by Bae Suah
At some point that same year, Cheolsu joined the army.
He sent me the occasional letter while he was in the service. They were very brief. Most were about clouds or the weather. If boys could be divided into different categories, then Cheolsu was a mineral. That was his approach to life. He was neither dishonest nor dramatic. He wasn’t my one and only boyfriend, and I wasn’t his one and only girlfriend. He didn’t attend lectures on political economy or register for study groups on proletariat literature, but he also wasn’t hung up on studying for the civil service exam or professional exams like other people. He just looked blank sometimes. While everyone else was tormented by a restless anxiety, like the dizziness you feel on a spring day, which made them question what they were doing with their lives, Cheolsu was yawning and working on a crossword puzzle. He knew how to accept the tedium without the ennui.
I could count about a dozen or so girls whom Cheolsu had dated back then. His interest in them was closer to simple curiosity than passion. He took them out to dinner and coffee, went with them to the movies, and even joined them at the occasional protest rally or demonstration. But I don’t believe that any of it—not the movies or the demonstrations or the jazz concerts at Janus or the French conversation classes at Alliance Française—really moved him. If someone asked him how the movie was that he’d watched with a girl the day before, he would answer, Okay, I guess. I forgot the title, but it’s about a spy. Or maybe a beggar? His woman leaves him or dies or something. I don’t know. I fell asleep and missed the ending. Cheolsu’s response never varied, regardless of whether it was a trendy Hollywood movie or a 1960s French film or a live play put on by the Yeonwoo Theater Company. And he always ended with the same words: I’m not really sure.
Among the girls he’d dated, one had snow-white skin and eyes that looked good behind glasses. She spent all her time going back and forth between home and the lecture hall, private French lessons, and the French literature section in the library, as if the academic life were the only one worth living. Yet I don’t believe she had any particularly grand dreams for herself. She later married an ordinary salaryman (who was not from France) and lived off his wages in Seoul, where she had no use for all that French. Then there was the loud, not-all-that-pretty girl with no sense of feminine wiles who later became a math teacher; the fervent socialist; the intellectual beauty who attended a top private university; the jealous girl; and the girl who was called the Black Hole because of her reputation for routinely going through multiple guys in one night. Each time Cheolsu broke up with another, he said the same thing.
I’m not really sure.
Basic training ended and Cheolsu came home on furlough. He’d changed. I couldn’t explain exactly how he’d changed, but his face was tanned as dark as a laborer’s and only his eyes sparkled. His hands were rough and he spoke less frequently. Cheolsu sat down next to me with a can of Coke in his hand.
“Why are you so busy all the time?” The first words out of his mouth were a complaint. “You didn’t reply to any of my letters.”
“I was working.”
“Give me your hand.”
He stroked my hand. I knew what he wanted. This new Cheolsu didn’t waste any time. His lips fumbled their way toward me. It was an emotionless and unthrilling first kiss.
“Want to go back to my place?” he asked.
He’d been to my house several times, but I’d never gone to his. It was too far away, and I knew he lived with his parents and younger sister. I hesitated because I had to work at the restaurant that night, but then said yes because I didn’t want to let him down after he’d gotten out on furlough. He took me by the hand and stood up. In the bus on the way to his house, he sat me on his lap and stared into my eyes. I stroked his closely cropped hair. The gray landscape outside the window flowed past listlessly. Cheolsu said my pink sweater looked good on me. That was the only thing he said the entire way.
No one was home. His mother was at a relative’s wedding and his little sister was still at school. In the living room an old carpet covered the floor and an unnaturally large television set clashed with an imitation Van Gogh hanging on the wall. Cheolsu made coffee and put on a record, some Jamaican artist I didn’t recognize. Time was passing dully and I was getting antsy.
“Want to see my room?” Cheolsu finally asked.
I was dancing around to the thumping reggae music. Cheolsu had touched the coffee cup to his lips but didn’t drink any. When he stopped the record, the grandfather clock on the wall suddenly rang out: deng, deng, deng, deng. The pale, hazy afternoon sunlight seeped through the window, and the dust rising off the carpet blurred my vision. The room was neither bright nor dark.
“My furlough ends the day after tomorrow,” Cheolsu said as we went into his room.
Heavy winter drapes covered the window. A desk, a bookcase crammed with economics textbooks, a wardrobe, a bed, a pair of dumbbells: it was the same stuff you would find in any guy’s room. In the low light I perused Cheolsu’s books. I didn’t recognize any of the titles. He didn’t have any of the usual paperbacks or light essay collections or even any porn magazines stashed just out of sight. A glass top and a thin layer of dust that had accumulated during his four months away in the army covered the desk.
I’d known Cheolsu since high school.
