[sample translations]hong hee jeong, if you have time, please like me eng by LTI Korea Library

Sample Translations

Hee-jeong Hong If You Have Time, Please Like Me E ng l i s h

Book Information

If You Have Time, Please Like Me (시간 있으면 나 좀 좋아해줘) Munhakdongne Publishing corp. / 2014 / 26 p. / ISBN 9788954622554 For further information, please visit: http://library.klti.or.kr/node/772

This sample translation was produced with support from LTI Korea. Please contact the LTI Korea Library for further information. library@klti.or.kr

If You Have Time, Please Like Me Written by Hong Hee-jeong

“A clever child keeps a journal so that her mom can see it,” Yu-ri said cynically, chewing on a dried squid leg. I put down the book I had been reading and stared at him. He then mumbled something incoherent about how only the hearts that faltered could save those people who were headed towards self-destruction. I was sure Yu-ri was losing it. Working all day at a tiny store just around six pyeong might have been affecting him mentally. I said to Yu-ri, who was slipping cone-shaped corn chips onto each of his fingers, “Do you want to close the store for a little while and maybe go to the park?” Yu-ri shook his head. “I’m dead if my mom finds out.” Yu-ri, a young man, 26 years of age, whose height was 186 centimeters, had the fearful look of a small child on his face. It had already been four months since Yu-ri started holding down the fort at the Ant Mart. The store’s name suggested that it was microscopic in size, but the Ant Mart had plenty to eat, a TV with cable, and even a small wooden bench big enough for one person to lie on. At first, Yu-ri worked at the store only when his mother had urgent matters to attend to, but he had started staying there twenty-four hours a day starting four months ago. Yu-ri’s mom had started attending meetings because she was one of the leaders protesting the opening of a chain supermarket in the area, and she didn’t have time to think about her store. I re-opened my book and fell back into Franz Kafka’s world. It was Yu-ri who had

recommended Kafka’s book. “It’s painfully boring,” he had said. I had asked Yu-ri why he wasn’t reading anything more fun, and he answered flatly: “That’s the problem, fun. It’s ruining the world,” he said. Taking everything more seriously than necessary was one of Yu-ri’s special personality traits. It might have come from reading too many books. I had nothing better to do anyway at the time and gladly took the thick book Yu-ri handed me. As Yu-ri had mentioned, Kafka’s book was quite different from the lively daily dramas I normally enjoyed watching. How could I describe it? Kafka seemed to deal with a feeling of ever-surfacing distress. For example, a baby follows his mommy crying “momma” and “num-num” simply because he’s hungry and later realizes that he has learned language unwittingly. As far as distress was concerned, I could relate. I had graduated from college earlier in the year but hadn’t found a job and was spending my days aimlessly. I sent my resume to over one hundred companies, but was contacted for an interview by less than ten places. And I had had to deal with rejection from those companies where I did go for interviews. Even though it was reported in the news daily that unemployment was high, I had told myself that I was different. Though I had tried to convince myself that there were plenty of jobs out there, once the rejections piled up, I teetered between fantasy and dejection. After some time I became spiritless and entered a phase in which I went back and forth emotionally between feeling a good amount of anger and then acceptance. But I didn’t want to do nothing, so I started taking on all sorts of part-time work. On my off days, I would spend time with Yu-ri at the Ant Mart. Yu-ri, as if lacking any sense of responsibility or shame, would keep himself busy drawing in his sketchbook, reading, or writing just like he used to during college. There was one more thing that preoccupied Yu-ri: a want of his mother’s love. Yu-ri was the youngest of five children and there was a big age gap between him and

his siblings. People might assume that he must have gotten a lot of attention growing up because he was the youngest, but because his father passed away when Yu-ri was around six years old, he had a rather painful childhood. Yu-ri’s mother had abruptly become the lifeline for the family. Because she didn’t have any time to look after Yu-ri, he grew up going from one relative’s home to another. From his maternal uncle to an aunt on his dad’s side to an aunt on his mother’s side, Yu-ri’s childhood was like that of a nomad. According to him, what kept him alive was his sharp awareness. Perhaps that was why he had always been unusually sensitive to people around him. And when it came to his mother, his sensitivity bordered on the manic. What I found strange was the method by which Yu-ri sought his mother’s love. He expressed guilt that the reason he did everything to win his mother’s approval was so that when she was on her deathbed he could hear the words: “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I loved you most out of the five children.” He said it was merely a revenge tragedy. A case in point: Yu-ri had always loved to read and write, but because his mother’s childhood dream was to become a painter, he did everything he could to get accepted into an art school. He hated himself for it and later threw himself back into reading and writing. Knowing this about Yu-ri, I was worried for him. I thought if left alone, he wouldn’t be able to live alongside humans, which would then drive him to live with dogs, and when that didn’t work out, he would have to live with cacti, and when that ultimately failed, come middle age, he would end up living alone with rocks. That could have been why I spent all of my time in college with him. We had different majors but took the same electives and ate our meals together. When he was in the army, I took a leave of absence from school and worked a part-time job, waiting for him to get discharged. During this time, Yu-ri dated lots of women for brief intervals. He couldn’t go past a month before the relationship broke up. I wondered if he had a dating disability of some sorts. I thought it was because he would obsess over the

