by Kim Sagwa
Now his hands are on the table, palms down, and he looks at them, startled. He closes them into fists and glares at her. He’s about to say something, then stops. He taps the table lightly with his knuckles.
“What, you going to hit me?”
“Why would I do that?”
With an awkward smile he holds out his hands. She jerks backward, frightened. Embarrassed again, he erases the smile. Frozen stiff, they consider each other fearfully. He looks into her eyes—desperately. She avoids his gaze and keeps her eyes on his mug of cappuccino—desperately.
“You’d never hit me. You won’t even touch me.”
Hearing her meek, quivering voice, he chuckles.
“Go ahead and laugh. If that’s all you can do.”
“Crazy bitch.”
Pretending not to have heard, she flashes a smile and extends her arms, stretching. “Ahhhh, once more…ahhhh. A cup of coffee and I feel like I’m ready for anything. It’s a great feeling. Let’s hear it for caffeine. Okay, all better now. So, I’m off. How about you? You all right? You’re good?”
Crystal rises and offers him a killer smile. Her eyes check their surroundings then circle back. She leans in close and whispers in his ear, “Don’t you ever call me again. I’ll kill you if you do. I mean it. I will kill you, you fucking bastard.”
She looks up and around them again. A few people had been watching her but they quickly look away to avoid meeting her eyes. Everything’s working out just fine, she thinks as she eases outside and heads toward cram school.
“I’m sorry, kids, but it looks like you’re going to lose your English comp instructor. He says he wants to go back home.”
“How come?”
“Did he give a reason?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know for sure. But he says he’s going home. He’s afraid of North Korea. Says he’s not going to stay any longer.”
“Really? But why now?”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s bull.”
“He’s a chicken.”
“I thought he was cute—what a letdown.”
“I don’t really know if it’s about the North. I don’t actually know why. Wasn’t his contract up next month anyway?”
“That’s news to me.”
“Who said that?”
“So, who’s going to teach us?”
“Why don’t you go ask the director.”
“Let him go if he wants,” Crystal shouts. “Let him. Life’s a scary business. Maybe he should give it up. Lock himself inside and hide under his bed. Let him go back to the U.S. He’ll be gunned down there and then so long, Mike.”
Everyone falls silent.
“I mean, what’s happening? I hate what’s going on in the world. It’s absurd. What a joke!”
Noticing that her classmates are waiting to hear what she’ll say next, Crystal breaks off and looks instead at the instructor. “Aren’t we supposed to be having class?”
The teacher’s face turns white as a sheet. She’s about to say something, then shakes her head and moves on to the lesson.
The classroom is unusually subdued. Crystal is the only one who’s really into the class—though her classmates would probably say she’s too intense. Today in particular there’s a lot she’s wondering about, so much that she’s having trouble understanding. She’s asking all the questions, then nodding compulsively while the instructor answers. Backpack held tight to her chest, left leg jiggling, she frantically takes notes, never pausing. The instructor feels a wisp of fear. Crystal zips through the problems. Her dogged bombardment of questions finally brings her to an understanding about the problems. Disconcerted by Crystal and unable to get a grip on the problems, the other students bury their heads in their workbooks and scribble numbers. The instructor’s fear rises. The white, windowless classroom is a sea of fluorescent light. Everyone except Crystal feels an unpleasant warmth in the air. The instructor’s face reddens and beads of perspiration appear. She fans her face with a folded piece of paper. Suddenly Crystal points to a > sign written on the board. “That’s wrong.”
“I can’t believe how disrespectful you are!” the instructor shouts. She’s surprised by her own voice, which strikes her as hysterical. Leaning against her desk for support, she takes a deep breath.
Again Crystal points out her error. “It should be pointing the other way, shouldn’t it? It’s the wrong symbol.”
The teacher glares at her. “No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It doesn’t make sense…. Take your time and think about it.” Crystal heaves a dramatic sigh. “How can that side be greater? Look at the graph…”
“It is greater.”
“You’re trying to trick us.”
“Crystal, leave the room.”
“Why me? You’re the one who should leave.”
