The Old Garden

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  The following evening, the western sky was the unlucky shade of dark gray. There was not a single line of color, it was dark as far as we could see. Meanwhile, the sky above us was red, as if draped with a piece of cloth, its color fading.

  “I think it’s going to rain,” you said, looking at the sky from our porch. “The old farmers always said that it would rain when there was no sunset in the western sky.”

  “No wonder, the red dragonflies were flying really low,” I said as I gathered the laundry hanging on the clothesline. The sun had not gone down completely when we sat down at our dinner table, but suddenly it became dark. I had to get up and turn on the light. A cool wind came like a rising tide, and the rain came down in large drops all over the courtyard and on the roof. It was not the noisy, driving summer rain, but the slowly escalating rain of the early autumn that falls continuously. From that night, the wind became stronger.

  The bamboo forest outside was thrashing violently in the wind, and I lay there with my head on your arm, nervously listening to the gloomy sound of an approaching storm.

  I imagined that by the ocean all the boats and ships were tied to the port, and there was a typhoon warning. No seagull dared to fly, and dark waves with white teeth charged up the shore endlessly, shattering into white droplets as they crashed into a wall. In the complete darkness, where we could not find one flicker of light, we were tied to a broken, listing raft, scared. The waves rose up like walls around us, as if they would devour us. At that moment, I saw far away a few specks of light, perhaps a big ship, perhaps a little village on the shore. I cut the rope that tied us. I let you go, the brave one, to swim there first.

  The rain and wind continued all the next day. I took out and ironed your clothes, from underwear and socks to shirts and jackets and pants, and I folded them neatly and packed them in a bag. At first, you said you were going to leave in the afternoon, after lunch, but I did not say anything, and neither of us could walk out the door. Was it because it was still raining?

  The wind had died down, but the rain poured on, and unlike other days when the twilight would last for a while, the darkness came in quickly.

  “Why don’t you eat dinner before you go?”

  I did not say that to make you stay one more day. You know that, don’t you? I cubed the new potatoes we pulled up from our garden, sliced the zucchinis and green peppers that had grown throughout the summer, and cooked them together in a broth with bean paste. I braised salty mackerel, one of our favorites, in a peppery sauce with radishes, accompanied by the sesame leaves pickled in bean paste that they sent from the main house and the young radish kimchi that I had made. You used to say that salty mackerel with young radish kimchi and hot rice in cold water accompany each other perfectly. I always presented mackerel with its flesh exposed, but you insisted on turning it over to showcase its skin and dark meat, saying that it looked more appetizing that way.

  We ate together in good spirits, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Suddenly, the electricity went out; we lit two candles, but it took a while for our eyes to get used to the darkness. It was comforting to light the candles, just like it had been in the first days we came here, when we felt like we were so far away from everything. A little later, after I sent you away, I lay in the empty room, unable to fall asleep as the candles melted away.

  “Would you please tell me where it is?”

  Out of the blue, you used the respectful form of speech, as if we were strangers. Of course I understood that you were not doing it to distance yourself, you were just concerned that I would be too distraught before we parted.

  “I once saw it stuck inside a book,” you continued.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The passport photo.”

  “I don’t like it, I look weird.”

  You went through some books on the low desk and managed to find my passport photo, hidden in a book of poems either by Heine or Neruda.

  “Here it is!”

  I did not try to take it away from you, I let you have it. As soon as you put the photo in your wallet, you got up, as if the idea had just occurred to you at that moment. You picked up the bag I had packed. Powerless, I was going to follow you, but then I remembered to go to the kitchen and find a flashlight and an umbrella we could use together. I returned to the room to blow out the candles, and darkness enveloped us again. You held up the umbrella and walked in silence, and I held on to your arm, illuminating the path with the flashlight.

  The raindrops felt cold on my bare feet, and I saw them clearly as they landed on that familiar pair of shoes of yours. The apple trees in the orchard stood there like dwarf monsters, their limbs shaking. At the bridge where Kalmae began, you embraced me with your free arm and kissed me. Both our lips were cold.

  “It won’t take too long. I’ll come back soon.”

