by Seong-nan Ha
Anyway, I think something’s wrong with the river. I can smell it. It’s rotting.
In the middle of the night, someone dumped toxic liquid into the water. A truck crept to the riverbank, the back loaded with steel drums. As it drew closer to the edge, it turned off its headlights and slowed down, but I could hear the smallest noise. Everything sounds closer across the water. People who come here to fish know. Dad sometimes talked to the fishermen far away by speaking into the darkness. Are they biting over there? What are you using for bait? How many have you caught? They would exchange information this way. Do you know that a man’s voice carries farther than a woman’s voice? I read that in a magazine, so it’s probably true.
I think there were two men. Maybe three, judging from the footsteps. Anyway, one person didn’t talk much. I think the steel drums were really full.
It’s goddamn heavy. Watch it, man.
Every time they lowered a drum off the truck, the one standing at the bottom protested anxiously. After rolling the containers to the water, they pried off the tops, pouring something gooey into the river.
Seriously, I can’t do this shit anymore. I’m freaking out.
I almost pissed my pants at the checkpoint back there.
Hey, lower your voice. You want to go to jail?
If there’s free food and shelter, hell, that’s my paradise.
They snickered softly together. While the liquid gushed out of the drums, they unzipped their pants and urinated into the river. What had been in those drums? It smelled like gasoline.
This river is the water supply source for Seoul and all of Gyeonggi Province. If you turn on the tap at our house, this water will flow out. I wish I were water. Then I could travel through the pipes and go home. I’d gush out into the kitchen sink and basin, and if you tossed that water into the yard, I’d water the grass and plants. Would Mom recognize me then?
At this rate, this river will become the Mekong River. You’ve heard of the Mekong, haven’t you? I saw it on television. It was called Escape on the Mekong or Love on the Mekong, something like that. It was about the love story between an Australian journalist and a Laos woman. In the movie, the Mekong is the river of death. Dead rotting fish and a carcass of a donkey float by. Actually, it was probably called Escape on the Mekong, because the couple manage to scuba-dive out of Laos and save their love. Love, love, love. My favorite words are love and cookies. Every time I say those words, my mouth tickles.
But it’s not just this truck that dumps things in secret. I’m talking about the lights twinkling along the riverbank. Not the fishermen’s lanterns, but the bigger, brighter lights—they’re like wildflowers compared to the fishermen’s lights, which are like fake plants. I like wildflowers. Anyway, every available spot by the river with somewhat of a view is occupied by hotels. The people from Seoul drive down here to stay at them. The hotels are packed even during the day. Mom won’t let me come around here. The neon signs light up the night. It’s like Las Vegas. Don’t they say you get to Las Vegas by racing through the desert for a long time, until your car is covered in dirt and sand? I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I bet all the drainpipes of these hotels are secretly connected to this river.
But were the flowers called again? It’s on the tip of my tongue.
I don’t even remember my name now. I think the water’s seeped into my memories.
Several people rushed to the rod. If you just pull and strain blindly, your line is bound to snap. People are excited. I can tell what they’re thinking. What could be there at the end of the line? Just look at the curiosity in their eyes.
Wow, a catfish this big—that’s a first! Bro, it’s your lucky day!
Maybe it’s that Old Fox?
You think it’s this easy to hook her? He doesn’t look like he’s got much experience.
Hey there, Rookie, why don’t you settle down?
No one’s ever seen the Old Fox. Just a part of her back or her large mouth, that’s it. I bet it was the Old Fox that cut your line two years ago and slipped away.
The Old Fox? I’ve heard of her, too. It’s true, no one’s actually seen her before. They say when she shows up, she casts a giant shadow in the middle of the river, and if she swings her tail, an eddy forms in the surface. Fishermen are full of lies. They always say they lost a big one the size of their arm after losing a tiny minnow. I think the Old Fox is just a story made up by a bunch of fishermen. Fishermen who dream about catching a big one.