girls in the beginning but then later grow cold towards them. The girls came to the conclusion that he was a reckless amalgamation of romance and cynicism. And as Yu-ri continued to date other girls, I kept a watchful eye on him. I never expressed to him how I felt about him. There were times when I wanted to. But every time I stood in front of him I felt like I had a big boulder stuck in my throat. I was also afraid that if we did date, we would end up breaking up, never to see each other again. I would rather we stay friends so that I could stay near him. I didn’t have to have him. Just being next to him made me deeply happy. This was how I felt towards Yu-ri. It had already been six years since I met Yu-ri. Just as I was remembering the past, the store’s sliding door opened. A man walked in wearing layered, neon-colored t-shirts, even though it was hot out, weathered sneakers with tattered shoelaces, and caked-on hair as if it had not been washed since the last election; it was the “100-won man.” As usual, he didn’t make eye contact with Yu-ri and went straight to the aisles. With his hands clasped behind his back, he walked around the store before grabbing two cans of peaches and a bottle of soju. Then with a big smile on his face he put the items on the counter. I sighed, sounding resigned, and said: “It comes to 6,200 won.” Instead of dispensing money, the man put out his palm and shouted sonorously: “Just give me 100 won!” It was predictable. The man came in once or twice a week, grabbed whatever he fancied, and then unloaded the items on the counter and made his demand using the same words. His eyes were crusty and bloodshot, but his pupils looked clear, so he didn’t seem out of his mind. We just had no idea why he would do this. I said in a soft but firm voice again that the total was 6,200 won. But the man thrust his palm closer to me and repeated: “Just give me 100 won!”

Fed up, I slapped my Kafka book shut and moved away from him. I quietly glared at the 100-won man. Right then, Yu-ri opened the cash register and took out a 100-won coin and gave it to the man. The man smiled, revealing his stained teeth, waved his hands in joy, and left the store. “That’s why he keeps coming back, you know.” Yu-ri ate the corn chips he wore on his fingers one by one as I expressed my discontent. He mumbled: “Because you were loved, you have a foundation, but because you received only love, you lack the basics.” I could only sigh. Yu-ri was no different from the man who had just walked out when it came to uttering nonsensical speech. I got up to restock the cans of peaches and the bottle of soju. As I stood rearranging the items, I said to Yu-ri: “Weren’t there kids like him at school?” “What kids?” “The kids who would make their rounds and beg for 100 won. It was so corny. You were damned if you did and you were damned you didn’t.” Yu-ri blinked as if he remembered and said: “Come to think of it, there was a kid like that in our class. He would approach us with a cunning look and ask for 100 won. Or was it that he asked for a bite to eat?” “Strange, there was always one kid like that in class,” I said. Yu-ri responded with a weary look: “I sort of miss him.” “Miss him? Someone just like him comes here all the time.” “Do you think he’s actually the same man as the kid in our class?” Yu-ri asked. I shook my head and muttered:

“The way your brain operates…” The sliding door opened again. Had the 100-won man returned? I turned to look. It was Kant. He came by the store every day at the same time. So we started calling him Kant. He had an exotic air about him: a stiff and full mustache, a nose that stood out dramatically at a perfect angle, and wide, square shoulders that looked as if they were stuffed with tissue. There weren’t many faces like his in the neighborhood. At first, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I used to feel anxious wondering if he was from a foreign country. But he spoke Korean fluently, and he would come every day, at the same time, and buy the same items. He brought milk and tofu over to the counter. “How much?” When Yu-ri said it was 3,100 won, the man said: “The weather is beautiful today. Have a great day, both of you!” Kant’s greeting was always cheery. Looking at the door where Kant had exited, Yu-ri said: “Those shoulders. The way they soar—so hard to see in the modern world. They seem only possible in the 18th century or so.” I went to the fridge and scanned the milk inside. I asked Yu-ri what today’s date was. Yu-ri took out his phone to check and answered the 23rd. Here and there I spotted milks that had expired. I took them out, laid them on the floor, and rearranged the ones in the fridge according to date. There were five cartons that had expired. I carried them in my arms and placed them on the wooden bench. Meanwhile, Yu-ri, who was lying on his stomach scribbling something on paper, glimpsed over at the gathered milk. “There’s more and more every day,” I said with concern, to which Yu-ri responded apathetically:

