“Take a seat, make yourself comfortable. This is how we live,” said Park, comically. There was one mirror and one plastic shelf on the wall where dishes and food containers and toiletries were all piled up. There was a blue chamber pot in the corner next to the sliding door. There was one small vinyl wardrobe in the middle of the room and hanging from it, up in the air, was a laundry line with socks and underwear. He took the blanket and gently spread it out in front of the door.
“For tonight, this is your bed. Ask Manager Yim if he can lend you a blanket.”
Looking up from my seat, I saw the skylight. The one on the wall was so small, I doubted any air would circulate even if it was open. Without a trace of modesty, Park took off his clothes and turned on a transistor radio on a small desk. A popular music program called The Starry Night was on.
“How many people live here?” I asked. He nodded his head to count them.
“Let’s see . . . there are sixteen rooms, and each room has at least a couple, and some of them a family of four or five, so I guess about fifty?”
“They all work?”
“I think so. Some are factory workers, and the man who was bathing outside, he’s a substitute bus driver. In fact, there are three substitute bus drivers here. Some of them work in construction, some of them are street vendors. They persevere here for a few years and then they move out when they can afford to lease a house somewhere. Even the housewives, none of them are wasting time. They make beaded bags or glue envelopes.”
Just wearing his underwear, he wrapped a towel around his neck, stuck a toothbrush into his mouth, and walked out of the room calling to me, “Do you want to wash yourself? My whole body is itching because of sawdust.”
“I’m okay, I took a bath earlier.”
I breathed a long sigh after Park left the room and fell back onto the blanket. From the radio an R&B song continued that sounded like someone crying. Dying leaves falling one by one, he said he’d come back last fall but there’s no news; broken heart, and the leaves are falling again, frosts and wild geese honking as they fly away.
The once noisy corridor was quiet and I could no longer hear the sound of drunken men outside, yelling and screaming as they walked home. It was quiet everywhere. Park was in a deep sleep, snoring loudly. Seeing the dawning of another day through the ceiling window, I could not fall sleep. The living conditions at the honeycomb house were worse than the slums. Everyone in this house lived from day to day, earning barely enough to eat for one day. I had thought I was used to this, as I had traveled to many places in the past few years, calling myself an activist. But all of a sudden, I was struck by an unbearable sense of helplessness. Had Dong Woo found a place to settle down? Was it really possible for us—and there was not even a handful of us, and we were so young—to change the world with nothing but our noble intentions?
At seven o’clock in the morning, Park got up from his slumber like clockwork and woke me up. I followed him to the communal faucet, which was already chaotic. It seemed like everyone at the honeycomb house was out there. Park, holding a red plastic bucket tightly in one hand and a plastic wash basin in the other, charged to the faucet.
“Hey, everyone’s busy here. Wait for your turn!”
“Oh come on, it won’t take long.”
“Look, you’re splashing!”
“Can’t you wash the chamber pot outside? Do you have to do it when it’s so busy here?”
“Now, move if you’ve got your water!”
This complaining continued endlessly. Outside the house was the same, the narrow alleyways in between houses clamoring with people in underwear washing their faces and brushing their teeth. The ground was muddy with water that had been unable to drain for a long time. Following Park, I brushed my teeth and ended the morning ritual by scooping up some water from the bucket and rubbing it on my face a few times. There was a long line in front of the outhouse not too far from our house, and grumblings and complaints continued there, too. Park glanced over.
“Don’t ever go there unless you absolutely have to,” he told me. “It’s much better to do your business at the factory where you’re not rushed.”
I felt pressure to go, but gave up. I had to deal with this nightmare again later when I was arrested, in the ancient jail built during the Japanese occupation period. It really hurts for the first two or three days, but after about ten days you get used to it. Eventually, you can eat three meals without batting an eye while the stench from collected filth surrounds you. What is bothersome and irritating lasts for a few minutes, but the warmth between people in the same harsh environment somehow continues.
I began working at the factory. In the morning, Manager Yim assigned the day’s allotment to each worktable. There were six at the factory, including Yim, and now there were seven with my arrival. There were three technicians, Yim, Park, and another man named Nam. The other three were apprentices who were younger than me. As for machines, there were three electric saws, a plane, a sander, a drilling machine, and a table with a huge round saw. The shape of the saw blade changed depending on what was cut, whether it was a plane board or a plywood board or a square wooden peg, and also depending on whether it was cutting a curved or a straight line. I became Park’s assistant. After he received the order from Manager Yim, he first made a model based on a specification. He showed it to me.
“Today, your job is to cut 1,500 of them. You have to hand me at least 150 per hour.”
The stick was about a foot long, and it tapered at the bottom.
“What is this?”
“Legs for a television set.”
He taught me how to use the table saw.
“Push the valve under there, under your foot, the saw comes up. Push it again, it goes down. Can you see under the table? Touch it with your finger. You push that, the saw starts spinning. Push it again, it stops. Try. You see the graduations? That’s how you meet the specifications.”
