INTERVIEW

• Interview with Ha Seong-nan: Looking Behind the Closed Door Vol.61 Autumn 2023

  The K-pop girl group Le Sserafim recently released a song titled “Eve, Psyche & the Bluebeard’s Wife.” It takes women who have broken taboos as its main concept, women who have opened forbidden doors. A new edition of your collection Bluebeard’s First Wife was published in Korea in 2021 and has been receiving renewed attention. What did you find most challenging when you first wrote the story “Bluebeard’s First Wife”? The story of Bluebeard is one of the first fairy tales I encountered as a child. The book had pen illustrations, and a drawing showed the climax of the story—the moment when Bluebeard’s wife is at the top of the tower, waiting for her brothers to come rescue her, and Bluebeard is reaching out to grab her. I loved that tension. At the same time, I found it odd that the ones who save her are her brothers. You see, I didn’t have brothers. Angela Carter seemed to feel the same, because in her story “The Bloody Chamber,” which is also based on the Bluebeard fairy tale, it’s her mother who assumes this role. Bluebeard allows his wives to go anywhere in the castle, except for one forbidden room. This room contains the corpses of his previous wives, who had broken their promise by entering it. So, naturally, one can’t help but wonder why the first wife had to die if the room was empty to begin with and there was no reason to prohibit entry. This led me to ask: What is a story and how does it start? Was there anything you were particularly mindful of as you prepared Bluebeard’s First Wife for the revised edition? When I first wrote the title story, I didn’t find it particularly difficult to depict Jason, the narrator’s husband. However, I was so focused on the fact that this character had a secret that I failed to examine him with the depth he deserved. I neglected to understand his pain and identity as part of the LGBTQ+ community, choosing instead to use his situation as a mere source of conflict. The result left prejudices unexamined, a realization that fills me with remorse. Thirty years have passed since I wrote that story. Although the world has changed in many ways, some things stubbornly persist. For instance, the mayor of Daegu recently opposed a long-promised queer festival, labeling it an illegal occupation of public roads. This illustrates how far we still must go.Fortunately, I had the opportunity to release a revised edition, and though I couldn’t rewrite the entire story, I was able to incorporate some updates, even if imperfectly. The first edition of “Bluebeard’s First Wife” ends with the statement: “I think long and hard, and wonder what on earth I ever did wrong.” The narrator thinks her personal misfortune is a kind of judgment, while her language (“what on earth I ever did wrong”) places herself outside the blame, since it suggests she cannot think of anything she did to deserve her fate. In the revised edition, the last sentence has been changed to: “I think long and hard, and wonder where my life went wrong.” I wanted to remove the sense of causality present in the first version, the idea that misfortune is connected to wrongdoing, as well as her sense of bewilderment over her misfortune. Instead I wanted to convey that sometimes marriages end. Sometimes, misfortunes happen and our lives don’t turn out the way we had hoped. I feel that this is a more compassionate and understanding view of life.Bluebeard’s First Wife includes the short story “The Star-Shaped Stain,” which is based on the fire that killed nineteen children at the Sealand Youth Training Center in June 1999. This work sharply alternates between the perspectives of the victims’ families and third parties in social disasters, posing significant questions to readers. In South Korea, we keep seeing such tragedies. Are there points you specifically pondered when writing about social disasters? What can stories do in the face of such enormous tragedies? I remembered an interview with a father who had lost his twins in the Sealand fire. I recalled his expression as he said, “Thinking that your child has died and knowing that your child has died are entirely different things.” I had to be careful. The children who died in the Sealand disaster would have been the same age as my eldest child, who turned thirty this year. As a result of that disaster, all kindergarten field trips that year were cancelled, but the fact that my child was spared brought no relief. Thinking about something is different from reality, but the only thing I could do was think. Since then, tragedies have continued. As I watched the frozen image of the sinking Sewol ferry on the screen in 2014, I felt utterly helpless. I despaired, realizing no amount of work that I’ve ever done or could do would lift the ferry out of the water. Many people who went to the Itaewon Halloween celebration last year did not return. I’ve known that alley where the crowd crush occurred since I was twenty years old. My child or I could have easily been there that night. We have no choice but to leave our lives to chance, and society can no longer be trusted. I channel my fears into my writing, striving to overcome the powerlessness I felt that day, unable to save anyone. Writing becomes a way of not forgetting. This year, the movie Flowers of Mold, which is based on your story of the same title won awards in two categories at the 2023 Jeonju International Film Festival. The film is about a man who rummages through people’s garbage. How did you first conceive this story? Why do you think that even after twenty years, the story is still loved, reimagined in different genres, and reinterpreted in meaningful ways? First, I would like to congratulate director Hye-jung Shim and express my admiration for the impressive acting of Kim Jae-kyung. Seeing how the symbol of garbage was transformed and represented differently in the film was a revelation to me.When I wrote “Flowers of Mold” twenty-five years ago, I never thought that parts of the story could be read as stalking. Though these characters are fictional, their intense interest in others, and their yearning for connection and communication, can appear excessive in today’s context. This realization was surprising when I had the chance to re-examine the story. At the time when I wrote it, I was oblivious to that undertone, or how my characters could be perceived. I couldn’t sense this at all, and so wrote without any reservations. Of course, doubting the goodwill of my characters never crossed my mind.The question might arise: “Do we need to go so far in order to understand others?” If I may defend myself, the cultural climate back then was quite different. I believed, and still do, that communication is essential, even though it can be difficult to truly connect with those around us. That belief led me to express a profound desire in my story, and I started digging through my own garbage. Amidst the mashed-up, rotten, and torn remnants, I discovered aspects of myself I hadn’t known before. That kind of exploration may have been possible only at that time. If I were to revisit the story now with my current “sensitivity” or understanding, the story would take on a very different shape.Director Hye-jung Shim has approached this subject matter with a contemporary sensitivity, reflecting the shifts in societal understanding. Flowers of Mold was translated into English and received great reviews in the US market after being introduced in 2019. In the following year, the translation of your third collection, Bluebeard’s First Wife, was selected as one of Publishers Weekly’s 10 Best Books of 2020. What are your thoughts on the recent success of K-literature, and on your work being translated into other languages and reaching new readers? It all feels surreal, so I don’t really know how to respond. I was recently watching an American movie and saw the main character casually prepare Korean instant noodles by pouring hot water into the disposable container. It made me think of a future where reading the work of Korean writers might be just as commonplace and unremarkable.I can’t help but think of Janet Hong, who first translated my work into English. After stumbling upon one of my short stories many years ago, she translated the collection and tried for a long time to find a publisher. Had it not been for her dedication, my work might never have reached an English-speaking audience. The American publishing environment back then was strikingly different from what it is now, with presses offering far-from-ideal publishing conditions. Our pride was wounded, and we were forced to wait a long time for the right opportunity to present itself. Janet, however, never compromised. She labored for more than a decade to see the fruits of her work. And I must also acknowledge the work of other translators who endured even greater challenging conditions to bring Korean literature to the world. I’m grateful to them all. There was a time when the peculiarities of the Korean language were cited as reasons why no Korean author had won the Nobel Prize in Literature. Korean was deemed too subtle, too nuanced, to translate into English, for instance. Yet seeing your work, known for its delicate precision, achieve success in the US market, I feel we have moved into a new era. I’m also curious about your collaboration with other translators, and if there are specific aspects you consider when your work is translated into other languages. As you know, a book is not the result of the author’s efforts alone. It takes a village to publish a book. In Korea, editors wield significant influence, an influence that seems to be growing. The role of a translator becomes even more crucial when a book is published in another language. Even with my limited grasp of English, I can appreciate Janet Hong’s immense skill in the English translation of my work. Janet is both a translator and a writer. She understood the tone and essence of my work, selecting just the right words to recreate it. I had very little to do with that process. Janet’s Korean is fluent, and we only occasionally discussed small details, like the size or shape of specific tools mentioned in a story.I recall an instance when a piece of my writing was translated by someone else. And even though it was a good translation, I immediately knew it wasn’t Janet’s work. Somehow, I just knew.  Your early works are often lauded for their delicate, precise descriptions. This meticulous attention to detail, as if observing characters and scenes through a freeze-frame lens, has a mesmerizing effect on readers. In your opinion, what is the role of such description within the context of fiction? I used to be severely nearsighted. I needed glasses, but didn’t tell my parents, because I didn’t want them to worry, and I also didn’t want to be teased for wearing glasses. For a long time, I lived without seeing clearly. Living in this blurry world required me to squint and study objects closely to discern their shape. This may have given my work a certain “myopic” quality. But it also taught me that true sight demands determination, that it takes a much stronger will to “see.” Not averting your gaze is a more active act than closing your eyes. When I was studying poetry with the poet Oh Kyu Won, I learned that seeing wasn’t just about perception, but about finding deeper meaning. I began to infuse my prose with poetic descriptions, cutting back on the characters’ internal thoughts and instead speaking through surrounding objects. While there are no new stories under the sun, I believe that detailed, immersive descriptions of scenes can bring freshness and focus. Your fourth collection, Wafers, opens with “Daydreams of a River,” which ambiguously intertwines the past and present of a woman who works at a trading company. What does this piece mean to you? The title of this story eluded me until the very end when Federico García Lorca’s poem “Daydreams of a River” suddenly came to mind, and I didn’t hesitate to use it as the title. This story grew from an image of a woman who had weathered much of life without regret or fear. Now, upon reflection, I feel a greater connection with the final scene that I’d only guessed at earlier. Lorca’s poem whispers lines like: “(What a beautiful time!)” and “(What a sad little time!)”. The parentheses add a sense of secrecy. Whether I have become more like the character I’ve created or have come to comprehend my character a bit more, a beautiful, sad, and fleeting time has passed. Now I think I can understand that time a little better, as if I’ve lived through it myself. In “Daydreams of a River,” the female protagonist is bitten on the wrist by a dying dog. This leads to a scene much later in her life where instead of fleeing from a street mugger, she charges at him and bites his wrist. Though severely injured and criticized by family and friends for not handing over her purse to protect her life, she remains unrepentant. In this way, your female characters have a certain unique charm. How have they evolved, and when, as the last sentence of the story states, is a woman “most beautiful”? Your question made me realize something I’ve never truly considered before: when is a woman most beautiful? Growing up, the women I knew were always toiling. They worked relentlessly and didn’t care about looking nice. They just seemed to endure life’s hardships. So why did I write that she was the “most beautiful then” as the last sentence? Maybe I thought that period of innocence, a time when she didn’t know any better, was beautiful. We all have a time like that, don’t we?I grew up with a lot of rules and expectations. I’m not just talking about curfews. There were things I heard so much from my mother that they felt like they were being drilled into me. I won’t mention them here. But as the eldest with no brothers, I had to be strong for my mother, especially since my father was often absent. I had to be two people: one who was shaped by my mother’s nagging, and another who stepped forward when necessary. With no brothers to come to my rescue, and with my mother who had to grit her teeth and work while raising children singlehandedly, I had to become my own savior, like the main character in “Bluebeard’s First Wife.” If my female characters are slightly unconventional, perhaps it stems from that period of my life. Some writers channel their unfulfilled desires into the characters they create. Because if your characters do things that you wouldn’t dare, that’s when a story really begins. A literary critic once described your work as having “a special magic of unearthing a universe from a grain of sand.” He observed that you could depict the flow of twenty years from a single photograph like a daydream or reveal profound truths from a single, everyday moment. Can you talk about how you discover and shape the subjects and themes of your work? I’m very fond of that phrase from critic Jeong Hongsu. When I encounter difficulties in writing, I often remind myself of his words as a form of encouragement. Even though we’re no longer as isolated as we were during the pandemic, I’ve come to realize that I’m quite accustomed to being alone. I often go days without calling or meeting anyone outside of my family. Before the pandemic, when I commuted to work, I had many chances to observe people. Sometimes, while having lunch at a restaurant, I would overhear conversations at nearby tables. I heard many interesting stories—not that I used them directly in my work! I wouldn’t converse with anyone on my way home, even when I’d overhear a teenager spewing obscenities near me. I cherished that time. Now that I work from home, these opportunities have dwindled. I read novels by fellow writers. Some works inspire me to write. When a person comes to mind, I dwell on that person for a long time. In your fifth collection, The Taste of Summer, you still delve into characters and events, offering a glimpse behind the scenes, but it seems that your perspective has shifted a little. You almost seem to have developed a greater compassion and understanding toward your characters. For instance, in “The Taste of Summer,” the protagonist mispronounces Kinkaku-ji (Golden Pavilion) as Ginkaku-ji (Silver Pavilion) and ends up at the latter. There, a stranger offers her a peach, a fruit she doesn’t particularly like, and this incident lingers in her mind for a long time, resurfacing at various points in her life. Can you discuss your thoughts when crafting this work, and how this work is perhaps different from your previous works? I wanted to create a narrative that looped back on itself, beginning where it ended. This idea brought to mind a stranger I once glimpsed at a train station in a foreign country. This person was just getting off the train. Our eyes met for a second and I felt a connection. Soon the train departed and he disappeared from view. I knew we would never meet again. It was the start of a story that couldn’t progress. Yet this fleeting encounter stayed with me, inspiring a tale of growing yearning. Sure, I may write a story where a character is bitten by a dog and then bites a person, but I sometimes entertain romantic thoughts, too. Ultimately, though, I find myself dissatisfied and end up writing another story with the same “character gets bitten by a dog” motif. In your author’s note for The Taste of Summer, you wrote: “I felt I could finally write what I’ve always wanted to write, that I’d been waiting for this moment for a long time.” This statement resonated with me and gave me a greater appreciation for the stories in this collection. What kind of stories are you hoping to create in the future? I spent several summers in a dormitory at a university in Wonju. When the students returned home, the dormitory became eerily quiet, only to buzz with noise again when the summer term began. From my dorm window, I could see a reservoir in the distance. I longed to go, but I was a little nervous. One morning, while on a walk, I worked up the courage to go. From there, the window of my room looked so small. It had started raining, and the rising water level roared as it fell below the dam. The waves formed by the falling water were breathtakingly beautiful. Had I not ventured there, I would have missed that sight. The idea that there could be exciting things ahead sparked a thrill in me. It gave me confidence that I could write any story I wished. I was trying to explain this sense of excitement and anticipation in my author’s note. But as you know, our thoughts and feelings shift constantly. It’s not easy to write a story. Now, I find myself cowering before the blank page once again, as if what I’d felt at the reservoir was just a dream. I’m not sure what story I’ll end up writing. Just as how the story “Why Did She Go to Suncheon?” emerged when I happened to discover a Nike intersection on a map of Suncheon. My mind continues to change at every moment, and this transformation is part of what keeps the writing process so intriguing. You made your debut over twenty-seven years ago, and your passion and dedication to your craft have not waned. What subjects are you interested in exploring in your future works? Your readers, both domestic and international, are eagerly awaiting your next creation.  Lately, I’ve been reading Philip Roth’s Why Write? and I exclaimed aloud at the phrase on the back cover: “Philip Roth, whose life was literature itself.” It led me to reflect on a time when writing was the same for me. Ironically, it was a time when I was exhausted from raising small children, sleep-deprived, yet always thinking about writing. This realization prompted me to reflect on my current state.From the second grade, when I copied nursery rhymes from a book, writing has been a constant in my life. Even when I was supposed to be writing journal entries, I would create stories instead. Now, I plan to complete all the stories I’ve harbored in my heart for so long. Though I hesitate in the face of my limitations, I know I must write. I observe the world around me, keeping my eyes open even when I want to avert my gaze. I write about what I have seen, what I must see, without exaggeration or diminishment. I believe I can do this. I’d like nothing more than to keep writing until the very end. Translated by Janet Hong   KOREAN WORKS MENTIONED: • “Daydreams of a River,” Wafers (Munhakdongne, 2006)「강의 백일몽」, 『웨하스』 (문학동네, 2006)• “Flowers of Mold,” Flowers of Mold (tr. Janet Hong, Open Letter Books, 2019) 「곰팡이꽃」, 『옆집 여자』 (창비, 1999)• “Bluebeard’s First Wife,” “The Star-Shaped Stain,” Bluebeard’s First Wife (tr. Janet Hong, Open Letter Books, 2020)「푸른 수염의 첫 번째 아내」, 「별 모양의 얼룩」, 『푸른 수염의 첫 번째 아내』 (창비, 2002)• “The Taste of Summer,” “Why Did She Go to Suncheon?” The Taste of Summer (Moonji, 2013)「여름의 맛」, 「순천에 왜 간 걸까, 그녀는」, 『여름의 맛』 (문학과지성사, 2013)

