
great respect for me. He was
what you might call a literary
minded youth. He used to say
he liked the American writer,
Fitzgerald,
but
unlike
a
Fitzgerald fan, he was very
quiet,
very
solemn
about
everything; and he was also
poor.
“I heard from a friend of
mine in the newspaper office
that you had come down. It’s
good to see you. What brought
you down?” He made me
really welcome.
“Is there a reason I
shouldn’t come to Mujin?” I
asked. I knew immediately that
the tone I had taken was out of
line.
“Well, it’s been such a
long time since you were here.
You came once when I was
getting out of the army, and
this is the first time since; so
let me see it’s…”
“Yes, indeed, it’s four
years now.”
Four years ago, when
the pharmaceutical company in
which I was an accountant was
merging with a slightly larger
company, I lost my job and
came down to Mujin. Actually,
the fact that I had lost my job
was not the only reason I left
Seoul. If Hŭi, with whom I had
been living, had stayed by my
side, there probably wouldn’t
have been any dejected trip to
Mujin.
“I
heard
you
got
married.” Pak asked.
“Yes. And you?”
“Me? Not yet. I believe
you married really well.”
“Is that so? Why are you
still single? How old are you
now?
“I’ll be twenty-nine this
year.”
“Nine’s supposed to be
unlucky, but you’ll have to do
something this year, right?”
“Ah…I
don’t
know.”
Pak scratched his head like a
young boy.
Four years ago... I was
twenty-nine that year; that was
when
my
present
wife’s
husband died, when Hui ran
away from me.
“There
isn’t anything
wrong, I trust?” Pak asked. To
some extent he knew the
reason for my trips to Mujin in
the past.
“It looks like I’ll get a
promotion. I just took a few
days holidays.”
“They say you are the
most successful Mujin Middle
School
graduate
since
Liberation.”
“Me?” I laughed.
“Yes, you and one of
your classmates - Cho.”
“Cho? you mean the lad
with whom I used to be
friendly?”
“Yes. He passed the
higher
Civil
Service
Examination - last year, I think
- and he’s now superintendent
of the Tax Office.”
“Ah, is that so?”
“You didn’t know?”
“We haven’t been in
contact much. He was on the
staff here in the Tax Office,
wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“That’s really good. Can
we go to see him tonight?”
My
small
friend
and
Cho
rather
was
dark
complexioned. He often told
me how he used to have a
complex about my height and
fair skin. “Long, long ago,
there was a youth who got a
bad palm reading. He worked
hard trying to cut good lines
into his palm with his nails. In
the end he was successful and
lived happily ever after.” Cho
was always deeply impressed
by this kind of story.
“What are you doing
these days?” I asked Pak.
Pak reddened, hesitated
for a moment and said he had a
teaching position in our alma
mater,
mumbling
answer
as
if
out
his
there
were
something bad about this.
“Isn’t it a good life? It
must be grand to have time to
read books. I don’t have time
to read an issue of a magazine.
What are you teaching?”
Perhaps he took courage
from my words because his
tone
of
voice
when
he
answered was a little brighter
than it had been a moment ago.
“I’m teaching Korean.”
“You’re doing the right
thing.
It’s
probably
pretty
difficult for the school to get a
teacher of your caliber.”
“That’s not really so.
With all the graduates from
teachers colleges, it’s hard to
get by with just a certificate
from
the
Teacher’s
Qualification Examination.”
“Is that how it is?”
Pak didn’t say anything;
he just smiled a forlorn smile.
After supper, we had a
drink and then went off to Tax
Superintendent Cho’s house.
The streets were dark and
gloomy. As we crossed the
bridge I saw the trees reflected
indistinctly in the water. Once,
long ago, as I crossed this
bridge at night, I had cursed
those dark squatting trees. The
trees
were
standing
there
looking as if at any moment
they would cry out and spring
at me. The thought even
occurred to me, how wonderful
it would be if there were no
trees in the world.
“Everything is just as it
was,” I said.
“I
wonder?”
Pak
murmured in reply.
There were four visitors
in the sitting-room of Cho’s
house. Cho shook and pressed
my hand until it hurt, and I
noted that there was more of a
luster to his face than of old
and that his skin had lightened
in color.
“Come and sit down.
God, the place is upside down.
I’ll have to get myself a wife
quick.”
But the house was by no
means upside down.
“Do you mean to tell me
you haven’t got married yet?” I
asked.
“I’ve been buried in law
books all my life, I never got
round to it. Come and sit
down.”
I was introduced to the
visitors who were already there.
Three of them, men, were from
the Tax Office; and one other, a
woman, was talking with Pak.
“No
more
secret
conversations, Miss Ha, I want
you to meet someone. This is
Yun Huijung, a middle school
classmate and friend. He is
manager
of
pharmaceutical
a
big
company
in
Seoul. And this is Miss Ha
Insuk, a music teacher in our
alma mater; she graduated
from a music college in Seoul
last year.”