He was two years older than I was and what I can only describe as ordinary. When I was a senior in high school, I worked part-time as a clerk at the local government office. Cheolsu was a college student and had come to the office on an errand. He earned some of the highest grades in his class and so it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that he was a model student. By the time I finished college we weren’t just friends, but we weren’t exactly going steady either. What makes a relationship special? You talk on the phone every night before bed, hang out together every weekend, see new movies, remember each other’s birthdays, and, assuming there are no particular problems, introduce one another to your parents at your graduation ceremonies. You think of each other when you’re having a drink or watching porn, and gradually you come to understand all of life’s standards through each other. When you define it that way, then Cheolsu and I were not special. He didn’t make me feel anything, and I didn’t make him feel anything. But oddly enough Cheolsu’s friends and my friends all thought of us as a couple. Even my brother and sister thought so. They’ll get married someday, they all thought. Neither Cheolsu nor I had ever talked about that, nor did we feel any particular need to. But perhaps after more time had passed and Cheolsu had matured and grown older and sprouted a few white hairs and wearied of time, and I too had wrinkled lips and ruined looks and had reached an age where there was no longer any trace of a flirtatious smile and no one would find me pretty, then maybe we truly would end up married.
“When my furlough is up, I’ll report for duty at the Fifth Division in Yeoncheon. Two months there and then my military service is over.”
“Seems like you’re having an easy time.”
“I know this doesn’t carry much weight, but it is still the army.”
“What will you do after you’re discharged?”
“Guess I’ll be unemployed at first.”
I was standing in front of the bookcase and Cheolsu was by the closed drapes. His arms were resting awkwardly against the wall, as if unable to find the right spot. Time passed clumsily. Cheolsu came closer and put one arm around me. The silence was stifling. What came next? Neither of us knew. The whole time I’d known him this had never come up. How were you supposed to comfort a boy in the army?
“What do you want?” I asked, unable to bear the wait.
“To sleep with you.”
“Why?”
“I dreamt about you.”
“I don’t have much time.”
“It doesn’t take that long.”
“You’ve done it before?”
He just laughed and di
dn’t say anything. Cheolsu’s body looked drawn and hot, as if feverish—just being so near a girl’s body seemed to excite him. So I pulled down my stockings and my panties, and after Cheolsu had touched me there for about three seconds, he said he couldn’t wait any longer.
“Can I put it in?”
Cheolsu’s room was silent and devoid of any draft; the air was as still as jelly. A drop of water falling in the bathroom sounded unnaturally loud. On instinct we tried to avoid making any noise. I nodded.
“But,” I added, “you know you can’t finish inside of me, right?”
“I know.”
I wasn’t at a risky point in my cycle or anything, but when boys are too selfish in their insistence, you always have to say that: you can’t have it entirely your way.
It took him three tries to get inside me, and then he ejaculated too fast. It was probably over before he realized it. He didn’t keep his promise to pull out. We got some tissue, cleaned up my soiled skirt and the floor, and got dressed. Just as he’d said, it didn’t take that long. Then we sat apart from each other, looking in opposite directions.
That was what he’d wanted so badly? Boys were so strange.
Up until then he and I had never even held hands at the movies. So at that moment, touching Cheolsu’s body was unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
“Cheolsu, did you turn off the record player?” I asked.
I thought I’d heard a faint sound coming from the living room a moment ago. During the very brief time that Cheolsu was inside me, I had sensed behind my back the bedroom door cracking open slightly and then closing again immediately. I was certain someone was in the living room, but I didn’t mention it to him. He stood up, as if rescued from the moment by having something else to do, and said he wasn’t really sure. When we went out to the living room, Cheolsu’s mother was clearing away our coffee cups. Caught off guard, Cheolsu turned bright red. The zipper of his pants was still partway down.
“Mom, I thought you weren’t coming home until later.”
“I wasn’t planning to but the wedding ended right away and there weren’t that many people there. Who’s this? A friend?”
I was certain that his mother had spied on us in his room, but she looked me right in the face and feigned ignorance. She didn’t look anything like him. I never would have guessed that she was his mother. She was overweight and had a double chin, and her hair was as dry and curly as steel wool. Her face was shiny, like she’d just smeared on night cream. Her lips, painted brick red, were thick and crude, and the corners were drawn down wryly as she struggled to suppress her curiosity. There was nothing about her that brought to mind Cheolsu’s pale skin and cool demeanor. But she smiled at me.
“Silly me, you must be his girlfriend! Is that why you two didn’t hear me come in?”
“We were looking at my books,” Cheolsu said dumbly.
His mother offered me some fruit. I told her I had to leave right away, but she insisted. I had no choice but to sit on the sofa and eat slices of banana and apple, and cookies that had grown mushy with age. Cheolsu was silent, and his mother studied me from head to toe with a sharp look in her eyes.
“Are you the same age as Cheolsu?”
“She’s two years younger.”
When Cheolsu answered for me, his mother glared at him.
“Was I asking you?”
Then she asked me a string of questions. What college had I gone to? Where did my parents live? How many siblings did I have? What did I major in? How was my health? Did I have a driver’s license? A teaching license? Where did I work? How much money did I make? And so on, and so on. Far past the point of politeness.
“Mom, you just met her,” Cheolsu said. “You can’t grill her like that.”
His mother ignored him and continued to ask me questions.