• The Correspondence — Janet Hong & Ha Seong-nan Vol. 50 Winter 2020

        1. from:                 Janet Hong to:                      Ha Seong-nan date:                  Tue, Mar 27, 2007, 4:26 AM subject:             안녕하세요   Dear Ha Seong-nan seonsaeng-nim, Please excuse me—I’m not very good at writing in Korean. I’m sorry it took me so long to reach out to you, but thank you for being so kind on the phone. I started speaking abruptly without even properly introducing myself, didn’t I? I thought you might feel more comfortable if you knew something about the person translating your book. I was born in Incheon in 1980 but have lived in Seattle, USA, and Vancouver, Canada, since the age of two. I moved back to Korea for a bit when I was in the first grade, but then immigrated to Vancouver in the middle of the second grade. I lived in Korea for about four years in total. I studied English literature and fine art history at the University of British Columbia. I first read your work in my sophomore year. I’d taken Dr. Ross King’s Korean class to improve my Korean, and the final project was to translate a Korean short story. The story Dr. King assigned to me wasn’t any fun. (I can’t even remember the author. -.-) At the time, my mother was reading your book 《옆집여자》 (The Woman Next Door) and enjoying it a lot. She said I should try my hand at translating the title story and so I did, with the professor’s blessings. He then recommended that I submit my manuscript to a translation competition held by the Korea Times. I didn’t even know such a contest existed! And, to my shock, I ended up winning the grand prize. Since then, I’ve wanted to translate more of your stories because I feel your writing and style fit mine. I applied to LTI Korea and received a grant to translate five stories from the collection: 〈옆집여자〉 (“The Woman Next Door”), 〈곰팡이꽃〉 (“Flowers of Mold”), 〈깃발〉 (“Flag”), 〈올콩〉 (“Early Beans”), and 〈촛농날개〉 (“Waxen Wings”). I’m so happy to meet you this way. I’ve dreamed of becoming a writer since I was a child. Translating your stories while I write my own is proving to be very helpful. I’m a bit particular so I don’t tend to do things halfway. I work through the translation line by line, going over it again and again. Maybe that’s why even when I write in English, my sentences sometimes sound like yours. Isn’t that funny? If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep translating you for as long as I can. 감사합니다! Janet Hong (홍지명) PS: Please let me know if you couldn’t understand any parts of this email because of my Korean. I’ll write in English next time. :)   2. From:                Ha Seong-nan To:                    Janet Hong Date:                Thu, Mar 29, 2007, 8:32 PM Subject:            하성란입니다   It’s been a long time since we’ve had a bright sunny day in Seoul like today. A few days back, though, the sky turned dark in the middle of the day and hail started pouring down. I went to pick up my daughter from school because she’d left her umbrella at home, but I ended up missing her. While I was scrambling to find her, she was on her way home, getting soaked in the rain... I’d wanted to see her smile when I showed up at her school with an umbrella. I walked so briskly that day that my legs were sore for two days. The thing is, I just had a baby. He’s a little over 40 days old now. This is one of the reasons I’ve been slow with everything, including replying to your email. I received two emails from you so far. I was worried, because my Yahoo mail’s been acting up, but the email you sent to my Hanmail address showed up fine. I’ll read through your emails and respond next week. I’ll write if I have any questions. It’s been only a few times, but it’s always nice to hear from you. Talk soon. Best, Ha Seong-nan           3. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Fri, Sep 14, 2007, 4:27 AM subject:            하성란입니다   Hello, Janet. Fall has come to Seoul, and there’s a cool breeze in the mornings and evenings. Today, I put on some music by Buena Vista Social Club and was in a melancholic mood. Fall is quite strange, isn’t it? How is fall over there? Do you have fall there? I met Dr. Lee Young-jun this Wednesday. He gave me the inaugural issue of Azalea. It was launch party for the magazine, you see. I wish you’d been there as well. Dr. Lee likes your translation of 〈곰팡이꽃〉 (“Flowers of Mold”) a lot. My English isn’t great, but I’m slowly making my way through your translation. It doesn’t feel like my story anymore but something I co-wrote with you. I really hope to meet you one day. Please contact me when you’re in Seoul. It would be nice if it’s fall then, too. 그럼 총총. Ha Seong-nan     4. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Sep 14, 2007, 5:23 PM subject:             Re: 하성란입니다   Dear Ha Seong-nan seonsaeng-nim, How are you? I was just thinking of emailing you when your email came in. I’m so happy to hear you received your copy! I haven’t received mine yet. I’m sure you do countless revisions of your manuscript. I also agonize over every word as I translate. To be honest, it takes me so long because I try to convey every line faithfully in English. It’s all the more difficult because your writing has so many levels of meanings. I think I know all your stories by heart now. But I mean to pick up my pace. I don’t know if you remember but I once told you that having read so much of your writing, my own writing is starting to resemble yours. Strange, isn’t it? I hope to find a good publisher for the book. I’ll do my best. I really want to meet you! Janet Hong (홍지명) PS: The more I translate your writing, the more I admire you. I want to translate you forever!     5. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Fri, Sep 26, 2008, 11:21 AM subject:             Re: 〈당신의 백미러〉 (question)   하성란 선생님, 안녕하세요. 잘 지내셨어요? It’s been a while since we last talked. I’m sorry for not writing more often to update you. Actually, I recently got married during the summer and we moved across Canada to Toronto from Vancouver. So I’ve been very busy! Currently, I’m translating your short story 〈당신의 백미러〉 for LTI Korea to be included in their anthology. I had a question I wanted to ask you. 미라보 (mirabo): Since there are several references to this name and the story ends with this word, I feel that this word is very important. But what is the significance of this name? Right now, I translated this as “Mirabeau.” Is this right? I’ve researched the name and there are various entries for it: a figure in the French revolution, a French economist, the name of a French bridge, etc. Could you explain why you chose this name? Maybe I’m not getting something... Sincerely, Janet Hong     6. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sun, Sep 28, 2008, 9:28 PM subject:            하성란입니다   First of all, congratulations on your marriage. Marriage is a new beginning. I’m cheering you on from afar. In Korea, motels are sometimes named after places or bridges in other countries. In this story, Mirabeau is the name of a bridge. But it also alludes to revolution. The word Mirabeau is mentioned only in reference to the motel name. I sent you a copy of my book Wafers. Did you get it? I’m currently serializing a novel. I’ll send you a copy when it comes out in book form… Ha Seong-nan           7. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Aug 8, 2011, 12:29 PM subject:             Daesan Foundation Translation grant   Dear Ms. Ha, Hello! I hope you’re having a nice summer so far. I heard from the Daesan Foundation a few days ago and I’m happy to tell you that I received the grant! :) So for the upcoming year, I’ll be focusing my energies on translating Bluebeard’s First Wife. Thank you for sending in the consent form and I’m excited about translating more of your work! I hope to meet with you in person in the near future! Janet     8. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Aug 9, 2011, 7:02 PM subject:            Re: Daesan Foundation Translation grant   Congratulations on winning the grant! I was happy all day as if I’d won it myself. Summer in Seoul started off with rain, and it’s still raining sporadically. Wellington boots have become the must-have item for women this summer. Everywhere, you can see the letters HUNTER flashing from women’s legs. I think we’ll be able to meet in the near future. The schedule hasn’t been finalized yet, but as you know, I may visit Canada through the support of the Korea Foundation. One of the reasons I agreed to the bilingual reading tour is so that I’d get to meet you. I’m trying to wrap up my novel A so I can give it to you when we meet, but I’m not sure if the book will be ready by then. The theme of “disaster” keeps cropping up in Korean novels these days. I’ve been reflecting on life after witnessing and experiencing many different things. I’m also feeling grateful for this life. I wish you good health and happiness. In anticipation that we’ll meet soon, Ha Seong-nan           9. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Oct 15, 2011, 6:24 PM subject:             하성란입니다   It’s been a long time since we’ve had autumn rain in Seoul. We had thunder and lightning all afternoon yesterday, and it was dark even during the day. I got your email on the weekend. I was planning to write back after work on Monday once I’d read it carefully, but here I am, writing an email to you, sitting in the living room this Sunday morning while everyone is still asleep. I’m already excited at the thought of meeting you. All the more because we’ve only exchanged emails and never met in person. I’ll be away from home for almost two weeks. I’m worried about my youngest, but if I think about Dr. Fulton’s passion and efforts, I want to go and do a good job. Because of my laziness, the revised version of my novel A hasn’t come out yet. I should have finished it sooner, but I kept getting distracted for various reasons. I’ll bring you a copy of the original. There are some things I’m not entirely happy with, but I’d be glad if you read it. I’ve finished serializing the story 〈여우여자〉 online. The book version will come out sometime next year. I’ll send you a copy when it does.^^ I’ve decided to write slowly, earnestly, and without greed. Have a restful weekend. See you in November. Ha Seong-nan     10. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Tue, Dec 6, 2011, 8:11 AM subject:             Re: Question about 〈푸른수염의 첫번째 아내〉   Hello! How are you? :) I trust that you returned home safely. I’m sure you’ve been busy catching up to your work and getting settled back into the rhythm of things. I had a quick question. I’m in the process of getting the “Bluebeard’s First Wife” story ready to submit to a translation contest. I was wondering how I should change the measurements for the 오동나무. How tall does an 오동나무 grow, if it’s been growing for about 30 years? I’m also considering applying for a small translation grant for your novel A. I’ll use the first chapter of the novel as a sample. Are there any changes I should be aware of or can I just translate the chapter as it appears in the novel? Hope this finds you well and it was so nice to meet you after all these years! Janet         11. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Wed, Dec 7, 2011, 10:31 PM subject:            하성란입니다   How are you, Janet? I still haven’t finished my short story, and I have a bad habit of postponing long responses until I finish the work in front of me. That’s why I kept putting off replying to your email. It took me a while to get back to my daily routine after returning to Korea. The many different time zones and the busy schedule must have had something to do with it, but I think I was feeling tense. Still, I felt a little empty when the thing that felt like would never end actually came to an end. I see your face in the photo the university sent me. A bright, strong face. In it I see the future of Korean literature in translation.^^ 잘 부탁드립니다. I started reading Alice Munro’s book. I can see why you like her and why you say you see similarities in my writing. I’ll write you again about 오동나무 once I finish my story. I’ll keep you and your baby in my prayers. Talk soon, Ha Seong-nan         12. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Thu, Feb 16, 2012, 12:26 PM subject:             〈오, 아버지〉   안녕하세요 하성란 선생님! Hello, how are you? I’m guessing you are keeping very busy as usual. :) I’m trying to finish the translation of Bluebeard before the baby comes at the end of June. There’s not much time left! I’m working on 〈오, 아버지〉 right now, and I had a quick question: In the second paragraph of the first page, when you write “The only complex I have was because of my father,” what exactly is the “only complex”? (For example, does she fear that she is not as smart/pretty/talented as 진이? Is that her deepest fear?) Thank you!! Janet     13. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Fri, Feb 17, 2012, 5:02 PM subject:             Re: 〈오, 아버지〉    So your baby is due at the end of June… I was born at the end of June too. I don’t know about the weather in Canada around that time, but in Seoul it starts getting hot around then. I’ll pray for the baby and you. As the delivery Date: nears, Korean mothers are advised to eat a lot of meat-based protein. What do they recommend in Canada?^^ 〈오, 아버지〉 is largely autobiographical. It was published as part of an “autobiographical stories” series in a journal. The story doesn’t specify what the “only complex” is. (To keep the reader curious.) It’s not explained anywhere in the story. How about adding a sentence to the effect that the narrator hasn’t told anybody about the complex? A new short story collection will come out at the end of April or early May. A story called 〈오후, 가로지르다〉 is included in it. I’ll send you a copy along with my first novel 《루빈의 술잔》. It’s quite a boring book. As far as I know, it’s gone out of print now. I’ll talk to you soon. I sometimes think of your dark eyes, Jeemyung sshi. Ha Seong-nan             14. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, May 20, 2013, 6:31 PM subject:             하성란입니다^^   It’s been so long. I’ve been curious how you were getting on and I’ve been thinking about you. She must have had the baby by now. The baby must have started walking by now. Still, I couldn’t write you. The past year for me has gone by so quickly. I’ll tell you the reason when we meet next time. Baby S looks so cute in the picture you sent me. I pictured your fiancé’s face whom I’ve met only once. And your face as you chase S around. A smile came to my lips automatically. Do you remember the wallet you gave me in the States? It’s become an essential item for me. Is it too much if I say it makes me feel like you’re with me? ㅎㅎ Your work pace must have slowed down because of the baby. But I’m sure you’re cherishing this time. I’ll pray for your family’s peace and happiness. See you soon, Ha Seong-nan         15. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Apr 7, 2014, 6:36 PM subject:            하성란입니다   Ah... I’m so sad to hear what happened. I wish I had the proper words to comfort you. I realized it’s been a while since we spoke. I’m sorry for not keeping in touch more regularly. I can imagine how busy you must be translating Han Yujoo’s book. Writers in Korea say this at such times: 건강 건필! Janet sshi, good health and good writing!!! Ha Seong-nan     16. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Apr 8, 2014, 3:26 PM subject:             Re: 하성란입니다           Dear 선생님, Thank you for your kind words. I know you mentioned a few times that 《루빈의 술잔》 is no longer in print, but I would still love to read it! :) I’ve only heard GREAT things about your first collection. Whenever I like a writer, I always read their first works to see how they began. I’ve attached my revised translation of “The Star-shaped Stain.” Because I needed to bring down the word count, I had to abridge it. I hope you don’t mind. Now it’s sitting at under 6000 words, which is short enough to submit to a journal I had in mind. (The max word count was 6000 words). I cut the beginning and started a few pages into the story. Instead of adding any new sentences, I basically played around with your sentences and placed some of the sentences I had removed to later parts of the story in order to build context. If you have any questions or concerns about what I have done, please let me know and I can explain or change it. By the way, have you read more of Alice Munro? I was so very happy when she won the Nobel Prize, but at the same time, it was a little sad, because she was always MY special writer and now I feel like I have to share her with everyone else. Yours, Janet           17. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Thu, Nov 19, 2015, 6:18 PM subject:             하성란입니다   Dear Janet whom I miss so much... I see lots of congratulations are in order. Congratulations on getting a pretty little baby daughter. How lucky you are to have both a son and daughter. How you must dote on her. It’ll be her first birthday soon. I’m curious who she resembles. Send me a picture.^^ If I read your email correctly, you’re writing a novel, am I right? I know you dream of becoming a writer. Reading a full-length book in English will be a lot harder than reading short emails, but I really want to read your novel. Just like you read mine with such affection. I look forward to a great book!!! I’m really looking forward to it. Oh and congrats on the publication of 〈기쁘다 구주 오셨네〉. My next book, 《여우여자》, is set to be published next summer. There are so many things to celebrate… Translating and writing with two babies. I can guess what sort of time the past year has been for you. Time will pass more and more quickly. I’ll write you more often. Peace and love to you and yours... Ha Seong-nan         18. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                  Sat, Oct 22, 2016, 5:00 PM sub:                    Re: 선생님                                          I’m so glad to hear that you’re writing. And to think Madeleine Thien is helping you. (I really hope she wins the Man Booker Prize!!!^^) It was your dream to write a novel, even more than translating, right? Still, I hope you’ll keep on translating good books and make them widely known. :) I’ve started serializing a novel, but I’m struggling and am at a loss. I think I need to straighten myself out and prepare for the next ten years. I’m not good at time management. I’ve realized too late that it won’t do to keep working like this. I can’t wait to read your story about the haenyeo. It sounds like a fresh unconventional story. A close friend of mine has moved to Canada with her two children. Now it’s Janet’s Canada and her Canada. Maybe Canada isn’t that far away after all. I’d like to fly there and meet you and your two children. 건강, 건필이에요!!! 재닛!!! Good health and good writing to you!! XOXO Ha Seong-nan     19. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                  Sun, Oct 23, 2016, 10:17 PM subject:             Re: Re: 선생님                                         선생님, It is SO good to hear from you. And not to worry—I plan to continue translating for as long as I’m writing. I feel that translation makes me a better writer, so I would never give this up. And I plan to translate YOU for as long as possible—you were my first love in Korean literature—the reason why I got into translating in the first place—so I don’t plan to stop translating you. As I’ve told you numerous times, I am your biggest fan. :) Yes, I remember you telling me that you had started a serial novel recently. I know you have the answer inside you—I’m sure it’ll just come to you as you’re showering or brushing your teeth. :) You can do it!! I believe in you!! In your story 〈오, 아버지〉, I love especially the ending. The fact that it is SHE (the narrator) who manages to find where her father has been leading his double life, even how she stands there blocking the source of light that’s flowing into the house... it’s a subtle yet wonderful statement of her power, that moment when she realizes the power that she carries... and also of her standing her ground, laying claim to what she feels is rightfully hers. This image of her standing in the doorway (= threshold) is so symbolic, it’s something that can get unpacked more and more, just like the rest of the story. It’s really amazing all the complexities the story speaks on about the sense of ownership we feel over the people we love... I love it! Keep writing and don’t despair! Warmest, Janet     20. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Wed, Jan 18, 2017, 3:06 PM subject:             저 푸른 초원 위에   선생님! How are you? I just wanted to let you know that today, I took out your story again and read 〈저 푸른 초원 위에〉. What an incredible, chilling piece of work! I remember I had liked it when I’d read it before, but for some reason, I don’t remember it being this sinister, cruel and menacing. It made such a deep impression on me today that it’s hard to shake it off. Maybe I wasn’t ready for it before and had a lot of growing up to do! I think I’m going to translate this next, but I had a few questions (mostly out of curiosity, just for me): 1. Why isn’t the child in school? The story says that the child is seven years old - then shouldn’t he be in elementary school? 2. I know the ending is open-ended, but in your mind, what happens to the child? Who is this 누나/woman with the curly hair? (Of course I won’t put this in the translation, but I’m just so curious!) After this I think I will work on 〈개망초〉 and 〈고요한 밤〉. 선생님께 늘 미안한 마음이에요. Translator 잘 만났으면 선생님의 글을 이미 널리 알렸을텐데... I’m sorry! But I’ll try my best this year. In awe of your work, Janet     21. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sun, Jan 22, 2017, 9:52 PM subject:             Re: 저 푸른 초원 위에                It’s snowing here in Korea, and the temperature has dipped below minus 10 degrees Celsius for the past few days. I read 저 푸른 초원 위에 again after a long time. I don’t think I can write like that anymore.^^ To answer you questions: 1. We calculate age a little differently in Korea. Seven years in Korea would mean six in western age. You have to be eight in Korean age to enter elementary school. 2. The nuna the child talks about is a mysterious character. At first, the mother thinks she’s just an imaginary friend, but she discovers the woman’s face in her son’s picture only after he goes missing and realizes she’s the one he called nuna. The story stops right there… I’ll wait for your novel. I’ll work hard on my writing too so that I can send you a good book. Good health and good writing to us both!!!           22. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 May 10, 2017, 2:57 PM sub:                    Open Letter        선생님! How are you? I just heard from Open Letter today and they tell me that they are planning to make an offer for the 《옆집 여자》 collection. If the Korean publisher and you find this situation agreeable, 《옆집 여자》 will finally be published in the US!!! If you have any questions about this, please feel free to contact me. You can have the publisher contact me as well. Anyway, this is great news! I’m so happy that this is finally happening!!! Warmest, Janet     23. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 May 10, 2017, 5:15 PM sub:                    Re: Open Letter   Janet!!! Congratulations!!! I read your email before going to work and got a little excited. I’m not the type to easily get excited, but most of all, I was moved when I thought that all your hard work is finally bearing fruit. I don’t have an agent, so I’ll do what you suggest for the English edition. That is, as long as the Korean publisher is okay with it. And now I’m feeling a little greedy. I’m wondering if English readers might like my novel A, which I’m currently revising. As I already mentioned, I’m planning to have a new edition come out with a different publisher next year once the current contract ends. If you’re interested, I’ll send you the manuscript once I finish revising it. Once again, congratulations and thanks for everything.^^ Seong-nan         24. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sat, Sep 23, 2017, 4:42 AM subject:            하성란입니다   Janet, Korea is going through a big change right now. The situation isn’t that unstable, but certain media outlets are trying to create an atmosphere of anxiety, but the majority of the people are calm. A few days ago Korean Literature Now magazine sought permission to carry an excerpt from “Early Beans,” so I reread the story again after a really long time. As I read it, I could feel how dated it was. But I have no worries since it’ll appear in your translation. I’ve realized again that it’s not easy to take an interest in Korean literature and to translate it. We’ve waited a long time, but now that the book is set to come out, the publication date feels too far away! Not only that, you’re fighting a lone battle to have another book of mine published. I want to convey my gratitude to you again. When the book comes out, let’s celebrate! Wishing you peace like a river... Ha Seong-nan     25. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Fri, Sep 29, 2017, 5:20 AM subject:            하성란입니다   Janet, I got your letter this evening. Was it back in 2001? I can’t believe it!!! How old were you then? How old was I? I’m so happy that we’re able to have such a great outcome after a long wait. You said you were sorry, but it isn’t your fault. It’s the pain of not speaking a mainstream language. In that long stretch of time, thanks to your efforts, as well as the efforts of other translators, Korean literature is gradually becoming known. This is all because of you and your unwavering interest in my writing. I’m reading your words closely. Will we be able to meet soon? I’m looking forward to that day. We’re set to start a long ten-day vacation for Chuseok. A big full moon rises on Chuseok. Do you remember the full moon in Korea? I hope you and your loved ones will be able to enjoy the days of full moon... Ha Seong-nan     26. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                  Fri, Sep 29, 2017, 5:28 AM subject:            하성란입니다   Oh, I was so thrilled to receive your letter that I forgot to thank you for the gift. I like Moleskine. Whenever a thought strikes me, I’ll jot it down in the notebook. Thank you.^^ I still haven’t used the handmade notebook you gave me a while back. It’s too precious.^^ Ha Seong-nan     27. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                      Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Oct 16, 2017, 9:42 PM subject:             “울콩”   Janet!!! Yesterday, I received a copy of the Korean Literature Now magazine with your translation of “Early Beans.” The magazine has an excerpt from the story and the full text can be viewed on their website.^^ It felt strange to read a story that I wrote a long time ago. ㅎㅎ You did a great job. I heard from the Korean publisher that Open Letter sent them the advance. I guess we’ll be able to see the book soon. Have you received your translation fee? That’s what I’m most curious about, since you did most of the work. I wish you peaceful days together with your kids. I miss you a lot. I hope I can see your face again soon. Seong-nan...     28. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Nov 20, 2017, 3:36 PM subject:             Korea   선생님! How are you? I hope you’ve been well. I wanted to share that I will be in Korea in December to attend a translation award ceremony. I know you’re busy, but I would LOVE to meet with you while I’m there—for dinner, drinks, anything! 