Korean Short Stories
Gong Sun-Ok Merrily Through the Night 명랑한 밤길 Translated by Hee Young Kim
Information This work was previously published in New Writing from Korea . Please contact the LTI Korea Library. library@klti.or.kr
About Gong Sun-Ok Gong Sun-Ok, in contrast, portrays traditional life in rural areas in reflection of her hometown in the southern Jeolla province Gong Sun-ok debuted in 1991 with her novella Seeds of Fire. Gong's female characters reside at the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder, including the girl in That’s Life, a squatter living in a freezing derelict apartment building without heat or electricity who ultimately loses her life in a butane gas accident. The city of Gwangju is another reoccurring motif in Gong’s work. Her husband is a survivor of the Gwangju uprising, a pro-democracy movement suppressed by the South Korean government in 1980. Gong lived not far from the scene of the protest and the university she briefly attended was also in Gwangju. Gong’s debut work Seeds of Fire portrays the harrowing experience and resulting trauma of the men who had taken part in the Gwangju Democratization Movement. Her representative short stories A Thirsty Season, Alibi for the Next Season, and the novel When I Was Most Beautiful are also set in Gwangju. In her work, Gong portrays the sorrow and loss of Gwangju citizens who have personally experienced these atrocities. Nevertheless, hope can still be found in Gong’s work—not vague optimism, but hope in the fierce will of people who try to live cheerfully in the midst of pain. LTI Korea eLibrary: http://library.klti.or.kr/node/12
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Merrily Through the Night The rain was hard and tedious. The whole house reeked of dampness. The rainy season started a week ago. Since then it had rained incessantly. Even so, I still can't let go, so I sing to myself. Our love isn't over yet. . . . Let's fly away to where my love lies breathing. . . . To the one who keeps me awake. . . . Fly, fly through this night. . . . To the one who keeps me awake. . . . Rainy days bring to mind my first love. Every time I think of him, my heart suffers. I hope the rainy season will end soon. Requested by the head nurse at Sacred Heart Hospital . . . "Banana Tree" by Su & Jin. . . We must live out our lives like a flame, today, just like we did yesterday. Like the grass in the field, we mustn't fall. We must be kind and tender toward strangers. Even when our backs are turned, we mustn't hate. Let's now listen to Lee Eun-mi's cover of "As I Turn Thirty." Another day recedes away, like the smoke I've exhaled. Even as I live my life I'm not sure what I'm filling my too-small memory with. It just keeps receding further away. I used to think my youth was here to stay. The sound of the radio will probably be heard to the end of the world. Even on the day the world ends, the radio will play the songs of Cho Yong-pil, Yun Do-hyeon, Su & Jin and Lee Eun-mi. Mankind may vanish, but the radio will last forever. Mom, who just turned sixty, has been losing her senses rapidly in the past week, since the rainy season began. The all-pervading dampness afflicted her bones and flesh, and pained her heart. "Your father abandoned me." Mom began to show signs of dementia exactly four days after Father's funeral last year. From then on, she mourned, saying that he had abandoned her. I didn't notice at first; only after she repeated the same words over and over for a month, did I realize that it was dementia. But I was at a loss. Only twenty-one then, I didn't know what to do about her. The only certainty was that I could no longer leave Mom for some distant place. I had gone to nursing school only because I longed to leave this town, where I had been born and raised, to go live some place faraway, in a city somewhere. As soon as I finished, my father passed away and my siblings went their separate ways; only Mom and I remained. My brothers said, "There are two doctors' offices in town."
