The Impossible Fairy Tale

by Han Yujoo

When that happens, the two fathers both turn toward Mia.

  And standing behind Mia is the Child. No. To be exact, standing in a spot Mia can’t see, perhaps in a spot even Mia’s fathers can’t see, is the Child, hiding in the shadow of the lilac bushes. The Child has followed Mia from school, past the snack shop, the hardware store, the wallpaper and linoleum store, the after-school academy, the bicycle shop, the supermarket, and the apartment security booth. And so, being seen wasn’t everything. The Child existed where Mia couldn’t see, where you and I couldn’t see. And now the Child is watching Mia. Mia isn’t watching the Child. Mia’s head, which had been filled only with thoughts of bicycles, is now filled with thoughts of her two fathers who are looking anxiously at her. The security guard rubs the bridge of his nose and looks at the fathers. Mia bursts into tears. The two fathers’ shoulders slump. The cuckolded husband and paramour. But there is no way Mia could know this sort of expression. Neither father rushes to Mia’s side. Mia sinks to the ground and begins to sob.

  And there is the Child. Let’s not forget about her. Without thinking, she touches her neck. A reddish scab falls by her feet. It’s so small no one notices it. She looks back carelessly. No one is there. Into her memory she engraves Mia, Mia’s two fathers, and Mia’s mother, who can be seen faintly through the balcony window of Suite 904. And even the security guard who keeps rubbing his nose. The bystanders leave. And the Child must also leave. She turns and begins to run for home.

  21

  The weekend passes. Another Monday. The teacher doesn’t speak a word about the stolen journals until the end of the last class. The right side of the Child’s face is badly swollen. It happened on Saturday, or perhaps Sunday. Or maybe Thursday, or perhaps Friday. No one seems concerned about her face. The teacher assumes she has caught the mumps. No, the teacher doesn’t think about the Child at all. No one approaches the teacher with a flushed face, even when the last class ends. He has no choice but to think of the petty authority and dignity granted to him as a teacher. He must take responsibility for his words, at a minimum follow through with his threats. But no one has come to him offering a confession, accusation, or excuse of any kind. He also has a child. But the fact that he has a child in middle school is no help at all right now. The children’s expressions, the children’s gestures, the children’s speech, are a complete mystery to him. Even if he were to scrutinize all thirty-five students one at a time, he lacks the means to discover which child was capable of such an act. Which child. He decides to remain silent. For the time being. He decides to wait. For the time being. At the end of class, he tells the students on classroom duty to clean with greater care than usual. Those not on duty noisily open and close their bags, and escape from the classroom. There are eight children left. Awkwardly, Inju waves at Mia and leaves. Mia, the Child, and the rest of the children drag the desks to the back of the room. Mia, who spent the entire weekend crying, also has a swollen face. Mia has hardly spoken to Inju today. Inju had asked if anything was the matter, but Mia had merely given her the same answer—I’m fine—over and over again. The Child glances at Mia’s face. With her mouth tightly shut, Mia is sweeping. Hair ties, erasers, and notes that were secretly passed in class get swept up by Mia’s broom. The teacher isn’t there. The Child thinks this is her chance to approach Mia. She must interrogate Mia. I hate you. I hate you. It hurts. I despise you. A fire is hot. A long and hard thing. A needle is pointy. It hurts. It hurts so much I can hardly bear it. I want to kill, too. I want to kill. Bad things are painful. Painful things are bad. I want to kill, too. I despise you. It hurts. I hate you. Dust rises from the end of the broom.