The instructor’s face contorts.
“I mean, why should I have to leave?”
“Hey, that’s enough,” says another girl, giving Crystal’s shoulder a shove and smiling awkwardly at the instructor. “Tell her you’re sorry.” And to the instructor, “Sorry about that. I think she’s just upset because Mike’s leaving.”
Crystal slaps the girl. With a scream the girl grabs Crystal’s arm and twists it.
“Ow!” says Crystal with a slight frown. “Let go—I’m asking you nicely.”
“Let her go. Don’t waste your time fighting with a girl like her. Crystal, I want you to leave, now. I’m not telling you again. Get out and stay out till class is over. Wait for me downstairs.” The instructor grimaces, then looks up at the ceiling, fanning herself. “Unbelievable… My god…hey… what is your problem? Get out, now!”
“No.” Crystal bursts into tears. “No! I won’t! I’m not leaving!” And she pounds her desk, sobbing.
The instructor comes over to Crystal, reaches out, takes her by the shoulder, and in the flattest voice she can summon says: “Get out, right now.” Her tone is cold but somehow plaintive. Her life and her job have left her with an overwhelming sense of remorse. She feels tears coming but desperately holds them off. Steadying her breathing, she tells herself to be strong. Don’t lower yourself to their level. She chants this mantra in an attempt to remind herself of her superiority over her adversaries.
The reason you’re crying is you haven’t learned to hold in your tears, you’re not used to it. But you’ll learn if you want to survive. In order to survive, you’ll learn. And then you won’t cry anymore. You’ll end up dry and sterile just like me. Life is disgusting, it really is. You don’t really know it yet but one of these days you’ll find yourself up to your knees in muck, I guarantee it. Yes I do. And when that happens you’ll see that you’re just as ugly and disgusting as I am, or even worse. That’s why I’m not angry with you now. But I won’t offer to help you. I’ll just watch as you wade into the rising muck.
Poised over Crystal’s bowed head, the instructor unleashes her silent curse. Crystal’s sad weeping grows louder and louder, expressing opposition to everyone in the class; it is extremely annoying. The instructor does her best to remain undeterred. Steadying her trembling legs, she puts on a stoic face and looks around the classroom. The lovely, dough-white faces of the kids are filled with fear and worry. They mostly look stupefied. Seeing their faces, the instructor feels another surge of rage, but she vows to use that anger to press on; she has to move on. She has absolutely no intention of canceling the remainder of class. Her hair is long, lustrous, and untreated by dyes or chemicals. Sweeping it back with her hand, she returns to her position at her desk in front of the board.
“Let’s get on with class. Please ignore her.”
Crystal emits a long, feeble sob. With clenched teeth the instructor erases the chalkboard. Hesitantly the kids look up at the board. As the instructor flips through the workbook a sheet of paper falls out. A boy springs out of his seat and picks it up for her. “Thank you,”
she says with a controlled smile. In a strained voice she launches into an explanation of logarithmic functions. She mentions the three types that appear the least frequently on the university entrance exam, adding a mechanized dash of humor by giggling. She follows by explaining the seven types that appear most frequently. This time the humor comes in the form of a joke, and this time the students laugh. Success. Crystal gets up and thrashes around as she gathers her things in her backpack. Marching toward the door, she turns and points to the instructor. “You’re wrong.”
Crystal slams the door as hard as she can and flinches, startled by the bang, then puts her head down and scuttles down the hallway, passing kids who hover about: kids saying “hi” to each other; kids sipping on cans of juice from the vending machine; kids resting their feet on chairs while they listen to their MP3 players and tackle workbook assignments; kids who call her name; and kids pushing and being pushed through the cram school’s front door. Another person hollers her name. Not responding, she rushes out to the street.
It’s already dark. She heads for the city center and blends into the crowds on the busy streets. Glaring at the signs layering the buildings, she feels another surge of rage she can’t explain. Too many people here. Passing through the crowd, she feels her anger building. She marches along quickly, just like everyone else. Where she is, everyone’s in a hurry, pushing and shoving and bumping shoulders. Not to be rude but just to keep up with the frenetic pace of the city. The metropolis encourages its residents to be less polite, more selfish; it has no room for manners. Not wanting to be left out, the people have to move more aggressively, pushing others out of their way.