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My sister added, "There's also a dentist's office and a traditional medicine clinic." My two older brothers were credit delinquents and my older sister was a single mother. Together, the two brothers had obtained a loan under joint liability; one brother went completely bankrupt while running a flower greenhouse because it collapsed during a typhoon; and the other brother also became bankrupt because he couldn't pay his bankrupt brother's debt. Holding an umbrella, I walked out to the yard and pick some curled mallow. "That's why I'm hurting like this. Here, here and here." Ten leaves would be plenty. But the mallow had become so extremely tough that it was hard to pick just ten. "Did your father really abandon me?" Should I just give up? When I saw the blooming mallow, I was suddenly overcome with fear. Looking at the leaves that had grown tough right after soft, beautiful flowers began to bud, I was taken by surprise by a vague despair about life that was proportional to the joy I felt from the tender mallow; the happiness of picking its soft leaves and cooking a soybean paste stew with them. I only made the stew twice while growing the mallow. I wasn't upset that I only cooked with it twice; but rather I was scared that I'd completely forgotten about the mallow patch during the whole time the tender mallow was blossoming, scared of what I'd been doing then. I shuddered at the foreboding that I would come to the mallow patch, flop down on the ground, and weep as I tried to look for the vanished mallow, only after its flowers had bloomed and wilted, and the mallow had aged and melted away. In any case, I tried to pick the mallow leaves that still had a little tenderness left in them. No matter how much it rained, the sterile-looking patch only laid bare the menacing flesh of its rocky soil, like the teeth of an old man whose gums have been cut away. But unlike the rocky mallow patch, the hot pepper patch, mingled with pigweed and foxtail, smelled of rich, sticky soil. "Your father said he's coming." I picked just three hot peppers. Although Mom ate only one each meal, she always wanted me to pick more. For dinner I would have to eat the two stinging hot peppers I picked along with the one meant for Mom. Then I would suffer from heartburn at night. "When did your father say he was coming?" Mallow soup, a small serving of soybean paste, and three hot peppers were the only
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things set on the table for dinner. Just as I was about to start, something bright glimmered in the tomato patch. I rushed back to the muddy yard. Only two of the cherry tomatoes had ripened red. Once they were added, it looked like two flower lights were lit on the barren dinner table. With the two cherry tomatoes placed between us, we finally began to eat, ever so slowly. *
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On Saturdays, Yonsei Family Practice closed at three in the afternoon. The doctor had already left work and Sua and I were about to lock the entrance door.
After closing the
clinic, we were going to stroll along the riverbank that meandered through the town, grab something to drink from a store, and then go home. Along the way, perhaps I would get a chance to listen to the latest releases that Sua had downloaded onto her new MP3 player. In the spring, cherry blossoms bloomed along the bank. If Sua and I strolled there, the young men of this town with so few young women would dazzle us with stares. If the wind blew, our baby blue dress and green flared skirt-which we'd planned out in advance-would wrap softly around our legs. And that would be it. We would soon each be on our quiet walk home. Otherwise, these men who had been our classmates, or went to our school at some point, might not leave us alone.
Besides, there were noticeably
more foreign workers these days. On my way home, Manbae, who owned a plastic factory in the rural industrial area, invited me to have coffee, so I stopped by his factory where I saw foreign workers for the first time. Some time ago, a furniture factory, a medical equipment factory, and a plastic factory had started springing up on the hills and fields, and the area was later designated as an official "rural industrial area." While raising about 200 pigs near the industrial area, Manbae suffered some disgrace over a sewage disposal violation-he was called into the police station and what not; he then turned the pigpen into an injectionmolding factory. And some time ago, foreign factory workers began to appear as well. The inside of the factory vibrated with the noise of injection molders, plastic being molded, and the radio. The machines and radio all shrieked, shooting up to the factory ceiling and plummeting back to the floor. When a foreign worker, who had been singing
along to an old-fashioned teuroteu ballad on the radio, sneaked a glance at me, Manbae lashed out at him, "Listen, bastard, stop ogling and go back to work! Back to work!" The foreign worker with his dark face, dark neck and hands, slim build, and narrow eyes grinned and replied, "Batard, stop ogring and back!" I lost interest in coffee and just about everything else. Sua didn't care for anyone who worked in the industrial complex, whether he was a factory owner or employee; she said they were so ignorant, so crass, so uncultured, all so vulgar. She must have had an experience similar to my encounter that evening. I agreed with her. In any case, Manbae was definitely a questionable character. And neither Manbae who ran his own factory nor any of the factory workers had the capacity to open up a new world for me. Even the mere sight of them made me sick and tired. But as two of the only young women in the area besides the coffee shop hostesses, we still walked along the riverbank with its fluttering cherry blossoms because we were young. Our youthful passions couldn't possibly