“I see. Well, it’s true. Even when you were a bad guy, you weren’t only thinking bad thoughts all the time.”
I lifted my head. I wondered if you could really get away with calling a bad guy a bad guy, and I wanted to see how Yunsu would react. To my surprise, he was smiling. It wasn’t a happy smile. It bore a trace of shame, but also the sense of respect or keenness that one feels when an archer’s arrow has hit its mark dead-on. Officer Yi and I laughed.
“So what else did you realize?” Aunt Monica looked as if she was listening to the first monk in the world to ever reach enlightenment.
“For the first time, I thought maybe it was all in my head. Maybe I was the one who gave others a reason to treat me that way, because I thought others were bad and started those fights first. To my surprise, that made me feel better. And I also thought about that volunteer I told you about. The first time you grabbed my hand without asking, I was caught off guard, too. So maybe she wasn’t looking at the inmate like he was a bug. Maybe she was just startled. Maybe I was just making things up the whole time.”
Aunt Monica smiled brightly.
“I really enjoyed the book you sent me, Greek and Roman Mythology. At first, it was confusing because the names were so difficult, but once I got used to them, I was staying up all night to read it.”
“Really? Who did you like best?”
“Orestes.”
“Orestes? I don’t quite remember him. You didn’t like the stories about Zeus killing bad guys with wind and lightning?”
Yunsu smiled again.
“So why did you like Orestes?” she asked.
Yunsu hesitated a moment. He looked at me again, so I did my best to look like I was completely fascinated and couldn’t wait for him to keep talking. That was when I noticed that his shackles had been changed to handcuffs. The prisoners called them “steel bracelets for your trip to hell.”
“The other names were too hard. Orestes was some kind of a prince. His grandfather conspired to become more powerful than the gods, so the gods cursed Orestes’ family for several generations. The first to receive the curse was Orestes’ father, Aga—”
Yunsu hesitated.
“Agamemnon? Oh, so Orestes was the son of Agamemnon,” said Aunt Monica.
“Yes, and Agamemnon was murdered by his wife, Orestes’ mother. She and her lover had conspired to kill Agamemnon. Back then, according to the laws of the land, it was a son’s duty to kill his father’s murderer. So Orestes killed his mother for killing his father. But the Furies despised people who killed their own parents. The Furies started sending bad noises and visions to Orestes. All day long, he hallucinated about killing his mother and had to listen to the curses sent to him by the Furies, until finally he was nearly insane with guilt over killing her and wandered all over the world.”
Yunsu paused in the middle of talking and glanced at me. I knew what he was doing. I knew he was doing his best to get on Aunt Monica’s good side, and that he had practiced this story over and over again last night. At the time, I thought it was kind of pathetic and also comical. But in the light of memory, it strikes me now as sad.
“Apollo—he’s the god of the sun, right?—he called a meeting with the other gods and defended Orestes. He said that Orestes had been cursed by the gods, and that they were being too cruel because his grandfather was the one who had sinned. Orestes never had any choice in the matter. Apollo said that since they had cursed him, it was up to them to forgive him. Orestes was there when this all happened. He looked at Apollo and said, ‘What are you talking about? You’re not the ones who killed my mother. I was!’”
Yunsu bowed his head.
Outside the barred window, the snow was still falling. When Yunsu lifted his head again, his eyes were bloodshot. He looked nervous. He swallowed and kept talking.
“I never wanted to be a god, but ever since I was a child, I wanted to be strong. If you’re strong, you can do anything. You can kill all the bad guys. That was what I used to think. But then I met you. I wondered why a nun would bother to come to a place like this and cry and plead with someone like me. That old woman who came with you that day—I wouldn’t have blamed her for killing me. But to see her cry and apologize for not being able to forgive me—I would rather hurry up and die than have to see that. If someone asked me if I would rather die or see her again, I would prefer to go to the gallows. If there is a God, then He has given me the worst punishment of all. Death doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m not afraid of dying. I never was, not even when I was a little kid. But for the first time, I started thinking that maybe I had it all wrong. I used to think life wasn’t fair, that my environment made me the way I was, that anyone would have done the same if they were in my shoes, and I wanted to say to everyone, Let’s see how well you do. But Orestes—even though he only did what the gods made him do—he took the blame.”