“I still haven’t digested what I ate for lunch.” He then lowered his head and proceeded to move his pen carefully. An air of solemnness hovered over him as if he were a monk during the Middle Ages transferring God’s words onto parchment. “You had no problems eating all the dried squid and corn chips,” I said to Yu-ri. Not knowing what to do with them, I started drinking the expired milks. After drinking two in a row, the nutty and metallic smell seeped through my nose and up to my brain, where it spread to all corners. The chain supermarket had come into the neighborhood three months ago. At first, signs installed on the building made it appear as if an individual was opening up a small supermarket. Then, overnight, the signs changed to those of a multinational chain supermarket. Two more were scheduled to open in the area. The big chain supermarkets were coming into the area in succession because of the large-scale apartment complexes that had been built. The contractors had lured the chain supermarkets into the area in order to sell units. The merchants from the open-air markets in the area, along with small vendors, began to protest in front of the big supermarket. They even performed Sam-bo-il-bae, where the protesters marched a few steps and then knelt to bow. The protesters repeated this action as they were led by a moped that held a banner. One of the protesters, Mrs. Im, who sold fish at the open-air market, wore her fishy-smelling rubber gloves just as they were, knelt, and bowed. Yu-ri’s mother threatened to shave her head in protest, and shouted at the front of the line. However, the big chain supermarkets didn’t budge in any way, saying that they hadn’t violated any laws. Yu-ri’s mom’s Ant Mart stayed open 24 hours in order to differentiate itself from the chain supermarkets, but the only thing that resulted was more expired milk. “Is your mom eating okay these days?” I asked. Yu-ri responded in a dismal voice:

“She fell asleep after drinking makgulli last night, too. It’s a losing battle. I wish she would stop. It’s not as if we are going to get more customers because we’re open 24 hours. I just end up suffering. Look how bloodshot my eyes are.” I understood both Yu-ri and his mom. I’m sure it pained Yu-ri’s mom to think about getting rid of a business that had essentially allowed her to raise five children on her own. And it couldn’t have been easy for Yu-ri to watch his mother go through this hardship. I looked at the back of Yu-ri’s head as he kept it down while he wrote. His neck had turned red. Some time ago, whenever we couldn’t say in words what we wanted to, we conveyed our feelings by pressing down on each other’s neck bone. It started back in college one drunken night as a joke inside a club room while leaning on a dirty sofa that looked like a permanent fixture from the 3rd century. Before we knew it, it had become a thing between only us. It was as if this subtle action was our way of taking each other in our arms or stroking each other’s heads. We would repeat this dull motion even when clear advice or direct speech seemed more fitting. I gently pressed down on Yu-ri’s neck bone with my index finger. Yu-ri looked up at me like an innocent child. Maybe we were both the type to mature into adults much slowly than most people.

There were a lot of people at Sang Yong Gak restaurant. The tables were mostly taken up by kids who were from a nearby high school. They had just finished their classes and were taking a break before their evening independent study classes. Sang Yong Gak was famous in the neighborhood for serving the largest portions that were also inexpensive. Their main clientele were high school students. The kids were talking at a volume high enough to hurt my ears. The noise was like uncontrollable energy coagulated in an erupting voice. I sat

with my grandmother at a table next to the entrance. “Grandma, what are you going to eat?” Grandma poured water into a glass and said, “Jajjangmyeon, double portion.” Wiping the table with a wet nap, I said: “You know they serve just as much here even if you order the regular size. Even high school students can’t eat the double portion.” “I still want the double portion.” “Just order the regular size. You can’t eat all of it.” The owner came by to take our order. Despite my attempt to dissuade her, Grandma still ordered the double portion. I didn’t understand why she insisted on being so stubborn, knowing she couldn’t handle portions like that normally. Grandma stared blankly at the high school kids joking around. The students used their right hand to grab at the noodles with their chopsticks, and with their left hand, they fiddled with their cell phones, all while talking. “I wish the teacher would get mad once in a while in our Korean class”; “If I had that class first period, I think I’d puke all day”; “No, fifth period right after lunch is worse. You can hear the teacher trying to pick at the food stuck in his front teeth with his tongue. It’s gross. He does it coming in, during class, and leaving. Yuck. Heard his mouth is full of artificial teeth.” Stories, true or not, were being exchanged. At times, the voices would rise to a cacophony, and it was difficult to make out what was being said. A waiter placed the noodles in front of us. The portions were immense. The students around us stared at our table with their eyes widened. Grandma’s bowl looked like it would overflow. The portions were definitely good for three people. “I told you. It’s too much.” Grandma held her chopsticks and, sounding irritated, snapped: “I said I can finish it!”

