On Such a Full Sea: A Novel

by Lee, Chang-rae

  But in fact, we suspect she did not miss them, or us. We were still in view but as heatless as any patch of distant stars. For the enigma of her longing, it might be said, was of no longing, not one born of selfishness or egoism, some belief that she was scaled (and now colored) larger or brighter than the rest, but that after two and a half months away, having trailed down those unmarked and twisted roads, and been subjected to the warped designs (and hopes) of sundry citizenries, when it must have seemed each time that all was lost again, the tethers were now released, the moorings finally dismantled, and she was floated out, alone. Which was strangely fine.

  It was odd for Fan to shop again on the main thoroughfare of the village. For one, it was much more pleasant now. Of course, she was with Vik instead of Miss Cathy, and rather than being the focus of the shopkeepers’ overbearing attentions, she was simply tagging along, observing Vik navigate the various stores on his mental list and peruse their offerings with a seriousness and sense of purpose that made their errand feel vitally important. It did not matter that he was just buying a housewarming present, which in B-Mor would have been something like a boxed set of five unblemished persimmons, or a tin of sencha, somewhat dear items that were of unquestionable value and practicality and, with any luck, might be shared with the giver (it never being poor form in B-Mor to swing soon back around).

  Vik, on the other hand, was searching for the singular gift, something they might use often or not at all but that would complement the distinctive needs or lifestyle of the receiver, which included the very fact that he or she might possess such a thing. So they went in and out of food shops and gadget shops and home furnishings shops, too. Then shops for drinks, and bathwares, and kitchen supplies and equipment, these last of which there seemed to be the most of, seemingly every fourth store lined with unending inventories of luxury glassware, pans, ladles, and spatulas, such that Fan had to think that every dish that Charters made (or was made for them) had to be served or prepared with a dedicated series of implements, vessels. And by extension, that every movement or act of Charter life, however trivial, required specialty objects and mechanisms for the best chance at an ideal outcome.

  Take, for example, items Vik briefly considered, a device for spearing and pulling out accidentally pushed-in wine corks, or a pillow that inflated/deflated and heated/cooled via customizable programs. For nearly two hours they went up and down Seneca Avenue, not pausing to eat or drink, until he finally found the thing he thought they would like, in a former pet store, of all places, which now sold all kinds of stuffed animals, both plush and realistic, as well as accessories for them, such as clothing and toys and “food.” He picked it out while Fan was in the toilet, and when she returned, they had already boxed and gift-wrapped the present, which was very large and heavy enough that the proprietor said he would deliver it directly to the housewarming party tomorrow afternoon. Fan asked Vik what it was and he was going to tell her but then thought it should be a surprise for everyone.

  It was a rare off-weekend for Vik and besides the morning’s gift shopping and the next day’s party he was completely free, which Fan assumed would mean he’d be off someplace or out to restaurant meals. Although he messaged his girlfriend dozens of times, and browsed various pictures of her, some, she noticed, quite racy, and did actually speak to her once (Nothing really, how about you?), he didn’t make any plans with her or seem bothered or disappointed by that. He was content to remain in and around the condo. He did bring Fan along to the extensive fitness center in the condo development that was skylit by huge panes of glass, like the nicest production facility one could imagine. The gleaming, spotless hardwood floors were set with all sorts of first-class cardio and weight machines, and in the back were lots of VACs, virtual activity chambers for exotic sports such as skeet shooting and snowmobiling, though most all of the residents Fan saw there just jogged on the treadmills while they watched their programs, or else swam slo-mo laps in the twenty-five-meter pool. They looked fit enough and not one of them could be termed fat, but it seemed to Fan they were maintaining themselves in a stressful way, such as not quite eating enough, their dogged faces a bit too drawn, even slightly desiccated.

