At Least We Can Apologize

by Lee Ki-ho

  19. The Man with the Horn-rimmed Glasses and His Situation

  One day when we were going to find the owner of the butcher shop we found the man with the horn-rimmed glasses sitting at the table with the umbrella, drinking. There were already three soju bottles lying on the table, and he was sitting alone at the table with his head propped up in his hands. Below his chair was a scattered mix of cigarette butts and saliva. Si-bong and I went up to him, but he didn’t notice.

  A moment later, the woman who ran the convenience store came out with a broom and dustpan in her hands. She yelled at him, “You good-for-nothing! If you’re going to drink yourself stupid then do it nicely! Why are you spitting all over the place, huh?!”

  The woman swept under the table. As she did so, she brushed the man’s slippers multiple times.

  “That’s what I’m saying, ma’am . . . Why does my spit keep coming out of my mouth like this? I’m not even Arongi . . .”

  The man with the horn-rimmed glasses couldn’t keep his head up straight. His words were different than normal, sluggish, and in between them he hiccupped on occasion. The zipper of his jacket was down almost all the way to his navel. On his yellow, stained undershirt there were saliva marks that looked like dribbled candle wax.

  “Ugh! This dirty neighborhood! I’m sick of all these deadbeats!”

  After she said that, the woman went back into the convenience store. We stood there and watched as she did.

  The man sat there in his seat for quite a while with his head down, when all of a sudden he got up and stumbled over to the phone booth. Si-bong and I slowly followed him. He nearly fell over multiple times, but thankfully he didn’t.

  He picked up the receiver and dialed.

  “Honey . . . it’s me.” He said with his forehead resting against the glass of the phone booth. His eyes, reflected in the glass, were both closed.

  “I said it’s me! Me! What, you already forgot about me?!” His voice sounded like his nose was stuffed.

  “That’s fine . . . don’t say anything . . . Just . . . just listen to what I have to say. Don’t hang up, okay?”

  We stood quietly behind the man with the horn-rimmed glasses. An elderly man then came up and stood behind us. It seemed as though he wanted to make a call, too.

  “I can’t go to you like this, you know? If I go to you right now, I’d be so ashamed . . . So after I just get a little bit better . . .”

  The man with the horn-rimmed glasses began to weep. He started to wipe the tears with the back of his hand. The elderly man behind us craned his neck over to stare.

  “You know Arongi . . . the number three horse . . . if he just comes in first . . . if that happens, then it’ll make everything better and I’ll come back, okay? Right now I don’t have any money at all, but when it happens . . .”

  The face of the man with the horn-rimmed glasses was a jumble of tears and snot. The elderly man standing behind us cleared his throat again and again with a great “Ahem! Ahem!” Each time he did so, we looked at his face.

  Just then Si-bong, who had been watching the man with the horn-rimmed glasses silently from behind, slowly stepped into the telephone booth. Then, as if the man with the horn-rimmed glasses were about to collapse, Si-bong gently took him into his arms from behind. With one hand he even began to pat the man’s shoulder. As soon as Si-bong did this, the man let go of the receiver, turned around, and took Si-bong into his arms as well. There, in Si-bong’s arms, the man went from weeping to bawling. I, too, entered the phone booth and gently put my arms around the man’s shoulders. Why, I don’t know, but for some reason it just seemed like the thing to do.

  The inside of the phone booth was so narrow we could hardly move at all. The elderly man behind us kept clearing his throat and making a noise that sounded like “tsk-tsk,” but the three of us simply remained standing inside the phone booth. The man’s tears did not stop.

  As Si-bong rubbed the man’s back he said in a low voice, “Don’t worry. We’re gonna make some money soon.”

  When the man with the horn-rimmed glasses heard Si-bong, he began to cry even louder. Bit by bit, he seemed to be losing his breath, making gasping sounds. After his tears had dried a bit, the man with the horn-rimmed glasses leaned into Si-bong’s ear and whispered something softly, just loud enough for me to hear as well.

  “Fucking Christ . . .”

  But that’s exactly it: I should have known. I should have realized why it was that even after we came out of the phone booth, the elderly man didn’t pick up the receiver and, instead, simply kept staring at the man with the horn-rimmed glasses. If I’d known before that the phone was out of order, then the whole scene would have been different, wouldn’t it? I don’t know, maybe. I guess that’s something that none of us can know. And that’s why for me there’s nothing left but apologies. Nothing else at all.

  20. Little Changes

  The owner of the fruit stand and the owner of the butcher shop played badminton every morning, as usual. As usual, they swept the sidewalk in front of their stores; as usual, they ate their packed lunches together and, as usual, they drank beer after work. As usual, they closed their stores at the same time and, as usual, they walked home together.

  As usual, Si-bong and I would go to the butcher after lunch and ask: “Is there still nothing you’d like to apologize for?”

  By this time the butcher no longer threw gloves or pens at us when he saw us. Neither did he throw water on us, or spit at us.

  “As much as you bastards mouth off it’s no use. You think I’m gonna cave just because you guys keep at it?”

