[korean short stories]kim jae young, elephant

Korean Short Stories

Kim Jae-young Elephant 코끼리 Translated by Lee Moon-Ok

Information This work was previously published in New Writing from Korea .

Please contact the LTI Korea Library. library@klti.or.kr

Elephant When October came, Father covered the window that opened onto the main road with his old pacheura, a rectangular Nepalese shawl. It was the morning after the damp chill of night had begun to seep through the warped window frame and Father had started coughing hard. Earlier that summer, the mold that had grown beneath the floorboards found its way into the furniture and the clothing that hung from pegs on the walls, and then finally reached Father's lungs and my lower legs. Father suffered with a racking cough and I scratched furiously all day as we endured the boring summer. Month after month we listened to the rain pounding on the slate roof and stared into the photo calendar on the wall opposite the window. Clear and bright sunshine, a lush teak forest, snow-covered Annapurna, the calmly rippling waters of Pewa Lake, and

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sucking on sugar cane, laughing‌ Ten years ago, this long, low building with five rough plank doors all in a row in which Father and I have been living was used as a pigsty. There is no porch and the eaves are as short as a sparrow's tail, so I leave for school in the morning wearing shoes drenched with dew. A few days ago, the landlady stuck a scrap of yellow paper on the door of Room No. 3 that said "Room Available." I stuck my head through a crack in the door to get a look inside. The walls were stained, moldy, and scribbled on, and the peeling, tancolored linoleum was coated with dust, like a thin layer of snow. There was a little, pitchblack hole in the wall behind the old cupboard, which leaned to one side, that was big enough for mice to scurry through. Flaking bits of cement and clods of dirt were plastered around the hole, making it look like a fresh scab. My chest contracted in fear and I felt myself jerked back from the door. You'd think I'd seen a heart exploded by a bullet blast.

Ali, the Pakistani boy who had been living in No. 3, had robbed his roommate and run off.

He had taken advantage of the darkness and commotion of a stormy night to grab the money that Vijay had hidden away. Apparently, Vijay dug a hole in the wall and saved his money there between remittances to cut down on fees. Why hadn't anyone heard Ali rustling about in his efforts to get at the money? Well, it makes sense when you know that Vijay had pulled two all nighters in a row plus overtime. Then you've got the colicky baby of the Bangladeshi lady in Room No. 2 bawling all night and the Burmese guys

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rattling on in front of the television and later singing drunkenly. Marina, the Russian girl, wouldn't have been home because she worked nights. Only Father and I, in Room No. 4, went to bed early and lay awake in darkness. But neither one of us could have heard the rustle of a thief over the din of our own thoughts, troubled as they were after Mother ran away.

The night Ali stole that money he might as well have taken the life of Vijay's son-the man had come to work here to save up for his youngest son's heart surgery. Hard luck tales are so common in this neighborhood that we're practically tripping over them, so nobody pays much attention to the latest goings-on. But I'll bet Vijay's scream, which could be heard ringing out at dawn, so full of outrage and despair, won't be forgotten anytime soon. These days, he sits under the old persimmon tree in the yard and stares at the distant mountains. When clouds gather on the mountain peak, he sometimes mutters without making any sense. It sounds like he's saying, "There goes a water buffalo." It seems the man will have to spend a long time with tears and sighs, as surely as winter will be over only when the red guts of unharvested persimmons drop-plop, plop-from the topmost branches.

My twelve-year-old brain is deeply grooved like the Himalayas and has seen too many people and a whole range of troubles. Compared to the rest of the world map, the Himalayas aren't much bigger than the joint of my finger, but Father says the mountains can't be contained in a map. He says the deeply-furrowed valleys and the tall, snowcapped peaks of his childhood stretch farther than any trip around the world. I didn't understand what Father meant until they showed us a model of the human brain in the school science lab. They said that when you are exposed to a wide variety of experiences at an early age your brain grows wrinkles and ridges very quickly. I guess I'm growing old faster, too.

Once the landlady finds a new tenant for Room No. 3, Vijay will be coming to live in our room to save on rent. It seems Father has decided to give up on Mother. Of course, as an ethnic Korean from China she could get by anywhere in this country. At least she'd have a quick comeback in Korean if anyone tried to shame or mistreat her. She knew many complex phrases beyond the basic "Stop hitting me," "Don't swear at me," and "Pay me."

Mother could say "favorable consideration," "disregard," "emergency room," "damage compensation," plus expressions like "You double-crosser!" or "Work 'til you drop."

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I wake up to the floury smell of bread dough. My father sits facing the door and his back and shoulders rise and fall in a billowing movement as he rolls out the dough. The kettle he placed on the gas burner near my feet makes wheezing noises as it heats chia in butter, our morning tea.

It dawns on me that this is Father's fortieth birthday. I hadn't realized it until now, but a quick look at the calendar confirms that today is definitely the circled day. Every autumn without fail Father has told me the story of how he left his hometown the morning of his birthday at the end of Tihar, the festival of light that falls fifteen days after the nearly ten-day Nepalese Thanksgiving called Dashain. "In Nepal," Father always said, "the summer sunshine streams in through the pores on top of the head while the autumn sunshine touches the soul. The day I left was in autumn. The weak sunshine slanted in and pierced my heart. I was twenty-six at the time, and my heart beat like a wild beast‌" I don't know why Father drew such a large circle around the date-I wouldn't be able to give him a gift or anything. He doesn't even make enough money to give me, his child, an allowance.