resist strolling through spring blossoms. On our stroll, our skirts would wrap around our legs, tickling us, so anything would make us burst out laughing. But just as we were about to close the clinic, a white jeep pulled up in front of us, and a good-looking man got out and approached Sua and me, his face distorted from pain. At one glance, I could tell that he was not one of the local factory workers. "My chest hurts so much." He panted as he spoke. It sounded more like a groan. But Sua replied coldly. "It's closing time." I sensed that the man was ignoring her, and instead was looking imploringly at me. I hurriedly opened the door. I phoned the doctor but he didn't answer. The recently divorced doctor had lately been preoccupied with dating women and on Saturdays, in particular, he was absentminded when he saw patients. He hadn't the slightest interest in the local women. As soon as he got off work, he returned to his home in the city, one and a half hours away by car. Perhaps he lived in the city because he was afraid that one of the local women might molest him if he lived in the area. After work over drinks, Sua and I found fault with him, for he never gave us a friendly glance or word. We didn't know if the doctor also spoke ill of us when he was in the city. Without the doctor in the clinic, I laid the man down on a cot and unfastened the buttons on his shirt. Then I phoned the doctor again but he still didn't answer. Sua left me with
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the man and took off. Only the patient and I remained. Just a nurse's aide, I didn't know what to do. I brought him some water. The man drank it. But the pain in his chest didn't seem to go away. I patted his back. He stayed still. I massaged his arms and legs. I also wiped the sweat off his forehead. I did my best within my limits as a nurse's aide to look after the patient. Soon the patient's condition improved little by little. I watched him quietly. His eyes brimmed with tears. The patient, no, the man grinned all of a sudden. Though I had just wiped off his sweat, new beads of sweat had formed all over his forehead again. With the instincts of a caretaker, I placed a towel on his forehead. He said there was no need. At that dire moment, I felt self-conscious. The pride of having done my professional best and the self-consciousness of standing before a good-looking stranger sprang up in me at once. "Thank you," he said. I was genuinely embarrassed, at a loss. He smiled widely as he watched me, struggling with embarrassment. He spoke again, stammering a little. He spoke again, stammering a little. "I've got to quit smoking. Anyway, I-I should repay you for your kindness." "What do you mean by that?" I just about flew out of my skin this time. I was at a loss after he thanked me. And I jumped up when he said he would repay me. I only just turned twenty-one. This time, he didn't stammer, and spoke with confidence. "You practically saved my life. I'd like to pay you back." I couldn't help lowering my head. The beating of my trembling heart shook in my ears. I felt like I would be a bad person if I didn't give him a chance to repay me. So I finally agreed. "Fine, if you insist." He thanked me once again with confidence. He left after getting my phone number and giving me his. He must have been too busy to pay me back then. * I got a call from Sua that night. She asked what had happened with the man. I said I'd
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unbuttoned his shirt for him. "You unbuttoned his shirt?" I told her that I then brought him some water and patted his back. "You patted his back?" I added that I then massaged his arms and legs, and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Sua suddenly shrieked. "Oh my god!" I stopped and then asked, "Can I continue?" She told me to go on. "When I wiped his forehead because he was sweating, he thanked me. And he said he would repay me for my kindness." "He said that?" "Yup, he said he would pay me and got my number." There was a beep-beep on her line. She must have installed a device that signals if another incoming call while you're on the phone. I didn't know where or how to install it. But I knew what that beep was, and yet I acted startled, pretending not to know. "What's that sound?" "Oh, I must be getting another call. Yeoni, let me tell you something. The more you like a guy, you have to play it cool." "Okay." Sua hung up quickly. As soon as I got off the phone, it rang again. "What?" "I want to pay you back for earlier." It wasn't Sua. It was him. Just like Sua said, play it cool. "Um. . . I-it's late." "I've been busy." With the phone in my hand, I'd already started getting dressed. The spring night was chilly. Underneath the thin blouse I'd thrown on in a hurry, I got goose bumps on my skin. I climbed into his white SUV. He turned on the heater for me. He also turned on the music. I whispered softly, Starry Night. "It's actually 'Merci Cherie' by Frank Pourcel." I was embarrassed. And, in an instant, my respect for him grew. I thought a man who
