The Impossible Fairy Tale

by Han Yujoo

  Mia and Inju head toward Mia’s home. A certain Wednesday in April 1998. According to Mia’s schedule, she had language arts, mathematics, social studies, and biology that day. On days when there were no afternoon classes, the children tossed their unopened milk cartons on patches of sunlight, milk flowed and splattered, and with every step they left behind dirty, white stains. The pencil cases in Mia’s and Inju’s backpacks contain identical pens of the same brand. The sound of pens clattering inside the pencil cases can barely be heard, buried by the din of traffic and the wind caused by atmospheric instability. At the end of class, Mia and Inju wrote the date of their field trip next month in their agendas. May 12. There’s a month left still, mutters Inju. A month is an extremely long time to Mia, Inju, and other children their age. In one month, some will grow taller, some will learn curse words, and some will break their legs. Some will play soccer, some will kill chicks. Some will tell lies. And some will … and some will … and some … and something new every day … something new …

  And then there are the tests we have to take, grumbles Mia. The two girls let out a sigh at almost the same time. Their shoulders tremble in a somewhat exaggerated fashion, but this practically goes unnoticed, hidden by their backpacks. My mom told me to come home early, Inju says. You can always call her later, Mia says. Inju’s grandmother is ill. Inju thinks about her grandmother for a moment. More specifically, she thinks about her grandmother’s lump of greenish stool. That happened this morning, but it also happened yesterday, and will happen tomorrow as well. Inju’s grandmother whose mind comes and goes often forgets to flush the toilet. Her grandmother holds her head up like a bird, large, baggy clothing always covering her small, thin frame. Set in her face are many black stones. Inju has never once thought, You could play Gomoku if there were white stones too. It was Mia who has had this thought. Many times Inju has heard her parents talk about her grandmother. Maybe a year, maybe two. Inju’s mother sighed. Inju realizes that her grandmother doesn’t have many years left. But whether it’s one or two years, it seems like a very long time to Inju. The only thing Inju’s grandmother has relinquished is her grip on sanity. Every single cell that composes her body still has a tenacious grip on life. Inju doesn’t know or care about every desperate effort her grandmother makes to get to the bathroom to relieve herself. When Inju turns eighty, she will naturally lose her memories of being twelve years old. Often her grandmother rummages through Inju’s school-bag and takes new notebooks or nice pens and pencils. This is how Inju’s grandmother tries to replenish what has been erased from her life, while Inju’s father puts money in Inju’s hand without his wife’s knowledge so that she can pick out whatever notebooks, pens, and pencils she wants. Perhaps a year, perhaps two. Inju’s grandmother was born in 1919. It’s a mysterious number to Inju. Perhaps even to Inju’s father. Perhaps even to Inju’s mother. Mia doesn’t have a grandmother. No, Mia’s mother no longer takes Mia to see her grandmother. Mia thinks Inju is lucky. I haven’t seen my grandmother for a long time, Mia says. I wish someone would take mine, says Inju. Mia glances at Inju. I’m just joking, Inju says. All of a sudden, Inju recalls how her grandmother had secretly turned on the stove and peered into the blue flame as though possessed. Inju’s mother had run out and turned off the stove, with her face deathly pale and hand raised high as though to strike Inju’s grandmother. Shocked, Inju screamed. The dog who had been sleeping under the couch dashed out and began to bark, and Inju’s grandmother copied the dog, baring her teeth and barking like a dog. There are bite marks on that day’s expressions. The expressions suffer from the wind. One day when Inju is a grown-up, she will recall that day.

  Inju wants to talk to Mia about her grandmother. About her curled fingernails, her wrinkled earlobes, and her loose greenish stool. And about herself, who must, every day, look at ugly, dirty, filthy things. At vile, ancient things. My grandmother is … Inju struggles to find the proper word to describe her grandmother. Pitiful isn’t exactly the right word to describe her. Neither is pathetic. And it seems wretched for a child to call a grown-up wretched. My grandmother is …, says Inju, who finds, just in time, what she considers to be a suitably grown-up phrase … She’s in poor shape. Mia cocks her head. And the two children forget for a moment what it means to be in poor shape.