The large circle Father had drawn in coal-black pencil looked like a spiral, what the men from Myanmar in Room No. 1 call pwe in the Burmese language. They say that each of the foreign laborers who come to Korea is caught in a pwe. My pwe is kid-sized because I was born in Korea out of Father's whirlwind of a life and Mother's Korean-Chinese womb, I guess you could say I am only half-pwe. Of course, I am not a complete fool. At school and around our neighborhood I am treated no better than a pwe. I touch my swollen left cheekbone as I lie on the floor. It fills my palm, "Hey, scumbag! You sit next to So-yeong, right?" That was yesterday. I was on my way home after school when Soyeong's older brother, a sixth-grader, grabbed me by the collar wanting to know why I'd touched his sister with this shit-wiping hand of mine. I told him I would never have done that. I explained in humiliating detail how I had accidentally brushed the back of her hand in the process of reaching for my pencil as it was rolling away from me. "Don't lie to me, idiot," So-yeong's brother said as he punched me. I jabbed him once in the ribs in retaliation and he fell down. Blood flowed from his nose, leaving blotches all over his clothes.

"Eat with your hand," Father is saying, "that way, you will not eat too much too fast."

I pretend not to hear him and tear into the bread with my chopsticks. I nearly lash out at

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him saying there's never enough food to overeat, but control myself. "You people eat and wipe your shit with your hands, don't you? Blech, that's so gross!" I can almost hear my classmates taunting me. But it's not true. Nepalese eat with the right hand, not the left, which is reserved for wiping. Father keeps his right hand very clean and treats it with special care. The only problem is he has no fingerprints. The little ridges wore off long ago, so when he presses his fingertips to a document, he leaves behind a splotch that looks like a squashed flower. People here must think you have no soul if you don't have fingerprints. If that weren't the case, would they treat people like Father no better than a bunch of flatfish strung together by a cord? Another foreign worker, another fish strung on the cord, whose name is either "Hey, you," or "Son of a bitch." A human being by the name of Arjun, who loves flowering malingo bamboo, sweetly sings the folk song Resham Firiri, and holds memories of Annapurna in his head had never really existed.

"Your face!" Father said. "What happened?"

I pull the bread apart with my right hand and pop some in my mouth as I tell the truth to my inquisitive father.

"What happened to you doesn't matter. No one will believe us anyway."

Father, who stutters when he speaks his garbled Korean, reminds me of a clown.

Everyone looks like an idiot when their words are unclear.

"It would've been better if you just let yourself get hit‌ Be careful-he won't leave it like this."

"I can defend myself."

"Don't be stupid. Next time he tries to hit you, just let him."

Father suddenly reverts to Nepalese. He looks me straight in the eye and then, clenching his jaw, blurts out a Nepalese proverb that makes absolutely no sense.

"If a man throws a stone, return the favor with a flower."

"I don't wanna. I'd rather beat the crap out of them. When I'm grown up and my arm muscles are good and strong, I'll never slave away in a factory like you. I'll punch out anyone who looks down on us or bothers us, and kick them, and‌" "So you're saying you'll just charge straight at them like a yak, without stopping to think of the consequences?"

"What difference does it make how a yak runs? If you're gonna talk about the Himalayas again, I don't want to hear it."

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I surprised myself as the words I'd kept inside for so long escaped and now that I was talking, the words continued to spill out.

"All I know is Siksa-dong and the industrial zone. The gloomy sky, piles of broken bricks, and the stinking wind-that's all I've ever had. Oh and a mother who ran off, with some guy for all I know‌" "Shut up now!"

My cheek is stinging. Father's hands are balled up into fists and he lets out a rough, ragged breath as he shakes all over. I run out the door, my hands pressed to my cheek.

Someone says Namaste, but I ignore the greeting. I slide my feet into dew-drenched shoes, and cut across the yard. A persimmon that fell near the communal water tap squashes beneath my foot.

My empty stomach growls incessantly as I walk down an alleyway lined by factories. I feel dizzy in the emptiness of the cracked concrete path. The factory workers, dressed alike in drab work clothes, are above me on the factory rooftops taking a break in the foggy sunshine. The few loading trucks I pass growl like savage beasts. Saturdays, when there's no free school lunch to look forward to, are always like this. It's hard to keep your wits about you through the afternoon when all you've had for breakfast is a cup of chia.

The din of the furniture factories and the smell of paint and lacquer turn my stomach. I hold my nose and pass the grimy factory walls and telephone poles plastered with want ads, loan offers from private lenders and fliers for the Victoria Tourist Hotel's nightclub.

The hot water that the dyeing factory dumps into the gutters stains them blood-red. The steam that rises from the gutters makes me think of the blood that pours out of a freshly slaughtered pig and I feel like throwing up. The sour taste of bile rises in my mouth.

When I die, my nose will probably be the first thing to rot. I've been living in stench since the day I was born. The toxic chemical fumes travel through my veins and one of these days will kill my brain. What difference does it make? The more you think the harder life gets. Father once said, "Too much thinking got me into this hellhole. If only I'd been content to raise goats on the mountainside or farm a few fields like the other boys‌ if only I'd known how to thank the gods for the river to bath in, for the welcoming aroma of dal and bhat back home‌" An ad for the orange-colored soda, Qoo, on the door to the Future Supermarket catches my eye. My mouth waters and the nausea subsides. I shake my pocket and listen for coins clanking. I stick my hand in and bring out a few

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scraps of paper, a marble, a bottle cap, a rusted nail, and lint.