  How presumptuous! You’d be back soon? Still, at that moment, a year or two later seemed not too far away. The last bus was approaching slowly, driving on the newly paved road along the stream. Suddenly, I decided to take my ring from my finger and give it to you. I did not say anything.

  Before you climbed into the bus you turned around for a second to look at me, and I waved back to you meekly. The windows on the bus were too dark, and all I could see was black.

  13

  The bus rattled as it drove along the unpaved road. As soon as I got in, I ran along the narrow corridor with unsteady steps. The last glimpse I caught of Yoon Hee through the back window of the bus lasted only a moment, a fleeting moment, but it was an image I pictured repeatedly over the years I spent in solitary confinement.

  The umbrella covered her face so I could not see her well, but she was holding a flashlight in one hand and I saw her skirt fluttering in the wind. She had bought it at the open market, a cotton skirt with a flower pattern, something a middle-aged woman would wear while she worked in the kitchen or did laundry. But when Yoon Hee wore it, the little flower patterns were beautiful, and she looked like a newly wed bride. I loved the carefree look of Yoon Hee when she wore the peasant skirt and a pair of white rubber shoes on her bare feet.

  Whenever the season changed and it rained at night, I would open up the tiny window of the prison bathroom and look up through the bars into the sky. My cell was at the end of the corridor, and I was able to see behind the building opposite mine to where we had been, to the mountains and the open fields to the west. There was a narrow road that circled the mountain, and there I watched the seasons change as it rained and snowed. Around the bend magpies cheerfully croaked in a persimmon tree. Sometimes there would be a cultivator parked underneath the tree, or farmers taking a break in its shadow during the summer, or village women resting on their way home. And sometimes, when the space was empty, I placed Yoon Hee under the persimmon tree. Yoon Hee’s cotton skirt with flower patterns fluttered in the wind as she stood there in a pair of white rubber shoes with pointed toes, no umbrella, her long, straight hair dancing in the wind. I stared for a long time until the sun came down, until the darkness enveloped everything except for that road, remaining pale in the darkness. Still, a trace of her remained. The guard would look in through the tiny viewing window and remind me where I was.

  “Number Fourteen Forty-Four! What are you doing?”

  Embarrassed, I silently turned around and smiled at him.

  “Have you been somewhere else?”

  I just nodded and smiled. I got used to doing it, and later I was able to place her there at night, too. On rainy days, I stood by the bars and reproduced her cotton skirt with flower patterns. In my dreams, I was standing next to her.

  After leaving Kalmae, I arrived in Kwangju before eleven that night, the perfect time for a someone on the run like me to move about. I took the night train and fell asleep as soon as I collapsed into my seat. I woke up and dozed off repeatedly, listening to the endless noise of the iron wheels. Still half asleep, I raised my head to look out at an unfamiliar station in an unknown town where a couple
of people left the train with their luggage and a couple got in, their friends and family waving and smiling outside. And there were small, empty stations, lit by a single bulb, slowly passing by like in a dream. For me, there was no longer an exit. In my mind I was returning to Seoul, but there was no place for me to go. When I thought of returning home I clearly pictured the little house in Kalmae. It took me a while to picture the house by Bukak Mountain, surrounded by forsythias, where my mother and brother lived, and where I had not been in years. I had to go there now to see my mother for the last time.

  Like that morning a few months before when I had gone to look for Kun, I arrived at the Youngdeungpo station early in the morning. I had decided to go see Myung Hun at his art studio in Shinchon first. After the incident in Kwangju, some people came to Seoul looking for somewhere to hide. I volunteered to help place a few of them, and I asked Myung Hun to take in Ho Sun. Both of them are no longer alive. Myung Hun lived his life as an alcoholic bachelor and was hit one night by a taxi speeding through the city. Ho Sun died last year of liver cancer.

  In Shinchon, there was a narrow street along the railway that connected the campuses of Ewha Women’s University and Yonsei University. Running off that street were little alleyways lined with tiny, prefabricated houses. Myung Hun was lucky to find an old Japanese-style, double-story house, and he was renting the second floor as his studio. I walked down the empty alleyway, pushed open the thin wooden door, and climbed up the creaking steps. On the worn-out door was a rough handwritten sign that read “Studio.” I pushed the door quietly, but unlike the other times I had been there, it did not budge. When I knocked on the door I heard someone moving behind it, but he seemed to be waiting without answering. I had no choice but to talk.