I practiced, following his directions step by step, and began working. When I handed him the square wooden stick that I cut to the specifications, he smoothed it off diagonally with a wire saw. In about thirty minutes, I got used to the work. The weather was cool, but everyone was working either with his top off or wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt. I assumed no one wanted sleeves flapping around their wrists. They were wearing masks and safety goggles with rubber headbands, but they all worked in bare hands with no gloves. It was more dangerous for the fingertips to be dull. Mr. Nam was in charge of the circular saw to cut large lumber into small pieces. Others were working on cutting plywood to fit the backs of radios or making the holes in the front for speakers and additional decorating. Making television legs was not that easy. Once the horn-like shape was done, Park was in charge the second day of rounding it off and hollowing out a groove at the bottom. Then the finishing team took over to apply glue and attach a rubber pad.
During lunch, Yim went home to eat while the rest cooked and ate together, except for Mr. Nam, who always packed a box lunch. There was a scruffy cupboard on one side of the hallway to the restroom, where pots and bowls and other things were stored. We took turns cooking, and those not cooking went out front to smoke cigarettes and chat or play volleyball. As for food, all we had was rice, kimchi from Yim’s house, and a stew consisting of whatever was around. On top of the worktable covered white with sawdust, we spread out newspaper and placed the stew pot in the middle, and we stood around with rice bowls in hand and ate, sweating. I really liked life at the factory. There was no time for distractions, and I was quickly becoming better at what I did. Park said it usually took at least six months of apprenticeship, but the way I progressed, all I would need was three months, tops.
After a couple of weeks, I reported to Kun that I was safe. Hae Soon answered my phone call.
“Hello? May I ask who’s calling?”
I lowered my voice and talked with my mouth pursed, trying hard to pronounce each word thickly.
“This is Kim Jun Woo.”
/> “Kim . . . Jun Woo?”
Hae Soon had no idea that it was actually Oh Hyun Woo calling, and she seemed a bit suspicious. After a pause, I heard her calling Kun to get the phone.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, Kim Jun Woo.”
“Hey, everything alright?”
“Sure, I’m fine.”
“Really? Are you really okay?”
I decided to ask him about Choi Dong Woo.
“How’s the Inchon guy? He’s good, too?”
Kun understood immediately to whom I was referring.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. The Inchon guy’s name is Han Il Goon, remember? Hey, you know you really made me nervous. You were supposed to contact me at least once a week.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy trying to make a living. Fine, until next time.”
“Wait, wait a second. Il Goon wants to meet with you where we parted.”
“When?”
“Call me the beginning of next week.”
I was planning to stop at the market on the way home. Park went with Manager Yim to the industrial complex for a delivery, and he was coming home late. I asked him again and again, as he left riding a truck with Manager Yim, to come home as soon as possible, as I was preparing dinner. Park would not forget it, either. Today was his birthday. I had noticed a few days before that he had drawn a red circle on today’s date in the calendar.
The market at that hour was so crowded with housewives and female factory workers who had just finished work that it was impossible to walk around without knocking into everyone’s shoulders. I bought three pounds of pork belly, scallions, garlic, green peppers, lettuce, and for the bean paste stew, I got tofu, zucchini, and potatoes. Carrying plastic bags in both hands, I walked out of the market and all the way to the bakery in the commercial district. I chose the cheapest cake with the least tacky decoration and asked for four candles that would signify his age of thirty-one.
The birthday party was not being held at our house, but at Myung Soon’s place. I went there for the first time with Park the week before, so this would be the second time. The Sunday before that, Myung Soon, Soon Ok, Park, and I went all the way to the Youngdeungpo theater to see a movie and have dinner. Soon Ok was a tall and slender girl from Daejun. From behind, the way she wore pants appeared too sleek for a country girl. But she was not like Myung Soon, more of a quiet type, and I thought she was too straitlaced. There was another girl named Kyung Ja, a bit heavyset, whose face was flat and wide, her eyes thin. When we first met and exchanged hellos, her face got so red it looked like flowers were blooming in her ears. Among them, Myung Soon was the most assertive and energetic.
Further up the hill, past the rows of honeycomb houses, there were small houses hastily and carelessly built with cement bricks lining the narrow alleyway in clusters. Each house was somewhere between 550 and 725 square feet, with a slate roof and a thin plywood board that served as a door. Still, there was a kitchen and a restroom, and a little courtyard with a faucet to do laundry. People were still poor in this neighborhood, but one could live like a human being here, better than at the honeycomb houses. When I pushed the plywood door open and walked in, I was soon enveloped by the smell of hot oil wafting from the kitchen near Myung Soon’s room. I peeked into the kitchen.
“What are you all doing?”
“Hi, welcome!”
Myung Soon, wearing a billowing peasant skirt like a farmer’s wife and with her head wrapped in a towel, was frying little pieces of meat and vegetables in a small pan on top of a gas burner. Soon Ok took the plastic bags from me. I put the cake in their room.
“What is that?”
“A birthday cake.”
Myung Soon was not at all touched.
“Mr. Park doesn’t like sweets,” she said evenly.
“Still, it’s his birthday. What does he like, anyway?”
Myung Soon grimaced with her entire face, as if she were sick of it. “All he thinks about, asleep or awake, is liquor. Especially the harshest soju.”
