Almond(25)

Gon sat cross-legged in the corner as I handed him the book. Upon turning the first page, his jaw dropped.

“Jeez, our ancestors sure knew what they were doing. I’m proud of them.”

“The word ‘proud’ isn’t meant to be used about elders. You really should read more books, you know.”

“Bull,” Gon said, turning the page. He examined each page thoroughly. He gulped regularly, shrugged his shoulders, and shifted his legs as if his body was tingling. “How much is this?”

“Expensive. Very expensive. It’s a special edition, you see. It’s actually a reprint of a special edition to be exact, but still valuable.”

“Who the heck wants this?”

“Probably people who truly know the value of a classic. This edition is really rare, I won’t sell it unless to a real collector. You’d better be careful with it.”

Gon closed the book and looked through the other magazines. Penthouse, Hustler, Playboy, Sunday Seoul. All rare, valuable issues.

“Who bought all these?”

“Mom.”

“Your mom’s got good taste.” Gon said, then quickly added, “It’s a compliment. I mean, she’s got some great business skills.”





41


Gon was wrong. Mom was everything but a businesswoman. All her decisions—except the ones related to me—were made based on hopeless romanticism and whim. Running a used-book store was the solid evidence. When she first opened the bookstore, she had debated what kind of books she should stock. But nothing special came to mind. So she decided to at least take shape like other used-book stores and stocked technical books, academic books or test-prep books, children’s books, and literary books. With whatever money was left over, Mom said she would buy a small espresso machine. Books and the aroma of coffee. They were the perfect combination, at least in Mom’s opinion.

“Coffee machine, my ass,” Granny snorted. She had a flair for getting on Mom’s nerves with only a few words. Mom was furious that her elegant taste was being mocked. Granny didn’t bat an eyelid as she said in a low voice, “Just get some smut in here.”

Pah, Mom huffed, and Granny started exercising her persuasive skills.

“You know, the best of Gim Hongdo’s art was Chunhwa, I mean, those obscene paintings. Everything becomes vintage when time passes. The spicier, the pricier! Try finding those,” Granny said, and not forgetting to reiterate her original point, “Coffee machine, my ass.”

Mom took Granny’s advice after mulling it over for a few days. Mom used every means online to get her hands on old dirty magazines and finally managed to make a transaction in person with some stranger at Yongsan Station. Granny and I accompanied her to help carry a heavy load of books. The dealer, a man in his late forties, seemed a bit surprised to see two women and a teenager, but quickly took the money and disappeared with a poof. The magazines were bound with a rope, revealing the covers on top. On our way back, people on the subway gave the magazines and us awkward looks.

“Of course they’re staring, there’s a naked woman tied with a rope.” Granny giggled.

“Don’t pretend you have nothing to do with this. It was your idea!” Mom shot back.

With more direct dealings, we were able to acquire some rare issues like the classic I showed Gon. After a lot of legwork, we completed Granny’s “Classic Collection.”

Unfortunately, Granny’s prediction had missed the mark. I did see some middle-aged men wandering around the adult magazine section occasionally. But in this day and age, people didn’t need to buy erotica in a shop, risking embarrassment like they did in Mom’s twenties. There were plenty of other, easier ways to access this kind of entertainment at home and enjoy in their comfort zones. Therefore it would be exceptionally unusual to see anyone purchasing erotic books from a female clerk at a used-book store in the late 2010s. Except for one time when the owner of a used-record store bought some to use as décor, the classics in that particular category never sold and were soon tucked away. Gon was the first customer to buy a single issue in broad daylight.





42


That day Gon bought several more magazines for the sake of “collecting” the classics. He asked if he could rent them, and I reiterated that this was a bookstore, not a rental store.

“Okay, okay, asshole. I’m going to return these anyway. You know there’s no way I’m keeping them at home.”

He sounded much softer, despite the swearword. After a few days, Gon stopped by again, with the magazines. I kept telling him that there was no need for him to return them, but he grunted, “Shut up and just take them.”

“Too conservative. No wonder they were published in the old days. Too far from my taste,” he added.

I thought it would be pointless to push him further, so I accepted the magazines. I noticed some pages in the middle were missing. A few pages even had holes cut out in the middle. The headline of the magazine survived, dangling, which read, “Brooke Shields.” Gon glared at me, self-conscious.

“This was a very rare one. There’s hardly any magazines left with pages of Brooke Shields intact, especially in her prime,” I said.

“Do you have more of her pictures?”

“Wanna see?” I asked, pointing at a computer on the counter. I typed “Brooke Shields heyday” into the search engine and clicked the image tab. Hundreds of her pictures popped up. From her early career to her prime. Gon was in awe.