Narrow alleys radiate left and right from the streets. She remembers those alleys and turns down them one by one. They contain a dizzying array of shops. Optic nerves on high alert, she registers each and every piece of merchandise. Her gaze lingers briefly on an appetizing cheese muffin. And then on a graceful, frilly green dress. Then a pair of open-toed shoes with crystal beads. A white mannequin in a navy suit holding a For Sale sign at its chest. In this gigantic catalog of a commercial district, Crystal plays the role of a young student with a dark, oversize backpack who is window-shopping. She fits in perfectly with the merchandise from the catalog. Like the other shoppers, she picks out those items worth trying on. But there are too many people. And dust. More people. Lights. More dust. A woman of breathtaking, almost artificial beauty brushes past her, trailing a heavy floral scent. Her short, unadorned orange dress highlights her long and slender limbs. All eyes come together on her before rebounding the next moment. A man turns and gives her a wishful look. Crystal glances back at the woman as well but meets the eyes of the man. He turns away. The woman fades into the distance. This is exactly what people mean when they speak of Beauty. Deflated, Crystal considers her own clothes—T-shirt, jeans, sneakers, and backpack—nothing out of the ordinary. She recalls Minho smiling at the sight of Dumbo on her T-shirt and finds herself yearning for him. She reaches for her phone before remembering it’s in pieces in the trash. I need a new one. She walks into a phone store and checks out the sleek new models. Back outside, heavyhearted, she looks for a phone booth but on impulse goes into an Adidas outlet instead. She’s in the middle of downtown, and the shop is in a three-story landmark building. The interior is calm, and the merchandise is spaced out nicely in a way that’s easy on the eye. Intently she examines each of the items. She starts with the garments she has no interest in, checking the price tags with a determined look as if she’s about to try them on or buy them on the spot. A saleswoman approaches and asks if she needs help. Smiling, she shakes her head no. Next it’s backpacks. She touches each of the ones that she’s already decided are ugly, then tries them on and looks in the mirror to compare. She’s relieved to see she looks normal, but the sight of her face makes her want to throw up or break the mirror. It’s all right. She manages to brace herself. In her own backpack she finds her purse and looks inside—seven thousand wŏn and a credit card. Putting her purse away, she resumes her inspection of the backpacks, this time even more seriously. The saleswoman approaches again, this time with a variety of questions. Crystal keeps nodding, acting dumb and gnawing on her fingernails. The woman gives up and backs off. And then, square in the middle of the shop, Crystal discovers a huge dark gray messenger bag. It’s made by a trendy young American female designer, and the price is outrageous. She likes the bag, but try as she might she can’t think of an excuse to buy it. She looks around and catches the saleswoman’s eye. The woman comes over, straps the bag over Crystal’s shoulder, and guides her to the mirror. Crystal turns in a slow circle, seeing how it looks on her. With the same dumb expression as before, she glares into the mirror, and the woman asks if she’d like to buy it. Crystal nods, and the woman brings her to the cashier.
