Lost Souls

by Hwang Sunwon

  September 1956

  VOICES

  They were dragging him down a mountain, pulling him by a rope around his neck. Tŏkku didn’t recognize the mountain, saw only that the terrain was incredibly rugged.

  Jagged rocks and tree stumps gouged his chin, his chest, his knees. And then he was flipped over and it was the back side of him being gashed and scraped. Soon there would only be shreds of him left. He would surely die if they kept dragging him like this.

  “Let go of me! I’m not dead! I’m still alive!”

  But they continued to drag his bloody carcass down the rugged mountain slope.

  When there weren’t enough troops to remove bodies from the battlefield, laborers might be assigned the job, and they would drag the bodies off by a rope around the neck. Tŏkku had been at the front some three months the first time he witnessed this. A forty-eight-hour pitched battle had just ended, a battle in which a height of land had changed hands no less than nine times. Tŏkku had sunk back against a boulder, overcome by a hollow feeling that was partly the relaxation of tension and partly the exhilaration of surviving. He always felt this way after intense fighting.

  The sun had risen over the summit of a neighboring mountain. The wind breached a gap in the mountains and swept over him, carrying the odor of gunpowder and blood and the moans of the wounded. He was hardened by then to these smells and sounds, was used to them, in fact.

  As he rested against the boulder in the direct rays of the sun, his eyelids had grown heavy. Normally, drowsiness was more of a worry to the men than hunger. They couldn’t help dozing off even when they were marching toward enemy positions. They were like sleepwalkers, waking one moment and nodding off the next. Nodding off and waking up—this had been Tŏkku’s routine since arriving at the front. Back on the farm he’d been able to sleep through the most furious storm.

  Finally Tŏkku had dozed off, only to lurch awake at a sound. He flinched at the sight that greeted him—a body lying at his feet. It wasn’t the corpse itself but the rope around its neck that had shaken him. When they pulled the rope and the carcass caught on something, the neck stretched out. The upturned eyes glittered in the lovely morning sunlight. The mouth was half open, the chin bouncing up and down with the movement of the body. Tŏkku jerked his head away.

  Beside him, Sergeant Kim had burst into his distinctive high-pitched laugh.

  “You coward—haven’t you ever seen a body before? Bet you never knew how convenient a neck can be—all you do is tie a rope around it and you can drag people dead or alive. A neck is just right for tying a rope around, and once you knot the rope, it’s not about to come loose. And a neck can stretch and shrink, so whoever’s doing the pulling has something to work with if the body gets caught on something. Look—it got snagged again. See how the neck’s stretched out?”

  Tŏkku hadn’t been able to look.

  Sergeant Kim had been right: Tŏkku was something of a coward. His first action at the front had left the crotch of his pants soaked. And the first time he had seen the corpse of a comrade he had burst into tears—but more out of fear than sorrow. To Tŏkku a trench felt like the inside of a tomb.

  People adapt to most anything, though, and over time Tŏkku saw so many corpses that nothing shocked him anymore. A severed arm, an unconnected leg, guts looped over a branch, swaying in the breeze—whatever the sight, he would pass a hand down his belly and savor the joy of still being alive. And by now the callus on his trigger finger had thickened. What was it, then, about the corpse with the rope around its neck that had upset him so? Maybe it was the realization that the eyes and chin of a corpse weren’t so different from his own.

  In the trench that night he had whispered to Sergeant Kim that if he were ever badly wounded the sergeant should finish him off. So saying, he quietly passed a hand along his neck.

  Sergeant Kim had responded with his short giggle. “Sure, as long as I have some ammo left.”

  Some time later, at the conclusion of yet another fierce battle, Tŏkku had seen a laborer dragging a corpse by the neck. In a fit of rage, he struck the laborer with his rifle butt.

  Sergeant Kim had uttered his giggle and thumped Tŏkku on the shoulder.

  “Don’t get so worked up, soldier. I’ve gotten mad like that myself. I even shot one of those fellows in the leg once. But then I thought about it—what difference does it make if they put the rope around your neck or your ankles? Just count yourself lucky you’re not crow bait in the first place.”