선생님하고 많은 얘기를 나누고 싶어요! What’s your schedule like? I’m flying into Korea earlier, but will be spending some time with family, so I’m available Dec 9-13, except the 11th. I plan to go to 우도 after the 13th for a few days to do research for my 해녀 novel and I leave Korea on the 18th. Do you know anyone in Udo by any chance? Do you want to join me? ㅋㅋㅋ I haven’t been to Korea in nearly 20 years, so I’m a little scared... but 우도 직접 가고 싶었는데, I thought this would be a good opportunity to go. Warmest, Janet     29. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Nov 20, 2017, 5:52 PM subject:             Re: Korea   Congratulations!!! I’ll leave December 9th to 13th free for you. Let’s meet whenever you have time. I want to go to Udo Island with you, but I will start serializing a piece from mid-December. It doesn’t have to be very long, but I’m feeling a little nervous. I’m looking forward to your story about the haenyeo. Korea has changed a lot but you’ll be fine. Let’s meet and talk till the cows come home.^^ I’m so happy you’ve won an award—you’ve worked so hard. Seong-nan     30. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Sun Dec 31, 2017, 03:54:42초 +0900 subject:             Happy New Year!   선생님, Happy New Year! 새해 복 많이 받으세요! It was so nice to see you in Korea. Thank you for dinner - I felt bad. I should have been the one to treat you... you must let me treat you next time! Ever since I came back, I’ve been working on your 《옆집 여자》 collection, since I’ll need to submit the complete manuscript to Open Letter in April. I translated many of the stories a long time ago, so I’m re-editing everything again. Ah, 선생님. I love your work!! I’m also planning to finish the Bluebeard collection in 2018. And please send me your new novels when you can! Here’s to all things good in the New Year! Wishing you and your family much favour and happiness in 2018! Warmest, Janet     31. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sun, Dec 31, 2017, 5:42 AM subject:             Re: Happy New Year!   You must be tired because of jet lag. I’m curious how your research on Udo went. I’m looking forward to your sad and beautiful novel. Reading your ambitious New Year’s plans makes me feel like I shouldn’t be idle either. I’ll try to write better books. I hope we get to see each other more often now. I pray for the most important thing in the coming year, health and peace for you, your husband and two children. And then for your novel. And once you come out with your next book, and next book... then you can stop translating me.^^ Here’s to our good health and good writing!!! Wishing you a great year ahead!!! Seong-nan     32. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Sat, Mar 17, 2018, 10:39 PM subject:             Questions            선생님, 바쁘신데 계속 연락해서 죄송해요! 다른게 아니고 제가 〈푸른 수염의 첫번째 아내”의 소개 글을 써야 되는데요... I had some questions I wanted to ask you that would help me greatly. I remember you told me a long time ago that you had never been to New Zealand, but you wrote the whole story from research, which I still find so surprising. :) 1. What inspired you to write this story? Was there an incident or piece of news that sparked the idea for this story? 2. Why did you choose the Bluebeard folktale to tell your story? (왜 Bluebeard 이야기 대에서 호감을 갖았어요?) 3. Why did you choose New Zealand as your setting? 4. Why did you choose to bring in a homosexual aspect to the story? 5. I feel there’s a special reason why this particular story was chosen as the 책 제목. Why? It’s not an interview—I’d just like some background information on the story, that’s all. Warmest, Janet     33. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Mar 19, 2018, 6:59 PM subject:            Re: Questions   1. I’ve been fascinated with Charles Perrault’s “Bluebeard” since childhood. Bluebeard’s wives are killed for failing to keep their promise with him—the promise that they will never open the door to a particular room. The wives should have kept their promise, but they give in to their curiosity and open the door. I thought I would put my own spin on this story one day. 2. So I couldn’t help but have these questions. The bodies of Bluebeard’s wives were hung in the forbidden room, but why did his first wife have to die? Was there another secret to the room? If the first wife ignored Bluebeard’s warning and entered the room, what would she have witnessed there? I thought my story would start from here. 3. At the time when I wrote this story, New Zealand was a popular tourist destination among Koreans and many Koreans also went to study there. New Zealand and Korea have opposite seasonal cycles, so when it was winter here, it was summer there. It was a place that I was familiar with but had never been to. It was fun to spread open a map of New Zealand and imagine this street and that. Due to the story setting, I had to keep the female protagonist relatively far from Korea, and New Zealand came to mind quite naturally. (And yet I made a mistake with the time difference. I think you caught the mistake, right?) 4. I was very interested in queer issues. I’ve covered them in another story titled 〈당신의 백미러〉. When I wrote “Bluebeard’s First Wife” the prejudice against LGBT people was much more severe than it is now. The character Jason in the story isn’t accept even by his own family. Jason’s parents are afraid of what other people will say, so they force Jason into a sham marriage. I wanted to write about the fears of those who can’t be open about their sexual orientation and about the social prejudice against them. 5. The book title is often not decided by the author. The editors must have thought it was a title that would draw the interest of readers. Come to think of it, compared to my other collections, the stories in this collection are more experimental. In the end, I think the question that “Bluebeard’s First Wife” asks—what is a story and how is it sparked—is a theme that runs through the entire collection.     34. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Sep 10, 2018, 11:35 AM subject:             “악몽”   선생님, I have some good news - I will be receiving the LTI Korea Translation Award this year, so I’ll be in Korea in the beginning of December. If you have time, I would love to see you and it’s my turn to treat you! I’ll let you know when I finalize my travel plans. We’re currently doing the final edits for the 《옆집 여자》 manuscript, and I had a question about 〈악몽〉. On P78, it says: “싸움을 말리는 사람은 없었다. 가끔 술 취한 사람들이 가게에서 나와 여종업원의 어깨에 팔을 두르고 어두운 골목으로 사라졌다.” I was a little confused about this part. Are the 여종업원 here the same female workers who are fighting outside on the street? If so, are the men putting their arms around them and then disappearing with them into an alley? OR are these 여종업원 different female workers that the drunk men came out with? It’s a minor detail, but I was a little confused. Thank you, 선생님! Love, Janet     35. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Sep 10, 2018, 5:53 PM subject:            Re: 〈악몽〉   Janet!!! Congratulations. ㅎㅎㅎ It’s a different award from the one your received last year, right? Your hard work through the years are bearing fruit now. I won’t make any plans for the month of December and will leave my schedule open for you. I’m fine with any day. Congratulations once again. 여종업원 is a polite expression for the women who work at the bar. Two of them are fighting over customers. I think it’ll be better to change “drunk people” to “drunk men.” There are a lot of bars, and drunk men come out with their arms around the shoulders of other waitresses and they disappear into the dark alleys. They’re all different waitresses. My novel 《여우여자》 will be published next summer. I have to submit the manuscript to the publisher by April 30. I’ll send it to you once it’s edited. It’s the story of a 500-year-old gumiho set in the present age.     36. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Sep 10, 2018, 8:29 PM subject:             Re: Re: 〈악몽〉                Thank you, 선생님! 예, 다른 상이에요. :) I understand about the 여종업원. Thank you! - 한가지 질문 더 있어요! P85-86: “여자는 침대 아래에 숨겨두었던 삽자루로 사내의 머리를 내리쳤다.” Is this 삽자루 big or small? Is it like a trowel or more like a spade/shovel? Thank you for everything and talk soon? Warmest, Janet     37. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Sep 10, 2018, 9:19 PM subject:            Re: Re: Re: 〈악몽〉   It’s a 삽 used for digging. The dictionary has it as “spade” or “shovel” but I don’t know the exact difference between the two. It’s something you use to dig holes in a storeroom and is small enough to be used by one person.     38. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Sep 10, 2018, 9:27 PM subject:             Re: Re: Re: Re: 〈악몽〉               I see! There are so many kinds of shovel/spade in English that are big and small, so I wanted to make sure. Thank you!     39. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Jan 7, 2019, 4:28 AM subject:             Re   Happy New Year, Janet! The cover of Flowers of Mold is gorgeous.^^ I think the English spelling of my name should be Ha Seong-nan, like you said. In Korea, there’s no universal style for English names. I think it’ll be nice if we can systemize it gradually. Thanks for all your hard work, Janet.^^ Talk soon. May your home be peaceful and happy in the New Year. Seong-nan...     40. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Feb 4, 2019, 10:41 AM subject:            New York Times sneak preview   선생님, Flowers of Mold (옆집 여자) is included in the New York Times sneak preview of books coming out in 2019 from around the world!!! (Click on ASIA to see.) https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/01/19/books/new-books-international.html Also, the back cover has blurbs by Susan Choi (Korean-American writer), Brain Evenson, and Nazanine Hozar (my friend!!). Madeleine Thien might write one for the press release, too, if she can read in time. How’s your novel going?? XO, Janet     41. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Fri, Feb 8, 2019, 5:31 PM subject:             Re: New York Times sneak preview   Yay!!! ㅎㅎㅎ This amazing news is all thanks to you, Janet. I think your translation is even better than my novel!!! Thank you!!! Have a nice warm day.^^ Seong-nan     42. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Wed, Sep 25, 2019, 4:13 PM subject:            FOM on bestseller list!   선생님, FOM is on the Powells bookstore bestseller list!!!       43. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Wed, Sep 25, 2019, 5:05 PM subject:             Re: FOM on bestseller list!   Janet, it’s been a while since my book has been displayed like this. The last time was probably when 《삿뽀로 여인숙》 came out. See you soon in Seoul. I want to see your children too.^^     44. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Wed, Oct 2, 2019, 10:01 AM subject:            Visiting Korea   선생님! How are you?? I hope you’ve been well! I’ll be arriving in Korea on Oct 7. :) I plan to attend a few SIWF events that week, one featuring Han Yujoo and one featuring Bae Suah, which Ms. Kang Young-sook will be moderating. Are you planning to attend any events? If so, maybe we could meet there? As for our proper meeting, are you available on Monday, Oct 14 early evening? Would it be all right if we meet together with Ms. Kang? Somewhere around my hotel would be nice - maybe we could walk over to 익선동? I’m easy - whatever you choose is good for me :) Ms. Kang also told me about a class you’re teaching at 문지문화원 사이. I hope it won’t make you feel uncomfortable, but would it be okay if I “audit” your creative writing workshop on Oct 17 @7 @ 문지문화원 사이? You can just pretend I’m not there. I’ve never sat in on a creative writing workshop taught in Korean and I would love to just sit and listen. I’ve been busy trying to finish some last-minute things before I leave—getting excited to see you!! XO, Janet     45. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Thu, Oct 3, 2019, 7:52 PM subject:            Re: Visiting Korea   Janet, October 14 sounds good. Please bring out your family. I’ll book a restaurant with food the children can enjoy as well. Ikseon-dong is a very trendy place. They have clusters of small hanok there. Let’s meet together with Kang Young-sook.^^ Have a safe flight. Seong-nan     46. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Thu, Oct 3, 2019, 10:55 PM subject:            Re: Re: Visiting Korea                           Janet, please be sure to bring your kids! I want to say hello to your husband, too. We met before, a long time ago. As for the workshop, I recommend that you attend Kang Young-sook’s workshop, rather than mine! My workshop is too long and there are a lot of people, so it’s a bit chaotic. But more than that, I feel a little shy.^^;;;         47. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Thu, Nov 7, 2019, 10:46 AM subject:             Questions about 〈파리〉               Hello 선생님, I have a few small questions from 〈파리〉. 대충 대답 하셔도 되요, since they’re just for me. ^^ p. 70: “한낮에도 거리는 텅 비어 있었다. 가끔 찻잔과 보온병을 싼 보자기를 든 여종업원들이 느릿느릿 걸어다녔다 ... 사내가 세들어 살고 있는 청봉 부락에서 지서까지의 길도 자갈밭이었다 ... 하루이틀 지나면서 자갈밭을 걷는 것도 이력이 났다. 종아리에 근력이 붙었다.” 1. 이 텅 빈 “거리”와 자갈길이 똑같은 길이에요? 2. 이 수많은 자갈들이 뭘 상징해요? If you could send along these answers with the “Bluebeard” ones, that would be great. Thank you, 선생님! Talk to you soon! Warmest, Janet     48. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Thu, Nov 7, 2019, 8:41 PM subject:             Questions about 〈파리〉               선생님, 죄송해요. I have one more question about 〈파리〉. On page 72, the main character is walking to the station and he bumps into the young woman for the first time. 그리고 여자(=the young woman’s older sister)하고 같이 있는 임순경이 근무 해야할 차래라고 page 74에 나와요. So does that mean on page 72, when the main character is walking to the station, he is in the middle of doing a patrol (순찰하는 도중인가요)? 집에서 지서로 가는게 아니라요? Sorry for these tedious questions...I just want to be absolutely sure. Janet     49. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Tue, Nov 19, 2019, 1:28 AM subject:             Library Journal!!!!   선생님!! Your book has been chosen as one of Library Journal’s Best World Literature of 2019!!!! https://www.libraryjournal.com/?detailStory=best-world-literature-2019-best-books Congratulations!!         50. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Nov 22, 2019, 10:27 PM subject:            Re: Questions about 〈파리〉   Janet, then let’s keep it the same as the original. 12자 장롱 wardrobes are considered the best in Korea. It would be nice if foreign readers knew this, but there’s no need to explain with a footnote, is there? Regarding the edit a few days ago, let’s correct the dimensions of the wardrobe. I’ve changed it from 8자 or 10자 to 9자 on pages 40 and 60. Cheongsong Village in 〈파리〉 should be Cheongbong Village. I never caught the mistake.^^;;; When I read the story again it felt like I was reading somebody’s else writing. It’s so embarrassing. I noticed the timestamp of your email. It looks you’re hardly sleeping at all. Janet, don’t overwork yourself. Thank you.^^     51. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Thu, Dec 12, 2019, 8:33 PM subject:             PEN Translation Prize    선생님!!!!!! We’ve been nominated for the 2020 PEN Translation Prize! It’s just the longlist now (10 books - see bottom) and in January they will announce the shortlist (5 books). Fingers crossed!!! Please don’t share the news until tomorrow 10am New York time. 황석영 선생님의 책, translated by Sora, has also been nominated, along with Nobel prize winner Olga Tolkarczuk, Naja Marie Aidt and so many brilliant writers and translators! Congrats, 선생님!!! Thank you for writing this incredible book!!! XOXO, Janet     52. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Sat, Jan 11, 2020, 1:02 PM subject:             The Paris Review   선생님!!! Happy New Year!! Your book is one of the staff picks at THE PARIS REVIEW!!!!! And look, your picture!!! AHHHH!! https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2020/01/10/staff-picks-sex-stand-up-and-south-korea/ Also, Bluebeard’s First Wife has been sent off to the printer!!! We’re all very excited to see this come out!! When will 《여우 여자》 be ready??? Love, Janet     53. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Jan 13, 2020, 3:39 PM subject:             Harvard bookstore’s staff favourite books           선생님, Hello again! This is Harvard bookstore’s staff favourite books of 2019. Look at your book at the bottom right. 힘내요!!!!!! I’m sure 《여우 여자》 is wonderful!! Love, Janet     Sent from my iPhone     54. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Wed, Feb 19, 2020, 7:53 PM subject:             Bluebeard’s First Wife   The books just came back from the printers!! 아직 나올 때까진 멀었지만… 6월달에 나와요!! The front cover has a blurb by Susan Choi who won the National Book Award last year.     55. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan, Kang Youngsook date:                 Thu, Mar 19, 2020, 9:35 AM subject:            Update   하성란 강영숙 선생님, How are you? I’ve been thinking of you and everyone in Korea. I hear the situation there is improving, which makes me feel hopeful. Spring break started this week for us, but since parts of Canada have declared a state of emergency, we’ve been practising social distancing and staying home. Libraries, recreation centres, etc. are all shut down, and it was announced earlier this week that schools will remain closed past spring break. It’s all very troubling, and they tell us this is just the beginning. But on the flip side, because people are driving and traveling less, the animals are returning and I feel our planet is being restored. For the first time in I can’t remember how long, I’ve been hearing frogs outside our window. I’m trying to stay positive and not let anxiety take over...also trying to take advantage of the situation and get some work done, but Dale has also been working from home and I keep getting distracted by the news, as well as having everyone at home. Take care, you two! Sending you lots of love during these troubling times! Warmest, Janet     56. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sat, Mar 21, 2020, 4:01 PM subject:            Re: Update   Janet, the whole world is on high alert. It started a little earlier here in Korea, so we’ve been social distancing for more than a month now. My second child enters middle school this year but we’re in limbo because schools haven’t opened yet. Flights have been reduced, so my younger sister who’s a flight attendant is on a long vacation. I’m worried about the current situation, but then again in the back of my mind I wonder if I could maybe write about this. But there’s already a brilliant book called Blindness. And Kang Young-sook writes about the “after” in her Burim novel. I desperately want to read her book, but I’ve only read the beginning so far because I’ve been busy. Did you say you can hear frogs outside your window? In the city? How beautiful and amazing! Does that mean this virus is a warning against moving too fast? Maybe it’s saying we all need to take a break. Anyway, I feel like this pause isn’t a bad thing. See, even frogs come to our windows when we stop for a moment. Take care of your mother, husband, and children! 화이팅 no, I mean 릴렉스.^^ Seong-nan...     57. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Sat, Apr 18, 2020, 11:02 PM subject:             Hello   선생님, 안녕하세요! 선생님께서는 건강히 잘 지내시는지요? 한국은 상황이 많이 나아진 것 같아 다행입니다. 캐나다는 미국 비해선 낫지만 아직도 모든 게 풀리지 않았어요. 잘 견디고 있었는데 요새 남편하고 다투기 시작했어요. ㅋㅋㅋ 선생님은 잘 견디시고 있어요? Just wanted to check in to see how you were doing. No pressure, but I also wanted to see if you’re able to work these days (many of us are distracted and are finding it very difficult to write/translate). 이런 상황에 일 하실 수 있습니까? If you are able to work, what are you working on these days? If you don’t mind me asking, what is the status of 《여우 여자》? How about 정오의 그림자 and 여덟 번째 아이? ^^ Now that 《푸른 수염》 will be released in June, I wanted to start thinking about the next book we should bring out in English. Also, I recently read 《크리스마스캐럴》 and loved it. Though I would love to translate it, I haven’t started, because most importantly, I just can’t think of a solution for translating “10박”. I need to come up with a nickname in English that also sounds like a swear word, but I haven’t found the perfect English equivalent yet. Anyway, I just wanted to check in and make sure you and your family are well. Please take good care, 선생님. Warmest, Janet     58. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Sun, Apr 19, 2020, 5:49 PM subject:            Re: Hello   Janet, I’m doing well. I’m glad to hear you’re doing well too. I laughed for a long time at the bit where you said you’ve started quarrelling with your husband. My husband and I have been sharing an office for a long time so we’ve already done our share of quarrelling. It’s business as usual now. ㅎㅎ My second one who entered junior high this year is now doing his classes online beside me without having been to school yet. I didn’t go out for close to two months during social distancing. I’ve gained weight. There’s a limit to the amount of exercise you can do at home. I should have gotten more work done, but my day is almost over by the time I prepare food for the children. I’m in low spirits these days. I have to hand over the manuscript for 《여우 여자》 by May 6th. I’m feeling I’ve reached my limit in many ways. But I’ll do my best until the end. Once I’ve sent in my manuscript to the publisher, I’ll also share it with you. I’m a bit worried that you’ll be disappointed. 《크리스마스캐럴》 is a story I have some regrets about. I would suggest that you translate 《여우 여자》 next. Please wait a little longer. Let’s be healthy until the Corona virus is gone. Give my regards to your husband. I’ll email you the manuscript soon. With love, Seong-nan     59. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Thu, Apr 23, 2020, 10:15 AM subject:             Re: Re: Hello     선생님!! So great to hear from you. 저도 마찬가지예요. 하루가 밥하고, 빨래하고, 애들 가르치는 일로 너무 빨리 지나가요. So I understand completely! I look forward to getting 《여우 여자》. 화이팅, 선생님! You can do it!! 1. By the way, Anthony just sent this to me. The Guardian mentioned Flowers of Mold today, and he tells me the same reviewer is working on a review of Bluebeard for another newspaper/magazine. Will update you as soon as this comes out! https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/apr/23/south-korea-female-writers-rise-up-cho-nam-joo 2. Also, CrimeReads will be publishing “Night Poaching” (〈밤의 밀렵〉) on their website!! More soon - see below for Anthony’s message. Love, Janet     60. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Tue, Apr 28, 2020, 1:52 PM subject:             Fwd: Booklist Advance Review - Starred   선생님!!! We got another starred review!! This time from BOOKLIST!!! The review will go live on May 15!! Congratulations!! Love, Janet     61. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Jun 15, 2020, 10:38 AM subject:             A lot of Bluebeard news!              선생님! 안녕하세요! 건강히 잘 지내지요? We got another SUPERB review in Words Without Borders. Congratulations! https://www.wordswithoutborders.org/book-review/ha-seong-nans-bluebeards-first-wife-gives-the-old-tale-of-patriarchy-a-new?src=twitter How is 《여우 여자》 coming along? 계속 재촉해서 미안해요, but I believe in you! You can do it, 선생님!  XO, Janet     62. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Mon, Jun 15, 2020, 3:37 PM subject:             Re: A lot of Bluebeard news!   Janet, I hope you and your family are doing well.^^ I’m still revising 《여우여자》. The publisher has been pushing me to send them the manuscript but I’ve been failing to meet the deadline. But I’m recovering my strength and my spirits little by little so I’ll wrap it up soon. I’m thankful to you for always giving me strength. 《여우여자》 is a novel I serialized a long time ago. In the meantime, society has undergone a lot of changes so I’m revising that bit, but it’s not easy. Do you remember the short story 〈강의 백일몽〉 in my collection Wafers? I feel shy saying this, but I like this story. There are 11 stories in this collection, maybe you can work on this next after shortening the list? My novel A should also be a good follow-up to Bluebeard’s First Wife. I think the message in that novel can still have some impact. A publisher has approached me with an offer to republish it so I’m preparing for it now. But first, I’ll wrap up 《여우여자》 quickly. I’m sending you all the support and strength you gave me. The COVID-19 situation is scary but it’s amazing how people are finding ways to live and work even in this situation. I’m thinking about the life ahead of us. Thank you, Janet. Always take care of yourself.^^ Seong-nan     63. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Mon, Jun 15, 3:53 PM subject:             Re: Re: A lot of Bluebeard news!             선생님!! 반가워요!! 선생님께서 겪고 계신 것들 충분히 이해가 됩니다. I’ve been trying to write my own 장편 for the last 4 years without success  so I’m definitely not one to pressure you. 사실 《웨하스》는 오랫동안 간직하고 있었지만 읽어보지 못했는데, 《웨하스》 하고 《A》를 다시 읽어 보겠습니다. I’ll let you know my thoughts as soon as I finish! 다른 출판사에서 《A》를 내고 싶다고요? Congratulations! 어떤 출판사요? 준비 중이시면 does that mean there will be many changes to the text? If so, could you please send me the final version? Thank you and talk soon! 보고 싶어요! Warmest, Janet     64. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Tue, Jun 16, 2020, 4:22 PM subject:             Happy pub day!   선생님! Happy publication day to you!! Bluebeard is out in the world today!! We did it! By the way, I read 〈강의 백일몽〉 last night. I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!!! I still have to re-read A to decide, but I really want to work on Wafers next!! XO, Janet     65. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Tue, Jun 16, 2020, 4:52 PM subject:             Re: Happy pub day!   Janet, congratulations!!! I’m so happy we’re on this journey together. Please be with me in the future too. ㅎㅎㅎ Seong-nan     66. from:                 Janet Hong to:                     Ha Seong-nan date:                 Tue, Jul 28, 2020, 10:32 PM subject:             40   선생님, 잘 지내시지요? 요즘 자주 생각나고 보고싶어요. I turned forty last week. 그래서 그런지 우울하네요. 작업 진도는 안 나가고, 15년동안 한국 드라마 안 보다가 요즘 코로나 사태 후로 드라마에 완전 빠졌답니다... 유치한 것 알면서도 너무 좋아요. ㅋㅋ Agnel Joseph (the editor-in-chief of Korean Literature Now) wants to do a special feature on translators and the relationship translators have with their authors, and he thought you and I would be perfect. He’ll be in touch with you soon. For that reason, I was looking through some of our old emails and found this one from 2007, just a little over a month after you gave birth to your son. 세월 정말 빠르죠? 선생님, 항상 힘내세요! Warmest, Janet     67. from:                 Ha Seong-nan to:                     Janet Hong date:                 Wed, Jul 29, 2020, 4:04 PM subject:             Re: 40   Janet, congratulations on turning forty!!! I’d just turned forty in Korean age when we first started exchanging emails. I gave birth to a child at that age with no fear, so don’t feel too depressed. If I could go back in time, I’d go back to that year.^^ Trust me. This will be the best time for you. ¤¾¤¾ My eldest—the one I ventured out to give an umbrella to—entered graduate school this year. She’s getting married next year. Her fiancé is the man she starting dating in college. The baby who was forty days old then is now in first grade of middle school. Time really does fly. More than anything else, I was happy to discover the name Hong Jeemyung in the email you sent me. Your Korean name is also beautiful. I was taken back to that time while reading your email. Cheers to your bright fortieth! Wishing good health to you and your family.^^ Seong-nan                  Translated by Agnel Joseph  

