Togani, page 24
Yun hesitated, then made a dash for the door, pushing aside the couch just enough to get her hand on the doorknob. The silence in the office was like a taut rope, and now that rope was severed; to the agitated boys, Yun’s attempt to flee was the signal to attack. Out came the eggs and the flour. The students had gathered here to chastise Yi Kangsŏk, but the principal had managed to crawl out of harm’s way beneath his desk and was temporarily forgotten—which left Yun the target of their egg-and-flour bombardment.
The thirty students were charged with assault. When a photo of egg-splattered Yun Cha’ae appeared in the Mujin Daily, public opinion, which until then had been sympathetic toward the children and the Action Committee, cooled drastically.
“What Next for Home of Benevolence?”
“Young Female Teacher with No Ties to
Incident Assaulted by Students”
“Citizens Lament: How Could They!”
The photo of the despoiled female teacher with her long disheveled hair was both shocking and provocative. That day the police had broken in the door to the principal’s office, at which point Yun had run screaming to the shower room. After showering to clean herself, she went to the police station and calmly drafted a statement. The following day, for reasons unknown, she had herself admitted to the university hospital, where after an examination she was advised to remain for four weeks of treatment. In the words of the conservative press, “As a result of the attack by boys who were larger than she, her fragile body bore various contusions, there was a laceration near one of her eyes, and she has developed a phobia toward people—a lengthy recuperation is anticipated.” The newspapers went on to report that “after the incident the students submitted a self-reflection statement, but the school authorities have stated that they will continue to investigate until it is known who is instigating the students, and from an educational standpoint they will show no leniency in an effort to restore the moral fiber of the Home of Benevolence.”
The situation at the home entered a whirlwind phase. Parents pulled their children from the dormitory and would not allow them to attend the school. Those who could afford it transferred their son or daughter to a school in a different city. The four teachers who had been fired, together with students and their parents, put up a tent across from the Bureau of Education and demonstrated.
ESTABLISH A PUBLIC SCHOOL FOR THE DISABLED
REINSTATE TEACHERS FIRED WITHOUT CAUSE
WE CANNOT RETURN TO A SCHOOL THAT TAKES
BACK TEACHERS WHO SEXUALLY
ASSAULT THE STUDENTS
Predictably, the Bureau of Education refused to meet with them. In spite of everything, students gathered at the tent every morning. Those students whose homes were distant were for the time being fed and boarded at the church that Pastor Ch’oe had established.
A blackboard was put up inside the tent and classes were begun. Sex education was taught in first period, democracy in second period, and so on. The wind grew colder, but inside the tent, heated by the ardor of the teachers and students, it was cozy. The children smiled and laughed more than they had in the dormitory, and they shared their food down to the last instant noodle. Kang taught the children the poetry of Éluard, Prévert, and Paek Sŏk.
The afternoon that Kang’s wife arrived, the mercury was forecast to plummet that night, with freezing temperatures at the higher elevations for the first time this season. Two months had passed since the day she had called him in hysterics, and since then she had avoided contact except for mundane matters such as figuring out where she had put her official seal—she had to get an impression of it certified—and reporting that for her father’s seventieth birthday she was sending him on a trip instead of preparing a banquet.
Saemi was exhausted from the long ride, and Kang loaded her onto his back before climbing the steps to his apartment. The girl was noticeably heavier. After a moment’s hesitation, his wife brought up the rear.
And finally, they were sitting across from each other.
“It’s been a while, dear. It looks like you don’t stay here very often. It feels cold.”
In fact Kang had been spending nights in the tent. Someone had to stay overnight, and often this task fell to him because he lived alone.
“I’m sorry, dear . . .” His voice trailed off as he prepared to light a cigarette. But then he remembered sleeping Saemi and put the cigarette back in his pocket.
“Are you really?” she asked.
He considered her question. “Yes, I’m sorry, dear. And to Saemi too . . . you must have had a hard time with all those rumors.”
She didn’t immediately reply. Their silence was like that of a couple who had divorced long ago.
“I have a distant relative—a third cousin or something, older than me, on my mother’s side—and we’ve been close ever since we were young. He went to the US right after his military service, and it looks like he’s made a big success of himself. He’s back here for the first time in ten years, and I just saw him. He’s opening a suitcase factory in China, and he’ll need to incorporate it here in Korea.”
She checked his reaction before speaking again, this time in the quiet but forceful tone of someone who has chosen her words carefully.
“In other words he needs a manager here in Korea. Someone with experience in China . . . He’d like to meet you. He’s going back to the US in three days, and he has to make a decision by then. That doesn’t give us much time, so I thought I would come down.”
Kang looked down without replying.
While they were lying next to each other in bed, his phone vibrated. On the display was Sŏ’s name. He sensed his wife had seen the name and had tensed up. He pushed the call-reject button. He was about to turn toward his wife when the phone buzzed again. And again it was Sŏ. In his irritation he wondered if there was an emergency, but then his wife’s hand reached out and covered the phone. Her eyes pleaded with him, testing him, warning him that greater difficulties awaited them unless he accepted her plea. The phone buzzed yet again, and this time he turned it off. Only then did he sense a release of tension from her shoulders.