  Stifling her anxiety, the Child observes Mia. Are you friends? Mia’s mother had asked. She’s in my class, Mia had said. The Child isn’t Mia’s friend. Mia would never pour out her heart to the Child. What she had seen. What she hadn’t seen. Right now, Mia’s head is filled with thoughts of her two fathers and mother. Mia’s pinky fingernail catches the Child’s eye. No one, not even the Child, can see the Child’s pinky fingernail. It had disappeared from the Child’s finger. It had happened last Thursday. The Child, quietly sweeping while watching Mia, looks back. No one is there. Do you live around here? What’s your name? Mia’s mother had asked. She hadn’t answered. All she can think now is that she has been discovered by Mia and her mother. In her head, something keeps collapsing. Keeps collapsing. Something. Even though it seems impossible for something to keep collapsing. Having finished with the sweeping, the children begin to move the desks back to their original place. The Child is assigned the job of sweeping the dust and trash that have collected at the back of the classroom into a dustpan. Hey, the teacher has to check everything, someone says. Everyone’s gaze swivels toward Mia, who’s standing by the classroom door. Mia steps out, looking churlish. And just then, the Child’s nerve, pulled impossibly taut, snaps. Her face grows pale. (I hate you.) Her darkness is exposed. With trembling hands, she empties the dustpan by tapping it against the trash can. The pile of brooms in the corner gives off an unpleasant smell. The smell of wet straw. The expression “wanting to grasp at straws.” Perhaps Mia has gone to tell the teacher something else instead. (I hate you.) Mia never relinquished the duty of reporting to the teacher; she always did it herself. The Child leans back against the supply closet. She weighs every possibility. In her head. In her mind. Perhaps with all her body. The wounds on her neck grow darker. Like the protective coloring of a wild animal. (I hate you.) The floating particles of dust settle on the Child’s nose and shoulders. She wishes she could turn into a fossil. She thinks it would be nice to turn into a fossil and be discovered a million years from now. But no trace must be left. Even such an infinitely long time as a million years will not be able to protect her. Right now, there isn’t enough dust in the classroom to shroud her. It’s because she has swept. And because Mia has swept. The Child must simply disappear. If not, the mice and ants that have been following her will erase her tracks and gobble her up. Someday. Even if a million years went by. Sometime. The children, who sat perched on top of the desks looking bored, start to choke one another. They call this “the fainting game.” The only time the children can play this game is when the teacher isn’t there. The child being strangled gasps, pretending to choke. The other children snicker. The Child looks blankly at Kim Injung’s desk, which is set at an awkward angle beside the teacher’s desk. Knife. She thinks about the afternoon she taught Kim Injung the alphabet. Gieok and mium. Memory and hatred. And knife.

  Mia and the teacher walk through the classroom door, which had been left open. The children who were choking each other release each other in surprise. With flushed faces, they avoid the teacher’s gaze. The teacher, who had been glancing around the classroom absentmindedly, makes eye contact with the Child. For a moment, he stares intently at her face. She stares back at him. Her legs shake. It’s not that she’s frightened of him. She knows from experience that it’s always possible to be more frightened than frightened, more scared than scared, more terrified than terrified. Perhaps only death can put a stop to these things. Perhaps the teacher is only noting her swollen face. Perhaps. She struggles to look calm. Has it only been a second? It feels like an eternity. Mia packs up her bag, looking coy. You may go now, says the teacher. See you tomorrow. The Child expels a shallow breath. The children who had been fiddling awkwardly with the straps on their bags hurry out the classroom door. The Child also picks up her bag. It hurts. Her face, her neck, her back, her hips, her legs, her head, her shoulders, her knees, her feet, her knees, her feet, her head, her shoulders, her knees, her feet, her knees, her ears, her nose, her ears. She walks down the hall and goes down the stairs, panting, and looks back without thinking. Mia is walking down the stairs with a coy expression on her face. The Child’s legs give out. She grabs on to the railing and collapses. She is shaking. The cold stairs are cold. The cold railing is cold. The cold Child is cold. All of a sudden, the Child tips her head back and plugs her nose with her hand. A cold trickle
of blood runs down between the Child’s fingers. The cold blood is cold. Mia, who had been walking down the stairs, draws near. Are you okay? asks Mia. The Child flinches. Several boys pass Mia and the Child boisterously. Once they’re gone, Mia sits next to the Child and puts her bag down. Your nose is bleeding, Mia says. The Child says nothing. She is covering her face with both hands. Her face must not be seen. Mia opens her bag and looks for a tissue or handkerchief. But she has neither. Do you have a tissue? Mia asks. The Child shakes her head. Blood falls onto the Child’s indoor shoes. It also falls on the floor. Hold on, I’ll go get some from the bathroom, says Mia. Violently, the Child shakes her head. She tries to say something, but her hand is blocking her mouth. Her missing fingernail. It hurts. She pulls out the hem of her shirt from under her sweater and wipes away the blood. The bleeding is slowing. The Child swallows the lump of blood that has clotted in her throat. She reeks of blood. Mia pats her on the back. Are you okay? The Child nods. There’s blood on your clothes. Your mom might get worried, Mia says. Your mom might get worried. The Child thinks that mom and worry don’t go together. She finds Mia’s sympathetic hands oppressive. She thinks about Mia for a moment. Knife. She doesn’t shake off Mia’s hands. What should I do? she wonders. Knife. What should I do? Her head fills with the sickening smell of blood. Her T-shirt is stained with blood. Her blood is turning from red to brown. Before brown turns to black, she must wash her clothes. Won’t your mom worry if she sees your clothes? asks Mia. I can wash it in the bathroom, the Child answers. But you’ll have to take off your shirt, says Mia. Oh …, the Child trails off. By the way, did you, back there, with the teacher … The Child forgets what she’s saying. Mia flinches. No. The Child has only imagined it. Did you, back there, did you tell the teacher … The Child looks at Mia. The Child looks calm and cold. Her upper lip is smudged with blood. Seeing it, Mia flinches. You should wash your face, too, Mia says, changing the subject. No. The Child has only imagined that Mia changed the subject. You can come over and get cleaned up, Mia says. No one’s home, she says. Mia’s home. The Child already knows where Mia lives. Mia’s mother and fathers are not home. At this moment. The Child stares at Mia. But Mia is closing her bag. Mia puts her bag on her back and gets up from the steps. Let’s go, Mia says. To the Child. The Child tucks in the hem of her shirt. Blood has even gotten on the neck of her sweater. Blood is not blood red. It’s turning black. Hey, what’s your name anyway? Mia asks. To the Child. The Child looks down at the drops of blood that have fallen on the ground. Sorry, I haven’t memorized everyone’s name yet, Mia says. To the Child. Mia walks down the stairs. Instead of answering, the Child follows her down.