  The butcher spoke without even looking at us as he sliced a large hunk of meat. We watched him closely every day. That’s how we knew about all of the little changes in his behavior that started to appear. At the same time, it seemed as though the butcher himself had no idea of the changes that were happening. We wanted to show him what they were.

  Si-bong spoke first. “You know, it’s interesting how you’ve been serving the shuttlecock lower and lower, isn’t it?”

  Suddenly, with a flinch, the butcher stopped the hand that had been cutting. Only then did he finally look at us. Suddenly, in a louder voice: “Who said I’ve been hitting the shuttle lower and lower?!”

  “Well, you did it yesterday, the day before . . . That’s why the fruit stand owner kept saying, ‘Higher! Higher!’”

  When Si-bong said that, the butcher simply stood there, glaring at us. It was my turn to say something.

  “It’s also interesting how today you swept all the way in front of the fruit stand, isn’t it? And that was even after the fruit stand owner kept on saying that it was okay, you didn’t have to.”

  The butcher simply lowered his head again and began chopping the meat once more. The meat was not cutting well.

  We continued talking back and forth.

  “For the last few days it seems you’ve barely even touched the banchan at lunchtime. You eat your rice and almost nothing else.”

  “You drink your beer slower, too.”

  At one point Si-bong and I started to look at each other as we spoke.

  “And you’ve been helping unload the fruit crates from the truck.”

  “And whenever you’re walking together, you always walk a step behind.”

  We looked back at the butcher shop owner to ask him.

  “Why might all that be?”

  “Could it be you think all of these were wrongs and that’s why?”

  The butcher continued to say nothing. He simply continued cutting the meat: chop . . . chop . . . chop. Unlike usual, some was cut thickly, some thinly.

  We watched the meat being cut for a long while, and then left the store. That was on account of there not being much left to wait for.

  21. The Light Left On

  One day we were outside the first-floor entryway of the apartment building and the butcher came running up to us all the way from the playground. His sideburns and t-shirt were soaked with sw
eat as if he’d been running around looking for us for quite some time.

  He spoke to us, still trying to catch his breath. “You! You little . . . ! You apologized for me to big bro’s wife, didn’t you?!”

  The butcher grabbed Si-bong’s collar in his right hand and mine in his left. From his armpits came a smell, a mixture of sweat and something metallic. Still, we didn’t turn away.

  “No. We haven’t apologized yet.”

  “We still haven’t gotten your request.”

  That was exactly what we said, and it was the truth. Still, the butcher didn’t loosen his grip on our necks. Instead, he kept hold and shook us back and forth.

  “Liars! Then why is big bro’s wife acting like she is?!”

  “Well, what has big bro’s wife been acting like?” Si-bong asked the butcher through his choking. All I could let out was a choking noise myself.

  “Well, whenever big bro’s wife looks at me, her eyes . . . !”

  The butcher trailed off mid-sentence, and then simply shut his mouth. Then, with a scrunched forehead, he simply glared at us. All we did was look up at the sky, still choking. The butcher slowly released his grip on our necks.

  “So you’re saying that you really didn’t say anything to big bro’s wife? Is that it?” Instead of answering, Si-bong and I nodded our heads. He tilted his head to one side and spoke to himself.

  “That’s so strange . . .”

  And then he simply turned around and walked slowly back toward the shop building. We bowed politely, to his back. His head was sunken low.

  Come evening, the butcher came around to talk to us once more. This time, however, he didn’t grab our throats. He seemed only to be catching his breath once more, and asked us.

  “You! You guys! You guys said something to the woman who works at the cleaners, didn’t you?!”

  We shook our heads. We had no reason to apologize to the woman at the cleaners, and we told that to the butcher. When we said that, he took a step closer to us and asked.

  “Are you sure? You’re sure?!”

  The butcher had developed dark circles under his eyes. His lips were white and dry, and his voice quivered just a bit. We felt a bit sorry for him. But there was nothing we could do for him. All that Si-bong and I did was nod again. That was all we could do for him.

  That evening we heard small voices coming out of the butcher’s house. They were his and his wife’s voices. At the fruit stand owner’s house the lights were already all out.

  “What in the world has gotten into you lately,” his wife asked.

  “What? What’s wrong with me?” He asked back.

  “You’re acting so strange lately!”

  “Hmm . . . What’s so strange about me now?”

  “Are you really asking because you don’t know?”

  That was as far as we could hear. After that, all we could hear were muffled voices, like when someone covers your mouth with their hand. We knew those sounds well.

  The light in the butcher’s house did not go out for a long, long time. From the kitchen, clattering could be heard all night long.

  22. The Great Fight

  It was the next day around lunchtime that a great fight broke out at the shop building. Si-bong and I watched carefully. All the people from the building gathered around in a circle to watch what was happening. Despite that, no one tried to break it up. We did not try to break it up either. That was on account of it being a wrong that we could do nothing about.

  The butcher was on top of the fallen fruit stand owner’s chest. As he held the fruit stand owner’s throat with both hands, he yelled, “Why the hell do you take twice as much banchan when you eat?! Why?! Why?!”