Someone once said her mouth was as big as the width of a boat you climb into at the amusement park. Everyone seems to have an opinion about how big she is. Some say she’s as tall as a small child, and some say she’s taller than two meters. But can you picture a catfish that’s the same size as the basketball player Seo Jang-hoon?
There are so many stories about anglers who managed to hook her, but then lost her in the end. There was one where he was dragged here and there all night, but couldn’t reel her in and had to come back empty-handed. A catfish that would pull a boat its size—a boat driven by a robust young man! Now tell me if that isn’t a made-up story! In the end, the exhausted fisherman had to cut the line himself. That’s why they call her the Old Fox.
But those fishermen think I’m that Old Fox. I’m only 153 centimeters tall. That’s far below the average height of high school girls in our country. Maybe I would have grown a little taller by the end of the summer. I know a girl who grew fifteen centimeters in one summer. When we came back to school after the summer break, her blouse had become so short on her that the waistline of her skirt showed. I would have grown a lot, too, after this summer.
While the rookie fisherman wrestled with the line, the hook made a bigger hole in my jacket. I think it’s right below the nape of my neck. I don’t think I can get it fixed anymore. The tear is in a noticeable spot, and I can’t even cover it with my hair, because my hair’s too short. Mom will notice the hole for sure. Even the lady at Myeongseong Cleaners won’t be able to fix this. Plus, she’s too old now. This jacket is practically brand-new. I’ve worn it only three or four times.
The current here is rough. There were places like this on the way down, where the water looked calm at the surface, but had eddies underneath. Each time, I got caught in a whirlpool, sank to the bottom of the river, and then rose once more.
Mister, you should be careful. The current is pretty rough here. Just a little more, just a little …
Oh, no, the line’s snapped.
The people shout at the same time. They must have seen the empty line.
Ah, too bad. It was the Old Fox all right.
No one can hook that thing.
They trickle back to their places and soon I hear their rods slash through the air and the lines being cast. A sinker plunges into the water and lands right next to me. I start to sink once more.
I won’t have to wash ever again. I’ve grown as smooth as a pebble. By the time I flow down to the mouth of the river, I will have eroded more and become sand.
•
Granny Gyeongju passed away. She’s my grandmother’s second youngest sister. She moved to Gyeongju when she got married, so we call her Granny Gyeongju. Before she got married, when she was still a girl, she died, but then came back to life the next day. It’s hard to believe that Granny, as wrinkly as a walnut, was a girl once. She loved to suck on candy with her two remaining front teeth. When I asked if it was uncomfortable, sucking on candy without teeth, she rolled it around in her mouth and smiled. Nope, I don’t have to worry about my teeth rotting. And I can have candy every day.
She dreamed that she crossed a ditch. She said she walked for a long time, but for some strange reason, her legs didn’t hurt. An old man was plowing a field. He gazed at Granny and then blurted all of a sudden, It isn’t your time yet. Go back. It was only then that she looked back the way she had come. The water in the ditch had swelled and was turning into a river. Unconcerned about the fact that she was wearing a skirt, she made a running start
and leapt over the water. When she woke from her dream, her family and friends had gathered around her and were wailing by her feet.
It was neither too hot nor cold when Granny passed away. She lived eighty-two years, so everyone said she lived to a ripe old age. Her siblings stayed put in the same spot after she died, in case she should come back to life like before. But I guess she couldn’t cross the river this time. She probably didn’t have enough energy to make that leap. She didn’t wake up, even when I followed my mom into the house.
When she was still a girl, as she leapt over that river, some memories fell in the water. People called her a dimwit all her life, saying she wasn’t all there in the head. I think I’m crossing that river right now. I can’t remember the name of those flowers by the riverbank. I can’t even remember my own name.
But the times I went fishing with my dad are so clear.
Dad doesn’t go fishing anymore. The machine at the factory took his hands away. The machine had stopped with the power failure, but when the power came back on, it started up all of a sudden and crushed Dad’s hands, which had been resting on top. When I came back from school, Dad was sitting at the edge of the living room floor. He was staring off into space with the front gate wide open. Even when I stepped into the yard, he didn’t notice me. Before, he would have laughed his booming laugh and given me a hug. I followed his gaze. He was crying, staring blankly at the sky. There was sleep in his bloodshot eyes. I filled a basin with water and washed his face. He kept shaking his head. His shirt became soaked. His eyes were like lightbulbs with broken filaments. I don’t like them.