  Vik was lean but strong. He was a swimmer, too, but of a very different order: he had emerged from the locker room sheathed in a full-body racing suit, loosening and stretching on the deck for a long time before donning a cap and warming up with a few smooth laps. When he was ready, he had a fitness center employee sound a horn for timed fifty- and one-hundred-meter sprints, three times each; later he told Fan how he had been an Association champion when he was younger, being unusually long limbed. He could have continued the intensive training to try to make the Charter Globals but had decided to pursue medicine instead; one had to medal (and win gold) to parlay all those hours in the pool into a substantial windfall or successful business career, otherwise the most one could expect for all that effort was becoming an elite-level coach or athletic administrator. And although he had been one, he never much enjoyed the company of jocks. He was heavy-footed and lanky as he walked on the deck, but in the water he motored himself forward with a remarkable ease and gracefulness, particularly given how fast he cut through it. When he had glanced at his watch timer, he seemed satisfied, and reminded Fan while catching his breath that she was welcomed to swim, if she liked. She did like, for the water looked so perfect and clear, just like it did when the tanks were newly filled for the generation of new fry, this pristine little ocean, but she had to decline. The modest swelling in her lower belly could still be overlooked, or mistaken for incipient plumpness, but she couldn’t take the chance, especially in the presence of a Charter doctor, even one she thought she could trust.

  After Vik completed his warm-down laps, and showered and changed, they spent an impromptu half hour trailblazing an Alpine glade on snowboards in one of the VACs, which Fan mentioned having once seen on an evening program. Neither of them was any good at it, Vik crashing into at least a dozen trees, Fan able to crouch down low and shoot under the snow-laden pine branches but twice flying over an outcropping and tumbling head over heels down a steep slope. When she looked back up the second time, Vik was waving her out. He wasn’t in a rush and they even stopped to have smoothies at the fitness juice bar but once at his place he changed into a pressed shirt, slacks, and pointy leather shoes, and said he had to go out; he added she would have to be by herself the rest of the afternoon. Fan, of course, had been alone in the condo for many straight hours while he was at the medical center, not even considering venturing out, but the funny shift in his manner gave her pause. Had he found out something about her? Discovered why she’d left B-Mor? Again he hadn’t been the least interested in such things, but as he left her in the apartment, he offered to order her a delivery of sushi or a burrito if it turned out he would be late. She said the leftovers in the fridge were fine. He said sure, if that suited her, shutting the door, and Fan couldn’t help but think that the next time it opened, a squad of Charter security would rush in and take her away, though perhaps that would be her best true chance of getting closer to Reg.

  She went to the window and watched Vik angle himself into his two-seater and drive off. All in all it seemed Vik simply liked her company, even if she was mostly silent (or maybe because she was). She had the sense that he admired the way she was, not discretely so much as a new element in his life, her pale skin and inky black hair complementing the uncluttered and calm spaces of his private life. Still, when she tried the door, it surprised her that it opened freely. She was glad for it but was conflicted. Shouldn’t she go right now anyway? Certainly it was getting to be time, and the longer she stayed the more potential trouble it would be for Vik. She could walk out to the road ringing the development and catch one of the guest and resident worker buses that routed through this part of town and then went out of the village. From there, Mala had once told her, the buses went to a central depot thirty minutes away, which was the closest hu
b with numerous route spokes, though most of those went south and west. Mala’s home was on a spoke after the second hub, near a major facility out there known as Y’s-Town, or Wise-Town. Beyond those were other hubs, each with spokes, and so on, repeating all the way across the land. It was awfully slow but you could mostly get there, wherever there was. Of course, this was only if you had to go by bus.

  Fan had spoken to Mala yesterday, reaching her at Miss Cathy’s while Vik was at work, to see how the Girls were doing with Four and Five still not at home. Mala said they were fine, though clearly anxious about not having to live upstairs anymore. They and Miss Cathy had decided they would spread out into the rest of the house, using their former room however they might like, or not all, as now Miss Cathy was saying she wanted the house filled, all the time, and forever. She’d even moved herself downstairs to live with Mister Leo, Tico moving their beds into the former study. There’s a full bathroom in there, Mala said, so it works.

