by Han Yujoo
You peer at the rust-covered map. Where to now? You’re thinking of a certain day in 1998, and the long and pointy triangle formed by you, Mia, and Mia’s mother. The smell of rain fills the air. You begin to move, following after the memory you don’t have. The triangle becomes longer and steeper. Except for you, the vertices have disappeared. The triangle collapses into a single segment. A large recycling bin catches your eye. Throw them away, you had once muttered. Throw them all away. You think about the words you had said. Could they still be there? Has someone taken them? You look back. Out of habit. But no one is there.
You walk toward the recycling bin. A security guard is putting plastic containers in a large sack. He doesn’t look at you. You open the bin lid and peer inside. The smell of soft, damp paper reaches you. Rain falls on your forehead and patters into the bin. With trembling hands, you dig through the advertisement flyers and newspapers. There are even reference books and Bibles. Did you accidentally throw something out? the security guard asks. Startled, you look up, but the guard is busy sorting the plastic containers. You go back to rummaging through the bin. At the very bottom under the comic books and magazines, you discover a stack of worn notebooks. Thirty-five journals are stacked neatly together, as though someone had arranged them purposely. You take them out. Your hands shake. Did you find them? the guard says. You’re lucky, tomorrow is collection day. You look at him, but he’s engrossed in tying the opening of the sack that is filled with plastic containers. You carry the stack to a corner of the parking lot. The name Lee Jiyeong is written on the cover of the top journal. You clasp the journals to your chest. I peer at the clock. It’s still noon. Your short shadow that is dangling at your feet totters after you. You step into the shadow cast by the building and perch on the rock in front of the flower bed. You place the stack of journals on your knees. Lee Jiyeong, Park Minsu, Yang Yeong-ae, Huh Namjun, Yun Kyeonghui. Your eyes pass over the unfamiliar names. Oh Sora. Kang Myeonghwa. So Yeonghyeon. Lee Jun-gyu. Kim Jongho. The journal covers are all different from one another. Some are a solid color and some have illustrations of robots, animals, or dolls. You look at each journal. Park Yeongwu, Jang Minguk, Song Ho-myeong, Cho Yeonjeong, Kim Taeyong. Underneath Kim Taeyong’s journal is Choi Mia’s journal. You gaze at each one for a moment. Underneath Choi Mia’s journal is yours. You place both journals on your knees and bow your head. I look at you, but I don’t know what you’re thinking. From where I am, I can’t see your expression. All I can see is the top of your head and a bit of your green hair tie.
You stroke the cover of Mia’s journal. On it is a picture of a bunny. Dust rubs off on your fingertips. The wind blows. A light breeze, but it’s enough to turn the pages. You gaze down at the open journal. I walk toward you. The pages are blank. There isn’t a single sentence, a single letter, or even a single stain. You turn the page. The pages flutter. But there is no writing there—no sentences, no letters, either good or bad. Nothing is written, not your writing, not Mia’s writing, not Inju’s, not Mia’s, not the chick’s, not the sentence that said she wanted to kill a chick, that she wanted to kill, too. A void is white and clear. It’s impossible to read anything in the journal. You close Mia’s journal with trembling hands and open the journal with your name written on the cover. Your journal is also blank. Leaf, wind, breeze, song, stick, ice cream, moon, stars, whistling, tree branch, footprint, dog, cat, streetlight, bird, colors—your journal contains none of these words. Cheek, bruise, blister, fingernail, curse, calf muscle, tongue, palm, hair, sigh, grip, shoe heel, spine, thigh, stick, crying, and pain. These are also missing. Rain falls on the blank page. The smell of rain fills the air. You feel the page with your fingertips. There is no imprint of writing. The paper is smooth, as though nothing had ever been written on it in the first place. You recall certain sentences. When I opened the window, a light breeze blew in. I wanted ice cream, so I went to the store. There was dew on the green leaves. I saw the yellow cat’s family. It was strange that their eyes were green. You always received the same comment about your journal entries, that there was no concrete story. But your entries were more concrete than anyone else’s. She slapped me really hard. It felt like my cheek was on fire. If I lied one more time, she said she would rip out my tongue. I didn’t lie. I was beaten on the thighs. On the thighs so that other people wouldn’t see. Beaten like a dog. Your journal, which had once been filled with the most beautiful words, is now nothing more than a bundle of blank pages. Blank pages, blank pages with edges that have begun to yellow, blank pages devoid of any writing that would smudge if raindrops were to fall, blank pages in the hand, black cages in the head. Your eyes tear up. I recall the common figure of speech between tears and the rain.