You’ve heard of phantom limbs, right? When you suddenly lose a limb, you might feel that the missing limb is still attached. Every mealtime, Dad still throws a fit. He twists away when my mother brings the spoon to his lips, and with his severed arm, he tries to hold the spoon himself. Then as if he remembers his missing hand at that moment, he explodes with anger and kicks the low table. Dad still dreams of fishing. He sits up in the middle of the night and rambles for a long time, saying that his palms are vibrating. It’s a big one, a big one!
You lost your hands. Stop talking nonsense and go back to bed, Mom would snap. Then Dad would sit blankly for a bit and then flop back down and go back to sleep.
My dad is the reason she’s always angry. When he still had his hands, she would make things like donuts or sweet potato noodles for me. It’s cold out there. Go put on another layer, she would say.
That day, too, Mom was on my case all morning. She pinched my breast, because I’d forgotten to put the bar of soap back in the soap dish. Didn’t I know it would get bloated and turn to mush, didn’t I know how hard it was to make money? Whenever she pinches me, tears spring to my eyes. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m stupid. Why do I keep forgetting something as small as putting the soap back?
My body is bloated like that bar of soap. I’m fading. What if I keep dissolving and disappear without a trace?
•
Whenever school finishes early, my friends and I go to the train station. We sit on the bench in front of the station and watch the people come and go. It’s the busiest season right now, when the station is packed with people. College boys swarm off the trains. In the spring, college students like to come to this town for a little trip. They sometimes gather in the plaza and blast on the radio, dancing or singing along with the music. I love watching them laugh and talk. I would picture myself as a college student, coming back here on break. A person holding a banner with the school name and department would walk by, leading a procession of students. Vendors also appear around this time, carrying wide wooden boxes filled with chocolate and gum.
Once when all the groups left, there was a stocky middle-aged man standing in the center of the plaza. He was wearing a thick, worn army jacket. He headed toward us, the box hanging from his neck. The instant he pushed the box toward us, I noticed there was something strange about his sleeves. My friends backed away. Stainless steel hooks glinted inside his baggy sleeves. We screamed and fled. He flopped down on the bench we’d just bolted, and lit a cigarette, pinching it between his split-hook. One day, Dad will probably have to get hooks, too. Sometimes I think about him becoming Edward Scissorhands. In the movie, he trims people’s hedges into lovely shapes and styles women’s hair in the latest styles with his scissor-blade hands. But real life isn’t as lovely as a movie. I don’t know why I took off like that. I couldn’t look at my dad all day long.
It’s raining. It looks like the river is bubbling with oil. I’m flowing down more quickly. I never imagined I’d be in the water like this. I’m scared of water. I don’t even go to the swimming pool. I really hate going in the water, but I’ve been in here for too long. But who keeps knocking on my feet? Who is it?
I can’t believe my eyes. I have to tell Dad. I have to tell him that I finally saw the Old Fox. Her whiskers graze my face. They’re as stiff as cables. It’s the Old Fox for sure. What other catfish is this big? She nudges me with her enormous mouth and turns, her tail fin striking me. I nosedive deeper. She swims away, her large body cutting through the water. The water splits behind her tail fin, just like how the plow would dig furrows into the earth and expose the red dirt below. She’s as big as me. I guess the fishermen weren’t joking. Just look at that smooth, glossy skin. I don’t think anyone would ever hook her. Since it’s raining, she’s probably heading up to the surface. I think I’m the first person who’s ever seen her this close up.
•
In the end, I didn’t get the poster of Romeo and Juliet. Miseon said it’s the scene where Leonardo DiCaprio is screaming, filled with rage, as he holds a gun to his head. Miseon probably got tired of waiting for me and went home.