  Ultimately Tŏkku had accepted this. At home on the farm he had to haul rocks and logs and such. Dragging bodies on the battlefield was no different, he told himself.

  And then, during yet another fierce battle, against a large enemy force for control of a ridge, Tŏkku had been struck down by a stray round. The bullet entered through the eyeball, but fortunately at an angle, fracturing the orbital bone before exiting. Time seemed to stand still, and then close by he heard Sergeant Kim. He had never been so glad to hear that giggle.

  “Sergeant Kim, I’m dead. My head’s gone.”

  Again the giggle. “If your head’s gone, then what happened to your mouth? You’re still talking.”

  “I mean it! My head’s gone! I can’t see!” Tŏkku had shouted.

  Blood flowing from his left eye had covered his sound right eye.

  The sergeant had brought his mouth close to Tŏkku’s ear.

  “Relax, soldier—the only thing missing is one of your eyes. Now, you asked me a favor, remember? I just happen to have a bullet left—how about it?” This time he burst into an even higher-pitched giggle.

  “No!” Tŏkku had screamed. “No! No!”

  Two months later Tŏkku had been discharged.

  And now here they were dragging him by the neck down a rugged mountain slope. Little was left of his chin and his knees. There was no more of his back or his skull to gouge open. And he could no longer feel pain. He was dead—there was no doubt about it. Still, he wanted to know what son of a bitch would take a man who was still alive and drag him by the neck with a rope.

  With an effort he lifted his head and groped for the other end of the rope. And that was when he received a shock. The man bent over pulling the rope was Tŏkku himself.

  “Hey, let go, damn it! It’s me—Tŏkku! Can’t you see? What happened to your good eye?” And then the Tŏkku pulling the rope vanished.

  Thank god, thought Tŏkku. But the rope kept dragging him. Something the size of a man’s fist had attached itself to the other end and was rolling down the slope, pulling the rope behind it. Tŏkku looked more closely; it was a bloody lump of something. The rolling lump grew like a snowball. And the larger it grew, the faster it pulled the rope. From the size of a fist it grew to the size of a large brick, and then a large pumpkin. A cliff loomed ahead. This meant death. With a final supreme effort he shouted, “Help me!”

  The shout startled him awake.

  He was at the foot of the hill behind his village. The evening sun was slanting across the ridge of the mountain to the west. Its outline was clearer than when it was directly aloft; it looked larger now, and more crimson.

  Tŏkku had returned home after his discharge, his empty eye socket hideously shrunk and misshapen. But there was something else about him that startled the villagers: he was a changed man.

  Tŏkku had been as diligent a farmer as you could find. He never borrowed an ox except to turn up the earth of his dry field and paddy, at which times he called upon Samdol’s father, who lived a couple of houses away. Otherwise, whether he was fertilizing, harvesting, or doing some other chore, he packed everything on his back. Whatever work one man alone could do, he did himself. But despite his large frame, there was something meek and tight-fisted about him. Once, when he was raising a pig, a neighbor’s pig got sick and died overnight. Thinking that swine disease was going around, Tŏkku immediately sold off his own pig for less than half the market price. He learned later that contaminated feed had killed the other pig. Even so, he s
tood by his decision and he never again raised a pig.

  Another peculiarity was that he never bought liquor or tobacco. It wasn’t that they didn’t agree with him. If he happened to attend a celebration at one of the neighbors’, he would empty bowls of makkŏlli until the skin around his eyes turned red. It amounted to this: if it was free, he drank it. In this respect he tended to be stingy.

  The autumn before Tŏkku was drafted, he was taught an expensive lesson. He was on his way home from the market, where he had sold some unhulled rice, and he stopped at a drinking house along the way. He had in mind not just a quick bowl of makkŏlli but also the soybean-paste soup that customers were served along with their drinks. To this soup he would add the ball of steamed barley he had packed before leaving home.

