From Wonso Pond

by Kang Kyong-ae

  He finally arrived at Pamsongi’s house in Kwanch’ol-dong, but he was told that his friend had just gone out. Clicking his tongue, he turned around and went back outside. When he made it to Chongno, he stood lost in thought. A bus heading toward Tongsomun zoomed right by him, sending a cloud of white dust into the air. He missed his home. More than anything else, he missed the way little Yongch’ol used to stick out his hand and say, ‘Gimme some caramels.’ And even more than Yongch’ol, he missed the tubu tchigae always set out for him on the dinner table, made with tofu and meat, simmered in red pepper paste and seasoned with garlic . . . It was this on his mind and nothing else as he slowly dragged his feet forward. By now he wasn’t just hungry, he was famished. Where the hell did Pamsongi go? Sinch’ol asked himself. He couldn’t come up with a single place where his friend might have gone. He’d already delivered the morning paper, and the evening edition wouldn’t be out until much later . . . So just where the devil could he have gone?

  Sinch’ol circled through Chongno and headed toward Hwanggŭmjong. There seemed to be no end to the streetcars that whizzed by from this direction and that. Countless numbers of taxis and buses raced by him as well. Sinch’ol had inhaled so much dust that his throat was burning, and it took all the strength in him just to walk over the asphalt. Gradually the heat of the midday sun bore down on him harder and harder. Sinch’ol was still wearing his winter fedora. He was afraid someone might see him, afraid that maybe his father or stepmother might come out for the day and run into him. He lowered the brim of his hat to shield his face and he walked with his eyes fixed to the ground.

  The shoes he’d once polished every day before school had now, for a lack of shoe cream, gone without a polish for who knew how long. They were covered in dust, and the leather at the very tips had peeled away in places. His feet seemed hotter and heavier now than back when his shoes had been properly cared for.

  “Hey, man! How many you sell today?”

  “Barely broke even today . . . How about you?”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Sinch’ol turned around. The two men were walking side by side, wooden A-frame packs strapped to their backs. Hey, maybe I should become an A-framer too, thought Sinch’ol. I could walk around selling anything I wanted. Maybe for now it would just be plain old Chinese cabbage, he thought, but then I could switch to anything . . . Yet it hardly seemed plausible that Sinch’ol might one day strap an A-frame on his back and pound the pavement like those two men. But why not? Why the hell not? Sinch’ol had the vague feeling that his own inability to do anything like lug around an A-frame on his back was hardly different from that stubborn way Ilp’o was perfectly willing to sit there and go hungry.

  I wish I could leave my work here to somebody else and get a full-time job somewhere off in the countryside, he thought. That way, it seemed, he could spend time working the land and learning about all sorts of things alongside the farmers. For all the world it seemed impossible for him to get a job like that here in Seoul. Too many people know my face here, and besides, my father and stepmother live here, and so many girls here know who I am, thought Sinch’ol. He could see the smirks on their faces now as he stared at the pavement.

  He looked around and saw he was at the Mitsukoshi Department Store. Why not go inside? he thought, taking several steps toward it. But he hesitated: What if someone who knows me is shopping there? This always came to Sinch’ol’s mind whenever he found himself in front of this building. And again, as he always did, he looked down at his shabby clothes.

  The only people heading in and out of Mitsukoshi were properly groomed ladies and gentlemen. He hadn’t yet seen a single person dressed as he was, in a shabby suit and felt hat. Everyone seemed to be wearing bright summer hats that gleamed in the sunlight. And everyone was dressed in cool summer clothes. But there was nowhere else where he could give his feet a needed rest. He could climb up to Namsan, but it was far too hot to head all the way up there. So for the time being, he thought, why don’t I just go inside here for a little rest.

  Sinch’ol took the elevator to the top floor of Mitsukoshi, sat in a chair and stared blankly into the fountain. The man and woman in the chairs beside him, who had ordered shaved ice with fruit, seemed to be enjoying themselves talking about something when they suddenly started laughing. To Sinch’ol it seemed as though they were laughing at his shabby appearance, so he glared in their direction for a while and finally turned his back to them. It took everything inside of him to keep from spinning back around and shouting, Oh, you people, you don’t even know the slightest thing about what it means to live a life of honor!

