“Just to be sure, please don’t write about that. I know I let the family say what they wanted yesterday. But they got a lot of things wrong. And if you write about it, just as they told you ... Gosh, why did they have to take it so far, all the way to the peak of Mount Gwanaksan? They shouldn’t have. Why don’t you come to my shop sometime? Yes, come here. Your uncle will buy you a nice bowl of galbitang.”

       “Sure, Uncle. Maybe one of these days,” I said, giving a non-committal answer. “How about today?” he asked before I could think of an excuse. “Just come over. What do you think?” I couldn’t refuse, so we made a date for that afternoon.

       Uncle Gil-hyeon sold butcher equipment from his store in Majang-dong Livestock Market. For the past forty years he worked in the same shop, doing the same work every day to expand his store little by little. The shop was barely distinguishable from the last time I’d seen it. Uncle Gil-hyeon cleared the pile of chains lying on the plastic-covered sofa and offered me a seat. He poured me a cup of instant coffee and explained he’d already had one himself. As I stirred the half-frozen coffee powder into the water, I waited for him to say something, anything. But he just sat there, staring down at his interlocked hands in silence.

       I asked him if I could record our conversation. He said he didn’t mind. He spoke, and I listened. It was as though he were reciting a script he’d prepared, a screenplay he had rewritten several times, trying to find the best place to begin. At least, that’s how it sounded to me. His story flowed like the lyrics to a song. I tried not to interrupt him as best I could. Every word he spoke was an unbreakable sentence to me. I just left his words to find their own path.

       Just once did I lose focus thinking about something else. His memory had excited my own. A different memory, from a different place. Images and sensations flashed through my mind like a movie montage: a dog delivered to our house once a year to make bosintang; bloody legs draining in a bucket placed in one corner of the balcony; the damp smell of boiling dog meat filling our house for the better part of a day.

       I spent about three hours at my uncle’s shop. He received a few phone calls and had to welcome the man who came to repair the small meat slicer, but other than that, there was nothing major to interrupt the flow of his story. And yet, it wasn’t a straight or quick path back to the summit of Mount Gwanaksan. And when his story finally did get there, he became reluctant to say much. The little he did tell me was hardly new information. After my uncle finished his story, he closed the shop shutters and took me to eat galbitang at a local restaurant known only to the people of the livestock market. He drank half a bottle of soju with the meal. Half, he said, was just the right amount. We said good-bye outside the restaurant. The whole time, he never added to the story he told me at the shop. He mentioned nothing about whether he wanted me to write about it or not. His demeanor was in stark contrast to earlier that morning when he called to tell me I couldn’t write about it.

       He seemed to believe I would end up writing something. Of course, I found the story interesting, but I initially had no intention of making it into a book. In fact, it wasn’t until after his phone call that the thought even occurred to me.

       I transferred the recording to my computer when I got home later that day. I pressed play and listened again to his voice which flowed like music. I had noticed his voice trembling when he first told me the story, but it was only when I was listening to the recording that I could pick out the exact moment his voice began to falter. I went over the things that he told me I “absolutely” had to remember. The story was somewhat different from what I’d expected.

       In the end, I decided not to write about it. I scratched his story—which was half memoir, half imagination—from my plans. There was no point in writing about it. No, this story needed to become something other than a book.

*

“Do I speak into this?” “You can talk just the way you are now.” “Okay, just the way I am now. Anyway, she was a ball of energy. A truly wonderful person. You must remember that. She was a real ball of energy. She’d make rice cake whenever she got excited, and sing, too. And when she sang, she’d start dancing with her shoulders, and waving hand towels. Do you remember your grandmother’s singing?” “Not really. But I do remember she used to sing a lot.” “She always had something in her hand, be it a towel or a hanbok ribbon. I thought the hanbok ribbon was much prettier than the hand towel. More feminine. Especially when she would hold onto one end of the ribbon like this and wave it gently, as if to suggest a subtle beat. The energy would flow down from her shoulders to her fingertips, causing the ribbon to flare out or fall down, like it were an extension of her body. So joyous, as though tears might start falling at any moment. Do you remember?”

       “I think so—”

       “Not very well, I guess. I have a picture somewhere. I’ll find it later and give it to you. If you’re going to write about her, you must include that hanbok ribbon of hers. It was purple. No, a bit redder than purple.

