by Kim Sagwa
When the news of Mina’s father’s jackpot-aided purchase of a swank apartment in a middle-class sector of the city reached his network of friends, former classmates, and colleagues—most of them impoverished intellectuals—none of them criticized or scorned him. No one was upset by his metamorphosis. Of course, the lottery—you pay your money and you take your chances, thought an ascetic friend, who with his ascetic smile soon forgot the matter. Most of the time he kept his ascetic brain half empty, as an ascetic should. Mina’s father’s humble friends returned from the housewarming party and reported to their impecunious wives, who nodded ceaselessly, marveling at the family’s practical and excellent choice. His colleagues, however, didn’t hide their envy. Booze-pickled, reeking of tobacco, they tended to forego deconstructing and reconstructing theoretical foreign texts and fantasizing about the world in favor of agonizing over how to immerse themselves in the polluted air of P City and peddle knowledge in the private education market.
Crystal detested, really detested, private tutors, but acknowledged their capability. Mina, through her father’s connections, got top-shelf tutors at reasonable rates. He always seemed to have a passel of them on hand, and Mina selected wisely from among them, squeezing in drawing, ballet, even traditional Indian yoga and vegan diet classes. For a while she seriously thought about home schooling or an alternative school for her secondary education. But eventually she chose a public school, and except for an occasional get-together for authentic Thai food with the kids from her drawing class—the children of her father’s friends—she devoted herself to cram school and private tutoring.
Seeing Mina in this light, Crystal occasionally flew into an inexplicable rage. The Mina she saw then was an uppity kid so spoiled and engrossed in Spider Solitaire that a table full of brain-zappingly sugary royal French dessert cakes drew not a glance from her. Of course, Crystal could also eat as many royal French dessert cakes as she wanted. Money wasn’t an issue. In fact, Crystal was more likely to see cash or a check on the family dining table than cakes—which were of no interest to her parents. They were happier going out for free-range duck stew on the weekends or watching the latest blockbuster movie to hit ten million at the box office.
Such preferences were definitely not a matter of money. For instance, Paek Hanch’ŏl, a colleague of Mina’s father—a translator-poet-photographer-essayist-illustrator—and his family were not particularly well off but pursued the table-full-of-royal-French-dessert-cakes lifestyle. Pinched for money, they still managed to conceal their class by playing let’s-pretend and loading up on expensive cakes, which they put on display for all to see. The cakes, of course, were as sweet as an angel’s wing and you’d be in heaven as they melted on the tip of your tongue, but apart from such minutiae the family had nothing to show for themselves. They bought their jackets (stuffed with chicken down!) at a street market, couldn’t afford cellphones, couldn’t afford private English lessons for the kids, worried about the monthly payment for the air conditioner, used a six-year-old desktop-sized laptop, and rented an apartment in an outdated building on the margins of the city. What’s so great about that? In the luxury apartment that Mina’s family occupies, the living room floor is made of marble and Chinese juniper wood, and is overlain with a Moroccan area rug. Does the Paek family criticize or envy them? Not at all; they seem unconcerned. They appear to be people without ambition. What kind of life is that? You could whisk them off, deposit them in a coffin, nail it shut, and stuff it in a grave, and they would gladly accept their fate, smile nice smiles, and close their eyes. That’s not goodness at work, it’s a lack of intelligence. They don’t scorn Mina’s mother’s collection of luxury European handbags, they don’t buy lottery tickets, they don’t send their little girl to an English-language kindergarten, and they don’t speak proudly—sparkles in their eyes—of their humble life. A poor family with no plan? That’s messed up! Their fancy cakes are too precious to eat, they rot and end up ruining the table—how clueless can you get?
