by Hwang Sunwon
—You know, Chongsuk, when I first met you that time at Nan’s, I had an illusion that you were one of the sculptures. And when Nan introduced you as the wife of a future lawyer, I was jealous of your husband even though I’d never seen him before. It was the first time I’d ever felt that way.
—And you know, when Nan mentioned the word “future,” it seemed she was emphasizing it, and I had to remind myself that I was the wife of a future lawyer. The next moment I felt like laughing, but I managed to contain myself.
—The three of us played Catch the Joker that night, didn’t we? And I got stuck with the joker, and that brought you and me closer together. So close I forgot you were someone’s wife.
—And didn’t that make us what we are today? Yes, Nan was the first one out of the game, and then the joker was passing between you and me. Perhaps our relationship would have turned out differently if I’d been stuck with it. Or if we had done as Nan suggested, and you had taken us out for coffee as a penalty when you got stuck with it. We had just walked out the door when I said, let’s make him play the “Funeral March Sonata” for us instead, remember? You can’t imagine how my chest was throbbing when I said that. And how thankful I was when Nan clapped her hands together and said, “Yes!” And so we came straight here. As soon as we arrived, Nan marched in as if she owned the place, opening the curtains, lifting the piano lid—wasn’t she a whirlwind? She started playing and I told myself, here comes Massenet’s “Elegy,” but then she started fussing with the wrapping she’d had around her throat ever since the recital, because of her cold, and she never did sing it—instead she convinced you to play the “Funeral March Sonata.” I was standing in the dark blue shadow of the piano, and strangely enough I began to feel jealous of Nan—though I didn’t realize it at first. And then Nan looked back and forth between us and said that I was quite the alto back when we were in school. If I had still been a schoolgirl then, I would have scowled at Nan or gone up and pinched her, but this was different—my ears were burning and I couldn’t even look at her. You were at the piano by then and I asked you to play the “Elegy” and not the “Funeral March Sonata.” Why? Nan protested, and I said I simply had an urge to hear it. The truth was, I’d already decided that I would listen to you play the “Funeral March Sonata” when I was here by myself. And after that I started coming here without telling Nan.
—I was jealous myself, Chongsuk, and when you told me you had a young child, I felt jealous of her too for a time. Do you remember that summer day when we went up in the hills? That’s when you told me. I was surprised, but eventually it passed—how could I be jealous of that girl who held a portion of your love? There was a boy, maybe nine or so, sitting at the foot of a pine tree right in front of where we were sitting; he was sketching a shade tree. Standing next to him was a girl who might have been his younger sister, licking an ice cream and gazing at the sketch. Of course it was the kind of sketch a child would do. The trunk was impossibly straight, there were only a few branches—as if someone had done a sloppy job of pruning it—and the leaves were overly detailed; and the bird perched on one of the branches was as big as the tree trunk. The boy stopped for a moment and looked at the girl, and the girl brought the ice cream up to the boy’s chin. The boy stuck his tongue way out and took what was left of the ice cream into his mouth. As I watched this beautiful scene I began to feel happy, but then the face of your child, which I had never seen before, superimposed itself on the face of the girl, and that upset me for some reason. And then you said you were in the mood for ice cream yourself, and I tried to compose myself by running down that rather steep slope; I didn’t realize how hot it was. When I returned with the ice cream the boy was drawing a likeness of his sister. And my, those eyes he drew were twice as big as the mouth! But there again, as I watched I also drew in my mind your child, with eyes that would be large like yours, but I took no pleasure from it. That was how much I wanted then to have you for myself.
—But as far as I was concerned, my relationship with my daughter was the same as my relationship with my husband. Maybe even worse. The girl still thinks the nanny who used to nurse her is her mother. Well, it does make sense. There was a time when I practically forgot I had actually given birth to her. I guess our nanny always reminded her that I was her mother, but she never called me that, not once. When I left home just now, I wanted to give her one last hug. But I didn’t feel like a mother who was about to hug her own daughter; rather, I was going to hug a girl who happened to live in the same house. And guess what? The moment I put my arms out, she flinched and drew back, her eyes wide with surprise, and she shouted, “Mom, you’re scary!” Before I knew it I’d pushed her away from me as hard as I could. Mom scaring her—the very idea! She tumbled to the floor and starting crying. That was the first time she ever referred to me as her mother—when she was scared of me—and as I looked down at her it occurred to me just how frightening my face must have been, and I shuddered all over. I told myself that maybe a woman who’s a frightening mother and a frightening wife should be dead. But then I heard a voice inside me asking, are you so unhappy that you would kill yourself? Well, I didn’t kill myself. And I didn’t cry. I took one last look as I was leaving the house, and what do you think I saw? This girl whose eyes had been overflowing with tears had fallen asleep with the tears still wet on her face. I pulled up her quilt and tucked her in. And I tried to forget that I was dealing with my own daughter and just prayed she wouldn’t grow up to be a frightening mother and a frightening wife. And I have no regrets about the first time you took my hand in yours. And I don’t regret that time you threw your metronome at the mirror on the wall where my face was reflected—it must have been as frightening then as it was just now at home. Do you remember that time I asked you if maybe Nan was too wrapped up with the piano? Didn’t you reply that you and Nan were so wrapped up with each other that you had almost forgotten that you were a man and she was a woman? Even though it was beyond me to understand such a relationship, your words by themselves gave me satisfaction. In truth, that was the happiest time.
