The Old Garden

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  “Okay, I need to go now!”

  He left the studio before I could yell goodbye back to him. Chae Mi Kyung took rice rolls from her bag and set the table.

  “I haven’t had lunch yet. I bought these from the market across the street, but I don’t know if they’re any good.”

  “So your nickname is Black Bean?”

  Mi Kyung let out a hearty laugh, flinging her head backward.

  “It’s because my skin is so dark! At first they simply called me Blackie, but then changed it to Black Bean.”

  I thought the nickname suited her well, not just her appearance but her personality, reliable and quick.

  “So you plan to continue publishing the pamphlet?” I asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s got Issue Number One written on it. So will there be a second, a third?”

  “Who knows? I hope nothing happens until we do the tenth issue.”

  “The number of copies seems too small to affect the masses.”

  “Of course, it’s not for them. It’ll be distributed through clubs at each university. We want to enlarge the federation to the national level.”

  I could not help but laugh a little.

  “Well, I guess I am in this too deep now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Isn’t that the case? You guys are planning to continue producing the pamphlet here, aren’t you? And I’ll have to keep typing it for you, right?”

  Chae Mi Kyung did not deny that that was their plan.

  “I’m practicing, and I’m getting faster, I swear,” she said.

  I decided to ask her something that had been bothering me since he left.

  “Young Tae seemed to have an appointment to see other people, but you didn’t go with him. Why not?”

  “We belong to different groups.”

  “How are they different?”

  “Mr. Song belongs to Labor for Democracy, and I belong to the Coalition of Labor and Students.”

  “Is that why you said you want to quit school? To work at a factory?”

  Mi Kyung blinked her big, dark eyes a couple of times, admitting that was her plan. I continued cautiously.

  “I think school is the place you know best, and where you can work most efficiently. Do you really think you’ll be able to help them a lot by going to work at a factory?”

  “All I am doing right now is being a liaison between the school and other students who are already working at the industrial complexes. But I’m going to look for a real job as a laborer. I need to see the world through their eyes, that’s why I want to work. I think I should just work for a couple of years.”

  “Unbelievable . . .” My words trailed off.

  I think it was sometime later in October when Song Young Tae appeared again, this time dressed in a clean suit and even wearing a tie. He looked so different. He did not have that old, beaten leather briefcase that he always carried around, and there was no duffle bag for us to stuff with pamphlets.

  “Wow, look at you! Do you have a date tonight?”

  “Oh, please. All I’ve been doing lately is debating and arguing, my tongue is furred.”

  “I hope you keep quiet when you’re here.”

  “We’ve started to debate our policies. If I can’t convince them I have to accept it and go on.”

  “Yeah, well, by the way I haven’t seen Mi Kyung lately. I’m curious . . .”

  “She’s in Boochun these days. She found a job.”

  “Really? So she disappeared without saying anything?”

  “She’s swamped right now, learning new things. Maybe she’ll stop by next weekend.”

  He would not sit down, but walked around the studio, looking at his watch constantly. I told him as I pushed a chair toward him, “Please sit down. You are making me feel nervous, too.”

  “Miss Han, have you had dinner?”

  “No, why? You want to buy me dinner?”

  “I want to invite you as my date. You like Japanese food? How about sashimi?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  As I followed him out of the studio, I guessed that the dinner invitation came with an unspoken condition. He looked too different from his usual self. We were headed to a Japanese restaurant not far from my studio. On the first floor of the restaurant were a sushi bar and tables. Two men eating at the sushi bar turned around to watch us enter. We took the wooden stairway to the second floor, which was filled with private rooms, each enclosed by sliding doors lined in rice paper. We went into one of them, which was reserved under his name. He sat down without taking his jacket off, looking a little nervous. I found a floor cushion and placed it across from him when he said, “Sit next to me.”

  “You want me to pour you drinks? I can reach just as well from here.”

  “Sit over here, please.”

  I realized that he was not in a mood to banter, and it made me surer than ever that there was something else going on.

  “I suppose more people are coming?”

  A waitress came in to take our order, but he told her we were expecting more people.

  “How many people are coming?” she asked.

  “Two. First, bring us three bottles of beer, please.”

  Around the time the beer came, another waiter brought two young men, both of them neatly dressed in suits. One of them looked into our room and spoke over his shoulder to whoever was behind him, “Mr. Song is in here.”

  “Well, we see each other often these days, don’t we,” said Young Tae in lieu of greetings, and the two men studied me with razor-sharp eyes as they walked in. Song Young Tae looked beyond them through the open door and said, “Aren’t there more of you?”

  “Yes, downstairs. A couple of them came here half an hour ago for a safety check.”

  Young Tae turned to me.

  “This is my benefactor,” he said. “She’s just like an older sister to me.”

  I had known this was going to happen, and I was not too angry. If there was a limit to how much one person can be shocked or angry, I had passed it numerous times by that point. I decided to be a bit shameless.