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had the ability to correctly explain something certainly deserved a woman's respect. The shame I felt for myself and the respect I felt for him made me sad. He knew the exact title and performer of a song I had only known as the theme from the radio program called Starry Night. I sensed that he and I belonged to different worlds, and so I felt sad. It was an inconsolable sadness. He drove his car along the starry night road for about ten minutes. He took me to his place. He lived in the very house that some time ago Sua had said she really wanted to step inside some day. Once, after work, she had even taken me right to the house. Going from the clinic, you passed my house, then the man's house and then Sua's house. I didn't pass by his house on my way home, but Sua always did. At some point she must have noticed something out of the ordinary about the place. It had been night. Music had been flowing softly out of his house. Sua whispered to me. "Someday I really want to step inside this house." "Do you know who lives here?" "Probably a handsome man by himself." "How do you know that?" "I always see only his laundry hanging out to dry." The house looked ordinary from the outside. Just a regular country home. The only way it was different from the other houses was that there were some pansies planted along the entrance. The locals did not plant things like pansies. He parked the car at the front gate and led me inside his house somewhat furtively, as if he were guiding me into a secret garden. As he opened the bedroom door, I saw more books than I'd ever seen in other homes. There were books lining the shelves and piled up on the floor. It wasn't just books. Movie posters, postcards, and newspaper clippings were pinned to the bookshelves and walls. Overall, the room was neat. He put on some music again after entering the house. This time, I didn't name the song aloud but just mouthed it to myself. Taster's Choice. Or was it Esquire footwear? He brought out coffee he'd just brewed. Its dark aroma filled the room. "You know this song, right? Billie Holiday's 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.'" Deftly and rather inconsiderately-and much too fast for me-he pronounced the song title, which I didn't catch at all. The names of the songs he pronounced were unfamiliar and awkward. Strangely enough, I was beginning to get a little angry. Suddenly, I wanted to
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ask him something. You think you're repaying me by giving me coffee and playing some music? Was Mom wandering around the yard in search of her daughter who'd snuck out of the house? Did she stagger out of the alley and start crying as she struck the ground with her cane? If someone asked her, would she lament her fate as she continued to cry? My baby has abandoned me, just like her father. She left because she didn't want to cook for me, wash my clothes, or live with me anymore. Even so, I couldn't bring myself to leave either. The sensation of the unfamiliar-and therefore sweet and sticky-air sinking into my body and flooding my soul wasn't unpleasant. More than anything, I must have been excited by the fact that he was not one of the local men. He started to call at night and invited me out. He came to pick me up and later brought me home. He played music both in the car and at home. Sometimes I recognized the music, but other times I hadn't heard it before. I'd never heard the music that was playing the night of our first kiss. I hoped he would tell me the name of the song. I liked it when he told me things I didn't know. But no matter how much I tried, I couldn't retain the names of the songs. For me, they were the music of a very challenging, distant place. "What's this song called?" Breathing hot air into my mouth, he answered immediately as though song titles mattered little to him. And as always he answered inconsiderately fast, "It's Maria Bergonza's 'Fatum by B?vinda.'" I recalled having heard before the song that played as he stopped kissing me to unbutton my blouse. I mulled over when and where I had heard that music. Then I let out a small cry. It was Speed 011 Wireless. Perhaps assuming that his touch had caused me to cry, he was only focused on delving into my bosom, like a hungry cub. To get to his house from mine, we had to drive along the embankment, cross the bridge over the river, and go past a farm road, then past the rice mill, which had been shut down. The mill with its rusty red tin roof had been untended to for three years now. Every time we passed the mill, he slowed down. I knew what he had in mind when he did that. But he never once nudged me inside the mill. And when he suddenly stopped the car in front of the mill, I wrapped my arms tightly around his head, which felt smaller than I had expected. His hair smelled of a shampoo that I'd never smelled before. I wanted to know the name of the scent in his shampoo. But I didn't have the guts to ask him what the scent was, so I asked him what shampoo he used. After staring into my
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face just as he had when I'd placed a towel on his forehead to wipe off his sweat, he blurted out, "It's Double Rich Shampoo." And on that spring night in my twenty-first year, I felt like I was traveling to a distant land that I couldn't reach without him. Journeying to a remote, unfamiliar land I couldn't possibly reach on my own, that I could only reach with him, made me sad. When I returned home after the beautiful and sad and bittersweet journey was over, I had to face a sight both familiar and doleful, because of its familiarity. Mom had wandered around the hollow yard all night, waiting for me. * He continued to call but gradually stopped picking me up. "Take a cab here." Are you going to give me the cab fare? But I said nothing. Then he whispered, like he was breathing hot steam into my ear. "It's just that I can't wait to see you." I wavered. Then pick me up in your car. "I'm making something delicious." Oh, he can't pick me up because he's cooking. I took a cab. As soon as I entered, the sound of his voice gentle enveloped me with a "come on in." He had made a stew with canned saury. As he took a spoonful of the stew, he asked me, "Does your family do much farming?" "Does your family do much farming?" "Yes." My family did not have any land or anyone to farm it. "Who does the farming? "My mom." I didn't want to tell him that my mom, who had just turned sixty, had dementia. "Oh, that's great. Living in the countryside, I should be farming, too." There was no music that night. Feeling awkward about continuing to lie, I changed the subject. "Aren't you going to play some music?" "Music? My laptop isn't working. It's on the fritz."