  He was just about to drop the hardened ball of barley into the steaming bowl of soup when he heard someone call his name. He looked up to see a face gazing at him through the glass door to the back room. It was Yongch’il, a man who hadn’t been seen in the village for some time. Tŏkku couldn’t very well ignore him, and he forced a wan smile. Diligent farmers such as Tŏkku didn’t need to be any more friendly than that with dissolute gamblers such as Yongch’il.

  Yongch’il threw open the door to the back room and invited Tŏkku inside, where it was warmer. The day was gray and overcast, and where Tŏkku sat it was cold enough to make him shiver. Still, he told Yongch’il he was happy where he was.

  “Oh hell, you’re stubborn as a mule. Get in here. I’m telling you, it’s cold out there.”

  This display of goodwill convinced Tŏkku, and he stepped up into the back room with his meal.

  Sitting across a small drinking table from Tŏkku was a young man he had never seen before. In the warmth of the room Tŏkku’s thoughts returned to his bowl of soup and barley.

  “Not so fast—you can eat that stuff any time of day. First warm yourself with some of this.” So saying, Yongch’il passed Tŏkku his drinking bowl and filled it for him.

  Tŏkku didn’t always eat three proper meals a day. In winter, when the days were short, he took only breakfast and supper. Today was special: he had planned to treat himself to lunch because of his trip to market. And besides, a meal suited him fine on a cold day like this when his stomach was growling. But he had to admit that the thought of a drink had also crossed his mind. And so, pretending he couldn’t resist the offer, he accepted the bowl from Yongch’il and drank.

  It was yakchu—fresh clean yakchu and not the thick, bland makkŏlli that folks drank out here in the boondocks. He sampled a chunk of the raw octopus that the others were having with their drink. It was sleek and chewy, and very tasty. Never before had he eaten raw octopus.

  The young man now offered Tŏkku his bowl. Tŏkku declined, saying the first one had warmed him up just fine. But the other continued to hold out the bowl. A peculiar smile came to his face, only the lips moving, the other features, eyes and all, dead still. Again the smile. Go on, take it, he seemed to be saying.

  Tŏkku told himself it wouldn’t do to accept a bowl from one man but not the other, and finally he took it and drank. He felt a prickling sensation growing in the pit of his stomach, followed by a warm glow. Those are the times when drink goes down most easily. And now Yongch’il was offering Tŏkku yet another bowl, saying the latecomer had to drink three bowls in a row.

  “Say what you want, liquor’s the thing when it’s cold out. All the quilted clothing in the world won’t help if you don’t line yourself on the inside too.”

  Tŏkku considered. When country folk drank and one person bought a certain amount, the common practice was for the next person to buy the same amount. If he were now to gulp down what the others offered but fail to reciprocate, it would be awkward. And so he drew a deep breath, made sure his money belt was secure about his middle, and said, “I’d better get home while it’s still light out.” He turned back to his barley and soup.

  “Will you listen to this?” said Yongch’il. “He wants to go home. You miss the little woman’s butt, don’t you?”

  Tŏkku was caught off guard. It hadn’t been a year since he had taken a wife, and he had yet to experience the connubial bliss that newlywed men were supposed to feel. He merely felt thankful that his wife was a thrifty household manager.

  “What’s wrong—afraid I’m going to stick you for the drinks?” Here Yongch’il struck a nerve. “Relax. Who do you think I am, anyway? Is old Yongch’il ever out of money for booze? Come on, don’t be a pussy. Drink up and give me back my bowl.”

  As timid men will do at a time like this, Tŏkku attempted an excuse: “No, it’s just that . . .”

  He was about to protest that a couple of days earlier he had drunk too much and his stomach was still unsettled. The fact of the matter was, he had attended a birthday celebration for Samdol’s father two days ago, where he was treated to two soup bowls full of makkŏlli. And he would have liked an equal amount more, but Samdol’s father, always stingy, hadn’t offered and Tŏkku had gone unsatisfied.

  In any event, Yongch’il was not persuaded.

