Dust and Other Stories Read online

  OMONGNYŎ

  This place called Sŏsura is a port located at the northernmost tip of Northern Hamgyŏng Province, far beyond the towns of Wŏnsan, Sŏngjin, Ch’ŏngjin, and Ŭnggi.

  If you travel about ten ri further north of Sŏsura you reach the Tuman River, and there, right on the east coast, lies a small town called Samgŏri. There are no more than forty households, all farming families, as well as a police substation; four or five inns; a barber shop; a dry goods store run by some Japanese selling cigarettes, alcohol, sweets, postage stamps, and the like; and a house operating something along the lines of a brothel.

  In one of those four or five inns, situated at the top of the town, lives Chi Ch’ambong.

  Ch’ambong does not refer in this case to the title of a government appointment. Chi has been blind since childhood and has been known as Chi Ch’ambong, or “Blindman Chi,” for as long as everyone in the town remembers. He tells fortunes and conducts exorcisms on the side, but in such a small town there are not so many exorcisms or fortunes to deal with, and so he also runs an inn, but this being a remote border town far from the railroad, no more than five or six people show up on foot, even in a good month. The blind Chi Ch’ambong has in fact lived a life of destitute poverty. His household numbers two: Chi, now over forty, and a girl called Omongnyŏ, who is barely twenty years of age.

  Everyone thinks that Omongnyŏ is his daughter. But as an aging bachelor, Blindman Chi had paid thirty-five won for a nine-year-old Omongnyŏ and brought her up with the intention of making her his wife. For the past five or six years already, Blindman Chi and Omongnyŏ have been living as husband and wife, and their neighbors have no idea whether they have married or not.

  With just the two of them living together, Blindman Chi has grown to love Omongnyŏ to a frightful extent, but though she may well have allowed him thirty-five won worth of her flesh, when it comes to her affections she is barely worth thirty-five chon. This is no great surprise, of course, for how could a young woman to whom the future seems as bright as a flower not but feel dissatisfied living with a blind man old enough to be her father, no matter how she came to be sold?

  If she gets hold of some tasty snacks, it’s not in Omongnyŏ’s nature to share them with her husband. They sit facing each other at mealtimes, but she’s not the kind of woman who feels at all sorry about gobbling up everything herself, regardless of whether her blind husband eats a proper meal or not. This may well be why Chi looks as gaunt as a dried pollack. Two sunken eyes are affixed to his greasy face. The end of his tiny, green-chili-sized topknot is covered in white dust, and yet he always sits around wearing a horsehair headband. By contrast, Omongnyŏ has put on some weight since growing up, and her fair complexion invariably sports two rosy cheeks on a roundish face. Not really a beauty as such, she might perhaps be best described as soft and plump, a blessed woman? In such a tiny, remote town, this is enough for her to wag her tail and act like a great beauty. Omongnyŏ is one fine-looking woman, but she grew up in desperate poverty, and now that she has become used to tricking her blind husband out of both money and food, she has developed a habit of deception. If she wants something, even something that belongs to someone else, then she simply steals it and hides it away. Whenever guests show up or she shows signs of morning sickness she always manages to procure a tasty meal without spending any money.

  It is the middle of August, and tomorrow is Omongnyŏ’s birthday. She has bought a gourd-full of rice and gathered some seaweed, and now she is on the lookout for some fish, making her way through the darkness. She has come down to the seashore under misty moonlight and is stepping lightly across the soft sand with bare feet, a basket by her side. She stops in front of a boat on the shore, coughs, looks around, and then once sure that no one is about, she jumps aboard.

  Omongnyŏ has been stealing from this boat whenever she feels like eating fresh fish or clams. The boat’s owner is a bachelor named Kŭmdol, who moved here from Ŭnggi two years ago. As the son of a fisherman he is used to the sea and has been making his living as a fisherman since moving to this town. Kŭmdol takes the fish and clams that he has caught during the day and divides them into two parts, half to sell that evening and the other half on the following morning; while he takes the evening’s share into town, he leaves the remaining fish on his boat and does not return until deep into the night after he has sold everything. Omongnyŏ has been taking advantage of this time to steal his fish and clams.

