Dust and Other Stories Read online

  I came to regret having met her. As I trusted Miss Cho’s character, cultivation, and friendship, I could have left everything to her and gotten engaged to someone completely unknown, and if I’d done so, how sweet would that most traditional, foolish pleasure have been, that of seeing my wife’s face for the first time at our wedding. To this day I still regret having missed out on that experience, but since we had already met once I felt that we should get to know each other a little better, and so I requested the chance to take a walk together. The reply came back that she would like that too and could leave her school for three hours between two and five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and that she disliked crowded places like parks and theaters.

  I had met her at the tram stop on Sŏdaemun Hill, but did not know which way to walk.

  “Which way should we go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She looked all around, blushing madly. I got the sense that she was worried she might bump into a friend or a teacher and would like to move on quickly.

  “Shall we walk up to those walls?”

  She began to walk ahead in silence. After a while, I pointed to the top of Hyangch’on-dong and asked, “Why don’t we walk up this hill?”

  “My friends often go for walks up there,” she replied.

  Out of necessity I remembered the path up to Chin’gwan Temple, where I’d gone on picnics in middle school. Back then, once we had walked past the Sŏdaemun Prison and crossed over Muhakjae Hill, the stream coming down from the Segŏm Pavilion had been crystal clear, and the riverbed had been clean too. The two of us had met in autumn, and I thought we would enjoy the scents of the ripening grain, the asters, the clear blue sky, and the white sandy path. And so we suffered the dust that covered our feet as we walked past the prison and over Muhakjae. But my belief that the path on the other side of the hill would be clean and follow alongside a crystal-clear stream turned out to be nothing but an illusion. No matter how far we walked, we just kicked up dust. Then the night soil cart passed by, churning up even more dust alongside its piercing smell. Whenever a car or the like passed us, we could barely open our eyes or even take a breath for a while. We’d already wasted almost an hour. We hadn’t been able to exchange even one quiet word. And it looked as if we’d have to walk a lot further before we would find that stream flowing down from the Segŏm Pavilion. The sun’s rays were striking at the hottest possible angle. I looked around the hill. All I could see were rocks burning in the heat. But we had no choice other than to climb the hill and try to find somewhere to sit. We looked for some shade, only to find some pine trees eaten up by crimson caterpillars. When we finally found somewhere to sit down, a crowd of women was doing their washing in a thread-like trickle of water and creating a clamor as if trying to catch fish. We had to raise our voices just to hear each other speak above the noise of the pounding washing sticks.

  When my wife first came to Sŏngbuk-dong she had laughingly asked me why I had not known of a good place for a walk back then, and added that as a novelist I was certainly not qualified to write love stories. My defense had been that we had not fallen in love.

  She was upset with my answer and replied, “Then why don’t you try falling in love and get it off your chest?”

  To tell the truth, from time to time I do wish I could fall in love. This is probably an eternal hunger common to us all. And most likely it’s a desire we can never fully satisfy, no matter how often we try.

  The bus toys with me again today. It pulls out just as I’m folding my umbrella in order to run. I turn away, determined not to watch the disappearing bus or feel any duty to remember the name of even one of the products advertised on its despicable backside.

  For three years now I have left my house almost every day to take the bus, but I haven’t once managed to time my arrival in order to hop right on without having to either run or wait. It would actually seem more natural if out of those several hundred journeys at least once or twice events had gone my way, but I’ve yet to experience that sense of being natural.

  Where should I go first?

  I ponder for a while and decide to take the first bus that arrives, regardless of its destination. It’s going to the Government General Building. The vehicle is quite old. I push my way on and sit behind the driver, but the bus seems to need oiling because an awful screeching sound pierces my ears each time the driver tries to stop or start the bus by pushing and pulling on this thing that’s as big as a spade. Yet the most unpleasant aspect of the route to the Government General Building is that we have to pass through the Tonhwa Gate. The bus has to wait there for the inspector’s permission to continue on its route, and he has yet to keep the bus moving speedily, not even one out of every ten times I’ve been on the bus. All eyes fix on him as if to say, “You bastard, let us go quickly,” but sometimes I start to count “One, two …” as if I’m sitting in the hot bath, and I generally reach seventy or eighty before the bus moves on. Not only that, but often he’ll suddenly tell us to switch to the bus in front or the one behind, so that you start to hear the words baka yarō, “you idiot!” falling from the mouths of short-tempered passengers, and then for tall passengers such as myself, who had barely managed to find a seat and sit down, the worst scenario is when we change to a different bus with no empty seats and have to stand up, pretending to look out the window as we can’t even straighten out our necks.

  “Damn him, what kind of inspection takes this long?”

  “Whatever time of the day or night all the bastard does is to tell us to get on the bus in front …”

  Curses flow of their own accord, but of course if we thought about it, our friend the inspector is not being willful; he’s merely enforcing the organization and control necessary for all the passengers’ sakes.

  But let’s leave such sociological thoughts for later, for now we are all busy just trying to reach our destinations and it’s hard not to curse and glare at him. Perhaps it is the case that Korean society is full of too many elements who lack public morality and cultivation, including myself, but it has to be said that being a bus inspector must be on a par with being a detective or a customs officer when it comes to making friends.