  “It’s just what? Come on—your friends are better than the little woman, and your drinking friends are the best.”

  Finally Tŏkku accepted the bowl. And then he passed it back, empty, to Yongch’il. Twice the empty yakchu kettle went out to the kitchen and twice it came back full.

  Tŏkku’s face began to redden—not just the skin around his eyes but the tip of his nose and the rims of his ears. He grew talkative, as people of few words are wont to do when they’re under the influence. And the more timid a person is, the more he brags. The villagers could say what they wanted, Tŏkku now declared, but no one could live it up like Yongch’il. As long as he was an able-bodied man, he too wanted to live it up just once, and then he could die without regrets. He’d worked himself to the bone farming, and what had he gotten out of it?

  “Yongch’il, my friend, we live in the same village—let’s get to know each other better. It’s just like you said—a friend’s better than the little woman. Or like they put it in the old days, sell the wife and buy a friend!”

  The young man punctuated every sentence of Tŏkku’s with the twitch of the lips that was his way of smiling.

  When they had finished their third kettle, Yongch’il suggested they take a break. He then produced a fistful of paper money and paid the bill. Tŏkku had never seen such a green profusion of thousand-wŏn notes. Yongch’il must have cleaned up at gambling, he thought.

  Yongch’il and the young man withdrew to a closetlike room. Tŏkku followed and found the two men spreading out a blanket on which to gamble. In no time the blanket was heaped with thousand-wŏn notes.

  Tŏkku looked over their shoulders as they played. Surreptitiously he undid his money belt, extracted a ten-wŏn note, and placed it beside the thousand-wŏn bills on the blanket. In gambling parlance, he was “investing” in one of the players.

  The young man gave his little twitch of a smile, picked up the note with two fingertips, and flicked it aside. The smile this time was contemptuous.

  “Better stay out of this,” Yongch’il followed up, as if admonishing a youngster.

  Tŏkku was feeling the alcohol and couldn’t help taking offense. So, they were looking down on him, were they?

  He placed two hundred-wŏn notes on the blanket. And for the next round, three. And then five. He began to feel expansive. Occasionally the money he bet would return to him, doubled.

  But as the night wore on and he began to sober up, he discovered that his money belt was almost empty. He grew fretful and broke out in a sweat. The hand that held the money trembled like someone shivering in the cold. Why had he ever started in the first place? But repentance had come too late—his pockets were empty now.

  He wished he were dead. He wanted to die right there where he sat.

  Yongch’il ordered more liquor. When it arrived, Tŏkku, without waiting to be offered, poured himself a bowl and gulped it down. Again he wished he wer
e dead. He wished he could drink until he passed out and then never wake up.

  But alcohol works in strange ways. Even while his stomach was warmed by the bowls he drank, his emotions cooled. Be a man, he scolded himself. If you’re going to gamble, can’t you afford to lose a piddling amount of money? What about that guy who lost everything gambling? He’s still alive, isn’t he?

  Tŏkku looked up and gazed in turn at Yongch’il and the young man.

  “Make sure you keep that money safe.”

  Spoken like a gambler. If they didn’t squander the money they had won from him, he would win it back someday. He rose deliberately. They asked him to stay until daybreak, but he wouldn’t be swayed, and out he went, wanting to put up a brave front. From the market street to his village was a good five miles. As he walked through the cold, moonless night he realized he’d made an expensive stop at that drinking place. “So what?” he muttered. What was wrong with having some expensive drinks for once in your life?

  The cold air soon sobered him. The image of his wife rose before him; she was most likely waiting for him. She would ask about the money. Well, he’d spent it drinking with a friend. No, that wouldn’t work. But hadn’t that no-good Yongch’il told him that a friend was better than the little woman, and a drinking pal was best of all? And if Tŏkku was such a friend, then was it right for Yongch’il to have cleaned him out? Might as well pull a knife and rob me, he thought. And who the hell was that asshole with the sly smile? How could he have let himself be taken in by those sons of bitches? Regret settled in his heart.