I told her to go right ahead and poured vinegar over the yellow radish. Grandma, who had turned eighty-seven this year, was stubborn. She had aged, and her back was curving, but her pride had stayed intact. Maybe it was because she read too much, like Yu-ri did. A Seoul native who had had a difficult and rough childhood, she took great pride in the fact that she finished high school. Her father, the sole doctor where she had grown up, was handsome, and his hobby had been collecting books. Naturally, Grandma grew up reading a diverse array of books. Old age had forced her to wear reading glasses, but still, even if it were just for a moment, reading was the one thing that gave her satisfaction and happiness. After taking a bite of a piece of radish, Grandma spoke as she chewed. “Yi-re, do you remember what I gave you a long time ago?” “What?” “You know, the note I gave you a little after your mom and dad died?” With my mouth full of jajjangmyeon, I nodded. I had been in sixth grade about to start winter vacation. I was going through puberty at the time—a time when without reason I would get depressed or feel excited or go from the torture of feeling butterflies in my stomach to feeling hopelessness. My parents had passed away a week after falling into a coma from a car accident. Because their passing was so unexpected, I cried only after the funeral. I just didn’t understand how that could have happened. I refused to go to school or see anyone; I just cried all day. That was when Grandma handed me a crumpled note. On an A4 piece of paper, I saw Grandma’s handwriting, which was made up of rounded lines as if it bad been written by a middle school student.

Kim Gu died from the bullet of an assassin at age 73, Napoleon Bonaparte died of stomach cancer at age 51, Marie Curie died of aplastic anemia caused by radiation exposure at age 66,

Mark Twain died from a heart attack at age 74, Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot by an assassin at age 39, Bang Jeong-hwan died from complications of hypertension at age 31, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart died from an outbreak of â&#x20AC;&#x153;a rash that looked like millet seedsâ&#x20AC;? at age 35, 11

Vladimir Lenin died from a stroke at age 53, Vincent Van Gogh committed suicide at age 37, Sejong died of a stroke at age 53, Sun Wen died of liver cancer at age 58, Isaac Newton died in his sleep at age 84, Ahn Jung-geun was put to death by hanging at age 30, Ahn Chang-ho died from cirrhosis of the liver at age 59, Albert Schweitzer died naturally at age 90, Albert Einstein died of a rupture of an abdominal aortic aneurysm at age 76, Abraham Lincoln was assassinated by a gunman at age 56, Orville Wright of the Wright Brothers died from a heart attack at age 76, His older brother Wilbur Wright died from typhoid fever at age 45, Yu Gwan-sun was tortured and died at age 18, Julius Caesar was fatally stabbed by assassins at age 56, John Lennon was shot by an assassin at age 40, Sigmund Freud chose to die by euthanasia at age 83, Charles Dickens died of a stroke at age 58, Karl Marx died from catarrhal inflammation that led to bronchitis and age 64, Pablo Picasso died from a heart attack at age 91,

pleurisy at

Helen Keller died naturally at age 87.

There were names I had heard of and names I was seeing for the first time. The point was that they had all died. Whenever I couldn’t bear the pain of missing my parents, I looked at this note. As if committing a prayer to memory, I read the note slowly, and in time, I felt calm. I didn’t know why, but the note was comforting. Sometimes, I would imagine my parents, who had a penchant for conversation, sitting around and chatting with these great people in an amphitheater surrounded by cool breezes. Grandma would occasionally slip me a similar note here and there while I was growing up. But I wondered why she had suddenly brought up the subject of the note. I stared at Grandma, who kept eating her noodles. Chewing her food, she said: “It’s all right. Everyone dies at some point.” Before I knew it, Grandma had already eaten half her meal. Nudging a glass of water towards her, I said: “Drink a little bit of water while you eat. You sure can eat a lot.” “People shouldn’t just work all the time. You have to enjoy life, too.” “What are you talking about?” “Let’s buy a nice, sweet-tasting cake on our way back home.” “You won’t have room left in your stomach after that.” Suddenly the kids in the restaurant cheered. It looked like they were drawing lots to divvy up the bill. A pimple-faced boy looked as if he was the big loser and angrily threw down a wet nap. Looking at the rowdy kids, I suddenly remembered when I was a student. For some time after my parents passed, I said very little. Unless it was absolutely necessary, I rarely opened my mouth. Instead, I focused on observing things. The subjects I observed weren’t grand or especially meaningful: tree roots that broke through the cement on

the sidewalk, a shadow cast from a bridge that divided the waters underneath, or the particles that floated around above it. And when it felt like a tornado would come and sweep away everything inside me, I would silently look around. Forgetting to eat and sleep, I tried to trace with my eyes the signs of all trivial things. In the process, I started to feel like everything in the world was simple, momentary, and illusory. Time, seasons, generations, landscapes, all eventually faded without a trace. Everything existed, then disappeared. That was the only definitive truth. When I thought that way, I was able to quiet my mind. While I was completely immersed in the past, Grandma spoke while wrapping noodles around her chopsticks. “They say it’s cancer.” Thoughtlessly taking a bite of radish, I said: “Who has cancer?” “What do you mean, who? Grandma. Me.” “Don’t joke around. And of all places at a Chinese restaurant.” The kids from the next table got up and rushed by us. “Hey, did you watch Gag Concert?” said one student. “Nope,” said another. “You should. It’s funny as hell.” “Shit. I just don’t feel like it.” The kids bumped into the chair I was sitting in as they exited the restaurant. Grandma raised a big clump of noodles towards her and said: “I went to the hospital and got it checked out. The doctor said not to bother with surgery or treatment, that I should just eat whatever I want and rest.” I put down my chopsticks and asked: “Who did you say has cancer?”