You run. Your breathing grows labored. Mine also grows labored. You run, hugging all thirty-five journals to your chest. It is about a fifteen-minute walk to the school from where you are. You pass the security booth and the shops in front of the apartment complex, and another apartment complex and police station, and then a post office and another apartment complex, and then a park and library. Finally, you turn into the alley. You pass the stationery store, bookstore, snack shop, and arcade, and stand before the school gate. You take a minute to catch your breath. All is silent and still. The redness fades from your face. With a blank expression, you pass through the gate. You look down at the school field. Only a few children are there, kicking a ball or on the swings. The field has turned muddy after the recent showers. You remember where the open window is. But instead of climbing in through the window, you use the entrance on the right side of the building. In the entryway, you remove your shoes without thinking. But you don’t have indoor shoes to change into. You wear your running shoes into the school. In every classroom, class is in session. The voice of the teacher explaining Korea’s system of government and its division of powers into the legislative, judicial, and administrative branches rings out into the hallway. Hugging the journals to your chest, you climb the stairs. You remember your old classroom. No. You merely find it by instinct. Fifth- and sixth-grade students use the fourth floor. At the end of the hallway on the fourth floor, you hesitate. You hear the sound of the organ. Children begin to sing in chorus. There are eight classes in fifth grade and you must pass seven classrooms. Each of the shoe racks in the hallway is filled with shoes of different colors and styles. You approach the Grade 5, Section 3, classroom. You grow dizzy. Your classroom is located in the middle of the hallway on the fourth floor. You hesitate outside the back door. You stand on tiptoe and peek through the window. It’s English class. Your teacher is explaining long vowels and short vowels. Snow contains the long o sound. Snow takes a long time to melt after it falls to the ground. It’s pronounced with a long o. Before the teacher finishes speaking, you quietly open the back door and step into the classroom. Several children turn to look at you. Snow takes a long time to melt. It’s pronounced with a long o.
Your desk is empty. Your teacher gives you a look as though telling you to quickly take a seat. You place the thirty-five journals under your desk. A shoe bag is hanging from the side of your desk. Quietly, you remove your running shoes and put on your indoor shoes. Why are you so late? Yang Yeong-ae whispers to you. You’re afraid to answer. Did you get another nosebleed? she asks. You nod. Your teacher now moves on to cut/cute and tub/tube. Several children shake their heads, as though they can’t bear to sit through another explanation. When you put your hand in your desk, you can feel your English book and notebook. You take them out. Yang Yeong-ae lends you a pencil. You gaze around the classroom. You’re dizzy. There is no empty desk in the classroom. Thirty-five dark heads, including yours, are bent over their desks. And then you notice a green hair tie. It’s firmly holding together a long coil of hair. It’s Mia. Mia sits at her desk, wearing a large, loose sweater. Kim Inju whispers something to Mia. You remember Mia’s sweater. The one with the deer knitted on the chest, the one that was too large on Mia, the one Mia had gained after pleading with her mother, or perhaps o
ne of her two fathers. For a long time, you gaze at her green hair tie and her small shoulders that are covered in the sweater. When you turn your head, Kim Injung, who had been scribbling in his book, his elbow propped on his desk that’s set next to the teacher’s desk, sees you and waves wildly. The children snicker. Mia and Kim Inju also laugh. Mia’s shoulders shake. Her hair tie shakes, too. You’re dizzy. The scene collapses.
38
When I grow up, I’m going to buy a fountain pen, says Mia. Do you know you can kill someone with a fountain pen? It’s because of acceleration. It was in a detective story.
Inju opens her eyes wide and looks at Mia. But what’s a fountain pen? Inju asks. Mia’s gaze, which had been wandering around the classroom, meets yours. While looking at you, Mia says to Inju, It’s called a fountain pen, because there’s a fountain of ink inside. Inju visualizes a fountain flowing with ink. Her face turns red.
Mia gestures at you. English is over and the teacher has stepped out of the classroom for a moment. You nod at Mia. At the back of the classroom, the bigger boys are playing a coin toss game. The flicking of the coins cuts through the harsh voices. Mia gestures at you again. Are you okay? she asks. You look up at her. You don’t understand what she means. Mia brings her hand to her nose. Your nosebleed, she says, her lips becoming small and round and then stretching to the side. You nod. Mia’s face brightens.
But is it true? Inju asks Mia. From her desk, Mia takes out a book with a worn, tacky cover. From where you are, you can’t make out the title. As Mia taps the spine of the book, she recites a list of words: icicle, fountain pen, misfired bullet, slender racer snake, poison. Inju waves her hands. Mia bursts out laughing.
