The Old Garden

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  “You should go to the countryside and relax.”

  “The country?”

  I had nothing, I owned nothing in this world, other than those random, humble things that I had made in my prison cell.

  “I guess you didn’t hear about Professor Han in there.”

  At first, I did not know who she was talking about.

  “Professor Han . . . who are you talking about?”

  “Han Yoon Hee. You’ve forgotten?”

  My heart stopped for a second as if it was frozen, and my arms and legs loosened up, as if my body were slowly submerging into warm water. I did not forget. I was afraid. I was afraid of hearing something bad. Where was she now, what was she doing? Her last letter had been confiscated eleven years ago.

  “I haven’t heard from her since I was moved to Choong Chung.”

  My sister seemed to hesitate for a moment, she was examining my face. She asked softly, “Did you . . . love her?”

  I did not answer. I kept walking, with my head down, my feet rummaging through dry brown zelkova tree leaves. When I spoke again, it was not in answer to her question but a mumbled soliloquy.

  “I still have her letters.”

  “She wrote to you?”

  “A long time ago. Maybe three years ago.”

  We were standing side by side on top of the hill overlooking the hospital.

  “You’ll be discharged tomorrow?

  “Yes, after some test results come back in the morning.”

  “Your brother-in-law will come and get you. Go, go back in there.”

  I went back to the hospital, changed into hospital pajamas, took my pills, and lay down in bed. I felt like smoking. I wanted to lock the door and smoke at least a couple of cigarettes back to back. I turned toward the wall.

  From the bus, I can see the town below and far away. A church steeple, gray Japanese-style two-story buildings, old gabled roofs and newer slate roofs, all the way down the steep road. Darkness is falling. The main road leading to the town has yet to be paved. It is at the southern tip of the peninsular, not far from the ocean. Although it is the middle of winter, the wind is warm and green bamboo trees and camellia plants are everywhere. When the bus finally reaches the main station in town, the central avenue is illuminated with fluorescent lights and bare lightbulbs in every store along the way. I take a crumpled envelope from my coat pocket and make out the scribbled letters under a store light. I ask a man standing by the bus station. He gives me directions. “Walk along the central avenue until you see the junction in front of a pharmacy. Take a right. You’ll see the police station and the local office of the department of education facing each other. Go up the road toward the girls’ high school. That’s the entrance to Soosung village.” Around there I see the town mill. In front of the mill, I ask someone else for directions, this time reading the address out loud. Across the street on an empty field, children are celebrating the First Full Moon. They make a hole in an empty steel can, attach a string to it, fill it up with dried debris, light it, and spin it around. Sparks dance in circles in the air. There is a long, narrow pathway lined with low stone walls. The warm voices of happy people, chatting and laughing softly together and snacking on walnuts and chestnuts, escape into the street. Soon the full moon rises, clearly showing the low stone walls and the narrow pathway. As I was instructed, I stop in front of a pair of tall persimmon trees. They seem to sprout from the long stone walls. Instead of a gate, there are wooden pillars standing in front of a courtyard, and behind that a house with a gabled roof and a barking dog tied in front.

  “Who is it?”

  The house is southern-style, long and rectangular. A woman appears from the kitchen on the right side.

  “The school teacher? She went out and hasn’t come back.”

  I write down the house phone number.

  “And whom shall I say came to see her?”

  “Her brother’s friend.”

  I walk out the way I went in. I eat a bowl of rice and broth for dinner and walk into the Hometown Café that I noticed before across the street from a pharmacy. I order coffee. I allow myself to be persuaded by a flirtatious waitress to order a cup of herbal tea, which costs a lot more than coffee. I waste at least two hours before I call the house. I give the phone number to the operator and wait. The person who answers the phone hollers her name several times. Finally I hear her voice. As always, she sounds calm and restrained. Based on her voice alone, I guess she is older.

  “Mr. Yoon told me about you. I’ll be there soon.”

  When she arrives, it looks like she didn’t have time to change her clothes. Her trench coat is unbuttoned, and underneath she is wearing light brown knits. She finds me right away since I sit facing the door, and walks straight over to me.

  “Are you the one who phoned?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m Han Yoon Hee.”

  I pause for a second, then manage to utter some words while I swallow.

  “I’m . . . Kim . . . Jun Woo.”

  A faint smile appears at the corner of her mouth.

  “Of course that’s not your real name. Let’s get out of here.”

  Yoon Hee gets up, pays my bill without asking, and walks out the door. Afraid to lose her, I hurry and run down the stairs. She is already walking toward the pharmacy, each step deliberate. As I approach her, she walks faster. Near the marketplace full of pubs and cheap restaurants, she finally glances back to make sure I’m following her, then walks into one. When I reach her, Yoon Hee is sitting in a corner and looking at me. It is the most inconspicuous spot. I want to appear relaxed, so I smile.

  “I’ve never seen a woman walk so fast!”

  Yoon Hee answers in a low voice.

  “Do you have any idea what kind of place that is, the Hometown Café? It is right in front of the police station. Half of their clientele are police. The waitresses blabber about whatever they see and hear.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “How long have you been underground?”