  Mia and Inju enter the apartment complex through a side gate. The roses have not yet budded. There is no one inside the security booth. Blooming dandelions and pansies fill the flower bed. Yellow and purple. Several days later, into this very flower bed, onto the flowers and soft grass, two middle school girls will plunge. The flowers and grass are soft enough to break the necks of the girls at once; they are cozy, like the grave. Yellow, purple, and green ram into and pry open the girls’ clasped fingers. But this hasn’t happened. Not yet.

  Mia and Inju head toward Mia’s home. Mia has been to Inju’s home several times and she’s even patted Inju’s dog, but this is the first time the reverse has occurred. Building 110, Suite 904. Mia takes out a bunch of keys from the front pocket of her backpack. Mia’s mother is not there. Mia’s father is also not there, but this has nothing to do with the couple’s fundamental relationship and is simply a coincidence. Inju, who is setting foot in Mia’s home for the first time, sits primly on the sofa that faces the small, dark living room wall, and looks somewhat awkward, disguised as a polite guest. Mia heads straight for the refrigerator, gulps water right from the bottle, and then calls out to ask Inju whether she would like something to drink. On top of the table, a meal for one is already set. There is no note. Inju begins to straighten the books scattered on the coffee table and discovers The Biography of Diana. Strewn below the face of the woman who had once been the princess of the British Empire are several cheap, worn books with titles like The Diamond of the Moon and A Grand Expedition into the Earth, and on the covers of these books are stickers that read “4-2 Classroom Library.” While Inju leafs through the pages, Mia, who has brought a cup of cold water, says in a small voice that contains a hint of laughter, I stole those, you know. White psoriasis has bloomed around Mia’s mouth. Inju knows instinctively that she shouldn’t criticize or condone Mia’s behavior, but because of the morals shaped by her sloppy education and because of the friendship that has just begun to bud between the two girls, she doesn’t know what expression she should wear. Inju only shuts her mouth and, in doing so, becomes Mia’s accomplice. Mia heads toward the balcony and draws back the curtains. Thick sunlight cascades onto the floor. Inju glances again at the woman with the golden hair. Mia, who has come close to Inju, says, Isn’t she pretty? My mom says she was the princess of England.

  Mia turns on the television. On the cartoon channel, the last episode of Galaxy Express 999 is on. A planet is being destroyed. It collapses. Everything is collapsing. It collapses. It’s collapsing. The citizens of the planet that is being destroyed say over and over again, as though they’re singing a round, that everything is collapsing. It collapses. It’s collapsing. While they panic, the buildings sink and the roads twist apart. There is no way to save them. The planet’s queen no longer possesses the means to revive her planet, despite the fact that it is her machine body. The planet will remain extinct, until the very last trace testifying that this planet once existed disappears, until no one remembers the word fate anymore. It collapses. It’s collapsing. It has collapsed. It cannot be said that everything has collapsed. Because after everything has collapsed, anyone who could have used the past tense would not exist. Because anyone who could remember the past, or anyone who could recall the past, or perhaps even the word past—none would exist. One day when Inju is a grown-up, the last words of this old anime film that had aired long ago will come alive once more inside Inju’s head. It’s collapsing, everything, everything is collapsing.

  This is boring, Mia says. Inju wants to see Mia’s room, but Mia doesn’t offer to show Inju her room. Mia opens the door to the master bedroom. Let’s play inside my mom’s room, says Mia. A commercial for an insurance company
appears on the television screen. Does your old age welcome you? Mia and Inju’s old age is neither welcoming nor unwelcoming. Nothing is certain. Not yet.