  22

  The cold Child is cold. The cold Child sheds cold blood. The cold blood is cold. Only statements that repeat the same words are good. Expressions that betray no meaning. Meaning that keeps coming back. Expressions that carry no other meaning. The road in front of the school gate splits into three paths. The road that has split into three paths splits into several more paths. The paths radiate from the school gate. Most children choose the paths they normally use. On these paths are the stationery store, bookstore, video arcade, snack shop, toy store, and all kinds of after-school academies. The children’s heads begin to ripen. The children stray from their familiar paths. At last, they learn to hide their shadows in obscure paths, but let the desires of their shadows roam off the paths to their hearts’ content. They say that a moment’s decision can change the course of your life. But life is composed of moments of decision. Once you pass over this path, you must pass over that one. There are paths everywhere and there are children everywhere. Without warning, a motorcycle or car races out from an alley. At times, the children who had been running after the ball must pick up their own heads off the ground. The very children who had tossed unfinished cartons of milk onto the road. On the road bloodstains spread over the milk stains. Grown-ups think the pavement can be marked with all the milk that has collected in the potholes in the asphalt. Whiter and whiter. Redder and redder. The children lucky enough to avoid an accident aren’t quick to understand the absurd sadness of survivors. But accidents are always planned. There must always be someone who is bounced violently off the road. This is how an overpopulated city suffering from congestion survives. The children are violently discarded on the endless path and they fully experience the grind of city living. They say that looking back on the path you’ve walked is evidence that you’re now a grown-up. The children look back on the paths they’ve walked. That time when they awkwardly steadied their necks, they who picked up the heads that were once their property. When they look back, it’s always a dead-end alley. Without knowing how they’ve slipped out from that place, they must be discarded again with violence, with even greater violence. The asphalt calls up recollections. Recollections are ghosts. Ghosts have no feet. Recollections grab hold of their feet. Memories are also ghosts. But memories cut off their feet. The memories that have been paved with asphalt cut across their past and present at a speed that makes sensation impossible. And so the future also exists beyond sensation, the future that doesn’t exist waits for them, and for you and me. A million years later, we will be discovered as fossils in a stratum of asphalt and concrete. We must endure a period of a million years, learning how organic matter crumbles into inorganic matter. No one, not a thing, will be able to rescue us until all the moisture has left our bodies. The cold Child is cold. The Child is a child. The Child stands. The Child hesitates. The Child stirs. The Child moves. Where? The Child moves perilously across the border of a path and what is no longer a path. The hill on top of the path, the cliff on top of the path, the river on top of the path, the precipice on top of the path, the ocean on top of the path, and the bluff on top of the path camouflage themselves as the cityscape and quietly wait for the children to trip over their own feet. Most children return home meekly, but the instant the Child steps into her home, she is shoved out onto the path, and the instant she is standing on the path, she must return home. No one knows where her fingernail shard that has been so violently plucked off has gone. The instant her fingernail was torn off, her pain receptors created an illusion of mice and ants. So that the mice and ants would eat up the fingernail and become her and share her pain receptors. So that the Child, if possible, would lose all ten fingernails and become ten of herself and share out her pain receptors equally between these ten. Fingernails grow and wounds heal. Bruises fade and swelling subsides. Time passes this way. But no matter how long she waited, the mice and ants didn’t appear. Even the piper, even Puss in Boots, didn’t appear. The Child is neither lucky nor unlucky. She is simply luckless. She has neither fortune nor misfortune. And so her fate must quietly come to an end here. But that’s impossible. She must no longer disclose anything. But that’s impossible. The odd pairing of disclose and dispose. The expression “wrong path” signifies nothing. There is no path that can’t be wrong. All paths are already wrong. All paths are bad. Paths leave traces. The wrong path that the Child has walked will pursue her someday. If you can’t stop, you must move on. At a very fast speed, at a speed beyond sensation. The Child goes down the stairs. Because she has no memory or recollection, her feet are safe. If only someone would grab hold of her feet, if only someone would cut off her feet so that the Child would stop right there, so that the Child wouldn’t step onto any path. But that’s impossible. The Child is moving. When the Child looks back without thinking, not a person, not a thing, is there. The Child’s path of retreat is a dead-end alley. She must retreat at the same time that she advances. The road in front of the school gate splits into three paths. Asphalt is good. Footprints can’t be left on asphalt. No trace must be left. But there are too many traces on the Child’s body. Every time the Child scratches the back of her neck without thinking, dark red scabs fall and scatter on the asphalt. Without realizing it, the Child has left behind evidence. But these things are barely noticeable. They say that what is unseen can speak volumes. Still, what is unseen is better tha
n what is seen. Other children will soon occupy the path that the Child walks. The evidence the Child has let loose will be kicked and trampled by the children; it will soon be destroyed. The Child, who is following Mia, looks back. No one is there. There must be no one. No one is there.