Yunsu stopped. Aunt Monica grabbed his cuffed hands and closed her eyes. She stroked the backs of his hands as she spoke.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said. “That was a lot for you to think about. But you really gave it a lot of thought. I’m proud of you. Yunsu, those are wonderful thoughts.”
Yunsu’s face fell, and his bloodshot eyes filled with tears. He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes.
“I wanted to kill my father,” he said. “My mother, too. I thought I was cursed. And as long as I believed that I was cursed, I wasn’t afraid of anything. I thought I could end the curse by killing them all and then killing myself. Since I thought of it as ending a curse, I didn’t feel any guilt. But now that you say you’re proud of me…”
The snow was falling harder but made no sound. The world was very quiet.
“It makes me realize that I have never heard those words from an adult in my entire life. I felt really bad that you slipped and hurt yourself while coming all this way in such terrible weather. I thought to myself, That must have been really painful. Then I wondered if I had ever felt that way about someone else before. I don’t think I have. Other than my little brother and the woman I was in love with, I’ve never, not even once, looked at another person and thought, They must be hurting. I wish they weren’t in so much pain.”
Twenty-seven-year-old Yunsu bowed his head again. His tears fell onto the shiny metal handcuffs.
“But, Sister, the truth is, I’m terrified of what I’m feeling.”
I don’t believe in miracles. I rely on them to get me through each day.
– K
BLUE NOTE 11
Six months later, my brother and I left the juvenile detention centre. Parents came to take their children home. The children whose parents did not come went with siblings. The children whose siblings did not come formed groups and went their own way. Eunsu and I stood on the street in front of the centre until the sun went down and it was dark.
PART 11
Aunt Monica leaned back in her seat and didn't speak. The flurries had thinned out, but deep piles of snow lined the sides of the road. The snow that fell in the middle of the road had melted, and the streets were muddy.
“Let’s go see your uncle. That’s why I asked you to come. His place is hard to get to by public transportation. I would try to take the subway, but I look a fright. You’re not busy, are you?”
“You need to go to a hospital. You might need stitches,” I said curtly.
Since I had gone straight there without eating breakfast, I was hungry. When I saw Aunt Monica with her head wrapped up, I felt bad for her. I felt as bad for her as Yunsu did. It didn’t make me feel any better to hear Yunsu say that it pained him to see her that way. But I couldn’t express my feelings other than by being curt. I wasn’t someone who cried.
“I’ve lived a full life. Who cares if I die? I will work until the day the Lord calls me to his side. If I had one wish, it would be to serve the people here until that day. Even if it means dying in the street, I will go happily.”
“Die, die, die—all we’ve talked about since the New Year is dea
th. Ever since I started following you around, everything has been about death! Are you God? Why are you trying to do what even God himself can’t? Like that guy said—Yunsu or whatever his name is—do you think you can save them from being executed? If you die trying, you’ll only make it worse for them. I hate that. Just the thought of it gives me the shivers.”
To my surprise, I was on the verge of tears. I was flustered by these emotions that I didn’t understand, and I hated revealing them to Aunt Monica. She didn’t say anything. I thought about what Yunsu had said: I used to think life wasn’t fair, that my environment made me the way I was, that anyone would have done the same if they were in my shoes, and I wanted to say to everyone, ‘Let’s see how well you do.’ But Orestes—even though he only did what the gods made him do—he took the blame. I should have been the one saying that. I’ve never, not even once, looked at another person and thought, ‘They must be hurting. I wish they weren’t in so much pain.’ When I heard him say that, something in me responded. But actually, I did once wish for someone not to be in pain. Shimshimi, who died of old age when I was in middle school. The Jindo dog who was so docile we named him Shimshimi. My brothers told me that eight in dog years was eighty in human years, but when he was dying, I prayed: Please, no pain. Let him die without any pain. And I meant it. I was afraid Aunt Monica would notice that I was getting emotional, so I reverted to my old tactics.