“Ah, I see. You are both
in the same school,” I said,
looking in turn from Pak to the
woman, but addressing my
remarks to the woman.
“Yes,”
she
answered,
with a smile; Pak hung his
head.
“Is
Mujin
your
hometown?”
“No, I was appointed
here. That’s why I’m on my
own.”
Her
face
showed
individuality; oval shaped, big
eyes, pale complexion. She
gave the impression of being
delicate, but her high nose and
full lips contradicted this. Her
resonant voice reinforced the
impression given by her nose
and lips.
“What did you major
in?”
“I studied voice.”
“Miss Ha is also a very
good pianist,” Pak interjected
in a careful voice. Cho also
lent his support. “She sings
extremely well. Actually, an
outstanding soprano.”
“Ah, you sang soprano
in school?” I asked.
“Yes. I sang ‘One Fine
Day’ from ‘Madame Butterfly’
at my graduation concert.”
She spoke in a tone of
voice that showed her heart
was still at that graduation
concert.
There were silk cushions
on the floor and a pack of
cards scattered across them.
…Mujin. A cigarette-end
in my mouth, burning shorter
and shorter until it seemed it
would set fire to my lips; tearstreaming
eyes
narrowed
against the cigarette smoke;
getting out of bed when it was
already high noon and divining
the day’s fickle fortune with a
pack of cards. Or, the pack of
cards
in
the
inevitable
gambling den, into which I
used to throw myself without
regard for the outcome. The
cards made me oblivious to
any feeling in my body, except
for a growing fever in my head
and a trembling in my fingers.
“Cards! I see you have
playing cards.” I lifted a card
and slapped it down, lifted it
and slapped it down again,
muttering all the while as I
lifted and played the card.
“Would you like to play
a round for money?” One of
the staff of the Tax Office
asked me.
I didn’t want to.
“We’ll play next time.”
The
laughed
staff
softly.
member
Cho
went
inside for a moment and came
out again. A little later a liquor
table appeared.
“How long will you be
here?”
“About a week.”
“You got married and
never sent me an invitation! Of
course, I couldn’t have gone
anyway.
The
abacus
was
running my life at the time.
“Still I expect you to
send me an invitation to your
wedding.”
“Don’t worry.”
We drank beer that had
little or no head.
“A
pharmaceutical
company is where medicine is
made, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Wouldn’t have to worry
about catching a disease for the
rest of your life.”
The
laughed
tax
for
a
office
staff
long time,
striking the floor as if the
remark were exceedingly witty.
“Mr. Pak, you must be
very popular with the students.
You live five minutes walk
from here at the very most, but
you never call in.”
“I’m
always
thinking
about it, but….”
“I used to hear about
you regularly from Miss Ha.
Miss Ha, beer isn’t liquor, have
a glass. You’re not normally so
quiet and demure?”
“Yes, yes. Put it there.
I’ll drink it.”
“I presume you’ve drunk
beer before?”
“Why, when I was at
college, I even drank soju with
my friends - we used to lock
the door from the inside.”
“I didn’t know we had a
big drinker here.”
“I didn’t drink because I
liked it. I just wanted to see
what it tasted like.”
“So, how did it taste?”
“I don’t know. I used fall
asleep as soon as I took the
glass from my lips.”
Everyone laughed. Only
Pak’s smile seemed to be
forced.
“This
is
Miss
Ha’s
strong point, I always think.
She
tries
to
make
the
conversation lively, that’s her
strong point,” Cho said.
“It’s not a deliberate
effort to be entertaining. It’s a
way of talking that comes from
college days.”
“And there’s Miss Ha’s
weak point. Must every piece
of conversation be prefaced by
‘when I was going to college’?
Think of the bitterness of it for
someone like me who has
never been to the front gate of
a college. Isn’t it enough to kill
a man?”
“I’m sorry.”
“All right. Then by way
of apology, will you sing a
song for us?”
“Good idea.”
“That’s a good idea all
right.”
“Let’s have a song.”
Everyone clapped. Miss
Ha hesitated.
“Seeing that we have a
visitor from Seoul, too. The
song you sang the last time
was really nice.” Cho pressed
her.
“All right, I’ll sing.”
The teacher began to
sing. Her face was almost
expressionless, just a slight
movement of her lips. The staff
of the Tax Office began to beat
time on the liquor table. She
was singing “Tears of Mokpo.”
How much similarity is there
between “One Fine Day” and
“Tears of Mokpo,” I wonder?”
What could be producing a
popular song from vocal cords
trained to sing arias? Her
“Tears of Mokpo” didn’t have
the grace notes that bargirls put
into such songs; it didn’t have
the huskiness that is in large
part the saving grace of a
popular song; nor did it have
the wistful sadness that so
often constitutes the content of
a popular song. In fact, her
“Tears of Mokpo” had ceased
to be a popular song at all. But
even more it was not an aria
from “Madame Butterfly.” It
was a new style of song,
something that didn’t exist
previously.