  10

  The Child straightens her slumped back. On her desk, a small calendar, pencil holder, pencils, textbooks, notebooks, and a few memo slips are neatly arranged, and on the surface where the Child’s arm that’s supporting her chin rests is a long, sharp scratch. It has the same look and shape as the marks on her back and shoulders. The same depth. The Child is neither lucky nor unlucky. She is simply luckless. She crawls under her desk and carefully collects the dust with her hands. Her dark hands turn ashen. Ash. No trace must be left. Dust is bad. Dust leaves footprints. Pens are bad, too. Letters written in pen cannot be erased. Rain is good. Rain erases footprints. The sound of the rain erases the sound of crying. Wind and rain erase memories. The Child lets the dust that has pooled in her hand drift into the trash can. She suddenly looks back. No one is there. But she still feels uneasy. The dust she has shed now takes her place on the chair. Dust casts no shadow. The Child flinches, but the movement is unreasonably quiet, too quiet to disturb the air. The Child looks like some kind of vermin. But not in the usual way one might use the word to describe someone; the Child knows how to make her body small and flat, like a cockroach. The Child is neither erased nor transparent. The Child alienates herself from the marks, traces, and stains. For no reason. Everything has a reason, but the reason the traces—left on her body as stains—have not been erased, even by the rain, has not been spoken. Even as she cries, she must not cry. Even as she speaks, she must not speak. It is impossible to describe the Child’s expression or voice. Every second as she twists apart and collapses, she merely maintains the smallest shape. Despite how many times something has collapsed, it is always possible to collapse again. Until now. Inside a fairy-tale world, everything is already determined and everything is already given. There is no need for the main character to wait. Every time the main character puts out her hand, whatever is needed is put into it. But the Child must wait. She doesn’t yet know the word silence. Her closed mouth, her veiled eyes, these words testify that the word silence exists somewhere. White psoriasis blooms around the Child’s mouth. It is milky and murky like pollen. The Child scratches her back. When she’s not looking, dark crusts of dried blood fall from her back.

  11

  The children’s journals are on top of the teacher’s desk. The children whisper among themselves. The sentences they could not and cannot write are on the teacher’s desk. The potted plants on the windowsill complain of hunger and thirst. Small, yellow leaves hang from limp, feeble stems. The teacher is silent as he gazes down at the children. The bell on top of his desk has been removed. And Kim Injung, who sits beside the teacher’s desk, has not been removed. Kim Injung doesn’t write in his journal, or at the very least, he doesn’t turn it in. In every one of the children’s journals, except for Kim Injung’s, sentences have been added. (I despise you.) But no one, not one, admits to doing (or committing) such a thing, and no one, not one, admits when that thing was done (or executed). Looking perplexed, the teacher interrogates the children in silence. (I hate you.) His dilemma is that he can’t even understand what has happened here. (An umbrella is hard.) No one is missing anything, no one has stolen anything belonging to anyone else, no one has hit anyone, no one has tricked anyone. (A needle is pointy.) The children sit in their seats with downcast eyes, looking as though the situation is unfair. The teacher scrutinizes each child’s face. (A fire is hot.) A black stain marks the floor in the middle of the classroom where a furnace has just been removed. (A long and hard thing.) He thinks this incident is a first. His platform and desk have been in the same spot for more than twenty years. Incidents and accidents both big and small have occurred here, and some children have developed, some have fallen ill, and some have died, but these things have always happened within the radius of his expectations. (It hurts.) Most of the children have bad handwriting. Their penmanship is not yet polished. Most of the children don’t have secrets, but even if they did, their secrets would be quickly discovered. The children submit their journals once a week, and when the journals come back with short comments, the children either read or don’t read the red letters that cling to the pages—the superficial comments about their thoughts or actions—and soon forget about them. (It hurts so much I can hardly bear it.) The children don’t know exactly why they must keep journals. They don’t even know exactly why their journals are checked. (I want to kill, too.) The children sit with vacant eyes. This incident will not take a long time. Perhaps in thirty minutes or an hour at the most, the children will head home, choke one another in some obscure location, or kick a ball around the field.

  Everyone, close your eyes, the teacher says. The children obediently close their eyes or perhaps pretend to close their eyes. Who did this? he asks. The children’s pulses speed up simultaneously, but no one moves. Who did this and why? he asks again. When? But not a single child responds. (I despise you.) (I hate you.) (I want to kill.) We may just have to go to the police station together, so you better raise your hand now, he demands. The Child flinches, but so do the other children. Mia is on the verge of whispering something to Inju, but she doesn’t. Inju squints at Mia. The Child is sitting in the aisle next to Mia and Inju. From where the Child is sitting, she can’t see Mia’s or Inju’s face. (I want to kill, too.) The Child’s dark hands smell faintly of metal. No trace must be left. In the last month, after it had grown dark, the Child had carefully snuck into the classroom three or four times. She could have been more daring. She could have erased all the sentences in the journals and replaced them with her own. She could have imitated their bad penmanship. But there wasn’t enough time. (It hurts.)