  79

  Sipping on their shaved ice and giggling, the young couple had so sickened Sinch’ol that he’d turned to face the opposite direction, but now he could feel the couple’s gaze aimed straight at his back and the nape of his neck. The sun, too, shone down on him unbearably. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. This was, of course, the last of the handkerchiefs he still had with him. He had brought four or five of them when he left home, but each of his friends had taken one for himself, and this threadbare hanky was the only one left over. The voice of the woman eating shaved ice next to him slowly started to sound similar to Okchom’s. Oh, was Okchom married yet? And did she still think of him? These questions were beating down onto him just like the fierce rays of the sun—yet he couldn’t help but smirk at the way he was being carried away by his feelings. For a while he was able to simply laugh them away, but then he started to miss the time he’d once spent with Okchom. In fact, he really did miss her! And what a happy time that summer had been for him! At this, Sinch’ol jumped out of his chair. Such thoughts were even more old-fashioned, more disgusting, than Ilp’o’s nose picking.

  The streetcars sped by from this direction and that, and Sinch’ol stood there, staring down on them as they passed by. His eyes were dazzled by the rows of buses and taxis endlessly following behind each other. And yet somehow the longer he stared down at all those streetcars and taxis and buses from up high like this, the more they seemed to move further and further away from him—he could somehow feel this in his very soul. No matter how much he thought about it, he hadn’t the faintest memory of riding in that streetcar bound for the Han River, except for when he’d ridden it with Okchom last summer. There was no mistaking the fact that he’d of course taken that streetcar many times, but these memories had become dim, and all that was still clearly engraved in his mind were the times he had done so with Okchom.

  Sinch’ol felt sick to his stomach. He knew that the girl eating shaved ice had caused him to entertain these unpleasant—indeed, positively sickening—thoughts. As he wandered on the rooftop, he pulled from his pocket the newspaper that Pamsongi had given him last night. He opened up the paper and turned straight to the political page. As he scanned the prominent headlines, the pangs of hunger in his stomach became unbearable, and he felt in the pounding of his head the beginning of a migraine.

  Then he noticed from the corner of his eye that the couple who’d been sitting next to him were going inside to the flower exhibition. He collapsed back into one of the chairs. Judging from when the noon siren had gone off, he guessed that it was somewhere around two-thirty or three o’clock. A continuous stream of people were coming and going on the rooftop. But he was so famished that he could hardly focus his eyes on them. His mouth was bone dry and his stomach was growling. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. If his mother had still been alive and he’d run away from home, thought Sinch’ol, she would surely have . . . No, she would never have even let him leave in the first place, never mind let him go hungry to the point where he could hardly move! He resented his father. And he needn’t even waste the energy to think of his stepmother. He even resented poor little Yongch’ol, who was hardly old enough to understand what had happened. At the same time, he knew full well that it was cowardly for him to think this way.

  If only he had five chon, he wouldn’t be so h
ungry . . . Five chon! Only five chon! He could see the nickel coin before his eyes now. It was slightly smaller than the ten-chon coin, and thinner. He was going hungry because he didn’t have one of these simple five-chon coins! With this thought on his mind, he quickly took a look behind him. If he was lucky, the couple might have left behind a five-chon coin after paying for their shaved ice. He peered over to their table, but he couldn’t see anything there.

  The young couple came out of the exposition hall, having bought a parrot.

  “Konnichi wa. Hello there,” said the girl, staring into the cage.

  Both of them laughed. How many five-chon coins had they spent on that thing, Sinch’ol wondered, counting in his head all the coins they must have handed over to buy it. As he glanced at the two of them, it struck Sinch’ol that had he only married Okchom, he too would probably be shopping right now, buying things just like that parrot.