Further down the road, coming from the direction of the aluminum factory, I can just make out Koon walking my way. He is twenty-five-twelve years older than me, and he came to Korea about four years ago. The day we met Koon he was carrying around his black backpack, looking for a room to rent, when he heard Nepalese flowing from Father's mouth like pebbles rolling along a mountain stream. Tears suddenly poured from his eyes and Father immediately recognized the extremely stressful life that Koon had been living. The hardships he had experienced as a trainee in the industrial program here showed clearly on his face. He had been trapped in a basement working sixteenhour days without a single day off since he'd arrived. He'd escaped through a window in the middle of the night-his body was mottled with blue-black bruises and scars, and hot as an oven. Father made a Nepalese folk medicine of rice whisky. He oiled a hot pan and fried raw rice, then covered the rice with soju and left it to cook with the lid on. In a little while he filled a shot glass with the broth. He instructed Koon to drink three glasses in a row, after which Koon, who had been restless with fever, immediately fell asleep. The next morning, he had recovered immensely. His eyes, accentuated by pronounced double eyelids, held none of the terror and despair of the night before. Instead, they revealed a naive hick who'd thought he'd make a lot of money then return home, that he'd earn half a million won a month and be able to save half of it, and that all it would take would be three years of hard work and homesickness.

Now Koon wears Levi's and a Nike jacket. They're counterfeits he picked up cheap at the East Gate market, but they look like they could be the real thing. Koon is an Indo-Aryan Nepali and he really stands out here with his fair skin and dyed blond hair. At first glance he could be an American. I'm sure that's why he dyed his hair. A while back, after he'd been to Myeongdong, one of the most fashionable streets in Seoul, he pursed his lips and said, "So you think that Koreans are all one ethnic group, so they don't like foreigners?

You say that's why they're unkind to migrant workers? What a bunch of rubbish. You haven't seen the way they act in front of Americans. They're practically falling all over themselves to be kind. You could look like an American, too, if your face were a little whiter‌" That's when I started to dissolve a decolorant bleach tablet in water and wash my face with it before bed each night then run to the mirror early each morning to see how

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much paler my skin had gotten. Each time I looked at my patchy face with its white, peeling skin in the fresh early morning air, my heart would flutter. I wasn't trying to become as white as an American-I only wanted to be as white as, or as yellow as, a Korean. Like a snake in a summer forest, or a moth tucked under an autumn leaf, I needed camouflage in order to live quietly beneath the notice of others. I was sick of being target number one for the boys who got BB guns for their birthdays, for the kids who needed someone to bully. I was sick of being the dark whipping boy that kids can't help but shove from behind when running laps. I used the skin bleach faithfully, never missing a single day, until one night, I was washing my face at the communal tap when my washbasin was knocked roughly, spilling the water on the floor. I looked up into my Father's face. He dumped the contents of my plastic baggie full of decolorant tablets down the drain then grabbed me by the nape of the neck and dragged into our room. He whipped my calves until they were covered in black and blue marks. That night, Father came home at midnight. He smelled faintly of alcohol. I sat still as he reached for some Nuk baby lotion, which he then rubbed all over my face. My skins was so badly peeled that the red blood vessels were visible. He stroked my cheek with his rough palms, and it hurt. Afterwards, Father pulled a blanket over his head and sobbed beneath the covers until he fell asleep, wearily muttering, from time to time, in unintelligible Nepalese.

Koon is coming toward me with his hands stuffed in the inside jacket pockets of his work uniform. The way he is walking with his chest puffed up makes me think he must have something delicious on him. So I run up to him and beg him to show me what he's hiding. Koon screws up his face and my fingers move in on his ribs so I can tickle him.

Koon, who is very ticklish, lets out a dry laugh. When he finally gives in and exposes the secret in his pocket, I see only a hand wrapped in white bandages.

"What's with your hand, Koon?"

"I was at work yesterday, and all of a sudden‌ Lucky for me I still have three fingers left."

Koon is trying hard to talk as if nothing much has happened until, after awhile he spits out a venomous word I don't understand. Bakchiniga! He kicks a stone hard with the tip of his boot. I can see the black hair beginning to grow in at the roots of his flowing blond hair and I know he won't bother to dye it anymore-who ever heard of an American coming all the way over here just to get his fingers cut off.

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"Big brother, gimme those fingers."

Koon stares at me blankly, then finally says, "Why?" "Just‌ um‌ Why not? Let me have them."

Soon I'm holding the secret bundle wrapped in tissue paper. The power lines running along each side of the road hum in the breeze and Koon is walking away under the washed-out sun and the sooty clouds of dust, looking old and tired.

Other than the cries coming from the baby in Room No. 2, our building is silent as I head for the persimmon tree on the far side of the yard. I lift a large flat stone near the foot of the tree to reveal damp, black soil. I use a bundle of dead twigs to dig, disturbing a fat worm that wriggles in surprise at the sudden light then immediately burrows back down into the dirt. I dig deeper, but other than a few ants, I find nothing. Could rot have taken them so quickly? Back in early spring, I buried five fingers that belonged to Ali, the money thief, in this place but it seemed as if not a single one remained. Nothing could be left of the Vietnamese guy's fingers I buried last year, but Ali's had to be there. So I force my arms to dig a little deeper, breaking up clods of dirt that spatter my face. Now that I think about it, Ali was really quite remarkable. How did he manage to push aside a heavy cabinet and dig into the wall to steal Vijay's money all with only one hand? The twigs snap. A cluster of white bones appear. I figured as much. I retrieve the fingers wrapped in tissue paper from my pants pocket and I open the bundle to lay the purplish-red fingers among the bones. A reddened persimmon leaf wafts down and settles on the fingers. I fill the pit with dirt once more and spit in the direction of the drain. Then I press my hands together and say, "Shiva, the Destroyer, I pray that this is enough. Please do not ask for any more sacrifices-especially not my father's or my fingers."