Instead
of
the
wistful sadness of a popular
song, it had a cold morbid
sadness, a cry of pent-up
emotional need in a much
higher octave than “One Fine
Day.” It had the icy sneer of a
madwoman whose hair has
fallen in a tangled heap. And
above all it had a fetid, corpse
like smell that is typical of
Mujin.
I smiled as soon as she
finished
the
song,
a
consciously foolish smile, and
I applauded. And - shall I call
it a sixth sense? - I was aware
that Pak wanted to leave.
When my eyes fell on Pak, he
got up from his place as if he
had been waiting. Everyone
urged him to stay, but he
declined with a mechanical
smile.
“Please excuse me,” he
said to me. “I’ll see you
tomorrow.”
Cho came out with him
to the gate, and I saw him as
far as the main street. It wasn’t
very late, but the street was
deserted. I could hear a dog
barking. A few rats eating
something on the main street
scattered, frightened by our
shadows.
“Look!
The
fog
is
coming down.”
Sure enough, at the far
end of the main street, the
black outline of a residential
area, studded here and there
with lights,
was
gradually
dissolving.
“You seem to like Miss
Ha,” I said.
Pak
smiled
that
mechanical smile again.
“There’s a connection
between her and Cho, isn’t
there?”
“Our friend, Cho, seems
to be thinking of her as one of
a number of possibles for
marriage.”
“If you’re keen, you
better
be
a
bit
more
constructive. Give it a real go.”
“Ah, not really...” Pak
groped for words like a boy.
“It’s just that sitting with those
worldlings
and
singing
a
popular song seemed a little
regrettable, that’s all, so I left.”
He
spoke
softly
as
if
controlling his anger.
“It’s just a question of
there being one place to sing
classical music and another
place to sing popular songs.
There
isn’t
anything
regrettable involved, is there?”
I comforted him with a lie.
Pak went off, and I
returned to mingle with the
“worldlings.”
Everyone
in
Mujin thinks like that, that the
other man is a worldling. I
think the same way, that
everything the other man does
is a game, carrying no more
weight or value than idleness.
It was late when we got
up to leave. Cho urged me to
sleep in his house. But when I
thought of the constrictiveness
of being there until I got up in
the morning and could take my
leave, I opted to go home. The
staff all branched off their own
ways as we went along, until
finally only the woman and I
were left. We were crossing the
bridge. The water stretched out
white in the black landscape,
this appearance of whiteness
disappearing at its edges into
the fog.
“It’s really a charming
place at night,” she said.
“Is that so?” I said. “I’m
glad to hear it.”
“I can guess why you
say you’re glad,” she said.
“How much have you
guessed?” I asked.
“That,
actually,
you
don’t think it’s a charming
place at all. Am I right?”
We
had
crossed
the
bridge. This was where we had
to part. She had to take the
road that stretched along the
bank of the stream while I had
to go the road straight ahead.
“Ah, you’re going that
way. Well…” I said
“Walk with me a little
farther. This road frightens me,
it’s so quiet.” There was a
slight tremor in her voice.
Once again we began to walk
side by side. Suddenly we
seemed to be friends. From the
spot where the bridge ends,
when she asked me to see her
home in a voice that trembled
with real fear, I felt that she
had inserted herself into my
life. And like all my friends and this is something I cannot
now deny - like all my friends,
whom
undoubtedly
I
hurt
sometimes, they hurt me a lot
more often.
“When I met you first how shall I put it - shall I say
that you carried an air of Seoul
with you. I felt as if you were
someone I knew from a long
time ago. Very strange, isn’t
it?” she said suddenly.
“Popular songs,” I said.
“What?”
“Really, why do you
sing popular songs? Don’t
people who have studied voice
always try to keep away from
popular songs?”
“Because those people
are always asking me to sing
popular songs.”
She laughed softly, as if
embarrassed.
“Would it be meddling
in your private affairs for me to
say it would be better not to go
there if you don’t want to sing
popular songs?”
“Really, I don’t intend to
go there any more. Really, they
are worthless people.”
“Well, why have you
been a regular visitor?”
“Because I was bored,”
she replied listlessly.
Bored. Yes, that’s by far
the best expression for it.
“Back there, when you
were singing that popular song,
Mr. Pak seemed to regard it as
regrettable. That’s why he
left.”
I searched her face in the
darkness.
“Everything is always
black and white with Mr. Pak.
Straight down the line.”
She laughed in a highpitched, cheerful voice.
“He’s
a
good
man,
really,” I said.
“Yes, he’s too good.”
“Has it ever occurred to
you that Mr. Pak is in love
with you, Miss Ha?”