He turned on his side and cautiously rested a hand on her chest. To his surprise she didn’t push it away. Her body was familiar and warm. As he mounted her he realized how much his own still youthful body had longed for her, and he sensed she felt the same. Afterward, they managed to wipe the perspiration from their foreheads and at the same time hold hands beneath the quilt.
“Let’s go back to Seoul tomorrow. I heard about your firing and was wondering when you’d return. How come you haven’t?”
She said this in a sleepy voice, as if this one act of lovemaking had returned them to the way they used to be.
He didn’t answer. In the dark he could see, blinking on and off like the lamp of a lighthouse, the clear faces of Sŏ and Yŏndu and Yuri and Minsu.
“Promise me, hmm? In the name of Saemi, promise me, Inho, dear.”
With a nasal moan she draped her bare arm around his neck. The fleshy arm passed across the stubble on his face, leaving the soporific scent of baby powder.
“All right. Let’s get some sleep and tomorrow we’ll revisit.”
“No, promise me now. Or I won’t go to sleep.”
Her pouting reminded him of the way she was when they were dating. He felt like they had gone back in time, before his departure for Mujin. She released his neck, and to his surprise she laughed.
“I never dreamed you’d join the ranks of the activists. You never thought much of them—you said they were irresponsible toward their children.”
“You must be tired. Why don’t you get some sleep. I’m going to have a smoke.” Giving her a peck on the forehead, he took his phone and went out on the balcony, her voice trailing behind him.
“You should quit smoking too. I know an herb doctor who uses acupuncture to help people quit.”
He slid the balcony door shut and her high-pitched voice could no longer be heard. He lit a cigarette, and before he knew it he was looking out at Sŏ’s apartment. The lights were off—where could she be? He drew deeply on his cigarette and turned on the phone. With a shudder it began vibrating, one message after another, the names coming up on the display—Sŏ, Pastor Ch’oe, the teachers they were working with. There was also a text message: they’re tearing down the tent school first thing in the morning. everybody gather. let’s keep our tent school. please help.
He called Sŏ.
I always talked anxiously, said that a pipe dream is poison
And the world is like a book: once you know the ending you can’t go back and change it.
That’s right—I have a dream, I do, a dream I believe in. . . .
Listening to the song on her answer tone, he thought back to that night—to the young hooker, the mad hag, the grab-and-dash guy . . .
“Hey, Kang. Sorry to bother you when you’re with your wife after all this time. But tomorrow’s the twenty-eighth anniversary of the Mujin Democratic Uprising, and it looks like the tent’s being taken down at daybreak, before the festivities get under way. And it’s not the police that are doing it; they’re using a demolition company. You know how mean those guys are, right? Everybody’s coming back from home. And even though the teachers told the kids to stay away, they’re saying they’ll be here too, to help keep watch. But we’re short on men. Kang, you ought to be here. And I have to confess, this is the first time for me. . . .”
In the background Kang heard the tent flapping in the wind. And the chattering of Sŏ’s teeth. Through the balcony’s glass door, he saw the faces of Saemi and his wife inside. Warm in there, cold where he was; bright there, dark here—two clearly divided worlds.
“I can’t go just now, but I’ll be there before daybreak. How come you’re shivering like that? Don’t be afraid. You’re . . . brave, remember?”
“Oh? I didn’t realize I was shivering,” she said cheerfully. “That’s strange, I’ve always been afraid. But the truth is, it’s a cold night. Anyway, be sure to come.”
“I will. I might be a little late. But count on me.”
“That’s right,” she said with a short laugh. “He may be a little late but he always shows up—that’s our Kang Inho!”
My dear love,
I think this is the first letter I’ve ever written to you except that time I was in China on business when we were dating. Where to begin? Let’s start with Mujin and the fog and a certain hope and another me that I discovered in the fog of Mujin.
When I arrived here I felt like a defeated beast—all the capital in that massive metropolis couldn’t digest me, and I got thrown up by it. I was wandering around like a dog with its tail between its legs looking for scraps of food. But when these things happened to the children I was supposed to teach, I felt something awaken inside me. Call it a thirst for justice, or maybe divinity, or anything more noble. I discovered for the first time that I was making an effort for something that didn’t involve money or pleasure, that actually involved pain. And in the process I tasted quite unexpectedly the joy of my entire being awakening to the fact that I was a human being, a person with dignity. This was a feeling I had never experienced, something unfamiliar and lofty, but there was more—I also learned that I as a human being had always had this within me, and I learned that I loved myself the most when I was fighting for my neighbors, fighting to be with them. And as a human being with dignity, I wanted to fight those who trampled on others with dignity who couldn’t defend themselves. In the context of my life, there was nothing the least bit insignificant about this. And so I want to finish what I’ve started, not so much for someone else but for me. I think that if I could see the children studying in an environment where they would never again be abused, I could walk away with a lovely recollection of my ordeal.