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"You can't play music without the laptop?" "Not just music. I can't write either." So I learned that he was a 'writer' though I had no idea what kind. "Anyway, what do you grow on your farm?" "All sorts of things. Hot peppers, green onions, spinach, green lettuce, crown daisy, eggplant, chicory, tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, curled mallow..." "They must taste great. The vegetables you grow yourself taste better, right?" "Sure. But why did you ask if we had a farm?" "Well, I thought this stew would taste fantastic if I chopped up some home-grown organic peppers and green onions, and added them. "Then I'll bring you some." "Really?" "Sure." He suddenly rejoiced and kissed my forehead. Then with a gentle gaze, he said, "My lovely sweetheart, I will protect you." That night, the writer, who couldn't write without his laptop, got too drunk to take me home. I walked along the night road. And I thought of Mom. On nights like this, is there a way I can keep her from circling the yard as she waited for me? After thinking long and hard, I decided it would be good to get Mom to do some farming. They said keeping your hands busy was good for dementia. Mom didn't know how to play cards, and it's not like she could take piano lessons at her age just to keep her busy. Part of my reasoning was I thought I heard on the radio that exposure to greenery was important for depressive dementia. Plus, Mom had plenty of farming experience. But my family no longer owned a field out back, let alone any farmland. Our old fertile field had long disappeared because our neighbor had bought up all the land including the small field at the back of our house, and one day started stacking up cement blocks to build condos aimed at foreign workers. We didn't get a cement concrete yard done because we couldn't afford it, but it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. At least we could save on groceries if we grew our own vegetables. I kept reminding myself that the reason I was tilling the yard day and night wasn't in order to give him organic vegetables. But when the vegetable garden yielded its first crop of hot peppers, he was the first person I thought of, and I hoped he would invite me
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over. But he didn't call. Soon there were so many clusters of peppers that I thought the branches might droop. Every morning I was almost afraid to see how many more peppers had appeared overnight. And what about the lettuce plants? Mom wept as she trimmed the lettuce leave that had grown so dense. It had always been in her nature to treat the crops as if they were her own children; that didn't seem to have changed. "Why doesn't your father trim these?" Mom knew well that the lettuce leaves could rot and dissolve from the rain one day, if you didn't trim them. She handed me the trimmed lettuce leaves. "Fix some lettuce kimchi for your father." After our dreary dinner, I snipped the ends off the lettuce leaves that Mom had trimmed and wrapped them up in newspaper. I also placed some hot peppers in a plastic container, and put some chicory I picked in a plastic bag. Then I left for his house. Mom must have forgotten that she had told me to make lettuce kimchi for Dad. I went to make lettuce kimchi for the man who had surely forgotten that he'd been elated by my offer to bring him organic vegetables. For some reason, he didn't let me into the house. I could tell right away that he had company. I thought it was probably a woman and that it might be Sua. Although he stood blocking the doorway, I saw a pair of woman's sandals between his legs that looked similar to Sua's. I knew that she had closed her fixed deposit account and withdrawn the balance, which she had been saving up diligently for the past year. I also knew that she had gone to Electronic Land in the city last weekend. Had she bought a laptop there? Music was flowing out of his house. Was the music coming from the laptop Sua brought over? I handed him the things I'd brought for him. He marveled aloud several times. But his admiration was oddly polite and formal. Could it be that he'd decided to just be polite with me when he stopped inviting me over? "Thank you, this looks great. But you've given me too many peppers." "We have so much of them. Last spring we bought fifty plants at the market. We seem to have planted too much lettuce, too. The soil isn't particularly fertile, but they grow like shoots. You see the chicory there? It looks tough but it was grown outdoors, so it's quite savory. You can tell the difference just by its color." "Indeed. Thanks again." "Uh, you know, I think the soil here is more fertile than our yard. And it'll look better overgrown with vegetables rather than grass. Could I clear it for you some time?"