Grandma didn’t respond. “I said who has cancer?” Grandma looked at me disapprovingly and clucked her tongue.

3 14 Grandma and I sat out on the sun porch, and we watched the rain come down. The raindrops that formed on the windows looked like countless holes. I had never felt sorry for myself for having lived alone with my grandmother. I had gotten used to it just being us. But now I felt like I was alone in the universe, like a satellite that had lost its way in space and was floating around in the darkness. Looking outside the window, Grandma said: “Cancer is like rain. Rain doesn’t discriminate where it falls.” It sounded like a line in a book. I resented Grandma at that moment. “Why didn’t you ask me to go with you to the hospital?” “Mijin’s mom took a day off from work and accompanied me. I didn’t want you to get worked up.” Mijin’s mom had lived next to us for years. When Mijin was little, her mom used to leave her with us often so that we could look after her. Mijin’s mom worked for a large sports center, and she often worked till late at night. Mijin had started middle school this year. “You know that I haven’t spent any of the insurance money I received after your mom and dad died, right? Don’t fritter it away. Be wise and spend it frugally. If this were a long time ago, you would already have been married.” “That is not the issue. If you knew you were sick, you should have told me.” “Cancer spreads very slowly in old people. So I just need to get along and live with it.”

Grandma got up and walked towards her room. I stared at Grandma’s curved back. Just as Grandma said, I had read from the Internet that old people could live for a long time even if they had cancer since cell production in general slowed with age; hence, the progression of cancer was also slower in old people than in young people. I thought I should call Mijin’s mom as soon as it became light out. I waited for dawn and couldn’t sleep all night. I went out on the sun porch and opened the window, and a warm breeze flowed in. “Everyone dies.” For a long time I just mumbled the words Grandma had said at the Chinese restaurant. After she had finished the double portion at the Chinese restaurant, Grandma had said she only had several months to live. She added that she didn’t want to do anything she disliked doing in that remaining time. When I asked her what she wanted to do, she said that first, she wanted to have cake. After we left the restaurant, we went to a nearby bakery and bought a cheesecake. As soon as we got home, Grandma ate a piece of the cake and fell asleep. The light pink lipstick on Grandma’s wrinkled lips sparkled under the fluorescent light. My eyes lingered on Grandma’s face for a while. Because Grandma had a sweet tooth, whenever I did something wrong, I would buy her cake or cookies to placate her. The very first time I didn’t come home or contact her because I had gotten drunk, I brought home a dozen donuts. Grandma, who had been standing in the entryway of the house and screaming at me, stopped screaming as soon as she saw the donuts. She immediately ate three of the sweet donuts with a cup of strong black coffee. On cloudy days, Grandma and I would make mixed noodles with vegetables and top it with freshly cut cucumbers; and on sunny days, we would make chocolate cake in our electric rice cooker. We were happy spending our days this way. Although there was a constant, inexplicable feeling of insecurity living alone with an elderly person, I was happy. As a self-proclaimed “modernist,” she hardly nagged. We would lie next to each

other wearing face masks or watch boy bands and shriek excitedly. Grandma especially liked the boy bands with members who were more delicately figured than girls. When they sang looking intensely into the camera, she would get right up in front of the TV, as though she thought they were fresh cookies that had just come out of the oven steaming. One time Grandma brought home a boyfriend whom she had met at a college for the elderly, and he made me feel quite uncomfortable. He was tall and freckled. The two of them were sitting at the kitchen table facing one another and drinking black coffee while discussing novels they enjoyed reading. I wondered if they had met in a book club at the college. I pretended to read the newspaper in the living room and kept glancing over at them. Grandma had put her hair back in a bun and was wearing a floral print blouse. She had clearly made herself up for the occasion. I looked at them suspiciously. After the man left, I told Grandma that she was being foolish. She said quite sincerely: “To love and be loved at any age is a good thing.” My mind went in all different directions at that moment, as I had just been agonizing over Yu-ri. I thought I wanted to expend all my emotions concerning love while I was young, and not to go through any pain when I was an old woman. In my mind, the twilight years meant having such a thick skin as to be incapable of being swayed by anything. I decided that I wanted to experience my one great love during my youth. I wanted to have vigorous sex while young, and become old with an emptied body unable to be shaken emotionally. If Grandma had known what I was thinking at that moment, she would have laughed at my immaturity. The rain fell heavier. The raindrops hit the windows sharply, and quickly covered them. Diagonal streaks formed indiscriminately. The world appeared in overlaying images like a hologram. I remembered my parent’s funeral suddenly. Because I was in elementary