“Ah, Miss Ha, Miss Ha don’t keep saying Miss Ha. If
you were my brother, you
would be my oldest brother.”
“Well, what will I call
you?”
“Just call me by my
name - lnsuk.”
“Insuk, Insuk,” I tried
murmuring it in a low voice.
“That sounds real good,”
I said. “Insuk, why are you
avoiding my question?”
“What
was
it
you
asked?” she said with a laugh.
We were passing a rice
field. At one time, on summer
nights,
listening
to
the
croaking of frogs in rice fields
far and near, like the sound
made by innumerable rainbow
shells being rubbed together, I
used to have the sensation that
the croaking of the frogs
changed
into
innumerable,
twinkling
stars.
strange
phenomenon,
It
was
a
an
auditory image changing to a
visual one. Why did I have this
sensation of the croaking of
frogs felt like twinkling stars?
Why were
my senses so
mixed-up? But when I looked
at the stars, twinkling in the
night sky as if they would fall
out of it, I never used to hear
them as croaking frogs. When I
looked
at
the
stars,
the
tantalizing distance between
one star and me, or between
that star and another star was
not as I had learned in the
science books. They seemed to
become ever more distinct in
my vision, as if my eyes were
gradually
acute.
becoming
Looking
unbridgeable
at
more
this
distance,
standing there in spellbound
abstraction, it seemed as if my
heart would burst, as if I would
go mad in that moment. I
wonder why I found it so hard
to bear. Why was this “me” of
the past so angered by, so
unable to bear the sight of, the
night
sky’s
innumerably
twinkling stars?
“What are you thinking
about?” she asked.
“The croaking of the
frogs,” I answered, looking up
at the night sky. Shrouded by
the descending fog, the stars
appeared dim in the sky.
“Gosh! The croaking of
the frogs. You’re right. I wasn’t
aware of the croaking of the
frogs before. I always thought
Mujin’s frogs only croaked
after twelve at night.”
“After twelve?”
“Yes. You know, when it
passes midnight and the owner
of the house where I live shuts
off his radio, the only thing I
can hear is the croaking of the
frogs.”
“What are you doing
after twelve, if you’re not
sleeping?”
“It’s just that sometimes
I can’t sleep.”
Sleep sometimes won’t
come; that’s true enough.
“Is Madame pretty?” she
suddenly asked.
“My wife, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, she’s pretty,” I
said with a laugh.
“You’re happy, aren’t
you? Plenty of money, a pretty
wife, lovable children, so….”
“I
don’t
have
any
children yet, so I suppose that
makes me a little less happy.”
“My goodness! When
did you get married? Still no
children?”
“It’s a little over three
years.”
“Why do you take these
trips on your own - with no
particular business motive?”
Why was she asking
these questions? I laughed
quietly. Her voice was more
cheerful than before.
“If I call you brother,
will you bring me to Seoul?”
“Do you want to go to
Seoul?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think
I’ll go mad,” she continued.
“Right now I think I’ll go mad.
I have a lot of college friends
in Seoul. I want to go to Seoul
so bad it’s killing me.”
She gripped my arm for
a moment and quickly dropped
it. Suddenly I was aroused. I
frowned.
I
frowned
and
frowned and frowned again.
The excitement passed.
“No matter where you
go now, it’s going to be
different than when you were
at college. You are a woman,
Insuk, and you’ll probably feel
you’re
going
to
go
mad
wherever you are until you
become absorbed into a family,
“That’s occurred to me
too. But as things are now, I
feel like I would go mad even
if I had a family. Unless I had a
man that really appealed to me.
And even if I had a man that
really
appealed
to
me,
I
wouldn’t want to live here. I’d
keep at him to run away from
here.”
“Life in Seoul isn’t all
sunshine; that’s my experience
anyway. Responsibility, it’s all
responsibility.”
“Yes, but here there’s
neither
responsibility
irresponsibility.
Anyway,
nor
I
want to go to Seoul. Will you
take me?”
“I’ll have to think about
it.”
“Please? Yes?”
All I could do was laugh.
We arrived at the front of her
house.
“What do you plan to do
tomorrow?” she asked.
“I don’t know for sure.
In the morning I have to go
and visit my mother’s grave,
and after that I don’t have
anything
to
do.
I’m
half
thinking of going down to the
shore. There’s a house there
where once I had a room, and I
could say hello to the people
there while I’m at it.”
“Go
there
in
the
afternoon.”
“Why?”
“I want to go with you.
Tomorrow’s Saturday and I
only
have
class
in
the
morning.”
“Let’s do that then.”
We agreed on a place
and a time to meet the next day
and then we parted. I fell into a
strange
melancholy
and
trudged back to my aunt’s
house.
The
curfew
siren
sounded just as I was getting in
beneath the covers. It was an
unexpectedly noisy sound, a
long drawn out sound. All
things,
all
thoughts
were
swallowed up in that siren.
