The Old Garden

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  “To be honest, I’m a little hungry, too,” I said.

  “A midnight snack and soju, what a fantastic combination! And the autumn rain is coming down outside.”

  After serving ramen noodles to each of us, Mi Kyung shouted as if she was singing, “First, let’s drink to the autumn rain!”

  We raised our glasses and downed them at once. Mi Kyung jumped up from her chair and walked to the windows. She opened the drapes that were always drawn and began opening the windows one by one, something that I rarely did. There were creaking sounds, but every window opened wide like a miracle, and suddenly I could hear the rain. We were in the middle of a big city, but the wind that came in was fresh with rain. It seemed that Mi Kyung was just like that wind.

  “What a wonderful idea!”

  I was truly impressed. I had been locked in the studio, keeping the windows tightly closed and relying on artificial light. What did they say, that if you changed your thoughts you could change the world? The endless music of rain running down the gutters outside, the smell of moistened dry cement walls of concrete buildings, it all seemed like a miracle. Even the fluorescent lights on the ceiling were moving. And the plaster casts, frozen in the same spot for years, only casting certain shadows, now looked completely different with the shadows of dancing tree branches draped on them.

  “Would it be okay if I stayed here tonight?” Mi Kyung asked as she cleared the noodle bowls.

  “Huh? Why . . . ?”

  “I have nowhere to go.”

  “That’s true, Song Young Tae added. “She’s renting a room at this house, and the owner just locks the door at midnight and goes to bed, no matter what.”

  I had no choice but to pretend that I believed the story.

  “Really? Just tonight, then. Can’t do it too often.”

  “I have this premonition that I’ll be doing it quite often.”

  “She likes you,” said Song Young Tae.

  “Don’t you dare. You think I have not realized that you two are trying to win me over to your side?”

  “I thought you were already on our side,” she joked. “I’ve heard a lot about you and Oh Hyun Woo, too.”

  Suddenly, I was irritated.

  “What? How dare you? Are you making fun of me now? Do not joke about him in front of me, do you understand? And Song, you! I didn’t know you yapped so much.”

  Both of them were caught completely off-guard by this sudden change in my attitude. Song Young Tae looked horrified.

  “Really, Yoon Hee, this is a gross misunderstanding,” he said, waving his hand. “The case of Mr. Oh is always mentioned when we study the history of activism from the early seventies. I just happened to mention your relationship to him because we were gathering here today.”

  “I am so sorry,” Mi Kyung said. “We would not dare laugh at you and other people we respect behind your back. It’s the opposite. Please, don’t be angry.”

  I downed another glass of soju and remained silent for a while. Song Young Tae’s face looked completely normal, he was not tipsy anymore. He stared at me for a while before speaking again.

  “Han Yoon Hee, don’t be angry, please. None of us can be cynical about the suffering we are all going through together. It was Mi Kyung’s fault for mentioning his name so lightly, I know that. But she’s still a novice, and she has a very clear definition of who’s on our side and who’s not. Inexperience can be charming, no?”

  “Whatever . . . You guys have no idea.”

  But as I replied, I was already deflating.

  Song Young Tae continued in the same tone.

  “I find it ironic that I went onto graduate school as soon as I came back. But I am beginning to doubt that I will be able to finish it. Today, no one is free. Everything is connected, no matter what you do or how you live. Maybe years from now, when the world has changed so much, the lives we led will be completely forgotten. But now, all we can do is help each other, no matter how little we are, and try to make change happen.”

  “Song Young Tae! Just do what you have to do. I’m just trying to do what I have to do. I like freedom. Do not meddle with me.”

  Song raised his two hands as if he was trying to stop me.

  “Fine, fine, I understand. You just concentrate on producing good paintings.”

  “What the . . . ? What is a good painting? I just paint, that’s all. You better watch out from now on.”

  “What should I watch out for, ma’am?”

  “Do not rush to fill up the void inside of you. You may overdo it. Especially since you know too many useless things. And you have too much money. Remember that.”

  Chae Mi Kyung murmured while tapping the table lightly, “That makes sense to me.”

  “So, Miss Han, you’re not angry anymore?”

  “No,” I replied in a softer tone of voice “but you should leave now. There are plenty of taxicabs out the door. I plan to spend the night drinking with Mi Kyung.”

  “Phew! Thank God! Well, I should get going.”

  Song Young Tae lifted his arms as if he had just dropped off a heavy load, and patted Chae Mi Kyung’s back.

  “You silly little girl, why don’t you ask her to make breakfast for you tomorrow morning, too? That way, she’ll remember you for sure.”

  It was still raining heavily. I wondered if it was a monsoon in autumn. When the rain was over, the air would be cooler. After Young Tae left, I locked the front door and went back to the studio. I wanted to make amends with Mi Kyung.

  “Want more to drink? I have some whiskey left.”

  “I’m okay. Would you like some more?”

  “No, not really. How about something warm, coffee?”

  “Sounds great. By the way, I was really scared just then. Look, I’m sweating!”

