by Seong-nan Ha
“Please, don’t kill me.” My voice was as frail as a mosquito’s whine. I never imagined that I would have to beg for my life.
“I’m not pretty and I don’t have a nice figure. I’m not even healthy. I was really sick a few years ago. All I’ve done is get old.”
I’d done nothing but age. I had accomplished nothing.
“At least you’re honest,” he said. His laughter turned into a dry, hacking cough. Then something flashed in the dark. “There!” he cried.
I understood that to mean he’d finally found a suitable place to carry out his crime. The odometer indicated that he had driven this cab about 100,000 kilometers. He was an experienced driver. He would be familiar with all kinds of side roads unknown to most people. He would also know at least ten quiet, secluded places where he could carry out his work at this hour without being interrupted.
Saliva now driveled from my open mouth. All I could wish for was to die a quick, painless death. And for the women I knew to never get in cabs alone at night.
“I’m not really a taxi driver,” he said, shifting into low gear.
That I already knew. We soon came to a stop. He yanked up the emergency break. He opened the door and climbed out. He wasn’t very big. I was huddled under the seat. He opened the back door and hauled me out. I flailed, struggling to stay inside. But in less than five minutes, I found myself stumbling in the dark. He forced me to walk ahead.
The factory we’d come to was old and had a zinc roof. The smell of chemicals pierced my nostrils. Dye oozed from the tipped-over drum cans, mixing with the rain and flowed down the drain. The factory seemed to have been shut down for a long time. I noticed the shattered windows once my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. My knees buckled. I fell a few times. It was then that I first got a good look at the driver’s face. I knew then that I would not be allowed to live. He stood close behind and held what I thought was a knife to my back. It was only much later that I realized it wasn’t a knife at all—it was his pinky finger.
We went around to the back of the building. There, I saw a familiar-looking van with a streak of navy blue paint on its side. It occurred to me then that the van and taxi drivers were working together. The van had been waiting for the taxi to bring me here. The rain had now soaked through my coat and was wetting my clothes inside. My teeth chattered from the cold and terror.
The door on the driver’s side opened. A man’s foot appeared and felt for the ground. His ankle kept buckling. He was so drunk that he could barely walk. He began to urinate against the cement wall with his back to the van. Steam rose up from where the urine hit. The cab driver went and stood behind him.
“Hey, I need to talk to you.”
The man turned his head, squinting. The taxi driver’s fist flew out, landing a punch right in the middle of the man’s face. The van driver fell down to the dirt. Although he was much bigger than the cab driver, he had no chance to swing. I hid behind a drum can and listened to fists thudding against spongy flesh. Maybe they weren’t working together after all. Instead, the drunk driver and I had walked straight into the taxi driver’s trap. The taxi driver approached me, panting. Now it was my turn.
“Didn’t you say we needed to do something about people like him? I only made up my mind after you said that. I’d already missed the exit by that point anyway. Maybe I could have let everything go if my headlight hadn’t gotten smashed. Now, you do whatever you want.”
He demonstrated. Just as he showed me, I kicked the man, who was still lying on the ground; I stomped his thigh with my heels.
“You mean you followed him all the way here?”
“Why else would I come to a place like this in the middle of the night?”
All my pent-up frustration was transferred to my foot. I should have been home by now, lying in my comfortable bed. The reason I was standing in the rain in this godforsaken place was all because of this man. I kicked and punched him until my anger faded. A large rock that was half embedded in the ground caught my eye. I rushed toward it and tried to dig it up with my bare hands. The cab driver ran up to me and pulled me away.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough. Can you help me with something?”
He put his hands under the man’s armpits and pulled him up. The foul smell of liquor hit my face every time the man breathed out. The taxi driver stuffed the man in the luggage compartment of the van and shut the door. He then went into the factory and came out, dragging a large tarpaulin behind him. It looked like it had been used as a tent for a picnic. He threw the torn material over the van.
“I’m not a taxi driver.”