My dear, I regret not telling you at the outset that this path I chose turned out to be the right one, not only for myself but for the three of us. I wonder if you would believe me if I said that I am doing this for Saemi’s sake. I appreciate knowing about the opportunity involving China, but please tell your cousin I’m sorry.
If I left here now, I’d be just a disgusting creature that sexually assaulted his student, someone who washed up in Mujin, earned a few coppers, and managed to get himself fired without cause, another defeated beast slinking around looking for its next meal. Maybe I’d become someone who was defeated by capital that couldn’t digest me and now by savagery. I think you’ll understand this, but if I went back now, I would be forever miserable—even if I ended up making a fortune.
My dear, they’re coming to take down the tent where the children had classes tonight. These children are barely healing from the abuse and the scars. By now they feel as dear to me as Saemi. Some of the teachers are there too. Those colleagues of mine suffered because they spoke up and said that what’s not right is not right. And by now they feel as dear to me as you.
I might be gone when you wake up. When you and Saemi get back to Seoul, please be patient with me a little while longer. I won’t be that long—I promise. I’ll return to you and Saemi, a dad and a husband who can walk tall with gusto.
My dear, I was never a flag-bearing hero. Nor am I scum that just watches while dogs have their way with young, powerless children. Mujin has taught me that. I’m trusting in you to help me keep what’s left of my pride. And I pray that you will trust in me.
Your loving husband
He folded the letter and placed it near his wife’s pillow. He looked at Saemi’s face, faintly illuminated by a streetlight beyond the balcony. When she was younger he’d thought she resembled him, but now there was no mistaking that she was starting to take on her mom’s appearance.
“Aren’t you coming to bed?” came his wife’s sleepy voice.
“Yeah, but I have something to do first. Don’t worry about me, and get yourself some sleep.”
“Hold me, will you? I had a strange dream.”
This was the way she had been before he had left for Mujin. He felt sorry for her, lifted the quilt, and lay down beside her. She buried herself in his chest and looped her arms around his neck. As he patted her back, the letter came into view, looming before him in the dark.
The wind was rattling the windows. It made him feel that the flapping of the tent he had heard while talking with Sŏ was coming instead from the letter. The wind picked up, and it felt colder as daybreak approached. Do you really have to? a voice asked him. Yes, I really have to, he answered. Really? In spite of everything? Are you sure? came the voice again. Yes, in spite of everything, I’m sure, I really have to—this he could not answer. He closed his eyes.
Dawn was like a dusky cape settling almost imperceptibly over the window. It looked cold.
His wife had just returned from the bathroom.
“What are they doing, calling through the night—don’t they ever sleep? And who are they, anyway? Is this what they do in Mujin?”
She had good reason to sound vexed—the buzzing of the phone had wreaked havoc with her sleep.
Kang picked up the phone and checked the display—one “Sŏ Yujin” after another, her last call arriving at 5:15 a.m. He couldn’t imagine what had happened there after that. The sky was clouded over, and the wind was still blowing fiercely, buffeting anything not solidly fixed in place. Autumn leaves not yet in full color had been stripped from the trees and were whirling aimlessly through the air. Kang heard a sign clatter to the ground. He retrieved the letter he had written, got up, and went out on the balcony. The wind was cold and blustery and, combined with the dampness, chilled him to the bone.
He managed to light a cigarette, then reread the letter. Finally, he ripped it up and threw it over the side of the balcony, the scraps of paper flying off into the void.
The tent had been ripped apart, the blackboard smashed. The children had never seen a demolition team at work before. They were brushed aside by the club-wielding men, and five of them were taken into custody. Ch’oe Suhŭi, chief inspector of the Mujin Bureau of Education, was on her way to work when she passed by the site and saw the huge dump truck. She shook her head.
“Oh, I am so sick of those filthy, crude, low-class creatures.”
The twenty-eighth anniversary celebration of the Mujin Democratic Uprising was scheduled for 10 a.m. in the plaza outside City Hall. Sergeant Chang was anxious—he had received a report that the deaf, the parents of children at the Home of Benevolence, and various citizens’ groups would assemble in the plaza at that time. The media would gather as well, television crews and all, and the prime minister was expected. It promised to be a large-scale event, and if something went wrong, Chang could bet that his next promotion wouldn’t be to his advantage—and he certainly didn’t want to end up on the new chief’s shit list. The new chief was already ramming home his determination to clip every last link to corruption. Six months from now all of his pronouncements would be forgotten, but in the meantime Chang would have to step lightly.
When it came time to pack his belongings, Kang was amazed at how much he had accumulated in the name of daily necessities. Into the trunk of his car went the quilt and the notebook computer, and while he was taking one last look around, he discovered a pink ribbon beneath his desk/dining table. It was the ribbon Yŏndu had tied around the envelope containing the letter she’d written him—the letter that began To our teacher Kang Inho—and Kang could almost hear coming from it the giggling of girls. The pair of tiny golden bells were still attached to it. He picked it up and took it to the wastebasket, but ended up putting it in his pocket. And there he stood.
“Shall I drive?” asked his wife. “You don’t look well.”
Without a word he got into the passenger seat. His wife settled Saemi in the back seat, then climbed in and started the car.
