Togani, page 7
“If you were in my line of work—I’m not sure I can explain this—you’d find that rationality”—and here she paused, trying to lock in Kang’s wavering gaze before saying in a pained voice—“doesn’t exist.”
“This is the twenty-first century,” said Kang. “Of course the police will investigate.”
Sŏ’s frown deepened. “Yes, it’s the twenty-first century, all right, and I’m telling you the police are not investigating!”
“Let’s just wait a little—it’s only been a few days,” Kang managed to say.
But Sŏ would not back down. “Listen to me, will you. Let me tell you something about the man who founded the school, Yi Chunbŏm. The school dates back to 1964—that’s after Park Chung Hee took power and right after he made himself president. Yi Chunbŏm started out working for the Public Welfare Bureau at City Hall here in Mujin and then he set up the Mujin Home for Deaf-Mutes—which makes me wonder if he caught on early about the huge welfare budget for the disabled. I don’t know this for a fact, but sources say he decided on deaf-mutes because they’re more capable of physical labor than people with other disabilities. It’s ridiculous, I know—when people can’t speak up. . . . Anyway, he bought up land around and about Mujin, put up temporary housing, and then put his deaf-mutes to work building permanent housing. From that point on he received a great deal of funding. And then when Mujin started to expand and the outlying areas were incorporated into the city, land prices skyrocketed. So he got all this funding from the city, and then—and God knows how he did it—he put his land under corporate ownership. Eventually the city bought it all from him, and he moved his operations outside the city again, to the present seaside location. The capital gains were huge, and because they were corporate capital gains, they were safe. But of course the corporation in question consists of the founder, Yi Chunbŏm, and his two sons—the principal and the man who holds the purse strings, the administrator. You don’t need any video to see how it plays out. The twins’ academic background isn’t much to brag about, but the father made sure to send his daughters off to the US for high school and college and then got them high-powered husbands. We found out that one of them is a prosecutor.
“And there’s another piece to this puzzle that sticks out—where the school used to be is where Mujin police headquarters is now. Meaning, the land was bought by the government. Nothing’s come to light in the way of a relationship between the police and the home, but, during the dictatorship, when there were demonstrations and the old police station got filled up with protestors who’d been arrested, the Home of Benevolence occasionally let the police use an entire floor of the dormitory to handle the overflow. The demonstrators were unlawfully detained and they were tortured but so what—nobody could hear them. Knowing this, don’t you think there’s something fishy about the police dragging their feet in this investigation?”
Hearing this, Kang imagined Sŏ confronting a massive iceberg with only a tiny hammer. He, on the other hand, had been trying to give the impression that he had risen above the inevitable fact that there were bad people everywhere. But his efforts were eroded by her words, which had dashed over him like a cold shower.
“You don’t know, because you’ve only been here a few days, but don’t you feel there’s something strange going on? The principal assaults a student in a school bathroom, the girl screams—is there any teacher capable of hearing, who wouldn’t know what was going on?”
Kang could only hang his head in response.
When Kang arrived at the school the next morning he found a commotion taking place outside the principal’s office. A man he had never seen before, dressed neatly in a suit, was talking loudly in a peculiar voice while the custodian and Pak Pohyŏn attempted to detain him—each had taken hold of one of the man’s arms. Standing nearby was the administrator, obviously displeased. Also present was Yun Cha’ae, arms folded across her chest. When she spotted Kang, her frown turned frosty and she looked away. Pak’s eyes, small and shiny like a rat’s, seemed to have been watching out for how Yun would respond to Kang, and when he noticed her chilly look, he adopted a menacing expression.
“You can’t get away with this!” shouted the man in the suit. “You have to give me a reason! You can’t get away with this! You can’t just fire me!”
This was the first time Kang had heard a deaf-mute speak. The man’s tone was unsteady, but his pronunciation was clear.
“Can’t I?” barked the administrator. “We hired you, we’ll fire you, and there’s nothing you can do about it! So shut up—you’re making a fool out of yourself!”