  Fan could not believe the Girls could live in separate rooms.

  They’re not yet, Mala said. They were excited at first. They came downstairs to try it but the younger ones were scared by all the rooms and hallways. The sunlight was too bright for the older ones. So they all went right back up. Plus, they didn’t like being near Mister Leo, even with how he is. But they’ll try it again soon. And you know what else?

  Fan asked what.

  I told Miss Cathy I needed my own family. To live with them. And she agreed! Now they’re coming next week, my husband and children. They’re going to live here in the villa, maybe upstairs if the Girls are able to move out. If they do well enough, my kids will be full Charters. Not me and Francisco, it’s too late for us, but that’s okay. We don’t have to be Charters. We can take care of them.

  Yes, said Fan. They need your care.

  Mala asked where Fan was going next and, of course, Fan couldn’t answer.

  Well, you will make it the right place, she said. Some people are like that. You are one of those, I think. It does not matter who is there or what is there. You will make it right, and not just for yourself. And you know, now there’s going to be an empty house far out in the counties! Both of them laughed, though Mala mentioned the name of the settlement, if no more than that because out there were very few, if any, named streets.

  You will know it when you see it, she added. It is the nicest house.

  Fan said it sounded very nice, after which there was nothing much else to say and so they bid each other good-bye, something we B-Mors do not customarily do (unless, frankly, someone is about to die), for the obvious reason of our living in a cloistered, intimate society, but perhaps, too, because to do so is to acknowledge that almost no one ever leaves.

  Fan had gathered her few things and was looking in a cabinet for some dried and canned food to take along when the apartment door opened. It was Vik. It looked like he’d forgotten something, a certain crimp to his expression, no more than a quarter hour having passed since he’d left, but he walked in and just stood at the kitchen bar counter in his impressive, stiff-looking clothes. He noticed the open cupboard and asked if she was hungry, a question, she realized, that didn’t occur to her anymore, as it seemed of late that she was always willing to eat, even immediately after she’d eaten. But he didn’t wait for an answer and suggested they take a ride and get a snack.

  Where? she said, being wary as she should be, but also thinking that she should tell him she would soon depart.

  A fun weekend place, he said. Let’s go.

  It was a short drive, but out past one of the village gates. After heading about five kilometers on the secured, fenced tollway, Vik took an exit ramp and got onto a free road. He drove faster now, despite the poor condition of the road surface, for technically they were in the counties and should not dawdle. The coupe was powerful and nimble, and had a tracker that could steer him through the most damaging bumps and potholes but he wasn’t using it. He seemed to know the road, disregarding the all but faded center line as he swerved back and forth, racing in the clearer stretches and then braking hard at the rashes of ruts. Fan had begun to feel sick when he finally slowed and turned into a former rest area, paying what seemed to Fan a great deal of money as an entrance fee. Armed men gestured with their weapons as to where they should park. Vik didn’t seem in the least concerned. There were at least twenty other vehicles, most all Charter-level, though there was room for twice as many. Once they parked, they walked up a path through a brief stand of scrub. The path opened onto a grassy field dotted with two concentric circles of tents, or what looked like tents, but which were, in fact, semipermanent structures made of steel poling and covered with plastic tarps, blue and brown and orange, wisps of steam and smoke filtering out from the flaps. And then Fan could smell it: the cooking.

