by Kim Sagwa
It was from Mina’s influence that Crystal began listening to music. And Mina began because of the influence of her father. Mina and Minho like the stacks of records and the speakers that fill their father’s study with sound. Mina’s father listens to the Doors, so Mina does too. Mina didn’t need to buy Pink Floyd’s albums; her father had them. Mina didn’t have to work hard, all she had to do was pick from the selection of books and records and make them her own. Arrayed on one of the shelves in her father’s study were some fancy old cameras. The expensive devices were decades old and operated with a cheerful click of the shutter. Back when Crystal was becoming close with Mina she was invited to go with Mina’s family to a Eugène Atget exhibit. Once she figured out how to spell the weird name she found online that Atget was a noted French photographer—the god, father, and holy spirit of photography. Putting aside various other temptations she went to the exhibit. It was at a gallery in the ritziest part of the city and was thronged with families who moseyed through with sagacious expressions, taking in the photos from a vanished era. At the entrance was Atget’s name, chocolate in color, in a massive but elegant cursive font. Below, in a Korean translation whose attempt to reflect French syntax was a disaster, was an introduction to his life and work. The striking black-and-white photos mounted in high-quality frames were accompanied by elegant labels in cursive French and English and, beneath them, in a clunky Korean font. Crystal tried to seriously understand these elegant artistic artifacts. But how was she to appreciate the deserted streets, buildings, nameless people, and objects, all of them reeking of nostalgia? If she felt anything at all, it was her tired legs. This is supposed to be impressive? It was all just a big production for wannabe petit-bourgeois Koreans to feel like their postwar European counterparts.
There are so many books in Mina’s father’s study. There are classics and inflammatory, provocative books that university students peek at on their laps during classes. Musty-smelling books of literature from postwar South Korea. Sensational books of photos—popular with teenagers—by contemporary American photojournalists. All kinds of books. Books by that damned Jung. Their composition tutor used to marvel at Mina with her refined and old-fashioned cultural tastes, nodding with pleasure at whatever Mina said. Crystal was the one with the powerful, perfectly structured compositions, yet the tutor doted on Mina’s clumsy writing. Whenever Crystal spotted the two of them smiling affectionately at each other she would curse the teacher: Whatever, bitch, you’ll be a shit tutor your whole life and then drop dead. The tutor would loan Mina various books that they would then chat about jubilantly the subsequent week. If Mina name-dropped one of her favorite poets, the tutor would respond with some hard-to-pronounce European or Japanese names and suggest more books. Composition classes with Mina were hell for Crystal. Mina may not have admired Crystal, but during these tutoring sessions Crystal couldn’t help but look up to Mina. They were the only times that she couldn’t find a way to look down on her, even though she recognized the sessions were a game, albeit an important one she played to win. She tried piling the books the tutor recommended on her desk. But it was bizarre—the more effort she put in, the higher Mina rose and the more she herself sank. What’s the problem? The question tormented her for hours on end, but the answer never came. Until today.
Fucking idiots, reading useless books, I ought to kill every one of you.
Crystal suddenly understands, deeply, why the first Qin emperor burned the books and buried the scholars. That’s right. Regardless of when, there’s always human garbage. I get it. Totally understand. Just think of all the weird books in the world and all the conversations by the weirdos who read them. Workbooks for the university entrance exam are all you need. Burn the rest of them. Thank god the era of the written word is over and it’s now the era of images. Thank god we won’t even have to lift a finger for all that human trash to get dumped. The adults will eventually get sick and die, it’s only natural. The problem is kids like Mina. Why, why, why, why! Why! She stuffs her brain with the same shit and then I do the same! And for what? Garbage! Fucking garbage, all of it!
The music climbs to its rousing finale; Madonna asks her to dance and sing along. The next moment Crystal has pushed thoughts of Mina aside in favor of Madonna, who is urging her to use her imagination, that’s what it’s for. She bobs her head, rushing into the lobby of the opulent apartment building. The young security guard in his navy blue uniform acts as if he knows her.
“Have you seen Mina? Is she here?”
He nods and says something she can’t make out over the music. She takes off her headphones and everything is suddenly silent. The guard calls Mina’s apartment and Crystal shows her face to the intercom’s camera. The guard nods, makes a note in the computer, and hands her a visitor’s card. She swipes the card at the elevators; the doors of one of them open, and then they close behind her. Pressing one of the buttons, she bows to the guard through the glass door.