The administrator must have known the man was a deaf-mute, but he wasn’t using sign language, wasn’t even bothering with gestures to make himself understood. Kang knew by now that this was the worst insult a deaf-mute could suffer. Failing to show the least effort to communicate—no sign language, no gestures—was no different from an American, arms folded, carrying on endlessly in English to someone who didn’t speak that language.
The man in the suit looked at Yun with an expression that showed he didn’t understand what the administrator was saying. She responded with a look of contempt mixed with what Kang could only describe as sheer hostility. But the way the man regarded her indicated that he was asking her for help, and Kang realized that Yun was the only communication link between the two men, one with normal hearing and the other deaf. For a brief moment Kang sensed the grief that the hearing-impaired must feel in such situations, followed by a stab of pain in his heart.
“Doesn’t he have to give me cause?” the man shouted. “A reason for firing me?”
With an expression of annoyance, the administrator gestured with his chin for Yun to interpret. She did so, signing to the man, her cold expression unchanging. The moment she finished, the man screamed once, broke free from the two men restraining him, and charged toward the principal’s office. The door was locked. He rammed the door with his body, then kicked at it.
“Come out! You can’t fire me like this! What did I do to deserve it!”
The teachers arriving for the day paused only long enough to see what was happening, then continued on their way. They reminded Kang of drivers who slow down to gawk at an accident and then speed up again, their faces uncaring. Several men rushed into the building, and the man in the suit was carried away, each limb in the grip of a separate man.
“You can’t do this to me! You can’t do this!” he screamed as he was taken outside.
In the teachers’ room Kang approached Pak Kyŏngch’ŏl, who was changing into his school slippers. The man was struggling to get his shoes off.
“What was that all about?” asked Kang. “Who was that?”
“You’re a determined fellow, aren’t you?” asked Pak as if nothing had happened. He finally managed to remove his shoes and don his slippers. Then took his time turning on his computer. “Didn’t I warn you? Why are you so nosy, anyway? You have something in mind?”
Kang cringed at these words.
The bell for first period rang, and the teachers began filing out, a succession of unsettled faces. Kang joined them, class list in hand. The long hallway to the classrooms was still, and Kang felt an overwhelming fear, as if he himself were deaf.
“Got to see Sŏ,” he muttered to himself. “Got to find out who that man is and what’s going on between him and the school—it’s unbelievable.” And then a strange thought hit him: What if the words he had just mumbled, words heard by his own ears, were not audible to others? He was suddenly revisited by the same vague unease he had felt since his arrival in Mujin. Could he ever have imagined, as he did now, that tranquility could be so oppressive?
In the classroom he found Minsu crying while the other children stood nearby communicating feverishly in sign language. Putting his class list on the teacher’s desk, he went straight to Minsu.
What is it? He had barely signed the question when his hands dropped to his sides. Minsu had a black eye, his face was bruised, and his neck bore discolorations. Kang rolled up the boy’s shirt sleeves—abrasions on his arms as well.
Were you fighting with someone? Kang signed.
Minsu, head lowered, didn’t answer.
Kang recalled the listing for Minsu in his student roster:
Name: Chŏn Minsu—moderate hearing impairment
Family: father, mild intellectual impairment; mother, moderate hearing impairment and moderate intellectual impairment; younger brother Yŏngsu, moderate hearing impairment, severe intellectual impairment
Home: Oeso Island; remote location makes school-vacation home visit difficult for pupil
Requires special attention
That listing would eventually be updated:
Younger brother struck and killed by train; remains unclaimed by disabled parents; compensation provided to parents by Railroad Administration.
What now? The prospects for this boy’s very existence seemed more remote than the island where his parents lived.
Who hit you?
It was all Kang could do to sign this question but Minsu remained silent. With a sigh, Kang carefully lifted the boy’s shirt. More startling than the bruises on the boy’s chest were his bony ribs. Noting the bruises, he lowered Minsu’s shirt.