  “Since last fall.”

  “It’s about time you got tired of it.”

  “To be honest, yes.”

  “Did you eat dinner?”

  “The first rule of a runaway is do not skip a meal.”

  “Then let’s just order a bottle of soju and we can go.”

  “To where?”

  “Where you’re going to sleep tonight. You don’t have anywhere else to go, do you?”

  We drink in silence. Raw oysters are served with soju, and some broth, too. I still remember the old wooden table at that watering hole, its surface worn and marked. She walks and walks until we have left the town center and reached a solitary road. We stand and wait.

  “There’s a village near the temple, and there are many inns. Check into the Camellia Inn. I’ll come see you tomorrow afternoon, so you should be in your room by then. It’s the weekend, so there’re going to be a lot of tourists. I’ll call you when I’m nearby, and you come straight to see me. By the way, do you have money?”

  She takes some money from her pocket and places it on a table. My fingers sneak up to the thin papers and enfold them, as if I won them in a bet. I catch the last bus, which is completely empty. Yoon Hee is still standing there, radiant under the full moon, now in the middle of a dark sky.

  2

  After I was discharged from the hospital, I went back to my sister’s high-rise apartment building. I hated the place. When every family member went into their own room and closed the door, it was just like a prison, everyone perfectly locked down. There was no trace of the old village left in that neighborhood. All I could see were the interiors of cars, paved roads, and sidewalks overlaid with colorful blocks in various shapes.

  One day I remembered a comrade who had finished his sentence seven or eight years ago. I asked around and found his phone number. When I called, at first he could not say a word. I patiently waited for him to calm down.

  “Everyone has already hear
d that you are back. I called Seoul and everywhere else, but they kept saying we should leave you alone, let you rest a bit. We have a place for you here, too, we were just waiting for you to contact us.”

  “So how’s everyone?”

  “Good. Well-fed, a roof overhead . . . the world has changed so much.”

  He mumbled, somewhat like an old man. He was in his mid-forties. All my friends would be almost fifty or older. A generation was gone.

  Kwangju. The word did not thump my heart any more. Before, whenever I envisioned that city’s name, my whole body became enflamed as if there was a ring of fire around that word. Now it sounded like a famous tourist attraction. How many years had passed by? I began counting by nodding. One, two . . . seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. Would I recognize anyone? In my mind they were still babyfaced and gawky and so young. The dead are forever young.

  I decided to take a trip and first unpacked my bags from the prison, spreading the contents all over the room. There was shabby underwear, a couple of winter sweaters, thick woolen socks, a muffler and knitted mittens, a few books, an unfinished tube of toothpaste and a new toothbrush with its bristle still stiff, a hand exerciser, and a golden turtle made by nonviolent criminals. The hand exerciser, along with the Buddhist prayer beads, were made by those who worked at the wood shop during their spare moments. A Chinese juniper stick was carved into an oval shape, then cut wooden pins were densely wedged in. On chilly mornings when my hands were frozen, they said, I should put it in one hand and roll it around inside my palm. It would be like getting an acupuncture, which would prevent frostbite and help blood circulation. I put the well-worn thing in my hand, then opened and closed it. The golden turtle was a large piece of laundry soap skillfully carved and painted glistening gold. It had a place of honor on top of the shelf next to the toilet, for good fortune. As soon as I had come outside, these things turned into shabby and pathetic junk.

  “Why don’t you throw it away, all of it.”

  My sister was looking in from behind.

  “I will . . . later.”

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Yeah, I want to see some old friends.”

  “Yes, I think it’ll be good for you to change your environment. We’ll look for a place for you while you’re gone.”

  “My own place?”

  “You know, you have to start preparing for a real life, get married, all that. Mother made me promise again and again before she passed away. There’s something she left for you, too.”

  “Do you happen to know . . . Professor Han’s address?”

  “I told you, didn’t I? I have her letters. I guess it’ll be okay . . .”

  She came closer and sat down.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you until later, but . . . she’s dead.”

  I took a deep breath, broken in two, then slowly exhaled.

  “At first, I just put them away, but we didn’t know when you’d be out, so I opened and read them.”

  My head down, I just stared at the floor. My sister silently left the room then, a little later, opened the door and passed me a handful of letters.

  “I’m not sure this is the right thing to do. I thought I’d give them to you much later.”

  The door was closed. There was the familiar circular handwriting of Yoon Hee. The envelopes, bearing the address of a small city college where she once worked, had become discolored and yellow during the last few years. The letters were sent to my sister’s university. There were three of them. One was dated November 1995, the next February 1996, and the last simply Summer 1996.

  Dear Hyun Woo,

  It has been so long since I wrote your name down. I feel like I’m addressing someone who is no longer in this world.

  It breaks my heart.

  Yes, it’s been fifteen years since you left Kalmae. Did you receive the letter I sent to the prison on the year of the Olympics?

  I’ll tell you later, but that was a very difficult time for me. After that, I left the country for five years. Thanks to you, I painted a lot. I quit after two solo exhibitions, and now I don’t want to paint any more. I guess I’m sick of this greedy world so full of cultural products. Meanwhile, you’re hanging in there in the middle of it all like an icicle hanging from the slate roof of a shed, precarious but pure.