school at the time and so many years had passed since their deaths, what remained in my memory were only a few strong images. I remembered the condolence flowers and recalled the smell; I wished to forget, over and over. Worried and at a loss, I got up and went back to my room. I turned on my computer and sat hunched over it. When the monitor came on, I started searching for information related to cancer. The results included articles about how eating vegetables could improve the immune system; a new discovery of an anti-cancer enzyme that could block cancer’s progression; and antioxidant-rich vitamin therapy. Feeling anxious and uneducated, I felt like I was grasping at straws. I took notes as I read the articles, and soon dawn arrived. I leaned back in my chair and breathed. Getting informed was important, but I thought I needed to make money. If there wasn’t anything that could be done to treat Grandma, I wanted to at least be able to buy her whatever she wanted to eat. Thanks to the house and a small inheritance Grandpa had left us, we had been able to get by okay. And up until then, I had worked part-time jobs in order to help out with the daily expenses. I started to look for work to replace the part-time gig that had recently ended. It wasn’t easy looking for a job that fit my limited work experience, or one that didn’t require a long commute. I didn’t want to work someplace too far away while leaving Grandma alone at home. I kept scrolling down and looking through page after page. After a long time of looking at the monitor, I double-clicked on one job posting. It was a company called “We Lift.” The description was written in calligraphy, and it said, “We are here to lift.” I would have to go through a probationary period, but if I met my quota, there would be bonuses in addition to regular pay. I liked the fact that the company was twenty minutes away and that it required working mostly nights. That meant I could spend time during the day with Grandma. I was always told growing up that I was just as strong as the boys. I didn’t hesitate and applied for the job. I thought a job so simple as lifting objects

was what I needed at the time. I filled out the application and emailed it in.

4 The company was situated in a residential neighborhood lined with row houses. I went up to the second floor of the plum-colored tiled building and stood in front of a gray door that lacked a sign of any kind. Looking at the address I had gotten from the owner of the company, this was it. I hadn’t realized I was nervous until I saw my sweaty palms. I wiped them on my pants, then straightened up my attire, and knocked. I carefully opened the door, then walked a few steps inside, and looked around hesitatingly. Right then, a man who must have been a good two meters tall approached me and held out his hand. “Welcome to We Lift. I’m Nam Seong-hun. Just call me Mr. Nam.” He sounded quite excited. He looked to be in his mid-forties but was wearing a t-shirt with a picture of a Gundam robot, something an elementary school student would likely wear. There was a strikingly odd contrast between his face, which bore deep wrinkles, and his childish t-shirt. My eyes then gazed over his faded jeans paired with white Nike sneakers that looked brand new. Mr. Nam asked me to sit down, and he went to prepare tea. His commanding figure made the teacups and spoons look miniscule. Soon after hearing the water boil in the electric teakettle, Mr. Nam placed the tea on the coffee table in front of the sofa. It was hot citrus tea. I thought it was strange that he would serve that in the middle of summer. But the amount he had put in was perfect, and soon, my wariness faded as I sipped on the tea. Mr. Nam took a sip and said: “So, let me ask you.” Thinking the interview was starting, I sat up erect and nervously swallowed. “Who do you like more, your mom or your dad?”

I stared blankly at Mr. Nam with the teacup in my hand. Mr. Nam asked again in a low voice. “I asked, between your parents, who do you like more?” I thought he was joking. I told myself he had to be and smiled awkwardly. But Mr. Nam looked at me seriously with his head stuck out and waited for an answer. A lull fell over the room. “I don’t know how to answer that. The last time I was asked that question I was seven years old,” I answered evasively as I drank the citrus tea. The sweet smell spread inside my mouth. I wanted Mr. Nam to say something, anything, but he simply smiled at me and rubbed his palms together. I wondered if this was one of those special interview tactics. The kind that was popular with big companies, where the interviewer would ask a nonsensical question in order to elicit a creative answer. I thought I needed to come up with an answer that sounded original. But the question itself was so infantile that I couldn’t come up with anything. I wondered what this question had to do with lifting heavy things. I didn’t say anything for a while and ended up finishing my tea. “Great! I think you have the right attitude for the job. You pass!” I didn’t know what had just happened but thanked him. The word “pass” tickled my nerves, and I felt excited. It seemed that what Mr. Nam wanted wasn’t a clever or an original answer. He was carefully observing my attitude. He said that a person who responded as if the answer had been prepared, or who answered curtly in an overconfident manner, was unsuited for the job. He emphasized that in order to be a good listener, a person had to know how to be silent before speaking. I guessed that he was looking for someone who saw beauty in silence. He saw potential in me as an employee when I didn’t answer immediately and took my time to finish my tea. Realizing what he had just said, I replied:

