The Impossible Fairy Tale

by Han Yujoo

  The door is open. At the entrance, I grab a copy of the school newspaper. You watch as I stop walking to gaze blankly at the headline. Darkness is falling outside. I briefly wonder where in this darkness I might hide myself. The headline doesn’t come into view. Actually, I can’t read anything. I step outside and light a cigarette. I don’t look back at you. Your shadow withdraws into darkness. I begin walking toward the main gate. I don’t look back, but I know you’re there. Five or six students are playing jokgu in a corner of the field. When it grows darker, they won’t be able to see the net. Then where should they aim the ball? While I guess at the trajectory of the ball, you say, There’s something I want to ask you. I don’t look back.

  How can I delay my death? you whisper. How can I write my own death sentence? Did my illness begin before the story began? Or after the story began? The darkness grows thicker. These are questions I hadn’t expected. No. That’s a lie. Am I alive or am I dead? Am I living or am I dying? Who am I?

  I stop walking and look back at you. There you are. I never imagined what you might look like. No. That’s a lie. You’ve grown, I say. You were smaller then. You nod. The long ash on my cigarette falls to the ground. You extend your foot and step on it. No trace must be left. You gaze up at me. In the distance, a streetlight comes on. Your dark eyes shine with a clear light. Let’s go, I say. You nod. You stand beside me. Side by side, we walk down the slope toward the main gate. My footsteps are nearly silent. Yours, too. That habit, you say, with a hint of a smile in your voice. You taught me that. And just like that, the sentence I’d forgotten comes back to life. No trace must be left. Memories shove me violently. Distorted memories cut across my past and present at a speed that makes sensation impossible. That habit of walking without making a sound, you say. I don’t nod. How old are you now? I ask. Briefly, you seem lost in thought. I’m probably twelve, maybe twenty years old now, you say.

  Because I don’t want to attract any attention and because I don’t want to run into anyone, I hail a taxi in front of the gate. The taxi stops quietly before us. I open the back door and beckon you inside. You bend your small body and climb in. While I tell the driver the destination, you place your hands neatly on top of your knees and gaze out the window. I feel like I’ve seen your profile before, but I’ve never actually seen you. I’ve never put you in a taxi either. You have only run or darted, hidden or crouched until now. The taxi begins to speed off, and you watch the scene outside sitting straight up, making no contact with the backrest. I try to see what you’re looking at, but I can see nothing but your profile reflected in the window. There’s something I want to ask you, you say without looking at me. I want to know what that is, I say. You burrow into the seat. The laces of your running shoes are untied. It’s difficult to run far like that. You could have a serious fall like I just did. But I say nothing. All I think is that as soon as we get out of the taxi, I will tie your laces for you. So that you’ll be able to run again, far, far away without falling, once again to a place I can’t see, running and running until you disappear from view. The taxi driver runs the red light. A car about to turn left from the opposite side of the road blares its horn. For an instant, I wish the taxi driver would run all the red lights and speed faster and faster, so that we would collide with an oncoming vehicle, a vehicle as large and heavy as a bus or freight truck if possible, just before reaching our destination, so that my life and yours would be extinguished simultaneously. You’re silent. You’ve probably read my mind. Soon a familiar road appears. I try to guess how many traffic lights we would have to pass before reaching home. Every time the taxi nonchalantly, recklessly, races through the crosswalk, changes lanes, and passes cars, I feel a peculiar regret. My palms tingle. They begin to throb. The driver speeds up, as though he doesn’t know how to stop. The red light flickers. The person who had been about to cross the street spews curses, but his words can’t be heard from inside the taxi. The taxi barrels through the last intersection. I feel a sudden murderous desire.

  I pay the fare and climb out of the taxi. Your small body follows me out. The taxi speeds away and you gaze blankly up at me. Just go. But different words—Let’s go—flow from my mouth instead. You nod. When we step into the alley, a cat brushes lazily past me. I flinch. I know what you’re thinking. No. It’s just a guess. When we reach my building, I check my mailbox. There is a package that looks like a book. I take it out and open the lobby door. You deftly slip through the glass door. Before going up the stairs, you tie your shoelaces. I feel relieved and uneasy at the same time. Going up the stairs is less dangerous than going down the stairs. My knees throb with pain. Today, the stairs are endless. I wish they could go on and on, so that we could climb and climb the endless stairs, until the soles of our shoes wear down and disappear, until our feet wear down and disappear, climbing and climbing the stairs, until our breath wears down and disappears. You pant.