       “Yes, she loved to sing. She was singing even on the day before she died. She would sing one song, and another, and then take a break before starting up again. She always knew when there was a need for some music. The day before she died, she was so full of energy. And why wouldn’t she be? She had enough rice cake for everyone in the hospital, a nice bowl of bosintang, and her daughter-in-law and granddaughter came to look after her. I remember how bright and sunny her face was. So soft and white, like the face of a young child who’s just woken up from a good nap. Excited, she started to sing songs about butterflies and flowers. And she sang songs about making drink, and of love. ‘O, my love. O, my love.’ Never was there such a spring. What do they call those songs again? Chang? Taryeong? I wonder what she had in her hand when she sang that day. She couldn’t have had a hanbok ribbon. I bet she used the sleeves of her hospital gown. She laughed and even interjected little comments into her own song, as though she were her own audience: ‘Eolang-eolang, jalhanda!’ Everyone in the hospital room marveled in astonishment. They couldn’t understand how someone could be so bright and sunny at such an old age. She was eighty-three at the time.

       “If only I’d known that that would be the last time I’d see her.

       “I thought it’d last forever.

       “I thought I’d always be able to hear her song when she got excited. Like the chirping of songbirds in the morning. She was always chirping whenever she had good food or whenever the weather was nice. I can almost hear that woman’s voice now. ‘So yummy. What is all this? You shouldn’t have. Is the child asleep?’ But then it ends. The smell comes and then it disappears, whoosh! That’s memory for you. It comes to you, formless and intangible, and as soon as you try to grab it, it disappears, whoosh!

       “That’s why records are important. Books, recordings, videos. Whatever it is, you have to collect it and record it. Records are like air fresheners. They’re not the real thing, but at least we can open and close them at will, so we can be reminded of the scent to our heart’s content.

       “If only I’d known that that’d be the last time.

       “I should have recorded her singing. Right, that song. Her last concert. If you had been there, I bet you would have recorded it.” “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I didn’t even know she was admitted to the hospital.” “No, it’s not your fault. It’s mine. It wasn’t something to call the grandchildren about. No need for it. Who knew that was how she was going to leave us. No one knew, not your father, not me. No one saw it coming. I mean, she was singing and so full of life the day before she died. She didn’t moan and groan like most old folk. Anyway, how long has it been since she died? Nine years? Ten? Memory is the darnedest thing . . .” “It’s been twelve years.” “Really? That long? Time flies. Twelve years it’s been.

       “But I’m so thankful that you’ve brought her back like this. You’ve done what I couldn’t. When we get the family together for ancestral rites, we always just talk about grandchildren, about food, about trips. That, or we just sit around and watch food or game shows on TV. That’s the only day of the year that all five siblings get together, but it’s hard talking about that woman, even when that’s what we’re there to do. How nice it was to share memories of her. You’ve done what I couldn’t. Thanks. No, really, thank you. Truly, you did well.

       “We didn’t know, but I think she knew . . .When she would leave us, that is. And she didn’t just wait around for it, she actively prepared for it. Just think about it. There’s no way someone as spry as her would suddenly fall in the bathroom and hurt her hip. Not to mention the fact that she managed to call the ambulance herself while the whole family was out and got the paramedics to drive her safely to the hospital. And then, after spending a few days there, she passed away and was moved to the morgue. She did all that without the help of her children. And all the while, she was singing: ‘O, my love. O, my love.’ I didn’t know she was literally thinking about seeing Dad again. The night before she died, she even clipped her nails and took a bath. She got the caretaker of the patient next to her to help. A bit shameless, but she did it anyway. And I’m not sure when she had the time to get the money, but she’d hid some twenty or thirty thousand won in her pocket to give to the caretaker, that’s what the caretaker told me. The caretaker also said that your grandma was easy to take care of, that her skin was so beautiful and clean. And then she started sobbing, as though she was someone who had been fond of your grandma for her whole life. But they knew each other for barely three days.

       “She had the ability to steal people’s hearts. She had that special something that made people unable to refuse her, that attracted people to her. Don’t you think? Just two days into her stay at the hospital, she had listened to the stories of everyone in her room. By the time I came, they were all gathered around her bed, listening to her story, their heads leaned in as though they were hearing the most interesting story in the world.

       “Remember this one thing.