No ointment?
No.
Can you tell me who did this?
No answer.
All right. Let’s go see the nurse.
But when he took Minsu’s hand, the fear-ridden boy resisted.
What’s the matter? You need some ointment for those bruises.
The next moment Minsu shot to his feet with an inarticulate scream, wrenched his hand free, and ran frantically from the classroom. While Kang tried to decide whether to follow, the other children regarded him. Their faces were cold and once again guarded. Kang managed to compose himself.
Take your seats and open your books. I want you to read today’s lesson.
He sat down at his desk, beside the platform and podium, and summoned Yŏndu. The girl’s face looked calmer now that she had seen her mother. He wanted to ask if she was all right but couldn’t bring himself to do it. First, he needed to regain his presence of mind.
Do you know what happened to Minsu?
Instead of answering, Yŏndu lowered her gaze.
Who did it?
Yŏndu looked up hesitantly toward Kang, bit her lip, then slowly began to sign.
Sometimes he comes to class looking like that. He told us it happens at night in the dorm. When Teacher Pak Pohyŏn has night duty, Minsu gets taken out, and we think that’s when he gets hurt. Before his brother died, sometimes they were both taken out at night. Even if they get beaten, no one objects—you know.
Teacher Pak—Pak Pohyŏn?
Yŏndu looked intently at Kang.
Yes. And the day Minsu’s brother, Yŏngsu, died? The night before that, they were both beaten.
The night was dark and the area was tawdry. The dim lights in the surrounding establishments were going off. A salty smell and a sticky feel rode the wind blowing in from the sea. Kang kept trying to focus his blurred vision; he had no idea where he was. From school he had driven home, parked, and started walking. He had walked until he was too tired to walk more, found a drinking place, and drank. He had repeated the process at least twice that he could remember.
Once more he narrowed his focus, and there in front of him, revolving like a barbershop pole, was a gaudy neon sign. Kang peered at it, trying to make out the words—The Extravaganza—Hot Beauties of Mujin—Seoul Style, Anything Goes! The sign was grimy and the borders, top and bottom, were chipped.
Kang gaped at the sign a while longer, then started moving again. Light, a shaft of light from behind him—and then something smashed into the back of his head. Down he went like a sheaf of straw. Instinctively he reached out, but the motorcycle was already speeding off, and he realized the suit jacket he had slung over his shoulder was gone. Before he knew it he was on his feet chasing the motorcycle, but it disappeared around the corner and into an alley. He arrived, panting, at the mouth of the alley, and suddenly everything was bright—a profusion of signs in red and yellow and beneath them a throng of women in short skirts. Kang was reminded of a children’s book he had read in which the characters fell through a manhole and into a vastly different world. But the children’s book was fantasy and this was real. The women wore garish makeup. Some sat in chairs, others stood; all were angling for customers. Kang thought he saw two men on a motorcycle—bastards!—but then they were gone. He kept blinking, wanting his alcohol-blurred vision to clear, as he tried to figure out where the motorcycle had gone. It was so frustrating.
A woman approached. Her hair was a gray tangle, and she was shaking her head back and forth. She put her face up to his and examined it. Her own wrinkled face resembled a sponge, her complexion the murky color of sewage, and she clutched a bundle. To Kang she seemed half human, half ghost. The woman shoved her face closer.
“Kim Inshik, right?”
Kang was hit with a blast of gamy, excremental breath. “You’ve got the wrong guy,” he said, backpedaling.
“No, you’re Kim Inshik, all right.”
She was like a pesky fly, and when she tried to press even closer, he retreated to the now-darkened main street. The woman hurried after him.
“You’re Kim Inshik, all right. Kim Inshik, you lousy bastard! Where’s my money? You lousy bastard, give me my money back!”
Kang quickened his pace and the woman did likewise. He broke into a run, figuring the hag would do the same. When next he looked back, she had stopped and was gesticulating frantically in his direction. The pumping of her arm beneath the solitary streetlight made this Mujin street scene look like something out of a nightmare, only worse.