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"That's okay, don't worry about it." "You see, because I grew up in a family of farmers, I'm good at this stuff." "Alright, but not tonight." "Oh. Good night then." I left his house and plodded along the night road. Mom was sitting down in the yard, trimming the lettuce in the moonlight. "Did you make lettuce kimchi for your father?"
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"I did, Mom." I decided to quit working at the Yonsei Family Practice and agreed to start
at Kim's
traditional medicine clinic, which was going to reopen after expansion. Yonsei was an easier and better-paying job, but I didn't think I could act as if nothing had happened around Sua, who might be visiting the man every night. While waiting for Kim's to reopen, the rainy season began. It rained wildly and tediously. * After dinner I picked some hot peppers, lettuce, chicory and eggplants. I wrapped them up in newspaper and put them in a plastic bag. "Make some lettuce kimchi for your father." "Okay, Mom. I'll go do that." I answered merrily like the twenty one year old woman I was. In one corner of the sky after the rain, I could see stars for the first time in a long while. They were glimmering precariously through a small fissure in the thick clouds. It was an hour's walk to his house. I went slowly along the night road. There were times I was scared on my way home from work after working late or hanging out in town. But I wasn't now. As I handed him the hot peppers, lettuce, chicory and eggplants that I had taken pains to grow without chemicals, I was going to ask him: Have you forgotten what you said to me that night when you wanted to see me and invited me out? That night when you breathed hot air into my ears, didn't you ask me if I was really going to bring you organic vegetables from my garden? Also: Have you forgotten the things you said with your head thrust into my breasts? Then I remembered what he'd said and done to me on the nights he picked me up and took me to his place. If he didn't remember, then that made him a downright criminal. He was home. Music was playing inside the house, and he didn't let me in again. I held
out the thing I'd brought for him. The few glimmering stars had already begun to recede behind the thick clouds. "They're organic vegetables." "Organic or not, please stop bringing them." "For you, I cleared the yard and grew a garden throughout last spring, all so that I could bring you these organic vegetables. Sometimes my hands even bled from plowing. " "I never asked you to plow until you bled." "Because of the cab fare to your place, I couldn't even install the . . . device that lets you know there's another call when you're on the phone, even though everyone else has it." Was that true? I just had no other words to express my sadness, my rage and unfamiliar feelings to him. So I couldn't help blurting out some nonsense about a call-waiting device. I was afraid to tell him what I was really thinking: you are a real jerk. "What device?" Suddenly feeling foolish, I didn't answer. "It's not called a device. It's called a service. Don't you know anything?" he sneered at me. And that instantly gave me the courage to continue. "Device, service, it doesn't matter. Unlike some people, I don't have an MP3 player and I can't buy you a laptop. All I have to offer are organic vegetables. You shouldn't have toyed with me. I'm only 21. Aren't you afraid of how you'll pay for what you've done to a 21-year-old? After all, you're an educated person. Sure, you can't write without a laptop, but you're still someone who can afford to live and write in a house like this, right?" My heart quivered violently, but I spoke as slowly and clearly as I could. "Where's this coming from? I've been so good to you. Don't you remember all the times I cooked and played music for you? If you do, then you shouldn't be acting like this. What you're doing now is throwing a tantrum. You think you're the only one who knows how to throw a fit? I could if I wanted to, but when have I lost my temper with you? Just take the rice mill, for instance. When we passed it that night, I could have had my way with you if I wanted. But I was never rough with you. I didn't really think I needed to explain myself to you, but think about it. If I was such a big shot writer, what would I be doing here? If I wasn't in such a rut, I'm not someone who'd take all this crap from a twerp like you, either. Do I seem like a nobody to you just because I live here like this? Shit, I don't want any of this, take it with you. You're just a scheming little country slut. Just my shitty
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luck!" He threw the plastic bag and I collected the hot peppers, lettuce, chicory and eggplants that spilled out. My hands shook and my heart trembled even more. There were no tears. The rain started pouring down.