  This evening too she casually jumped into the boat and was loading up her basket with fish and clams when—ah!—the boat suddenly moved. She hurried to the side only to discover that the boat was already so far from the shore that it was impossible for her to jump down.

  It happened that Kŭmdol’s catch that day had not been large enough to divide into two, and, having suffered from several recent thefts, he had decided to sell his entire catch the following day and wait in the evening to find out who was stealing his fish. When he discovered it was Omongnyŏ, known as the flower of the town, he could not believe his luck at the treasure he had caught. The best strategy, he decided, was first of all to set sail, and so he pushed his boat out into the water and began to row. A wide-eyed Omongnyŏ had no idea what to do. There was little point in shouting out, and she couldn’t jump from the boat; a fish caught in a net would have better options.

  The boat’s anchor was only lowered once far enough from the shore to be out of sight on this misty moonlit night.

  Kŭm: “M’lady?”

  O: “…”

  Kŭm: “Now don’t be frightenin’ yourself. What is it you think I’ll do?”

  Omongnyŏ’s expression quickly changed and she smiled at him. Then she said,

  O: “Boy, what’re you up to? Take this here boat back to shore.”

  Kŭmdol smiled as he moved to her side, where he placed his trembling hands on her shoulders and pointed with one hand toward the moon, which was shrouded in soft clouds. Omongnyŏ did not try to evade him, but instead turned her head at his command to gaze up at the misty ocean moon, just as if she were meeting a promised lover. And then, in a low voice, she murmured:

  O: “Take this boat in, d’you think there’s anything I won’t do if you just take the boat in …”

  But the boat did not move.

  A couple of hours later, it quietly slipped back to shore.

  Omongnyŏ returned home deep into the night, her basket chock full of fresh fish and clams.

  The following morning, she both roasted and boiled fish, and spread it out alongside fresh slices of clam, and that day even Blindman Chi ate well. This was the first time ever that Omongnyŏ had prepared such a birthday feast.

  After meeting Kŭmdol, Omongnyŏ’s dissatisfaction with Blindman Chi grew ever stronger. She had no idea why, but she always found herself comparing the two men. Chi was blind, old, and listless; if he had anything going for him it was this one thatched hut. Kŭmdol, on the other hand, could see perfectly well, was young and full of energy, and, though it was no home, the two of them fit quite snugly into his boat …

  She wanted to see Kŭmdol again. She wanted to eat fresh fish and clams again. She thought of what Kŭmdol had said, as they left the boat on the night before her birthday and he dropped his hands from her shoulders, “Come back, will you? No one’ll know. I’ll expect you tomorrow night, so make sure you come.”

  She pined to see him, with the thought that he might produce something even better than fresh fish as a welcome.

  More than ten days after she had celebrated her birthday, Omongnyŏ finally went back again with her basket. This time the boat stayed ashore even after she had climbed aboard. Although she had set off in the early evening, it was late at night by the time she returned home, her basket full of fresh fish and clams, naturally.

  After this second meeting, she began to visit Kŭmdol whenever she was bored, just as if she were popping next door to see a neighbor. If Blindman Chi happened to make a little money telling a fortune, she would t
ake the money and head off to the wine shop carrying a bottle. But Blindman Chi would not catch even a whiff of alcohol that evening; instead a tipsy Kŭmdol would be banging on the side of his boat, as if playing a drum, and pestering Omongnyŏ, who had fallen in love for the first time in her life.

  This being a border town, the police keep a strict control on inns, on account of the armed bandits and smugglers who operate in the area and deal in opium, kaoliang liquor, and tobacco. Inn owners have to report the arrival of any guest to the police substation within the evening. And if they forget just once? Then the inn owner is thrown into jail or fined, and naturally the inn is put out of business.

  Whenever a guest arrived at Blindman Chi’s house, they too would have to fill out the guest information book that same evening, and Omongnyŏ would then take it to the substation. Altogether there were three officers stationed here: the chief, who was Japanese, and then constables Yi and Nam. This Constable Nam harbored indiscreet thoughts about Omongnyŏ whenever he saw her. When he thought of his slowly shriveling wife, who had now given birth twice and was losing her spirit as well as amassing wrinkles on her face, and then he saw Omongnyŏ, plump and at her peak, he would grow overexcited. He even believed that, given the opportunity, and Omongnyŏ’s aging husband, he would be able to fulfill his desire for her with little resistance.