When Kang had caught his breath, he tottered off into the night. The dense air promised rain. Holding his hand out, he could almost feel the moisture condense on his palm. Taxis whizzed through the thick air. He felt a tickle at the back of his neck and reached there—sticky. He looked at his hand, saw blood on his fingers. He tried to wave down a taxi, staggered, and grabbed a utility pole to steady himself. Where was his wallet? In his suit jacket, damn it! Wallet, credit cards, suit jacket—bye-bye. He clenched his teeth, then felt in his pants pocket—his phone was still there. Thank the Lord for little favors. He felt sick to his stomach. Holding fast to the pole, he retched and spat. He looked up and felt rain. The raindrops thickened. The heavens were darker, the streets wet.
I had a dream, I did, and though it was abandoned, ripped, and ragged
I treasured that dream and kept it in my heart.
If on occasion someone, for whatever reason, were to sneer behind my back
I endured, I could endure, until the day that dream came true
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
Look at me—I stand tall before that cold wall of fate
Someday I’ll fly over it, fly high into the sky,
The weight of this world cannot tie me down
That day let’s celebrate the end of my life’s journey.
“Goose Dream” by Insuni—the answer tone that Sŏ had programmed into her phone. Kang had difficulty appreciating that dream, so immediate was the impression left by his spectral encounter with that dirty old woman. Dream—ha, a dream. Listening to the song, Kang forgot for the moment that he had called Sŏ, and when the song was cut off, replaced by her voice, he startled.
“Inho? Kang Inho?”
He must have awakened her.
“Are you all right? What time is it anyway?”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“What’s the matter? What happened?”
The back of his hand holding the phone was getting wet. It was all he could do to speak, and he had to keep gritting his teeth before he could say anything.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m somewhere downtown . . . wallet’s gone—a couple of guys snatched it—everywhere it’s dark, and now it’s raining . . . can’t find my way home.” And with that he plopped down onto the sidewalk.
Sŏ exited her car and slammed the door shut. She could almost hear her colleague chiding her, the way he did when they had to drive to an appointment: “Please, easy on the door—we don’t want the car to roll over.”
The next moment she was talking silently to herself: Sergeant Chang—Chang Hamun—face like a dried pollack . . . knew I’d have to deal with that creep someday. And off she marched across the parking lot toward the Mujin Police Station, swinging her arms like a boxer. Hold on—she stopped. Where was her handbag? She remembered dropping her keys inside it after she’d parked, then making a grand display of locking the car and slamming the door shut, so zeroed in was she on Chang. Were the keys in her jacket pocket? She felt around—no. This wasn’t the first time she’d zoned out. Come on, you really need to focus! She heaved a sigh. Maybe she needed more sleep. She recalled how wretched and ghostlike Kang had looked when she had found him near the bus terminal the previous night. No taxis, he had whimpered over the phone.
“No cab? Where are you anyway, in the middle of a rice paddy? In a mudflat? Do you see a shop anywhere? Just give me the name—or read me the phone number on the sign.”
She had then called information for the address of the shop Kang had reported, climbed into her car, and found him waiting with sunken eyes, like a voyager just returned from the other world. He hadn’t been here even a week and yet had taken on an aging, seedy look. She’d felt peeved pulling up at the utility pole where he was standing—why couldn’t he have hailed a cab and then knocked on her door to borrow the fare? Instead she’d had to fetch him. It was only when they’d arrived at his apartment and she’d helped him out of the car and noticed his bloodstained shirt that she understood why he’d felt compelled to call her. With his bloodshot eyes and the fear and sorrow he had projected, he reminded her of an orphan—even more so when she recalled how he had whimpered over the phone: “It’s Kang. I’m somewhere downtown . . . wallet’s gone—a couple of guys snatched it—everywhere it’s dark, and now it’s raining . . . can’t find my way home.” She’d had to help him inside, where he insisted she join him for more soju at his messy kitchen table, so she hadn’t gotten to sleep until the wee hours of the morning.