“My job isn’t to lift heavy things but to listen to people?” Mr. Nam laughed at my question. “Yes, you have to be able to listen to anything.” “Listen to who?” “Whoever.” Mr. Nam handed me a piece of paper. Puzzled, I read the words on the page:

Rules for Membership in We Lift 1. Fill out the application on our website. 1) Days you want to talk: 2) Time you want to talk: 3) The cell phone number where you can be reached: 4) Statement you’d like to hear when we call you and before we hang up: 2. After you fill out the above information, a monthly membership fee will be determined according to the number of phone calls you request. 3. Once you have successfully enrolled as a member, we will listen to

anything

you may want to talk about. 4. One thing you must abide by: You must say “bye” as a closing remark.

Mr. Nam explained further. “You’ll be responsible for some of the evening calls. Actually, ninety percent of our clients want us to call them in the evening. I don't know exactly why that is, but my guess is they want a little time to unwind after work before talking to us. There are a few who want to talk during the day, but I can manage those.

The more I listened, the more confused I became. I wondered if this was a scam or a pyramid scheme. I looked at the A4 sheet closely and asked Mr. Nam: “Why do I have to say ‘bye’ before hanging up?” “Even if you’ve just had a depressing conversation with the client, saying ‘bye’ will lighten the mood. It’s essential for both the client and us to end the conversation in a light 21

mood.” Mr. Nam looked at me earnestly. Well, he hadn’t told me to invest any of my own money, or go out and sell jade mats or water filters. He handed me a cell phone. “You’ll start tonight. You’ll use this phone to call the clients. You’ll make about ten calls, so you will be quite busy. The job will probably disrupt your sleep since some of the clients want to talk early in the morning. But if you’re good at this job, then the pay will go up and I’ll give you a bonus too, so work hard. Start by making calls from our office for about a month. Once you get used to things, then you can work at home. It felt strange to have the company cellphone in my hand. Listening to Mr. Nam’s explanation, I didn’t quite understand what I was supposed to do. Nevertheless I liked the fact that the pay was decent and that I could possibly work at home. Mr. Nam said I should go have dinner first. “You need more energy than you think in order to lend your ear to someone. Listening requires fortitude.” I came out of the office and went to a nearby restaurant. I ordered grilled fish and then started to worry. I had never put much thought into working any of my past part-time jobs. In fact, after working in service-oriented jobs such as a clerk in a convenient store or a coffee shop, or as an attendant at a parking lot, I had become numb to the stress that could come from dealing with lots of people. I dealt with people who would spend lots of money on extravagant meals and who would then come down to the parking lot holding a latte in their

hands and say they didn’t have the money to pay for parking. I didn’t have trouble getting them to pay. But I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to listen to people I couldn’t see face to face. I wondered what kind of people would pay money to have a stranger listen to them. I couldn’t quite grasp the concept. I thought maybe Mr. Nam wanted to give me some time to think, and that was why he had told me to eat first. I picked the meat off the fish bones, scooped up a spoonful of rice, and shoved it into my mouth. I made up all sorts of excuses, but I couldn’t find a reason not to take the job. The base pay was not bad. I also liked the fact that I didn’t have to wear a uniform that didn't fit right or looked old-fashioned. I knew from experience that I would get used to things in about a week, even if it was a job I was doing for the first time. I decided not to worry, and I finished my meal. As soon as I got back to the office, Mr. Nam gave me a list of names. “I don't memorize clients’ names. They rarely give their real names anyway, but I remember them by their initials. After your first call with them, whatever initial you think fits, use that to remember them.” There were about twenty names on the client list. “After you talk to them, you just have to make brief notes about what you talked about and how much time you spoke to them.” As Mr. Nam spoke, I soaked up everything he said like a sponge. I had to become familiar with the rules in order to learn the job quickly. “Now, shall we start with our first call? I could explain all day, but you won’t know what I mean until you actually experience it yourself. To warm-up, why don’t you make about three or four calls today.” “Right now?” “Yup, Client H asked for a call at this time. You should see the phone number on the

list I gave you.” After confirming the number on the list, I tried to calm myself. I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck, but I took a deep breath and dialed the number. The client had Shubert’s piece The Trout as his ringback tone. It sounded like music that would play in the background at some restaurant in the outskirts of Seoul. After some time, the client answered the phone. He sounded like a middle-aged man. As soon as he picked up the phone, he started sobbing. He might’ve been crying before the call. I didn’t know what to do at that moment. My heart started beating fast. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Meanwhile, the man continued to sob. When I was about to put the phone down, Mr. Nam handed me a note.

If the client answers the phone with our number flashing on his phone, then that means he wants to talk!