I poke my key in the padlock, twist it and release to expose the disaster of a room beyond the door. Bloated bits of ramen noodles that were left over after we ate yesterday float like grubs in the cooking pot. Chia spilling from the teacup that I must have kicked over in my hurry to leave looks like drying snot. Our laundry is strewn about on top of the blankets that have been rolled up and pushed out of the way beneath the window. I toss my bag to one corner of the room and fall down onto the pile of clothing and blankets and say, "Hi." The silvery elephant on the pacheura Father hung across our window to shield us from the cold remains wordless-it just stares blankly towards some faraway place. The

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elephant's head has seven trunks ornately embroidered with silver threads. Father once told me that, in the beginning, before it had a body the elephant was a cloud that carried Indra, the chief deity back then. "And?" I'd urged him on in my excitement to hear the ending that day he'd told me the story while I helped him hang the pacheura. "Then one day, Brahma, the Creator, broke open the cosmic egg, and the elephant lost his status and became a pillar to support the universe." I squeezed my eyes closed then took a quick peek at my father, who was looking out of the corner of one eye to observe my reaction.

"It's just a Hindu myth," he'd said. "There's no such thing as an egg broken by a god." At that very moment, the hammer slipped off the head of the nail and smashed my father's fingernail. He sucked the tip of his finger to block the pain and reached down with his other arm to feel around on the floor for the fallen nail. And that's when I began to see him as an elephant-like creature. He was born in the Himalayas, high above the clouds, and now he's living down here, in the dark recesses of an industrial zone…

Someone is singing. A thin, quavering voice I recognize as coming from Toya's mother, in Room No. 2. "Morenie jeollo seidese, morenie jeollo seidese, take me to that place, take me to that place…" Toya's father, who got busted after spraining his ankle on a hill while trying to outrun the police last spring, was deported to Sri Lanka and hasn't been able to get back here yet. Toya's mother, left on her own, barely manages to support the family with the little money she can make at home screwing in machine parts. "Huldullia puja tore geno pellerako hellageori, tal mornet age shudu barek pireashok, why were the prayer flowers snapped and tossed away, please return before your beloved dies…" I can't help but think of Mother. I remember the way our room used to smell of pungent kimchi and seaweed soup, faintly lemon-scented lotion, and even the mysterious fragrance of skin that has no label but makes me feel sleepy. The scents that Mother left behind last spring lingered for a long time, and I think I can still smell them from time to time when there's a breeze. But those scents have nearly all been replaced by the malodor typical of men-only households, that and the stink of mold.

I pull back the pacheura to let some air in. Golden sunlight strikes the calendar photo of the Himalayas on the opposite wall and dances about. The clear and bright sunshine, the green teak forest, snow-capped Annapurna, calmly rippling Pewa Lake, the children sucking sugar cane, the laughter… Every single year my father buys that same calendar.

Can he really believe that those pictures will bring me happiness as they do for him? The

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afternoon sun glinting on snowy Himalayas reminds me of a molar crowned with gold.

Or a vanilla ice cream cone about to melt in the heat. That thick, black circle continues to swirl around Father's birthday. It bothers me. For some reason, I blurt out whatever comes into my head these days. After many tense hours at school, I come home annoyed, and most of all, angry at everything. Today, So-yeong's brother and a bunch of his friends came to my classroom every break period. I hid in the restroom, only coming out once class had resumed, not because I was scared-I was quite sure I could beat him in a fair fight-but they were likely to attack all at once and trample me like a mouse. Everyone who looked at me after that beating would see nothing but that scene playing over and over again in their heads. And that seemed to be the one thing I couldn't bear.

The sunlight touching Father's photo calendar, which is now as tiny as a baby's palm, seems to shiver with surprise whenever the pacheura sways in the breeze. I wish I too could escape into dreams of going home. Father dreams of wearing his old familiar Chumba, of returning to his homeland in springtime-where shining, ice-capped mountains tower over hills of golden rape flower, and welcoming villagers live in intimate clay houses. Night after night in his dreams, Father tells me how his family and friends will surround him and walk with him as he enters the yard of his house, which is filled with slender tunge flowers and red bijeo flowers in full bloom. They will join him in a hearty meal of dal-bhat, tarkari, and choila, his favorite roasted water buffalo meat with tomato sauce. He says that he is always getting ready to hop on the plane back to Korea the next day, but someone in the dream blocks his way and roughly pushes him aside. Then he says, "I have to go back, my family's waiting for me. Please, let me go. I left my job, my neighbors, and my young son there. Please‌!" He wakes with a start and sits bolt upright. He takes a quick look around our room, then gets up and removes his underwear, now drenched in sweat. He sends a long, slow sigh of relief into the darkness.

Still, his nightmares are probably better than what I'm living with. I may have a place of birth, but I have no homeland. Father couldn't file a marriage declaration because there wasn't a Nepalese embassy in Korea. That means I have neither a birth certificate nor a nationality. Even at school I'm merely registered as an auditor. What good is a child who is alive and kicking but cannot prove he exists?

I open my eyes in a now pitch-black room, apparently having dozed off. I rub my eyes and head out into the yard. Vijay is back in his usual sitting spot below the persimmon

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tree, staring into the distant mountains. His face is ruddy, though I know he doesn't drink The other tenants are crowding around the water tap in the center of the yard.

Milky rice-soaking water slops over the feet of Tura from Myanmar as he squats and peels potatoes, while onions, bell peppers, and zucchinis are being chopped up noisily on chopping boards. Skewered meat gives off its strong mutton smell as it sputters in a frying pan. As the darkness that had been lapping people's ankles slowly rises to the top of their heads, the lantern hanging from a persimmon branch glows like gold. Marina, the Russian lady, pours warmed water from a pail into a basin and begins to wash her long, blond hair, while little Toya, carried in a bundle on his mother's back, is smiling for the first time in weeks. The yard, with its blend of languages and cooking aromas, is as fragrant and boisterous as a meadow of wild flowers busy with bees and butterflies.