  This is it, I say. Here we are.

  I know, you say with a smile.

  When I open the door and step inside, the apartment smells of dust. You take some time untying your laces. I place the package and my bag on the table and wash my hands at the sink. My palms sting. While I shake off the moisture from my hands, you stand barefoot on the threshold, looking at me wordlessly. I turn on the light. Your face grows dim. Do you want something to drink? I ask. Can I have some orange juice? you say. I’ve never tried it before. I’ve never tried oranges or orange juice. I open the fridge, thinking I might not have any. But a half-full container I can’t remember buying is there. While I take it out and pour some into a glass cup, you sit at the table and open my package. Before I can stop you, the paper package is torn open and what’s inside is revealed. It’s a newly published book. You flip through the pages. I put the cup down beside you. A speck of cigarette ash is floating on the surface of the juice. I rummage through the shelf above the table and find some bandages and ointment. The knee of my pants is torn. I’m relieved that I won’t need to remove my pants or roll them up. When you see me twist off the ointment cap, you offer your hand. I’ll put it on for you, you say. I tell you that it’s okay. But you stubbornly grab the ointment from me. I sit in a chair with my knee pointing toward you. You rub the ointment on my knee. It stings. After you apply a bandage, you spread my hand open. On my palm are many crimson lines. After you rub ointment on my palm as well, you bring your hand to your neck without thinking and work what’s left on your fingers into your own neck. I watch you. You take the wrapper off the bandage. I take it from you and stick it on my hand. But the lines on my palm spread out beyond the area covered by the bandage. I remove it right away. You smile. Have you read this? You point toward the book that has just arrived. No, not yet, I answer. Is it okay if I read it first? you ask. Sure, I say. I have more books in the back room. Feel free to read whatever you want, I say. For as long as I want? you ask. That’s right. For as long as you want. Then you look as though you’re about to cry.

  You look blankly at me for a long time. Do you have that book, too? you finally ask. I shake my head. No, that book hasn’t been written yet, I answer. You reach for the juice. Hold on, I say. I fish out the fleck of ash with a teaspoon. You drink the juice. I’ll never forget your expression as you sipped orange juice for the first time. Aren’t you cold? I ask. You put the glass cup down. I look at you. There was something I wanted to ask you, you say. I wish that this moment would end, so that I could petrify like a fossil formed by some meaningless death, so that my gaze and yours, exquisite and entangled like veins, could petrify, so that no one could discover or detect us even a million years from now. But time doesn’t stop. It keeps bleeding. My pain comes to life once again. There was something I wanted to ask you, you say in the past tense. I don’t answer. Already, any answer is impossible.

  33

  Although I never expected you, you’ve appeared before me, and I’m now confused. You are tall (taller than I thought), but short (shorter than I thought). You are bright (brighter than I thought) and
dark (darker than I thought). You are talkative (more talkative than I thought) and quiet (quieter than I thought). I recall your habits, one by one. You clutch your food with two hands. You drink, taking one small sip at a time. You rub the ointment that’s left on your fingertips onto your neck or the back of your hand without thinking. You gaze vacantly out the window. You sometimes look back. You sometimes look back and back again. And I think about your appearance. There is no shade to be found on your face. You look as though you’ve just slipped out from the cover of the shadows. Although I have no way of knowing what kind of portrait this investigation will produce, this is the only way I can describe you. You look as if you could be twelve years old or twenty years old. You look like a smaller version of me, but I’m probably mistaken. All of your fingernails are cut short. For a while, you won’t be able to cut your nails any shorter. You’re asleep on a blanket spread out on the narrow living room floor. I peek at you through the crack in the door. By your head is the book that arrived for me today. Did you read it? I’m not curious about the contents of the book, but I’m curious about the contents of your head. Is this a dream? It’s not a dream. One snowflake, two snowflakes. Buttercups and lilacs. One brick, two bricks. As always, words that have been randomly extracted are strewn on top of my desk. One blank page, two blank pages, one black cage, two black cages. I sit at my desk and think about the book I haven’t been able to finish writing. The black cage captures me. My heart skips. I dim the lamp and lie down on the bed. You came looking for me. I once read in a book a line that went something like: “A certain dream visited me.” Like a dream, you visited me. But this isn’t a dream. You, who had fled from the story, entered my inner world. I think about the characters I’ve killed and the characters I haven’t killed. I didn’t kill you. I only forced you to kill. You and I will talk about someone’s death. I’ll say that I’m not responsible for that death and then you’ll blame me. And that’s how this story will go on. From outside myself, I enter the inner story. This is impossible or not impossible. The possibility of a story proceeds only through severance. Yes or no. Therefore, it’s not important to identify the possibility. A story always proceeds by impossible means. Whether someone kills or doesn’t kill. I’m not responsible for the death you created. That day, the page of death was composed with your hands, not mine. Whether it’s a dream or a story. Again, I peek at you through a crack in the door. You’re still asleep. You haven’t moved at all. I have a sudden urge to shake you awake.