  “I feel like I’m interrupting boys playing soldiers. I’m just here to eat, so don’t mind me, please.”

  The two young men seemed to be asking who I was, without a sound. Young Tae said, “She’s a painter. She has a studio in the neighborhood.”

  One of them bowed to me and said, “Ah, yes . . . I didn’t recognize you. I’ve been to your studio once.”

  Then he turned to the other young man and whispered, “You know, Mr. Oh Hyun Woo’s . . .”

  The other young man, his hair short, tried hard to make his eyes penetrating and nodded his head. He was trying so hard to look serious that there was a deep line in between his eyes. The waitress came back to take our order, and all three men remained silent while waiting for the food to arrive. Maybe because he was getting bored, the one who had said he’d been to my studio began talking to me.

  “What kind of paintings do you do?”

  I thought for a minute how to answer.

  “I don’t paint apples or vases,” I said, lazily.

  “Then, what do you paint?”

  “Nothing. An artist does not paint something every day.”

  “But still . . .”

  I did not want to punish him, but he was the one who started it, so I decided to tease him a little.

  “Well, it’s my turn to ask you a question. What does your father do?”

  “I’m sorry? What does that matter?”

  Song Young Tae was grinning as he looked at the perplexed young man, but the other one’s frown deepened as he glared at me. I turned toward Song Young Tae and asked him, relaxed, “Mr. Song, you’re a student, right? Who pays for your tuition? Who gives you money to pay for tonight? Since being a student is not a job per se, isn’t it important to question the student’s background?”

  The one with a frown quietly replied, “Yes, I admit, w
e’re all from the petit bourgeoisie.”

  I ignore him and continued on.

  “Just be humble, think of all this as part of learning about the world. I am someone who wants to paint, not somebody who stipulates what to paint.”

  They remained speechless, maybe reflecting on what I had just said. Fortunately, the food arrived. Song Young Tae offered them beer and then poured a glass for me, too.

  “I’m sorry, both of them are underground. It would look too suspicious if there were just us, so . . .”

  “I knew that, and I still came here, didn’t I? Just be prepared to pay for dinner, alright? Order some abalone, too. Please, eat!”

  As my attitude became friendlier, they all seemed relieved. Soon, Young Tae became serious.

  “The formation of Labor for Democracy has just begun. We need to nationalize our organization. I think we should be ready by sometime next week, but the inauguration will have to wait until the beginning of the following week. What we need to do at the same time is form a network of activists who can carry out operations.”

  The one with the frown opened his mouth.

  “The activists will be out in the open. However, the leadership circle and officials will have to remain undercover.”

  “Yes. Even among the activists, there should be two groups, offensive and backup. I think it’s safe to assume that all offensives will be arrested and charged. Some of the backups, too, if they’re unlucky.”

  “How many people are you estimating?”

  “Only the best and the most dedicated ones, about fifty or more per school. From them, we will select a dozen or so as active and the rest will be the backups or demonstrators.”

  Song Young Tae poured more beer into the glass of the man with the frown and waited. He drank about half of the glass.

  “And why did you want to see us?”

  “I want you to select a few warriors from those in the underground, people who can lead a demonstration. And I want you, Mr. Cho, to be in charge of this operation.”

  “Has everyone agreed to your proposition?”

  “There were fors and againsts, it wasn’t unanimous.”

  “Those who were for it . . . what was their reason?”

  “You’ve already been mentioned as a leader by those who were arrested last semester, so your arrest will not hurt other groups. And you have more than enough experience. And you’ve already done your military service, so at least you will not be dragged back there. And so on.”

  “What was your opinion, Mr. Song?”

  “Of course I was for it.”

  “And those who were against it?”

  “They said since you are already underground, you’re already in a position to work there. That you should remain in school and mentor younger students. Things like that.”

  Mr. Cho raised his head; he seemed conflicted. His eyes became serious again as he talked.

  “Okay, Mr. Song, I want you to be honest. I need to know the reason why I should lead this operation and go to jail.”

  “Fine, Mr. Cho. To be honest, you haven’t achieved anything specific yet, but you’re too well known to be useful underground. As soon as this organization is formed we need to be active. This operation, in truth, is not the real fight, but more of a provocation. If you’re willing to sacrifice yourself for the movement, the organization will achieve success.”

  “If that’s the case . . . I guess I should do it.”

  As soon as Mr. Cho answered, Song Young Tae extended his hand over the table and they shook hands. The other young man who said he had been to my studio put his hand on top of theirs.

  “I’ll join you, Mr. Cho.”

  I was beginning to feel so sorry for them, a lot more than I had at the beginning of dinner. I just sat there drinking beer and kept silent. After we all parted, Young Tae accompanied me back to my studio, and I could not resist telling him.

  “If there’s anything I can do . . . I’ll help, too.”

  Song Young Tae regarded me from behind his thick glasses. In the busy section of the neighborhood, he looked like a modest salary man.

  “You have already started.”

  I did a double take and asked, “What do you mean? What have I done already?”