  When I returned with the coffee mugs, Mi Kyung was going through my record collection. She carefully picked one up and put it on the turntable. I placed the two coffee mugs on the table and closed the window. I drew the curtains on top.

  “You don’t like the wind?”

  “No, it’s just that it’s going to be noisy in the morning. And too bright.”

  We sat face to face, each of us hugging the coffee mug with both hands. I opened my mouth first.

  “What do you learn at law school?”

  “You learn how to protect the institution. It wasn’t my choice, my father insisted on it. My father is a bureaucrat who started at entry-level and rose up to head of a department. A man of very few words. If he says no, that’s the end of it. He’s dreary and cold, like a character from a story by Kafka. I’m the first child, and . . . well, it’s a big problem.”

  “How did you meet Mr. Song?”

  “He used to coach my debate club, and we were at the same factory last summer.”

  “You were at a factory?”

  “I worked as an assistant, and he was in the shipping department. He carried boxes for a month.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “No, there were more than twenty of us. We just happened to be assigned to this one place.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “There were people in there already, working on a collective for students and laborers. Also the Christian missionaries who work with us.”

  “I thought he was on a holiday.”

  “He did have a holiday. He came to Busan when I was staying with my parents and called me to show him around. He treated me to sashimi and barbeque and buckwheat noodles, the whole lot. He rarely skips anything.”

  “I should have known.”

  “You know what? When the Bu-Am incident happened, I thought they were just crazy.”

  “When the what happened?”

  “When the American Cultural Center in Busan was set on fire by students, remember?”12

  “Ah, yes. It was incredible. I knew some people who were involved in that.”

  “It’s continuous, just like water flowing.”

  “Well, shall we get some sleep now
? There’s a bedroom in there.”

  We pulled down the futons and lay next to each other. The light was out, but I could tell that Mi Kyung was still restless.

  “Are you asleep?”

  “No. Can’t fall asleep?”

  “Would it be okay if I came by once in a while?”

  “Sure, just call me before you do.”

  “Can I tell you something? I did not register this semester.”

  “Have you told your parents?”

  “I think I’m going to quit school altogether.”

  I did not want to say anything else. Don’t do it, or Go ahead—anything I said would be futile. For a second, I thought of Jung Hee and her fiancé. In the same world were those beautiful men and women who led ordinary, normal lives. A few minutes later, I heard Mi Kyung breathing evenly. The bedroom was dimly illuminated with light seeping in from outside. I saw her hair, cut like a little girl’s, spread all over her pillow. I pulled up the blanket that had fallen from her and tucked her in.

  I woke up around noon, as was my habit. The curtains were still drawn, yet the room was bright. The space next to me was empty, with the futon and the blanket neatly folded. All the dirty dishes left in the kitchenette sink were gone, and the electronic rice cooker was on. There was a note left on the table. The handwriting was bold and leveled.

  Dear Yoon Hee,

  I was waiting for you to wake up, but you were in a deep sleep, and I had to go. I felt so ashamed this morning; I know I behaved like a little child last night. The rain has stopped. I have decided that I should live in a way which will allow me to face the next day’s morning sun without hesitation, no matter what happens.

  While I was waiting I got bored, so I took a peek through your sketchbooks. I realized that Young Tae was being impudent without knowing anything.

  I made you a pot of bean sprout soup with fish stock. It’s the perfect hangover soup. Of course, I had a bowl after I made it. I also put the rice cooker on.

  I know you have a few side dishes but I thought you might want something more substantial. I braised mackerel pike with soy sauce and green peppers. Hope you like it.

  I’ll reappear again when you are about to forget me. And finally, I’m going to tell you one secret. My nickname is Black Bean.

  It must have been about a week later, the beginning of October, when Song Young Tae came to see me. I was working, and I was not in the mood to joke around with him.

  “I’m busy right now,” I said without turning around.

  “I know, I’ll just stay here for a bit, I need to write something,” he answered as he peered from behind the partition.

  Instead of answering him, I kept moving my brush. I was about to wash the brush and change the color when I heard the phone ringing. As I turned toward the phone, I saw him jumping up to grab it.

  “I think it’s for me. Hel . . . Hello? Yes, that’s correct, that’s me. Yes, you can deliver to that address. Of course, I’ll pay the whole lump sum. Thirty minutes? Okay, I’ll be waiting.”

  I got curious, so I walked to the living room area.

  “What was that? Didn’t sound like you were ordering Chinese food.”

  “I did order something.”

  “So what is it?”

  “Well, well, just wait and see.”

  I went back to my easel to resume working, but the brush seemed to be spinning in my hand. There were footsteps outside, then the door opened. Two men came in carrying a box the size of a small refrigerator. They were both wearing gray jackets with a logo on the chest, perhaps a company uniform.

  “What is this?” I asked them, baffled.

  “The copy machine you ordered.”

  “The copy machine?”

  “We brought the electric typewriter, too. Where do you want us to set this up?”

  Song Young Tae emerged from behind me and led them into the studio, his steps assured. Next to the refrigerator was a small table with a bamboo basket filled with dried flowers and fruit tree branches. Without hesitation he moved the table, the bamboo basket still on top of it, to the side, and gestured to the delivery men.

