I could not agree with everything he was saying, but I was attracted to the fact that he was passionate about something and that he knew what he wanted to do. Unlike us, he was keeping a certain distance from reality. And at the same time, his words sounded very abstract. Either way, he was to become my closest friend in that foreign land so far away from home.
The weather was quite unpredictable in June, and I got really sick. And I did not feel good about it. Whenever a change was about to happen to me, I always got really sick and had to suffer through it. A child grows and matures whenever she goes through an illness, but for an adult like me, maybe it was just a shortcut to aging and decline. But then I didn’t really think that was the case. There is a difference between a light spring rain that softly encourages new sprouts and a heavy autumn rain that strengthens the roots deeply embedded in the soil. I wished I could sink lower and deeper into my heart.
I could not leave my bed in the loft. I wrapped myself with a thick sleeping bag and two blankets, but my teeth were still chattering and my body shaking. My neighbor Mari figured out what was going on, and she brought over hot onion soup and chamomile tea spiked with whiskey. She wrapped a thickly knitted scarf around my exposed neck.
“Now you’re becoming a real Berliner.”
Here, I had been told, you suffered from both allergies from May flowers and from the flu, thanks to June showers. The weather was unbelievably capricious. Rain in the morning, sun for a few minutes at noon, hail or snow in the afternoon, then thunder and lightning at night. The phone kept ringing, but I could not leave the loft, so I let the answering machine pick up. From down below and far away, I heard Mr. Yi’s voice.
“Hi, it’s me, Yi Hee Soo. I called you several times but haven’t heard back, so I was just curious. Are you traveling? Anyway, call me when you get back, please.”
When the phone rang again Mari happened to be at my house.
“Mari, can you answer the phone for me?”
She answered the phone, then covered the receiver with one hand. “Yuni, it’s a man named Yi.”
“Aaah, tell him I cannot come to the phone because I’m not feeling well.”
Mari conveyed the message in German to him and hung up the phone.
“Who is Yi?” Mari asked as she came back up to the loft with a cup of hot chamomile tea.
“A boyfriend I acquired recently.”
I took the mug from her, which was so heavy that my wrist could barely hold it up. I took a sip but it did not go down smoothly.
“Ugh, you put too much whiskey in here.”
“Drink it. It’ll warm you up.”
Not wanting to disappoint her, I forced the tea down my throat, one sip at a time.
“Please, try to cut down the liquor. And don’t forget to eat real meals.”
“Yes, I know. I started drinking just at night before I went to bed, to save on heating bills, but the quantity just kept growing. So, tell me about this boyfriend of yours.”
“I don’t know him that well yet. He’s forty-three, divorced with one son.”
“That sounds like information for government officials.”
I smiled meekly, “What do you want me to say?”
“I think both of you are interested . . .”
“How do you know that, Mari?”
She tapped on her wrinkled nose with her index finger and said, “Through here. Even in complete darkness, I know if it’s vodka or schnapps or cognac in the bottle. Just like liquor, love has a very distinctive scent.”
“Did you ever have relationships with men after Stephan went to the sanatorium?”
“Of course, a few of them. There was the doctor, an ordinary guy, and the theater director who was really poor . . . Can’t remember when the last one was.”
“Was he still alive at the sanatorium?”
“Yes, he was. That’s very different. You’re thinking of that man in prison now, aren’t you? But consider how we dream. No one dreams of one thing all night long. When we awake only certain images stay with us clearly, though no one can predict where a dream will go. We do not know how our lives will end. But without the intertwining of disparate elements, we would die without knowing which were the important parts.”
Maybe it was the whiskey in the chamomile tea, but my eyes became heavy and I felt sleepy. Mari tucked me in. “You can’t have the same dream all the time. There will be others. Goodnight.”
When I opened my eyes again, I could not tell how long I had been asleep. The cloth draped across the tall windows was still dimly lit, but I could not tell what time it was. The early summer sun stayed up longer, but the window also remained bright when the terrace above was lit. Then I realized the bell was ringing. And someone was shouting, “Yuni, wake up, open the door! Someone’s here!”
The bell kept ringing, and I took one rung at a time, my legs shaking, down the ladder. I turned the light on.
“Mari?”
Someone else, not German, replied, “It’s me.”
I opened the door. Mari, wearing her nightgown and shawl, was standing there with Mr. Yi.
“What’s going on?” I muttered as I hid halfway behind the door, like a scared child. I was wearing big, baggy pajamas that looked like a man’s, my hair must have been clumped, disheveled, and sticking out, and my skin shadowed and sickly yellow with an expression of total misery.
“Are you really okay?”
Mr. Yi pushed the door and was about to enter, but he stopped and turned around to nod to Mari, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Bitte schön.”
Mr. Yi shut the door firmly. He was carrying something in his hand, and he put the other hand on my shoulder without hesitation.
“Go lie down. There’s no real medicine for a flu. You just keep your body warm and sleep as much as you can.”