“What does your older brother do? You said there’s a big age difference between you two?”
“He’s preparing for a job in Japan.”
I thought, to hell with it, and answered the question truthfully. I had already missed my chance to get to work on time.
“Oh, really? Fancy that. He must work with computers. Or something to do with art.”
“No, he’s applying for a job at a janitorial company.”
“Janitorial?”
Her face changed color slightly, and she closed her mouth.
“Well, I’d better get going,” I said. “I have to go to work.”
“So soon? I hope you’re not leaving on my account. It’s okay—you should stay. Don’t mind me.”
“Mom, she said she has to go. She was supposed to leave by seven.”
“When did I say she couldn’t? So what does your father do for a living?”
As she walked me to the front door, she finally asked the question she’d wanted to ask in the first place, the one that had been driving her crazy with curiosity. Cheolsu’s face turned red.
“He works for the government.” He was on the verge of shouting. “The government! Are you also going to ask where he went to college and how much he makes and what he drives and what brand of tennis shoes he wears?”
Aghast, Cheolsu’s mother looked at him as if to say, Who would ask such an uncivilized question? It was true that my father had once worked at city hall. But not anymore. Cheolsu didn’t add that part, though. As soon as we got out of the house, he and I ran like mad for the bus stop. Luckily, the bus I had to take was just about to pull away. Cheolsu waved his arms wildly, while I ran until sweat broke out on my forehead. By the time I managed to clamber aboard the bus, I was too out of breath to even say good-bye.
Cheolsu waved and yelled, “Come see me next month on base?”
I nodded.
If you gently stroke my lips and the palm of my hand right now, you will find them strangely cold and icy, a feeling of endless distance that even I can sense. Someone once said to me, “You’re so cold that I shake with despair. The whole time we’re together your lips never once flush, and your body is like slippery ice. You have the eyes of a wolf-girl whose heart has never once been moved. When I press my ear to your chest, I hear only wind and emptiness.”
Rain falls inside the dark, abandoned house. It streams down the walls of the kitchen and front door like a waterfall. Burn me. Pour gasoline over me and set my body on fire. Burn me at the stake like a witch. Wrap me in garbage bags and toss me in the incinerator. I’ll turn into dioxin and make my way into your lungs. Stroke my face lightly with a razor blade and suck the blood that comes seeping out. Lap it up like a cat. I want to be covered in blood. I’ll cry out in the end and weep for fear of leaving this world without ever once discovering the me inside me, the ugly something inside me. But then I see her: another me passing by like a landscape of inanimate objects outside the window of the empty house quietly collapsing in the rain.
Where have you been all this time? Were you off somewhere singing, putting cats to sleep on the porch, drifting about in the rapids of time, the glow of the morning sun and the rain of a summer afternoon beating down as you pass by, your lips shut tight like a bloodsucking plant? The me that is nowhere to be found now, the me that will turn to ash and vanish, turn to darkness and rot—that me extends a squalid hand at the final moment of this crash, having entirely deserted and abandoned my life. In truth, I was not me. The me that was born into an animal body and lived as a slave to poverty and insult was nothing but the emptiness that had been momentarily bewitched out of me by an evil spirit. That distant me is precious and beautiful. No matter how decadent and corrupt my body becomes, I will, like a desert orchid that blooms once every hundred years, come to you bearing this frigidness toward life.
I tell him, “All you have is my emptiness.”
“Then where are you? The you that bleeds when I devour you like this?”
“You don’t see? I just passed by outside that window an
d now I’m gone. This is the first and last time I will encounter you in this life. Give me some water. Sweat pours off of me like rain. You’ll forget about me for the next hundred years. But leave your voice behind; when I come back to this place a hundred years from now, the moment I open the door a colony of bats and your voice will greet me.”
“I’m taking my voice with me to the grave. I wouldn’t leave it in a place like this. My blood is no vagrant.”
“Then I’ll become a snake and I’ll find your grave.”
“You’re too lowly. You can’t trespass upon a royal tomb.”
The rain falls, lays siege to the world, as if it has been falling that way for years. The rain will fall even after the death of time. Roof half falling down. Windows broken. Kitchen dripping rainwater. Porch covered in filth. Creaky stairs covered in cats’ paw prints. Dead rag doll, straw insides poking out. And, above all the gruesome things, our frigid relationship.
I couldn’t believe it when Cheolsu’s mother contacted me. I was working in the office at the university when she called.
“Who did you say is calling?”
“This is Cheolsu’s mother.”
I could practically see her stretching out the folds of her fat neck to make her voice sound more refined.
“Ah, yes. How are you?”
“You left so quickly the other night. You didn’t even stay for dinner.”
“I had to get to work.”
“You were in such a hurry that I didn’t have a chance to ask: What kind of work do you do? Cheolsu isn’t very sociable. He never tells me anything. He’s on leave from the army, but all he does is stay out late every night. Sons aren’t sweet to their mothers. Not like daughters are.”
“It’s just a part-time job.”
“Tutoring?”
“Nothing like that.”