Father is nowhere to be seen. It looks like he'll be working late even on his birthday. So I decide to prepare some food-something to help him remember his homeland. That's bound to smooth things over between us. I rummage through the cupboard gathering onions, potatoes and a handful of lentils. The lentils soak in water while I peel the potatoes and onions, and dice them. I put the finely chopped ingredients in a hot pot with the clarified butter called ghee, and gently fry it all together. I think about what comes next then reach for a little bag of garam masala. The spice bag is crumpled and very nearly empty. I turn it upside down and give it a shake, but the little puff of spice that drops from the bottom of the bag isn't enough. Without that blend of ground cumin, clove, nutmeg, black peppercorn and coriander seed, there's no way I can make a proper Tarkari. I turn off the gas burner and plunge the spoon I was using in the cooking pot.

As usual, the television set is blaring inside the Future Supermarket. For the past few days, the news channel has been broadcasting these programs about what they call the plight of foreign laborers. First, they show a video highlighting some special regional products from all over Korea followed by a government statement about deporting illegal immigrants. Then, after some canned laughter from a sitcom, the reporter talks about a laborer from Bangladesh who threw himself in front of a speeding train, and later, around midnight, once the evening soap operas and talk shows are over, they show images of an airport teeming with foreign laborers on their way out of the country.

Hearing the same thing over and over again gets pretty boring like it's happening someplace else.

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Men eat and drink at a make-shift table in a corner of the market. When a breeze blows and touches my forehead, I can hear the racket they make. They speak a mixture of Korean, Russian, English, even Nepalese, and I convert it all into Korean the instant their words reach my eardrums and slip inside my head. I see Koon sitting among them tonight. He waves me on over and cuts off a cuttlefish tentacle for me to chew on while the men talk.

"This business is Russian Roulette. This time Phat loses his hand, next time it'll be Suen's arm." Sergeny, the burly Uzbek man with a face as colorless as a corpse, makes a gun of his hand then aims it at Shan, the Iranian boy sitting opposite him. He laughs mischievously and says, "That's right. They act like it's all fun and games until lunchtime.

They even fall asleep-Koon, you fell asleep on the job too, didn't you?" Shan, who had already undone three buttons on his shirt to reveal his chest hair, drains a shot of soju into his mouth. "I didn't fall asleep," he says. "I was just‌ thinking about something else."

Koon's eyes widen and he shakes his head. "It's the same thing. You were probably daydreaming about Marina. Then suddenly your number's up. Bang!" Sergeny pretends to fire his gun-hand at Shan, who then clutches his chest and tips over on his side. Koon is rolling with laughter. He lifts the soju bottle high and fills Pil-yong's glass with rice whisky. The crown of Pil-yong's head is clearly visible through his thinning hair. He's waving his hands around and slurring his words, "Damn it, quit it with the jibber-jabber.

I'm starting to feel like I'm in some other country. Do you guys have any idea how this country got to be the way it is now? When I worked in the factory way back when, losing fingers was nothing. Whole forearms flew off and even necks got sliced." Pil-yong pulled a stiffened hand across his neck in a hard slicing gesture. "We were hicks and we didn't know any better. We just worked. Of course, back then, it was hard to make a living. You won't catch any Koreans working in such places nowadays. To be blunt, it's backbreaking work and they know it firsthand. That's why they leave it to all of you-they didn't bring you over here for a joy ride." Whether due to memories of days gone by or the alcohol, Pil-yong's face had flushed a hot red. Sergeny tears away at a cuttlefish with his teeth as he speaks. "Sure, the work is horrible, but the least they could do is put in safety devices." Pil-yong rubs his eyes and says, "Okay so you're men, flesh and blood, just like Koreans, right? Safety devices... Don't make me laugh. They didn't even give their own nationals that treatment-what makes you think they'll give it to you? You don't

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like it, go home already. Damn it, you guys came over here so you could learn enough to run your own factories in your own countries, right? Well take your lessons on how to treat laborers and go. You've had your real-life experience." Koon's face grows heavy with Pil-yong's cynical words, but Sergeny responds sullenly, "Sure, the money's good, but we deserve to be treated like human beings. If we ever earn enough to go back to our homes, the nightmare of these three years will haunt us for thirty." Shan smiles awkwardly and points to his missing front teeth. "You're right. I still have the occasional nightmare about the day I lost my baby teeth."

I chew on the cuttlefish tentacle Koon gave me and shift my attention to the signs taped to the store window. 10 dollars for Alladin. 10 dollars for FirstClass. Then came the number of phone card minutes. Thailand 80, Sri Lanka 47, Pakistan 46, Saudi Arabia 50, Iran 70, Philippines 80, and Russia 125. I glance at the items on display like I'm looking to buy one. I can't stop staring at the huge variety of snacks and breads, and the brightlycolored soft drinks. My stomach is growling.

"I'm cli---mbing over a rocky hill all by myself. Missing my old love, tears are streaming down. My heart breaks remembering ten years of my servant life. I cry embracing azaleas‌" Pil-yong is singing. He keeps the rhythm by drumming his lap. Koon, whose gaze has fallen to the floor, suddenly speaks. "I haven't even come close to paying back the money I borrowed to come here, and now look at me. When I go home, I'll be a laughingstock‌" Koon lifts his head to look out the window as a local bus rolls by, stirring up a stale breeze. The straggly wild herbs that have sprouted up around the telephone pole sway gently. "I still remember what one of my relatives said when he happened to cross my path the day I took off from the village. He was limping along between the fields of golden ripening rice. As he was wiping away sweat, he'd said, 'Why are you going? You see how I'm limping, don't you? And you still want to leave home?'"