  Dreams without origin pass by. Sleep recedes. When I wake in the afternoon, your area is tidy. The pillow is placed neatly on top of the blanket that has been folded four times. On top of the pillow is the book that arrived yesterday. Did you leave while I was sleeping? I feel both anxious and relieved. Perhaps I will never see you again. I feel both relieved and anxious. I pick up the pillow and sniff. I smell nothing but laundry detergent. There isn’t even a single strand of hair on the pillow. It’s the same with the blanket. It’s dark outside. I stand in the same spot by the window for a long time. A long shadow falls near my feet. Soon it will be evening. I must go after you before it gets darker. There is a note on the table. Power plant → Stadium. I sit at the table and try to track your movements.

  You probably left the house at noon. When you walked down the stairs and stepped out of the building, a light flurry would have been falling.

  No. You probably left the apartment just before I woke up. When you went down the stairs, the streets would have already been covered with snow. You would have purposely stepped on the spots that hadn’t been cleared of snow.

  No. No trace must be left. Being careful not to get any snow on your shoes, you would have picked out the bare spots on the ground to set your feet. You would have hesitated, not sure of which way to go. The power plant is located in the five o’clock position. You probably walked toward the power plant along the low hill and the similar-sized houses. You may have become briefly disoriented. As far as I know, you’ve never been to this neighborhood before. The place that you once knew is hundreds of kilometers from here. Physically and literally. You would have managed to find the power plant without having to ask anyone for directions. To be honest, I don’t know why you want to go there. As far as I know, your memories aren’t entangled with a power plant. There wasn’t one in the place that you once knew. There was merely a hydroelectric dam nearby. To describe the place where you spent your childhood, I used the town I lived in as reference. But you must know that already. The place you went to find was a thermoelectric power plant. You might have gazed at the smoke rising from the five smokestacks. Anyhow, you wouldn’t have been able to go inside. Why did you want to go inside? I have no way of knowing. There would have been snow piled on the wall surrounding the power plant. Perhaps you wouldn’t have been able to distinguish between the white smoke and the white snow. Both smoke and snow move vertically. But whenever the wind blows, the vertical line moves horizontally. The wind would have been blowing and you would have adjusted your collar. The coat you’re wearing is probably mine. Before leaving the apartment, you would have opened the closet and taken out the heaviest coat you could find. Wearing a coat that was too big for you, you would have gazed blankly at the five smokestacks for a long time.

  No. There wouldn’t have been any wind. But I’m certain you still would have been wearing that coat. Because it would be cold, because it would be snowing heavily. Because you wouldn’t be able to block even a single snowflake with the nylon jacket you had on yesterday. You wouldn’t have felt the cold that much. Again the snow would have begun to scatter lightly, and with your light steps, you would have started out toward the stadium. I have no idea why you’re trying to go to the stadium. Some of the possibilities are likely and some are not. The stadium is quite far, but you would have gone there on foot. Several pedestrians and several cats would have passed you. Each time, you would have started in surprise. You would have been thinking of a certain scene. When you have no choice but to think of that scene, I’m compelled to do the same. Knife and blood. A cruel life. And while I think about an animal’s death I wasn’t responsible for, you would have continued walking along the path. You would have crossed the long-defunct railroad tracks. A train once carried fuel from the thermoelectric plant through here, but you probably don’t know that. All the streams near the tracks have been covered up by now, but you probably don’t know that either. After you cross the tracks, it’s a straight path to the stadium. You would have crossed the street when the light turned green and you would have stopped when the light turned red.