  “Myung Hun? It’s me, Hyun Woo.”

  As soon as I said my name Ho Sun opened the door, as if he had been waiting. He squinted his eyes as he turned the light on.

  “Jesus, what are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d drop by to say hello.”

  Looking around the studio, I heard someone snoring behind a screen by the window facing the street. The room was a mess, littered with easels and tubes of colors and papers. Ho Sun had a wooden bed, like those used in the military, and an upside-down wooden crate as a table. Instead of chairs, similar-sized wooden boxes, the kind used as seats in small, poor theaters, surrounded the table. Ho Sun and I sat on them, facing each other.

  “He’s drunk again, no?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. He came back a little while ago and just dropped dead.”

  “And how are you?”

  “Thanks to you, I’m doing relatively well. We’re all worried about you.”

  “I know, thank you. How’s Bong Han? Is he well?”

  “I think so.”

  “It seems like you guys will be okay, after all.”

  “Some civilians and a few who were connected to Kim Dae Jung were released, but they are still searching for those wanted as the leaders of the uprising. By the way, should I make some ramen for you?”

  He went over to the little kitchenette in a corner, filled a pot with water, and lit a flame underneath it. While the noodles cooked, Ho Sun continued to talk in his usual sulky voice, as if what he was saying was not a big deal.

  “It seems like you’ve committed a major crime, according to the newspapers. Looks like you’ll be going away for a long time.”

  “What can I say. I have no luck.”

  “Don’t act like this isn’t happening to you. Do you have a plan?”

  “What would you do?”

  He brought over to the crate table a steaming bowl of ramen noodles. It looked so good, with a cooked egg and chopped scallions added on top.

  “What else can you do? Run for as long as you can, or try to leave.”

  “Those already caught must be going through hell right now.”

  “The worst is over. They should be at the detention house now.”

  “Maybe I should start my life over.”

  Perhaps our voices woke him up. Myung Hun appeared from behind the screen, still drunk, with his hair disheveled.

  “Who’s here? What time is it?”

  “You drink like this every day?”

  “Hey, watch your mouth, you bastard. Where do you think you are? I should call the police.”

  Ho Sun brought a bottle of barley tea from the refrigerator and handed it to him. Myung Hun gulped it down straight from the bottle and shook his head violently, trying to wake up. I continued in a more serious tone, “I am sorry to have troubled you.”

  “Shut up. It’s Ho Sun you’ve troubled. He already has to take care of me, a drunk. By the way, where have you been?”

  “Underground.”

  “Why not stay here on the second floor, with us? Your sister came here once looking for you. Your brother’s immigrating to the US. He wants to see you before he leaves.”

  “He’s moving to the US?”

  “That’s what she said. All the paperwork is done.”

  Ho Sun, who had been listening in silence, spoke up.

  “In that case . . . you’ll want to go home? I bet it’s surrounded. Or at least there’ll be someone watching.”

  I put my head down on the crate table.

  “I think it’s time to finish up,” I said quietly. “There’s nothing left for me to do. I have no intention of turning myself in, though.”

  Neither of them replied for a while.

  “Well, we should get some sleep,” Myung Hun yawned. “We can think about it afterward. Look, it’s still dark out. You may think differently once the sun comes up.”

  We were startled out of our slumber by the loud sound of a locomotive passing by. It was already noon. Ho Sun was not there. Myung Hun drew open the thick drapes on the window, and sunshine rushed into the room.

  “Man, my stomach hurts. Let’s go get some broth.”

  “Where is Ho Sun?”

  “Went to work.”

  “What kind of work can a wanted person do?”

  “Over there some new apartments are being built. He was bored out of his mind, so I asked an architect friend of mine for a favor. It’s not hard labor. I don’t think it’s too much for him.”

  We did not have to leave the alleyway. Across the street from the double-story house was a small diner. It was lunch hour, but there was exactly one person in there, eating a bowl of rice and broth made out of beef bones. We ordered the same thing. As we sat facing each other, waiting for the food, Myung Hun regarded my face for a bit.