It was strange, but listening to a man’s voice speaking my own language made me feel so warm, yet also made me want to cry. I did not dare go up the ladder to the loft and leave him. I found a blue tartan blanket that I normally used in the park and sat down on the reclining chair. He was about to enter the kitchen, as if he had been to my house several times. I was barely able to speak but I managed to ask in the softest whisper, “What are you doing?”
“Oh, I bought a few things from the Korean grocery store. Let’s treat this illness our way. A warm and spicy soup with bean sprouts, and since they didn’t have abalone, I’ll make you pine nut porridge.”
Amazed, I had to laugh a little. He stuck out one finger and shook it, just like he did when we first met in the subway.
“I’m not going to let you laugh at my hobby. Stay there, don’t do anything.”
“Fine. What time is it anyway?”
“A little after nine in the evening.”
The kitchen door was closed, and through the crack I saw him turn the light on. There was a clattering noise, the sound of cupboard doors and drawers opening and closing, the rhythmic beat of the knife moving on the cutting board, all of them made me fantasize that I had returned home. The sound of water flowing from the faucet, and the low whistling, too. I don’t know how long it took. Something smelled good, just like the smell from the kitchen at home. The door opened and I laughed so hard that I began to cough.
He was wearing my apron. It was something I grabbed at Ikea and decorated with various-sized strawberries. Mr. Yi set the table with different bowls and dishes, remembering to place a cork potholder under the pot. I could not resist the smell anymore, so I slowly dragged myself to the table, still wrapped in the blanket.
He took the lid off and filled a bowl with a ladle. It was a real miracle, the soup with bean sprouts, and white porridge with pine nuts, and two kinds of kimchi—where he found them I had no idea. As I took a spoonful of hot broth, I exhaled involuntarily. The broth was seasoned perfectly with red pepper flakes sunken to the bottom. He sat across from me and grinned as he watched me, like a parent. I just kept drinking the broth. Mr. Yi took a spoonful, too,
and said, “Here, there’s a different word for a flu.”
“What . . . ?”
“Loneliness.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Most illnesses can be cured at least halfway by just eating Korean food.”
The bowl of soup was done, and then so was the porridge, accompanied by the crunchy, savory kimchi.
“What are you, a magician? Where did you get the kimchi?”
“Would you be disappointed if I told you that I bought it from the store?”
“No matter what, the soup was just amazing.”
I wiped the beads of sweat around my nose with a napkin.
“Well, it’s time to clean up.”
He got up to get the dishes, and I tried to stop him.
“Please, don’t. I’ll do them later.”
“When you volunteer, you might as well go all the way. Then the gratitude will be as plentiful as your offer.”
Again there was a clattering noise, the sound of water, him whistling. My body felt so warm and relaxed, and I fell asleep before I knew it. When I opened my eyes again, the lights hanging from the ceiling were turned off, only one lamp by the wall was on. It was so quiet. I got up and sat down. There was the sound of someone breathing. I looked around and found Mr. Yi sitting on what looked like a beach chair, his legs stretched out, asleep. He had found a square pillow, placed it on his belly, and was hugging it with both arms as he slept. I picked up the tartan blanket that I had wrapped myself with, and I approached him as quietly as I could to cover him with it. I quietly chuckled a little, too. Because I put the blanket on top of the pillow, it looked like he had an enormous belly. I went into the kitchen. My goodness. In the plastic dish rack, dishes and bowls were arranged according to their sizes, each one of them washed and dried perfectly. Then I found a note attached to a shelf.
I brought over some spices, so I organized them a little. It will be easier for you if you label them later. As for soy sauce, I combined it with what you already had and put it in the cupboard under the gas stove with the oil. Arranged on the top shelf, in order, are: red pepper flakes, black pepper, dried parsley, garlic powder, bay leaves, bouillon cubes, salt, and sesame seeds. Bean paste and fermented bean paste are in the refrigerator. It’s not from the store, Mrs. Shin provided them.
He must have thought that after I fell asleep he would clean up the whole kitchen and go. When he was done, he would have tiptoed around the house to turn off the lights and thought he would take a little rest, and then he must have just fallen asleep. I did not wake him, I just went back up to the loft and lay down on my bed. He did not snore, but he smacked his lips from time to time, as if he was eating something in his sleep, like a child. For the first time in a long time I felt safe and not alone, and it felt really nice. That was how we spent our first night together.