  No. You would have hesitated for a long time at the red light. Traces of cars that have passed would be evident on the street, their wheels having swept the snow aside. There would have been dog paw prints in the snow. Sometimes the wind would have scattered the snow piled on the power lines or tree branches. Anyhow, you had to have crossed the street. I wanted to leave the road empty for you, but I couldn’t. It was entirely up to you to cross the street and make your way to the stadium. Eventually you would have crossed the street. You would have caught sight of the stadium between the buildings. You may have even been happy that you had found your way.

  No. I’ve never seen you look happy. You would have looked at the stadium once, wearing the same expression from yesterday, or perhaps from hundreds of kilometers before. The shouts of the crowd that filled the stadium would have reached even your ears. This would have been possible if it were Saturday. But wouldn’t have been impossible even if it weren’t Saturday. The closer you got to the stadium, the louder the shouts would have echoed. The closer you got, the less you would have been able to take in the entire stadium in your field of vision. People would have poured out of the exits, and you may have wondered if you could give each person a name, if there was a name for the top part of the stadium, the top part of the top part and the top part of the top part of the top part, if there was a name for the right part of the stadium, if you could give each fleck of cigarette
ash a name, if you could also give the fleck of ash I had fished out for you with a teaspoon a name, if you could give each fading ray of light a name, if you could give a snowflake that just landed and is now beginning to melt on your cheek a name. You wouldn’t have gone inside the stadium. Instead, you may have gazed at the ground outside that was paved with flagstones and wondered if you could give each flagstone a name. Tens of thousands of people will have passed before you and while thinking that every single one of them had a name, you may have thought about me or perhaps your own name. There would have been banners hanging all around the stadium. The faces of uniformed players and their names on the banners. Although I had discovered among them the name of a friend who had died several years before, you wouldn’t have been able to find a familiar name. You may have managed to discover a name that suited you. No. You already have a name. It’s only that I’ve never called you by it. No one has your name. No one knows your name. And while I don’t call you by your name, you would have sensed the hundreds of thousands of snowflakes blowing, the hundreds of thousands of people passing before you, the scores of names hanging before you, the hundreds of streaks of wind shaking you. Is there a name for your forehead? Is there a name for your cheeks? For your arms? For your elbows? For your wrists? For your knuckles? For your smallest parts and the parts that are even smaller? What should I call you? Any name is impossible now. I can’t call you by any name. You wouldn’t have glanced at your watch. But if you closed and opened your eyes, it would be a different time again, a time I couldn’t give a name to. You must come back. You must come find me again. We will talk about a certain death, and about certain things like death. You will come to me without warning, and you may never leave me. I wait for you. I tell you the shortest way back. Without words, without sound. I wrap the warmest coat around you. Without words, without words. I tie your shoelaces tightly for you. Without words, without sentences. You begin to retrace your steps. You go down the stadium steps. Tens of thousands of people disappear at once. The wind no longer blows. There is no snow on the steps. Either someone has already cleared the snow or there happened to be no snow where you set your feet. Still, you are careful and tread slowly, trying not to slip or tumble down the stairs. On the last step, you don’t look back at the stadium. You leave no trace. You no longer have to obsess about carelessly leaving a trace. Perhaps there never were any traces. You look both ways as you cross the street. But there are no cars on the road. The green light comes on. You cross the street and the snow grazes your cheeks. You cross the train tracks. Light breeze, you look up once more at the power plant. There is no smoke rising from the smokestacks. People pass by but there is no cat in sight. You no longer need to start in fright. Perhaps there never was a cat. Perhaps there never was a knife, or blood, or a rooftop. You gaze up at the five-story building I live in. You shove open the glass door in the lobby and begin to slowly climb the stairs. I can hear the sound of your footsteps coming up the steps. I fold the note on the table, hide it in my shirt pocket, and stand up to open the door for you.