       “If you want to steal people’s hearts, you need to know how to listen first. No one wants to listen to someone who only talks about themselves. Just look at your grandmother. She listened to all those people’s stories first before telling her own. It’s only natural that they’d want to hear her story once they were done with theirs, no? People in your line of work would benefit from listening more. Don’t you think so? That’s the only way you can make your writing interesting.” “Exactly.” “Well, I guess you’re already doing well.

       “Right, I almost forgot. I had something to give you. I should have given it to you earlier.

       “This was your grandmother’s. I had given it to her because she wanted a notebook. It was a present from one of my clients. Back then, people always gave notebooks or calendars as New Year’s gifts. Not so much these days. Anyway, you should have it.” “I didn’t know Grandma kept a diary. It looks like she started writing in it in 2000.” “I’m not sure whether it’s a diary or something else. Maybe it’d be more accurate to call them poems, seeing how she followed some sort of meter.” “They look like old sijo. This is really fascinating. I’ve never seen Grandma’s handwriting. So this is what it looked like.” “I only read a few pages before stopping. Reading it made me feel like I was being scolded again. Anyway, I thought it might help you with your book.” “Thank you. I had no idea she wrote.” “That makes two of us. I just assumed she used it for keeping phone numbers and stuff like that.

       “Your grandmother used to say you and she were alike. Because you became an author.” “She said the same thing to me: ‘You know, I guess you’re a lot like me.’ Exactly like that.” “So, you think she was wrong?” “Oh, no. That’s not what I meant.” “Well, your grandmother was great with words. A real storyteller. Your aunties are all the same way. Once they start talking, they never shut up. Maybe that’s what writing books is all about. Telling stories.” “Yes, exactly.” “Well, I knew someone had to inherit it. If only she’d been born a bit later, she could have won a Nobel Prize. Haha. Not that winning a Nobel Prize is an easy thing. Anyway, when your picture was printed in the papers, I bought twenty copies of the paper that day. Went around to each bus stop to buy one or two copies. It was like I was back in the Joseon dynasty and you had just earned the highest score on the state examination. At least, that’s how I felt. I gave one to each member of the family. It was my duty as the eldest son. I even read your book. And what you wrote about Grandma. Your father told me to give it a read. And boy, was I shocked. I spent my whole life with her, and yet you knew her better than I ever did. I guess novelists are just built different. I never knew my mother’s feet could be so beautiful. And what you wrote about that bag of powdered medicine hidden in her skirt. The sound of her fingernails tapping on an envelope, tap tap. How did you write all that? Oh, that reminds me.

       “This is really important.

       “You need to listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you. Don’t miss a word of it.

       “Listen to each and every word. Don’t just let it go in one ear and out the other, okay? So, about what Hwaja said last time.”

       “What did Auntie Hwaja say?”

       “Well, you know, what she said about your grandma, how she would make rice cake for herself even when her children were starving.” “Both aunties said that. That no matter what, she always managed to make rice cake. That she liked rice cake so much that she was even singing songs about it till the day she died.” “Right, she did. She always made rice cake, even if all she had was just a few cups of sticky rice. And if she didn’t have rice, she’d use flour. Ah yes, Mother’s rice cake. But Hwaja was right about one thing: we never tasted it. But that doesn’t mean your grandma ate it all by herself. No, not while her children were starving. Never. I’m positive she was preparing it for a party or feast. No way she would eat it all herself.

       “She’s not someone who would keep rice cake from her starving children.

       “It’s not true, I swear. Besides, if we’re talking about gluttony, look no further than your Auntie Hwaja. When we were young, she would always sit herself right next to your grandma when she made rice cake. Always looking for scraps and sticking her hand into the mortar whenever there was an opening. She didn’t care if her hand got smashed. In fact, Mother made sure she hit Hwaja’s hand with the pestle whenever she dared stick her hand in the mortar. And not just as a joke. She really put her weight into it. Whenever that happened, the whole house would be filled with the sound of Hwaja’s screaming as she kicked the side of the mortar in pain. Your grandma and Hwaja were quite the pair. Have you ever steamed rice cake? It’s impossible not to nibble away at the pieces of rice cake around the edges before it’s done. It doesn’t matter if it’s only half cooked and gooey. Not even a mother’s scolding can keep a child from doing it again and again and again.”