“This is the twenty-first century,” said Kang. “Of course the police will investigate.”
Sŏ’s frown deepened. “Yes, it’s the twenty-first century, all right, and I’m telling you the police are not investigating!”
“Let’s just wait a little—it’s only been a few days,” Kang managed to say.
But Sŏ would not back down. “Listen to me, will you. Let me tell you something about the man who founded the school, Yi Chunbŏm. The school dates back to 1964—that’s after Park Chung Hee took power and right after he made himself president. Yi Chunbŏm started out working for the Public Welfare Bureau at City Hall here in Mujin and then he set up the Mujin Home for Deaf-Mutes—which makes me wonder if he caught on early about the huge welfare budget for the disabled. I don’t know this for a fact, but sources say he decided on deaf-mutes because they’re more capable of physical labor than people with other disabilities. It’s ridiculous, I know—when people can’t speak up. . . . Anyway, he bought up land around and about Mujin, put up temporary housing, and then put his deaf-mutes to work building permanent housing. From that point on he received a great deal of funding. And then when Mujin started to expand and the outlying areas were incorporated into the city, land prices skyrocketed. So he got all this funding from the city, and then—and God knows how he did it—he put his land under corporate ownership. Eventually the city bought it all from him, and he moved his operations outside the city again, to the present seaside location. The capital gains were huge, and because they were corporate capital gains, they were safe. But of course the corporation in question consists of the founder, Yi Chunbŏm, and his two sons—the principal and the man who holds the purse strings, the administrator. You don’t need any video to see how it plays out. The twins’ academic background isn’t much to brag about, but the father made sure to send his daughters off to the US for high school and college and then got them high-powered husbands. We found out that one of them is a prosecutor.
“And there’s another piece to this puzzle that sticks out—where the school used to be is where Mujin police headquarters is now. Meaning, the land was bought by the government. Nothing’s come to light in the way of a relationship between the police and the home, but, during the dictatorship, when there were demonstrations and the old police station got filled up with protestors who’d been arrested, the Home of Benevolence occasionally let the police use an entire floor of the dormitory to handle the overflow. The demonstrators were unlawfully detained and they were tortured but so what—nobody could hear them. Knowing this, don’t you think there’s something fishy about the police dragging their feet in this investigation?”
Hearing this, Kang imagined Sŏ confronting a massive iceberg with only a tiny hammer. He, on the other hand, had been trying to give the impression that he had risen above the inevitable fact that there were bad people everywhere. But his efforts were eroded by her words, which had dashed over him like a cold shower.
“You don’t know, because you’ve only been here a few days, but don’t you feel there’s something strange going on? The principal assaults a student in a school bathroom, the girl screams—is there any teacher capable of hearing, who wouldn’t know what was going on?”
Kang could only hang his head in response.
When Kang arrived at the school the next morning he found a commotion taking place outside the principal’s office. A man he had never seen before, dressed neatly in a suit, was talking loudly in a peculiar voice while the custodian and Pak Pohyŏn attempted to detain him—each had taken hold of one of the man’s arms. Standing nearby was the administrator, obviously displeased. Also present was Yun Cha’ae, arms folded across her chest. When she spotted Kang, her frown turned frosty and she looked away. Pak’s eyes, small and shiny like a rat’s, seemed to have been watching out for how Yun would respond to Kang, and when he noticed her chilly look, he adopted a menacing expression.
“You can’t get away with this!” shouted the man in the suit. “You have to give me a reason! You can’t get away with this! You can’t just fire me!”
This was the first time Kang had heard a deaf-mute speak. The man’s tone was unsteady, but his pronunciation was clear.
“Can’t I?” barked the administrator. “We hired you, we’ll fire you, and there’s nothing you can do about it! So shut up—you’re making a fool out of yourself!”