“He sure sounded convincing. How can you tell whether he meant it or not? Maybe he thinks he’ll be taken off of death row if he can get people to campaign for him. But I don’t trust him. It was too fast. Same with that old lady. You’re all so gullible. Forgive and repent, forgive and repent… That’s what I hate the most about Christianity. You do all the bad things you want and then go to church and say you’re sorry, and presto! What hypocrites!”
Aunt Monica kept her eyes shut and didn’t say anything for a moment.
“Yujeong,” she said slowly. “I don’t hate hypocrites.”
That wasn’t what I had expected her to say.
“When it comes to the people that we think are great—pastors, priests, nuns, monks, teachers, and so on—a lot of them are hypocrites,” she said. “I could very well be the biggest hypocrite of all. But being a hypocrite means that the person at least has a sense of what it means to be good. Deep down inside, they know that they are not as great as they pretend to be. That’s true whether they are aware of it or not. So I don’t hate those people. I think that if you can live your whole life without letting anyone other than yourself know that you’re a hypocrite, then that’s a successful life. The people I hate are the ones who pretend to be mean. They think they can treat others poorly on the outside while still regarding themselves as more or less good on the inside. At the same time that they act mean, deep down, they’re hoping others will realize they’re good people. They’re more arrogant and more pathetic than hypocrites.”
I stupidly wondered if her words were directed at me. I didn’t ask. But I felt overcome with shame, as if a private scar that I did not want revealed had been uncovered. I passed a van in front of us. As the car lurched back into the lane, Aunt Monica grabbed for the overhead handle.
“There’s another group I hate even more, though,” she continued. “That’s people who think there are no moral standards at all. People who think everything is relative, who think fair is fair, who think in terms of self versus other. Of course, some things are relative, but one thing is not: human life is sacred. When we forget that, we all die. No matter what, death is never a good thing. Wanting to live is an instinct engraved in the genes of every living thing. When someone says they want to die, what they really mean is, I don’t want to live this way. And not wanting to live a certain way really means wanting to live well. So instead of saying that we want to die, what we should say is that we want to live well. We shouldn’t talk about death because the meaning behind the word life is a command to live.”
A command to live? Whose command? Who would order such a thing? And who does he think he is? I wanted to ask Aunt Monica that, but I couldn’t speak.
“Sometimes when I think about you, and I could be wrong on this, I think maybe you’re only pretending to be bad. It really worries me. My heart aches. Being good doesn’t mean being stupid. Feeling pity doesn’t mean being soft. Crying for others, hurting because you think you did something wrong—whether or not that’s sentimentality—is a good and beautiful thing. Giving your heart to others and getting hurt is not something to be ashamed of. People who speak the truth get hurt, but they also know how to overcome. I’ve been around a lot longer than you, and this is what I’ve come to realize.”
I almost said, Yeah, yeah, I know. It was what I used to say to the psychiatrists who tried to treat me. My uncle had said, That’s right, Yujeong, you know everything. I know you’ve read a lot of psychology books on your own. But Yujeong, knowing doesn’t mean a thing. Sometimes knowing is worse than not knowing. The important thing is realizing. If there is a difference between knowing and realizing, it’s that you have to hurt in order to realize. I said to him, I’m tired of hurting. I must have laughed at him then.
We didn’t say anything the rest of the way to my uncle’s hospital. When we got there, there was a woman and a little boy waiting in the lobby. The boy seemed to be around ten years old, and the woman looked like she was his mother. When we came in the door, the woman, who had just been threatening to hit the boy, looked happy to see Aunt Monica and rushed over to us. The moment I saw the boy, an eerie feeling came over me. I didn’t know what that feeling was. But when I saw the mother and child together, a chill ran down my spine. Looking back on it later, I thought it was because of the mother’s unfocused pupils and the scars that covered the boy’s hands and face. But no. That wasn’t it. It was the boy’s restlessness. As if he couldn’t set his feet down anywhere in the world. There was something about his presence that troubled me, that seemed to say, I do not know what I am thinking or where I am or even who or how old I am. I couldn’t tell yet what was wrong with him. The boy’s hands were covered with scars, and he kept kicking the chair legs.