“Oh no, I forgot to buy a bottle!”
“Don’t worry about it, he’ll bring some. We also have a couple of bottles here.”
I went into their room and sat down while the two women continued cooking.
“Where’s your other roommate?”
Soon Ok answered, “Kyung Ja hasn’t come back from work yet. They’re doing overtime tonight.”
The table was set with the cake in the center, out of its box and with the candles in place. Now it looked like a proper birthday party.
“Okay, I’m getting nervous. When is he coming?”
Myung Soon sat down with her arms crossed and mumbled. By the time I craved a cigarette, we heard someone whistling and walking toward the house. Park walked in.
“Sorry, sorry. I made you wait for a while, didn’t I?”
“The food is cold now. We were going to eat everything without you, but we didn’t. By the way, there’s nothing for you to drink.”
Undeterred by Myung Soon’s gruffness, Park raised the paper bag he was carrying.
“Ta-da! I bought four half-liter bottles!”
“Ugh, bastard.”
“Mr. Park, come here and sit down. Let’s start the party!”
“Wow, this is the first time someone has treated me to a birthday cake. Isn’t that a little girly?”
We sat around the table. I lit the tall and short candles with my lighter. Myung Soon sprang up and moved so quickly, her skirt fluttered.
“Wait a sec, if we’re going to do it, we might as well do it right.”
She turned off the fluorescent light so that only candlelight remained in the room. Park calmed down and muttered, “Looks good.”
“Now, blow them out.”
Park sat there blankly, staring at the candlelight. Myung Soon urged him on.
“What are you waiting for? Blow!”
He blew the candles out and the room became dark. We clapped, but we did not sing “Happy Birthday.” At that moment each of us was following his or her own thoughts. Soon Ok whispered in the darkness, “With no light, it feels like we’re back in the country.”
“Yeah,” Myung Soon added, “I was also thinking of my younger brothers and sisters.”
I did not say anything, but Park sighed.
“One year older.” Then, as if shaking off his own thoughts, he shouted, “Hey, turn the light back on. Let’s drink!”
Myung Soon cut the cake, and we opened the soju bottle. As we all got drunk, we took turns singing, then sang as a chorus with chopsticks serving as drumsticks. Myung Soon began to cry, Soon Ok soon followed with tears in her eyes, Park kept banging the glass on the table and angrily screamed at someone, and I fell sideways from the table and passed out. When I opened my eyes the next morning I smelled perfume on the blanket, and right next to me was someone, definitely a woman, sleeping under another blanket. When I rustled around, Soon Ok said, in a sleepy voice as if she had just opened her eyes, “The other two went to his place.”
“Ah, I see.”
My head was aching like it was about to break open, and my stomach was burning so that I wanted to drink ice water, but I decided to suffer through it all. I fell asleep again. After that night Park teased us mercilessly, saying that Soon Ok and I had become a couple. I knew it would be even more embarrassing to protest that nothing had happened, so I just smiled back at him like a fool. Park often teased Soon Ok, “You can’t treat the man you’ve slept with like that!”
One day, I think it was the following week, I called Kun as I had promised and was told the scheduled time to meet with Choi Dong Woo, whose alias was Han Il Goon. After work was done I skipped dinner and went to the Catholic church where I had seen him the last time. From Anyang, I took a bus and crossed the Han River to the northern part of Seoul. It was a long journey. It took an hour and a half. I switched buses at Jongro and got out one stop before the closest one to the church. To make sure that no one was following, I crosse
d the street twice. I bought a newspaper from where I could see the church and watched the entrance for five minutes before I crossed the street again. We did not have support from the organization as before, so we had to be careful on our own. I finally entered the church grounds and walked slowly to the back. I saw in the darkness the bench where we had sat last time. I walked to the last bench and sat down facing forward. Dong Woo emerged from the shadow made by the corner of the building and sprinted over to sit next to me.
“You just arrived?” I asked, and Dong Woo nodded without saying a word.
“You’re well?”
“Um, I’m alright. And you?”
“I’m actually having fun.”
Dong Woo said, “Suk Joon in Tokyo sent something via a friend. Some books and a letter.”
“What did he write?”
“He had good news. He met some new people.”
“New people?”
“Well, that’s all he wrote, so that’s all I know. I’m guessing Korean-Japanese.”
“And what kind of books?”
“You can read them later. We need to strengthen the educational program within the organization.”
Dong Woo handed me a large envelope containing books.
“It’s too early for everyone to get together. It’s still dangerous.”
“We can do it through correspondence. Kun’s factory could be the center where we distribute materials to each team.”
“Who will produce the material?”
“I’ll do the first month, you can do the next. They’ll form a new government by next spring.”
Choi Dong Woo stopped talking and got up.
“Let’s get out of here. Someone’s coming.”
I turned around. I did not know who it was, but the shadow of a person was walking around the church building and approaching the backyard. We walked out on the other side, onto the wide boulevard where I had gotten out of the bus before. We only turned around once we were among the crowd of pedestrians, and no one seemed to be following us. Dong Woo whispered, “We have to make sure we’re not being followed. Let’s cross the street.”
The Old Garden Page 17