The administrator must have known the man was a deaf-mute, but he wasn’t using sign language, wasn’t even bothering with gestures to make himself understood. Kang knew by now that this was the worst insult a deaf-mute could suffer. Failing to show the least effort to communicate—no sign language, no gestures—was no different from an American, arms folded, carrying on endlessly in English to someone who didn’t speak that language.
The man in the suit looked at Yun with an expression that showed he didn’t understand what the administrator was saying. She responded with a look of contempt mixed with what Kang could only describe as sheer hostility. But the way the man regarded her indicated that he was asking her for help, and Kang realized that Yun was the only communication link between the two men, one with normal hearing and the other deaf. For a brief moment Kang sensed the grief that the hearing-impaired must feel in such situations, followed by a stab of pain in his heart.
“Doesn’t he have to give me cause?” the man shouted. “A reason for firing me?”
With an expression of annoyance, the administrator gestured with his chin for Yun to interpret. She did so, signing to the man, her cold expression unchanging. The moment she finished, the man screamed once, broke free from the two men restraining him, and charged toward the principal’s office. The door was locked. He rammed the door with his body, then kicked at it.
“Come out! You can’t fire me like this! What did I do to deserve it!”
The teachers arriving for the day paused only long enough to see what was happening, then continued on their way. They reminded Kang of drivers who slow down to gawk at an accident and then speed up again, their faces uncaring. Several men rushed into the building, and the man in the suit was carried away, each limb in the grip of a separate man.
“You can’t do this to me! You can’t do this!” he screamed as he was taken outside.
In the teachers’ room Kang approached Pak Kyŏngch’ŏl, who was changing into his school slippers. The man was struggling to get his shoes off.
“What was that all about?” asked Kang. “Who was that?”
“You’re a determined fellow, aren’t you?” asked Pak as if nothing had happened. He finally managed to remove his shoes and don his slippers. Then took his time turning on his computer. “Didn’t I warn you? Why are you so nosy, anyway? You have something in mind?”
Kang cringed at these words.
The bell for first period rang, and the teachers began filing out, a succession of unsettled faces. Kang joined them, class list in hand. The long hallway to the classrooms was still, and Kang felt an overwhelming fear, as if he himself were deaf.
“Got to see Sŏ,” he muttered to himself. “Got to find out who that man is and what’s going on between him and the school—it’s unbelievable.” And then a strange thought hit him: What if the words he had just mumbled, words heard by his own ears, were not audible to others? He was suddenly revisited by the same vague unease he had felt since his arrival in Mujin. Could he ever have imagined, as he did now, that tranquility could be so oppressive?
In the classroom he found Minsu crying while the other children stood nearby communicating feverishly in sign language. Putting his class list on the teacher’s desk, he went straight to Minsu.
What is it? He had barely signed the question when his hands dropped to his sides. Minsu had a black eye, his face was bruised, and his neck bore discolorations. Kang rolled up the boy’s shirt sleeves—abrasions on his arms as well.
Were you fighting with someone? Kang signed.
Minsu, head lowered, didn’t answer.
Kang recalled the listing for Minsu in his student roster:
Name: Chŏn Minsu—moderate hearing impairment
Family: father, mild intellectual impairment; mother, moderate hearing impairment and moderate intellectual impairment; younger brother Yŏngsu, moderate hearing impairment, severe intellectual impairment
Home: Oeso Island; remote location makes school-vacation home visit difficult for pupil
Requires special attention
That listing would eventually be updated:
Younger brother struck and killed by train; remains unclaimed by disabled parents; compensation provided to parents by Railroad Administration.
What now? The prospects for this boy’s very existence seemed more remote than the island where his parents lived.
Who hit you?
It was all Kang could do to sign this question but Minsu remained silent. With a sigh, Kang carefully lifted the boy’s shirt. More startling than the bruises on the boy’s chest were his bony ribs. Noting the bruises, he lowered Minsu’s shirt.
No ointment?
No.
Can you tell me who did this?
No answer.
All right. Let’s go see the nurse.