The corridor is silent. She presses Mina’s doorbell and smiles into the camera. Once inside she sees the long narrow hallway in front of her. The study, bathroom, dining room, and kitchen are to the right. The living room with its chandelier is at the end. Minho and Mina’s rooms and their parents’ suite with its walk-in closet and bathroom are to the left. In the subdued hallway with its high ceiling are a few small tables, each with an unlit lamp that hasn’t been used in ages and is coated with dust. Beneath the pair of windows she can see at the far end of the living room is a large floor lamp made of fiberglass fashioned into an orange peacock. Its detailing is so elaborate it looks like all the peacock has to do is spread its wings and it could fly away. That lamp is always lit, along with the chandelier, and its long, ominous shadow looks like a tail. The sun goes behind a cloud and Crystal notices the unlit hallway is unusually dark—even the light from the peacock seems listless and unsteady. She closes the front door and removes her shoes, then opens her messenger bag. After taking out the plastic bag she tosses the messenger bag on the floor. Perfectly composed, she strides down the hall, opening the plastic bag and looking into each room in turn. The doors to the study and Minho’s room are open but no one’s inside them. Suddenly, the rooms off the hall are flooded with hazy afternoon sunlight. Mina’s not in the bathroom. Drawn across the entry to the dining room are a pair of ivory-colored curtains embroidered with grapevines. She pulls them open. Mina isn’t there either. Crtystal comes to the living room. The gray and green colors of downtown are visible through the windows. Looking down, she realizes summer has arrived. She switches off the peacock lamp. The apartment becomes noticeably gloomier. Crystal’s shadow blends in with the darkness. She goes into Mina’s parents’ room and rummages through the clothes in the walk-in closet. Mina’s not there. She pokes around the bedroom with its neatly made bed but no Mina. What am I doing in here? She leaves, goes to Mina’s room, and opens her closet. Nope. She returns to Mina’s parents’ room, passes the walk-in closet, and opens the door to their bathroom.
“Hey, shut the fucking door!” Mina shouts.
Startled, Crystal shuts the door. Then she opens it a crack and says softly, “Sorry.”
“I said close the door!”
“All right.” She closes it. “Take your time.”
Back in the living room she turns the peacock lamp on and then off again before sprawling on the rug. She shakes her head and then scratches it and sighs deeply. She gets up and moves over to the sofa. She takes everything out of the plastic bag and lays it all out on the floor—knives, water bottle, bamboo salt, chocolate, clothesline, and clothespins. She looks blankly out the window, then goes into the study. She connects her MP3 player to the speakers. She turns the knob on the speaker but there’s no sound. She turns the volume all the way up. No sound. Aha. She plugs in the cord to the speakers and sound explodes like a bomb. Jolted, she unplugs them. Adjusting the volume, she plugs the cord back in again. The song starts from the beginning, and this time Madonna’s voice isn’t distorted.
> Humming, she heads to Mina’s room. Rummaging through Mina’s backpack, she notices something that leaves her looking around anxiously. But then her eyes land on the desk and she smiles. Grabbing Mina’s cellphone, she goes to the kitchen, puts the phone in the sink, and turns on the water. Then, turning off the faucet, she returns to the living room and unwraps the knives. She sets them on the floor, takes a sip of water, and nibbles on the chocolate. A knife in each hand, she stretches out on the sofa. She lurches, goes over to the TV, and cuts the landline next to it. Heading back to the kitchen with the wireless phone, she passes the intercom. Carefully she turns it off and unplugs the line. Tossing the phone in the sink, she turns on the water again. Now that all the phones are dead, she goes back to the sofa, stretches out, and closes her eyes.
“Hey, what’re you doing?” When Crystal opens her eyes she sees Mina looking bewildered as she rubs lotion into her arms. Mina is wearing a pink Hello Kitty bathrobe. Pointing at the bathrobe with the tip of her knife, Crystal says, almost bashfully, “I gave that to you for your birthday.”
“What are you doing here?”
“What happened to the music?”
“I turned it off.”
“How come?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t like it.”
Crystal’s face hardens.
Mina flinches. “But, you…”
“I asked you why you turned it off. Why can’t you give me a real answer? Are you stupid or something? Why did you do that? Why did you turn off the music?”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“Yes!”
“What?”
“I turned it on. I turned on the music.”
“Okay, well, then I’m sorry.” Reluctantly she looks Crystal up and down. “Go ahead, turn it back on.”
Crystal lowers her head and shrugs, then looks up at Mina, satisfied. “Thank you.”
Humming, she heads back to the study. The music comes on again, blasting. Mina doesn’t say anything, merely watches Crystal with confusion. Whenever Crystal’s eyes meet Mina’s, Crystal flashes a smile.
“What’re you up to anyway?”
“What?”
Mina points to the knives in Crystal’s hands.
Crystal is at a loss for words and it bothers her. “Um, uh, I thought I’d help…treat your mind.” Putting her fists to her head Crystal mimics pulling something out and says, “Treat…treatment, you know?”
“Can you put those away?”
“Put what away?”
“The knives.”
“Where?”
“Back in the kitchen.”
“They didn’t come from there. I bought them.”
“What for?”
Again Crystal is at a loss for words and again it bothers her. Mina stares, confused, at the knives, then into Crystal’s gleaming eyes. Crystal watches Mina’s confusion grow. The knives shine.
“I’m going to change.”
Crystal nods. She follows Mina to her room. When Mina tries to shut the door Crystal sticks the blade between the door and the jamb, preventing her. Mina cries out.
“I won’t look,” says Crystal, slipping into the room.
Mina’s face is pale.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry. We’ll just…talk.” Crystal waves the knives.
Mina backpedals, scared. “I want to change first.”
“I said go ahead.” Crystal scrapes the door with the knives.
“Hey, don’t do that. You’re messing it up.”
Crystal continues scraping the door.
“I told you not to do that.”