       “Why did Grandma ask Auntie Hwaja to bring rice cake to the hospital before she died?” “Hwaja’s resentment toward your grandma was closely related to rice cake. That’s why it had to be your Auntie Hwaja. She wanted to teach your Auntie Hwaja a lesson.” “What lesson?” “People who beg for rice cake are better than people who beg for alcohol.” “Is that a proverb?” “I’m not sure if it’s a proverb. But your grandma always used to say it. It hink it was her own belief.” “A belief?” “That’s right. Anyway, you need to include this next story in your book. It’s essential to understanding your grandma. Only I know this story. None of the other children know about it. They couldn’t. So, listen to what I’m about to tell you.”

“Those were confusing times. Maybe ‘tragic’ is the best way to describe them. I know young people hate it when we talk about the war, but just listen. There aren’t many people left to tell these stories. That generation is all but gone now. Anyway, right, those were horrifying times. Angry mobs of people roaming the streets; one day they’re holding bamboo spears, the next, they’re holding guns. Tracking people down, executing them, seeking revenge. They say half our town was killed. Our grandfather was head of the town. Your great-grandfather, I mean. He was head of the town before and after the Japanese occupation ended. He had four sons. The eldest worked with him at the town hall, the second eldest worked at a school for a while before defecting to the North just before the war, and the other two had read some communist texts. So naturally, they were dead men walking when the war broke out and people started hunting leftists. Two of the sons were shot dead . . . in the middle of town. I have no idea what happened to the one who went North. Only one remained after the dust settled: the eldest, the one who worked at town hall with my grandfather . . . my father.”

       “How did he survive?”

       “People say he survived because he had a lot of ‘good will’ built up. Good will can save a person’s life, you ask? Of course it can. I know because I saw it firsthand. What happened that day . . . Even now, just thinking about it is enough to make me shake in my boots. I still don’t understand how such a small person could be so strong.” “Who are you talking about? Who was small?” “Your grandmother. When a group of men with bamboo spears rushed into our home, your grandmother blocked the door with her body. She stood her ground with both arms spread out and glared at them. She didn’t beg, she didn’t cry. She just opened her eyes wide and gave them a menacing look. And then she started quietly calling out names. So-and-so’s mother, so-and-so’s son, so-and-so’s brother, so-and-so’s father. She looked them in the eye, one by one. As though she were picking people out from a crowd.

       “It shouldn’t have worked. She was stupid for putting herself in harm’s way like that. Of course, I was terrified. After all, my father was hiding in the closet. We knew they were going to find him if they entered the house. You see, these people went around mindlessly stabbing at stacks of straw with their spears. And yet, confronted by your grandma, they became paralyzed. They just stood there, staring at her. I would have been nine at the time. I don’t remember where I was when the men first showed up. By the time I arrived, they were already trying to get into the house. I stood there right behind them, unable to enter the house or run away. I was standing right behind them, that group of people confronting my mom, as if I were one of them, as if I were there to capture my father. It was horrifying. While my mother looked around and called out names one by one, all I could do was pee my pants. Yes, I remember. I was so terrified. I thought my mother was going to call my name: ‘Gil-hyeon Ki, my eldest son, why are you standing there?’ I thought she was going to scold me. At the time, I was more afraid of her gaze than I was of those bamboo spears.”

       “So, did Grandma call your name, Uncle?”

       “No, she didn’t.”

       “What about Grandfather? How did he survive?”

       “It was a miracle.”

       “A miracle?”

       “Yes, a miracle. Nothing happened at all. The men just stood there for a while before turning around and leaving. They didn’t even pillage the house for valuables.”

       “Why?”

       “That’s what I wondered. Why did they just leave? Later, your grandma explained it to me: ‘There’s not a single soul in town who hasn’t tasted my rice cake.’ After saying that, she dusted off her hands and laughed. Sounds just like her, right?

       “Everyone had tasted her rice cake. So-and-so’s mother, so-and-so’s son, so-and-so’s brother, so-and-so’s father. She was calling out their names. The names of people who had tasted her rice cake. One by one. Just as people said, the good will your grandma built up saved your grandfather. Don’t go thinking that good will was created all by itself. She always knew when there was an event that required rice cake. She knew when someone was having a baby and when it was due. She knew if it was a girl or a boy. She knew if someone’s grandmother was sick, and what that grandmother’s favorite meal was. That’s why she was always making rice cake. Mind you, this was back when even gruel was hard to come by.