• [Dyad] Line by Line, Again and Again — by Ha Seong-nan Vol. 50 Winter 2020

  Photographs Copyright ⓒ choemore   Writing is often said to be solitary and lonely; the same can be said of translation. The actual translator-author relationship may be fraught, challenging, distant, or even non-existent. But in this case, translator Janet Hong and writer Ha Seong-nan formed a bond that bloomed into one of friendship, one that grew in affection and closeness over the years. The following exchange reveals the precious, serendipitous experience of words not only reaching across geography and culture, but also intertwining lives together. —Ed.     Janet says the first time we spoke on the phone was in March 2007. She says she was shocked to hear me shout in the middle of our conversation 　and that I apologized to her immediately, explaining that I was watching a soccer game. Me? Shout? Had someone just scored a goal? 　I remember that first call with Janet. Over the characteristic echo of an international call, I heard the voice of a young woman say demurely, “I’m sorry, my Korean isn’t very good.” But her Korean was good. I was nervous, as she must’ve been, at the sudden phone call from a stranger. I strained my ears and tried not to miss a word. But to think I cried out during that call. Except for Janet’s voice, I’ve completely forgotten the soccer game, let alone the fact that I’d shouted. 　Janet recently reminded me of the phone call. I’ve revisited my memories since then, and each time, strangely enough, I go back to when I lived on the twenty-fourth floor of an apartment, the very top floor. It’s probably because of the word “soccer.” After all, no Korean can forget the Korea–Japan World Cup of 2002 where young and old alike swarmed to the games in matching Red Devil T-shirts and cheered for Korea in synchronized clapping; that 3-3-7 beat used to ring in my head all day long. Despite knowing my memory is wrong, despite knowing it would actually be another five years before she calls, when Janet calls I’m in the living room of the twenty-fourth-floor apartment where I lived in the year of the Korea–Japan World Cup. 　No matter how many times I search online, I can’t find the soccer game I was watching in March 2007. Most of all, I mull over why I, a person who’s not given much to excitable shouting, had cried out that day. What sort of game would cause me to be so rude on the phone with a stranger from Vancouver, Canada? If it was an important game, I should be able to find it quickly enough. More importantly, it was only a month after I’d given birth to my second child. The whole family moved around carefully lest we wake the baby. The baby would’ve started wailing at any loud noise. 　Janet and I also started emailing each other in March 2007. The kitchen smells of miyeok-guk that has reduced down from being heated again and again, and only the newborn baby and I are in the living room. I’m hanging freshly washed clothes on the drying rack and the baby is sleeping. Suddenly, it grows dark outside the window, and rain and hail start to pour down. The weather forecast didn’t mention rain. I wait for the rain to stop, but it doesn’t look like it will anytime soon. If this keeps up, my eldest who went to school without an umbrella will get soaked. The thought of bringing her an umbrella is foremost in my mind, but I can’t simply leave. What if the sleeping baby wakes and starts crying? In the end, I change and find an umbrella. It’s my first time going out since the delivery, except to get OB/GYN checkups and vaccinations for the baby. The street is slippery and the temperature has dropped. I totter along. 　I’m practically running. Children in school uniforms are starting to pour out of the school gate. Since I can hardly see in the rain, it’s difficult to spot my child in the crowd of identical uniforms. I even go to her classroom, but she’s not there. Did she go a different way? Or maybe I walked past her without recognizing her? I make my way home somehow. Fortunately, the baby is still asleep. A little later, my eldest walks in, shaking off the rain. While I was scrambling to find her, she’d been on her way home, getting soaked to the skin.     　I wrote about that day in an email to Janet that I wrote in response to a couple of emails she sent me following her initial phone call. I hadn’t even seen her face yet, and all I knew about her was what she’d told me in her email. I didn’t write that I felt like crying on my way home, but I did mention how I’d hurried back so quickly that my legs were sore for two days. I also wrote that I’d wanted to see my daughter smile when I showed up at her school with an umbrella. 　Why did I tell Janet about that day, when I hadn’t shared it with anybody else? 　A few days after our first phone call in March 2007, Janet sent me a long email. It started off with the sentence: “Please excuse me—I’m not very good at writing in Korean.” Surprisingly, the entire email was in Korean. Except for a few words that were spelled as they sounded, her writing was perfect, contrary to her concern in the last sentence: “Please let me know if you couldn’t understand any parts of this email because of my Korean. I’ll write in English next time.”  　Korean name: Hong Jeemyung. Moved from Korea to Seattle, USA, at age two, then to Vancouver, Canada. Took a Korean language class at university to improve her Korean and had to translate a Korean short story as the final assignment. She found the story the professor had assigned to her tedious, so she decided instead to translate a story her mother recommended: “The Woman Next Door” . . . She’d already translated five of my short stories and was planning to submit them to journals, hoping to catch the eyes of publishers in Canada. 　I liked this part the most: “I’ve dreamed of becoming a writer since I was a child.” That had been my dream, too. “I work through the translation line by line, going over it again and again. Maybe that’s why even when I write in English, my sentences sometimes sound like yours. Isn’t that funny?” 　I don’t know what caused me to share my troubles with her. Isn’t that funny? Sometimes I say this line to myself in her voice—the voice I know now. Isn’t that funny? 　I never shared with anyone the hardships of writing while parenting. I didn’t want to. Even if I did, I knew nothing would change, and stubbornly, I didn’t want to admit my struggles. But I’d ended up confessing these struggles to Janet who was then in her late twenties. 　My email ended with an apology for not replying sooner. It was an excuse, if anything. I had a baby recently so I’ve been slow with everything. I’m sorry. 　“I didn’t know you just had a baby,” Janet wrote in her reply. And so began our emails, which have continued to this day. 　In that time, Janet got married and became a mother to two children. She said she translated in her spare time after dropping off and picking up her kids from school. Not once did she grumble or complain. Then one day she told me about the novel she was writing. It was the story of the haenyeo. She was planning to stay a few days on a small island close to Jeju island for research. 　Janet is still writing her story. I know all about writing in the bits and pieces of time left over from your day, the hours after your children fall asleep. The situation in Canada in 2020 isn’t much different from here. But Janet doesn’t complain. Line by line, she writes her story. Most of our emails are about this very thing. After all, that’s all we can do—put down one line at a time. Eagerly, I await her book. 　I’ve forgotten many things. My memory is like a small cup, so when fresh water is poured into it, the water inside escapes. I don’t remember even half of what Janet remembers of that day. In the living room of the twenty-fourth-floor apartment where I lived in 2002, I still hear the voice of a young Janet from 2007 saying, “I’m sorry, my Korean isn’t very good.” With all my heart I want to cheer on that young woman. Neither of us knows that The Woman Next Door will be published many years later, in 2019. Over the phone, she asks me many questions. If I did cheer, it must have been because of that. The past mixes with the present, and the wait that had felt so long feels too short now. But in my jumbled memory, her words “Isn’t that funny?” ring out as clearly as if I’d just heard Janet utter them, and the line she wrote in her email a long time ago—“If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep translating you for as long as I can”—still feels new. We both write without complaining. We write line by line, going over it again and again. In fact, the most recent email we exchanged was about this very thing.   Translated by Agnel Joseph

• [Dyad: The Translator–Author Dynamic] Vol. 50 Winter 2020

  Copyright ⓒ Na Seung Jun   DYAD   a set of two elements treated as one; a pair   Writing is often said to be solitary and lonely; the same can be said of translation. The actual translator-author relationship may be fraught, challenging, distant, or even non-existent. But in this case, translator Janet Hong and writer Ha Seong-nan formed a bond that bloomed into one of friendship, one that grew in affection and closeness over the years. The following exchange reveals the precious, serendipitous experience of words not only reaching across geography and culture, but also intertwining lives together.—Ed.     [Dyad] The Voice in My Ear­ – Janet Hong http://kln.or.kr/frames/interviewsView.do?bbsIdx=185 [Dyad] Line by Line, Again and Again – Ha Seong-nan   http://kln.or.kr/frames/interviewsView.do?bbsIdx=184 [Dyad] The Correspondence — Emails Exchanged by Janet Hong & Ha Seong-nan http://kln.or.kr/frames/interviewsView.do?bbsIdx=186