But when he took Minsu’s hand, the fear-ridden boy resisted.
What’s the matter? You need some ointment for those bruises.
The next moment Minsu shot to his feet with an inarticulate scream, wrenched his hand free, and ran frantically from the classroom. While Kang tried to decide whether to follow, the other children regarded him. Their faces were cold and once again guarded. Kang managed to compose himself.
Take your seats and open your books. I want you to read today’s lesson.
He sat down at his desk, beside the platform and podium, and summoned Yŏndu. The girl’s face looked calmer now that she had seen her mother. He wanted to ask if she was all right but couldn’t bring himself to do it. First, he needed to regain his presence of mind.
Do you know what happened to Minsu?
Instead of answering, Yŏndu lowered her gaze.
Who did it?
Yŏndu looked up hesitantly toward Kang, bit her lip, then slowly began to sign.
Sometimes he comes to class looking like that. He told us it happens at night in the dorm. When Teacher Pak Pohyŏn has night duty, Minsu gets taken out, and we think that’s when he gets hurt. Before his brother died, sometimes they were both taken out at night. Even if they get beaten, no one objects—you know.
Teacher Pak—Pak Pohyŏn?
Yŏndu looked intently at Kang.
Yes. And the day Minsu’s brother, Yŏngsu, died? The night before that, they were both beaten.
The night was dark and the area was tawdry. The dim lights in the surrounding establishments were going off. A salty smell and a sticky feel rode the wind blowing in from the sea. Kang kept trying to focus his blurred vision; he had no idea where he was. From school he had driven home, parked, and started walking. He had walked until he was too tired to walk more, found a drinking place, and drank. He had repeated the process at least twice that he could remember.
Once more he narrowed his focus, and there in front of him, revolving like a barbershop pole, was a gaudy neon sign. Kang peered at it, trying to make out the words—The Extravaganza—Hot Beauties of Mujin—Seoul Style, Anything Goes! The sign was grimy and the borders, top and bottom, were chipped.
Kang gaped at the sign a while longer, then started moving again. Light, a shaft of light from behind him—and then something smashed into the back of his head. Down he went like a sheaf of straw. Instinctively he reached out, but the motorcycle was already speeding off, and he realized the suit jacket he had slung over his shoulder was gone. Before he knew it he was on his feet chasing the motorcycle, but it disappeared around the corner and into an alley. He arrived, panting, at the mouth of the alley, and suddenly everything was bright—a profusion of signs in red and yellow and beneath them a throng of women in short skirts. Kang was reminded of a children’s book he had read in which the characters fell through a manhole and into a vastly different world. But the children’s book was fantasy and this was real. The women wore garish makeup. Some sat in chairs, others stood; all were angling for customers. Kang thought he saw two men on a motorcycle—bastards!—but then they were gone. He kept blinking, wanting his alcohol-blurred vision to clear, as he tried to figure out where the motorcycle had gone. It was so frustrating.
A woman approached. Her hair was a gray tangle, and she was shaking her head back and forth. She put her face up to his and examined it. Her own wrinkled face resembled a sponge, her complexion the murky color of sewage, and she clutched a bundle. To Kang she seemed half human, half ghost. The woman shoved her face closer.
“Kim Inshik, right?”
Kang was hit with a blast of gamy, excremental breath. “You’ve got the wrong guy,” he said, backpedaling.
“No, you’re Kim Inshik, all right.”
She was like a pesky fly, and when she tried to press even closer, he retreated to the now-darkened main street. The woman hurried after him.
“You’re Kim Inshik, all right. Kim Inshik, you lousy bastard! Where’s my money? You lousy bastard, give me my money back!”
Kang quickened his pace and the woman did likewise. He broke into a run, figuring the hag would do the same. When next he looked back, she had stopped and was gesticulating frantically in his direction. The pumping of her arm beneath the solitary streetlight made this Mujin street scene look like something out of a nightmare, only worse.