  August soon passed. One evening in early September, a traveler arrived at Blindman Chi’s house and ordered dinner, looking to stay overnight, but when he heard the foghorns of the boats entering Sŏsura Port, he set out immediately after dinner without sleeping over, having grown worried that he might miss the next morning’s boat. There had been neither time, nor any need, to fill out the guest information book. This just happened to coincide with the substation chief taking advantage of a holiday coinciding with a Sunday in order to go on a three-day hunting trip and Constable Yi escorting a couple of gamblers to Ch’ŏngjin to hand them into custody. Left by himself, Constable Nam had been trying to devise some plan that would take advantage of this golden opportunity, when he heard that a guest had eaten dinner at Blindman Chi’s house but no guest information had been provided. He took Omongnyŏ into custody that very evening and locked her up at the station. Then he went to see Blindman Chi, and this is what he said: “Ch’ambong, why didn’t you bring us the information? The chief’s angry, but I’ll soon talk him round. We’ll take care of this no problem, so don’t you worry yourself too much.”

  Blindman Chi had no idea what was going on and apologized a hundred times. He begged the constable to talk to the chief and bring Omongnyŏ home quickly. The rotten Constable Nam told Chi not to worry with a swagger that suggested he had all the power.

  Nine o’clock passed, and it was near ten by the time the lights in the houses in town began to go dark one by one and Constable Nam quietly slipped out to unlock the station cell. His voice quivered, “Omongnyŏ? I’m goin’ to put you in the night duty room, the chief won’t know.”

  He told her to use his quilt and sleep by herself in the night duty room, while he would go back home. Then he locked the storm door so she couldn’t escape, and she heard him walk away.

  Omongnyŏ had been crouching in the chilly cell for a while and was grateful for Constable Nam’s kindness. The small room had been newly wallpapered and the furnace was neither too hot nor too cold, so that it was as warm inside as a spring day. A thick Japanese quilt covered with Shandong silk was spread out over almost the entire floor. A kind of vain curiosity arose in Omongnyŏ, who had never owned even a cotton quilt. When she placed her hand between the quilt and the futon, the soft warmth made her heart thump and her chest pound even more than when Kŭmdol’s burning breath would evaporate over her face. But when she began to wonder why Constable Nam had shown her such sympathy, she suddenly recalled an incident from the previous winter. She grimaced as she realized she had been in this room before.

  A constable named Pang had preceded Constable Nam. He would beat people terribly whenever he drank, whether they were guilty of any crime or not. This Constable Nam also beat people, abusing men old enough to be his father and strutting around the streets as if he owned the place, but in general he had a reputation for being an improvement on Pang. Last winter when Pang was still in town he too had been left alone for several days and had visited Omongnyŏ’s house for no particular reason. Upon discovering that Blindman Chi was away at an exorcism in some other village, he had arrested Omongnyŏ and humiliated her here in this very room. Afterward he had harassed her relentlessly until sometime in March when he had died crossing the Tuman River. This Nam had arrived from Ch’ŏngjin as Pang’s replacement.

  Omongnyŏ closed her eyes as she recalled the incident and guessed that Constable Nam had brought her in with similar intentions, and not for the crime of failing to report a guest. She wasn’t in the least bit frightened however, but considered this an honor bestowed upon her alone. She fell asleep, fully dressed, on top of that plump Shandong silk quilt while waiting for Constable Nam to show up. He still had not arrived by the time the clock in the office struck twelve. His wife must be nagging him not to go out again when he only slept at home alternate nights, at least that’s what Omongnyŏ thought, and forgetting all about him, she extinguished the furnace, removed her jacket and skirt, and slipped beneath the quilt.

  As the soft warmth swept over her bare skin, Omongnyŏ’s lustful body shivered with excitement. “Kŭmdol’ll be waiting for me later tonight,” she whispered to herself, and then she even tossed her coarse underwear to one side before falling asleep.

