Beasts of a Little Land(23)
Over the next few hours, he worked on editing a manuscript for his quarterly literary journal, for which he was the editor in chief. There was a short meeting with his publisher, who had some troubling news about the printing press in the basement floor of the office, where they produced their own magazine as well as other publishers’ works and even brochures. Kim SungSoo had only barely sent out the publisher when his secretary knocked on his door and let in his friend Lee MyungBo.
“How long has it been? How long?” The two friends clasped their hands and kept loudly exclaiming over one another. When they were done, SungSoo shouted at his secretary to bring in coffee immediately, and then they both sat down with glowing faces.
“Why haven’t you let me know you were in Seoul? I thought you were still in Shanghai,” SungSoo said reproachfully.
“I’ve only just arrived. And I will be going back in a month or two,” MyungBo replied, smiling.
“Well, you look great. That country suits you!” SungSoo laughed good-naturedly. But in fact, as his eyes adjusted to the difference between his memory and the figure before him, he was beginning to see that MyungBo had aged faster than himself, that his cheeks and chin looked dark even though it wasn’t yet evening, and that his coat hung loosely on his shoulders. And this made SungSoo feel truly sorry for his friend, which then had the bizarre effect of brightening his mood, and making him feel healthier and stronger than ever.
The secretary hurriedly brought in two cups of coffee on saucers, and they took a minute to settle themselves over the drinks.
“You shouldn’t flatter me like that. You’re the one who looks so hale and hearty. I guess that’s the thing when one is married to a good woman. How is my sister-in-law, by the way?” MyungBo asked, and SungSoo smiled at his using the friendly term “sister-in-law” to describe his wife, whom MyungBo had never even met.
“She is good, she’s never not good,” SungSoo said.
“And the children? How old are they now?”
“The boy is fifteen, and the girl just turned one.”
And in this way, they spent the next half hour catching up with all the details of their lives, each other’s families, mutual friends and acquaintances, SungSoo’s publishing house, and a side venture he’d just begun.
“A bicycle shop!” MyungBo exclaimed. “How ever did you come up with that?”
“I always loved riding it, it’s a favorite hobby of mine,” SungSoo said. “But enough about me. What brings you here? No, let’s discuss that over lunch. Aren’t you hungry? I’ll take you to a new restaurant that’s just opened, called MyungWol. They do palace-style cuisine, seven or nine courses; it’s very splendid.”
For the first time, MyungBo’s face became subtly opaque, as if concealing some displeasure. He said, “No, thank you, I’m not very hungry, and besides, it’s so comfortable here.”
“Are you sure? Please, it will be my treat,” SungSoo implored. “You embarrass me by not allowing me to buy you lunch after all these years.”
At that, MyungBo smiled and the chilliness disappeared from his face. He explained, “You’re still as generous as I remembered. Even at school, when some of the others talked about you as if you were a spoiled rich kid, I always defended you, because I knew you are far kinder than people make you out to be.”
“Oh, MyungBo. I don’t know,” SungSoo said, suddenly feeling deflated. “I’m not that kind. I don’t do anything to deserve such praise.”
“But what if you had the chance?” MyungBo asked excitedly. “What if you had the chance to prove your goodness, wouldn’t you take the right path?”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand . . .”
“Surely you know. Don’t you see? The people are dying, SungSoo. The good, hardworking peasants, who have never done anything bad in their lives, because every single waking minute is spent trying to put some food on the table . . .
“Just outside this office, here in Jongno, the beating heart of Seoul—thousands of people standing up against the oppression, fighting with their bare hands, and you haven’t noticed?” MyungBo’s eyes glittered in a strange way. “Why is there no rice for them? You tell me.”
“Because the prices are rising,” SungSoo answered reluctantly.
“No—well, that’s not the full answer. The prices are rising because the Japanese have proclaimed a census and measured every inch of Korea, and all the miserable illiterate peasants, who have no proof of ownership except ancestral and oral rights, woke up one morning and found that their land was no longer theirs. Any so-called unclaimed land, the government takes for itself, or sells to the grand landlords and the Japanese trading company. So, they go from small landowners to tenants under the great landowners, and after they pay off the taxes to the government, the rent for the land, fees for the tools, irrigation water, et cetera, et cetera, they no longer have any money to buy even their own food, and have to borrow from their landlords against the following year’s crop, just to be able to secure the seeds. The cycle gets worse every single year, and they’re sucked dry, down to their bones. Then, of course, the landlord makes them sign a communal contract so that if one tenant runs away, the other tenants of the village will have to pay off the remaining debt, so no one may dare escape, making them struggle in the same spot until they all die. Meanwhile, the great landowners, who control the vast majority of rice, see that the more they hold on to it, the higher the prices rise; and the higher the prices rise, the richer they become, so they keep their warehouses full to the top with sacks of grain, while everyone else is starving to death. Now, can you tell me that you don’t know what’s wrong with this state of things!”