  The Child isn’t discovered. She must not be discovered. Not yet. The Child must grow a little more, before the pain that is left in her back, her thighs, and her shoulders covers itself with a crustacean shell. The Child must cast off her skin. The teacher senses that no child will come forward. In the end, the incident itself isn’t that serious. But it angers him. Who, what, when, where, why, how. In every language arts class, he stressed the five Ws and one H. Writing must be clear and concise. The meaning must be understood immediately. All that is certain in this case is the sentences that have been plastered into each journal. (I hate Mom.) (I despise Teacher.) (Long, hard things are all bad.) (Bad things are painful.) (Painful things are bad.) The teacher glares at the children whose eyes are shut. Thursday, April 1998. Who, what, when, where, why, how. The incident angers him. But he can’t keep interrogating the children. He can’t hit or punish them either. There is only one item that is certain out of the five Ws and one H: what. But until now, what has always been the problem. What? A chick. What? A wallet. What? A desk mate. What? An eraser. What? Homework. What? A watch. But this time, nothing is missing, nothing has gone missing. Only the sentences with no source and no clear meaning remain. The teacher has no real reason to detain the children. Several of them begin to cry. The time to slip out of the school has passed. Most of the children will be able to tell the truth at home or at their after-school academies. This is what happened at school. We don’t know who did it. I didn’t do it. The teacher got angry and wouldn’t let us go, that’s why I’m late. But the Child must come up with another excuse. The Child, like other children, could possibly tell the truth. But what truth? The only thing the Child can tell is the outcome. And it’s better not to say the possible outcome. If you can avoid it, avoid it. Even if you can’t avoid it, you must avoid it. The owner of the sentences that have ruined the journals will not be discovered.

  You’ve heard of a lie detector, haven’t you? says the teacher. If you don’t want to take a trip to the police station and get interrogated, you better come forward by next Monday. Interrogation. The children’s hearts sink. The trivial lies they’ve spewed carelessly until now come to life in their heads. The children quickly grow unhappy. More children begin to cry. The crying s
preads. Kim Injung, who is in his seat and has no idea why they’re being detained, bursts into tears. A light breeze blows in through the half-open window at the back of the classroom. With eyes tightly closed, all Mia thinks about is going home. Her journal also contains one of the Child’s sentences. I want to kill, too. Mia is wearing the sweater with the deer knitted on the chest. (Dad bought it for me.) Mia wipes her eyes with her too-long sleeves. Inju taps her foot nervously. Interrogation. Integration. Degradation. Decimation. The Child mumbles. Interrogation is a bad word. It brings other uncomfortable words to mind. The children cry louder. Exhausted, the teacher shakes his head. Open your eyes, he says. Journal, journey, the Child mumbles. The Child, too, has a desk mate. But the desk mate is so overjoyed that they’re allowed to open their eyes that she doesn’t hear the Child’s low, quiet voice. Kim, Lee, Park, Choi, Chang, Kwon, Moon, Kang, An, Shin, Yoon, Na, Yang, Hwang, Hong. The children who have stopped crying begin to pack up their things noisily. They busily reclaim their happiness. With his index finger, Kim Injung smears the tears that have dripped on his desk. Mia and Inju let out a sigh. The children will forget about today’s incident. At least until next week. The Child looks both anxious and relieved, but no one, not one person, is looking at her face.

  12

  For some time, the Child sits hunched over in a corner of the bleachers facing the school field. Since she’s already late, it might be okay to be a little later. The field is quiet. The ice on the field has melted and disappeared. In the distance, beyond the magnolia trees, two children are hanging upside down from the chin-up bar. Without thinking, she slips her hand inside her pocket. Clack. Her hand touches the cold key. She must throw it away. Because it’s becoming more and more difficult to hide it. The air is dry. She becomes a part of the arid landscape and wonders where she might hide the key. She didn’t think she wouldn’t be discovered. However, she hasn’t been completely discovered either. She can’t find a suitable place to hide the key. If she can’t hide it, she must throw it away. She stands up. She can no longer see the children hanging from the bar. Perhaps the magnolia trees, perhaps the wind, is blocking her view. Anyhow, she doesn’t see the children. She quietly heads toward the school gate.