FICTION

• Daydreams of a River Vol.61 Autumn 2023

  The new workshop at the factory was built on what was once the paddock at the old ranch. At the end of the paddock, two animal sheds stood in a boomerang shape. Instead of being torn down, these plastered, concrete structures were now used to store saw blades, oil drums for machinery, and stacks of imported wood. One could easily guess the number of blocks that went into each shed. Some rattled loose, as if they hadn’t been laid cleanly. The ventilation windows near the roof were exactly the size of those blocks. Throughout the village were these types of bare-bones sheds, assembled like LEGO houses.    A tour bus and several cars with Seoul license plates traveled along the unpaved road to the factory. Red dust, as if bricks had been ground to powder, wafted up from the lane. Rolling hills spread beyond the pasture. Here and there, short trees grew sparsely. Someone sitting at the front of the bus boasted it was an ideal location for a ranch, adding that if a cow happened to escape, you’d be able to find it easily enough.     The red dust clung to the black dress shoes of the Seoul staff, even to the bottom of their carefully pressed trousers. The director and factory manager stood side by side at the factory entrance to hang up the sign. Since the young CEO from the main office was on an overseas business trip, he couldn’t attend the sign hanging ceremony. The wooden placard on which the factory name was inscribed in large cursive letters still reeked of varnish. The main office and factory staff stood in a circle and clapped. The director was so short his head barely came up to the shoulders of the tall, skinny factory manager. The difference in the length of their arms was the problem. It wasn’t easy to put the two men at both ends of the sign in one camera frame. If the focus was on the director, everything above the factory manager’s forehead was cut off, as well as the first letter of the sign. But if the focus was on the manager, the director’s stomach would be cut off. In the end, symmetry was barely achieved with the director holding the bottom of the sign and the factory manager holding the top.     The manager didn’t shake hands with the people from the main office, though he was meeting them for the first time. He walked hurriedly, hands jammed inside his pants pockets and his torso leading the way before his feet. His unusual gait made him stick out from the rest of the people. A saw blade had taken off two segments of his left middle finger, as well as his right ring finger and pinky, when he’d learned his trade at the sawmill. The director was a vigorous man in his early forties. He always had a hard-sided leather briefcase in his hand. The weight of it was something. Several employees complained of having had their knees or thighs stabbed by a corner of his briefcase while passing him in the hallway. All year round, he carried his suit jacket squeezed under his armpit. He gave off the tired air of a traveler who had just stepped off a plane. Even when going between the CEO’s office and his own, or coming back from the bathroom, he took short, hurried strides, as if late for a meeting.    There were too many people at the ceremony to fit all of them in one picture. About a third of the seventy or so staff ended up with the backs of their heads taken, and out of those whose faces were captured, five or six had their eyes closed. A few had taken their sweet time, not realizing the ceremony was beginning, and were caught running belatedly toward the entrance. The hands of those applauding enthusiastically were blurred, as if they’d been rubbed out with an eraser, or were clasped together, as if in prayer. Caught also on the bottom right corner of the photo was a dark smudge. A black dog had come out of nowhere. There were many stray dogs in that area. But it was the woman and not so much the dog that ruined the photo.    The woman stood three people over from the director, alongside the other female staff from the main office. As though conscious of the camera, her gaze wasn’t directed at the director or factory manager hanging up the sign, but at some point beyond the frame of the picture. And those eyes glowed red. Much later, in a book titled The Basics of Photography, she learned what causes the red-eye effect. In short, her eyes had been looking directly at the camera when the flash went off. And while she’d been gazing at Y, Y had been gazing back at her through the viewfinder. Y wasn’t in the picture. He’d been holding the camera, pressing the shutter button some five meters away.    It had been Hanil Trading’s most prosperous year. Every six months, the company posted a recruitment advertisement in a trade newsletter. On the day of the sign hanging ceremony, all the employees from both the main office and the factory had attended, except for the CEO who was away on a business trip. During this period, Hanil Trading had the most employees in its history since its founding. Among the staff lined up on the factory manager’s side stood a man with a white Yankees cap set crookedly on his head, his long legs spread like the pegs of a clothespin. A was a year younger than the woman. He didn’t look at all interested in the ceremony. Not only was his face hidden in the shadow of his cap brim, but the camera had captured only one side of his face. He was the last young man left in that village. Everyone who worked at the factory was from there, except the manager. There were two middle-aged women responsible for making lunch for all the factory workers, cleaning the factory, and other odd jobs, four men with Class 1 commercial driver’s licenses, and nine men who operated the machinery at the workshop. Over fifty workers from the main office trailed the factory manager like a herd of cows, ambling around the two sheds, workshop, and office. At sunset, the rancher would have opened the paddock gate and led the cows scattered around the ranch back to the sheds. The sheds had probably been arranged in a boomerang shape to prevent the cows from going astray.     The workshop was as spacious as a hangar. To allow large trucks to come inside, a wide opening was created in one wall and double doors installed. The director and a few female staff members cheered in front of oversized machines equipped with circular saws about a meter in diameter. A plank of wood was placed on a machine workbench for a demonstration. Judging from the deep reddish brown of the heartwood, it looked like a type of cherry wood. When the manager switched on the machine, the conveyor belt started moving and the stainless-steel saw began to rotate. They had to shout above the noise. The wood moved closer to the blade. The noise grew louder. The cherry wood slipped back a little, resisting the saw, but the spinning blade only whirled faster, its edge drawing dozens of circles in a blur. The woman felt dizzy.     “Cherry wood is a dense hardwood, so it isn’t easy to cut. And this is a cross grain piece, which makes it hard to plane. Even veterans get nervous handling this.” The manager barked in a near shout, as if angry. “But there’s no better wood than this!”    The blade dug into the wood. Dark sawdust flew out from both sides of the blade. Her nostrils tingled. But the director was more interested in business than in the type of wood or its characteristics.    “I hope you’re not planning to throw all this sawdust out. You can still use it, can’t you? Maybe mix it with a kind of glue and make things like particle boards?”    The manager laughed silently, showing his yellow teeth. “Sure, it’s got lots of uses. But I don’t recommend making particle boards out of it since the boards are flimsy and bend too easily. Pretty low quality, I have to say. But in the winter, burning sawdust for heating is the best.”     Meanwhile, the wood was cut in two and came to a stop at the end of the workbench. However, her ears continued to ring, even after the machine stopped and the workshop grew quiet.     The two concrete columns seemed to have been hastily erected to meet the date of the ceremony, for there wasn’t even a gate, let alone a chain link fence. Elderly folk from the village, as well as the stray dogs, flocked into the yard. Most of the old people were related to the factory workers. Straw mats were laid down between the sheds and workshop, and tables of all shapes and sizes were set up. The middle-aged local women who’d been mobilized for the ceremony rushed about, carrying foil-lined plates of boiled pork slices and layered rice cakes with red beans, the slapping of their plastic sandals especially loud. The elderly folks became tipsy off just a few shots of liquor. A few rose to their feet and started swaying back and forth, though there was no music. Whenever they lifted their legs, their white socks flashed, stained with reddish dirt. The faces of the elderly who were seated were also ruddy with drink. An old man poured liquor for another old man, who was actually his nephew, and this nephew, observing all formalities, politely received the drink with two hands and then turned away to swallow it. Dogs circled the tables, eyeing the people. The elderly showed their few remaining yellow teeth or danced with their eyes closed, as if listening to distant strains of music, occasionally flying into a rage at the dogs who tried to sneak some food. They’d stamp their feet or hurl a rubber shoe at them. The dogs arched their backs like bows, their tails raised and rigid like poker sticks. If a woman serving food tossed them a slice of pork, they’d all rush to pounce at the dirt-covered scrap of meat. They shoved their snouts into the dirt, planting their paws into the ground so that they wouldn’t get pushed back. A cloud of red dust rose. But it was the black dog who managed to get the scrap of meat each time. It had long legs and a pointy snout. An old man pointed at the black dog. “Now that’s a clever dog. He came from our dog and that one over there.”    The old man next to him tossed back his shot and shook his head. “How can your dog be the daddy? Your dog isn’t even the right breed.”     “Look at those eyes,” the first man said, not wanting to lose. “They’re definitely from our dog. I saw it with my own eyes, saw your dog jump over my fence to get to my dog.”     “You can’t even tell the difference between a piss pot and somebody’s head without your glasses.”    “Who cares who the daddy is?” a third man said, interrupting. “They’re just dogs for crying out loud. You just worry about yourselves.”    An old man slapped his knee. A man seated near him stuck his foot out and poked him in the side. Then another old man sitting amongst them raised his cloudy eyes and glanced about, and began to snicker. Low laughter escaped from between his crooked teeth.    The boiled pork smelled bad. Men who could stomach it topped it with garlic, wrapped the whole thing in lettuce, and then crammed it into their mouths. Even before they swallowed, they opened their mouths that were still full of food and knocked back some soju. With a low Formica table between them, the people from the main office and the factory workers were standoffish with one another, like groups holding a labor-management negotiation. Assistant manager Lee from the main office got to his feet, rattling an empty soju bottle into which he’d stuck the end of a metal spoon. He stabbed the end of his necktie into his shirt front pocket. A flush had spread down to his neck from the drinks the factory workers had poured him. A factory worker who’d exchanged a few words with him shouted, “Hey there, looking sharp!” Laughter burst from the people sitting down. Caught off guard by the sudden noise, a dingy dog that had been lingering by the tables started barking at no one in particular.     Of the seventy plus people in the group photo, Mr. Lee, the assistant manager, stood out. He wore a navy-blue double-breasted suit, with gray pinstripes and gold buttons embossed with an anchor. If he had a pipe in his mouth, he would have looked like a sailor. Comments about Mr. Lee’s suit erupted all over the yard. Someone gave a long whistle. He waited for the laughter to subside and then rattled the soju bottle again. The factory manager and director had been whispering with each other for some time, their heads close together. Urged by Mr. Lee, Miss Kim from the trade department stood up. She was nicknamed Kitty because of her big eyes and unusually small mouth. “Sing! Sing!” the men hollered, loosened by drink. Flushing a deep red, Miss Kim introduced herself briefly and sat down. The men cheered.     She kept tasting dirt in her food. A yellow dog was watching her, crouched down on the ground across from her. The dog had baggy skin, as if she’d recently given birth to a litter, and the corners of her eyes were crusted with sleep. The woman tossed her a piece of meat, but the black dog appeared out of nowhere and intercepted it. Instead of lunging for the food, Goldie cowered and shrank back. Her ten sagging teats swung in different directions and came to a stop. Holding out another piece of meat, she called Goldie over, but only after quite some time did she come, swinging her teats. Instead of snatching up the food right away, she licked the woman’s hand for a long time before she took it. Her teeth seemed weak, too. Bits of meat fell out from between her teeth. When she finished, Goldie went and sat behind a young man, her teats swinging from side to side. He was wearing a Yankees cap pulled low over his face, drinking quietly. It was A. Several older men sitting across the table from him scolded A for not removing his cap before his elders. A woman who’d been bringing over some meat and soju glanced at the men. “Everyone’s got their reasons, all right?” One of the men glared at her with bloodshot eyes. Since A’s expression was hidden by his hat, she couldn’t see his reaction.    The water tap was behind the sheds. Goldie followed the woman, her flesh swinging. As she moved forward, the baggy flesh on both sides struck each other, causing ripples to break out on her skin. She looked uncomfortable, as if she were wearing a coat several sizes too big for her. If the woman were to pull down a zipper somewhere on that hide, a small puppy just might spring out. It seemed the tap was supplying water to the sheds. A long rubber hose, filled with sand, was connected to the tap. Inside the hose was a tiny maple leaf. She twisted open the tap and waited at the end of the hose for the water to come out. The water was so cold her hands went nearly numb. Piles of junk lay behind the sheds. Bricks and Styrofoam pieces mixed with silt. There were also pots, rubber tubs, and a deflated child inner tube. She turned around, but Goldie was gone. She clicked her tongue, but she didn’t appear.    It was dark inside the shed, even in the middle of the day. A pile of North American walnut logs was stacked on one side. When they first started at the company the previous year, Y and the woman had spent all winter at the Incheon Port. Forklifts roamed constantly between the huge containers. It was so cold that her skin bloomed red under her pants. Lumber arrived from North America once a week. Logs as long as twenty meters and as wide as an entire arm span were heaped like a mountain on the loading dock. From the top of the logs, she could see the Incheon pier. Ships carrying containers were anchored. The pier was chaotic with constantly moving cranes, trailers, and longshoremen. She and Y’s job was to check the number and type of logs against what was written in the invoice. Y hopped from log to log. The woman followed. For a moment, when her body was airborne, the pier seemed to loom closer. The soles of her shoes wore down quickly. That winter, she went through three pairs of shoes. Though she wore gloves and boots, her hands went numb and she couldn’t feel her feet either. If she couldn’t bear the cold any longer during log inspection, they’d leave the docks. Instead of walking all the way to the overpass to get to the food stall across the street, they’d jaywalk. Y held her hand. His hand was lukewarm. When she drank a hot cup of oden soup, her skin began to itch as it thawed. She wanted to see Y from that time, but Y wasn’t in any of the pictures.    The shed smelled of animal excrement and tree sap. Under the dark ceiling, sockets without lightbulbs dangled from cords both long and short. You could see the village across the street through the brick-sized ventilation windows. When night fell, the cows locked up inside the sheds would have watched the blinking lights of passing cars through the windows. There were many animal sheds at the base of the mountains. She could easily tell they were no longer in use. A tongue licked the back of her hand. It was Goldie. Further inside the shed on the pile of walnut logs sat A. How long had he been inside? He was smoking. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I wasn’t following you. You see those old farts out there? I can’t even have a smoke around them. They’d all get up in my face if I did.”    He flicked the cigarette butt from between his fingers. Drawing an arc in the air, it flew out the window. “There was an outbreak here. White spots showed up on the cows’ brains, like the holes of a sponge. All the dairy cows died. We dug pits to bury them and used excavators to transport the bodies. For two weeks, the excavators went around here. The spots where they’re buried are spongy. We filled the pits and tamped the dirt down, but as the cows rot, the pits keep sinking.” A got up from the logs. He was much taller than she’d thought. Goldie went to him, her flesh swinging. A heaved a deep sigh. She caught a whiff of liquor on his breath. “I’ll be on a boat by next February. A tuna reefer. Once you set out to sea, it might be two years before you come ashore.” He walked toward the shed entrance with Goldie. Before he stepped out, he turned and looked at the woman. He heaved another sigh, as though drunk. And then without any explanation, he said he was the type to see a thing through if he put his mind to it.    The elderly men caused a commotion trying to find their shoes. There were over twenty pairs of white rubber shoes in the yard, turned over and lying askew. Even when the men flopped down on their behinds, drunk, they snickered like children frolicking in the water. Since every one of them was dressed in a white hanbok, it was difficult to tell them apart. They looked different, and then all at once like the same person. “Aigo, Father!” Daughters-in-law, who were elderly themselves, came running, wiping their wet hands on their baggy trousers. Red dust rose from where they’d dragged their sandals. The factory manager accepted every drink that his staff poured him. Drunk, he kept urging more liquor on the director who sat across from him. Liquor sloshed out from the shot glass he held with his four fingers. The finger that had its tip severed was blunt, with new skin having grown on top of it. The director stubbornly turned down every drink. He blamed it on the meeting he had to attend the next day. Though he hadn’t had a single drink, he looked tired, as though he’d just gotten off a long-haul flight. A fine layer of reddish dust covered his hair that was slicked back with pomade. Every time, the manager slurred, “Ah jeez, not even a single drink?”    The director’s car was the first to leave the factory. Those returning to Seoul by bus scrambled to the entrance where the tour bus was parked. The yard offered a clear view of the people climbing aboard. Drunk men staggered to the side of the road and urinated for a long time. Their suit trousers were wrinkled and the shirt collars grubby. Darkness was moving in from the direction of the bus. The stray dogs from the village roamed the yard and thrust their noses into the ground, sniffing for meat. The rest of the city people split off into different cars. The woman and Y were supposed to catch a ride with Mr. Lee, the assistant manager, but Y was still snapping photos of the factory. Loosened up with drink, the factory manager had taken his hands out of his pockets and now went so far as to wave at the camera. In less than a year, he would lose two more fingers out of the remaining four on his left hand. The circular saw was cutting through cherry wood when it hit grain running in a different direction and jerked up. In the blink of an eye, two of his fingers flew off, spraying like sawdust. The accident threw the main office into chaos. As soon as he heard about the accident, the CEO called the factory manager, a man twenty years his senior, a “fucking idiot.” He then made countless calls to check if the manager had broken any laws by neglecting to use a safety device. He also asked Mr. Lee to secretly investigate whether he’d been drinking on the job.     The woman called out to Y, who was taking his time. As she was getting in Mr. Lee’s car, she looked toward the sheds and workshop, but A was nowhere in sight. The village women were clearing away the mats from one side of the yard. The stray dogs swarmed toward morsels of food that had dropped on the ground. The factory workers stationed on one side of the yard would probably keep drinking well into the night. The tall young man in the Yankees cap wasn’t by the entrance either. The bus pulled farther away from the factory. The woman continued to scan the surrounding area for A, like a farmer looking for a cow that had escaped from his paddock. Wondering if he was hiding, she scrutinized the trees and then laughed at herself. Being so tall, A wouldn’t be able to hide behind such small trees. She’d wanted to wish him good luck at sea. She’d even clicked her tongue for Goldie, but there was no sign of the dog either.    It quickly grew dark. Animal sheds flickered in the darkness. There wasn’t a single streetlight along the road. They had to go slowly, since the headlights lit only a short distance ahead. Mr. Lee kept sticking out his tongue to lick his dry lips, as if he were thirsty. The road had many sharp curves, and Mr. Lee hit the brakes at every bend. Y seemed tired. Sitting in the backseat, he slept with his head bowed. Though they were unable to catch up to the tour bus that had left much earlier, they should have been able to see at least the lights of the other cars. At first, they thought nothing of it, assuming they couldn’t see the cars ahead because of the bends in the road. But after driving for twenty minutes, they realized they must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. The road was completely empty. They were the only ones on the road. It was pitch black everywhere, with no houses in sight. They had no choice but to keep going until they came to a sign. Mr. Lee started driving a little faster. Just as they were going around a bend, a white object darted out from the opposite side of the road. Mr. Lee slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The object hit the bumper and flew into the dark rush field. The car stopped after it had hurtled forward for another five meters. Mr. Lee peered at the road behind them through his rearview mirror. He could hardly see anything in the glow of the taillight. Y, awakened by the impact, glanced about with puffy eyes.     Mr. Lee made a face. “Shit.” He rolled down his window and spat outside.     He left the engine running and climbed out of the car. Through the rearview mirror, she saw him move farther away from the car. He was soon swallowed up by darkness.     Y said it was most likely nothing and yawned. “Probably a badger or a squirrel.”     She’d caught only a flash, but it had seemed much bigger than that. The object in the headlights had been white.     About ten minutes later, Mr. Lee came back to the car. Instead of getting in the driver’s seat again, he stood beside the car and smoked. When he climbed inside, he reeked of liquor and cigarettes. “It was a dog,” he said.     The village had an unusual number of stray dogs, but the woman’s gut feeling was that it hadn’t been a dog. Back at the factory, the elderly people had been wearing white. They flashed across her mind, and then vanished. Mr. Lee scrubbed his face with both hands. “No, actually, it’s too dark to see anything.”    The bottom of the hill about three meters below was as black as a well. It was impossible to search every spot with a flashlight.     “Mr. Lee, are you sure it went in that direction?” Y called out from the dark. “I don’t think it was over there.”    The dark was disorienting. They couldn’t tell where they’d hit the object. After crashing into the bumper, it had hurtled off the road. It wouldn’t be easy to find where it had landed. Mr. Lee raised the flashlight above his head and raked the light over the field. The light punched holes in the darkness that was like a vast carpet. Dense clumps of rush grass. Dry bushes. Animal sheds no longer in use. The flashlight moved over the field again. Right then in the light, the woman saw the grass shake. “Over there! It’s alive!”    She started moving before she finished speaking. The slope wasn’t steep, but the soil was so dry she slipped and tumbled down. “Don’t move the light!” she shouted without looking back. “Yes, there! Keep shining it there!”     Because it was the dry season, the rushes were dry. They wrapped around her legs. She heard Y come up behind her. The ground was firm underfoot, but it would give way suddenly into spongy spots. She recalled what A had said. That there were many holes throughout the village where the dead cows had been buried. As the bodies decomposed, the holes that had been covered with dirt turned soft. Maybe it had been a joke to scare a city girl. She walked toward the spot the flashlight revealed, a flattened area. The broken rushes shook. It was a dog. Thinking it was Goldie, she brought her face close, but it wasn’t her. It was panting. The tongue that lolled out of its open mouth looked unnaturally long.     “So it actually was a dog?” Y said, catching his breath. He then yelled in Mr. Lee’s direction. “It was a dog! A dog!”    It was still warm. When she touched it, its breathing grew quieter. She buried her fingers in its ruff and stroked its fur. It must have been hit in the stomach. Every time her hand went near the stomach, the dog silently bared its teeth. The rushes were sticky. She felt something mushy next to her. The entrails that had spilled from its stomach were splayed on the trampled rush.    “Let’s go.” Y said, turning around.     That second, the dog’s eyes that had rolled back into its head flashed toward Y. The dog shot up and clamped down on the woman’s wrist with every last bit of strength. Its fangs pierced the woman’s flesh. Her arm turned numb. When she raised her arm, the dog’s head came up as well. Her arm felt so heavy she felt as if it were going to snap off. Once the dog had latched onto her wrist, it refused to let go. She saw its eyes then. Rolled back to show mostly whites, its eyes were welled up with tears. Its saliva seeped into her veins.    She remembered those eyes about ten years later, when she herself bit down on someone’s arm. The man clobbered her repeatedly in the face with her purse. The buckle on the purse whacked her in the eye. She tried to get a good look at his face, but she couldn’t, because one of her eyes had swollen shut. Even as she was dragged along the side street, she bit down harder and refused to let go.    The dog’s fangs seemed to have pierced through her muscle to the bone. She couldn’t help thinking that if she continued to stay this way, her hand may have to be amputated. The factory manager’s blunt fingers crossed her mind. She shook her arm frantically, but the fangs sank deeper into her flesh. Y, who had been on his way back, heard her scream and came running. Though it was dark, she saw Y leap through the rushes. The dog’s saliva seeped into her bloodstream, and she had the thought that she’d perhaps become half dog. Like a dog, she stared into the darkness. It seemed she could hear, even see, the rustling of a small insect inside the rushes. Y kicked the dog. Her arm was also kicked in the process. The dog would not unlatch from her. Y felt around the rushes. There was a large rock inside his hand.    The woman was dragged deeper into the side street by a man whose face she couldn’t see. She lost a heel along the way. Her socks ripped and her skin scraped along the cracked sidewalk and started to bleed. The narrow street that led to her house was always deserted. Even though low-rises with basements lined the street and every detached home was filled with people, she was always the only one in the street. The security light had gone out a long time ago, but no one had replaced the bulb.     When she’d sensed someone behind her, it was already too late. The man had been hiding behind the stairs of a low-rise and had come up silently behind her. A strong hand clamped over her nose and mouth. His other hand grabbed at her purse that was slung over her shoulder. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to twist away, but his hand only tightened over her nose and mouth. His palm reeked and was damp with sweat. She had no choice but to bite his hand so that she could breathe. Ahh! He clutched his hand and jumped back. Right then, she could have fled in the opposite direction. But she dashed toward him and bit his arm. Her teeth didn’t sink easily into his muscular arm. She bit down with all her strength. Her teeth pierced his flesh. His muscles seemed to be crumbling between her teeth. He jumped up and down in pain. His blood flowed between her teeth and down her throat. It tasted fishy. The man bashed her face with her purse. The buckle on the purse hit her in the eye. Still she didn’t let go of his arm. His fist pummeled her face. Her nose collapsed and something hot gushed down her face. The crunch of several top teeth breaking off reverberated in her head. Strangely enough, she remembered the eyes of the dog that had bitten her wrist and would not let go. She felt no pain. He dragged her along the street while smashing her head against the stone wall of a low-rise. Once, twice, everything turned white. She wanted to open her mouth, but she couldn’t. She believed her dog nature had finally shown itself for the first time.     “Once a dog bites, it rarely lets go,” said H, whom she had run into ten years later. He rolled up his pant leg. She saw the pink keloid scar that was shinier than the rest of his skin. It was a dog bite wound.    The man whose face she hadn’t been able to see threw the woman down at the end of the street and hurled the purse at her face. “You fucking bitch!” As if still angry, he stomped on her stomach and thighs with his boots. He then spat on her. H scratched at the keloid scar. “If I got this hurt, can you imagine what happened to the dog?”    “Why didn’t you just let him take your purse?”    Everyone who came to the hospital said the same thing. They shook their heads, as they gazed down at the woman lying in bed with a mashed eye, fractured nose, three broken teeth, and bruises all over her body. Some asked if there had been valuables in her purse. However, she’d had only a single ten-thousand-won bill inside her purse that day. No one could understand. Each time a visitor offered a comment, her mother, who had been caring for her, added, “Stupid, stupid girl,” and let out a big sigh. The woman looked down at her feet which were sticking out from under the sheet. Her skinned heels were oozing blood and a toenail had fallen off.    Y frowned as soon as he came to the hospital. Y was wearing snug leather pants that looked uncomfortable and boots that came up to right below his knees. He glanced at her face a few times and sat on the end of her bed. “You look like a different person.”     She gave him a small smile. “Don’t worry. The swelling and bruising will go away. The doctor straightened my nose and as for my broken teeth, I can get implants.”     “See?” Y said, slowly shaking his head from side to side. “You still don’t understand.”    Until then, the woman had no idea that Y had joined a motorcycle club. She came home a day earlier than her discharge date. That night, Y didn’t come home. Y, who returned late the next morning, didn’t wash up or eat, and went straight to bed. As though he had roamed about all night, she smelled on him the winter wind she’d smelled at the Incheon Port. “You’ve changed too much. You’re not the same shy girl who couldn’t even look at a boy.”     Her bruises disappeared and she got dental implants, but Y’s complaints continued. When she asked him why he was always out, he said it was because he was bored. Soon, Y no longer came home in the morning.    The office of High Speed, the motorcycle club, was located at an auto body shop right outside Seoul. A sign that said, “We remove dents!” stood in front of the shop, the ground stained with grease and motor oil. The garage owner was around Y’s age. He said that in the daytime he restored vehicles that had been in collisions with the help of his two employees and then on holidays or late at night, he took out his motorcycle. Y wasn’t there. Even the club members couldn’t get a hold of him. Once members were notified of the date, time, and place by email, those who were able to make it gathered and rode their motorcycles together. The owner added that they liked to go on the newly built road in front of Munhak Stadium these days. In one corner of the body shop was a bulletin board for High Speed members. “I need to talk to you, so please come home.” She put up her note where it would be most noticeable.     Y didn’t come home. The woman’s uterus, which had been as small as an apple, became the size of a melon. Blue veins spiderwebbed over her breasts. When she rose to her feet or sat down, her groin strained. As he was doing the ultrasound exam, the obstetrician let slip, “What a handsome fella!” It was a boy. The baby inside her belly grew hair, as well as fingernails and toenails. They said that around this time, fingerprints formed on the fingers. As soon as a stethoscope was placed on her belly, a fetal heartbeat echoed in the examination room.    The body shop owner recognized her. He said he’d seen Y once on the new road near the airport about two weeks before. On the bulletin board was a message from Y. “Please let me go. Stop hanging onto me for Christ’s sake. I’m so sick of it.” It was his last message to her. While staring at the note, she thought about what Y had said about being bored. According to the body shop owner, Y had gotten a new bike recently. She headed for the road the owner had jotted down for her. The new road in front of Munhak Stadium was connected to the Yeongdong Expressway. The taxi driver stopped several times and asked where exactly in front of the stadium she’d meant. She also went looking for Y around the Jayu Motorway, but there weren’t any spots for the taxi to stop. Motorcycles sped along the night road. There were many that crossed the median line. The cab chased after them, but they were too fast. It wasn’t easy to find Y’s motorcycles from the others. Many members of the club stored their bikes at the body shop. The owner had pointed at one in the corner. “That there is Y’s new girlfriend.”     Y’s girlfriend was a 1,450cc model, made of light titanium. If Y had gone around with a woman in the backseat, perhaps one with long hair, she would have been able to catch Y. She stuck a new message on the bulletin. “I’m so bored. Come back.” More than a week passed, but Y didn’t call.    The clinic that had been recommended to her on the phone was small and shabby. There didn’t seem to be any women of childbearing age in the town where it was located. The clinic’s only patients were pregnant women who’d traveled from far away and a few bargirls. When she’d called, the nurse hadn’t bothered to ask her the basic questions, like how far along she was. But she added the woman would have to pay for the disposal of the specimen in addition to the surgery cost. She didn’t tell her mother. All her mother would say was that she was a stupid girl. The operating room had missing tiles and holes in the floor, like an old bathhouse. Perhaps her feet had swollen, but she felt better once she’d removed her shoes and climbed onto the operating table. There were metal containers containing bandages by the head of the bed. She placed her feet in the stirrups and lay down on the table. She saw black mold growing in a corner of the cement ceiling. Everything felt so surreal, as if it were someone else’s life. The stirrups felt cold. As her belly tightened, something squirmed inside. She decided to think it was a melon that was inside her belly. How could she have carried such a big thing around? The crash of stainless steel came from the consultation room, as if the staff were handling metal tools. She whispered to herself: “It’s okay. You tried your best.”    The factory was quite far from Seoul. The reason she was able to get the job was because all the local young girls had left for the city. The boss added that there was no such thing as a maternity leave because of the worsening recession. Power saws operated non-stop from nine in the morning to nine at night. At first she couldn’t hear the person on the other end of the line because of the saws, but she got used to the noise soon enough. Naturally, her voice grew louder, too. When she would lie in bed at night, she’d hear the saw. Sometimes when she called, her elderly mother would complain and say she was about to go deaf. The factory was always full of itinerant workers. The boss didn’t care about the backgrounds of the workers, but she didn’t like dealing with them. Afraid she’d come across the man she’d bitten, she developed the habit of examining the arms of the new laborers. Even if no one else knew, the one bitten and the one who’d done the biting would no doubt recognize each other.    A trailer loaded with North American oak arrived. The laborers who’d been scattered around the sawmill swarmed toward the trailer. A red pennant flag was attached to the end of the longest log on the flatbed. The center of the oak was light pink or dark brown. Compared to cherry wood, oak was easier to cut and nail down. The driver’s door opened and a giant sack of a man hopped down. His hair was disheveled, as if he’d had the windows rolled down.     “Ah jeez, you were bitten by a dog?”     After observing the scar on her wrist, he suddenly pulled up the hem of his pants and thrust his knee at her.    “Look, a dog bit me, too. When they get a hold of something, they don’t let go,” he said with a wince. “If my scar is this big, imagine what happened to the dog! I made sure it would never chew meat again.”     The logs on the flatbed matched up with the invoice. While she checked the flatbed, the man joked around, shaking his leg.    “Excuse, but do I know you? I feel like we’ve met before.”     She started heading back to the office, but he blocked her way.     “I’m sure I’ve seen you before . . . Are you sure you don’t remember me?”     His face was unfamiliar. He walked back to his trailer, hitting his gloves against his leg. The flatbed tilted up and logs spilled down onto the ground. The noise of the saws coming from the workshop was deafening. The driver came running, his belly bouncing. Very briefly, she recalled Hanil Trading’s sign hanging ceremony. But the man recognized her first.     “Hanil Trading, right?”     She recalled the Yankees baseball cap. “A?”     The man looked disappointed. “You asked me how I’d gotten bitten by a dog. You were so cold you were shivering, so I even lent you my pullover.”     It was H. But his face was unfamiliar.     “It was a green waterproof pullover . . .”    In the group photo, she’s wearing a green pullover. She has red eyes, for she’d been looking directly at the camera. So fixated on her red eyes, she must have forgotten about the borrowed pullover. She’d remembered A as being the only young factory worker there that day. He went on a reefer ship that February, just as he’d told her. About a year later, the company received a letter saying all traces of A had disappeared from an island in the South Pacific archipelago when his boat had been anchored at port.    When the wooden sign was unwrapped from the newspaper, it smelled of fresh varnish. Some parts of the sign were sticky since the varnish hadn’t completely dried. People around the yard started to gather. The director raised the sign with a sly expression. Exactly ten years later, he had a heart attack. He always had the air of a traveler who had just stepped off the plane. The CEO was eventually conned by the assistant manager who’d looked like a sailor. Assistant Manager Lee had conspired with a friend at the American branch to steal some imported lumber. A year after the sign hanging ceremony, Hanil Trading began to fall into decline. The seventy plus employees dispersed and the name of the company disappeared from the trade newsletter. The factory’s sign that had been carved out of walnut wood was probably burned up a long time ago, used as firewood for some house.     While learning photography, she learned that the red-eye effect tends to happen when the pupils are dilated. Why were my pupils dilated? Was it really me that Y had been watching through the viewfinder? Other female employees from the company had been standing next to her. Miss Kim, who resembled a cat, was very popular with the men. The woman’s gaze had been directed at some point beyond the frame. Was I really looking at Y? She couldn’t even remember borrowing H’s pullover twenty years ago.     Y may not be the one she’s watching. Y takes a few steps back with the camera in his hands. He puts the camera up to his eye, hesitates, and backs up some more. Now he’s standing about five meters away from the group. The pasture spreads out behind him. As seventy plus people scuffle about, red dust rises to their knees. Above the pasture is the deep autumn sky. The workshop was built on what was once the paddock. The workshop door opens and a cow makes its way out of the paddock. Soon other cows come out of the paddock. The dairy cows amble toward the sheds. The woman blinks. The cows vanish and only their mooing lingers in the air. There is no pasture or workshop. What she is looking at is herself in twenty years. Her pupils are dilated. That’s when Y presses the shutter.    The assistant manager, who’s dressed in a suit with gold buttons, backs up the car and parks in front of the factory entrance. The woman is looking for A to say goodbye. But she can’t find A or Goldie who had followed him around. Y looks as young as he had at the Incheon pier when he leapt between the logs that had arrived from North America. Several cars carrying the main office staff leave the factory and a cloud of red dust rises around the tires. She and Y cannot fathom how much they will change in twenty years. Her wrist is still smooth, unmarked with the dog’s bite. Nothing has happened yet. At this point, her belief that biting and being bitten is part of life has not yet taken root.    In the pictures that Y has taken, a young H is wearing a green pullover—the same green pullover she’d borrowed and is wearing in the group photo. H’s face is still a stranger’s face. He leans forward, listening to what the factory manager is saying. When Y raises his camera, the factory manager waves his seven fingers. A part of the shed wall is showing. The white brim of a hat pokes out from the shed. Goldie’s tail seems to be showing below. A is hiding, watching the woman leave. She cannot remember H’s face for the life of her. It’s as if a man from the distant future has leapt into the past. She can’t remember the keloid scar H said he’d shown her. She calls out to Y, who is taking his sweet time. Her round forehead is smooth. She was at her most beautiful then.  Translated by Janet Hong 