  It was the weekly Saturday market, Vik told her, unofficially known as Seneca Circus. Of course, there was no actual circus of animals and acrobats, just these many tents set in the round, where one could buy food and trinkets from late morning to well past dusk, when they turned on the floodlights. It was midafternoon now, so the trade was a bit slower, but there were still all kinds of Charters and a few better-to-do counties people milling about after their meals, mostly younger couples and families, poking into the merchandise tents, where counties people sold handmade crafts of a typically high level, nothing like the junk the counties peddlers would hawk back in B-Mor, items such as paper fans and placemats mass-produced in a rustic style, which soon proved cheap and flimsy. Here, however, there were finely turned wooden bowls and handblown wineglasses, and custom jewelry, not all of it equally attractive but clearly produced painstakingly, and with pride. Of course, most Charters would not deign to leave the comfort and safety of the village for such peculiar stuff, the notion of handmade to them suggesting a thing slightly fouled, probably dirty, and in comparison with the time-honed, market-engineered perfection of their beloved brands, as special as the doodlings of an idiot. Vik was evidently not that kind of Charter, at least as far as this place was concerned, Fan recognizing the style and shape of a vase like one back at his apartment, as well as a set of inlaid cutting boards. There were wall hangings and wind chimes and soapstone sculptures for the garden; handwoven slippers and embroidered belts and vests; all kinds of old-fashioned table games for children, often involving the guiding of a small steel ball; and every variety of handcrafted natural lotions and soap, which one would assume no Charter would ever buy but did by the kilo, if more for ornamental rather than actual use.

  As much as there was to purchase and take home, the primary draw was the food, especially for Vik. Each food tent was pretty much the same, the space approximately a four-by-five-meter rectangle with a cooking station centered against one long side and a counter and seats running along on the other three, the backs of the patrons sometimes brushed by a flap of the tarp. Again here was something one would never expect Charters (or even us B-Mors) to tolerate, food made and served practically outside, without the usual hygienic safeguards and standards. But this is precisely what drew this venturing lot, the chance to eat dishes prepared by an authentically ordinary person, one standing directly before you, dressed in unremarkable clothing, whose bare hands touched everything, from the raw ingredients to the plate. Whom you could speak to if you pleased. For a certain person, this was thrilling dining, an experience further heightened by the fact that the food itself was old-fashioned and indifferent to the Charter prerequisite of having to be healthful; you could get Belgian street frites, or a Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki, or a gravy-sopped plate of chicken and dumplings. They went to Vik’s favorite, the Chinese-Korean tent, where he ordered them bowls of chive jajang noodles and a small platter of braised sea cucumber, which Fan could not stop eating. Vik asked the proprietor where she had sourced the sea cucumber, as it was especially firm and sweet.

  Where you think, the busy woman murmured, and not in the most friendly way. She was thi
ck of waist, with a sturdy neck, and had prominent uplifted dark eyebrows that made one feel that she was already dubious. Ocean.

  Pacific or Atlantic?

  Which you want?

  I don’t have a preference.

  Okay. All of them.

  Vik grinned, and the proprietor appeared to grin for a millisecond, too, before she went back to dipping strips of beef in batter and then into a pot of fry oil for the two men around the corner. The other four stools were unoccupied.

  You like hae-sam, huh?

  Fan nodded, assuming she was referring to the sea cucumber. She had just taken the last bite of it.

  I like her, she said to Vik. Good appetite.

  Vik smiled and asked Fan if she wanted to try the deep-fried beef with sweet-and-sour sauce. It’s excellent here. Fan said she did but that she was too full.

  Better than other one, the proprietor said, which Fan took to mean the beef. But Vik didn’t respond, instead absently rooting with his chopsticks at the remaining noodles in his bowl. The woman made a deal of wiping her fingers of the batter before stepping over to the pair of men to refill their beer glasses, lingering to banter with them.

  Vik took a sip of his tea. Fan now pictured what might have happened; he had left the apartment to pick up his girlfriend, who must have been back in town, and maybe come right here, but something had clearly gone wrong, a sharp disagreement or even a fight. That he had hidden his chagrin this well was something she found both sad and endearing. He was not at all like Reg, who if anything was too quick to express himself, leaping up with exuberance when a performance review went well or tugging at his hair in frustration when he couldn’t get the scooter started, though the acting out seemed to temper him, too, serve to settle him back more easily into his naturally clement rhythms. Vik, on the other hand, appeared in constant control, and when he shouldn’t be, such as right now, he invisibly exerted himself even more to master the chaos.