  23

  Which one is your building? Mia asks. Mine’s 120 …, the Child trails off. Hey, this is the first time we’ve talked, isn’t it? How come you’re always so quiet? Do you get sick a lot? The Child doesn’t answer. Are you normally this quiet? asks Mia. Both Mia and the Child look straight ahead. Their gazes do not meet. Murderous desire pulses suddenly from the Child’s eyes. She shakes her head. Mia doesn’t look at her. When they’re walking past the bicycle shop, Mia briefly thinks about bicycles. Over the past two days, Mia has missed the opportunity to beg for a bicycle. While Mia’s mother shook her head from behind the curtain, Mia’s fathers each neglected their duties because they were consoling Mia, who was crying. Who should get lost? Who should gain ownership over this child? Who should wield Mia’s mother? Mia is lucky. By tomorrow, Mia’s face will once again be as fair as milk, as smooth as a baby’s bottom. If not tomorrow, then the day after tomorrow, if not the day after tomorrow, then the day after that. More than half of Mia’s journal is still blank. Mia, who had possessed two journals, now has only one. The other one is still in the recycling bin that hasn’t yet been collected. Mia’s yesterday, the day before yesterday, and the day before that had passed in total confusion. Mia didn’t write about her sadness and rage in the journal hidden in a corner of her desk. She was unable to write a single sentence. It’s because all the questions she has never demanded answers to—why her mother hides her face, why her fathers seize each other by the collar, why her father slaps her mother, why her mother slaps her father—have boomeranged back to Mia. Why? Mia must be compensated for the weekend that she has lost. If only a bicycle could serve as the compensation. Mia could have anything she wants. If only she wants it, and if only she knew what she wanted, and if only she knew that in order to gain something, something else must be surrendered. From color pencils to a sweater, from a sweater to a bicycle, the list of all the things that she could and must have evolves daily. There is no lack of substitutes. If a bicycle isn’t given to Mia because bicycles are dangerous, she could plead for a dog or cat. Dogs and cats are safe. Mia’s fathers would gladly place a dog or cat in her arms if only they knew that it would help them win her affections. Although Mia can’t clearly express her sadness, rage, or other similar emotions, she knows how to use her head shrewdly, or perhaps innocently, to gain the things she wants.