When Kang had caught his breath, he tottered off into the night. The dense air promised rain. Holding his hand out, he could almost feel the moisture condense on his palm. Taxis whizzed through the thick air. He felt a tickle at the back of his neck and reached there—sticky. He looked at his hand, saw blood on his fingers. He tried to wave down a taxi, staggered, and grabbed a utility pole to steady himself. Where was his wallet? In his suit jacket, damn it! Wallet, credit cards, suit jacket—bye-bye. He clenched his teeth, then felt in his pants pocket—his phone was still there. Thank the Lord for little favors. He felt sick to his stomach. Holding fast to the pole, he retched and spat. He looked up and felt rain. The raindrops thickened. The heavens were darker, the streets wet.
I had a dream, I did, and though it was abandoned, ripped, and ragged
I treasured that dream and kept it in my heart.
If on occasion someone, for whatever reason, were to sneer behind my back
I endured, I could endure, until the day that dream came true
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
Look at me—I stand tall before that cold wall of fate
Someday I’ll fly over it, fly high into the sky,
The weight of this world cannot tie me down
That day let’s celebrate the end of my life’s journey.
“Goose Dream” by Insuni—the answer tone that Sŏ had programmed into her phone. Kang had difficulty appreciating that dream, so immediate was the impression left by his spectral encounter with that dirty old woman. Dream—ha, a dream. Listening to the song, Kang forgot for the moment that he had called Sŏ, and when the song was cut off, replaced by her voice, he startled.
“Inho? Kang Inho?”
He must have awakened her.
“Are you all right? What time is it anyway?”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“What’s the matter? What happened?”
The back of his hand holding the phone was getting wet. It was all he could do to speak, and he had to keep gritting his teeth before he could say anything.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m somewhere downtown . . . wallet’s gone—a couple of guys snatched it—everywhere it’s dark, and now it’s raining . . . can’t find my way home.” And with that he plopped down onto the sidewalk.
Sŏ exited her car and slammed the door shut. She could almost hear her colleague chiding her, the way he did when they had to drive to an appointment: “Please, easy on the door—we don’t want the car to roll over.”
The next moment she was talking silently to herself: Sergeant Chang—Chang Hamun—face like a dried pollack . . . knew I’d have to deal with that creep someday. And off she marched across the parking lot toward the Mujin Police Station, swinging her arms like a boxer. Hold on—she stopped. Where was her handbag? She remembered dropping her keys inside it after she’d parked, then making a grand display of locking the car and slamming the door shut, so zeroed in was she on Chang. Were the keys in her jacket pocket? She felt around—no. This wasn’t the first time she’d zoned out. Come on, you really need to focus! She heaved a sigh. Maybe she needed more sleep. She recalled how wretched and ghostlike Kang had looked when she had found him near the bus terminal the previous night. No taxis, he had whimpered over the phone.
“No cab? Where are you anyway, in the middle of a rice paddy? In a mudflat? Do you see a shop anywhere? Just give me the name—or read me the phone number on the sign.”
She had then called information for the address of the shop Kang had reported, climbed into her car, and found him waiting with sunken eyes, like a voyager just returned from the other world. He hadn’t been here even a week and yet had taken on an aging, seedy look. She’d felt peeved pulling up at the utility pole where he was standing—why couldn’t he have hailed a cab and then knocked on her door to borrow the fare? Instead she’d had to fetch him. It was only when they’d arrived at his apartment and she’d helped him out of the car and noticed his bloodstained shirt that she understood why he’d felt compelled to call her. With his bloodshot eyes and the fear and sorrow he had projected, he reminded her of an orphan—even more so when she recalled how he had whimpered over the phone: “It’s Kang. I’m somewhere downtown . . . wallet’s gone—a couple of guys snatched it—everywhere it’s dark, and now it’s raining . . . can’t find my way home.” She’d had to help him inside, where he insisted she join him for more soju at his messy kitchen table, so she hadn’t gotten to sleep until the wee hours of the morning.