The Blue Rose stays open until past two in the morning. I’ve never pushed past the door that’s covered with thick foam and red carpet. But I can glimpse the inside whenever Miseon opens the door to come meet me outside. Each time the door opens, loud music comes blasting out. The foam and carpet probably soundproof the door. Miseon said there were plenty of kids who wanted that photo. She said she would give it to someone else if I didn’t come quick.
Miseon is my friend from middle school. You know the girl who grew fifteen centimeters in one summer? That’s Miseon. As soon as she entered senior high, she quit. No, she was actually suspended. Hammerhead caught her smoking in the bathroom. But she didn’t come back to school even when her suspension was over. According to her, there was nothing for her to learn from school. She said she was going to make a lot of money and become rich while I wasted away in class. She works at the Blue Rose. I don’t ask her what she does behind that thick door. She looks all grown up now. She’s five foot six, and wears a short, sparkly dress and high heels. She wears a lot of makeup, too. Sometimes after the evening review classes, I pass by the Blue Rose on my way home. I’ve seen her crouching in the dark alley, throwing up. She already seems old. She treats me like a little kid now.
If Mom finds out I’m still friends with her, she’ll be so mad.
That’s right. I was on my way to see Miseon that night. Mom was sitting in the yard, trimming the greens she needed to take to the market the next day. Housewives these days want convenience, so they prefer to buy greens that have already been trimmed and blanched.
With the bit of insurance money Dad got from the factory, Mom set up a small chicken shop at the market. Not a franchise with a pretty sign. Her shop doesn’t even have a sign. All it says at the front are the words EGGS, ENRICHED EGGS, and CHICKEN. Behind the clear glass door is a cooler filled with pink chickens that have been plucked clean. With a money belt strapped around her waist, Mom sits all day before a large cauldron bubbling with hot oil. Her hair gets sticky with the fumes from the cauldron. My mom wasn’t like that before my dad lost his hands. She nagged a bit, but her nagging was like the meowing of a cat. Though she didn’t read novels, she sometimes flipped through women’s magazines, but she’s changed 180 degrees. Take home a fried chicken! Serv
e it up with his drink—he’ll thank you good! She chats up strangers, and her voice booms. She puts a whole chicken on the cutting board and swings the cleaver, chopping the chicken into pieces. She seems like a stranger to me. I don’t think it’s the chicken she’s chopping. Biting her bottom lip, she looks like she’s attacking something else, something invisible.
I think she’s always getting angry at me because she’s forced to do things she doesn’t want to do. A crafts or cosmetics shop would suit her better, but she says it’s hard to make a profit from those places. According to Mom, a food business was the best during a recession like this.
She only recently started selling blanched greens at her shop. My mom’s got a real mind for business. She sometimes asks me to come to the store to take home the chicken feet and gizzards that weren’t sold. I don’t like going there. The other shops beside Mom’s have cauldrons out front holding pig heads and intestines. The owners at those places have booming voices, too. They joke around easily with the men who come for a drink. They swear easily, too.
There’s a young man who delivers the chicken. I saw him a few times when I went to the shop. I don’t like him.
Sis, why don’t you fry up a juicy one for me? And with that special sauce I like.
If it’s his job to deliver the chicken, he should leave as soon as he’s done, but he just sits there. He and Mom are really friendly. She chops up the chicken, tosses the pieces in the cauldron, and they joke around the whole time while the chicken cooks. Then her voice would turn thin and high like before. She even pats his thigh when she hands him a tinfoil pouch with the fried chicken. She’s changed.
Miseon always tells me to come visit in the evening. She says she needs to catch up on her sleep during the day. While I was doing the dishes from dinner, I thought only of the movie still. I love Leonardo DiCaprio. I’ve seen every movie he’s in. Each time the plate slipped and made a sound, Mom glared at me. I rushed, stacking the dishes in the rack, and changed into the jacket I’m wearing now. Ah, what am I going to do about this hole? When Mom saw me in my new jacket, she grumbled, And where are you running off to at this hour? Just like someone else I know. She meant it for my dad to hear. My dad’s crazy about fishing. Before he lost his hands, that is.