  Luckily, today we are not told to change buses, but if I had counted I probably would have reached seventy before the bus moved on.

  I change to the tram at Anguk-dong. It’s called Anguk-chŏng now, but it still doesn’t feel right to say that. I have more than a few complaints about the all-encompassing change of neighborhood administrative units such as dong and ri to chŏng. Regulating culture for the purpose of business efficiency is nothing more than an absurd import from the Nazis. What’s more, to say Sŏngbuk-chŏng instead of Sŏngbuk-dong seems as frivolous as calling an elderly gentleman Yi san, instead of Yi chusa. If it carries on like this, in a few years they’ll say that Yi, Kim, Pak, Chŏng, and all the other family names create chaos, and they’ll find some way to regulate citizens’ names as well.1

  A culture that kills off any sign of individuality can never be said to be of the highest order.

  “This is the Chosŏn Central Daily Building.”

  As the stop was announced, I decide to get off here instead of going all the way to Chongno. I know more people here because I used to work at the newspaper for a year or so, thus I’ve made a habit of always stopping by when I’m not too busy, even if I’ve no other business than to exchange the usual greeting “Everything all right?,” which has become as meaningless as a sigh these days.

  But once I go inside, it always turns a little sour. I used to be like that too; after they’ve shaken my hand once and offered me a chair if there’s one handy, they soon lower their heads to continue whatever they’re working on. They’ll be talking with me and have to answer the phone. Even as they shake my hand, they’ll be calling out to the office boy, “Hey, find out how we’re doing the ads today!”

  Whichever way you look at it, it’s a tragedy to see the ethereal poet Yŏsu sat at his desk as head
of the Society section, frowning at the title of some article about a robbery or a rape. It’s been a long time since the novelist Pinghŏ began rotting away in the same position at the Tonga Daily. And the poet Suju spends his days at some women’s magazine.

  Is this how ignorant they are about people?

  To put it kindly, they’ve no idea how to exploit their employees’ skills to the best effect. I start to feel indignant on behalf of all those rotting in their jobs and on behalf of the newspapers and journals themselves, and I’m sure that if I ever became the head of a newspaper or magazine, I would do a much better job at placing people in the right position.

  “Oh, are you leaving already?”

  “Yes.”

  As usual I flick through several editions of the Tokyo Newspaper and then, seeing that they’ve no time to talk to me, get up rather awkwardly.

  “Why don’t you send us several installments of your novel in advance?”

  “Sure.”

  I reply with ease. But I haven’t written anything in advance and don’t really feel like doing so. This is a really bad habit of mine, which needs treatment. I grow truly despondent as I wonder whether I’ll ever write a real novel if I continue like this, rather than some newspaper serial.

  I go down to the printing section. My friends here are just as busy. Sinbok (he still uses his childhood name) looks the very model of a busy person, crouched barefoot on top of a rotating chair, which has been raised up as high as it will go, flicking the ash from his cigarette with one hand and scratching away with his pen with the other.

  “Thank you for the manuscript.”

  “What manuscript was that?”

  I’ve received several requests but can’t recall having written anything.

  “He means thank you for the one you’re about to write now.”

  The interpretation was proffered by the children’s fiction writer Yun, who’s also shut up in here.

  “Okay, then I suppose I’ll write something right now.”

  As soon as I utter these words, Sinbok swings his chair around, gets down and brings me a pen and some manuscript paper.

  “How about writing a short essay?”

  “On what theme?”

  “How about the sea?”

  I end up having to write for at least an hour.

  “The sea!”

  In the distance I can see Pukhan Mountain shrouded in rain. The only sounds are water running off the eaves and the rotary press turning in the printshop.

  “The sea!”

  However much I try saying the word out loud, I would have to travel 550 ri to the east to find the sea that I was trying to conjure up. I write one line and cross it out noisily, and then another line and cross that out.… I mustn’t be so harsh with the students in my writing classes. A fly lands on the back of my hand. This rainy-season fly wriggles along with a slimy sensation, like a maggot. I shoo it away, but it comes straight back. If I had smeared lime on the back of my hand that fly would now be stuck to it and regretting that he’d not flown far away at my first warning. In the midst of this, I completely forget that I’m supposed to be writing about the sea.

  “Mr. Yi?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know when next month’s issue of Morning Light will appear?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Even if I did know, this is the correct answer. Rivalry between magazines is even more blatant than in the newspaper world. I’m always asked such questions as I visit both Central and Morning Light quite often, and they may even be watching out for me. Not just maybe, I should actually presume that is happening. It’s a little unpleasant. And then I realize that I have forgotten about the sea once again.

  I feel like chatting with someone. I consider stopping by the Morning Light office. But decide not to bother. This is how it usually goes. Nosan is never there unless you arrange by phone in advance to meet up with him; the novelist Ilbo is overwhelmed by editing work in a quantitative kind of way; and the illustrator Sŏgyŏng might appear to be free from work while he is staring at a blank sheet of paper, but he’s also busy, in a qualitative kind of way.