  “Your face has changed. It’s more relaxed.”

  “Why, what did I look like before?”

  “Well, your eyes were filled with fear and anxiety and nervousness. You looked pretty ferocious. And your cheeks were so hollow . . .”

  “And now?”

  “Your cheeks are fatter and your eyes, they are so soft and mellow now. Are you . . . are you in love or something?”

  “What kind of bullshit is that?”

  I browbeat him into shutting his mouth up, but inside I was a little bit surprised. I guess you cannot hide from the eye of an artist.

  “He turned a corner, too.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Ho Sun. For a long time he was so restless, he made me nervous. One day, he told me he had decided to leave. I didn’t try to stop him. That bald-headed minister, he was the one helping Ho Sun.”

  It was only then I realized why Ho Sun had mentioned my leaving. Minister Hyun was friendly with a diplomat from a European country, and they had made plans for Ho Sun to hide in the embassy. At the appointed time, the minister and Ho Sun arrived at the embassy, and Minister Hyun pushed Ho Sun into the elevator, saying everything would be fine. People in the embassy had suggested that he could stay there until an opportune moment, when they would take him to the port in the official embassy car and put him on a ship for their country.

  “Faced with leaving everyone behind, he said he could not m
ake up his mind. He asked if he could smoke a cigarette.”

  While finishing the cigarette, Ho Sun made a decision on his own. He decided not to leave the land where his friends had died. That story touched somewhere deep inside me, and I felt like I was being electrocuted. Was it repentance? I had a bitter taste in my mouth, and I mumbled aloud, “Yes, I think I will start over. I should find others who will work with me.”

  After lunch, we had nowhere else to go but back to Myung Hun’s studio. He could not work since I was there, so we spent the afternoon talking about our friends, whom I had not seen in a while. No matter what, I was going to visit my mother, and I needed to wait until nighttime.

  Myung Hun was not really one of us. He had an aversion to any discussion involving words like dictatorship, democracy, foreign influence, autonomy, capital, or revolution. But he certainly agreed with us in principle. He said he ought to help those of us who were being hunted, he believed in an artist’s freedom of expression, and he opposed those who killed innocent civilians. He had no interest in the prevalent style of painting at the time, and he had no desire to depict reality in his art. He was a modernist, what my friends would call a decadent. He wanted to live according to his own wishes, and a world in which someone like him could not be free was the one I myself opposed, so I guess we were on the same side. If Ho Sun and Myung Hun had met each other under normal circumstances, they would have called each other names and never seen each other again. But now they were brothers.

  I did not want to wander around the city. I decided to climb up the mountain near Suyuri and wait there until late that night before I went home. It reminded me of the days when I was still in school, when my friends would come to see me late at night. We would go up the mountain and have a picnic, or rather a drinking party, waiting for my mother to fall asleep.

  I got off at the last bus stop, in plain sight, and bought a bottle of soju and a bag of shrimp crackers like I used to. I avoided the alleyway that led to our neighborhood and took a roundabout way up the mountain beyond it. I walked on the familiar trail and passed the vegetable garden where my mother used to grow cabbage. There was an old grave right above the vegetable garden that used to be the spot where I hung out with my friends. The air was damp and cool, but I was undeterred. I made myself comfortable on the grass and took sip after a sip from the bottle. After a couple of sips, my cheeks and neck began to burn up. I could see down to the forsythia fence around our house and our neighbors’ high stone wall. A dog was barking. It was definitely our dog Mary. Maybe it was the alcohol, but my eyes were burning up, too. My mother had adopted Mary, a half-spitz mongrel, when she was a little puppy, and she would be an old person now in human years. Mother used to say Mary understood everything. After ten o’clock, the lights started to go out in many windows, until only a streetlamp in front of our house remained lit. Cautiously, I approached the house. Mary barked a couple of times at first, but she quickly recognized me. She moaned and pulled on her chain, jumping around. I chided her quietly as I walked around the house. The light at my brother’s window was still on. I used one finger to tap on the glass panel.