  “Over here.”

  One man had already gone, probably to get the typewriter. The other began unpacking the box, and Song Young Tae helped him. They unplugged the refrigerator and plugged the refrigerator and copy machine into an extension cable. I did not want to make a scene, so I just watched them, my arms folded. The other man came back with a smaller box and put it down on another table. Young Tae paid them with a check and they wrote him a receipt.

  “Here are the instructions. Would you like a demonstration before we go?”

  “No, I’ve used it before, I know how to do it. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Call us if there’s a problem, we’ll be out here before you know it to fix it.”

  I began talking only after they were gone. I tried not to get angry. I tried to control myself.

  “You planned all this, didn’t you?”

  “What . . . ?”

  “Oh, so you didn’t? You knew exactly where to put it, you knew where the plug was, everything.”

  “Yoo, Yoon Hee, the thing is . . .”

  “My name is Han Yoon Hee, not Yoo Yoon Hee. I’m not saying this because I’m scared or anything like that. You should have asked for my permission before you did this. This is my space, after all.”

  “They are all yours. I’ll just borrow them.”

  “Why do I need them? What am I supposed to do, make copies of my paintings?”

  “Books are so expensive, you know, especially foreign art books. Don’t you think it’ll be great? You can make copies of your papers and all that.”

  I decided there was no point in getting angry.

  “Alright, fine, I lose. I surrender. I know you got these to produce your seditious pamphlets, but what can I do now? Instead, from now on, you pay half the rent, understood?”

  “That’s a bit too much, don’t you think?”

  “At the very least, I should have an insurance policy.”

  Song Young Tae groaned and moaned as he unpacked the typewriter box, took the machine out, and connected it. After he had installed the ribbon, he rubbed his hands in anticipation.

  “Well, let’s give it a try, shall we?”

  He took out a roll of papers from the inner pocket of his sports coat and spread them out next to the typewriter. Then he straightened one finger from each hand to form what looked like a pair of chopsticks and began pecking at the keyboard, one letter at a time. I glanced at the papers. He was typing up a magazine called Torch. How typical. All they can ever come up with is Spark or Beacon or Fire on the Plain, just variations of Iskra.13

  “It’s going to take you forever to type everything like that.”

  It was pitiful to watch Song Young Tae. In order to read the paper he had to look at it so closely that it touched his nose before he could type one word. Then he put his nose up to the paper again and typed another. I grabbed the papers away from him.

  “Hey, hey, what are you doing? I can do it, I’ll take one step at a time.”

  “Move over, I’ll type them for you.”

  I pushed him away and sat in front of the electric typewriter. I began typing fast, as if I were a magician. When the typewriter reached the end of a line, the roller made a cheerful sound and automatically moved to go back to the beginning of the next line. It made me happy.

  “Nice machine!” I exclaimed.

  “Wow, when did you learn to type?”

  “You don’t know that I was once a schoolteacher, do you? I used to type everything, from reports to the education department to letters to parents.”

  I was fumbling through the sentences and finally had to stop.

  “What on earth are you talking about? ‘In our struggle we were unable to take the initiative when unexpected events presented us with new opportunities. Instead, we recklessly exaggerated and stretched the situation and were buried underneath.’”

&n
bsp; “It means what it says: ‘Incurring a great loss by pursuing a small gain.’”

  “And this was written for whom, and for what purpose?”

  “To self-criticize.”

  “Among yourselves?”

  “That’s why this is really important. We need to set up a clear set of principles in order to continue fighting.”

  “So you plan to produce this regularly.”

  “Whenever there is an important turn of events, I want to offer a critical assessment.”

  I got up from the chair.

  “You type, okay?”

  “Why are you stopping?”

  “I don’t want you to expect anything from me.”

  “But you started it! Why don’t you finish it?”

  I ignored him and moved across the room. Song Young Tae began touching the paper with his nose again and typing with two fingers.

  “Hello!”

  Chae Mi Kyung came in wearing a skirt. I laughed.

  “What a surprise. I was beginning to wonder where you were.”

  “You’re so mistaken! We didn’t plan this, I just came because I missed you.”

  “Hey,” said Song Young Tae, turning to her, “do you know how to type?”

  “Not much better than you do.”

  Young Tae groaned and moaned again and kept typing for a while, but he had to stop. He had finished only about half of the material.

  “I can’t do it any more. It’s going to take too long for me to finish.”

  I had no choice but to push him away and sit in front of the typewriter again.

  “Remember, next time write concisely and to the point.”

  As I quickly typed away, Mi Kyung exclaimed with joy, “My goodness, you type really fast!”

  The first issue of Torch was done in about an hour. Song Young Tae stood in front of the copy machine and struggled with the instructions for a while, and then the machine started to work. Mi Kyung took the copies, put them in order, and bound them by stapling them into a pamphlet. It looked a lot more professional than any of the other handouts I had seen.

  After they were done, Young Tae put the pamphlets into a duffle bag he had prepared. There were more than one hundred copies of it.