Beasts of a Little Land(35)

“Oh! But you can help! How could we have missed it!” She clasped her hands around SungSoo’s arm. “Didn’t you hear what Mr. MyungBo just said? We will need thousands of copies of manifestos and flags. You have your own printing press, don’t you?”

“I do, but . . .” SungSoo muttered with a sinking heart. He couldn’t protest that it was too dangerous, or try to get out of it in any other way. He addressed MyungBo directly, saying, “But is that what you need, my fellow?”

“If you’re offering, I will take it very gladly,” MyungBo replied, courteously and sincerely as ever. “But only if it’s not a burden to you. And speak freely if it is, and I will never bring up any of this in front of you, ever again.”

Seeing Dani’s eyes intensely fixed on his face, SungSoo had no choice but to say, “Of course it’s not a burden.” And as these words left his lips, he already felt a little less in love with her.





9


The March

1919

IT WAS THE SECOND TIME MYUNGBO FOUND HIMSELF AT SUNGSOO’S publishing house, where he’d thought he would never return. When he arrived, he was told by the secretary—the same brown-faced young man from the country—to wait outside SungSoo’s office; he wasn’t asked if he’d like coffee.

MyungBo was not offended, however. Years of similar experiences had left him well conscious of the coldness that enters into amicable relationships when money becomes involved. He himself had never cared that much for possessions; even as a child, he was sometimes scolded for giving away his clothes and books to poorer classmates and servants’ children. It had appeared to him then that no matter how much he gave, he would always have more than enough. As he grew older, he even relished the struggles brought on by his sacrifices. There was a soaring awareness that illuminated his soul whenever he did the right thing, which also cost him something.

This euphoria, however, was balanced by the utter terror he felt when he looked around and saw so many others to whom this consciousness was not only absent, but unknowable and abhorrent. Most people, MyungBo realized, were made of a different material than his; and it was not something that could shift, as from coldness to warmth, but an elemental and fundamental difference, like wood from metal. At a time like this, an apocalyptic time if it ever was—his people dying under the Japanese bayonet, everywhere in the world bloodshed and rape, and the war in Europe, which had only just ended—people still thought about going to university, obtaining a lucrative post, or squeezing more profits out of their land, and churning ever greater wealth, as if the world itself weren’t burning all around them. It was one thing for the starving peasants to not care about independence, and many of them did not mind whether their landlord was Japanese or Korean, as long as they got to keep some grain to feed their families. But the indifference and hostility from the educated class, who should know better and willingly take up their duty, cut MyungBo to the deepest core. Even his wife would have preferred that he had stayed in Korea to take a position or while away his years waiting to inherit his father’s land. She never said this, but MyungBo knew her feelings. Regarding their marriage, he was profoundly disappointed at not being understood exactly where he felt most proud of himself.

This was surely the reason he had felt so taken in by Dani, who had shown such acute perception and genuine empathy for the cause. Turning his hat mindlessly in his hands, MyungBo recalled Dani’s brilliant eyes and her eloquent, expressive lips. It was such a shame that people only ever saw sensuality in that lovely face, which was so clearly full of intelligence and purity. And more than that—there was something very touching about her, strong and proud yet simultaneously very tender and open. But at that moment, MyungBo abruptly stopped his musing and rose from his chair. The secretary had announced that SungSoo was ready for him.

“Have you been waiting a long time?” SungSoo asked him as he entered the office.

“No, not very long,” MyungBo said, smiling weakly. “And I would have waited even longer. I am indebted to you for the rest of my life.”

Instead of protesting, SungSoo remained quiet and lit up a cigarette with downcast eyes. Leaning back and sinking into his deep-seated chair, he breathed out the smoke while crossing one long leg over the other.

“I won’t say it hasn’t been . . . troublesome,” he replied at last.

“I understand that. I truly do, my friend.” MyungBo blushed. “But you, with your intelligence and education, you must surely understand that with this contribution, you’ve gained your place in history. Don’t you?”

“Ah, history! Ha!” SungSoo laughed a hollow laugh, scattering wisps of smoke. “Fine, MyungBo, let’s discuss history then. You remember as I do the story of Koguryo? That martial kingdom of our ancestors ruled not just the entire northern part of the Korean peninsula, but far into Primorski and Manchuria, for seven hundred years beginning in the first century. Then after its demise, Balhae ruled another three hundred years in those same territories. Now though, those lands belong to Russia and China, and who do you see there? The Russians and the Chinese. Then what happened to the Koreans who used to live there for a thousand years? They’ve been wiped out, or they’ve moved to the south, or intermarried with the Russians and the Chinese. But the few ethnic Koreans, the descendants of Koguryo who remain, do they mourn the loss of their mother country? No, they have no longing or patriotism for the Korean peninsula. Their identity has been completely diluted in the past thousand years.