• Early Beans

  The foul stench was coming from the dumpsters. Uncollected garbage piled up like pyramids around the apartment complex. At night, rats came out to gnaw at the garbage. Liquid leaked from the bags, flowed down the asphalt, and hardened in chunks. The man leapt over the stains like an athlete competing in the triple jump event. Dressed in pointy dress shoes, snug jeans, and a white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, he looked like an amateur cowboy who had just stepped out of a Western movie. He shaded his face with one hand and with the other, clutched a cell phone instead of a pistol. He didn’t run into a single person as he walked to the parking lot. Even the playground was deserted. It was because of the stench and the unbearable heat. He stopped in front of a car parked neatly in its spot. The car was like a pan on high heat. He flung open the door, started the engine, and put the air-conditioning on full blast. He sought some shade as he waited for the car to cool down. On one side of the lot was a heap of oversized junk—everything from an old refrigerator, stereo, and mattress to even an electric rice cooker. A full-length mirror also stood between the scraps. As though the mirror had been left out in the rain, the varnish was peeling off its frame like scabs. He went right up to the mirror and gazed at his reflection. He puffed out his cheeks, stroked his chin, and opened his mouth wide to check between his teeth. He then curled back his lips, exposed his teeth, and brayed silently like a donkey.  Fifteen minutes later, his car slipped smoothly out of the complex’s gates. The old security guard sat dozing in his booth, unable to fight off the after-lunch drowsiness. No one saw him leave. To get onto the main road, he had to pass through a 400-meter school zone. Children dismissed for the day began to pour out of the school gates. Street venders who had come in time for dismissal sat on the ground, leaning against the stone fence in front of the school. The children ran across the street and swarmed around stalls filled with helium balloons, baby chicks, and candy. They stood in the middle of the road, not bothering to move out of the way. The car inched forward, only to lurch repeatedly to a stop. Suddenly, a soccer ball sailed over the stone fence, bounced off his windshield, and rolled under the car. It was followed by a tanned boy in a tracksuit who crawled under the car to retrieve it. Another child cut across the street to go after a chick that had escaped, and a herd of children ran toward the ice cream store. He hit his horn again and again. The kids didn’t budge at all. He rolled down the window, stuck his head out, and yelled. The children slowly squirmed out of the way, but as soon as his car moved forward into the small opening, other kids blocked the way, playing a game of slap-match cards in the middle of the road. They were so absorbed in showing their cards and collecting one another’s that they didn’t hear him shout. Each child was a bolt of lightning. With lightning, there are no warnings. There are only two ways to avoid being struck: lie flat on the ground or put up a lightning rod. He drove with his foot on the brake pedal, wary of lightning bolts that could strike any time from alleyways with openings like the entrance of a maze. By the time he finally came onto the main road, twenty minutes had passed. He glanced in the rearview mirror. His curly hair, freshly washed and straightened with a hair dryer for half an hour, was still stuck nicely to his head the way he’d combed it, and every time he shifted gears, he caught a musky whiff of cologne from his armpits. A large shopping center was located three blocks away. Should he get his date perfume or earrings? The rest of the afternoon would fly by as he sauntered around the mall, peering into glittering display cases that looked like jewelry boxes. It would then take half an hour to get to Athens, the cafe where they were supposed to meet. He still had enough time to think up a funny joke while he decided on her gift. Every time they met, she asked for a joke. In the six months they’d been seeing each other, his stock of jokes had run dry. In the “Sparrow Series,” even the last sparrow had met its end from a hunter’s bullet and in the “Big Mouth Frog Series,” the curtain had lowered when the big mouth frog arrived at the public bathhouse that was closed for the holidays. But not once had she laughed. She didn’t even crack a smile, just like the comedian judge on the TV show Make Me Laugh. He stepped on the accelerator. It was her birthday that day, and he needed to come up with an unforgettable joke. Just as he finally gained some speed, lightning struck again. He slammed on his brakes and watched a motorcycle weave in and out between cars and disappear up ahead. He caught the white letters stamped on the rear trunk that was the size of a ramen box. Man on a Bullet. He couldn’t let down his guard for even a second. With the rise of these new “quick delivery” businesses, the road was filled with numerous lightning bolts. These motorcycles that could pop out any second were able to race from downtown Seoul to Incheon in a mere fifty minutes. For this reason, he could no longer speed.  The sun beat down. Heat rose from the asphalt. He needed to turn right in order to get to the shopping center. But as he turned on his blinker and sped up to change lanes, something squeezed in ahead. He wrenched the steering wheel, but he felt a thud. A second later, the motorcycle rider landed on the windshield, arms outstretched, instantly thrown off. The car veered onto the sidewalk and crashed into the stone wall of a barbecue restaurant. Struck by lightning at last. The steering wheel slammed into his chest and his head snapped back. The windshield was marked with blood, saliva stains, and grease imprints from the rider’s gloves. The door didn’t open easily because the hood had crumpled when the car crashed into the wall. After he kicked open his door, the first thing he saw was the crushed motorcycle that had been tossed all the way to the median. Gasoline gushed from the cracked fuel tank. He noticed the writing on the trunk: Lightning Delivery. 675-1234. The restaurant customers came running outside. They gawked at the car and the motorcycle in turns while still chewing on pieces of meat. Some had rushed out in such a hurry that they didn’t even have their shoes on. He was lucky there hadn’t been anyone on the sidewalk. The cars behind had to screech to a stop to avoid running over the rider who had been thrown into the middle of the road. Drivers stepped out of their cars and stared. The rider was lying on his back. His red helmet was also emblazoned with the words Lightning Delivery and the phone number. A crowd of people had already gathered. Someone flipped up the plastic face shield of the rider’s helmet to reveal a youthful face. He looked like a senior high school student at most. He had a hint of fuzz on his chin and cheeks. As soon as the sunlight hit his face, his closed eyelids flinched. “Do you think you can move?” Lightning nodded slowly. Blood was flowing from a deep gash on his elbow. He must have scraped it along the asphalt as he fell. He helped Lightning sit up, taking care not to move his neck. A bystander ran over and draped Lightning’s other arm around his shoulders. Lightning stood up with their help, but as soon as he tried to take a step, he cried out and sank back down. His thighs felt rigid; they were swelling rapidly under his jeans. He looked around for his motorcycle. It had been dragged from the road and was now leaning against a tree guard on the sidewalk. It was crushed so badly that its front wheel was suspended in the air. “My bike!” Lightning’s face turned pale. An ambulance arrived. The restaurant must have made the call.              Lightning had broken his left shinbone and fractured his right ankle. His face and arms were scratched up. Because of his swollen leg, the nurses couldn’t remove his jeans and had to cut through them with scissors. His skin had swelled like an inflatable tube, practically splitting open the fabric the instant it was cut. Lightning got an X-ray and waited to go into surgery. They were the only ones left in the hallway. “Do you have a smoke?” They were sitting in a non-smoking area, but Lightning didn’t care. He smoked the cigarette right down to the filter. “What would have happened if I wasn’t wearing a helmet?” He mumbled. Then he started to snicker. “Me, break my leg? Imagine that. I never thought this would happen to me. I thought this kind of thing only happened to special people. But I’ve got to say, it’s been a real interesting experience. Have you ever broken your leg?” Instead of waiting for him to respond, Lightning kept mumbling. “It’s strange. I can’t feel anything below my legs. My brain tells my toes to wiggle, but they don’t listen. It’s really frustrating. So how do you think my mother felt when she told me to study, but I didn’t even budge?” He started to sniffle. “I miss her. I think it’d be good for people to go through this. They should break their legs at least once.” He listened with half an ear and kept glancing at the clock in the hallway. “Don’t worry.” Lightning continued to talk while gazing blankly at a spot on the wall. “It’s not your fault. I might be stupid, but at least I have a conscience.” Lightning chuckled again. “Let’s face it. Today’s just not our day.”              His car was still blocking the way, sitting in the middle of the sidewalk beside Pyongyang BBQ House. Pedestrians glanced at the crushed car and stone wall as they walked around the car, stepping down onto the road and back up onto the sidewalk. The restaurant owner hadn’t allowed the car to be towed away until he returned. The bumper and headlights were cracked and the hood was badly dented. He tried to shut the car door that had been left open, but it would no longer shut. The motorcycle was still propped up against the tree guard. Just as Lightning had said, there was a thick manila envelope in the trunk. “Can I ask you for a favor? There should be a package in the back. Do you think you could deliver it for me? Our company’s motto is ‘Speed and reliability you can trust.’ If that package isn’t delivered by today—” Lightning had drawn his thumb across his neck, as though cutting off his head. Then as he was wheeled into the operating room, Lightning sat up and motioned him over. “On the package release form, there’s a space below the recipient’s name. He needs to sign there. Don’t forget!” A truck towed away the car and the motorcycle. There was a deep indent in the stone wall where the car had rammed into it. The restaurant valet who had been standing outside took him into the restaurant. Behind the counter, a woman in her mid-fifties was counting out some change. “It’s true what they say—lightning strikes on a clear day. I thought we were having an earthquake!” she jabbered. “Our poor frightened customers tripped and fell as they were rushing outside.” She covered her mouth with its half-faded lipstick and laughed. She made him look closely at the wall. It had small and large stones embedded into the cement. The impact, however, had cracked the cement and loosened the stones. She claimed she had roamed the riverbanks to gather these stones and everyone knew the trouble she had gone through to find the right pieces. She said she would calculate the cost of repair and call him the next day. As he was leaving, she called out, “You’re lucky money can take care of this, but what about my poor nerves?”              To get to Incheon, he first went to Sindorim Station. He hadn’t once used public transit after he’d gotten a car. Although he’d gotten to know every single one-way street and alley in Seoul in the seven years he’d been driving, he was completely lost in the underground subway station. The station was like a maze and the subway map looked as intricate as a tangled ball of yarn. He followed the arrows to the transfer gate but soon lost track of them and had to stop. Whenever this happened, in the midst of all those who were sure of where they were going, he noticed elderly people who were equally lost, or women from the country who looked as though it was their first time in Seoul. He would follow the orange arrows but would soon lose them and start to follow the green ones instead, winding up back at the platform where he had first gotten off the train. He found himself going in circles. There were things in this world that weren’t marked by arrows. Sometimes, the arrows pointed straight ahead, and then suddenly changed directions. When he saw an arrow that pointed straight up to the ceiling, he stood still. He had no choice but to ask someone. He still had about two hours left. If everything had gone according to plan, he would be strolling around the air-conditioned shopping mall by now, looking for her gift. But because of a motorcycle called Lightning that had popped out of nowhere, his plan was slowly unraveling. The Incheon-bound train was practically empty. He sat alone in a three-seater away from other people. At a single glance, he could take in the few passengers scattered around the train. Most were dozing with books open on their laps or looking through the window at the passing scenery outside. He studied the package in his lap. It seemed like a book or manuscript of some sort. The recipient’s address had been written with a permanent marker on a large envelope from Dolmen Publishing: Professor Byeon Yeongseok, 435 Dohwadong, Incheon. The words Urgent Mail were written in red and in parentheses below the name and address. He had never been to Incheon. He had blindly stepped onto an Incheon-bound train, but he had no idea where to go next. It might have been somewhat easier to find an apartment, but instead, he had to find a house with just the street address. He didn’t even know which stop he needed to get off, so he had no choice but to go all the way to Incheon Station, which was the last stop. A piece of paper was stuck on the other side of the package. It was probably the release form that Lightning had told him to get signed. There were some notes scrawled in the margins. There was even a rough sketch of a map next to seven digits that he assumed was the professor’s phone number. At a glance, the map looked like an anchor or the male gender symbol, and the writing was barely legible: Nasan Shopping Center, Dohwadong three-way street, Civil Defense Educational Center, Donghwa Fish and Tackle, three-forked road, right turn, Prosperity Pharmacy, magnolia tree. Finding the house by consulting the map and notes wasn’t going to be easy. The notes mentioned a three-way street near the fish and tackle shop, but the map didn’t show it. And a magnolia tree? A magnolia tree blooms in early spring and loses its blossoms so quickly that all that would be left now would be thin, bare branches. He tried to remember what a magnolia tree without its blossoms looked like, but he couldn’t. If he wanted to get to Athens on time, he couldn’t afford to wander aimlessly. He felt annoyed at himself for not having refused Lightning’s request. Outside, monotonous scenery went by and ringtones continued to sound throughout the train. They passed motels with unlit neon signs that faced the tracks. The signs were shabby and dusty. “Mommy, why does that house have so many windows?” A young woman and her little girl were sitting diagonally across from him. The little girl had been looking out the window the entire time. It seemed she was just learning to talk; she asked her mother question after question. The motels obviously looked different even to the eyes of the child. “Oh, that? It’s called a motel,” the mother whispered. “What? I can’t hear you,” the girl persisted, rubbing her cheek against her mother’s. The mother raised her head and cast a furtive glance at the other passengers. Perhaps she, like him, was picturing that secret act. “You don’t need to know.” The child moved away from her mother, and once again, glued her face to the window. The train rattled along, beating out a regular rhythm. His head that was resting against the window also rattled in time. He tried to think up some funny jokes. His date knew all kinds of jokes. There wasn’t one she hadn’t heard before. When they first met, he’d thought she was collecting jokes the way some collect folktales. To come up with funny ones, he looked through the five most popular dailies every morning and frequented online humor chat rooms. He even flipped through women’s magazines at the bank. But before he could finish telling the joke, she’d beat him to the punch line. Make me laugh. If you make me laugh, I’ll give myself to you. Whenever she propped up her chin with her hand and watched his moving lips, a feeling of frustration would come over him. Out of habit, he felt for his phone in his back pocket every time a cell phone rang on the train.  Whenever the train went around a bend, the connecting doors slid open and he got a clear view of the other cars. Three high school girls in uniform were walking in single file through the cars, heading toward him. They each flicked the handgrips as they walked, making them swing in semicircles behind them. They chattered ceaselessly. The passengers stared after them. The girls were about five foot six and even though they were dressed in the same school uniform, each girl looked a bit different. There was nothing tidy about their sweaty, wrinkled appearance. The skirts looked as though they had been shortened, stopping well above their knees and clinging to their hips and thighs to end in pleats like fish fins. Each step exposed their thighs through the side slits. All three carried large identical shopping bags. They passed him, joking and poking one another in the side. They smelled of sweat and perfume, and wore foreign brand-name backpacks that were popular among students, with mascot figures dangling from the backpack zippers. First, a stuffed Donald Duck went by, and then a Hoppangman doll, a moon-faced Japanese cartoon superhero made of hoppang.1 He was trying to think of a funny story when he looked up and happened to make eye contact with the last girl. She had dark round eyes like black beans and smooth, milky skin. What dangled from her bag caught his attention. It was a keychain with a clear plastic cube containing three dice, each of a different color. The dice bounced against one another with her every step. He couldn’t think of anything funny. It was 4:35. At the bank where his date worked, the automatic gates near the entrance would be coming down now. She was three years older than him and it was her twenty-ninth birthday that day. Until he’d met her, he’d always been surrounded by women with large mouths. Once in kindergarten, he had drawn a picture titled “My Mom.” Whenever he gazed up at his tall mother who constantly nagged him, all he could see was her large mouth that moved ceaselessly. In the picture, his mother’s mouth took up two-thirds of her face. “My Mom” had even received an honorable mention in a nationwide children’s art competition. Before he had first seen her through the bank window, he hadn’t known anyone could have such a small mouth. Her lips had been pursed so tightly while she counted money that her face barely had a hint of a mouth, like that of a Japanese geisha. He loved her small mouth. The cloying smell of perspiration and perfume wafted by again. The girls who had gone on to the next car were coming back. Though the entire car was nearly empty, the girls chose to sit directly across from him. The three shopping bags went onto the overhead shelf. The thin one sat squeezed between the two larger girls. He didn’t know where to look. He was uncomfortable making eye contact with any of them, so he lowered his head, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground. One reason he didn’t take the subway was because he didn’t know where to look. Once he’d found himself in a bit of a dilemma because he’d kept making eye contact with a stranger who was sitting across from him. As soon as he lowered his gaze to the floor, he saw the girls’ legs. Now that they were sitting down, their short plaid skirts rode up their thighs and became even shorter. Their legs exposed below their skirts were as fresh as turnips just pulled up from the field. Their calves were round and firm. The girls hugged their backpacks and started to whisper back and forth. The keychains that dangled from their bags each resembled its owner. Like ordinary teenage girls, Donald Duck, Dice, and Hoppangman laughed for no particular reason. Donald Duck couldn’t close her knees because of her chubby thighs. He saw between her knees the pudgy inner thighs that were glued together. As for Dice, even though her knees were clamped together, her thin thighs formed a triangular gap at the top of her skirt. His gaze kept being drawn to that spot. It was quiet inside the train, and he could hear every word they were saying. Maybe he’d get lucky and pick up a funny joke. Below their dusky knees were scratches, scabs, bruises, and even insect bites. He learned that they were juniors at an arts high school. Seventeen. It was an age when scrapes and falls were still common. They laughed hysterically at things that weren’t funny. They were things that he already knew. Maybe she, too, had laughed just as easily when she was seventeen. “Seriously. I think I only got half of them right.” At Dice’s words, the other girls’ faces stiffened. They didn’t say anything for a second. Then the girl whose face was as round as Hoppangman’s nudged Dice with her shoulder. “Yeah, right.” Donald Duck ate a chocolate-covered pretzel stick, breaking off the end little by little with her front teeth. Sticking out her thick lips, she said, “That’s what you said last time and you ended up getting the highest score.” Dice let out a big sigh. “I’m serious this time. I guessed on half.” They took out their exams from their backpacks and started going over the answers. They groaned each time they discovered a wrong answer. He kept glancing at their legs the entire time. Suddenly, Dice’s knees that had been clamped shut relaxed and spread open a little. He didn’t miss the tip of the triangular gap widen. He coughed and turned toward the side, but then Donald Duck’s fleshy thighs came into view. Unless he moved to another seat or closed his eyes, he would not be able to escape their legs. The girls didn’t notice his growing discomfort. In fact, they didn’t seem the least bit concerned about him. Donald Duck twisted her body to the left and crossed her right leg over her left. Her skirt hung down the seat, exposing her thigh that was like a boiled potato. The elastic bands of her stockings were buried deep in her flesh. Pulling her butt forward, she switched her legs and crossed them again. He caught a flash of her white panties. She now spread her thighs in his direction. It seemed she had suddenly put on weight; white stretch marks crawled all the way down to her calves. “At this rate, I won’t get into a university in Seoul.” Dice stretched her arms above her head, and her knees relaxed even more. Just then sunlight shone into the gap. Deep inside the crevice was a dark mole as large as a coat button. He was a young, healthy man of twenty-six. His thoughts immediately rushed to that secret spot where the two legs intersected. His white shirt, which he’d worn without an undershirt, grew damp with sweat and clung to his back. Sweat dripped from his forehead. He wiped repeatedly at his forehead with his sleeve. Her thighs made him picture her round, firm butt cheeks and the dimples above. The girls’ reckless behavior continued. So engrossed were they in their conversation about university entrance exams and how they’d bombed their final exams that they didn’t seem to notice anything else. It was their fault for wearing such short skirts with slits on the side. If an older woman had been present, she most certainly would have scolded them, but the entire car was now empty. The girls continued to twist and fidget in their seats. They crossed their legs and even spread them apart a few times. Then it would be he who would close his legs in alarm. His curly hair, which he had straightened with a hair dryer for half an hour, grew damp with perspiration and began to curl again. He seemed to be invisible to the girls. Bupyeong Station was announced. The girls lazily got to their feet and retrieved their shopping bags from the overhead compartment. They stood with their backs to him. As they bent to put on their backpacks, their short skirts flipped up and they flashed their rear ends at him, as though they were doing the can-can. Then they went and stood by the doors beside him. The smell of sour sweat wafted over to him. The train slowly approached the platform. The girls suddenly burst into laughter. “I won, didn’t I?” Dice said. Donald Duck and Hoppangman each took out a 5,000-won bill and placed them in Dice’s palm. Dice rolled up the bills and stuck them in her front shirt pocket. “Men,” Donald Duck said, still eating her pretzel sticks. Hoppangman kicked the train doors. “They’re worse than Pavlov’s dogs. They start drooling as soon as the bell rings. Not a decent one left.” She slammed her fist into the doors. “Jesus died a long time ago.” Dice snatched away Donald Duck’s snack and popped it into her own mouth. “You don’t think Jesus was a man?” The girls spoke loudly on purpose so that he would hear. They were no longer the same girls who had been comparing test answers and worrying about university admissions. The doors slid open and they stepped off, laughing.           His face was flushed with all the fantasies that were still swirling in his head. He wiped his face with his sleeve. Dark smudges appeared on his white shirt. Just as the train was starting to move again, someone tapped the window. When he turned around, the three girls were peering at him, their faces right up against the glass. They laughed maliciously. Dice brought her hand up to his face and then slowly raised her middle finger. Her lips moved deliberately. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he read her lips. Fuck you.   There was a long line of taxis in front of Incheon Station. The drivers stood outside their vehicles, having a smoke while waiting to pick up fares. Someone ran by, bumping into his arm. He blindly got into a taxi. “Where to, mister?” the driver asked, hurriedly putting out his cigarette and climbing inside. He had no idea where to go. The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror. “The Civil Defense Educational Center. No, I mean Nasan Shopping Center.” When he couldn’t decide on the destination, the driver snapped, “Hurry up and pick a place.” The driver let him off at the wrong spot and drove away. When he had walked over two blocks, a building with the sign Nasan Shopping Center appeared. His sweat-soaked jeans were plastered to his legs. Each time he took a step, his skin chafed from rubbing against the fabric. He wanted to take a shower. His cologne had evaporated long ago and there were now yellowish half-moon stains under his arms. Lightning’s notes were all mixed up. After he passed the shopping center, he turned right and saw a Chinese restaurant instead of a fishing store. His date would have changed out of her work uniform by now and was probably catching a taxi to go to Athens. He hadn’t thought of a funny joke, let alone bought her a gift. He saw the phone number written on the package. Professor Byeon Yeongseok politely gave him the directions to his house. It was an awkward distance to go by either foot or car, so he simply started heading in the direction the professor had said. It was a sweltering day. He scratched the tips of his leather dress shoes on the cracked, uneven pavement. Far ahead, he saw the fish and tackle store. When he turned right after passing the store, a long alley appeared. Similar-looking houses lined the alley. He had to slow down to spot the magnolia tree amidst the other trees that rose past the stone fences. A school girl was plodding along about fifty meters ahead. Her backpack seemed full of books. Weighed down by her heavy bag, she kept lagging. An electrical pole appeared. Byeon had said that if he came to an electrical power pole, he was almost there. The girl stopped and unrolled the waistline of her skirt. The skirt that had been much too short now stopped below her knees. In that time, he had caught up to her. She glanced back and in that second, he noticed the keychain that dangled from her backpack. Inside a clear plastic cube were three dice of different colors. Dice’s sleepy-looking eyes that were as dark as black beans glinted. Her gaze darted around the alley to make sure there was no one nearby. She spat on the ground. She then approached slowly and faced him. They were nearly the same height. He could smell sweat, soap, and perfume on her. The large shopping bag she had been carrying was gone and her green nametag flashed from her front shirt pocket: Byeon Myeongju. Right then, everything clicked. Byeon was not a common last name. Dice whispered quickly, as though to herself. “So you managed to follow me all the way here, sick bastard.” People have more courage when they’re in a group. But now, Dice was alone. “All I did was follow the ringing of your bell.” He curled back his lips and laughed silently. “What do you want? A slap or a date?” she snapped. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not here because of you. I’m here to meet Professor Byeon Yeongseok.” He didn’t miss the way her pupils trembled. She spat again. This time, the wad of saliva hit his dress shoe. “You cheap jerk. Didn’t you enjoy yourself enough already? What more do you want?” When he took a step forward, she spread out her arms and tried to block him. “So you’re going to go tattle on me? It looks like you have no idea, but I’ve been the top of the class for eleven years straight. Why would my father who’s never even met you believe anything you have to say about me?” “Let me worry about that. The dark mole on your inner thigh right by your groin will be proof enough.” He strode forward and started examining the nameplates on the front gates. Dice ran to him and tugged at his sleeve. “What do you want?” Her voice was composed again. While she tried to strike a bargain with him, he only smiled at her. “If you keep going after you get back on the main road, you’ll see Nasan Shopping Center. Wait for me there. I’ll be going to the library soon.” Dice walked up to a gate and pressed the doorbell. “Who is it?” said a dignified voice from the speakerphone. “Dad, it’s me.” Her voice that had been shrill until even a second ago was now transformed into the tired voice of a high school student. He added quickly, “Lightning Delivery!” Dice, who figured out the situation just then, glared at him and muttered, “Jesus, what shitty luck.” The automatic gate opened to reveal the house hidden behind the high stone fence. Grass stretched all the way to the front door, and above that were placed wide stone slabs in one-step intervals. Dice, who had been leading the way, tripped on one of the slabs. The magnolia tree that had lost its blossoms was hidden behind a large chestnut tree. A middle-aged man came out to the front door and took Dice’s backpack from her. “Dad, I’m so tired I’m going to collapse.” She had suddenly become a pampered child. “That certainly was a lightning delivery,” the professor laughed as he signed the release form. Dice stood behind her father, glowering. He sauntered out of the gate. The voices of father and daughter drifted over the fence. “How did you do on your exam?” the professor asked. Dice’s peevish voice soon followed. He stood in front of the pole and smoked a cigarette. The number of cars had multiplied noticeably as it got closer to rush hour. All of a sudden, he remembered his date. He glanced at his watch and realized it was ten to six. There was no way he could get to Seoul in ten minutes. Plus, he was so hot and tired that his brain felt like a used-up tube of toothpaste. No matter how hard he tried to squeeze out a funny joke, he couldn’t think of one. He took out the cell phone that had been pressing against his butt all day in his back pocket. He turned it off. When he had lit his fifth cigarette, Dice finally appeared. The strands of hair stuck to her forehead were wet as though she had just washed her face. She was now wearing a T-shirt and a pair of short shorts with flip-flops. She dragged her feet past him and shot under her breath, “Don’t talk to me and you’d better keep far back.” He followed her, maintaining a wide gap between them. The lower part of her legs that would have been exposed below her school uniform was tanned. They were also covered with scars. Not once did she look back. She glanced at the bestseller list on the window of a book rental shop and she disappeared inside a supermarket for a long time. She eventually stopped at the steps of a worn-down building. A sign that read “Quiet Study Hall, Air-Conditioned” was stuck on the windows of the second floor, and names of students who had been admitted into prestigious universities were listed on the grimy banner that hung across the top of the building. Dice skipped up the stairs, dropped off her bag, and came back down. “I was born and raised here, so everyone knows me. On top of that, I’m a model student, so I’m pretty much the talk of the town. Next year, my name will be going up on that banner.” She ran ahead and caught a taxi. The taxi driver glanced at her and then at him through the rearview mirror. “You two are a couple? Sir, you’re a lucky man.” Every time the driver made a joke, Dice answered with a witty comment. She exclaimed out loud when they were passing a movie theater. Drawn on the big sign was the enormous Godzilla, the product of a failed nuclear experiment. People formed a long queue in front of the box office. Dice craned her neck, watching until the theater grew small. She mumbled to him, “Have you seen that movie?” The taxi driver chimed in again. “You like movies? I like watching videos on my days off. Do you know how many movies a person can watch in a day? I watched five once, but by the end the storylines got all mixed up.” Dice told the driver to stop in front of New York Bakery. The brightly lit interior could be seen through the shop window. As soon as Dice climbed out, she spat on the back of a token stand. “Asshole. He was ogling my legs through the rearview mirror the whole time.” He followed Dice down into the underground passage in front of the bakery. The passage was connected to Bupyeong Station. He was anxious about losing her in the crowd that surged out of the exit. Dice went and stood in front of a locker. Blue storage lockers covered an entire wall. She fished out an identification card from her pocket and shook it in his face. “It’s my older sister’s. It comes in very handy sometimes. She thought she lost it and got a new one.” While Dice took out her key, people continued to insert coins, open locker doors, store or remove objects, and then quickly disappear. What could be inside all those boxes? As soon as Dice turned her key in the lock, the door swung open. As she was taking out the shopping bag that was stuffed inside, it caught on the hinge and a corner ripped. It was the same shopping bag that each girl had been carrying on the train. Some clothes showed through the tear. “Wait here.” She left him standing outside the women’s bathroom and disappeared inside. She didn’t come out for a long time. Women glanced at him as they went in and out of the bathroom. The smell of urine wafted out of the entrance. As he waited for her, he pictured the large dark mole on her inner thigh. His face burned. He kept his head lowered just in case other people would guess what he was thinking. Just then, a tall woman walked out of the bathroom and stepped on his foot. She had on baby blue high heels. The heels were pointy like ice picks. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said with a polite nod and quickly walked past him. Her hair came down to her waist with a short baby-blue halter dress and matching baby-blue heels. He glimpsed baby-blue eye shadow on her lids as well. Her heels that clicked on the tiled floor sounded cheerful. Even after the echo of her heels had disappeared, he could still smell the tropical scent she’d left behind. He waited in front of the bathroom for an hour. Now that the evening rush hour was over, there were fewer people using the bathroom on their way home. The janitor came out of the bathroom, dragging a wet mop behind her. When she crouched in the corridor to remove some gum from the tiles, he said to her, “Excuse me, but did you see a high school student inside?” The janitor’s eyes drooped with drowsiness. She disappeared inside for a moment, then stuck out her head while rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “There’s no one here. I checked the stalls too, but they’re all empty.” His big toe started to throb. Only then did he recall the woman who had quickly disappeared after stepping on his toe. He vaguely recalled seeing cuts and scrapes on her calves. The shopping bag must have held clothes, makeup, and a wig. Dice must have changed in the bathroom and made herself up. He hadn’t recognized her, even when she had walked right past him. She could be hiding anywhere, watching and laughing at him. He rushed up the steps into the station square. The neon signs of pizza parlors, cosmetics, and clothing stores lit up the streets as if it were broad daylight. He ran after several tall girls, but they weren’t her. Women with similar clothes, similar hairstyles, and similar perfumes strode endlessly down the streets. He ran all the way to the movie theater they had passed earlier in the taxi. There was a long lineup in front of the ticket booth. He tried to buy a ticket, but the two remaining showtimes were both sold out. He hadn’t recognized her even when she was right in front of him. So how would he ever recognize her in the dark with her face made up, even if she were staring him in the face? The security guard had dozed off with the television on and both his feet propped up on his desk. No one saw him come in. As soon as he stepped into the apartment complex, the stench assaulted him. The garbage bags seemed to have multiplied. As he walked under the security light, he saw what he thought was a person out of the corner of his eye. But it was just the full-length mirror. Someone had hurled a rock at it and cracks radiated from the center like a spider web. His face showed up in pieces in the shattered mirror like a mosaic. His curls that had come alive from the perspiration were matted like a steel-wool pad and his shirt that had come untucked from his pants was hanging over his thighs. He looked as though he’d been struck by lightning. It was only then that he remembered the “quick delivery” rider in the hospital, his own crushed car in the shop, and the barbecue restaurant with the caved-in stone wall. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day. He took out his cell phone from his back pocket. As soon as he turned it on, a clamorous tune rang out. He had chosen a folk melody so that it would be easier to distinguish his own amidst countless similar ringtones, but the digitalized tune that was supposed to sound merry only sounded obnoxious. It was his date. She said that in all of her twenty-nine years, she had never been so insulted, that he had better not call her again. After yelling at him non-stop, she hung up. He had to stop often because of the garbage that kept sticking to the bottom of his shoes. Across the way, there was a pointy object on the roof of the darkened apartment building he hadn’t noticed until now. It was a lightning rod.    1 Hoppang is a round steamed bun filled with red bean paste. In Japan, Hoppangman is called Anpanman after the Japanese sweet roll anpan.     Translated by Janet HongPrinted by permission of Open Letter Books, New York, US.