We all grow quiet to hear Koon's story. "Yes, sir, but this is different. I'm not going off to fight a war for money like a Gurkha-I'm going to work in Korea. So my relative said, 'Is it safe there?' And I said, of course. I'm going to work there for a few years and come back with enough money to open up a big store in town. And I was on my way across the bamboo bridge, leaving my village behind. I passed the herd of yaks chewing brambles and walked briskly along the banks of the Marshangdi River. A hawk slowly circled above my head as it rode the air streaming up from the valley down below before

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heading back in the direction I'd just come from. I remember thinking I should follow him. But I couldn't undo what I'd started. When the Tata bus appeared in a cloud of dust, I climbed on board. It was like karma, the fate that is inevitable‌" Koon's eyes are watering and that sets Shan off. He starts blubbering like a baby. "I've done so many bad things here... I can't go back. I ate a lot of pork in the factory cafeteria -even the sausages made with pig's blood. They don't care about these things here, but it's a whole different story in my village. I'd have to atone for my sins bowing to gods‌ Honestly, I'm scared. It doesn't matter here. No one can see me‌" I walk around the toothbrushes, toothpaste, bandaids, and cotton gloves, on my way to the cigarette cartons near the cashier. I quietly slip the last pack of Surya, the Nepalese brand, from the rack and stick it under a pile of cotton gloves. Then I shout to the owner lady.

"Don't you have any Surya?"

She yawns as she comes out of her little room wearing the apron she always wears over her fat stomach. I heard that she gets paid 300,000 won a month by the foreigner she agreed to marry. Since her phony marriage, she's gotten even fatter.

"You want the Nepalese cigarettes?"

Her voice sounds sleepy and she's wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. I give her a confident yes. While she's off on a goose chase, I tuck a bag of garam masala under my belt then, since I still have time, I sneak a bottle of Qoo under my jacket into my armpit. At first, I feel I can't breathe, but it slowly starts to feel like I can relax.

"What about a different brand?" she asks.

"My father is pretty homesick." I blabber on, heaping up one lie after another. "He says the only thing that makes him feel better is the taste of Nepalese cigarettes. When he's smoking he feels like he's back there with his family."

Just as I'm running out of things to say, the store door opens and Nadim Molla walks in.

He works at Jinseong Painting. He's this short Indian guy who looks like a Neanderthal.

He's got these huge bones that stick out above his eyebrows. They call him Cheapskate.

His co-workers gave him that nickname after Kubil got burned all over his body and died last year. It's bad enough that Nadim didn't contribute any condolence money, but he didn't even show up at the funeral. To add insult to injury, that Sunday, when Kubil's co-

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workers had finally collected enough money to pay for his cremation Cheapskate was out working overtime. Father and a few of his friends from work had carried the carton containing Kubil's ashes in a slow procession through the darkening alleys around the factories. They walked solemnly with their heads bowed until they reached the factory where the accident happened. One of the men kicked the plywood planks that blocked the entrance three or four times, until they'd broken into the compound. It started raining and the mourners began to sing, at first in whispered syllables, then a murmur, and finally in great howls like a pack of wolves. Still the sound of pouring rain was stronger, and their singing emptied into the gutters with the rain water.

Cheapskate has his hands full with bundles of presents. He's practically foaming at the mouth with excitement as he announces that he's leaving tomorrow. If that's true, he will be the first person I know of in this neighborhood who has actually earned enough money to go home. Cheapskate grabs a bottle of coke and two bottles of soju and makes his way over to the make-shift table where the men eat and drink. With a great show of generosity, he sets the bottles down with a thud. "For us?" one of the guys yells. "No thank you, you humanoid!" With that they all rise from their seats and head out the door.

Even Pil-yong, who has never walked away from free booze, walks unsteadily behind them. Cheapskate yells at their backs, "You sons-of-bitches, you're the ones who aren't human any more, not me-you belong in this pigsty. When I get back home, I'm gonna build a new house and sleep under new blankets. I'm gonna open a store bigger than this dump, you got that? Bunch of filthy pigs, that's what you are. Kudal bachcha, Bastards! Shoour renacha , Pigs!"

Before you know it Sergeny has turned around and is pounding his fists into Cheapskate until Cheapskate trips over the table and the bottles come crashing down in a foaming puddle of broken bottles, whisky, and coke on the supermarket floor. The owner lady whisks her way over with a broom and starts batting at the drunkards' legs, chasing them out of her store. The owner lady grumbles to herself as she sweeps up the mess.

"I'm sick of you people-I'm getting out of this stinking hole," Cheapskate slowly gets up off the floor, wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth and fixes his hair. Then, as if none of this has happened, he picks up his shopping bags full of gifts for his family back home and holds his head high. He's almost out of the door when he stops, selects a chocolate bar, and offers it to me. I shake my head, but he presses it on me, waving it

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under my chin to tempt me. My mouth is watering, but I keep it closed tight and shake my head no with even more resolve. Cheapskate's eyes redden and he's tearing up.

Those tears well up as thick as pus. My hand starts to reach out in pity and the bottle of Qoo slips out from under my armpit, dropping to the floor. My spine shivers and I break out in a cold sweat. I run from the store as fast as I can, I run away, and I hear a shrill voice like a female cat behind me. "Hey, you little rat, where do you think you're going?

I'm reporting your father to immigration, you got that?"