He grabbed a corner of the tarpaulin and stood on top of the van. He counted, “One, two, three!” and then thrust up the corner. All I saw were the words “Jeongyeon Factory Fall Sports Day” written faintly on the canvas. Rain dripped into my eyes. Right then, the tarpaulin that had been covering the van slid down—more like crumbled—to the ground. The van was gone—along with the man in its luggage compartment. I wiped the rain out of my eyes and stared about me, but the van was nowhere in sight. The taxi driver stood next to me. I ran to where the van had been and stepped on the tarpaulin, which was spread out flat on the ground, but there was nothing underneath; it was just the ground. We had to walk around the factory to get back to the taxi, but the van wasn’t anywhere in front either.
“Where did it go? Where is he?” I asked, completely at a loss. He pulled me along. “Let’s go. He won’t ever drink and drive again.”
It was when we were going up the ramp to get on the freeway: I saw something sparkle in the glare of the streetlamp. There was a group of new apartment towers being built a little distance away. The flash I had seen was coming from the top of the steel framework of one of the buildings. The sparkling object at the very top appeared to be the vanished van.
We got on the freeway. Although we were still driver and passenger, our relationship had changed drastically since I’d first gotten into the cab. In the backseat, I gazed down at my fists, which had struck a person. The drunk driver would come to his senses on top of the 25-story apartment building. He will rack his brains, trying to figure out how he had managed to drive his van to the roof, but he won’t find a single clue.
“I’m sure you know by now, but I’m not a taxi driver.”
“And I’m sure you know I’m not just an ordinary office worker.”
I kept clenching and unclenching my hands. They didn’t seem like mine.
“Do you see this finger?” He raised his right hand. “When I was making a zoo disappear for my vanishing act, my pinky disappeared with it.”
•
Forty minutes later, the taxi stopped in front of the playground of my apartment complex. I rummaged through my purse for the fare.
“Don’t worry about it. This cab isn’t even mine.”
“You mean you actually stole it?”
“To be exact, I’ve borrowed it for the time being instead of getting back what I was owed. The man who owns it is a friend of mine, who collects all those stupid dolls. Whenever he makes any money, he rushes to the game machines to get more. Even his wife left him recently because of it.”
I knew what kind of machines he was talking about. They were always placed in shopping areas and on busy streets where they caught people’s attention. But I’d never tried playing it myself.
“He doesn’t even smoke or drink. Instead he hands over everything he makes to that machine. All for those few seconds the claw moves to get the toy he wants. You should see his house. It’s full of those things.”
“Where are you headed now?”
“I’m looking for my finger.”
“Do you know where it is?”
The rain had stopped. The puddles were frosting over. I heard ice crack under my feet as I climbed out.
“It’s probably where the zoo is.”
“Then you know where the zoo’s disappeared to?”
The driver rolled down his window and gazed up at m
e on the curb.
“One day, when you hear that a zoo has suddenly materialized at Gwanghwa-mun intersection, come see me.”
“Did you know it’s been a while since someone’s escorted me all the way home?”
I waved until the taxi grew distant.
He was once a famous magician. Many different circus groups had their eyes on him. His last act was to make a zoo disappear. Cars strapped with giant speakers roamed every street and alley, and clowns wearing sandwich boards advertised that a magic show never seen before in the history of the world would take place. People swarmed to the town’s small zoo. Some monkeys, peacocks, as well as several empty cages were all that the zoo had, but it took countless hours to stitch together fabric that would cover the zoo’s perimeter fence. Ten seamstresses were put to work for an entire week. His magic act was a great success, but his pinky finger also ended up disappearing with it. Still, the people demanded more. They shouted for him to bring back the zoo that had vanished. And so, in the vacant lot that was no longer a zoo, he kept shouting, “One, two, three!” until it grew dark. However, he could not bring it back. Right now, he is roaming the whole country in search of that zoo. Where in the world could it be?