So, are we talking about a problem of outlook? An issue involving the soul? No. Just look at Mina’s parents, who are no better off than average in terms of ambition and culture. Strictly speaking, they might be slightly below average. Mina’s mother graduated from a costly private university with a sprawling campus in the central city. She was active then in the anti-government and women’s liberation movements, and now she’s an established professional woman. Does this prove she’s cultured? No. All it means is that back then she was in step with the times, and even the songs that were popular then. She grew up during a time when European philosophy and revolution were more popular than European designer bags, but if she were a student now she would scrape to collect designer bags and still be happier than her peers. If only she hadn’t had to wait for her golden years for fashion to seek her out. Which accounts now for her mad dashes to the duty-free shops in search of those European designer bags. She looks like the wife of a shallow parvenu, and she is happy. She believes a taste for fashion is wired into human nature; you can’t resist it. It’s human nature to find the stacks of itsy-bitsy dessert cakes topped with herbs and tropical fruit irresistible, and so she, being only human, cannot resist them, and strongly believes it’s perfectly natural, it’s only right. But is it possible for anyone endowed with a soul to enhance the quality of his or her life by investing a lottery jackpot in a speculative venture? We can’t call that a human life; instead it’s the life of a beast, a creature true to its instincts. It’s only a primitive life, the most primitive life, surrounded by the trappings of humanity. Such a life has nothing to do with spirit or soul. It’s the life of soulless, conceited people. People who try to excuse their depravity by declaring they don’t live in expectation of criticism or praise and that they respect the lives of others. But that’s dishonest. In this world there is one kind of life that is worthy of criticism: the life of the depraved grown-ups. On the other hand, there is a life so pure it’s impossible to critique: Crystal’s life. Crystal is absolutely pure and undeniably perfect. Touting her absolute purity and perfection, she walks a straight and narrow path armed with a heavy brass shield and sword. But what if Paek Hanch’ŏl suddenly appeared from the bushes, hair covered with dust and dried leaves, wearing blue jeans from Kmart, offering her a tiramisu as soft as an angel’s feather, and with an unaffected smile asked: Why make your life a grind? It’s not as if it’s a war. If that happened, Crystal would brandish the platinum credit card issued to only a select few by a leading global financial concern and sneer at him. Armed with that card she could pass through fifteen security checkpoints to enter a small restricted space with a sturdy desk and stiff chairs where she’d mingle with important people. She could do this forever or a night and come out absolutely clean. Eventually, she could come and go as she pleased, with or without the card (since her soul is like the chip in the card). She would refer to this as freedom, emphasizing free, and discuss the notion of freedom with other members of the flawless chosen. Needless to say you wouldn’t find things like royal French dessert cakes there. Instead she would have tepid orange juice.
While Crystal is thinking about Mina, the bell for language class sounds and a group of kids pour into the classroom with the teacher. Pounding her lower back, the teacher calls out the page number they’ll start on. Right hand holding her pen, left hand propping up her chin, Crystal continues to dwell on Mina:
Mina doesn’t like British rock. She doesn’t like Thom Yorke from Radiohead because he’s an elitist, a graduate of the prestigious University of Exeter; she doesn’t like Oasis because they’re arrogant; she doesn’t like Suede but can’t tell you why; and she doesn’t like the Beatles because they suck. Fed up with Mina slamming her one and only Thom Yorke, Crystal once said: So what, your favorite group, U2, are British too, aren’t they? Mina listened silently, then burst into tears, fled to her room, and locked herself in. The next morning at school Mina told her that U2 aren’t British, they’re from the great nation of Ireland, and
to prove it she handed her a printout from a site she’d Googled. Flustered, Crystal shouted at her to go to Ireland and not come back since obviously she was Irish. Mina proceeded to leave fifty postings on Crystal’s Ssai World page, each of them reading Yeah, I’m Irish. Remembering now how sore her thumb had been from having to remove all fifty posts, Crystal prayed Mina would get locked in her closet and never come out.
Her family will be gone on vacation; they won’t be coming back for three weeks! Outside the closet the phone will ring. Some of the calls are from me. But she can’t answer. She’s scared, she’s pounding on the door, she’s hungry—she’s dying in there…
Crystal puts down the pen and scratches her leg.