Finally,
world
everything
in
dissolved
the
into
nothingness. Only the siren
remained.
Eventually,
it
seemed the sound would go on
so long that I would not be
able to feel it any longer. Then
the siren lost power, was cut
off; one long drawn out moan
and it was gone. My thoughts
came back to life again. I tried
to
think
of
our
recent
conversation. It seemed like
we had talked of many things,
but only a few items remained
in my ear. After a little more
time has gone by, when the
things we talked about move
from my ear to my brain, and
from my brain to my heart,
maybe a few more things will
disappear. Really, for all I
know, maybe they will all
disappear before it’s finished.
Let’s think this over slowly.
She said she wanted to go to
Seoul. She said this in a
piteous voice. I was suddenly
seized by an impulse to take
her in my arms, and... no, that
impulse is the only thing that
can remain in my heart. And
even that will be erased from
my heart once I leave Mujin. I
couldn’t sleep. The afternoon
nap was part of it. I smoked a
cigarette in the dark. I glared at
the white clothes hanging on
the wall; they were looking
down at me like gloomy ghosts.
I knocked the ash off my
cigarette in a convenient place
near my head - anywhere I
could clean with a cloth in the
morning. I could hear faintly
the sound of the frogs “that
croak after twelve.” I heard a
clock
somewhere
softly
ringing one o’clock. I heard the
clock ringing two o’clock. I
heard the clock ringing three
o’clock. I heard the clock
ringing four o’clock. A little
later, the siren screamed for the
end of curfew. Either the siren
or the clock was wrong. All
thoughts were swallowed up in
that siren. Finally, everything
in the world dissolved into
nothingness. Only the siren
remained.
Eventually,
it
seemed as if the siren would go
on so long I would not be able
to feel it any longer, Then
suddenly the siren lost power,
was cut off; one long drawn
out moan and it was gone.
Somewhere, husband and wife
would be making love. No, not
husband and wife, prostitute
and
client.
I
couldn’t
understand why I was thinking
such extraordinary thoughts. A
little later I fell quietly asleep.
A Long Causeway Stretching
into the Sea
There was a misty rain falling
in
the
morning.
Before
breakfast, I put up the umbrella
and visited my mother’s grave
on the hill near the town.
Exposed to the rain and with
my trousers rolled up above
my knees, I approached the
tomb, fell down and bowed.
The
rain
made
extraordinarily
me
dutiful
an
son.
With one hand I pulled the
long grass from the top of the
grave. As I pulled the grass, I
pictured to myself my old
father-in-law, smiling a broad
smile, doing the rounds of
everyone
connected
with
electing a managing director—
all to make me managing
director. And immediately I
wanted to climb into the grave
myself.
On the way back, I
decided to walk the pretty,
grass-covered causeway road,
even though it was much
longer. The misty rain flew
whitely in the breeze; the
landscape waved with the rain.
I folded the umbrella. As I
walked along the causeway
road, I saw students gathered at
the foot of the causeway,
squatting down in a grassy
field along the water’s edge,
students who had come from
town
and
from
far-away
country places to attend school.
There were some older people
among them; a policeman in
rain gear was hunkered down
on the top of the causeway
slope, smoking a cigarette and
looking
intently
at
some
distant place, and an old
tongue-clicking hag left the
ranks of the students and
moved away. I went down the
slope of the causeway. “What’s
going on?” I asked as I passed
the policeman.
“A
suicide,”
the
policeman replied.
“Who is it?”
“A girl from a bar in
town. Every year, come early
summer, a few of them die.”
“Is that so?”
“She
was
a
tough
diamond but she had strength. I
never thought she’d be one to
die.
Human
in
the
end,
couldn’t help it, I suppose.”
“I see.”
I went down to the
water’s edge and got amongst
the students. I couldn’t see the
face of the corpse because it
was turned towards the water.
Her hair was permed; her arms
and legs were white and thick.
She was wearing a light,
bright-red sweater and a white
skirt. It must have been cold at
first light this morning. Either
that or she really liked these
clothes. White rubber shoes
with a flower design pillowed
her head. At a little distance
from her outstretched hand, a
white
handkerchief
with
something wrapped in it lay
neglected. The handkerchief
was being soaked by the rain,
so that it didn’t flutter at all,
not even when the wind blew.
Many students had waded into
the stream in order to see the
face of the corpse. They were
standing there,
facing this
direction, their blue uniforms
reflected upside down in the
water, blue flags guarding the
corpse. I turned towards the
girl; a strange desire boiled in
me. I got out of there in a hurry.
“I don’t know what she
took,” I said to the policeman,
“but I wonder, even at this late
stage, couldn’t something be
done?”
“Cyanide
powder
is
what those kind take. Not just
a few sleeping pills like in
vulgar plays. At least that’s
something to be thankful for.”