I fly by Jinseong Painting, Hwajin Sponges, Wonil Engineering, Shingwang Glass, and Dongbuk Conveyor Engineering. I don't slow my pace until I reach the entrance to the furniture district and I have no choice. I'm completely out of breath, bent over, heaving.

I'm thirsty and my chest is on fire. I can see the orange puddle of Qoo, foaming around me feet. I want it so bad I think I'd lick it off the floor if she'd let me.

With my back to the faint moon that has risen above the factory rooftops, I'm walking aimlessly. An oak leaf flutters to the ground, tracing a zigzag as it falls. That means clouds are gathering. Father taught me how falling leaves predict the weather. He studied astronomy in Nepal and he can figure out where he is without a compass. He just looks at the stars or the moon. Like leaves, the shape, color, and thickness of clouds can also be used to forecast the weather. Father knows how to do that, too. When he arrived in Korea, Father stopped studying stars and made light bulbs by the hundreds.

Day after day, from morning 'til night, he blew into a long tube. Everyday, new light bulbs to light the world were born from my father's lips. He seemed like a magician to me back then. It was truly an amazing thing to watch him turn perfect little circles into light bulbs, each one the exact same size. He created little bulbs to decorate Christmas trees and bulbs the size of unripe apricots that would form a line to frame a billboard. Back then, when I was much younger than I am now, I was very proud of Father. When I was lucky enough to have a coin or two, I'd spend it on bubblegum and I'd blow perfect little bubbles like him. But that was a long time ago. The bulbs created with the breath from my father's lungs, having passed through his lips, went on to shine at night, as if shouting for joy, in front of dazzlingly bright department stores, on the billboards that lined the streets and in the marketplaces. Meanwhile, my father sat at home beneath the lifeless light of a florescent lamp, bent with exhaustion. He would stroke his aching chest.

My father came home from work smelling like an animal, that dreadful hot smell that a

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body gives off when it has been marinating in sweat, chemicals, and abuse all day.

Mother complained out loud about it in Korean-using a piercing voice like

fingernails

on a chalkboard. Father would clasp his chest and mumble and gasp for breath, which only made Mother raise her voice so high that phlegm would have almost come flying out. It was hard for Mother to endure her life with my father, a man who never earned enough, and couldn't even afford medical insurance. She was always moaning about her lot in life, going on about girls she knew who'd married Korean men and lived happily ever after. Nothing could win her sympathy. If I caught a cold, my mother would lash my back saying, "See, I told you not to kick the blankets off at night. We lose tens of thousands of won every time we take you to the hospital. Your dad's salary's been delayed for three months in a row. I'm so sick of this I could scream!" Then she'd slap a cold, wet towel across my forehead. I can't believe that Mother is the same person who, ten years prior, soothed Father's forehead with soft hands when he had a terrible fever. I can't believe that there was a time when she was as lovely as a pale purple malingo flower. I simply can't believe Father's version of her.

When his coughing didn't stop, Father had no choice but to find a different job. Now he works making boxes. He carries heavy cardboard on his shoulders day and night. He feeds the cardboard into the machine that cuts it, and then it moves by conveyor belt on the way to becoming juice boxes, gift boxes of assorted sizes, and boxes for top-quality dress shirts. They say that department stores put goods inside the empty boxes before putting them on display, but I wouldn't know. I've never actually been inside a department store. Once last winter, I visited one with Father. It was the day before Mother's birthday. A man in a suit was standing in front of the entrance and he blocked our path. Father pulled his money from his wallet and said, "Look, I have money. I'm gonna buy something." But the man wouldn't listen to him. We never managed to buy the expensive blouse Mother had been coveting. Maybe that's why she left.

Mother had long, straight hair she'd loosely gather with a rubber band when she was working inserting screws all day long with Toya's mother from next door. Around the time of her birthday, she got a job at a restaurant in downtown Wondang and it wasn't long before she started bringing home pretty boxes that held beaded pins or silk scarves.

She'd hold one finger to her lips and gave me a conspirator's wink. To be honest, I didn't care who gave her those presents, as long as they made her happier, so I decided not to

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tell Father about them. But the gift boxes started to pile up and Mother's temper grew worse. She'd practically beat her face with her powder puff in the morning.

The day she left for good, Mother had boiled some seaweed soup with little-neck clams for breakfast. When I emptied a bowl and asked for more, Mother told me I could have all I wanted at dinnertime then she hurried me towards the door. And I said, "Are you going somewhere today?" I don't know why I asked her that-it just popped up out of my mouth. When I came home from school that afternoon, Mother was nowhere to be found.

Just the pot of seaweed soup. So I ate supper a little earlier than usual and went to sleep with a full stomach. I didn't wait up for Mother, but I can't say why not. I guess‌ I guess it just seemed there was no point in waiting. But I didn't sleep well. The interminable clanking of machines coming from the factory where Father was working the night shift made me dream I was falling off a cliff.

The grounds of the furniture district are brilliantly lit. All kinds of light bulbs and neon signs are on tonight. I pass stores identified as Borneo, Livart, Daejin Beds, and Italian Furniture. Posters shout Special Sale on Imported Brand-Name Furniture and Discount on High-End Antique Furniture in the display windows. The edges flutter in the damp breeze. Magnificently big beds, consoles, and sofas are carefully arranged behind glass.

Middle-aged women dressed in expensive outfits walk around the furniture while young men in suits point or write on a pad of paper. I think of Vijay working back at the furniture factory, the shabby old cabinet in Room No. 3, the wall pocked full of holes like a spray of bullets, and the flattened back of the elephant who supports the weight of the world. It's a ridiculous thought. I can't believe that I'm standing here comparing my life to what's going on behind those glass doors. I shake my head and turn my eyes away from the brightly lit world inside. I touch the waistband of my trousers and feel the packet of garam masala and I'm suddenly happy. It would be even better if I could wrap a pair of socks as a gift for my father, but to do so I would have to go to a stationery store and steal again. I don't want to push my luck.