Once she starts bawling in despair, ta-da, here comes Crystal, and that’s when I’ll save her. Then we’ll have a serious talk. I’ll tell her I’m sorry I said I was sleepy when she was telling me about Chiye, and she’ll say she’s sorry she’s been neglecting me. Then she’ll say it’s okay for me to go out with Minho, and then we’ll make up. Hmm, haven’t seen Minho in ages… Why am I so fixated on him? I wonder if he’s getting along with his girlfriend. And if… Maybe he likes her more than me? Maybe she’s prettier? I wonder how old she is. Is she tall? Can’t Minho and I at least be friends? Whatever. It’s all good. It’s fine. It’s great. It’s all going to work out!
Somehow she feels better. She picks up her pen, straightens in her seat, and gives her teacher a big smile. Not knowing how to take this, he says “therefore” when what he really wants to say is “so.” Blushing at his blunder, he looks out the window then comes back with “so,” and clears his throat, looking at Crystal again. She’s still smiling. In a gentle voice he reminds the students to raise their hand if they want to ask about anything they don’t understand. Instead the kids clamp their mouths shut and look down at their textbook to avoid his gaze. The teacher instructs a boy to explain the meaning of the bold word in the second line from the bottom of page 52. Burying his head in the book, the boy doesn’t answer. The teacher opens his grade book and jots down a red X next to the boy’s name. And with that the bell sounds to signal the end of class.
Crystal leaves the classroom as fast as she can. She puts on her headphones and turns up the volume. Out the classroom, out the school building, down the steps to the playfield, and across the field. Where are the kids who would take me in their arms for the price of a smile? Not spotting any takers, choked with loneliness, she scowls and thinks more about Mina.
Crystal goes into Mina’s apartment. From the end of the hallway comes faint light and noise from the television. Minho, wrapped in a blanket, lies on the sofa playing a video game. She decides not to say hello. Minho raises a hand in greeting anyway, then puts it back beneath the blanket.
“Nice nap?”
Mina opens her eyes to find Crystal standing over her. Crystal bends down to have a look, but Mina closes her eyes and pulls the quilt over her head. Crystal pulls it off.
“Sorry,” Mina murmurs, eyes still closed, “I thought you were a ghost.”
“Let’s go get some cheesecake.”
Without a word Mina gets up and leaves the room. Crystal perches on the edge of the bed and sighs. She discovers a strand of Mina’s hair on the sheet, takes an end in each hand, and pulls. The hair snaps.
“Having fun?” Leaning against the wall, Mina pours soy-milk to the brim of a pink bowl half full of Crunch cereal.
“Why didn’t you show up at school?” Crystal asks, looking in turn at Mina and the closet.
“I couldn’t get to sleep last night so I took a sleeping pill. When I woke up it was one in the afternoon. Can you believe it?”
Crystal looks at Mina with an expression of utter disappointment.
“Why the look?”
“Tasty?”
“Yeah, you want some?”
“No, I’m good. But why is it so chilly in here?”
“Something’s wrong with the heat. The other apartments have the same problem. Earlier it was crazy hot.”
“So how about cheesecake?”
“Can’t—tutoring time.”
“Can’t you skip it?”
“Don’t want to.”
“Not even for cheesecake?”
“Nope.”
“Cheesecaaake…”
“I really don’t want to go out, all right?” Mina gives her a hard stare that says, You’re being really annoying. “It really, really sucks not being able to sleep.”
“Cake…”
“I just can’t get to sleep.”
“So take a pill.”
“You’re not supposed to take sleeping pills every night.”
“Why not?”
“Well…it’s not good for you, right?”
“Don’t ask me…. What does Minho say?”
“That idiot? He said not to take them, told me to throw them away.”
“How come?”
“Don’t know. Probably because he doesn’t have trouble sleeping, the shithead!”
“Look, I’ve been dying for cheesecake—ever since I got up, and all through school.”
“I’m going to go crazy if I don’t get some fucking sleep. What if I can’t fucking sleep, just can’t, can’t, can’t fucking sleep, can’t fucking get to sleep until I have a heart attack or something?”
“Have you always had this problem?”
“Yes!”
“I don’t get it.”
“I’m going out for a smoke.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t, Mina.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Mina…I’ve missed you. Stay here.”