Black shopping bag over her shoulder, she makes her leisurely way back through the alleys. Pausing in front of a bakery, she zeroes in on a beautiful raspberry tart. She resumes her walk. She changes direction. Changes direction again. Stops countless times to look at things in shop windows. She doesn’t know what to do, which is a kind of torture. Gazing into the bright windows, she waits for a directive to appear. No such luck. She resumes walking. Her back is moist with cold sweat. She’s dizzy and hungry. Her feet are heavy and her calf muscles burn. But she doesn’t stop. She comes to a crosswalk just as the light turns green. Across the street, she goes down into a basement arcade. The smell of soggy kimpap is in the air. Holding her breath, she checks out a selection of cheap sunglasses in one of the stalls. She leaves the arcade. Back at street level she finds herself in front of the Adidas shop again. Afraid that other people might think she’s weird for circling the same spot, she dashes off. She changes direction several more times and now she’s heading west. She looks up as a bus passes by. She weaves through lines of people as they wait at the bus stop. They look worn and tired but are well dressed, giving off gentle fragrances. She drops down into another basement arcade and makes a quick circuit, wondering where to go and what to do. She stops at a snack shop to study the menu, but when an older woman approaches to beckon her inside, she runs off, startled. Leaving the arcade, she keeps walking, in the process crossing who knows how many crosswalks. She looks around and once again she finds herself in front of the Adidas shop. Okay, I give up. Eyes half shut and thoughts suspended, she slowly walks away. Suddenly a wide avenue jumps into sight. Beyond it a gigantic, pure white department store looms. It’s flanked on both sides by coffee shops of the same chain, identical in size and design. She checks her wristwatch. Taking her MP3 player from her pocket, she puts on her headphones and pushes Play. Cranking the volume all the way up, she resumes her meandering. As soon as the music comes on, the atmosphere’s pressure feels different. The next moment, reality is gone. Crystal detaches from her surroundings, teleporting to a fantasy world of nothing but the music. The streets remain rife with noise, but she hears none of it. There’s only the strong, swelling music controlling her brain. The streets, the people, the cars, the entire city still moves incessantly, but no longer to its own rhythm but rather to the rhythm Crystal chooses. A single song—the one that’s on now—resonates throughout the city. Like the songs before it and the ones that will follow, it brings her catharsis. She’s walking through a city controlled by her chosen music. All other aural information has been blocked out, but that’s fine with her, because such information is merely white noise that floods the senses and gives nothing of value. What is important is the music. Crystal smiles. No thoughts are intruding. Her soul lifts steadily. It’s so beautiful she wants to stop and scream. She closes her eyes. Then opens them. She wonders how many fabulous things have shouldered their way into her consciousness only to disappear in the blink of an eye. She stops at a bench, sets down the shopping bag, and takes out her new messenger bag. She takes off her backpack, unzips it, and dumps the contents into the new bag. She then stuffs her backpack in as well, zips it up, adjusts the shoulder strap, and puts it o
n. She checks her watch again then crosses more crosswalks and changes direction more times, finally catching sight of the cram school sign in the distance. She stops right in the middle of the alley. Passersby glance her way. But Crystal can’t hear a thing. She’s all alone. Her spirit is not out in the open like her body, but in the sound. In a soft voice she sings along with the music:
All you need is your own imagination
So use it, that’s what it’s for
Go inside, for your finest inspiration
Your dreams will open the door
It’s an exciting, energizing song. She closes her eyes, turning into where the sound comes from. Fine, thinks Crystal, let’s dance in a green field. She imagines new dance moves; wonders if she would make a good choreographer. She’s happy. But anxious. She wonders where the anxiety is coming from. As she considers this day in the life of Crystal, she feels weird. But she’s unable to pinpoint what’s weird, why it should be weird, and in what exact way it’s weird, and that makes her more anxious. But then…bingo: all that caffeine.
She remembers the rich, foaming latte at the cake shop. All thanks to Pyŏl. A surge of anger, but she’ll manage. Refusing Madonna’s invitation to dance, she hits Next:
Gimme that old fashion morphine
Gimme that old fashion morphine
Gimme that old fashion morphine
It’s good enough for me
Again the Next button.
I’m waiting for my man
Twenty-six dollars in my hand
Up to Lexington, 125
Feeling sick and dirty, more dead than alive
I’m waiting for my man
Hmm, they’re all like this…they’re all the same. Waiting for my man? All I need is imagination and old morphine. I’m waiting for my man. Waiting for him to arrive. Twenty-six dollars? Works for me…. It’s time to make a new plan. How about a month at a resort in the South Pacific? Hmm, that would screw up my studies. What if I took my workbooks? Nah, a month is way too long. Maybe a week? Summer vacation with my parents? No problem. But what about Minho? Summer vacation with Minho? Oh, that’d be awesome. I wonder what he’s up to over summer break.