I looked at the client list and read off what was written under “The first thing the client wants to hear on the phone.” “How was your day today?” It was quiet on the line for a while, then he started sobbing again. I couldn’t see, but it sounded like he was trying to keep himself from crying harder. I waited for his sobbing to subside and looked at the clock on the table. “How was your day today?” After a short pause, he spoke. “My mother passed away at four p.m. today.” I didn’t know what to say. I opened my left palm, and, folding my thumb first, I slowly started counting to five. “I see,” I said.

It sounded like a chuckle or a big sigh on the other end of the line when I said that. Then he started talking about how he wasn’t sure if removing the respirator had been the right thing to do and how he regretted not being good to his mother while she was alive. He went on talking as if he were drunk, then started crying again. Suddenly Grandma came to mind, and I choked up. I didn’t say anything and just looked at the second arm moving on the clock. The man continued to talk about his mother for a while. He told stories of when he was young, and of when he first entered school. He also spoke about graduating from school. Mr. Nam pointed to the clock. The allotted ten minutes had passed already. It was time to end the call. I looked at the section on the client list that said “What the client wants to hear before hanging up.” “Shall we continue tomorrow?” I said. “Okay, let’s continue tomorrow,” agreed the man, like a naïve preschooler. “Bye,” I said first. He said “bye” quietly and hung up the phone. As soon as I hung up the phone, I started to breathe as if finally having the chance to do so. Mr. Nam was encouraging and said I had a talent for listening. My face had tensed up. I rubbed my face with my hands to loosen the muscles. As I did that I remembered what Grandma had said regarding my astrological sign. “You were born under Saturn, so by nature, your response time is a bit slow and you tend to think too much.” I thought she wasn’t completely wrong and smirked at the thought. When I told Mr. Nam that I had panicked when the client answered crying, he said that that was an easy case. “The cases where the client picks up the phone and starts crying, those are the least difficult clients to deal with. They are not seeking solace. They are satisfied knowing that someone willing to listen to them exists on the other end of the line. People who cry the

whole time on the phone; people who let out a mishmash of issues while crying; people who cry, then calm themselves and assert that they’ll be stronger starting tomorrow—those people try their best to make good use of the time allotted to them. You just have to be the person listening. The ones you have to be careful of are the clients who seem overly cheerful. I took what Mr. Nam said to heart. He said he would demonstrate, turned on the speaker on his phone, and dialed a number. Mr. Nam was articulate and skillful. He talked to the client in a composed, relaxed, and undeterred manner. He was not emotional and showed concern without crossing a line. After Mr. Nam finished his call, I made a few more. One client introduced herself as a 50-something housewife, though I hadn’t asked. She talked about buying spinach at the open-air market in her apartment complex; how she had to switch over to a thinner blanket for the warmer season; how she had purchased multivitamins for her husband; and about the neighbors upstairs, whom she did not know, creating so much noise with their moving truck. She spoke about these unextraordinary everyday events for twenty minutes. I would interject intermittently and simply say “I see” or “yes.” I found it dubious that someone would pay money to talk about such mundane subjects. I also thought it was probably better for me that the client just talked about herself. When I finished making my calls, Mr. Nam was generous with his words as he said I must have a special listening DNA. He requested that I come to the office the next night as well. Embarrassed by his compliments I smiled awkwardly and gave him back the cellphone. Mr. Nam received it, then got up whistling and started mopping the floor. It could’ve been his immense height, but his body seemed to lack perspective almost. I left the office with my head lowered a little. The neighborhood felt tranquil at night. The buildings in the area all seemed to be about five stories high. The entire sky filled my vision. I wondered when the last time I

looked up at the sky had been. The night was completely dark and fresh. I felt like I was catching it in its infancy. A white cat whisked past my foot. Startled, I stopped dead in my tracks for a moment, then started walking again. Suddenly my legs felt heavy. I could hear the sound of my loose sneakers dragging against the pavement. The conversations with the clients were a hodge-podge in my mind. I thought maybe I should have just applied for a job at a convenient store. All I had done was listen, but with the exception of my ears, my entire body ached. I stopped and stretched my neck and shoulders, then took out my cellphone from my bag. There were no missed calls. I looked up Mijin’s mother’s phone number and pressed “call.” Mijin’s mother apologized over and over on the phone. “You know your grandmother. She told me adamantly that I shouldn’t tell you. There was nothing I could do.” When I asked her if there were any treatments for Grandma, she was quiet, as if trying to hold back her tears. After a short while, she said: “The doctors said she’s lucky. She hasn’t had trouble eating or felt much pain. They said she should try to be as comfortable as she can be. I called your grandma earlier today, and she said she wanted to have bean paste soup with greens. I’m going to stop by the market tomorrow and pay her a visit.” After quietly listening to Mijin’s mother, I thanked her and then hung up.