Mina smirks.
“What’s up with me today?” says Crystal.
“Nothing—you’re always like this.”
“How long since you slept?”
“Three days. I’ve slept maybe three hours in all that time.”
“Something’s wrong.”
“I just can’t get to sleep.”
“That makes five times you’ve said that.”
“So?”
“Just saying.”
“It scares me that I can’t sleep.”
“So try to turn off your mind. And take a sleeping pill.”
“Yeah? Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“I just can’t sleep.”
Crystal looks at Mina. Mina looks at Crystal. Hesitantly Crystal asks, “Is it because of Chiye?”
“Look, why don’t you go home.”
“I knew it—you’re still bothered by Chiye, aren’t you?”
“You talk like I’m a hot air balloon or something.”
“Ha, I’m right. Look at you, Mina, you’re pissed. Why not just tell me—I’m all ears, I’ve been wondering.”
“Shut up.”
“Mina, don’t. Just tell me. I want to know.”
“Shut up.”
“Mina.”
“I said shut up.”
“Mina, please.”
“Oh my god.” Mina plops down and starts pulling at her hair.
Putting her hand on Mina’s shoulder, Crystal says, “I’m only asking about what’s going on with you since Chiye. As your friend, a good friend, I want to know what her death has been like for you. Did you go to her funeral? Or maybe it hasn’t been long enough? I know you probably feel rotten. Look, Mina, I—”
“You know something? You’re really cruel.”
“What? Sorry, I didn’t catch that, what did you say again?”
“You’re really cruel.”
“What?”
“Mmm.”
“Cruel? To you? Now?”
“Mmm.”
“I’m cruel? Me? How? Why would you say that? I’m cruel? No, I’m just being honest. Cruel? Me? Really? You really think that? God…that’s not…God…I…look, Mina…” With a sad look Crystal considers Mina, and the next moment she bursts like lightning: “If you feel I am being cruel
to you I am sorry sorry truly sorry really sorry sorry sorry sorry.”
A hand on her forehead, Crystal slowly leaves Mina’s room. Minho is sleeping, game controller in hand. Crystal is dejected. Mina follows her out, rests a hand on her shoulder, and says something, but it doesn’t register. Crystal looks at Mina and shakes her head.
Crystal skulks from Mina’s apartment. She gazes glumly at the fenced-in park where there’s a sign saying For Residents Only. The healthy fruit trees, fresh grass, and large dog splayed out are like a glossy photo in a brochure. While traversing the zigzag path among the black locust and cherry trees bursting with blossoms, she comes to a stop, smothered by the scent. Looking up at the sky she murmurs, “It figures—the whole world hates me.”
The sunlight is brilliant, the clouds pure white.
“I’m sorry.”
And she hurries off.
And the beautiful path soon comes to an end, replaced by concrete and dusty, cracked asphalt, which jump out at her with stark clarity. And suddenly she feels something gigantic and oppressive. She tries to calm herself with comforting images—a department store on a lazy morning—but it doesn’t help. Something is writhing and surging in her throat. She shudders. She feels tremors, chills, something weighing her down. Hand covering her mouth, she looks desperately for a garbage can. There’s one nearby, so dirty she normally wouldn’t be caught dead going near it. Closing her eyes tight, she leans over it, mouth agape, and pours out what’s inside of her. Amid the utter darkness behind her tightly shut eyes and the reek of who-knows-what decomposing, she remembers the time she was hit with food poisoning. She tries as best she can to shunt the recollection aside, but the wretched memory only makes her feel more wretched now. Eyes still closed, she gropes her way to a bench and collapses onto it. When she opens her eyes she sees the sky above. A beautiful sight, almost too much for her with its vivid blue and endless variety of clouds, some reaching out slender arms and others layered like whipped cream on a canvas by Monet. The late afternoon sun dyes them a pastel peach. She notices a dark lump approaching from the distance. Slowly she closes her eyes and opens them. Nothing has changed. She repeats the action. She senses a massive amount of moisture coming to envelop the city. She hauls herself to her feet.