I leave the main road and turn into an alley. This way I can get back home without having to walk by the Future Supermarket. I know this alley because I've been here before with friends. Although I'm stepping carefully, my foot slides into a puddle and I nearly lose my balance. But I prefer this unbroken darkness to the dizzying neon lightsjust like I prefer having the courage to steal rather than waiting in vain for kindness.

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Father never liked the way the endless neon lights left no room for shadows. He always missed the pale moonlight. The blue moonlight of the Himalayas, which is said to spread the shadow of rhododendrons on the land at night and give the world a moment of rest‌ Tonight, for some reason, I'd like to see that kind of moonlight.

As I make my way deeper into the maze of alleys, I see an ad for the nightclub of the Victoria Tourist Hotel. Despite the hazy light of the lamppost, it is clear to me that the scantily clad girl is Marina. She is wearing a black bra that reveals more than half of each breast and a glittering pair of panties. She has a brilliant bunch of artificial feathers that look like a peacock's tail attached to her backside. Her arms and legs are long and white like a statue, and curiously twisted as if she were doing an apsara dance. Her blond hair is piled up and her lips are painted scarlet, which makes it harder to recognize her, but she cannot conceal her violet-tinged eyes. "What's your name, little boy?" she'd asked.

She was filling a pail with water from the faucet in our yard a few days after she'd rented a room in the former pigsty. "Akkas. It means sky in Nepalese," I'd said. "Oh? My name's Marina. It means sea in Russian. Blue sky, blue sea‌" Marina, who kept repeating those words with restless lips, told me stories about her mother and little sister Katarina living in Khabarovsk, stories about her dead father. She was full of stories about how when she was a girl, the entire family planted apple, cherry and wild cherry trees around their house and they'd ride bikes to the outskirts of town on weekends to pick pine mushrooms. Later she'd taught children to dance and sing in local kindergartens.

Her violet-tinged eyes, which gleamed like she was dreaming, began to rush from side to side like deep seas as she talked about the way her father died during the Chechen war and how her mother, who had been working hard to make ends meet, fell ill, and how Marina herself had gotten on a ship bound for Korea.

There's a black smudge from someone's hand around Marina's belly button which I try to wipe away. The stain doesn't rub off easily and the paper starts to tear beneath my fingers. Marina's expression is strange, like she's forcing herself to smile. A sudden gust of wind blows hard and the trees in a nearby garden, their branches hanging heavily over the fence, hiccough and drop a few more leaves.

I keep walking and soon I see a two-story red brick house. Light as buttery as my morning chia penetrates the curtains and seeps into the alley. One of my schoolmates lives in this house and it is the first house I was ever invited inside. One day out of the

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blue, he'd asked if I could come home with him. After he said it, he looked around as if to make sure that nobody had seen or heard. Then, seeing the blank look on my face, he came closer and whispered in my ear low, spitting words that came straight to the point.

My mother said you should come visit us. He had me walk ten steps behind him the whole way, though he checked from time to time to make sure I was following him. My schoolmate's mother spoke English with her thin, red-lacquered lips that wriggled like worms when she greeted me at the door. "Hello, nice to mitsu." I couldn't take my eyes off that strange looking face of hers, a combination of a mouth smiling so broadly that her gums showed and cold, beady eyes. I hesitated for a moment, before greeting her in Korean. She frowned. "Don't you speak good English? I thought you could, when I heard you're a foreign kid." She instructed me to speak only English or I wouldn't get any spicy rice cakes and spaghetti. Spicy rice cakes and spaghetti‌ My stomach burns and aches. I don't particularly like that kid or that lady, but I still want to ring that doorbell. If I teach him some English, she might feed me.

I walk by an empty lot where tall grasses sway in a breeze. The air smells of drying grass and garbage. Pumpkin vines have grown over the abandoned refrigerators, broken chairs and an assortment of plastic stuff strewn about the lot. I pass an alley with a row of shabby looking houses and see a familiar form walking toward me, singing. I can't quite make out who it is in the dark, but I'm guessing Cheapskate, because he's short and he's carrying shopping bags in both hands. There's a drumming in my chest. I double-back quickly to take the long way home on the hill path beyond the empty lot.

I'm headed for the hill path when something catches my foot. It's just a pumpkin vine grown thick and strong. The vine, which is still alive in late fall and has grown tough as wire, has coiled itself around my ankle and won't let go. I plop on the ground and use my hands to free myself from the vine. The singing comes closer and closer then begins to fade as it moves off in the direction of the empty lot. In a flash, a black figure shoots up from behind the trashed refrigerator. The black figure rises like bread. Cheapskate's song skips along in a faster beat. The black figure follows him silently and, with a thwacking sound, the singing is cut off. The black figure pulls a wallet from Cheapskate's chest as if it was ripping out his heart. The hazy moonlight exposes a broad smile in the darkness and I recognize Vijay. I squeeze my eyes closed tight and see a silver elephant on the back of my eyelids. The elephant, its feet sunk deep in a pit, flaps its ears in a

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struggle to break free. But the more it struggles, the deeper its hind legs sink. The pit starts to spin and I see a swirling black swamp ready to swallow anything that sets foot in it. Ah, it's pwe. I see it now. The dizzying and swiftly swirling pwe‌ The feeble elephant is sucked into the whirlpool. Its eyes are glaring fiercely like a scream and everything in sight turns black.

Copyright 2008 Literature Translation Institute of Korea

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