I
remembered
the
fantasy I had indulged on the
bus to Mujin, of making and
selling a sleeping drug. The
fresh brightness of the sun, just
enough coolness in the air to
give elasticity to the skin, and
the smell and feel of salt in the
sea breeze… if I could make a
sleeping drug of these three
ingredients. But I suppose this
sleeping drug has been made
already. Suddenly the thought
occurred to me - last night
when I was tossing and turning
unable to get to sleep, was it
not so that I might watch over
this
girl’s
death
hour?
It
seemed to me that the siren
blew for the end of curfew, the
girl took the poison, and only
then did I fall quietly asleep.
Suddenly I felt as if this girl
were part of me. I felt as if she
were a part of me that I must
cherish, however painful it
might be. I shook the rain off
my folded umbrella and came
back to the house.
Back home there was a
note
from
Cho,
the
tax
superintendent. “If you haven’t
anything to do, drop by the Tax
Office.” The misty rain had
stopped, but the sky was
overcast. I figured I knew
Cho’s intention. He wanted to
show himself off sitting in the
superintendent’s office. Well,
maybe I’m just cynical and
think like that. I decided to
think it
out differently.
I
wonder is he satisfied as
superintendent
of
Office?”
probably
He
the
Tax
is
satisfied. He is a man that suits
Mujin. No, I decided to think it
out again. Saying you know
someone well, pretending you
know him well – if you look at
it from that other person’s
point of view, it must be very
distressing.
You
can
only
criticize or evaluate people you
know.
Cho was in a vest, his
trousers tied above his knees,
and he was fanning himself. To
me he cut a poor figure. I felt
sorry for him whenever he
made one of his gestures of
obvious pride, as he sat there
on the white covered swivel
chair.
“Are you busy?” I asked.
“Me? I’ve nothing to do!
All a man in high position has
to
do
is
mutter
about
responsibility.”
But he was by no means
without work. People were
coming in and out getting his
seal on documents, and there
were even more documents
heaped up under “undecided.”
“The last Saturday of the
month is always a bit busy,” he
said.
But his face showed he
was proud of this busyness. So
busy you haven’t time to be
proud of it! That’s me in Seoul.
What shall I say? A man’s
ineptitude can make him busy.
Busyness born of ineptitude. I
realized that if a man is inept at
what he is doing, no matter
what it is - even stealing - this
ineptitude is pitiful to look at;
it gets on the nerves of
whoever
sees
it.
Getting
through work with grace and
expertise imparts a sense of
security to all.
“By the way, are you
thinking of marrying Miss
Ha?”
“Marrying her!” he said
with a laugh “Does it look like
she’s the best I can do?”
“What’s
wrong
with
someone like that?”
“Well, good for you!
You catch a widow with good
backing and plenty of money,
and I’m supposed to be content
with a skinny music teacher,
someone who doesn’t know
where she rolled out of, is that
it?” And when he finished he
burst into jovial laughter, as if
the whole idea were killing
him.
“You’re well off now;
would it matter if the girl were
a beggar?” I asked.
“That’s not the point. If I
have no one on my side to
push me, then I have to have
someone on my wife’s side;
that’s the point,” he replied.
He spoke as if we were
accomplices.
“It’s a funny world. No
sooner had I passed the Higher
Exam than the matchmakers
began pouring in... with an
array of utterly hopeless things.
My God, these girls have a
fantastic nerve; they make a
sex organ their capital and
think that’s all they need to get
married.”
“Well, is she one of
those kind of women?”
“Absolutely typical. I
can’t tell you what a nuisance
she is, the way she runs after
me.”
“She seems like a really
bright girl.”
“She’s bright all right.
But
I
looked
into
her
background. Her family are
nobodies. She couldn’t get a
worthwhile
man
from
her
hometown, not if her life
depended on it.”
I wanted to go and meet
her.
“Pak likes her. Of course,
Pak doesn’t know what ‘fast’
is,” he added with a chuckle.
“Pak?” I pretended to be
surprised.
“He sends letters to her
confessing his love, and she
shows them all to me. It works
out he’s writing love letters to
me.”
The desire to meet her
vanished on the spot. But, a
little later, the desire to meet
her came back again.
“Once, last spring, I
brought her off to a temple. I
had a try, but - smart thing that
she is - she said it was out of
the question before marriage.”
“So?”
“So, I was humiliated.”
I was grateful to her.
When the time came, I
went to the causeway that
stretches out into the sea, a
little way from town, where we
had agreed to meet. I could see
a yellow parasol in the distance.
It was her. We walked side by
side beneath the cloud veiled
sky.
“I asked Mr. Pak all
sorts of things about you
today.”
“Is that so?”
“What do you think I
was most interested in?”
I couldn’t guess for the
life of me. She chuckled for a
moment. Then she said, “I
asked
about
your
blood
group.”
“My blood group?”
“I have a strange belief
about
blood
groups.