  This letter is written by me, not your wife, not your child. I am no one to you. Perhaps it’ll never reach you in prison. I wonder when you will be able to read my letters. So I thought of Professor Oh. At least, I knew the address of her university. Your comrades once told me your sentence would be reduced one day, but I can no longer welcome any change at this point. I’m not saying I don’t want you to be released. The world has changed, and people are beginning to see errors, too late. And it’s so lopsided. Then from the other side, those who caused many of those errors are now saying, ‘see, we were right!’ Ah, my precious one, what are you thinking now?

  I’m not well. I know it’s nothing serious, but I’m going to the doctor today. I want to quote what you used to quote often. “Even during the tempest, time passes.” It’s quite windy today. The glass windows are rattling. I would like to believe that even the tiny window of yours might let in many days of wind and rain and sunlight, nights of starlight and moonlight, the sound of birds and maybe even of people living in the distance.

  I dream about you once in a while. But you know what’s strange? You’re always the person I knew in Kalmae. In my dreams you never answer me, no matter how many times I ask you to. I run around the kitchen, trying to prepare something delicious for you, but when I come back, the door to the terrace is wide open, so is the entrance. A strong wind has come into the house and the window drapes are fluttering. Already you’re gone. Sometimes we are at the beach. Remember what you used to say? Let’s go to the last village on the peninsula, where there is no checkpoint. We can weave fishnets and harvest seaweed, spend a few days, bake some potatoes for dinner. At the beach, I gaze at the boundless horizon. When I turn around, you are returning to the mountain, swinging your arms. You don’t turn around, not even once, though I call for you again and again. Was that your imprisoned spirit?

  I’ll write again after the doctor’s appointment. I think it’s nothing. I am a prisoner here until you return to this side of life, a life of dust. I’ll be perfectly healthy again.

  November 1995, Yoon Hee

  Ah, I’m shocked how long it has been since the last time.

  So I wrote to you the day before I came to this hospital. I haven’t forgotten you. I was a little surprised at first, but not too sad. They said I have cancer. It’s already quite advanced. My body is shrinking, like a taut balloon losing air. But I still think clearly, and I think of Kalmae during the terrible long nights here. I think of everything, every facet of it, until I’m satisfied that I have collected my memories, down to the last, tiny fragment, then I fall asleep. The next evening, however, there are still things I’ve forgotten that must be added.

  Do you remember that outdoor bathroom in the spooky bamboo field behind the fruit shed? The one with mud walls and ridiculously long and wide wooden supports and inhabited by monstrously big crickets. There was a piece of wooden board with a hole in it, and the container underneath was so deep. You used to joke that it took a while to hear something land at the bottom when you did your business. Once I had a stomachache in the middle of the night. I think I had eaten a bad watermelon. I begged you to escort me with a flashlight. I felt like I had returned to my childhood. You know that I am the eldest daughter. Once I turned ten, I had to go to the bathroom by myself and guard the door for my siblings, suppressing my own fear. Father at the time was always drunk, mom was out selling things and came back just before the curfew began. So when I say childhood, I mean before I started school. Daddy, are you there? Yes, I’m here. Don’t worry, take your time. Daddy, daddy! I’m here. I kept calling you like I used to then. You said to me, If you’re scared, leave the door open. There’s a cool breeze, and the stars
are bright. I peeked through the slightly opened door. There really was a night sky full of stars, like golden sand scattered everywhere. Look, there goes a shooting star. I saw it, too. A long, delicate line of light stretched across and then disappeared into darkness. I remembered a night like that while lying in this hospital bed and receiving painkillers.

  Jung Hee has been taking care of me. It has already been three months. Of course, she is married now and has two children. Mom visits from time to time, but I begged her not to come too often, because she just sits over there and quietly weeps. Jung Hee will mail this letter for me.

  I wish you were near me. Maybe it is better this way, I look so awful now. Flowers are still beautiful when dried out and dying, there’s beauty while they fade away. Why does a person’s body get so terribly destroyed?

  February 1996, Yoon Hee

  The doctor notified my family of something today. I read everything in Jung Hee’s uncontrollable sobs. He must have told her to be prepared or something like that. Around noon, mom came by with a minister and a couple of her fellow churchgoers. Are you still a materialist? I’m not being sarcastic. I adore their faith. Who knows if there is something beyond the darkness. Still, if I could carry on longer. I want to see you once.

  The hospital grounds were once filled with acacia flowers, so familiar from my youth. They are gone, swept away, and the world is covered with dark green.

  After we left that place, I once painted your young face. Later, in the empty space I painted myself, older, as I looked then. You looked like my son.

  Here’s a lyric from a popular song. “Why can’t love survive time? Why is love just like death?”

  I once read in a Buddhist scripture. When the body dies, the part one was most attached to deteriorates first.

  You in there, me out here, that’s how we spent a lifetime. It was tough, but let us make peace with all the days. Goodbye, my darling.