In the morning I received two phone calls. One was from my mother, who was staying at my younger sister’s house because my sister had recently given birth. Right before she hung up, she reminded me again not to take a taxi alone at night. I will continue to hear these words for the eleventh year. My whole body was sore from last night’s sudden bout of exercise. Massaging my arms and legs, I said, “Mom, you’re absolutely right.”
The other phone call was from my coworker who had hailed the taxi. He’d been worried about me until this morning. I told him that I would not be at work. Then I recalled something right before I hung up.
“Thank you for last night.”
He didn’t understand what I meant.
“Last night, I saw you copying down the plate number of my cab.”
“I did?”
“Yes, in your pocketbook.”
I heard him riffle through pages. Shortly after, he laughed. “I couldn’t remember because I was so drunk. But it looks like I did write something down. Red Rose Lounge 231-1111 … we drank way too much last night.”
What he had written down was not the taxi’s license plate, but the phone number of the next bar they were heading to. No one had been concerned for me.
I headed to the stores in my flip-flops. I had caught a slight cold from being out in the rain. On my way out of the pharmacy, I saw a claw machine sitting in front of a shop. It was filled with stuffed animals, but they were grimy, as if no one had touched the machine in a while. It seemed these claw machines were now out of fashion.
When I inserted a coin into the slot, the claw began to move. I pressed the buttons to position the claw above an animal. The claw latched onto it and began to move slowly. I suddenly felt nervous. When the toy was almost at the opening, something hit me in the forehead and fell near my feet. I ended up taking my finger off the button and the animal slipped out of the claw. Rubbing my forehead with the palm of my hand, I ducked my head to look for what had struck me. It was a plastic, prosthetic finger. I immediately thought of the driver’s finger. Perhaps he had finally discovered where the zoo was. Perhaps this time he had lost his ear instead of a pinky.
I held the prosthetic up to my nose. A faint odor clung to it. It smelled like pomade that no one used anymore.
Daisy Fleabane
The fisherman is trying to drag me to the riverbank.
You just need one look at him to know he’s a rookie. Only when the bobber’s dancing on the water and he feels the heavy tug on his rod does he lurch awkwardly to his feet, legs wide apart. He’s so tense. I guess it’s only natural. But anyone who’s gone fishing at least once knows; a real pro recognizes the smallest movement of the bobber, well before the fish swallows the hook too deep. Look at this guy, though—he has no idea what he’s doing. Now he’s even started shouting. All of a sudden, the fishermen nearby who’d been casting their lines into the river gather around. Someone cries, It’s a big one!
It’s catfish season.
The fishhook made a hole in my new jacket. Mom’s going to pinch me so hard. If I get the hole mended, maybe no one will notice it? The woman at Myeongseong Cleaners is an expert with the sewing machine. Her shop is right at the end of our street. The same garments are always hanging above her door, but I bet the cherry-pink silk hanbok belongs to her, not a customer. Anyone with a sharp eye would have noticed that hanbok’s been hanging in the same spot for 365 days. Many garments meant many customers. Just look at how busy we are; our customers are always dropping their clothes off to get cleaned. I’d say at least half of the garments there are for display.
The woman sits by the sunny window and works at her sewing machine all day. When the words on the window, like LAUNDRY and ALTERATIONS & REPAIR, started falling off, you could easily see inside. Like the silk hanbok, the woman looks like she’s part of the display, too. Behind her, nails are hammered into the wall, holding spools of thread in every color. The sound of her sewing machine makes me so sleepy. And how about all those tiny stitches? Computer-operated cleaners have started to crop up here and there, but Mom always takes our clothes to Myeongseong Cleaners. The woman there wears reading glasses now. The reason her machine sometimes stops is probably because she has trouble seeing up close. Her vision, which should have lasted her for about seventy years, has been used up in the fifteen years she’s run the cleaners.
Oh, I really hope Mom won’t notice this hole.