  “You belong to the publicity department, don’t you?”

  I could not scream, but I was so angry I had to say something.

  “You bastard!”

  18

  I cannot remember what I was doing around the time that was happening. I was gradually getting used to living in a space the size of a little closet, becoming attached to little creatures within the walls and voluntarily erasing things inside my head. What were the principles I lived by? I made the decision to walk a straight line through the world where working people can be owners of their own lives. I thought I had just taken the first few steps. Since I was not there, the world did not belong to me. But maybe my survival inside added a little to the world, too.

  I remember the hunger strikes. I did about thirty of them—we went on hunger strike in every season of every year, in memory of past events, to demand the abolition of the national security law, to demand an improvement in political prisoners’ imprisonment conditions. The strikes were regular events, and each one lasted only three or four days, a week maximum. Still, a hunger strike creates a big fuss, and it is impossible for others to ignore it.

  It begins with a declaration; you read out loud a prepared statement and shout slogans through the bathroom window, your only opening to the outside world, and you sing combat songs. When your voice is gone and your mouth is dry, use the rice bowl to make noises by banging it on the window frame; let everyone in the building know that this is a state of emergency. And finally, start kicking the steel door with two feet. If your feet hurt and you get tired, use the broom or the metal bucket.

  If all of that fails to get any attention, open the tiny window through which the meals come in and make a speech, let it reverberate down the corridor. When you hear the guards running toward your cell, be prepare to defend yourself. Use a chopstick as a weapon and threaten to poke your own eyes out, throw the urine and feces you have collected, and block the door with the mattress. But soon enough, five or six guards will pounce on you and drag you out into the corridor, where they will fold your arms and handcuff them behind, bind your body with ropes, and put a gag in your mouth. The gag is made out of wood and leather strips, and when the large wooden piece is shoved into your mouth it presses your tongue down so you cannot swallow anything, not even your own saliva. The spit runs down your chin. Bound like that, you’re taken to the cell with no window. Most inmates are locked in that thirty-three-square-foot space with six or seven others so that it is impossible to move, but a political prisoner is left alone even in there. Your legs are secured by a pair of shackles attached to a leather harness. Once your eyes get used to the dark cell, you can faintly see the small opening in the door, about the size of a fuel hole of a small stove. It can be opened only from the outside, and it is securely locked except when the meal is pushed through. Inside, you can see the toilet hole in the ground; the walls are covered in thick coatings of cement, and at the very top is a tiny opening for ventilation. You figure out the passing of time by the changing angles and varying degrees of faintness and brightness of the sunlight that somehow seeps in through the tiny opening. It takes a couple of hours to register the sudden change in your environment and grasp the still-existing world outside the door and the ventilation hole. By that point, the front of your shirt is soaked with your saliva, thanks to the gag in your mouth, and you think you are about to go crazy. Words are bubbling up inside of you, they fill up your heart and your throat, and you think everything will just explode if the lid is not removed. You try so hard to scream and yell, but the words cannot move beyond the tip of your tongue, and they slide back down to your throat. After about twelve hours, the little viewing window on top of the door is opened with a metallic sound and through it appears a
pair of eyes that belong to the guard in charge of the torture cell. If the inmate’s eyes are still full of hatred and rage, the viewing window is shut with pitiless speed, but it is most likely you are too exhausted to do anything but lie there by the time they decide to check on you. The door is opened, and the free wind from the corridor rushes into the cell.

  “If you can keep quiet, I’ll take the gag away. Can you be quiet?” the guard in charge says coldly.

  You nod. You nod over and over again, begging him without words. A god’s hand unties the leather harness and removes the gag. You open your mouth as wide as you can and take a few deep breaths, and you use your tongue, finally free, to lick your lips and teeth. The steel door is closed again. You bend your bound legs to raise your knees and sit down leaning against the wall, your hands still handcuffed behind your back.

  It is strange, my regular cell is about the same size, but without the window the world shrinks even further. I feel like I am going to be weighed down by the darkness. I can’t think of anything. It is just like the interrogation room in the basement somewhere, completely white and soundproofed, where my past is blank and I exist as an object. The pain is vivid when I press around the handcuffs with my fingers. There’s a part of my back that itches, my twisted shoulders are cramping, even breathing through my nose and mouth is painful. I start tiny little movements to get out of my present situation where I cannot move, where I cannot lie down on my back or belly. These movements are the only thing I can do to pass time. First, I need to loosen my hands a little. More experienced inmates first try to find a nail or a wire. If they cannot find one in there, they wait for a chance, even if it takes a few days, to ask the guard’s assistant and get it no matter what. Or they beg the guards to put the handcuffs on in front or release them for just a few seconds. When the handcuffs are adjusted the opportunity sometimes arises to turn the wrist at an angle and create a space. Back in the cell, the inmate rubs the dry hand with soap and then pulls the hand out from the handcuffs. When he hears someone approaching, he simply slips it back in and pretends nothing has ever happened.