“I don’t know why my kid has to come here, but they told me at the police station that I have to bring him, so I did. Hey, Sister, what happened to your head?”
The woman, who had a short perm and kept chewing her gum while she talked, suddenly laughed at the sight of the handkerchief tied around Aunt Monica’s head. There was something about the way she talked that didn’t quite make sense.
“It’s just a simple check-up, so it’ll only take a moment. Has he been sleeping well?” I could tell Aunt Monica was trying to avoid the woman’s curiosity.
“No. Sometimes he screams all night and doesn’t sleep a wink. He says that girl shows up in his dreams and says, You killed me.”
Aunt Monica looked at the boy and sighed. He had stopped kicking the chair legs and was now sitting upside down on the chair. After a while, the nurse called the child in. I sat in the waiting room while Aunt Monica took the boy into my uncle’s office. Nurses with familiar faces nodded at me as they passed by. They smiled brightly at me; in an instant, my mood soured. I wondered what they were thinking about me. Maybe they had all snuck a peek at my chart. I remembered the nurses whispering about me the last time I was hospitalized. A nurse who was changing my IV thought I was asleep and whispered to another nurse: If she attempted suicide three times and didn’t die, doesn’t that mean she’s just pretending? At least, I was sure that’s what she said.
As Aunt Monica said, just because someone is bad doesn’t mean they only think bad thoughts, and the nurses probably weren’t thinking that every time they looked at me, but I still felt like getting up and leaving.
“What’re you here for? Counseling?” the boy’s mother asked me while slowly chewing her gum.
I didn’t especially feel like talking to her, but I said yes. Since I would have to talk to my uncle when I saw him, it wasn’t that far from the truth.
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“You came with that nun?” she asked again. She looked as if she could barely contain her curiosity.
Of the things I had noticed upon returning to Korea after seven years abroad, my least favorite was the way people here thought nothing of prying into other people’s private lives, as if they were interviewing them for marriage. They would start with Are you married? Why aren’t you married? and move on to So what do you do for a living? Every time someone asked me those questions, I wondered whether they knew why they were doing it, why they got married, why they had kids, why they were here. I didn’t say anything, so the woman kept talking.
“I really don’t understand why my kid has to go to a psychiatrist. But the nun and the police kept telling me to bring him, so here I am. How are people without cars supposed to get to this place?”
I could tell that she wanted to start complaining about how far away the hospital was and how there was no public transportation, as if she wanted me to agree with her. I couldn’t stand women like her who had no sense of tact, and I did not respond. She laughed again.
“You’re so quiet! Say, how many kids does that nun have?” It didn’t seem as if she could control her nosiness.
“Excuse me?”
“She’s old, so her kids must be all grown up. Wait, what am I talking about? She must have grandchildren by now.”
I frowned unconsciously. We may not live in a Catholic country, but surely everyone knew that priests and nuns didn’t marry, just as Buddhist monks didn’t marry. To be honest, I was a little shocked. I caught myself wondering if she had even made it through grade school.
“I barely managed to get away from the restaurant today, but I have to get back before the dinner rush. The owner’s father-in-law had a stroke a few days ago. It’s already his third, but that old man just won’t die.”
The woman started babbling. She didn’t seem to care who she was talking to, or whether that person even wanted to talk to her or not. She didn’t even seem to know what she was saying. In fact, she seemed to forget that she was talking at all the moment she opened her mouth. Since I would not respond, she jumped up, hitched up her pants to keep them from sliding down, and started pacing back and forth. While her back was turned, I quietly got up and went into my uncle’s office. That crazy woman probably wouldn’t notice I was gone.
Our Happy Time Page 11