  I wonder if Pamsongi is back yet, thought Sinch’ol, once the two had disappeared. I better go and find out. He could be out delivering the evening edition soon, he thought, quickly standing up to go. But the view was dizzying, and he felt like he was being spun around and around. He grabbed a chair to get his bearings, and for a moment just stood staring ahead. The thought entered his mind that he wouldn’t hesitate, for even an instant, if someone came up and offered him five chon to jump. Perhaps it was precisely because he thought about it in these terms that he now saw the distance shorten, little by little, between the rooftop up here and the ground down there.

  80

  Sinch’ol took the elevator to the basement floor. As he got out of the elevator, he saw a woman he knew coming straight toward him and panicked. He dodged her by heading toward the restaurant. Pretending to look over the food in the display case, he waited anxiously for the woman to go upstairs, but she seemed to be intent on finding something, and he could see she was still walking around the store. Glistening on the other side of the glass in the display case were neatly arranged samples, curried rice, egg donburi, sushi, just waiting there to dry out uneaten. His hunger was so intense that he couldn’t bear looking at them any longer—he turned around without thinking.

  “Sinch’ol? Is that you?”

  The woman walked right up to him. Sinch’ol removed his hat and clutched it with both hands behind his back. Then he pressed up against the display case so that she wouldn’t see his tattered shoes.

  “Oh, it’s so nice to see you again,” he answered.

  “Now, tell me, why haven’t you come over to visit?”

  “ Well . . . I . . . I’ve been ever so busy.”

  The fact that he was standing in front of a restaurant made him feel all the more humiliated. If only this woman would just get the hell out of here! he thought to himself, but it seemed as though she had no intention of budging.

  “Well, I really must be going now,” he said, slowly taking a few steps backward. The woman gave him the once-over, as though something about him wasn’t quite right.

  “Okay, well, good-bye then. And do stop by sometime.”

  “Yes . . . yes, I will.”

  Sinch’ol made his way through the Mitsukoshi doors as though he had been running for his life. As he let out a deep sigh of relief, he could feel the beads of sweat slowly dripping down his back. He was so itchy that it felt like he was being eaten alive by lice. But he was far too conscious of the people passing by him to do anything like give himself a good scratch. As he walked, the sweat kept pouring down him.

  He made his way into Pon-jong. From both his left and right sides came a cacophony of sounds filling the streets—records blasting from storefronts, Japanese wooden clogs clanking against the asphalt, the hustle and bustle of people buying and selling in the shops. And the flood of people, swimming through the middle of it all like fish in water! All of them with chins held high and arms and legs swinging with such vigor.

  Sinch’ol’s shoulders were slouched over even further now, and his back was itching like crazy. Just then he caught the powerful scent of pomade in the air, and he noticed a young Japanese man walking toward him. He was dressed for the season in a cool yukata, and his hair was glistening with perfumed oil. His face was glowing as though he’d just come out of the bath. This suddenly made Sinch’ol conscious of an odor emanating from his own body. He felt as though he was dragging along on feet made of lead.

  He passed through Yongnak-chong and crossed through Hwanggŭmjong to the Sup’yo Bridge. As soon as he made it there, he stuck his hand underneath his shirt and then reached behind to scratch himself as he collected his thoughts. Well, he’s probably gone back to the newspaper office by now, he thought. Maybe he’ll be coming out soon to deliver the evening edition. Sinch’ol made his way quickly through Chinatown and finally came to Chongno. He was surprised by how empty it was. Though the streetcars were still speeding back and forth, there were hardly any people riding inside them; it all seemed so desolate. He went to Pamsongi’s house, but no one was home, so he headed over to where his friend delivered papers. Soon he heard the sound of someone ringing a bell in the distance, and there was Pamsongi, coming straight toward him. Pamsongi’s eyes lit up in surprise at the sight of Sinch’ol, but he gestured for him to come his way.

  Sinch’ol followed him into an alleyway. Pamsongi took a quick look in each direction and spoke to him in a whisper.

  “It’s been decided that you’re going to Inch’on. Now make sure you get on a train tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  “Inch’on? Fantastic! That means that I . . .”