       “Yes, it was my mother’s rice cake that saved my father: the rice cake my mother fed to the townspeople.

       “My mother believed that her rice cake would come in handy one day. It was that belief that created a miracle. If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is. That’s how she came to believe in the power of rice cake. Rice cake to her was like the Bible to a Christian on Sunday: she never left the house without it.

       “That’s the kind of woman your grandmother was.

       “Remember that.

       “She wasn’t someone who just sat around feeding herself while her children starved. Got it?

       “That was before Hwaja was born. Just think about it. If it weren’t for that woman’s rice cake, my father would have died, and then Hwaja never would have been born into the world. Think about it. Think about what your grandma wanted to teach your Auntie Hwaja. The rice cake your Auntie Hwaja brought helped, did it not? Because she passed out rice cake to everyone at the hospital, everyone listened to your grandma’s story, and that’s also why that other patient’s caretaker went through the trouble to give your grandma a bath before she died. The nurses and janitors all went that extra mile to help your grandmother. That’s life. Your Auntie Hwaja wouldn’t know a thing about it.

       “You can bet your Auntie Hwaja hated it. Your grandma asked her to bring nearly twenty pounds of rice cake, as though she were opening her own hospital. She asked her to bring the non-glutinous kind because it’s easier on the stomach. She even made her go all the way to Buam-dong to get the rice cake from a specific shop. Your Auntie Hwaja was covered in sweat from carrying all that rice cake through the hot summer weather. And your Auntie Jeongja was equally annoyed when your grandma made her pass out all the rice cake. Not just to the patients and caregivers in her six-person hospital room, but to the room across the hall, the rooms next door, and the rooms next door to those. She even gave it to the people who brought her meals. In the end, your grandma didn’t have a single bite of red bean paste to put in her own mouth. She had the bosintang your mother brought her. She looked like she was enjoying it so much that I had to try a bite myself. Your grandma—when she was alive—always used to rave about your mom. She said your mother’s puppy bosintang, which she made every year with a whole dog, was the best in the world. The absolute best. Your mom is a great cook. My wife is from Seoul, and your grandma never really liked the way she cooked. But at least she always complimented my wife on her sikhye. That’s why she brought some to the hospital when your grandma was sick. We put it in there frigerator and gave everyone who visited her at the hospital a glass. It was so refreshing. Drinking sikhye from a can just can’t compare to homemade sikhye.

       “It was all that woman’s plan. She wanted to make us do something for her on her way out. She gave each of her five children a chore to do. She knew that it would comfort us in the long run. You know what regret weighs on people’s hearts the longest? Not being there for their parent sat the end. Thanks to her, we don’t have that regret. Just look at us. What is it that your Auntie Hwaja always brags about when we meet? She always boasts about the rice cake she brought to the hospital.

       “No, it wasn’t gluttony. It was thoughtfulness.

       “Do you understand?”

       “Yes, thoughtfulness, not gluttony.”

       “That’s memory. Got it? Everyone remembers things the way they want to. Your Auntie Hwaja remembers things the way she wants, and so did your grandmother. So just forget what Auntie Hwaja said. Your grandma wasn’t like that, especially not with five starving children. You can’t believe everything people tell you. Track records are important. The track record of the one telling the story. Got it?”

       “Yes, I’ll remember that.”

       “Don’t just remember it. Write it down somewhere. Remember what I told you? People forget if you don’t make records.”

       “Okay, I’ll do that.”

       “But where in that small body of hers was she hiding all that strength, I wonder? It amazes me to this day. Where did all that courage come from? Even if she claims to have believed in the power of rice cake . . . How? Who believes in rice cake that much?

       “She had so much energy. How could such a small person have so much energy? She was so petite. Her hands, her feet. Your auntie used to look all over the market for beoseon small enough to fit your grandma. Traditional Korean socks like that don’t fit if they’re not exactly the right size. Although later, your auntie gave up trying to find beoseon that would fit her and told your grandma just to wear normal western socks. And because she had such a petite body, she looked great in a hanbok. Truly beautiful. A jade-colored skirt and matching top. I told you earlier, right? That she used a purple ribbon to tie her hanbok. Her hanbok ribbon absolutely had to be purple. You must remember that she was a ball of energy. Without her energy, there’d be no rice cake, no dance. Got it?

       “Yes, I’ll remember. But what about Mount Gwanaksan? You said you would tell me that story.”