• Early Beans (Full Text with Audio) Vol.37 Autumn 2017

  The foul stench was coming from the dumpsters. Uncollected garbage piled up like pyramids around the apartment complex. At night, rats came out to gnaw at the garbage. Liquid leaked from the bags, flowed down the asphalt, and hardened in chunks. The man leapt over the stains like an athlete competing in the triple jump event. Dressed in pointy dress shoes, snug jeans, and a white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, he looked like an amateur cowboy who had just stepped out of a Western movie. He shaded his face with one hand and with the other, clutched a cell phone instead of a pistol. He didn’t run into a single person as he walked to the parking lot. Even the playground was deserted. It was because of the stench and the unbearable heat. He stopped in front of a car parked neatly in its spot. The car was like a pan on high heat. He flung open the door, started the engine, and put the air-conditioning on full blast. He sought some shade as he waited for the car to cool down. On one side of the lot was a heap of oversized junk—everything from an old refrigerator, stereo, and mattress to even an electric rice cooker. A full-length mirror also stood between the scraps. As though the mirror had been left out in the rain, the varnish was peeling off its frame like scabs. He went right up to the mirror and gazed at his reflection. He puffed out his cheeks, stroked his chin, and opened his mouth wide to check between his teeth. He then curled back his lips, exposed his teeth, and brayed silently like a donkey.  Fifteen minutes later, his car slipped smoothly out of the complex’s gates. The old security guard sat dozing in his booth, unable to fight off the after-lunch drowsiness. No one saw him leave. To get onto the main road, he had to pass through a 400-meter school zone. Children dismissed for the day began to pour out of the school gates. Street venders who had come in time for dismissal sat on the ground, leaning against the stone fence in front of the school. The children ran across the street and swarmed around stalls filled with helium balloons, baby chicks, and candy. They stood in the middle of the road, not bothering to move out of the way. The car inched forward, only to lurch repeatedly to a stop. Suddenly, a soccer ball sailed over the stone fence, bounced off his windshield, and rolled under the car. It was followed by a tanned boy in a tracksuit who crawled under the car to retrieve it. Another child cut across the street to go after a chick that had escaped, and a herd of children ran toward the ice cream store. He hit his horn again and again. The kids didn’t budge at all. He rolled down the window, stuck his head out, and yelled. The children slowly squirmed out of the way, but as soon as his car moved forward into the small opening, other kids blocked the way, playing a game of slap-match cards in the middle of the road. They were so absorbed in showing their cards and collecting one another’s that they didn’t hear him shout. Each child was a bolt of lightning. With lightning, there are no warnings. There are only two ways to avoid being struck: lie flat on the ground or put up a lightning rod. He drove with his foot on the brake pedal, wary of lightning bolts that could strike any time from alleyways with openings like the entrance of a maze. By the time he finally came onto the main road, twenty minutes had passed. He glanced in the rearview mirror. His curly hair, freshly washed and straightened with a hair dryer for half an hour, was still stuck nicely to his head the way he’d combed it, and every time he shifted gears, he caught a musky whiff of cologne from his armpits. A large shopping center was located three blocks away. Should he get his date perfume or earrings? The rest of the afternoon would fly by as he sauntered around the mall, peering into glittering display cases that looked like jewelry boxes. It would then take half an hour to get to Athens, the cafe where they were supposed to meet. He still had enough time to think up a funny joke while he decided on her gift. Every time they met, she asked for a joke. In the six months they’d been seeing each other, his stock of jokes had run dry. In the “Sparrow Series,” even the last sparrow had met its end from a hunter’s bullet and in the “Big Mouth Frog Series,” the curtain had lowered when the big mouth frog arrived at the public bathhouse that was closed for the holidays. But not once had she laughed. She didn’t even crack a smile, just like the comedian judge on the TV show Make Me Laugh. He stepped on the accelerator. It was her birthday that day, and he needed to come up with an unforgettable joke. Just as he finally gained some speed, lightning struck again. He slammed on his brakes and watched a motorcycle weave in and out between cars and disappear up ahead. He caught the white letters stamped on the rear trunk that was the size of a ramen box. Man on a Bullet. He couldn’t let down his guard for even a second. With the rise of these new “quick delivery” businesses, the road was filled with numerous lightning bolts. These motorcycles that could pop out any second were able to race from downtown Seoul to Incheon in a mere fifty minutes. For this reason, he could no longer speed.  The sun beat down. Heat rose from the asphalt. He needed to turn right in order to get to the shopping center. But as he turned on his blinker and sped up to change lanes, something squeezed in ahead. He wrenched the steering wheel, but he felt a thud. A second later, the motorcycle rider landed on the windshield, arms outstretched, instantly thrown off. The car veered onto the sidewalk and crashed into the stone wall of a barbecue restaurant. Struck by lightning at last. The steering wheel slammed into his chest and his head snapped back. The windshield was marked with blood, saliva stains, and grease imprints from the rider’s gloves. The door didn’t open easily because the hood had crumpled when the car crashed into the wall. After he kicked open his door, the first thing he saw was the crushed motorcycle that had been tossed all the way to the median. Gasoline gushed from the cracked fuel tank. He noticed the writing on the trunk: Lightning Delivery. 675-1234. The restaurant customers came running outside. They gawked at the car and the motorcycle in turns while still chewing on pieces of meat. Some had rushed out in such a hurry that they didn’t even have their shoes on. He was lucky there hadn’t been anyone on the sidewalk. The cars behind had to screech to a stop to avoid running over the rider who had been thrown into the middle of the road. Drivers stepped out of their cars and stared. The rider was lying on his back. His red helmet was also emblazoned with the words Lightning Delivery and the phone number. A crowd of people had already gathered. Someone flipped up the plastic face shield of the rider’s helmet to reveal a youthful face. He looked like a senior high school student at most. He had a hint of fuzz on his chin and cheeks. As soon as the sunlight hit his face, his closed eyelids flinched. “Do you think you can move?” Lightning nodded slowly. Blood was flowing from a deep gash on his elbow. He must have scraped it along the asphalt as he fell. He helped Lightning sit up, taking care not to move his neck. A bystander ran over and draped Lightning’s other arm around his shoulders. Lightning stood up with their help, but as soon as he tried to take a step, he cried out and sank back down. His thighs felt rigid; they were swelling rapidly under his jeans. He looked around for his motorcycle. It had been dragged from the road and was now leaning against a tree guard on the sidewalk. It was crushed so badly that its front wheel was suspended in the air. “My bike!” Lightning’s face turned pale. An ambulance arrived. The restaurant must have made the call.              Lightning had broken his left shinbone and fractured his right ankle. His face and arms were scratched up. Because of his swollen leg, the nurses couldn’t remove his jeans and had to cut through them with scissors. His skin had swelled like an inflatable tube, practically splitting open the fabric the instant it was cut. Lightning got an X-ray and waited to go into surgery. They were the only ones left in the hallway. “Do you have a smoke?” They were sitting in a non-smoking area, but Lightning didn’t care. He smoked the cigarette right down to the filter. “What would have happened if I wasn’t wearing a helmet?” He mumbled. Then he started to snicker. “Me, break my leg? Imagine that. I never thought this would happen to me. I thought this kind of thing only happened to special people. But I’ve got to say, it’s been a real interesting experience. Have you ever broken your leg?” Instead of waiting for him to respond, Lightning kept mumbling. “It’s strange. I can’t feel anything below my legs. My brain tells my toes to wiggle, but they don’t listen. It’s really frustrating. So how do you think my mother felt when she told me to study, but I didn’t even budge?” He started to sniffle. “I miss her. I think it’d be good for people to go through this. They should break their legs at least once.” He listened with half an ear and kept glancing at the clock in the hallway. “Don’t worry.” Lightning continued to talk while gazing blankly at a spot on the wall. “It’s not your fault. I might be stupid, but at least I have a conscience.” Lightning chuckled again. “Let’s face it. Today’s just not our day.”              His car was still blocking the way, sitting in the middle of the sidewalk beside Pyongyang BBQ House. Pedestrians glanced at the crushed car and stone wall as they walked around the car, stepping down onto the road and back up onto the sidewalk. The restaurant owner hadn’t allowed the car to be towed away until he returned. The bumper and headlights were cracked and the hood was badly dented. He tried to shut the car door that had been left open, but it would no longer shut. The motorcycle was still propped up against the tree guard. Just as Lightning had said, there was a thick manila envelope in the trunk. “Can I ask you for a favor? There should be a package in the back. Do you think you could deliver it for me? Our company’s motto is ‘Speed and reliability you can trust.’ If that package isn’t delivered by today—” Lightning had drawn his thumb across his neck, as though cutting off his head. Then as he was wheeled into the operating room, Lightning sat up and motioned him over. “On the package release form, there’s a space below the recipient’s name. He needs to sign there. Don’t forget!” A truck towed away the car and the motorcycle. There was a deep indent in the stone wall where the car had rammed into it. The restaurant valet who had been standing outside took him into the restaurant. Behind the counter, a woman in her mid-fifties was counting out some change. “It’s true what they say—lightning strikes on a clear day. I thought we were having an earthquake!” she jabbered. “Our poor frightened customers tripped and fell as they were rushing outside.” She covered her mouth with its half-faded lipstick and laughed. She made him look closely at the wall. It had small and large stones embedded into the cement. The impact, however, had cracked the cement and loosened the stones. She claimed she had roamed the riverbanks to gather these stones and everyone knew the trouble she had gone through to find the right pieces. She said she would calculate the cost of repair and call him the next day. As he was leaving, she called out, “You’re lucky money can take care of this, but what about my poor nerves?”              To get to Incheon, he first went to Sindorim Station. He hadn’t once used public transit after he’d gotten a car. Although he’d gotten to know every single one-way street and alley in Seoul in the seven years he’d been driving, he was completely lost in the underground subway station. The station was like a maze and the subway map looked as intricate as a tangled ball of yarn. He followed the arrows to the transfer gate but soon lost track of them and had to stop. Whenever this happened, in the midst of all those who were sure of where they were going, he noticed elderly people who were equally lost, or women from the country who looked as though it was their first time in Seoul. He would follow the orange arrows but would soon lose them and start to follow the green ones instead, winding up back at the platform where he had first gotten off the train. He found himself going in circles. There were things in this world that weren’t marked by arrows. Sometimes, the arrows pointed straight ahead, and then suddenly changed directions. When he saw an arrow that pointed straight up to the ceiling, he stood still. He had no choice but to ask someone. He still had about two hours left. If everything had gone according to plan, he would be strolling around the air-conditioned shopping mall by now, looking for her gift. But because of a motorcycle called Lightning that had popped out of nowhere, his plan was slowly unraveling. The Incheon-bound train was practically empty. He sat alone in a three-seater away from other people. At a single glance, he could take in the few passengers scattered around the train. Most were dozing with books open on their laps or looking through the window at the passing scenery outside. He studied the package in his lap. It seemed like a book or manuscript of some sort. The recipient’s address had been written with a permanent marker on a large envelope from Dolmen Publishing: Professor Byeon Yeongseok, 435 Dohwadong, Incheon. The words Urgent Mail were written in red and in parentheses below the name and address. He had never been to Incheon. He had blindly stepped onto an Incheon-bound train, but he had no idea where to go next. It might have been somewhat easier to find an apartment, but instead, he had to find a house with just the street address. He didn’t even know which stop he needed to get off, so he had no choice but to go all the way to Incheon Station, which was the last stop. A piece of paper was stuck on the other side of the package. It was probably the release form that Lightning had told him to get signed. There were some notes scrawled in the margins. There was even a rough sketch of a map next to seven digits that he assumed was the professor’s phone number. At a glance, the map looked like an anchor or the male gender symbol, and the writing was barely legible: Nasan Shopping Center, Dohwadong three-way street, Civil Defense Educational Center, Donghwa Fish and Tackle, three-forked road, right turn, Prosperity Pharmacy, magnolia tree. Finding the house by consulting the map and notes wasn’t going to be easy. The notes mentioned a three-way street near the fish and tackle shop, but the map didn’t show it. And a magnolia tree? A magnolia tree blooms in early spring and loses its blossoms so quickly that all that would be left now would be thin, bare branches. He tried to remember what a magnolia tree without its blossoms looked like, but he couldn’t. If he wanted to get to Athens on time, he couldn’t afford to wander aimlessly. He felt annoyed at himself for not having refused Lightning’s request. Outside, monotonous scenery went by and ringtones continued to sound throughout the train. They passed motels with unlit neon signs that faced the tracks. The signs were shabby and dusty. “Mommy, why does that house have so many windows?” A young woman and her little girl were sitting diagonally across from him. The little girl had been looking out the window the entire time. It seemed she was just learning to talk; she asked her mother question after question. The motels obviously looked different even to the eyes of the child. “Oh, that? It’s called a motel,” the mother whispered. “What? I can’t hear you,” the girl persisted, rubbing her cheek against her mother’s. The mother raised her head and cast a furtive glance at the other passengers. Perhaps she, like him, was picturing that secret act. “You don’t need to know.” The child moved away from her mother, and once again, glued her face to the window. The train rattled along, beating out a regular rhythm. His head that was resting against the window also rattled in time. He tried to think up some funny jokes. His date knew all kinds of jokes. There wasn’t one she hadn’t heard before. When they first met, he’d thought she was collecting jokes the way some collect folktales. To come up with funny ones, he looked through the five most popular dailies every morning and frequented online humor chat rooms. He even flipped through women’s magazines at the bank. But before he could finish telling the joke, she’d beat him to the punch line. Make me laugh. If you make me laugh, I’ll give myself to you. Whenever she propped up her chin with her hand and watched his moving lips, a feeling of frustration would come over him. Out of habit, he felt for his phone in his back pocket every time a cell phone rang on the train.  Whenever the train went around a bend, the connecting doors slid open and he got a clear view of the other cars. Three high school girls in uniform were walking in single file through the cars, heading toward him. They each flicked the handgrips as they walked, making them swing in semicircles behind them. They chattered ceaselessly. The passengers stared after them. The girls were about five foot six and even though they were dressed in the same school uniform, each girl looked a bit different. There was nothing tidy about their sweaty, wrinkled appearance. The skirts looked as though they had been shortened, stopping well above their knees and clinging to their hips and thighs to end in pleats like fish fins. Each step exposed their thighs through the side slits. All three carried large identical shopping bags. They passed him, joking and poking one another in the side. They smelled of sweat and perfume, and wore foreign brand-name backpacks that were popular among students, with mascot figures dangling from the backpack zippers. First, a stuffed Donald Duck went by, and then a Hoppangman doll, a moon-faced Japanese cartoon superhero made of hoppang.1 He was trying to think of a funny story when he looked up and happened to make eye contact with the last girl. She had dark round eyes like black beans and smooth, milky skin. What dangled from her bag caught his attention. It was a keychain with a clear plastic cube containing three dice, each of a different color. The dice bounced against one another with her every step. He couldn’t think of anything funny. It was 4:35. At the bank where his date worked, the automatic gates near the entrance would be coming down now. She was three years older than him and it was her twenty-ninth birthday that day. Until he’d met her, he’d always been surrounded by women with large mouths. Once in kindergarten, he had drawn a picture titled “My Mom.” Whenever he gazed up at his tall mother who constantly nagged him, all he could see was her large mouth that moved ceaselessly. In the picture, his mother’s mouth took up two-thirds of her face. “My Mom” had even received an honorable mention in a nationwide children’s art competition. Before he had first seen her through the bank window, he hadn’t known anyone could have such a small mouth. Her lips had been pursed so tightly while she counted money that her face barely had a hint of a mouth, like that of a Japanese geisha. He loved her small mouth. The cloying smell of perspiration and perfume wafted by again. The girls who had gone on to the next car were coming back. Though the entire car was nearly empty, the girls chose to sit directly across from him. The three shopping bags went onto the overhead shelf. The thin one sat squeezed between the two larger girls. He didn’t know where to look. He was uncomfortable making eye contact with any of them, so he lowered his head, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground. One reason he didn’t take the subway was because he didn’t know where to look. Once he’d found himself in a bit of a dilemma because he’d kept making eye contact with a stranger who was sitting across from him. As soon as he lowered his gaze to the floor, he saw the girls’ legs. Now that they were sitting down, their short plaid skirts rode up their thighs and became even shorter. Their legs exposed below their skirts were as fresh as turnips just pulled up from the field. Their calves were round and firm. The girls hugged their backpacks and started to whisper back and forth. The keychains that dangled from their bags each resembled its owner. Like ordinary teenage girls, Donald Duck, Dice, and Hoppangman laughed for no particular reason. Donald Duck couldn’t close her knees because of her chubby thighs. He saw between her knees the pudgy inner thighs that were glued together. As for Dice, even though her knees were clamped together, her thin thighs formed a triangular gap at the top of her skirt. His gaze kept being drawn to that spot. It was quiet inside the train, and he could hear every word they were saying. Maybe he’d get lucky and pick up a funny joke. Below their dusky knees were scratches, scabs, bruises, and even insect bites. He learned that they were juniors at an arts high school. Seventeen. It was an age when scrapes and falls were still common. They laughed hysterically at things that weren’t funny. They were things that he already knew. Maybe she, too, had laughed just as easily when she was seventeen. “Seriously. I think I only got half of them right.” At Dice’s words, the other girls’ faces stiffened. They didn’t say anything for a second. Then the girl whose face was as round as Hoppangman’s nudged Dice with her shoulder. “Yeah, right.” Donald Duck ate a chocolate-covered pretzel stick, breaking off the end little by little with her front teeth. Sticking out her thick lips, she said, “That’s what you said last time and you ended up getting the highest score.” Dice let out a big sigh. “I’m serious this time. I guessed on half.” They took out their exams from their backpacks and started going over the answers. They groaned each time they discovered a wrong answer. He kept glancing at their legs the entire time. Suddenly, Dice’s knees that had been clamped shut relaxed and spread open a little. He didn’t miss the tip of the triangular gap widen. He coughed and turned toward the side, but then Donald Duck’s fleshy thighs came into view. Unless he moved to another seat or closed his eyes, he would not be able to escape their legs. The girls didn’t notice his growing discomfort. In fact, they didn’t seem the least bit concerned about him. Donald Duck twisted her body to the left and crossed her right leg over her left. Her skirt hung down the seat, exposing her thigh that was like a boiled potato. The elastic bands of her stockings were buried deep in her flesh. Pulling her butt forward, she switched her legs and crossed them again. He caught a flash of her white panties. She now spread her thighs in his direction. It seemed she had suddenly put on weight; white stretch marks crawled all the way down to her calves. “At this rate, I won’t get into a university in Seoul.” Dice stretched her arms above her head, and her knees relaxed even more. Just then sunlight shone into the gap. Deep inside the crevice was a dark mole as large as a coat button. He was a young, healthy man of twenty-six. His thoughts immediately rushed to that secret spot where the two legs intersected. His white shirt, which he’d worn without an undershirt, grew damp with sweat and clung to his back. Sweat dripped from his forehead. He wiped repeatedly at his forehead with his sleeve. Her thighs made him picture her round, firm butt cheeks and the dimples above. The girls’ reckless behavior continued. So engrossed were they in their conversation about university entrance exams and how they’d bombed their final exams that they didn’t seem to notice anything else. It was their fault for wearing such short skirts with slits on the side. If an older woman had been present, she most certainly would have scolded them, but the entire car was now empty. The girls continued to twist and fidget in their seats. They crossed their legs and even spread them apart a few times. Then it would be he who would close his legs in alarm. His curly hair, which he had straightened with a hair dryer for half an hour, grew damp with perspiration and began to curl again. He seemed to be invisible to the girls. Bupyeong Station was announced. The girls lazily got to their feet and retrieved their shopping bags from the overhead compartment. They stood with their backs to him. As they bent to put on their backpacks, their short skirts flipped up and they flashed their rear ends at him, as though they were doing the can-can. Then they went and stood by the doors beside him. The smell of sour sweat wafted over to him. The train slowly approached the platform. The girls suddenly burst into laughter. “I won, didn’t I?” Dice said. Donald Duck and Hoppangman each took out a 5,000-won bill and placed them in Dice’s palm. Dice rolled up the bills and stuck them in her front shirt pocket. “Men,” Donald Duck said, still eating her pretzel sticks. Hoppangman kicked the train doors. “They’re worse than Pavlov’s dogs. They start drooling as soon as the bell rings. Not a decent one left.” She slammed her fist into the doors. “Jesus died a long time ago.” Dice snatched away Donald Duck’s snack and popped it into her own mouth. “You don’t think Jesus was a man?” The girls spoke loudly on purpose so that he would hear. They were no longer the same girls who had been comparing test answers and worrying about university admissions. The doors slid open and they stepped off, laughing.           His face was flushed with all the fantasies that were still swirling in his head. He wiped his face with his sleeve. Dark smudges appeared on his white shirt. Just as the train was starting to move again, someone tapped the window. When he turned around, the three girls were peering at him, their faces right up against the glass. They laughed maliciously. Dice brought her hand up to his face and then slowly raised her middle finger. Her lips moved deliberately. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he read her lips. Fuck you.   There was a long line of taxis in front of Incheon Station. The drivers stood outside their vehicles, having a smoke while waiting to pick up fares. Someone ran by, bumping into his arm. He blindly got into a taxi. “Where to, mister?” the driver asked, hurriedly putting out his cigarette and climbing inside. He had no idea where to go. The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror. “The Civil Defense Educational Center. No, I mean Nasan Shopping Center.” When he couldn’t decide on the destination, the driver snapped, “Hurry up and pick a place.” The driver let him off at the wrong spot and drove away. When he had walked over two blocks, a building with the sign Nasan Shopping Center appeared. His sweat-soaked jeans were plastered to his legs. Each time he took a step, his skin chafed from rubbing against the fabric. He wanted to take a shower. His cologne had evaporated long ago and there were now yellowish half-moon stains under his arms. Lightning’s notes were all mixed up. After he passed the shopping center, he turned right and saw a Chinese restaurant instead of a fishing store. His date would have changed out of her work uniform by now and was probably catching a taxi to go to Athens. He hadn’t thought of a funny joke, let alone bought her a gift. He saw the phone number written on the package. Professor Byeon Yeongseok politely gave him the directions to his house. It was an awkward distance to go by either foot or car, so he simply started heading in the direction the professor had said. It was a sweltering day. He scratched the tips of his leather dress shoes on the cracked, uneven pavement. Far ahead, he saw the fish and tackle store. When he turned right after passing the store, a long alley appeared. Similar-looking houses lined the alley. He had to slow down to spot the magnolia tree amidst the other trees that rose past the stone fences. A school girl was plodding along about fifty meters ahead. Her backpack seemed full of books. Weighed down by her heavy bag, she kept lagging. An electrical pole appeared. Byeon had said that if he came to an electrical power pole, he was almost there. The girl stopped and unrolled the waistline of her skirt. The skirt that had been much too short now stopped below her knees. In that time, he had caught up to her. She glanced back and in that second, he noticed the keychain that dangled from her backpack. Inside a clear plastic cube were three dice of different colors. Dice’s sleepy-looking eyes that were as dark as black beans glinted. Her gaze darted around the alley to make sure there was no one nearby. She spat on the ground. She then approached slowly and faced him. They were nearly the same height. He could smell sweat, soap, and perfume on her. The large shopping bag she had been carrying was gone and her green nametag flashed from her front shirt pocket: Byeon Myeongju. Right then, everything clicked. Byeon was not a common last name. Dice whispered quickly, as though to herself. “So you managed to follow me all the way here, sick bastard.” People have more courage when they’re in a group. But now, Dice was alone. “All I did was follow the ringing of your bell.” He curled back his lips and laughed silently. “What do you want? A slap or a date?” she snapped. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not here because of you. I’m here to meet Professor Byeon Yeongseok.” He didn’t miss the way her pupils trembled. She spat again. This time, the wad of saliva hit his dress shoe. “You cheap jerk. Didn’t you enjoy yourself enough already? What more do you want?” When he took a step forward, she spread out her arms and tried to block him. “So you’re going to go tattle on me? It looks like you have no idea, but I’ve been the top of the class for eleven years straight. Why would my father who’s never even met you believe anything you have to say about me?” “Let me worry about that. The dark mole on your inner thigh right by your groin will be proof enough.” He strode forward and started examining the nameplates on the front gates. Dice ran to him and tugged at his sleeve. “What do you want?” Her voice was composed again. While she tried to strike a bargain with him, he only smiled at her. “If you keep going after you get back on the main road, you’ll see Nasan Shopping Center. Wait for me there. I’ll be going to the library soon.” Dice walked up to a gate and pressed the doorbell. “Who is it?” said a dignified voice from the speakerphone. “Dad, it’s me.” Her voice that had been shrill until even a second ago was now transformed into the tired voice of a high school student. He added quickly, “Lightning Delivery!” Dice, who figured out the situation just then, glared at him and muttered, “Jesus, what shitty luck.” The automatic gate opened to reveal the house hidden behind the high stone fence. Grass stretched all the way to the front door, and above that were placed wide stone slabs in one-step intervals. Dice, who had been leading the way, tripped on one of the slabs. The magnolia tree that had lost its blossoms was hidden behind a large chestnut tree. A middle-aged man came out to the front door and took Dice’s backpack from her. “Dad, I’m so tired I’m going to collapse.” She had suddenly become a pampered child. “That certainly was a lightning delivery,” the professor laughed as he signed the release form. Dice stood behind her father, glowering. He sauntered out of the gate. The voices of father and daughter drifted over the fence. “How did you do on your exam?” the professor asked. Dice’s peevish voice soon followed. He stood in front of the pole and smoked a cigarette. The number of cars had multiplied noticeably as it got closer to rush hour. All of a sudden, he remembered his date. He glanced at his watch and realized it was ten to six. There was no way he could get to Seoul in ten minutes. Plus, he was so hot and tired that his brain felt like a used-up tube of toothpaste. No matter how hard he tried to squeeze out a funny joke, he couldn’t think of one. He took out the cell phone that had been pressing against his butt all day in his back pocket. He turned it off. When he had lit his fifth cigarette, Dice finally appeared. The strands of hair stuck to her forehead were wet as though she had just washed her face. She was now wearing a T-shirt and a pair of short shorts with flip-flops. She dragged her feet past him and shot under her breath, “Don’t talk to me and you’d better keep far back.” He followed her, maintaining a wide gap between them. The lower part of her legs that would have been exposed below her school uniform was tanned. They were also covered with scars. Not once did she look back. She glanced at the bestseller list on the window of a book rental shop and she disappeared inside a supermarket for a long time. She eventually stopped at the steps of a worn-down building. A sign that read “Quiet Study Hall, Air-Conditioned” was stuck on the windows of the second floor, and names of students who had been admitted into prestigious universities were listed on the grimy banner that hung across the top of the building. Dice skipped up the stairs, dropped off her bag, and came back down. “I was born and raised here, so everyone knows me. On top of that, I’m a model student, so I’m pretty much the talk of the town. Next year, my name will be going up on that banner.” She ran ahead and caught a taxi. The taxi driver glanced at her and then at him through the rearview mirror. “You two are a couple? Sir, you’re a lucky man.” Every time the driver made a joke, Dice answered with a witty comment. She exclaimed out loud when they were passing a movie theater. Drawn on the big sign was the enormous Godzilla, the product of a failed nuclear experiment. People formed a long queue in front of the box office. Dice craned her neck, watching until the theater grew small. She mumbled to him, “Have you seen that movie?” The taxi driver chimed in again. “You like movies? I like watching videos on my days off. Do you know how many movies a person can watch in a day? I watched five once, but by the end the storylines got all mixed up.” Dice told the driver to stop in front of New York Bakery. The brightly lit interior could be seen through the shop window. As soon as Dice climbed out, she spat on the back of a token stand. “Asshole. He was ogling my legs through the rearview mirror the whole time.” He followed Dice down into the underground passage in front of the bakery. The passage was connected to Bupyeong Station. He was anxious about losing her in the crowd that surged out of the exit. Dice went and stood in front of a locker. Blue storage lockers covered an entire wall. She fished out an identification card from her pocket and shook it in his face. “It’s my older sister’s. It comes in very handy sometimes. She thought she lost it and got a new one.” While Dice took out her key, people continued to insert coins, open locker doors, store or remove objects, and then quickly disappear. What could be inside all those boxes? As soon as Dice turned her key in the lock, the door swung open. As she was taking out the shopping bag that was stuffed inside, it caught on the hinge and a corner ripped. It was the same shopping bag that each girl had been carrying on the train. Some clothes showed through the tear. “Wait here.” She left him standing outside the women’s bathroom and disappeared inside. She didn’t come out for a long time. Women glanced at him as they went in and out of the bathroom. The smell of urine wafted out of the entrance. As he waited for her, he pictured the large dark mole on her inner thigh. His face burned. He kept his head lowered just in case other people would guess what he was thinking. Just then, a tall woman walked out of the bathroom and stepped on his foot. She had on baby blue high heels. The heels were pointy like ice picks. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said with a polite nod and quickly walked past him. Her hair came down to her waist with a short baby-blue halter dress and matching baby-blue heels. He glimpsed baby-blue eye shadow on her lids as well. Her heels that clicked on the tiled floor sounded cheerful. Even after the echo of her heels had disappeared, he could still smell the tropical scent she’d left behind. He waited in front of the bathroom for an hour. Now that the evening rush hour was over, there were fewer people using the bathroom on their way home. The janitor came out of the bathroom, dragging a wet mop behind her. When she crouched in the corridor to remove some gum from the tiles, he said to her, “Excuse me, but did you see a high school student inside?” The janitor’s eyes drooped with drowsiness. She disappeared inside for a moment, then stuck out her head while rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “There’s no one here. I checked the stalls too, but they’re all empty.” His big toe started to throb. Only then did he recall the woman who had quickly disappeared after stepping on his toe. He vaguely recalled seeing cuts and scrapes on her calves. The shopping bag must have held clothes, makeup, and a wig. Dice must have changed in the bathroom and made herself up. He hadn’t recognized her, even when she had walked right past him. She could be hiding anywhere, watching and laughing at him. He rushed up the steps into the station square. The neon signs of pizza parlors, cosmetics, and clothing stores lit up the streets as if it were broad daylight. He ran after several tall girls, but they weren’t her. Women with similar clothes, similar hairstyles, and similar perfumes strode endlessly down the streets. He ran all the way to the movie theater they had passed earlier in the taxi. There was a long lineup in front of the ticket booth. He tried to buy a ticket, but the two remaining showtimes were both sold out. He hadn’t recognized her even when she was right in front of him. So how would he ever recognize her in the dark with her face made up, even if she were staring him in the face? The security guard had dozed off with the television on and both his feet propped up on his desk. No one saw him come in. As soon as he stepped into the apartment complex, the stench assaulted him. The garbage bags seemed to have multiplied. As he walked under the security light, he saw what he thought was a person out of the corner of his eye. But it was just the full-length mirror. Someone had hurled a rock at it and cracks radiated from the center like a spider web. His face showed up in pieces in the shattered mirror like a mosaic. His curls that had come alive from the perspiration were matted like a steel-wool pad and his shirt that had come untucked from his pants was hanging over his thighs. He looked as though he’d been struck by lightning. It was only then that he remembered the “quick delivery” rider in the hospital, his own crushed car in the shop, and the barbecue restaurant with the caved-in stone wall. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day. He took out his cell phone from his back pocket. As soon as he turned it on, a clamorous tune rang out. He had chosen a folk melody so that it would be easier to distinguish his own amidst countless similar ringtones, but the digitalized tune that was supposed to sound merry only sounded obnoxious. It was his date. She said that in all of her twenty-nine years, she had never been so insulted, that he had better not call her again. After yelling at him non-stop, she hung up. He had to stop often because of the garbage that kept sticking to the bottom of his shoes. Across the way, there was a pointy object on the roof of the darkened apartment building he hadn’t noticed until now. It was a lightning rod.    1 Hoppang is a round steamed bun filled with red bean paste. In Japan, Hoppangman is called Anpanman after the Japanese sweet roll anpan.     Translated by Janet HongPrinted by permission of Open Letter Books, New York, US.