  Sinch’ol wiped the sweat off his brow. Then he smiled almost sadly. Pamsongi took out three one-won bills from his wallet and handed them over to Sinch’ol.

  “Use this for the train fare and for whatever other expenses you might have. When you get to Inch’on, you’ll probably have to go straight to the day-labor market . . . Let me give you this address in Inch’on.”

  Pamsongi took out a scrap of paper and a pencil and wrote something down. After looking at it for a while, Sinch’ol nodded his head. His friend put the scrap of paper in his mouth and chewed on it, looking carefully down the alleyway.

  “Okay, well . . . take care . . .”

  Pamsongi hurried off with a bounce in his stride. Perhaps because he was now clutching three won in his hand, Sinch’ol too felt somewhat lighter on his feet than before. As he came out of the alleyway, he made up his mind to stop somewhere for a bowl of udon. He remembered what Pamsongi had written down on the scrap of paper: Mr. Kim Ch’olsu, No. 3 Oeri, Inch’on. Sinch’ol repeated this once again to insure he wouldn’t forget it.

  81

  Sinch’ol ate two five-chon bowls of udon in front of the Umigwan movie theater, and only then did he come back to life. He bought a small packet of rice and a few loaves of bread and made his way home. Lying on the floor with towels tied around their heads, Ilp’o and Kiho quickly sat up when they saw Sinch’ol come in. They each snatched a loaf of bread and started hungrily biting off large pieces.

  “What happened? You bought bread, you got rice. Did you strike it rich today, or what?”

  Only after finishing his loaf of bread could Kiho bring himself to ask the question.

  They both noticed that Sinch’ol had walked in with a full stomach, and they were trying to figure out if he still had money left in his pocket.

  “Give me a five-chon coin,” said Ilp’o. “I’ve got to get a swig of makkolli. I don’t see how anyone can live like this.”

  The rims of his eyes were red, and the hand he stuck out toward Sinch’ol was like that of an opium addict, bleached of all color.

  “Oh, hell! We don’t even have firewood and you want to waste our money on booze. Give me some money for firewood, Sinch’ol. I’ll go get some wood so we can cook our rice.”

  Both of these guys had a hand thrust out toward him. For the alcohol, Sinch’ol doled out ten chon, and for the firewood, thirty. He slipped off his jacket and flung it across the room. Then he took o
ff his fedora and threw it to the floor.

  Ilp’o and Kiho found the strength to go outside, while Sinch’ol peeled off his sweat-soaked underwear and hung it out to dry. He was determined never to let himself sink into such despair again. Hadn’t he known how everything would turn out in the end when his father kicked him out of the house? Hadn’t he known well before that? How vulgar it had been of him to indulge in such nostalgia about the past, just because he’d gone through a bit of hardship!

  He was determined to rid himself of this vulgarity once he got to Inch’on by becoming a strong, true friend of the workers. Should he go down tonight by train? he wondered. Then he repeated the address to himself as he went back inside: Ch’olsu! No. 3 Oeri. He saw that Kiho seemed to have bought some firewood as well as a few vegetables for side dishes.

  “Hey, we almost died waiting for you today, you know . . . And I’ve had just about all I can take of Ilp’o. He actually sat there all day long picking at his toes!”

  Kiho laughed as he imitated Ilp’o’s toe picking. Sinch’ol smiled, too. Then he wondered what these friends of his were going to do once he left for Inch’on. They’d be far better off by going back to the countryside, he thought, to give their wives some help on the farm. The more he tried to analyze their minds, the more amusing, even absurd, it seemed for them to want to stay here in this corner of Seoul, despite all their suffering.

  Their only desire was to latch onto some sort of capitalist and start up a newspaper or journal with his financial assistance. In any case, they wanted to become leaders of the people and at least make their names well-known on the front lines of the movement. For them, it seemed, the only possible way to do this was to come to the center of it all and take charge of a publication. When they were hungry, as they were today, they didn’t have a single word to say on the subject. But put a bit of food in their bellies and they quickly launched into a critique of what this newspaper or that journal was writing. Listening to them rattle on for a while was enough for anyone to think them first-rate polemicists.