       “Right, Mount Gwanaksan. The more I think about it, the less it seems like it really happened.”

       “I thought you would remember what happened. My mother says she doesn’t remember that ever happening.”

       “Gwanaksan, Mount Gwanaksan. You know, I planned that trip. That was both the first and last time all my brothers and sisters and their families gathered in one place. Back then, everyone was busy just trying to make ends meet. Pillye’s second had just turned one hundred days old. That boy was truly beautiful when he was a baby. Eyes as round as a girl’s. I don’t know what happened to him; his face turned so round and flat.

       “Anyway, I remember I carried him on my back. Everyone carried something. Mats, pots, watermelon. It was summer vacation, and every valley was filled with people. There was hardly a place for a large group of more than twenty to find a place to spread out and sit down. All together, we were twenty-one people. Your grandmother sure was blessed. Each of her five children had one son and one daughter. That’s not easy to do. And all your cousins are basically the same age, and close too. Do you remember pogo sticks?”

       “Pogo sticks? Yeah, I know what they are. Why?” “Don’t you remember? Your grandma bought them for you.” “She did? I don’t remember.” “It was all the rage back then. Every alley was bouncing with kids on pogo sticks. It was completely bonkers.” “Right, I remember.” “Your grandma gave me money and told me to buy ten pogo sticks. Five red and five blue. She took them and brought them to all your houses—Kyeong-yi’s, Hwaja’s, Jeongja’s, Pillye’s. Don’t you remember?” “I remember vaguely.” “Right, you would remember. You must.” “The cousins don’t get together like we used to. I haven’t even seen Seon-a since she got married. Anyway, please go on. About Mount Gwanaksan.”

       “Right, where was I? Mount Gwanaksan. Right, so we climbed and we climbed. After a while we found a good location, albeit a bit remote. And there was a small pond where the kids could play, and a flat rock on which to spread the mats we brought. And most importantly, there weren’t many people, so it was nice and quiet. We boiled a chicken, each of the adults had a drink, and your grandma sang. And why wouldn’t she? Everyone was there. There was even a nice breeze and a trickling stream nearby.

       “Do you remember?”

       “I don’t remember anything from that day. I don’t even remember going there.”

       “Then you should just forget about it. Why bring up something you don’t even remember?

       “But you know what, not even I remember much from that day. I’ve taken care of your grandma my entire life. The only time we didn’t live together was when I went to the military. She was never out of my sight. How could there be something about her that I didn’t know? Impossible. I’m the eldest.

       “In all my years, I never saw your grandma do what Hwaja said she did. It didn’t matter how hot a day it was; she would never take off her clothes so carelessly like that. Of course, she dressed more comfortably toward the end, but before that, she always went around the house dressed up in a beautiful hanbok. A jade hanbok with a purple ribbon. I just can’t understand how someone like that would throw off their top and skirt and jump into the water like they say she did. Go in the water and . . . No. Never. And there’s no way I would have missed it. It’s just not possible.”

       “Why not? And I don’t think it’s that strange.”

       “You’re right, it’s not! But we were forced to keep talking about that stupid day because you kept bringing it up. And in front of your grandmother’s altar of all places. Why did we make such a big deal about it? Because you kept asking questions! You’re the one who made it weird. Always bringing the conversation back to the same topic like that. But I guess that’s what writing novels is about: dragging out stories and dredging up the past.”

       “I’m sorry.”

       “No, forgive me. This isn’t something to raise my voice over. But tell me the truth. You really don’t think it’s weird?”

       “Not in the least. In fact, of all the stories I’ve heard about Grandma, I liked that one the most. You know that famous painting, don’t you? Scenery on Dano Day? The one of women washing their hair in a valley stream. No one looks at that painting and thinks it strange. That’s what I liken it to.”

       “Really? I see.”

       “But Uncle, don’t you remember? The events of that day?”

       “No matter how hard I try, I can’t. In fact, the more I think about it, the more it seems like it didn’t happen. I thought hard about exactly how things played out, many many times. A lot of things don’t make sense. When did she take off her clothes exactly? Where did she put her top and skirt? Did she hang them on a branch? Or lay them on a rock? Was her purple hanbok ribbon fluttering in the wind? Was the underskirt hoisted up over her breast held in place by an elastic band or a hook? Did she tiptoe or plunge into the water? Where did she put her arms while wading in the water? Did she lift her torso up onto a rock while she paddled? Did she dance with her shoulders, like she always did when she sang? Or did she just splash around?