• "Banner" Vol.16 Summer 2012

    1 The power went out at ten past midnight this morning. While people were asleep, all the electronic home appliances stopped working. The children who woke up were peevish; they missed the hum of the refrigerator and the whir of the fan, sounds as comforting to them as a lullaby. Housewives who opened the refrigerator in the morning found blood dripping from the pork in the freezer, the meat a dark red. The Popsicles had melted, leaving wrappers full of soft mush pooled around the sticks, and the marinated spinach gave off a sour smell. It gets so humid in July that food goes bad in no time. Everyone was calling the 123 hotline. Even up to the early ’80s, power failures were very common. Students cramming for their exams would have had to study by candlelight and sometimes, these candles caused fires. Since 1997, though, all this has become history. This particular power failure wasn’t that extensive. The affected area was limited to Kwangmyǒng Complex D and Rose Towers 1, 2, and 3. It could have been a worn-out line or even a bird on a high-voltage line. Birds perching on high-voltage lines are safe as long as they don’t touch anything else. But if they nod off and touch another line, zap! I looked at my map and checked the utility pole in question: No.021/8619E. I stepped into the alley with the poles marked 8619E. The alley went down a steep hill with a sixteen-metre-tall pole every fifty metres. The sun was hanging over the vents on the roof of Kwangmyǒng Complex A. Not yet ten and it was already sizzling. Before I knew it, I was at the bottom of the hill. Behind me were the eight concrete utility poles whose number tags I’d been busy reading on my way down. I’d developed a habit of calculating distance by the number of utility poles I passed. Three hundred fifty metres later, I was finally in front of No.021. I had worked in Kyǒnggi Province before they transferred me here. Back there, not a day went by without a power failure. The cause? Magpies. They sometimes built their nests on top of the transformers and came in contact with the line, or a porcelain insulator had broken off. Maybe to magpies, utility poles looked like oak trees, sturdy enough to hold nests that would last a lifetime. So not only did I replace transformers and repair lines, but I also had to move the nests into trees. But where would you find magpies here in the city? City children would never see a magpie except in a picture book about birds. Climbing utility poles was a piece of cake. At the technical high school, they called me “Monkey Boy.” There were fifty practice poles rigged up on the school grounds and we had to go up and down them all. I set the speed record. I strapped on my leather tool belt crammed with gear and was about to start climbing when I stepped on something spongy. It was a pair of black leather dress shoes filled with water. They weren’t left behind by a drunk. Although the spines were crushed in and the heels were worn, they were placed neatly side by side, as if someone had removed them at the front door. I felt a drop of water. I looked up. Was it starting to rain again? It had been raining on and off until it had stopped earlier this morning. From the first peg two metres above the ground, a wet suit jacket hung, water dripping from its hem. It was the same guy who left had the shoes there. The metal pegs zigzagged up the pole, my gaze locking onto each peg as I climbed. The dark street lamp loomed above, staring down at me like the Cyclops. Two pegs above the suit jacket, on the other side of the pole, hung a damp pair of men’s trousers. And on the next peg, a white dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up was flapping in the wind. The breeze must have dried it out during the night. Above that hung a sweat-stained undershirt and looped around the next peg was a necktie, still knotted. Next, I met a pair of socks swaying back and forth in front of my face like a pair of tired balloons. I tilted my head back and looked at the very top of the pole to see a pair of men’s briefs, dense black pinstripes on white, streaming like a banner in the southeasterly wind. The man had taken off his shoes, hung his suit, then removed the remainder of his clothes one by one as he made his way up the pole, shedding even his briefs to hang at the top. He would have been a sight to see, sitting atop the pole without a stitch of clothing; his naked form must have resembled that of Adam, the first man. Like birds sitting on high-voltage lines, he would have been tense, making absolutely sure he didn’t touch another line. This is not something a drunk would attempt. Besides, the first foot peg was nailed far above my head and I’m pretty tall for a man. I bet he was sober. It crossed my mind that maybe he was from a technical school, too. I climbed past two transformers and the street lamp, and from that point, I was looking down at the long stretch of the 6600-volt line. I loosened my tool belt and strapped myself to the pole. I had once seen my seniors reconnecting a line. They had repaired the line without shutting off the power. There was a running joke that some of them could make electricity dance between their thumb and forefinger. This time, luckily, the transformer hadn’t burned out. It must have been the metal buckle from the man’s belt. The wind must have brought it in contact with both lines. The metal buckle must have tripped the automatic shut-off function when it touched the lines. There was no one around. I heard music from a pump organ and children singing; maybe there was an elementary school nearby. When I reached the top of the pole, I saw the street I’d walked down. I could even see the playground of an elementary school, hidden until now by a wall. Little kids in sky blue gym suits were doing sprints in time to a whistle. I leaned back in my harness, set my feet against the pole and gazed down at the scene sixteen metres below. Everything that had been three-dimensional from ground level was now clearly spread out like a vast blueprint. I shielded my eyes, bringing far away scenes into focus. In an apartment building across the street, a fifth-floor window opened and a girl with long hair looked out. Our eyes met. Flustered, she disappeared and the window banged shut. The organ wheezed every time it hit a G. The children sang, or rather screeched, at the top of their lungs. With a fingertip, I picked the fluttering pair of briefs from the pole. On my way down, I deactivated the shut-off. The man’s clothes that I had removed on my way up littered the ground. The inside pocket of the suit jacket contained a small address book that looked like a business organizer. I searched his pockets, but the wallet was gone; someone must have taken it. The rain had soaked through the lining and left the organizer with yellow splotches, making it look like an antique world map. The dates were arranged in a grid, and the boxes were filled with miniscule handwriting. I had trouble making it all out because the ink had run. One thing was clear, though—he led a busy life. Three whole pages were crammed with names, dates of birthdays and wedding anniversaries. The next section was left blank. He had then used the remaining pages for what seemed to be a diary. The wet pages clung together. I did my best to separate them, but they ended up torn instead. I eased myself against the pole and read, skipping the parts that were difficult to make out. From time to time, I would tilt my head back and glance up at the top of the pole. Having shed his skin, where could the man inside have gone? 2 April 3 On the roof of a building, an enormous billboard stands on two steel columns. “Heaven on Earth. Escape to Hawaii.” A Hawaiian maiden smiles down at the street. She wears a floral print bikini and a string of flowers around her neck—a lei, they call it. Stretching out behind her is the Pacific Ocean, its dazzling colour changing with the light shining on the coral reef. Young men with sun-browned bodies ride surfboards, balanced precariously on waves. Completing the picture are coconut trees crowned with clusters of coconuts. I could almost taste them. The bus moved in fits and starts. I stood clutching a plastic strap overhead and looked out the window, up at the billboard. Wedged in between the rear-ends of the people behind me was my right hand. In that hand was a briefcase, and in the briefcase was a bunch of catalogues with business cards stapled to the covers, along with some nicely packaged gum and candy. It had been a while since my arm had gone numb. Every time the driver slammed on the brakes, the women shrieked. Every time the bus tilted way over, the breasts of the woman standing behind me rubbed against my back. Every time we came to a bus stop, I found myself pushed farther back by the swell of the new arrivals, and every time a body blocked my view out the window, I craned my neck to see. The next stop was announced. Someone rushed for the door, bumped my head, and knocked my glasses loose. They hung crookedly from my nose, but I didn’t mind. It is always congested there and I’ve looked up at the billboard every single day for the past two years. The advertisement was one travel agency’s ploy to entice tourists to Hawaii. Two years of direct exposure to the sun and the exhaust fumes from all those cars stuck in traffic have turned the colours of the ad. The paint is peeling and even the lei around the girl’s neck has lost its luster. But her smile remains the same, just as it was two years ago when I first saw her. Since then, I’ve been looking up at her, whether I'm hunched up like a turtle in my down parka, peering over steamed up glasses, or in the rainy season, oblivious to the rainwater trailing down from my umbrella on to my shoes. One day, that girl started to smile at me. April 29 The third dealership of Chrysler Korea is located at a busy downtown corner. The sides facing the two main streets are each fitted with an enormous pane of glass from floor to ceiling. It’s only when you get closer that you see a little “Entrance” sign on the automatic sliding doors. It’s like a blemish on the glass. From sunrise to sunset, light spills directly in through the glass. As I waited for the crosswalk signal to turn green, I looked across to where I work. The dealership looked just like a greenhouse. Whenever I sit in my office, I can’t help but make eye contact with the people walking by on the street. There is a cluster of buildings nearby: City Hall, two department stores, bus terminal, and banks. In the office, you can’t even perform ordinary acts such as blowing your nose or tightening your belt to keep your pants from falling down without someone noticing. You never know when someone’s glance might wander in. The entire setup—the desks, chairs, every last flower pot—revolves around the cars on display, not the people who work here. What kind of amenities come to mind when you think of a regular office? Well, you won’t find them here. For example, not even a picture hangs on the wall. You don’t want people looking at it instead of the cars. I polished the glass until it was time for the morning pep talk. A day didn’t pass without the glass getting dusty and smudged. In the three years here, I have mastered the art of cleaning windows. But I still don’t know what it takes to be a top-notch salesman. What I know is that if you moisten some newspaper, wipe the glass, then remove the remaining moisture with a cloth, the glass becomes so clear that a bird is likely to crash into it. The display window is as big as the screen at the Taehan or Piccadilly. High up on the window is “The World Chooses—Chrysler” written in fancy swirls. During the night, someone had thrown up outside. There’s a backstreet right around the corner full of bars with the lights down low and names like “The Red Rose,” “Casablanca,” “Ruby,” and “Winter Wanderer.” It must have been someone from one of those places, trying to catch a taxi. The vomit was splattered all over the bottom of the display window. I filled a watering can, sprinkled water onto the glass and carefully wiped away every last trace. Inside the show room, there is a luxury sedan waxed to a brilliant luster. It’s set up on a round platform and there’s a device underneath it that makes it turn around and around all day long. The effect is amazing. Car buyers can’t take their eyes off it, at least until it goes all the way around. With the money you’d need to buy the car, you could buy yourself a small apartment on the outskirts of Seoul. I’ve been here three whole years and I still haven’t sold that Chrysler. Maybe my luck will change today. May 3 Sometimes there’s no one here, not even Miss Kim the receptionist. Then I’m the one who watches the office. When that happens, I like to get up on the platform and climb into the driver’s seat. The seats still have their plastic covers. The genuine leather seats have that new-car smell and the gear stick responds smoothly to my touch. The wooden knob is the size of an egg and it fits perfectly in my hand. You can even see its oak grain. I know every single word in the brochure for this luxury sedan. If you’re going to sell a product, you have to know everything there is to know about it. When there’s no one else around, I’ll chant the phrases of the advertisement. “The ultimate high-speed driving experience—feel yourself become one with the road.” Plus, there is a gyroscope half-set into the dashboard. When the car is in motion, this round object is constantly turning. The ride is so smooth that you can almost feel the earth go around. Cream-coloured airbags, front and side, for both driver and passenger. In my mind, those airbags have gone off over a hundred times. The morning meeting began before I finished polishing the glass. Each day begins with this twenty-minute pep talk. This is the one time of day when all forty or more salesmen are together in one place. After that, everybody’s day ends at a different time. At the pep talk they all stand in lines, dressed to kill. This “meeting” is all for show, for other eyes only. For example, the average height of our forty plus salesmen is 178.6 centimetres and the women who are hurrying off to work at City Hall or the department store are sure to steal glances. I rushed into the meeting and stood in the very last line. Just before we hit the floor, we gathered in the lounge out back. This “lounge” consists of two benches in the empty space outside the men’s bathroom. Things you can’t find in the rest of the dealership are all here, such as ashtrays and wastebaskets. You can have a smoke, learn the latest way to knot your tie, or drink coffee out of paper cups from a machine. What I do is fix my tie in the latest style and put some mousse in my hair. While I do this, I get to hear stories of getting kicked out of a building by the security, slipping in flyers under the windshield wipers of cars in an underground parking lot and then running into a salesman from another company coming from the opposite direction who’s been doing the exact same thing… May 11 I recognized her right away. I’ve always worked Sundays. We’re all supposed to take turns, but when their Sunday comes around, they always manage to weasel their way out. The usual? Weddings or funerals. I’ve covered for them a couple of times, and now, they just take it for granted. Not that I have a family or girlfriend to spend my Sundays with, anyway. And it’s not a complete loss when I’m the only salesman on Sunday, because everyone who comes in is my customer. Once I even sold two cars, even though they were compacts. My commission was pretty good, not a whole lot, but still pretty good. I raised the metal screens that covered the twelve hundred-square-foot dealership and went inside. I flipped the switch for the platform and spent the rest of the time polishing the glass. The morning flew by before I was even half done. I had my nose to the glass, using my breath and fingernails on a particularly tough spot when I saw the hazy reflection of a woman. Her car was parked on the street outside the display window and she was gazing at the car on the revolving platform as if in a trance. I hurried into my office, rolled down my sleeves and put on my suit jacket. We’d been instructed to dress neatly to keep up the reputation of Chrysler. The woman had on cat-eye sunglasses that looked really good on her oval face. In her arms was a Maltese sporting a red bow. She drew closer to the display window and peered in at the car. Her nose was so close to the window that the glass fogged up. She kept nibbling her bottom lip, seemingly unable to decide whether to come in or not. She took a step towards the entrance and the doors slid open. She took a step back and the doors slid shut. I shuffled some papers and tried to look busy at my desk. The doors kept opening and closing. Finally, she came in. She had a way of walking: only her hips moved, while everything above seemed to hover motionless, a vision floating on air. Her face was very familiar. She removed her sunglasses. “Hello, may I help you?” My voice, resonating with confidence, sounded good even to my own ears. I picked up that little trick, listening to the other salesmen speak in their deep, polished tones. I may not be a top-notch salesman, but I do know the basics. The most important thing a salesman needs is a good memory, hands down. Before I knew what I was doing, I pointed at her. “Heaven on earth, escape to Hawaii? That’s you, right?” I was so excited I was practically shouting. That’s who she was—the Hawaiian maiden on the billboard. There was no way I wouldn’t recognize a face I stared at for a good ten minutes every single day when my bus was stuck in traffic. I was seriously about to faint. Faith can move mountains, as they say. She must have taken pity on me for gazing at her every day and decided to honour me with a visit. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but that’s what I was thinking. “So someone actually recognizes me. And I’m not even famous.” The woman smiled sheepishly. It was her in the flesh—the Hawaiian maiden. But unlike the brown-skinned model on the billboard, the woman before me was fair. I had imagined someone short and plump, but she was my height, and she was so thin that her cheekbones stuck out. The billboard guy had painted a plumper version than the real thing. She gave me a cheerful smile, just as she had from the billboard. She moved closer to the car and stroked the gentle curve of the hood. “Wow, it’s beautiful,” she spoke softly, as if to herself. “Would you care to sit behind the wheel?” She hesitated a moment, then handed me her dog and climbed in. The car continued to rotate, with the woman at the wheel. She pressed every single button on the dashboard. The windows went up and down, the driver’s seat went back and forth. Each time the car came back around, I could see her examining every single feature. “So, what’s Hawaii like? Is it really heaven on earth?” “There were too many people. A pickpocket stole all my money,” she answered breezily as she turned the steering wheel. She opened the mini fridge in the backseat and even pulled out the ashtray with the banana plant engraved on it. Meanwhile, her dog drooled all over my tie. I sensed that she wasn’t going to buy the car. From my three years of experience, I’d learned enough to tell the difference between someone who was serious about buying and someone who wasn’t. We called it “getting the vibe.” I wasn’t getting the vibe from the woman. Or was I wrong? “I’ll think about it.” She took her dog back and stepped out of the dealership. Even after she had gone outside, she peered into the display window a couple of times. She went to her car parked on the street. It was a Le Mans GTI, a model discontinued in 1995. The car accelerated out of sight. May 26 I was outside polishing the display window, but I think the manager had been watching me from behind for a while. Before stepping into the dealership, he said, “Being good at cleaning windows isn’t everything, you know.” I made a note to myself. May 28 I saw her again today. I got off at Seoul station and took a cab to the Hilton. The Namsan Loop was filled with couples taking romantic walks. The young taxi driver kept crossing the median line because he was glancing out the window so much. Thinking of using the men’s room before I went up to the eleventh floor, I wandered around looking for the bathroom and ended up going all the way down to the basement floor. Lighting from a stage escaped through the crack of an open door and illuminated the wall in front of me. A poster announcing “Yi Kangja Fall/Winter Collection” hung in the lobby of the Crystal Ballroom, a spacious concert hall. The ticket table was deserted. The fashion show seemed to have started a while ago. Standing by the door, I glanced into the ballroom. Positioned around the room were round tables draped in white tablecloths that people dined at while watching the show. Under the brilliance of the stage lights, models were walking out in time to the music. At the very front of the T-shaped catwalk the models paused, struck a pose, turned around, and walked back. They were all wearing dark eye shadow, similar to the kind of makeup a flashy singer named Kimera had worn—was it ten years ago she had come to Korea? The fall line ended and winter wear appeared, displaying leather and fur. She had on heavy eye makeup, but this time, too, I recognized her right away. She was wearing a silver fox fur coat that came down to her ankles. I recalled what a customer had once told me. If a fox suffers a lot of stress, the fur loses its sheen. That’s why they electrocute foxes; they have to be killed in a way that doesn’t damage the pelt. Under the blue stage lights in the silver fox coat, she was mesmerizing. I asked a staff member standing near me what her name was. Her name was Yi Minjae. “You mean you don’t know her? She’s a top model these days.” When I got to the eleventh floor, I was an hour late. I pressed the buzzer to Room 1105. The door didn’t open. I tried the handle, but it was locked. It seemed that the middle-aged woman who had introduced herself as Mrs. Han had gotten tired of waiting and gone home. When I thought hard, I vaguely recalled her mentioning that her husband was supposed to come back from the States either yesterday or the day after. She had made me promise many times not to be late. I had lost my chance to sell the car on the revolving platform. June 3 I walked the distance of five or more blocks. It’s already been days since I planned on replacing the soles of my shoes, but I still haven’t been able to go to a repair shop. For the last three years, I’ve bought more shoes than I’ve sold cars. In an underground parking lot, I had been slipping in flyers stapled with my business cards under windshield wipers and I was just starting to come up to ground level when my cell phone rang. It was Sanghyǒk. “Man, it’s been a long time. You remember me, right? You know, pimples, the one who always got caught by the student head and got his head shaved into a cross shape with a hair clipper? Yeah, I guess only an idiot wouldn’t remember me. I managed to get your number from Sǒngjin.” Sanghyǒk said that he was getting married the day after tomorrow. Good-natured threats spewed from the phone. It’d be a statutory holiday that day so I’d better have a very special excuse if I planned on not showing, that if I weren’t there, it was over between us. It was only after I hung up that I realized I hadn’t seen Sanghyǒk for over ten years. It seemed that I had last seen Sanghyǒk at our high school graduation, but I couldn’t recall his features. As if there wasn’t more than one kid with bad skin and bad haircuts. So this is how I ended up going to Sanghyǒk’s wedding. Without even sticking around for the wedding pictures, we started drinking. The drinking continued even after the bride and groom left for the airport. “Hey, Sǒngjin, long time no see. Haven’t seen you since last year.” It seemed like Sǒngjin had been keeping in touch with our high school friends. A chunky man came and squeezed in next to me. I was watching the wall TV in the bar. It was playing the music video Thriller; Michael Jackson, made up like a zombie, was dancing with other zombies and prowling the night streets. I tried to sing along, but couldn’t remember the lyrics. Suddenly, Chunky smacked me in the back of the head. “You retarded or what?” The glass I had been holding tipped over and I ended up spilling beer on my crotch. Feeling my head, I looked up at Chunky, but just like Sanghyǒk’s face, I didn’t recognize him. “I got fat, so that’s why you probably don’t recognize me.” Wedged in next to me, he bullied me into remembering him by telling me one anecdote after another of all the times he had caused trouble in high school. “It’s all coming back now, right? Oh, this one will really make you remember.” Between his stories, Chunky would smack my head. As we hopped bars for more rounds, our group shrank and in the end, it was the eight of us, including Chunky, Sǒngjin, and me. “Leave the finishing touch up to me. Trust me, you’re not going to believe this place.” Ushered by Chunky, we hailed two cabs and crossed the Han River Bridge. After we got out of the cabs, we had to walk deep into a backstreet. We stopped in front of a yellow sign with the words “Here’s Looking at You” in black. Like a warning sign at an intersection or a deadend, this sign would stay in my mind long after I had sobered up the next morning. A metal screen was pulled down at the door of the brothel. But when Chunky rattled the screen, an employee opened the door for us. We swarmed down the stairs all at once. The ones in front lost their footing and fell. We laughed and talked boisterously like a group of high school boys. The hall was lined with frosted glass doors. We were swept up into a room behind one of these doors and inside, hung a gigantic poster of a scene from Casablanca. Draping his arm around a girl who had rushed into the room, Chunky hollered for Madame Kim. An enormous middle-aged woman came in, swinging her chest. The flesh that stuck out of her clothing looked like thick lards of fat. The high slit in her skirt invited furtive glances at her thighs that were wrapped in black fishnet stockings. Her flesh also bulged out from the stockings, imprinting her skin with diamond patterns. Right then, girls crowded into the room. As the disco ball spun, fragments of light fell on the large table. A girl who had climbed onto the table grabbed my hand and tried to pull me up. As I was trying to stand up, something heavy hit me in the back of the head. I collapsed onto the table. When I finally woke because of a raging thirst, I found Chunky—the one who had called me a retard—passed out beside me, snoring. The rest of the guys were sleeping in their wrinkled suits, having collapsed on each other some time in the night. Their snores going together at the same time sounded like a chorus sung by a clumsy group of off-beat, tone-deaf children. I went into the bathroom, turned on the tap and drank straight from it. Only after I had washed my face with cold water did my mind clear up a bit. The room wasn’t big, but it was clean. My head throbbed. I felt my head and found some gauze stuck on it. In the dark, I found Sǒngjin and shook him awake. Sǒngjin rummaged through Chunky’s suit pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes and two ten thousand-wǒn bills. We found our shoes and came out into the hall. The carpet in the hall was the colour of red bean paste. The plush carpet absorbed the sound of our footsteps. Just then the doors of the elevator opened from behind and a couple stepped out. Even though my back was turned, I could see everything through a full-length mirror that hung in front of me. A balding middle-aged man was drunk out of his mind and had his arm slung around a woman’s shoulders. Supporting him, the woman was wandering down the hall, looking for a room. The woman had on cat-eye sunglasses. Sunglasses in the middle of the night? They attracted even more attention. Even in the dim light of the hall, I recognized her right away. It was Yi Minjae. We came out of the brothel. The river was right across the street. An aging janitor, lugging a cleaning cart, was sweeping away the vomit we had puked up the night before. We sat down side by side on the waterfront of the Han River and had a cigarette. “My God, we’re turning thirty next year—I can’t believe we’re still living like this. Maybe the night is to blame. Or maybe we’re just used to this lifestyle. You know what they say, old habits die hard.” The voice that traveled up my vocal chords was not my normal voice; it was the deep salesman voice that I used when talking to customers. Sǒngjin’s laughter mixed with the sound of the river. “Hey, are you sure you’re okay after Chaebǒm hit you in the head with the beer glass?” I smoked my cigarette to the filter. “Chaebǒm —you mean Chunky?” Sǒngjin lit another cigarette for me and said, “Yeah. So now you finally remember him? He was so pissed off you couldn’t remember him that he said he knew how to make you remember. Man—we got so wasted last night.” We ate some soup to cure our hangovers with the twenty thousand wǒn we took from Chunky’s pocket, and said goodbye. Having loaded three passengers, the early morning bus sped along. The billboard came into view and we quickly passed it. I turned around, and with my arm resting on the back of the seat, I watched the ad grow smaller. The bus stopped to turn left. Right then, I saw the pupils of the Hawaiian maiden move. It looked like she was searching for someone very cautiously, afraid of the attention that she might attract. Like rolling marbles, her pupils rolled and rolled until they froze at a point in the intersection. Our eyes met. She smiled brightly at me. What? How can a picture smile? I blinked hard and shook my head. Was it because of my head injury? The bus circled the building. When I looked again at the billboard, the maiden in the ad had disappeared. She was gone, just as if someone had cut out a figure from a magazine or newspaper. My front door was open a crack. I was certain that I had locked the door when I had come out on the morning of the day before. I had even turned the handle to double-check. On the entrance tiles, there were water marks. The moment I stepped into my apartment, I could smell the sea. Nothing was leaking or dripping. I looked carefully at the water marks. They were wet footprints. There were wet prints even on the linoleum floor of the living room. I placed my foot on top of a footprint. They were made by a person with small feet. The water seeped into my sock. The footprints led to the master bedroom. I gently pushed open the door. A woman was lying face-down on the bed. Her back was tanned purple. With every breath, her shoulder blades stuck out, then sank back into her skin. Breathing heavily, she turned over. Her long hair was plastered to her face like ivy, but there was no mistaking who she was. It was Yi Minjae. Yi Minjae slept for a long time. I went out into the living room and waited for her to wake up. I didn’t even wonder how she had found out where I lived or why she was sleeping in my room. She came out into the living room. Her eyes were a little swollen, but it was definitely her. She walked towards me, moving her hips in her peculiar way. “I really don’t know what kind of woman you are.” I was a bit angry because of the incident at the brothel. “I’m not Yi Minjae. I’m the woman you see in that billboard. Come with me. Just promise me that you won’t get tired of my cheerful smile.” She continued to smile brightly even while she talked. Yi Minjae, I mean, the maiden on the billboard, stroked my shoulder. It was the bus driver who shook me awake. July 18 I raised the metal screens and stepped into the dealership. I flipped the switch for the platform and went to the bathroom to get some water to clean the display window. During the night, someone had thrown up right in front of the glass. Having filled the watering can, I was stepping out of the bathroom when I saw somebody in the driver’s seat of the car on the platform. It was Yi Minjae. Her hair was dyed blond and it now came down to her shoulders. She looked like a Barbie doll. Having seen me standing in the backdoor of the dealership, she smiled brightly. “So, you’ve finally made up your mind?” I got the vibe as soon as I looked at her face. “Do you think I could test drive it?” “You sure can, Miss Yi.” I got the key and climbed into the driver’s seat. She had moved into the passenger’s seat, opened the glove compartment and was busily examining every feature. As soon as I started the car, the dashboard lit up. The gyroscope began to turn slowly. “The fox fur coat looked really good on you the other day.” “Oh, you were at the show? I didn’t think you would be interested in things like that.” “I just happened to see it. And that’s not the only place I saw you. I also happened to see you somewhere else…” Her face, reflected in the rearview mirror, hardened. “Don’t get smart with me. I’m not that easily pushed around. You want to sell this car, don’t you? Then why don’t you just open the display window so we can start?” “Sure thing, Miss Yi. All clear for take-off.” I pressed hard on the accelerator. It was only after the front wheels went down the platform that I remembered the display window. I had to deactivate the sensor before taking out the car. I had completely forgotten that the glass was there in front of me, because it was too clean. It was my fault for polishing the windows so much. The car went right through and shattered the huge pane. There wasn’t enough time to step on the brakes. Glass poured down the roof of the car and Yi Minjae shrieked as she covered her face with her hands. The car cut across the sidewalk and crashed into a streetlamp. With the blare of the horn, my entire vision was veiled in white. When I came to my senses, my face was wrapped in the airbags that had deployed from the front and side. The airbags were cream-coloured, just like in the brochure. Then I remembered Yi Minjae in the passenger seat. Her face, too, was wrapped in the airbags. Yi Minjae fractured her collarbone. It was from the force of the airbags. When I went to go see her, she had on a neck brace and was watching TV in a half-reclining position. As soon as she saw me, she started screaming and hurled the bouquet of roses that I had brought. Because the demo car was insured, Yi Minjae’s medical bills and the cost of replacing the bumper were covered. Again, I had lost my chance to sell the car on the revolving platform. As usual, it was congested there and, as usual, I looked up at the maiden on the billboard. The next stop was announced. Someone rushed for the door, bumped my head, and knocked my glasses down to the floor. People rushed to the door and stepped on them. The left lens cracked into five pieces, but I didn’t mind. Through the crack in the lens, I now saw five maidens. 3 The rain-soaked suit slowly shrank as it dried. I folded his suit, underclothes, socks, and tie into a neat pile and stored them in an empty cardboard box. The shoes had started to mildew, so I tossed them into the recycling box. I tacked up a note on the electric pole the man had climbed: “Whoever is looking for his suit and personal belongings, please make all inquiries to the following address: Taegwang Apartments, Building A, Suite 207. Tel: 345-2100.” Once in a while, I would receive a prank call. Yet as time passed, even the prank calls stopped. When I passed by the pole, I saw that an ad covered my note. An art school for kindergarten students. To keep my note out of people’s reach, I climbed the pole once again. At the very top of the pole, I placed the paper with my contact info and climbed down. I started to pay more attention to the calls our company received. I thought that he might climb another pole and set off another power failure. But the calls were usually inquiries concerning bills and payments. Blackouts were uncommon in 1997, but even more so in 1999. When I go out to eat or find myself downtown and notice extremely clean windows, I have an urge to go inside. If I wanted to, I could walk inside and introduce myself to the man working in the restaurant or shoe store. Recently I saw his shoes again—the pair I had thrown out. A Filipino man collecting recycling boxes full of old clothes and shoes was wearing them. I’m still waiting for his phone call. But I know that a snake that has shed its skin doesn’t come back for what it has left behind. My habit of calculating distance by the number of poles I pass has been replaced by a sudden urge to climb to the very top of a pole. I also want to place my banner at the top. Yet, up until now, I have been able to fight that urge.    * Translated by Janet Hong.

REVIEWS

• The Character’s Problem Should not be the Story’s Problem: Flowers of Mold by Ha Seong-nan

• Blurring the Line Between Dream and Reality: Sapporo Inn by Ha Seong-nan Vol.6 Winter 2009

• Award-winning Stories Collected: The Taste of Summer by Ha Seong-nan Vol.23 Spring 2014

• Dream of the Amazon Workers: A by Ha Seong-nan Vol.10 Winter 2010

BOOKS