Beasts of a Little Land(85)
JungHo felt a sharp pang at this, more than he felt at the death of many humans—both the ones that had nothing to do with him, and others for whom he’d played a crucial role in speeding up the mortal process. He would not, would never, become a habitual killer; but he’d long believed that with the exception of very few individuals there was no one who was truly good and honorable. They lied, cheated, betrayed their friends, family, and country—then doubled back, then doubled back again, just to save their skins. When the government-general decreed that all Koreans had to change their names to Japanese ones, half the country had immediately lined up to cast aside what their parents and their forebears had passed down. They believed in nothing, he thought, if they could give up their own names so easily. His contempt for humanity was becoming more pronounced as the years went on, and even made him value his own life less. He took a deep breath to clear this thought; there was a side of him still that wanted to hold on to his little remaining innocence.
The courtyard was filled with people waiting in silence to barter their gold and jewels. At the top of the queue, YoungGu was seated in a booth, flanked by a guard on each side and receiving the supplicants one at a time. He had stopped running the restaurant when the war broke out and started buying goods from the provinces and selling them for an unspeakable price in Seoul. The army had long ago confiscated all the valuables they could, but somehow the heirlooms kept surfacing from inside silk-filled comforters and jars hidden under wooden floors. Once those ran out, desperate people brought land deeds and promises of repayment with staggering interest—JungHo knew this part without being told.
With a hand over his heart, YoungGu insisted to JungHo that he didn’t do any of this for money. It was something that had to be done, and it was better done by him, a man of the people, was it not? Nonetheless, he took to the black market business wholeheartedly, the way some people enjoy themselves and become more sharply alive during crises—those ambiguous spaces between clear life and death. To chaos, they reacted with a kind of meaningless sanguinity, unlike those limp-wristed intellectuals who lost their desire to keep on living. What other alternatives there were to these two modes, JungHo did not know. He noticed that YoungGu looked happier than in the early years of his marriage when the children were small and the restaurant was thriving.
Upon catching sight of JungHo, YoungGu waved away his subordinates, rose, and walked briskly toward him with open arms. He had lost some weight around his middle since the start of the war, but in a way that made him look younger and healthier. He was wearing a brown corduroy waistcoat over a clean cotton shirt and trousers, like a well-to-do pharmacist receiving helpless patients.
“Why did that numbskull at the gate call me oyabun?” JungHo said, once they’d finished trading their usual greetings. “This isn’t the yakuza.” He frowned.
“Sorry, Chief, he really is stupid,” YoungGu said, leading the way to a back storage where he kept the most precious goods for his friends.
“But you’ll be happy to see what I set aside for you. One sack each of barley and potatoes, two heads of cabbage, and a bag of little, dried anchovies. You couldn’t buy these nowadays even with money stacked from floor to ceiling . . . No, stop, put that away,” he said, shaking his head firmly and deflecting JungHo’s hand.
JungHo frowned, although not out of displeasure this time. “I can’t just take this—even if we’re old friends. When I went to see Loach for rice a fortnight ago, he did end up accepting some silver from me.”
The fact was that when JungHo offered some of MyungBo’s silver to his closest friend, he had expected it would be refused. Instead, Loach took it, recorded the transaction in his book, and then turned to talking about some other unrelated subject without any embarrassment. They both knew that Loach was hardly struggling—he was getting as many valuables and deeds as he could ever want in a lifetime. JungHo had acted as if nothing was wrong and left with a friendly handshake, but inside he’d made up his mind to never see Loach again.
YoungGu snorted. “Of course Loach took it, that selfish bastard. But remember how many times when we each had nothing but a pair of balls, you gave us your food? Remember how many times you gave me a little bit more from your bowl so I could share with my dog?” YoungGu kept smiling widely but his eyes were rather moist. “I will never forget that.”
JungHo was relieved to see that his friend’s generosity was real. He wrapped his arm around YoungGu’s shoulder and slapped it heartily a few times. “Yes, thank you. Of course I remember, I remember,” he said, regretting his earlier thought about the worthlessness of most people. It was not in his nature to stay coldhearted for a long time, even in a war.
“I’ll walk you out, Chief,” YoungGu said as they went back through the bustling courtyard. “It’s so hot already, and summer has only just begun . . . Why, what’s the matter?”
JungHo had stopped walking. In the middle of the queue, his eyes had found a man he knew better than he would care to admit. With his factory worker’s shirt and pants, and somewhat more filled-out shape, HanChol had no trace left of the raw intensity of a penniless graduate. Even in the midst of war, he had the strapping look of a man ideally poised between youth and maturity, past accomplishments and future ambition. JungHo had heard that he had opened up an auto repair shop and was skillfully expanding the business even as the whole country fared like a paper boat in a hurricane. Nonetheless, he wasn’t so successful that he could avoid coming to beg for food from YoungGu—JungHo thought with some satisfaction. He realized that this was his moment of revenge, a chance vindication that happens only once in people’s lives. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon, an in-between time of day, and dead leaves were rustling on the sand where the dog used to lie in the sun. JungHo unconsciously took in these details so that he could recollect later the precise moment at which he felt the happiness of humiliating someone who had deeply humiliated him in the past. His ears drummed with blood and all of his veins were humming, from fingertips to toes. It was one of the most pleasant sensations he’d ever experienced.