Human Acts(11)

—

Just like her brother, Jeong-mi is small for her age. On top of that, her short bob means that from the back, she looks like a senior student at middle or even primary school, though she’s actually just turned nineteen. From the front, too, she can easily pass for a high-school first-year, though she attempts to look a little older by always wearing makeup. Despite her feet being swollen from standing up all day, she insists on wearing high-heeled shoes for the walk to and from work. Far from being the type to thrash anyone, her light tread and quiet voice make it impossible to imagine her ever getting properly angry. And yet, according to Jeong-dae, she had strong opinions on certain matters, and was more than capable of holding her own in a debate. It’s just that people don’t know. She’s actually even more stubborn than my dad.

In the two years she and Jeong-dae have been living in your annex, you’ve never once had a proper conversation with Jeong-mi. She worked at a textile factory, and was frequently on night shifts. Jeong-dae, too, was often home late—because of his paper route, though to his sister he pretended to have been studying at the library—so the coal fire in the annex kept going out that first winter. On evenings when she got home before her brother, you’d hear her soft knock on your door. Face haggard with exhaustion, short hair tucked behind her ears, excuse me, the fire…it seemed an effort for her just to part her lips. Every time that happened you would spring to your feet and hurry over to the fireplace, pick out some hot briquettes with the tongs, and hand them to Jeong-mi in a long-handled pan. Thank you, she would say, I didn’t know what to do.

The first time the two of you exchanged more than this handful of words was one early winter’s evening the previous year. Jeong-dae had tossed his book bag into a corner as soon as he got home from school, then headed straight back out for his paper route. He still wasn’t back when you heard what to you was the unmistakable sound of her knock. So tentative, as though she was afraid of harming the wood, as though the tips of her fingers had been swaddled in soft rags. You opened the door straightaway, and stepped out into the kitchen.

“I was just wondering, I don’t suppose you still have any of your first-year textbooks?”

“First-year?” you echoed dully, and she explained that she was planning to attend night school starting from December.

“The world’s changed since they assassinated President Park. The labor movement’s gathering strength, and now our bosses can’t force us to work overtime anymore. They’re saying our salaries will go up, too. This could be a great opportunity for me, I need to take advantage of it. I want to start studying again. But I’ve been out of school so long, I’m not sure I’d be able to just pick up where I left off; I want to go back over the things we did in the first year before I make a go at anything else…then, by the time Jeong-dae’s on holiday, I should be okay to move on to the second-year stuff.”

You asked her to wait just a moment, then clambered up into the loft. Her eyes widened when you climbed back down, bearing an armload of dusty textbooks and reference books.

“My goodness…what a steady young man you are, holding on to all this stuff. Our Jeong-dae threw all his out as soon as he was done with them.” She accepted the books, adding, “Please don’t tell Jeong-dae about this. He knows it was because of him that I couldn’t keep on with my studies, and he already feels bad enough as it is. So please don’t let the cat out of the bag until I’ve passed the high-school entrance exams.”

You stood there staring at her smiling face, dumbfounded by this unprecedented volubility, and by the blossoming in her bright eyes, pale petals unfurling from tightly closed buds.

“Perhaps, once Jeong-dae’s gone on to university, I might even be able to follow in his footsteps. University. It’s possible, if I study hard enough. Who knows?”

At the time, you doubted whether she would be able to keep her studies a secret. If Jeong-dae came home to find her with those textbooks spread open, where in their tiny single room could she possibly hide them? Behind her skinny back? And Jeong-dae usually stayed up late to do his homework, so it wasn’t as though she could just wait until he’d fallen asleep.

After only a brief while, these doubts were replaced by more intimate imaginings. The soft fingers that would peel open the pages of your textbook, mere inches from Jeong-dae’s sleeping head. The soft upward curve of those lips as they repeat: My goodness, what a steady young man he is, holding on to all this stuff…those affable eyes. That exhausted smile. That muffled-sounding knock. You felt lacerated by everything you imagined going on in the annex, a bare couple of yards from the room where you spent the nights tossing and turning. In the early hours of the morning, when you heard her stepping out into the courtyard and washing her face at the pump, you would bundle yourself up in the quilt and crawl over to the door, pressing your ear against the paper, your eyes, heavy with sleep, still closed.

—

The second truckload of coffins pulls to a stop in front of the gym. Squinting even more than usual because of the sun’s flat glare, you manage to pick out the figure of Jin-su, climbing down from the front passenger seat. His brisk steps carry him in your direction.

“We’re closing the doors here at six. Make sure you’ve gone home by then.”

“Who will look after the—the people inside?” you stammer.