—But it’s from now on that we’ll have true happiness. Isn’t that why we’re leaving? Everything in the past we have to bury. Even the small happinesses we had then. Plans for a new life await us now.
—Last night when we were walking those unfamiliar back streets and you decided we should go to a mountain village, my heart thrilled for the first time in ages. But hadn’t we already made up our minds long ago? We were able to walk with assurance down those dark, windy streets—imagine. But then we left for a main street, and we heard that drum and bugle commotion and knew there must have been a circus nearby. We were drawn toward that sound and we came up to an old tent flapping in the wind, and outside it a cage with a monkey hunched up to keep warm, waiting for people to throw it peanuts or something. We weren’t that excited, but somehow we ended up going inside. That was when the horse was jumping through the ring of fire. Next to the ring stood a girl dressed in red holding a long whip, and every time the horse was about to jump through the ring she cracked the whip, making it look as if she were whipping the horse. Close up we could see that the old horse was hobbling and the red color of the girl’s clothes was faded. The drum and bugle played a sad song that used to be popular at one time. I was sorry we had gone in. The horse went off, hobbling even more. Another girl came out, lay down on her back, and began spinning a large vase with her feet. Whether it was upright or on its side, she moved the vase around as easily as if it were a ball. And then she stopped spinning the vase—maybe she wanted to rest her legs—and from the mouth of the vase, which I had thought was empty, there appeared a bony hand—remember? I felt myself tensing up. It was a younger girl, also dressed in faded red, and when she was all the way out of the vase she balanced one slender leg on the rim and spread out her arms. And that’s when I got a shock, because that vase that the younger girl was standing on began to turn! Even though she was using her arms to keep her balance, she always l
ooked like she was about to fall off as she switched feet along with the turning of the vase—I couldn’t bear to look. The vase came to a stop again and this time the girl placed a hand on the rim and pushed herself up into a handstand. Her face was looking up in our direction, her arms were trembling, and just then I realized she was blind, and before I knew it I had stood up. As we left, you too looked like you were sorry that we weren’t in the mood to be inside that circus tent. The young girl must have performed some other trick, because we could hear applause coming from the small crowd—the tent could have held twice as many people. All I felt was a chill down my back. Outside, the monkey was being led back in for the next act. The streetlights weren’t on yet, and the wind was still blowing in the darkness. I wondered if because she was blind maybe the girl had less of a feel for how dangerous it was to be doing a handstand like that. The next moment I felt another chill all over. Encountering that blind girl gave me a bad feeling about our departure, and I couldn’t bear to think about it.
—Then don’t think about it. Once we’ve left you’ll realize it was only a wild notion. Just forget everything. Think instead about our new life. Think about the ripened grain in the fields, the flowers in the hills, and the sky high above us.
—But Kuhyŏn, soon you’ll be telling yourself that I’m someone else’s wife and mother. And you’ll no longer feel jealous of my daughter. You’ll tell yourself that I’m someone else’s frightening wife and mother. And you’ll regret that you threw the metronome and broke the mirror. And I’ll end up changed into a frightening woman. Maybe that will be the time for me to kill myself.
—You’re awfully pale, Chongsuk. You didn’t—
—It’s the face of a frightening woman, isn’t it?
—You didn’t—
—No, I didn’t. You needn’t worry. I didn’t take poison or anything like that. It’s just that this frightening woman is exhausted. I want to sleep. So I took some sleeping pills, that’s all. While I’m asleep, you decide what we’ll do in the future. I was only joking when I talked just now about killing myself. Even if you feel like I’m a frightening woman, I’m not going to kill myself. I mean it. Even if you manage to close that trunk and you leave by yourself for some unknown place, I’m not going to kill myself. First I’d have to ask myself if I’m so happy or unhappy that I would actually do that. When I wake up I’ll let my husband know everything. My husband passed the bar exam. But before he takes on the affairs of others, he’ll take on his wife’s affair. He won’t have to lift a finger. Because he can judge it on the basis of simple moral principles. My husband will abandon his frightening wife and start a new living arrangement. And my daughter will forget her frightening mother. And that’s as it should be. So while I’m asleep, you make the decisions. You can blame everything on the joker. What time is it?
—Ten ten.
—Then we still have time before the train leaves.