       “I try to picture what exactly happened, I don’t remember any of it, no specifics. How could that happen and I not know about it? I’m the eldest son! How could I not know? The more I think about it, the less sense it makes.

       “I think it’s best if we stop talking about this.

       “Thank you for coming all this way. Finish your food and be on your way.”

*

It was nothing more than a memory of an especially happy day. Nothing worth making an anxious morning phone call over. I wanted to know—just like my uncle wanted to know—why did the conversation always lead back to Mount Gwanaksan? I listened to that day’s recording again. It was the hanbok ribbon. It all started when someone mentioned how she danced with her hanbok ribbon at someone’s sixtieth birthday celebration. That hanbok ribbon that was always fluttering about whenever she got excited and began to sing. In fact, my uncle’s story also started with that hanbok ribbon. That purple hanbok ribbon, the one I absolutely had to include if I was going to write about Grandma. Her hanbok ribbon was always, without fail, untied. And in that valley on Mount Gwanaksan, it was Auntie Hwaja who pulled on that ribbon. The ribbon came off, exposing Grandma’s naked flesh. Naked flesh that could hardly be considered beautiful.

*

“It had to be purple. Mom said she hated any other color of ribbon. Mom never did things she didn’t like. And her hanbok top absolutely had to be samhoejang, with contrasting trimming. And purple.”

       “Hey, do you remember that time we went to Mount Bukhansan? The time the whole family went together?”

       “The whole family? Wasn’t that Mount Gwanaksan, not Mount Bukhansan?”

       “Mount Gwanaksan?”

       “Yes. Remember, I brought a chicken from Bong-cheon-dong market.”

       “But why do I remember it as Mount Bukhansan?”

       “It was Mount Gwanaksan, I swear! Why do you ask, anyway?”

       “You remember how Mom was all excited and started dancing, right? She was dancing in her hanbok when she fell over and gave us all a good scare. Don’t you remember?”

       “That’s not all she did. She got butt naked and jumped into the water!”

       “She wasn’t butt naked. She still had her underskirt on.”

       “Tomayto, tomahto.”

       “Auntie, what are you talking about?”

       “Well, at the summit of Mount Gwanaksan, your grandma took off her clothes, hoisted her underskirt up over her breasts, and then jumped into the water. She was making quite the ruckus spraying water everywhere and jumping in and out of the pond. And the way her giant jugs hungout as she splashed around . . . Heavens! You’ve never seen how big your grandma’s breasts were, have you? They were huge!”

       “Indeed, your mother was quite well endowed. I guess you take after her in that respect, Darling.”

       “She was naked?”

       “Well, she still had a single thin layer of underskirt on. But once she was in the water, it didn’t matter. It was soaked straight through.”

       “I remember. I wondered what was up with her. I was going through puberty, and I found it really weird. Why didn’t the other adults stop her?”

       “Kyeong-yi, you saw it too, right?”

       “Of course, I remember it well. She made so much noise jumping in and out of the water. It was so embarrassing to watch. And Hwaja and Jeongja were sitting nearby, just laughing.”

       “Of course we were. It was hilarious! And so what if the old lady wanted to have a bit of fun, who are we to stop her? It was just family, what’s the big deal? It’s not like she was taking a bath and washing her nether regions.”

       “What are you talking about, Jeongja. It wasn’t just us. There were lots of people!”

       “Who?”

       “All sorts of perverts started coming out of the bushes to watch. They started appearing from every direction.”

       “Really? I didn’t see them.”

       “Perverts? What perverts?”

       “Well, I don’t know if they were ‘perverts.’ But there were old men who started circling the pond.”

       “Really? When?”

       “What do you mean when? Then!”

       “I saw them, too!”

       “Mom, did you see them?”

       “No, I didn’t see them.”

       “What happened after that? Did those old men do something perverted?”

       “Nothing per se. They just splashed water on her and offered to scrub her back. I don’t know.”

       “Hey, your mother could have been a movie star. You remember those old movies, don’t you? Ongnyeo in Ongiville and The Watermill. The women in those movies get taken into town wearing nothing but their underwear. They get whipped and have buckets of water dumped on them. Their bodies get all drenched and contorted.”

       “Honey, that’s such a gross comparison to make.”