As I walked in the rain, someone was also walking behind me. The night was pitch-dark. It was a man. From the talking, I could tell there were two people. I was scared. On my way to the man's house, I hadn't been scared because of the force of my rage at the time. But on the way back, I was afraid. I was afraid of the man, who carpet-bombed me with verbal assaults, afraid of the pitch-dark night, and afraid of the strangers following me. That night every bone in my body felt that the world was a frightening place. I ran soundlessly. Then tears gushed out of my eyes. The tears blinded me for a moment and I tripped. One of my shoes fell off and something sharp pricked my bare foot. After I took cover inside the mill, I realized I'd lost the plastic bag with the vegetables. The men stopped just in front of the mill. "Wait, what's this?" Under the eaves of the mill's roof, the two men opened up what they found. I hid myself completely in the darkness and held my breath. "Kanchu, is it money?" "No, Sabudin, it's hot peppers. There's also lettuce. On payday, we drink soju and have pork belly wrapped in lettuce." Was he excited by the mere thought of it? Kanchu started singing: I must have been in love. Can't forget, can't stop thinking about you. I can't stand it, I regret it. I must be waiting for you. Hiding in the dark, I found myself mouthing along to the song they were singing. I must be a fool who can't say anything. Not even the everyday 'how are you?' You must be happy. You're still smiling and it makes me feel so small. They suddenly stopped singing. I stopped as well. The sound of the rain grew stronger and heavier. "Sabudin, I feel so bad for Boss."
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"I hated him so much, Kanchu. You ruined our plan today." "I can't say, Boss, gimme money. Boss has no money. His body sick. His mother sick. Boss is sad." "Still, you had to tell him." "Me, I can't say, Boss, gimme money. Why? Boss has no money." "Kanchu, when are you leaving?" "Day after tomorrow. Two nights from now. Tomorrow I go to city and I buy Yun Do Hyun CDs, rubber gloves, soju, clothes, shoes and many things. I'm a big fan of Yun Do Hyun." "Kanchu, what are you going to do when you return to your country?" "Not sure. When I return, I see my Mom, Dad, sisters and cousins, and I climb the mountain to see the moon. I ask the moon what to do. What about you?" "My younger sister married a Korean. She's in the country. Her husband beat her. She's really sad. My older brother married a Korean woman. She ran away. He has a kid. He and his son are really sad. My parents passed away. I have no one in Bangladesh even if I return home. Everyone's in Korea. I can't go back. My brother got hurt. He lost his finger. I have to take care of my nephew." "Sabudin, when I sad in Korea, I sang. All Korean songs. Boss swears so much. My heart beat terribly, right here. My fingers shake terribly. I cry so much. Then I sang. No girlfriend, no love. Not fair. So I sang again. Then I fall asleep. And I see the moon in my dream. The big beautiful moon of Nepal." Kanchu started singing again. In the fall I wait for you in front of the post office. I watch the golden gingko leaves blowing away by the wind. From a distance I see you among other passers-by. Still hidden in the darkness, I sang along once more. How long do the beautiful things of the world last? Could everything under the sun make it on their own like the flowers that endured the wild summer showers and the trees that persevered against last winter's storms? Then Sabudin also began to sing. Oh my god, oh my god. Don't come any closer to me. You shouldn't come any closer to me. Their singing merged with the sound of the rain and filtered through the rice mill, which
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smelled of rice bran. "Sabudin, there's lettuce and hot peppers in here. I have hot pepper paste at home. We need to get soju. I don't have any pork belly strips. We have to buy that, too. Let's drink soju." "Sounds good." The two vanished into the rain, into the dark. They exited happily. I could see the road I'd walked there beyond the one Sabudin and Kanchu left on. And beyond that road, I could see the man's house. My heart which had barely managed to calm down began to pound again. I started to sing. I must have been in love. Can't forget, can't stop thinking about you. I can't stand it, I regret it. I must be waiting for you. I walked out of the rice mill. I howled in the rain. Tears poured from my eyes. But I kept singing. Over there, I could see the moon which had risen above the snow-covered mountains of Nepal. I headed towards the moon. Slowly, strut by strut, merrily through the rain. Copyright 2009 Literature Translation Institute of Korea
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