  This was the first time that she had ever slept in the nude and stretched out beneath a Shandong silk quilt at that.

  She had been asleep no more than thirty minutes when something unfamiliar touched her lips. She was experienced enough to recognize the lips of a bearded man even while sleeping. She opened her eyes wide. But in the dark she could only hear the sound of somebody next to her, removing his clothes. Although surprised, she spoke quietly in a low voice that would not be heard outside the room, “Oh, now who’s this stray?”

  “It’s me … shhh, shhh …”

  It was without a doubt the voice of Constable Nam.

  Omongnyŏ finally emerged from the room at dawn the following day. No sooner had she hurried out of the gate than she unfolded some paper clutched in her right hand. There were two one-won notes. After glancing back just once with a sense of satisfaction, she made her way home, all the while thinking to herself, “Oh, a person’s looks gives everything away, that old bastard Pang, now d’you think that bastard would give me money? Calls me to the cell, does his business, and then locks me back up! Good job he’s dead, good job … now this Constable Nam, he calls me Omongnyŏ and m’lady, with that other bastard it was ‘bitch this,’ ‘bitch that’ … and then that quilt! That was quite something, if only I could sleep under a quilt like that every night …”

  Sometime later, a slightly inebriated Constable Nam entered Omongnyŏ’s kitchen in the evening, only to hear several voices in her husband’s room. The combined kitchen and parlor was empty. The constable listened at the door and overheard some youths from the town, who had lost their hawk on a pheasant hunt and come to discover whether the cards would say he’d gone east or west. Perfect, thought Constable Nam, and he quietly tried the door to the backroom, when Omongnyŏ’s hand reached out to grasp his and pulled him inside, the door closing behind the both of them.

  The cards quickly concluded the hawk had gone north. The disheartened youths soon scattered, “Signs are we’ll never catch that hawk …” North from here meant the mountains across the Tuman River, and to go there meant almost certainly to be shot dead. After he’d sent the young men away, Blindman Chi went to lie down in the warm parlor, but as he fumbled around for his wooden pillow, his hands landed on an unfamiliar pair of shoes. A blind man with many thoughts and well aware of Omongnyŏ’s behavior, he held on firmly to those shoes as he pressed his ear to the backroom door. Two people were brea
thing evenly, but no voices were to be heard. His ears were as sharp as his eyes were dull, and there was little that escaped his suspicion. They had stilled their breath so that no one would hear, but nothing escaped Blindman Chi. He knew that such shoes could only belong to a constable in a town like this. He suppressed the urge to rush straight in with a knife and cut the couple up, knowing well that any rash move might lead him, who could not see, to let the man slip away without discovering his identity. And so he waited, with just one shoe in his hand.

  Not long afterward, Omongnyŏ’s laughing voice rang out, and the door opened. The couple saw Blindman Chi sitting in the parlor. Omongnyŏ retreated into the backroom, while Constable Nam crept around Blindman Chi, keeping his distance, and would have made a run for it, but for the fact he was missing one shoe. Chi called out, “Who’s there?” And then shouted, “Don’t you need your shoes, hey, who’s there? Who … is there no one human in this town?” No matter how he thought about it, Constable Nam had to act quickly. Soon everyone in town would come running, and his job would be at a greater risk than his shame even. He thrust several banknotes into the blind man’s hands, and then brought the affair to a safe conclusion by tempting, pacifying, and threatening him all at once, with the promise that if Chi didn’t keep quiet, a fine of one hundred won for not reporting a guest would soon follow, whereas his silence would be rewarded: Nam promised to confer with his boss and somehow force the other inns to shut down, leaving Chi the only inn owner in town.

  From this moment on, even when Omongnyŏ visited Kŭmdol’s boat, Blindman Chi presumed she was with Constable Nam. And several days later, just as Nam had promised, one of those other inns was ordered to close on account of its rooms having been found unclean. Blindman Chi gave the issue some more thought and decided his inn might be the only one left within a matter of months. From then on he said nothing when Omongnyŏ went out only to return during the night or early the next morning.