The
character that a person’s blood
group reveals... it’s in biology
books, isn’t it? I wish people
were always like that. Then
there wouldn’t be any more
kinds of characters in the
world than you can count on
your fingers.”
“That’s not a belief. It’s
a hope.”
“What
I
want
is
character that you can believe
unquestionably.”
“What blood group is
that?”
“A blood group called
‘fool.’”
We laughed distressedly
in the sultry air. I stole a glance
at her profile. She gazed ahead
with those big eyes, her lips
closed
tight,
a
bead
of
perspiration forming on the
end of her nose. She was
following me like a child. I
took one of her hands in mine.
She
seemed
surprised.
I
released her hand quickly. A
little later I took her hand again.
This time she showed no
surprise. There was a faint
breeze seeping between our
clasped palms.
“What are you going to
do in Seoul, you’ll need a
plan?” I asked.
“With a brother as good
as
you,
you’ll
something.”
think
She
of
looked
intently at me and smiled.
“There are plenty of
men to marry, but... wouldn’t
you be better off back home
than in Seoul?”
“This
is
better
than
home.”
“Well then, stay here.”
“Oh, you don’t intend to
take me, I see.”
She was near tears and
she flung off my hand. The
truth was I didn’t know what I
thought. The truth was that the
age for standing and facing the
world
with
sentiment
and
compassion had passed for me.
The truth was, as Cho pointed
out a few hours before, I had
met
a
widow
with
good
backing and plenty of money,
and even if I hadn’t sought her
out deliberately, in terms of
outcome things had worked out
well.
The love I had for my
present wife was different to
the love I had for the woman
who ran away from me. And
yet, as I walked the causeway
stretching out into the sea
beneath the cloud-veiled sky, I
took the hand of the woman
standing beside me once again.
I told her about the house we
were going to visit. One year, I
rented a small room in that
house. I was trying to clear up
my soiled lungs. It was after
my mother had died. A year I
spent at this seashore. You
could easily find the word
“forlorn” in all the letters I
wrote at the time.
And although this word
is to some extent superficial, a
dead word that has lost almost
all its power to move the
human heart, to me at that time
it was as if there was nothing
else I felt compelled to write.
The boredom of the hours felt
in morning strolls on the white
sands; the emptiness I felt
when I woke from a nap and
wiped the cold, dripping sweat
from my forehead with the
palm of my hand; the distress
of waking from a nightmare
with a startled cry deep in the
night, one hand controlling my
pounding heart, as I listened to
the plaintive cry of the night
sea; things like these, things
that did not know how to
detach themselves from my life,
stuck fast like clusters of
oyster shells, these are the
things I expressed by this one
word - when I think of it now,
an intangible, ghost like word “forlorn.” In the dust veiled
city where you cannot even
imagine the sea, when an
expressionless postman threw
down my letter and left, and
when the receiver, in the
middle of an ordinary day’s
routine, saw the word “forlorn”
in my letter, I wonder what he
could have felt or imagined?
Suppose I sent the letter, and
suppose I received it myself in
the city, would the “city me”
be in sympathetic accord with
the state of mind of the “sea
me;” would the “city me” be in
complete
harmony
with
everything I attached to that
word at the seaside. Let’s be
exact about this. When the
“me” of that time approached
his desk to write a letter, he
was
making
the
same
suppositions, asking the same
question, though admittedly
rather more vaguely, that I am
making and asking now, and it
seems to me that he considered
the answer to the question to
be “no.” And yet, he wrote
letters with the word “forlorn”
in them, and sometimes he sent
postcards all over the country,
on which a dark blue sea was
hastily painted.
“I wonder what kind of
man wrote the first letter in the
world?” I asked.
“Yes. There’s nothing as
good as getting a letter. Yes,
indeed, I wonder who he was.
Probably a lonely man like you,
don’t you think?”
Her hand wiggled in
mine. I felt as if her hand were
speaking to me.
“And like Insuk, too,” I
said.
“Yes.” We turned our
heads, looked at each other and
laughed.
We arrived at the house
we were looking for. Time
seemed to have passed without
touching the house or the
people that lived in it. The
owners treated me as they used
to treat me of old; and I
became the old me. I gave out
the presents I had brought with
me, and they offered us the
room I used to have. I took
away her impatient distress in
that
room.
It
was
like
disarming someone who is
rushing at you with a knife, as
if she were in despair that she
would stab you if you did not
take the knife from her hand. I
took away her distress. She
wasn’t a virgin. We opened the
door of the room and for a long
time just lay there, without
saying anything, looking down
at the sea which had roughened
up a little.
“I want to go to Seoul,”
she said after some time. “Just
that, nothing else.” With my
finger
I
was
tracing
a
meaningless picture on her
cheek.
“Are there good people
in the world, do you think?”
she asked.
The sea breeze blowing
into the room had put my
cigarette out. “You’re scolding
me, aren’t you?” I said, and I
lit my cigarette again. “If you
don’t try to see people as good,
there won’t be any good
people, will there?”