       “What’s gross about it? It’s the perfect comparison. Damp white underwear is more erotic than just being naked.”

       “But that’s my question. You say she wasn’t completely naked but was still wearing her underskirt. But how did she lift her underskirt all the way up over her breasts? I can’t picture it. Did she tie it or something?”

       “No, no. Look. So, there are skirts with elastic bands like this, right? You can put the waist band up over your breast sand it will hang at your armpits like this.”

       “How old was Grandma back then anyway?”

       “Good question, I think she was probably a little over sixty. The hanbok she wore that day was the same one she wore for Grandma Dokgol’s sixtieth birthday celebration. Grandma Dokgol is two years younger than our mom. Right, Jeongja? She must have been over sixty.”

       “That’s young.”

       “Young? Sixty then was like eighty now.”

       “Your point? Anyway, what happened after that?”

       “I’m not sure. What happened after that, guys? Did I drag her out of the water? I think that’s what happened.”

       “What about those perverted old men? Were they really old men? Or just middle-aged men?”

       “I’m not sure. I don’t remember what happened after that.”

       “I remember. Kyeong-yi fought with that person who came to collect campground fees. Everyone ran over to break it up.”

       “No, no. That happened before we ate the boiled chicken. And he wasn’t there to collect money. They were arguing over whose spot it was.”

       “What are you talking about? It was definitely after. Remember, Kyeong-yi was drunk. He’d never fight with someone sober. He’d just give them their money and that’d be that.”

       “Why do you always have to bring me into the story?”

       “I’m right. You remember, don’t you Kyeong-yi? You grabbed that guy by the collar saying it was ridiculous to ask for campground fees on a public mountain. You fell over, busting your lip and making your wife cry. I was the one who had to wash your bloody clothes.”

*

The conversation stayed on the topic of my father’s fight before returning to Grandma. Before long, the aunties were less focused on the incident with Grandma and more focused on whether the mountain was Mount Bukhansan or Mount Gwanaksan, or whether the neighborhood was Cheongpa-dong or Sangdo-dong.

       But he was nowhere to be found. He didn’t say a word, he never spoke up. It was as though he was never even there. But I knew he was somewhere, listening to everything. I wanted to know: where had he been that day? Where had he been when the Aunties brought those perverted old men to his mother? And where was he now, when Auntie’s husband was making fun of Grandma, comparing her to the women from Ongiville and The Watermill? Where was he? Why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he stop them? And why couldn’t he deny it? I wondered: did he sneak away? Or maybe he hid behind the oriental folding screen, sitting next to Grandma’s altar as he listened in on the conversation.

       I wanted to know. Where was he? That day in the valley. Where was he when Grandma was splashing around in the water? Where was he that day on Mount Gwanaksan, the day he says he does not remember?

       I tried picturing it. Young children in their underwear play in the water. An old woman takes off her hanbok nearby and slips into the water, with only her white underskirt for a bathing suit. Her wet, aged body shines brilliantly. Something about it feels beautiful and intimate. And then I picture a man hiding behind a tree trunk, watching from the distance. One man, observing his mother in silence. Her wet white underwear. The breasts on which he used to suckle, on full display. She elegantly dances in the water, the ribbon to her hanbok dangling from her hand. I pictured him when the intruders appear, leaving him unable to come forth, unable to run away.

       For some reason, I think he must have made brief eye contact with his mother, just like all those years ago when his mother made a miracle by picking out people she knew from an angry mob. On that day in the mountains, she would have looked at her son and said with her eyes, “Gil-hyeon Ki, my eldest son, what are you doing hiding over there? Take off your clothes and come in. Come in and join the fun. We’re having a great time.” Yes, that must have been what happened. That’s why she was having so much fun in the water.

       For some reason, I was convinced that he remembered the events of that day. And I thought it was possible that he was the one who went into the water to fetch Grandma. While my father was at the throat of the man who came to collect campground fees, while everyone was surrounding them and busy shouting, Uncle Gil-hyeon would have stepped out from behind the tree and come to me and Grandma. He would have jumped into the water and quickly come back out with Grandma. He was the one who dried off her body, put on her skirt and top for her. He was the one who tied her hanbok ribbon for her. That’s what must have happened.

       Of course, this is only half my imagination on half their memories.

       Or perhaps, half of that, just half.

Translated by Sean Lin Halbert