Crystal laughs. “Hurry up and change.”
Mina turns away, takes off her bathrobe, and puts on her panties. With an admiring sigh Crystal stares at her back and waist. Mina slowly clips her bra, pulls on a black sleeveless T-shirt, and then a white T-shirt with a deep V-neck over that, and then, just as slowly, takes a pair of jeans from her closet.
“Haven’t seen those before.”
“I bought them last week.”
“Nice.”
“So what do you want to talk about?”
Without saying anything Crystal cocks her head and looks at Mina with a languid expression.
“You look pretty.”
“Will you please put down those knives?”
“Why? Do they scare you?”
No response.
“If I want to put them down I will. Let’s go to the living room. Come on.”
Mina heads haltingly toward the living room.
Crystal points her to the far end of the sofa. “You sit there, I’ll sit here. Hey, don’t be such a scaredy-cat. We’ll just have ourselves a little chat.”
“About what?”
“Oh, now I’ve forgotten. If only you wouldn’t keep harping on me….”
“Are you threatening me for some reason? Is that what the knives are for?”
“The knives aren’t the issue,” says Crystal. And then she stabs the sofa.
Mina bounces up in shock. Taking in her reaction, Crystal cuts into the sofa more before pulling the knife out.
“Do you remember back in eighth grade when we were feeding pigeons in the park? We found a patch of beans, broke open one of the pods, and divided up the beans. I took mine home and planted them, but they all died.”
“Why are you talking about that now?”
“It just came to mind and I figured why not. What’s the matter? Should I not have said it?”
“You sound like you’ve gone nuts.”
“How so?”
“I feel weird.”
“About what?”
“Well…”
“I’m weird—that’s what you’ve always told me.”
“You really sound like you’ve gone nuts.”
“Here we go again, you and your shrink.”
“Why do you have such a problem with me mentioning Jung? And he’s not a shrink.”
“Then what was he? Tell me, Mina. I’m curious. I’d like to know. Anyway, you shouldn’t talk to people like that. You’re the one who’s gone crazy. Not me. Crazy enough to quit school. And just look where you ended up—a school for weirdos.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Okay, here’s a question: Why did you quit school? And why did you quit without even telling me first—you didn’t say a word about it.”
“Why should I? You’re not my mom.”
“You’re right, I’m not. But I don’t talk things over with my mom. I do with you, though.”
“When? That’s not true!”
“Yes, I have. Always.”
“All right. So what if you do?”
Crystal sighs, glaring at Mina. “Why do you always make me repeat myself? It’s giving me a sore throat. I’ll ask you again: Why did you quit school, and why did you quit without talking to me about it first.”
“You’re… Are you trying to pick a fight with me?”
“No. I’m trying to talk.”
“But listen to how you’re talking to me.”
“I’m talking normally.”
“Ha!”
“Don’t change the subject. Why did you quit school?”
“That’s my business. It doesn’t concern you.”
“Just because it’s your business it doesn’t concern me?”
“Look, Crystal.”
“Tell me.”
“You tell me—what’s the point of all this? It’s okay. I’ll understand. Did you have a fight with Minho? Did he dump you? Did he say he doesn’t want to see you anymore?”
Crystal breaks out laughing. The laughter is exaggerated and offensive.
“If not that then what, damn it, what? What is it you want to talk about? What’s on your mind? What’s all this shit about a bean patch?”
“The bean patch isn’t important.”
“Then what is?”
“You and me.”<
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“What about you and me! And how’s that connected with going crazy and buying kitchen knives! Crystal, why are you doing this? What did I do, anyway?”
“Frustrating, isn’t it? Same for me. So chill out, I don’t know why I’m doing this either. What I do know is I have to do it. I can’t explain but I’m sure. I can feel it. That’s why I wanted to go all the way back to the bean patch. But maybe that wasn’t the start. Then what? Hmm. Maybe when we went to your auntie’s place on Cheju? No, that’s not it either… When we had sashimi rice bowls together three times a day for three days in a row. I felt like I was turning into a fish. What I really want to know is, did you drop out of school because of Pak Chiye?”
“Don’t bring that up. I’ve told you a thousand times I don’t want to talk about it. And don’t keep mentioning her; she’s not your pet.”
“I will if I want to.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like her. I don’t like her at all.”
“Why not?”
“Because she killed herself, she made you quit school, she was a loser—I hate everything, everything about her. I hate her! I would have killed her myself but she beat me to it! So, what did you really know about Pak Chiye anyway?”
“A lot more than you do.”
“Oh really?” Crystal sneers.
Mina responds slowly and deliberately: “Does it help you to feel like you’re queen bitch when you’re disrespectful of others…even of people who are dead?”
“No, I didn’t say that to make myself feel like queen bitch; I can say that because I am queen bitch. And because I’m queen bitch, I feel like queen bitch. Don’t get it turned around. And I’m not being disrespectful, I’m just telling you the way it is. You’re the one being disrespectful. You make such a big deal out of her suicide, you make such a big deal out of your pain. You’re the one who wants to look like queen bitch.”
“Oh really? That’s interesting. You sure can talk. Give it to me one more time, give me your best shot.”