  I go straight to Nangnang, where for some reason there’s no sound of a record playing. But I think that if I just push open the door there’s sure to be someone there who will look happy to see me. I walk in expectantly and take a look around. There are very few customers to begin with, and all the faces merely glance in my direction before feigning ignorance and turning away again. I go inside and take a corner seat. This is most unpleasant. Everyone who glances at me is a regular customer. Even though we don’t greet each other, we recognize each other’s faces. Such familiar faces often seem less interesting than new ones. When I walk in, those faces seem to say, “Oh, it’s him again!”

  “What does he do that he can be entering a teahouse at this hour?”

  I would do the same in their position, but they seem to harbor some kind of unnecessary scorn and pass judgment on me when they’re no better themselves. It’s more than a little unpleasant.

  I order a cup of coffee that isn’t mixed well and doesn’t taste so good. I’d like to drink a cup of coffee that has been prepared with a scholarly conscience at every stage, from the choice of ingredients to the method of brewing. And then I’d like to talk to my heart’s content about nothing in particular.

  I call the errand boy.

  “Go upstairs and tell the boss to come down.”

  “I don’t think he’s up yet.”

  “Whatever is the time? Go and wake him up.”

  “Who shall I say wants to see him?”

  “Just go and wake him up … it’ll be okay.”

  Only after I insist does he go upstairs.

  The boss was a friend from my Tokyo days—Yi, known to us as the “Knight of Tears.” He was so good at crying that he would sigh “Oh my!” at the slightest thing, and tears would start to gather in his eyes. He was in and out of teahouses night and day to the point where, even though he’d been offered a fairly high position at the Hwasin department store upon his return, he had complained that they didn’t understand artists and quit to open this teahouse called Nangnang.

  Whenever we met he would tell me that he needed to discuss something in private. One night he had dragged me upstairs to his room and told me that he was in the midst of a love affair. He tearfully explained that the object of his affections was a beauty of great repute revered by all the young men in Seoul, that he was the one man fortunate enough to possess the key to this high window, which attracted everyone’s gaze, and that over the past year or so he had spent all the income from Nangnang on trying to reach this point and repel the evil hands of all sorts of other men. And then, he had asked me to answer honestly, “As you know, I have a wife and children. What should I do?”

  If it were me, there was only one possibility, so I answered without much thought, “You have to give up.”

  “Which one?”

  His eyes focused on me with greater intensity.

  “Your lover.”

  “But I would die …”

  “Then continue the affair …”

  “You mean without telling my wife?”

  “Well, how can your wife interfere in an affair she knows nothing about? Maybe if you wanted to marry her it would be different … do you want to marry her?”

  “Of course … of course …”

  He bowed his head. I tried to leave, saying, “As you say you would die without her, you’re clearly going to continue, so what does it matter what I say?”

  Suddenly he grasped my hand and asked, “Our relationship is still pure. Can’t we continue to love each other in a spiritual way?”

  “That’s not really giving up, but it is a beautiful idea.”

  “Idea? You mean it’s impossible?”

  Then he showed me her portrait and burst into tears, “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  The next time I met him some time later, he was not looking too good and had a
bandage wrapped around one of his ring fingers. I asked him what had happened and he replied, “I had an abscess.”

  There was something unnatural about his reply. I suspected that, emotional and softhearted that he was, he had cut his finger on account of his love affair, but I couldn’t probe any further in front of others. He seemed to be down about everything and asked whether I might recommend someone to take over the teahouse: business was so bad that he wanted to sell up and try a change of scenery in Tokyo. I haven’t seen him since then, but when the errand boy finally returns he says, “The boss must have gotten up and gone somewhere. He probably went home to eat.”

  “Home? You mean he eats at home usually?”

  “When he wants to eat Korean food that’s what he does.”

  There’s no sign of either Kubo or Yi Sang. The rain is still pouring down. The record player starts up. I just want to meet someone, anyone. Maybe if I go to the Osakaya or Japanese-Korean Bookstore, I’ll run into Wŏlp’a or Ilsŏk.

  Friends?

  I exit Nangnang deep in thought and walk along the sidewalk in the rain. I consider Nangnang’s Yi to be a friend. But when I was told that he’d most likely gone home, I couldn’t even begin to imagine what his home is like. As for his mother or father, I’ve no idea what sort of people they are, neither do I know where Yi was born or which elementary school he attended, or even what kind of child he might have been. I’m completely in the dark. Even if I were to hear that he had lost his father, I would have little sense of the old man who had passed on. And I’m equally in the dark about his ancestors or what his young children look like.

  Is this what you call friendship? Can we really be called friends?

  I think some more. But the more I think about it, couldn’t the same be said of all those people I saw at the Chosŏn Central Daily today, and also of Kubo and Yi Sang, and Wŏlp’a and Ilsŏk, whom I was hoping to meet right now? I had either met them because we worked at the same newspaper, or were at the same school, or as a member of the Group of Nine; that was all there was to it. Because I met them often at work or on business we had exchanged greetings, and as we did that frequently we began to shake hands and that was all really. Where was the plaintive longing to see each other, where was the affection? All those phrases about “between friends” being like this and that, aren’t they simply embarrassing? Then I thought about several of my childhood friends.