The lights blinking all night along the riverbank—were they the fishermen’s hurricane lanterns? It’s catfish season. I’m slowly being swept downstream. I think the river is decaying. I can smell it. Everything is murky, too. While I was coming down the river, so many hump-backed fish swam through my legs, limping.
I know this place well. A long time ago, my dad and I used to come here to go fishing. I would place my fishing chair next to his and cast my line lamely, but I only lost my paste bait each time. Mom says I’m too impatient. Says I haven’t got one useful bone in my body. I’m always getting in trouble.
I got bored of staring at the water, so I left my dad and went up along the riverbank and saw a whole bunch of flowers in bloom. There were heaps of them. I didn’t know their name. How come wildflowers don’t have a smell? They give off a whiff of something fishy, that’s all. The stems left green stains on the hems of my pants and white socks.
Dad hooked a carp. When I ran back, I saw it being reeled out of the water. I think the carp swallowed the hook deep, because I couldn’t see it inside its mouth. Dad tried to take the hook out carefully, but all of a sudden, the innards jerked out, too. He put the carp into the bucket, but it rose to the surface right away.
Would I be able to fix the hole in my jacket? It’s new. Mom’s going to be so mad.
It’s a big one, alright!
All the fishermen have come to catch a glimpse of the big one. Check out how far his rod is bent—it looks like an archery bow. But what did you expect? Of course it would bend like that, trying to pull all of my fifty kilograms out of the water. I can smell the liquor on their stale breaths every time they open their mouths. They’ve been staring at the water since last night. This place is always crawling with anglers. Even fishing clubs come out here. The road above the riverbank is probably lined with cars. My dad liked night fishing, too. While he fished through the night, I would curl up in a small tent and sleep. I kept waking up because it was uncomfortable, but every time I opened my eyes, I saw his curved back through the mesh screen. Early in the morning, there was dew on the roof of the tent, plus on the yellow waterproof overalls my dad was wearing.
Why are you awake already? Go back inside and sleep some more.
I didn’t mind the smell of his breath. The cigarettes on his breath smelled almost sweet.
Fixed on the end of the rod, the fi
shermen’s eyes are glittering. Why can’t I hook a big one like that? I bet that’s what they’re thinking. Everyone dreams big when they’re casting their lines. Dad’s caught lots of big fish before. But he never got his name in the “Biggest Catch of the Week” that the magazine runs. That’s because he was never part of any fishing clubs. I’ve seen my dad catch carp at least forty centimeters long. He used a worm for bait.
Someone please take that rod away from him and show him how it’s done! My dad used to say that all the time. He said the more experience a fisherman had, the less damage he’d do to the fish. But just look at this guy—what a rookie. The hole in my jacket is getting bigger.
•
I think those flowers are blooming. The ones I’d seen when I came fishing with my dad. I can smell them—a whiff of something fishy. Like a greedy child, I’d picked so many of those flowers. The stems were covered with tiny hairs. Boy, were those stems tough. Some came out, roots and all, when I pulled, instead of snapping. They look like chrysanthemums. Not the puffy kind you’d take to a funeral, you know, the kind that look like steamed buns, but wild chrysanthemums with small flowers. I picked an armful and ran to Dad, but he told me I shouldn’t pick them. Flowers are prettier when they’re in bloom. Was it because I had run all the way? The flowers were strewn everywhere. What were they called again? Dad told me, but I can’t remember. My memory’s getting so fuzzy.
I bet Mom is livid right now, because I haven’t come home.
How many days do I have left until the vault exam? How long have I been here? I have to practice if I don’t want to get in trouble from the gym teacher. Because a kid broke her ankle jumping over the vault, “Hammerhead” is on high alert all the time now. I really hate the vault. My butt keeps hitting it whenever I hop over, and every time, Hammerhead jabs me in the butt with the stick he carries around. I really need to practice. If I don’t do well, I’ll have to run twenty laps around the field, yelling “Seize the day!” That’s his motto in life.