We are Buddhists, I
thought.
“Are you a good man?”
“As
long
as
Insuk
believes me to be.”
Again I thought, we are
Buddhists. She came nearer to
me; we were still lying down.
“Let’s go down to the
sea. I’ll sing for you,” she said.
But we didn’t get up.
“Let’s go down to the
sea. The room is too hot.”
We got up and went
outside. We walked along the
beach and sat on a rock from
where the house could not be
seen. The waves concealed
their foam, came in and spilled
the foam out again at the foot
of the rock on which we were
sitting. She began to speak to
me again. I turned my head
towards her.
“Have you ever had the
experience
of
becoming
distasteful to yourself?” she
asked in a voice of pretended
gaiety. I searched around in my
memory. I nodded and said, “I
have a friend. Once we slept in
the same room, and the next
morning when he told me I
snored in my sleep, I felt like
that. It took the spice out of
life.”
I said this to make her
laugh. But she didn’t laugh;
she just quietly nodded. She
spoke again in a little while. “I
don’t want to go to Seoul.”
I took her hand in mine
and pressed it.
“Let’s agree not to lie to
each other,” I said.
“It’s not a lie,” she said
with a smile. “I’ll sing ‘One
Fine Day’ for you.”
“But today is overcast,”
I said. I was thinking of the
separation in “One Fine Day.”
People should never part on an
overcast
day.
someone
to
If
there
take
is
your
outstretched hand, you should
pull that person as close as you
can. I wanted to say “I love
you,”
but
there
is
an
embarrassing awkwardness in
the Korean that drove away the
impulse to say it.
It was after the onsurge
of evening darkness that we
came back to town from the
seashore. A little before we got
into town, on the causeway, we
kissed.
“All I want is to spend
this one week, while you are
still here, as a beautiful love. I
want you to understand this,”
she said as we parted.
“Yes, but I’m stronger,”
I said. “You’ll be drawn to me
despite yourself and you’ll go
to Seoul.”
When I got back to the
house, I learned that Pak had
been there during the day and
had gone. He had left three
books, saying that I might like
to read them if time were
heavy on my hands. My aunt
told me that he said he would
come
back
again
in
the
evening. I made the excuse that
I was tired and I indicated to
my aunt that I didn’t want to
meet anyone. My aunt said she
would say I hadn’t returned yet
from the sea. I didn’t want to
think about anything. I got her
to buy me some soju and I
drank it until I fell asleep
drunk. I awoke for a moment
around daybreak. My heart
was pounding for no reason
that I could determine. I tried
murmuring
to
Insuk.
And
immediately I fell asleep again.
You are Leaving Mujin
My aunt shook me. I awoke
and opened my eyes. It was
late morning. My aunt handed
me a telegram. I lay flat as I
was and opened the telegram.
“Meeting 27th - attendance
necessary - return Seoul urgent.
Yong.”
The
27th
was
tomorrow; Yong was my wife.
I rested my forehead on the
pillow; my head was throbbing
enough to make me sick. My
breathing was harsh. I tried to
control it. My wife’s telegram
put everything I had done since
coming to Mujin in a clearer
light. It was all a preconceived
idea, the telegram was saying.
I shook my head. No! It was all
because of the freedom that
commonly comes a traveler’s
way, the telegram was saying.
Not so, I shook my head. In
time the mind can forget
everything, the telegram was
saying. No, I thought, with a
shake of my head; the wounds
remain. We wrangled for a
long time. In the end, the
telegram and I worked out a
compromise. Just once, just
one last time, let us agree to
affirm the reality of Mujin - the
fog, the lonely path to madness,
popular songs, the suicide of a
bargirl,
betrayal,
irresponsibility. Just one last
time. And I agree to live within
the limits of the responsibility
that has fallen to me. Telegram
put out your little finger. We
will shake and agree. We made
the agreement.
I turned my back on the
telegram, avoiding its eyes,
and wrote a letter. “I have to
leave suddenly. I wanted to go
to you and tell you myself that
I must leave first today, but
with me conversation always
seems to go off in unexpected
directions and so I am writing
to you. I will be brief. I love
you. You are a part of me; you
are the image of a me of long
ago that I love, at least in some
vague way. Just as I did
everything in my power to pull
the me of today out of the me
of the past, so I intend to do
everything in my power to pull
you into the sunlight. Please
believe me. As soon as things
are ready in Seoul and I send
you word, you must leave
Mujin and come to me. I think
we will be happy together.”
When I had finished the letter,
I read it through. I read it
through once more. Then I tore
it up.
Somewhere along the
way, as I sat in the rattling,
speeding bus, I saw a white
sign at the side of the road.
Written on it in clear black
letters were the words, “You
are Leaving Mujin, Goodbye.”
I felt an intense shame.