  The fruit stand owner said nothing at all.

  23. Teaching Wrong

  After we became the head residents we were always busy running around apologizing to the caretakers on behalf of the residents for the wrongs they’d committed. That was on account of it being the duty of the head residents.

  We would go to the residents who entered and ask them, “Do you have anything to apologize for?”

  “Whatever it is, don’t worry about it. We’ll apologize to the caretakers for you.”

  Usually the residents replied with something like, “Really, there’s nothing I’ve done wrong.”

  “Why the hell should I apologize?! Do you little shits know who I am?! You motherfuckers, I’m going to sue all of you!”

  “What are you talking about ‘apology?’ Who are you?”

  But, usually after about a week, the majority of them would say something akin to the following, grabbing our wrists or latching onto our legs:

  “Please! Please apologize for me, will you? If you apologize, it means no more beatings, right?”

  “Yes! Yes, of course I need to apologize! I’m sure I must apologize for my wrongs! I’m no one special at all!”

  “Who are you, sirs? Are you the apologizers?”

  Each time we would say to them: “All right, first thing you have to do is confess your wrongs to us.”

  “Only if you tell us what you did, can we apologize on your behalf.”

  “Then we become the ones who committed the wrongs.”

  But the majority of the residents did not know their wrongs. So we had to teach them each and every one, and even commit them for them as well.

  “Even not washing yourself well can be considered a wrong. How’s that one? Should we go with that?”

  “Even all of the things that you just think to yourself can be considered wrongs. What about this: You want to run away from here, right? You want to escape and then report everything to the police, huh?”

  “First, let’s commit a wrong. How about . . . not taking your medicine?”

  The residents either nodded their heads, or responded with a quick, “Ahh . . . Of course.” Even the residents who didn’t have anything to say to us and held out for a very long time eventually came to say, “Ahh . . . Of course!” We went to them every single day without fail and talked to them about their wrongs. There were just so many wrongs to discuss.

  At first, whenever we apologized to the caretakers on behalf of the residents, the caretakers told us what a good job we were doing.

  “That’s it, you little pricks! You little shits have to tell all of this stuff to us first!”

  “Very good, head resident! Looks like we picked one good one at least!”

  After they told us this, the caretakers would tell us to get out of here. They would tell us to keep up the good work, and even pat us on the head. But even when they did that, we didn’t budge. Si-bong and I would just keep standing in front of them.

  “What? You have something else to say?”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  Then, we said to them: “How are you going to send us away like that?”

  “If you do that, then it’s not really apologizing for them,” we continued.

  “If you just send us away, then we’re just tattletales.”

  “You have to accept the apology.”

  “Don’t think of us as us . . .”

  As soon as Si-bong and I had gone back and forth with that, the taller caretaker came up to us. He slapped us hard on the cheek, once each.

  “Jesus . . . you sure do fucking talk a lot. Then what do you want us to do?”

  Si-bong and I both touched our slapped faces with both hands. Then we told them: “That’s exactly it! Please! Hit us more! Then it’s an apology!”

  Both the taller caretaker and the shorter caretaker looked at us blankly, not saying a word, then they looked at each other and let out laughs like hissing wind. A moment later, they began hitting us. Si-bong and I tumbled around this way and that on the office floor as we took hits from both of the caretakers. We were beaten with belts, kicked with boots, struck with pointers, and punched. From time to time Si-bong and I looked at each other. Each time that happened, and without letting on to the caretakers, we would smile through gritted teeth. I thi
nk that Si-bong and I had the exact same feeling. It was a feeling of relief—of pride even—a feeling that we’d finally, truly become head residents. Every time they hit us, every time we apologized on someone else’s behalf, I felt that way. And that’s how I, how Si-bong, came to continually apologize on behalf of the other residents.

  Whenever the residents saw our round, swollen faces, they would hand us things like their undergarments, their toothbrushes, their medicine, or their towels. Some would even cry in front of us, bent down on their knees, stroking our ankles. Whenever that happened, we would ask them.

  “So, any other wrongs to confess?”

  24. The Ones Who Died

  Things went on like that for a while, then two of the residents of the institution died one after the other.

  The first to die was a man with a large birth mark on the left side of his chin who had come to live in our room not long before, and the next to die was a woman who had recently entered the women’s bunk, a young woman, about our age.

  On the windowsill right there by my bed, the middle-aged man had taken his undershirt, ripped it into strips, tied it together, and hung himself. We were sleeping as he hung there, dangling throughout the night.

  As soon as the caretakers came by our room to give us our medicine and saw the man there, they ran for the office and then the storehouse behind the superintendent’s residence. The whole time, the middle-aged man stayed dangling from the window. All we could do was remain standing there below him. That was on account of it seeming somehow wrong for us to sit down.

  The caretakers brought a large rice sack and put the middle-aged man inside. Then they told Si-bong and me to carry it and follow them. Si-bong and I lifted the middle-aged man from both sides and followed the caretakers. The sack kept slipping from our hands and the middle-aged man fell to the floor again and again.