You already know that Mia has no desire to kill anyone, and in fact, she doesn’t even understand the words death or kill. As far as you know, she is lucky. Mia has two fathers, and they each make every effort to win her favor. Mia is only interested in detective novels, but in a year, perhaps even in six months, she may soon forget the cheap books boasting the flashy title Children’s Library. Because there are more things she doesn’t know than she does know, and more things are hidden than are exposed, Mia’s world is still safe. Mia is lucky, still. You recall Mia’s bright, sunny room, and you recall the mold growing in every crevice of the large window. The mold, hidden in shadow, is not easily seen. Mia, Mia’s mother, and Mia’s fathers aren’t yet aware of the speed at which the white-blue-and-black mold is infiltrating the room, the speed of the mold that may cause Mia to cough or feel a pain in her chest. Her bright, sunny room doesn’t allow anyone to foresee that there is mold blooming in a corner. You don’t foresee anything. You simply see. You recall the smooth, white porcelain doll that was sitting on a corner of the bookshelf. A porcelain doll with green eyes, a small, pointy nose, and a blond wig made not from artificial hair but real human hair. It was naked. Its cheeks were painted pink. Its face looked realistic, but its body was just a cold lump. Its chest showed no trace of development and it was without any reproductive organs. After she noticed you staring, Mia dressed the doll, as though she were embarrassed. My mom washed the clothes, but I forgot to put them back on, she said to you. That day. You didn’t ask for the doll’s name and neither did Mia tell you the doll’s name. The scene from that day plays in your mind. You look at Mia. Mia, who is whispering with Inju, notices and flashes you a sweet smile.
It looks as though Mia has grown a little. But her baggy sweater is still baggy. Mia will grow. She will shoot up in a year, or perhaps even in six months. Because children grow in the blink of an eye. There is a crash at the back of the classroom. You look back. A door has fallen off the supply closet. The bigger boys are stuffing Kim Injung’s head in the closet. Kim Injung shrieks. You look at the clock on the wall. There is a minute left of break time. The bell will ring in a minute and then the boys’ rough, violent hands will grow quiet and return to their sides. According to the schedule hanging at the front of the classroom, the next class is biology. After biology is lunchtime. You slip your hands into your desk. You pull out the biology textbook and notebook. Yang Yeong-ae pouts. I hate biology. You once wandered around your apartment complex and ended up quite far away. You lived close to the highway. Carelessly you climbed over the highway guardrail. Or crawled under it, you can’t remember. Cars raced past you at a frightful speed. You trembled. And then you saw two skinny snakes slithering through the narrow strip of grass beside the road. You don’t recall how you managed to get off the highway or what happened once you went home that day. A minute passes. The bell rings. The boys let Kim Injung go. Kim Injung, his face red, returns to his desk that sits next to the teacher’s desk. Coins jingle inside the boys’ pockets. The teacher enters the classroom.
You open your biology textbook. The textbook is like new. There are no notes or scribbles scrawled anywhere. All the children’s eyes are directed toward the teacher’s desk. Still red-faced, Kim Injung is panting. You lean back and feel the stack of journals under your desk with your foot. Park Yeongwu’s journal falls to the floor. The teacher begins to write on the chalkboard. You spread open Park Yeongwu’s journal on your desk. His journal is blank. There isn’t a single letter or eraser crumb. No mention of a chick, no mention of Kim Injung. You close the journal. The teacher is writing about the solar system and the earth’s rotation. You jot down the information about the earth’s orbit in your notebook. You use a pencil. Words written in pencil can always be erased. You feel as though you’re forgetting something. But you don’t know what.
It’s lunchtime. You put your hand in your desk, but there is no lunchbox. Yang Yeong-ae has gone over to Oh Sora’s desk. The children busily open and close the lids of their lunchboxes. Mia sees you sitting at your desk. She calls out to you. Kim Inju also gestures at you. You go to Mia’s desk. Did you forget your lunch? Mia asks. You nod. Mia hands you her fork. I can use a spoon. You can have some of mine. Even now, you still feel as though you’re forgetting something. Something. Whatever it may be. You take Mia’s fork. Mia’s fork. Mia’s spoon. Mia’s lunchbox. Mia’s water bottle. Mia’s knife. Mia’s throat. Mia pushes her lunchbox toward you. Green peas are embedded in the white rice. Mia picks out every single one. Holding Mia’s fork, you hesitate. You’re forgetting something. But you don’t know what. You’re confused. Although grains of rice travel down your throat, you’re simply chewing and swallowing mechanically. Mia tells Inju what happened on the television show that she watched the night before. Inju isn’t allowed to watch television after ten o’clock. Inju looks at Mia enviously. So why don’t you come over and we can watch together? Just say you’re sleeping over at my place, Mia says. You swallow grains of rice. Should I? Inju asks. Mia and Inju look at you at the same time. Do you want to come, too? Mia and Inju say at the same time. Rice gets stuck in your throat. Without thinking, you wrap your hands around your throat. Mia’s face crumples. It’s because you’re crying.