—What’s going on? I can’t figure you out.
—You can figure me out while I’m sleeping. So may I hear the “Funeral March Sonata” one last time?
—Get yourself together, will you?
—I’m sleepy. Come on, let me hear the “Funeral March Sonata.”
With trembling hands the man begins to play. The woman interrupts him before he’s half through.
—All right, good. Now let me hear about the new life that’s awaiting us at the foot of the mountain. Quick, before I fall asleep.
—Everything’s going to be all right. We’ll have ourselves a little house in the village there. And in our little house you’ll get the rice ready and I’ll make the cooking fire. During the day we’ll go up in the hills for flowers; we’ll bet on who can collect the most. I’ll always lose. And when the moon is out at night we’ll follow our shadows through the fields. I’ll tell you that the shadows of the sheaves of grain are goblins. I’ll scare you over and over again telling you those shadows are goblins, and I’ll take you in my arms to protect you.
—And the cold wind will blow.
—And I’ll wrap you up in my cape.
—And the snow will fall. But if we can make it through the long tedious winter, spring will surely come.
—Yes, we can stay there till spring.
The woman lays her head gently on the keyboard. A dissonant chord sounds and then trails off. The man attempts to lift her. But the woman, her head on the keyboard, slowly shakes her head no and closes her eyes.
MANTIS
One by one the baby rabbits had disappeared, and that morning it seemed the last one was gone as well. Hyŏn could hear his landlady scolding the mother rabbit: maybe a praying mantis could devour its young or its mother, but no mammal, no matter how vicious, would ever gobble up four of its own babies. And then she asked herself out loud why she had ever told Hyŏn he could keep the mother rabbit there until the babies were grown. Hyŏn had bought the rabbit to use at the laboratory, and a few days ago it had spent an entire night pulling fur from its breast, making a nest, and giving birth. Now the landlady was cursing the rabbit. She was probably poking a stick into the hutch again, jabbing the rabbit in the side. Hyŏn then heard the little girl who lived there ask the landlady, whom she called Grandmother, whether eating its babies had made the rabbit’s eyes red. “Damn peepers, those damn peepers,” she kept saying. It sounded to Hyŏn as if the girl wanted to skewer the rabbit’s eyes.
The girl never failed to call the landlady Grandmother while the young lady of the house was away; after the young lady returned she changed to Mother. Whenever Hyŏn asked this little girl her age, she would say “Six” and spread the five fingers of her hand before him.
The only one the girl always called Mother was her doll. She never carried the doll piggyback, as other little girls might have done. When playing house she would make food out of dirt and serve it in broken pieces of porcelain. Bringing the potsherds to the doll’s mouth, she would say, “Eat, Mother.” This too happened only when the young lady was out.
Whenever the young lady returned, an unfamiliar pair of men’s shoes would appear on the narrow veranda outside her downstairs room. The shoes changed in color and size each time. When these unfamiliar shoes appeared, the lives of the little girl and the landlady also changed. The little girl’s round face became prim and she would come upstairs, where Hyŏn lived. The landlady’s face with all its tiny wrinkles would grow tense. And she would leave for the market in a flurry, basket hanging from her arm. She would still emerge from the smoky kitchen at dinnertime, wiping her eyes with the breast-tie of her chŏgori, but unlike other times, she could not cry out that her eyes were smarting. She would quietly finish washing the dishes, then go straight to Hyŏn’s room, creeping up the stairs without making a sound. Only when the young lady’s room became still did she tiptoe down the stairs with the girl and go to bed in the back room next to the kitchen.
When the landlady came upstairs on such occasions, she would sit silently for a while with her back to Hyŏn. Then she would turn to the glass fishbowl in the corner of the room as if seeing it for the first time. The girl would look at the fishbowl and the landlady for a moment, then start picking at her hangnails. With a look of amazement the landlady would observe how the swimming goldfish became huge or tiny according to its distance from the glass. She would then turn her eyes to the girl as if to draw her attention to the fishbowl. But the girl never looked back toward the bowl, although she would gaze upon it with great joy when the young lady was out.
When the young lady was away and the girl came upstairs to Hyŏn’s room, the first thing she did was go to the fishbowl. The goldfish, which usually was swimming in one place slowly moving its fins, became skittish and started swimming back and forth. When it settled down again, the girl would catch a fly and place it on the surface of the water. The first time she did this, Hyŏn told her not to feed the goldfish such filthy things. The goldfish darted to the surface and nibbled at the twitching fly, descended, and returned to nibble again, but never s
wallowed it. The less the fly twitched, the less the fish would nibble at it. The nibbling finally stopped when the fly was dead. When the girl caught ants crawling next to the fishbowl and put them in the water, though, the goldfish would dart up and gulp them down. She would also go outside for ants to put in the bowl. The goldfish swallowed only the live, squirming ants, ignoring the dead ones.