Many people left Berlin in July. They went to the beach, the mountains, southern Germany, or abroad. Students went back home or to West Germany, where there were more summer jobs available. Many Korean students also went home for the summer, and only the elderly and their dogs remained in the parks. The days got longer and longer, and the dark blue of dusk was still visible at ten at night. I would often think that it was still early in the evening, but if I checked my watch it would be quite late at night. I told you that I got quite close to the horse chestnut tree outside my kitchen window, didn’t I? Its thick branches hung heavily next to my window, and on windy days the branches and leaves touching my window sounded like they wanted to talk to me. Often Mr. Yi would appear with groceries and a plan to cook something delicious. One hot summer evening, he came with thin noodles and young radish kimchi in one of the large, round jars that the Germans used to store fruit jams. I was so surprised, because all I could find at the groceries, even in the Turkish stores, was napa cabbage, Chinese napa cabbage at that. Where did he find young radishes? He told me that there was a Korean man who came to Germany as a miner. He had rented a parcel of farmland nearby, and he was growing all sorts of our vegetables there. The bestselling item in summer was the young radishes. Of course, the person who bought the young radishes and turned them into edible kimchi was Mr. Yi Hee Soo himself. We all know that you need to salt the vegetable first and add lots of seasonings. But that day I found out for the first time that you could season it by submerging it in saltwater with a cheesecloth pouch filled with a mixture of glutinous rice powder and red pepper. Afterward, you use this liquid from the kimchi and mix it with stock for the noodles, but you never use meat, as it’s not refreshing in summer. Using large dried anchovies with the heads and innards trimmed, sauté them in a dry pan, then start cooking them in cold water and take them out when the water boils. That way, the stock is not too fishy, just mildly flavorful. Mix the cooled-down stock with the kimchi liquid. Cook the thin white noodles and rinse them in cold water, place them in a bowl with young radish kimchi on top, and then add the liquid. We sat facing each other, so close that our heads were almost touching, around the tiny table by the window. Behind the glass the horse chestnut tree danced with the wind, and we ate the cold noodles. I remember that summer in Berlin, slurping endlessly, with no pretension whatsoever, it all tasted so good. As the tree moved, it sounded like it was laughing out loud.
The midpoint between our houses was where Volkspark intersected Bundesallee, and we would leave our houses and meet at the grassy area near the children’s playground. Already, he and I had entered into each other’s daily lives.
One day at the end of that summer, we had to go back to his house from Volkspark. The rain was pouring down, so we were waiting for the rain to stop, and I stayed there overnight. The sound of thunder was really loud. Even the windows shook. Both of us were startled and flinched a little, shouting, What is going on?
It became colder and I put on a large sweatshirt that he handed me. As the water flowed down the drain, it sounded as if we were near a brook. From the sweatshirt, especially around the neck and the chest, came the scent of his aftershave and cigars. Such smells were already familiar to me. I was sitting on the one easy chair in his house, the one covered in corduroy, with my legs up, and Mr. Yi was sitting a little bit away from me, by the wooden table with his feet on it. We drank freshly brewed coffee in large mugs, each of us holding our mugs with both hands. With the first sip, my throat warmed up but a chill went down my spine. My lower belly ached a little, and I wanted to pee. I did not finish half the cup of coffee before I went to the bathroom. After I emptied my bladder, I wanted to soak in hot water.
“I’m going to take a bath!” I shouted to him through the closed door.
I turned the water on, took off the sweatshirt permeated with his scent, and poured some bubble bath in. He knocked on the door.
“Yes?”
What was really not like me, when I thought about it later, was that I was not surprised or taken aback. Already, we were that much part of each other’s lives.
“Here,” he mumbled from behind the door.
I opened it a little to let his hand in. It was holding a glass full of red wine. He leaned through the gap. “It will relax you. Make you feel better.”
I took the wine glass and went into the bathtub filled with white bubbles. The water warmly enveloped my whole body. I put the glass down on one end of the tub and enjoyed the feeling of my body unwinding little by little. I took a sip from the glass, and then another sip, and as the slightly bitter sour taste lingered at the tip of my tongue I felt my body awakening. For a long time, I had been asexual. I had sometimes felt certain urges, maybe a few times a year. But I always just went back to sleep, lonely and weary, like a patient recovering from surgery imagining all the wonderful things to eat but just drinking a cup of water to appease the appetite. I had never told anyone about this, but for a long time I slept with extra pillows in my bed. It just felt so empty. I placed them all around me, and as I tossed and turned I hugged them with my arms or legs.
After the bath, I wiped the mist on the ba
throom mirror, and in an instant before the steam covered it again, I saw my body, flushed like a child’s. I did not put the sweatshirt on, instead I took the white terrycloth robe hanging on the door. His robe was too big for me, the hem reached the ground, and I had to roll up the sleeves a couple of times.
I lay down on a chair for a while, and although I could hear everything I could not move, as if I was under hypnosis. I knew he was near me because of the scent of his cigar. Neither of us said a word, we just touched and confirmed each other’s intentions and made love. I was afraid. To me this was just like the wall that stood somewhere in Berlin, obstinate and unavoidable. Knowing that the way ahead would be blocked I would turn even before I could see it. We started that way, two people wandering along an endless wall.
The first night I spent with him, I could not sleep deeply. I kept waking up, and telling myself to sleep, then falling asleep again, opening my eyes and realizing a couple of hours had passed with no trace, like I had a light fever. As I tossed my head on his arm and saw behind his shoulder the dawn seeping in through the window, I realized how much I wanted him. We could not spend a day without seeing each other, and ran to our respective apartments whenever we could, so that sometimes we would end up missing each other. Sometimes I would just confirm his presence at his house by watching the light come from his window, and then go back the way I had come.
What did we do until that autumn? We did not even notice that the season was changing. He and I formed a single universe. In a short period of time I got to know most of his friends, from his fellow researchers and school friends, to Korean-German acquaintances and waiters at the Korean restaurants and shops, to his neighbors.
The Old Garden Page 51