Can I bring my dog? Inju asks. Sure, says Mia. Inju has a dog. You know the dog’s name. His name is Busan. Inju’s family began to call him Busan after seeing how busily he ran around in circles. But you’ve never seen or heard any stories about Inju’s dog before. Nevertheless, you believe that you’ve seen Inju’s dog. You recall how Mia had patted him. You recall how Mia had tried on Inju’s dress. You recall how Mia had laughed so hard she could barely breathe. You recall how Inju’s grandmother had slapped Mia. You recall how Mia had cried, how her tears had dropped to the floor. But these are not your memories. Aren’t your parents going to be home? Inju asks Mia. Mia’s face darkens. No one will be home today, so you can bring Busan, Mia says. You’re coming over too, right? Mia asks you. Slowly, you nod. You recall Mia’s journal that is completely blank. Inside Mia’s journal, there is no sign of Mia’s writing or yours.
The last class of the day is over. The teacher gives the same hackneyed instructions. The children move restlessly. Mia and Inju put their flashy pencils in their cases. Mia’s legs fidget below her long sweater, and she clasps to
gether her hands, which peek out from her rolled-up sleeves. After school is dismissed, the children scatter in all four directions from the school gate toward the district 2-1, toward 3-12, toward Suite 303 of Building 109, toward Solar Arcade, toward the Cheongpa Institute, melting their shadows into the afternoon’s. In Mia’s class there are many Kims, Lees, Parks, Chois, Songs, Kangs, Shins, Hwangs, Chungs, and Yangs, but these children will soon have to rearrange themselves according to their biological classification: species, genus, family, order, class, phylum, and kingdom. The warm spring breeze turns cool in the afternoon. The teacher finishes his lecture and pulls out a stack of notebooks from under his desk. He places thirty-five journals on the desk. Shocked, you look under your own desk. The journals that were there have disappeared. You check many times, but nothing’s there. The floor twists and turns. You’re crying. The teacher returns the children’s journals. He says nothing about the contents. Mia and Kim Inju get theirs back as well. When Mia glances inside her journal, her face darkens. Mia and Kim Inju hurriedly put their journals in their bags. Timid and unsure, you go up to the teacher’s desk and are handed a journal with your name on the cover. Your heart is pounding. Violently. You look back. But no one is there. No. Someone is there. You return to your seat. Your legs are shaking. You barely manage to sit back down. The teacher calls up the last student. Thirty-five journals have been returned to thirty-five children. The children slip out of the classroom, some ahead and some behind. You gaze at your journal, which is sitting on your desk. Mia and Inju also get up from their desks. Mia shouts something at you. But you can’t hear what she’s saying. Kim Injung gets up from his seat. The teacher says something to him. But you can’t hear what the teacher is saying. The scraping of the desk legs on the wooden floor echoes harshly. Mia approaches you. You lower your head. She stops in front of you. You don’t look up. You know where I live, right? Mia whispers. You barely manage to nod. You clearly recall Mia’s address. Mia’s balcony, Mia’s kitchen, Mia’s table, Mia’s bathroom, Mia’s living room, Mia’s mother, Mia’s fathers, Mia’s elevator—all these things you recall too clearly. The things you’ve forgotten come to life again. You wipe the tears from your eyes, but Mia has already left your side. Just as she is about to step out of the classroom, she turns and waves at you. She beams. Although her words get buried in the bustle and you can’t hear what she’s saying, you figure it out. See you tonight. You don’t open your journal. You don’t change out of your indoor shoes into running shoes. You don’t put your textbook or notebooks in your desk. You don’t look back at the clock. Time is twisting. The classroom that had been quickly emptying begins to collapse. It collapses. It’s collapsing. The building heaves. Time turns. The floor twists inside out. You don’t feel dizzy. As though you had been expecting it, you simply sit in your seat and calmly watch how one world collapses. You don’t look back. If you look back, I will already have disappeared. It disappears. It collapses. It’s disappearing. It’s collapsing.
