The Girl Who Wrote Loneliness (14 page)

“What would we say?”

“That we badly want to attend school.”

“Yeah, like other people don’t.”

“Other people are other people, and we have our own reasons. If the test results are close, they will pick us because of our letter.”

When I think about it, she seems to have a point. Cousin seems convinced by her own words, her sullen eyes beginning to sparkle.

“You write it. You said you wanted to be a writer.”

“We should each write our own. People don’t write letters jointly.”

“What does it matter? You write it, and we’ll both sign it. Makes perfect sense.”

The day before the test, I sit at Oldest Brother’s desk and write down how badly we want to attend school. At first I have no idea what I should say, but the letter quickly becomes long. I write that wearing uniforms is a big dream for us, and that if we are given a chance to finish school, I hope to become a writer and Cousin a photographer. That we will never forget the grace we received from the union chief if we are given this chance. At the bottom, we write the date and our names, and we seal the letter. Cousin will be in charge of delivering the letter to the union chief’s desk at the office the next morning.

Oldest Brother comes home at night carrying taffy sticks rolled in white powder, for good luck.

“Hope you do well.”

The taffy that Oldest Brother
got for us is sweet. We point and laugh at our cheeks, smothered with taffy powder, and help each other wipe if off. Oldest Brother tells us to brush our teeth and go to sleep early, but we have a hard time getting to sleep, tossing and turning as we listen to Oldest Brother’s tired breathing. On the day of the test, we have to get to work an hour earlier than usual. Cousin and I have to get there even earlier, to put our letter on Union Chief’s desk. While we are taking the test, Union Chief glances at me. He checks the name on my answer sheet and grins. He brings up Cousin’s name and asks where she is sitting. I point to where she is sitting way over in a different row. Union Chief pats my shoulder and moves on.

When the list of admitted students is posted in the cafeteria, I see that I made first place and Cousin second. When we go to the union office to receive our admission notice, we thank the chief, to which he replies, “You don’t have to thank me, you two had the highest scores,” and adds, “I appreciated the letter.”

One day, I am called into the office by Union Chief. He sits at his desk wearing a gray uniform and when I step inside, he tells me to approach the desk. “How come your company documents and the school admission papers do not match?”

I, still sixteen years old, hesitate, unable to answer.

“Tell me, why is that?”

“Well, actually . . .”

I stammer as I tell him that actually I am sixteen and not eighteen, and that my name is not Lee Yeon-mi.

“Sixteen?”

Union Chief looks unconvinced as he stares at my height. I had grown to my adult height at fourteen. I am the same height now as I was then.

“Then who is Lee Yeon-mi?”

I didn’t know anything about that. All I knew
was that because Dongnam Electronics employees had to be at least eighteen, which disqualified me as a worker, I had submitted the paperwork that Oldest Brother prepared for me. Oldest Brother would know who Lee Yeon-mi is. I had simply received the paperwork from Oldest Brother and had not asked who Lee Yeon-mi was. Union Chief speaks again after a long silence.

“We’re short on staff at right now, so there shouldn’t be a problem for the time being. Besides, you’ve already been working here for several months. But you can’t attend school under Lee Yeon-mi’s name, so bring in your real paperwork.”

He speaks kindly, but I feel as if I am being questioned. Perhaps he’s noticed how I feel, because he adds, “You make sure to work hard in school,” and continues to say that there are only so many chances to study in one’s life.

Thanks to Union Chief, I get my own name back on the company records. Thanks to him, my payment envelopes carry my own name instead of Lee Yeon-mi’s, a name I know nothing about. Thanks to him, I no longer have to get lost when someone calls me “Miss Lee Yeon-mi?” and I answer a beat later, “Yes, yes!” People now call me by my own name. The name that belongs to me.

Union Chief. If I had not forgotten his name, I would like, just once, to write his name with my own hands. His name may have been forgotten but his appearance hasn’t. Short height, gentle voice, rough skin on his hands.

He commuted on his bike. On his bike, he took the same route that Cousin and I took to walk back to our lone room, and when we met on that route, he would get off and walk his bike next to us. Sometimes he invited Cousin and me up to his rented room on the second floor of a house near the market, where he lived with his wife and their three-year-old son, for some fruit or hot citron tea. Sometimes, though rarely
, he gave us a ride on his bike to help shorten the distance to our single room. Cousin would ride in front of him and I in the back. At work, when I felt someone tapping on my shoulder, I would look back to find him standing behind me and, seeing my tired eyes, he would unconsciously reach out his hand as if to rub them for me then pull his hand back.

A warm soul, but one that I betrayed.

It is winter and Third Brother, who did not get accepted to one of the first-tier universities, visits Seoul to take tests for second-tier schools. In the crammed room where the three of us live, Third Brother sits with his back against the wall and glances at me, turning glum. Oldest Brother pleads to Third Brother to apply to a night program at a second-tier university and take the civil service exam, like he did. Third Brother, his hair still in his high school crew cut, does not answer. He takes only the university test and goes back home without saying good-bye. He never answered if he would do as Oldest Brother said, but Third Brother’s name makes the list of students admitted to the night program majoring in law. When he comes again for the physical exam at the university, Third Brother still does not smile. At the dinner table, Third Brother ignores his food and complains about how four people will now live in this room, his tone gruff, as if everything is Oldest Brother’s fault.

“I can sleep in the attic,” Cousin offers.

“Me, too,” I add. Oldest Brother says there’s no need to do that. When the next room becomes available, we will rent another room. But Cousin and I know too well that we cannot afford to rent two rooms. When spring arrives and Cousin and I start school, we will no longer be able to work overtime and our earnings will be even less. Our offer to sleep in the attic seems to have made Third Brother even angrier and he glares straight at Oldest Brother. My heart sinks with
a thump. It’s not like anyone forbade us to do so, but nobody among my siblings has ever glared at Oldest Brother in defiance like this. Nobody told us we couldn’t, but somehow we had grown up thinking we shouldn’t. Even Second Brother, who was only two years younger than Oldest Brother, never set himself against Oldest Brother, not even once. Not in childhood, not then, not now. Oldest Brother has that about him. He is not a fighter or someone who uses force the first chance he gets, but despite this, he has something about him that keeps people from behaving childishly or picking a fight. He was overly proper, to the degree that it seemed like a flaw. Even when he was young, he was polite to Mother and Father, sociable with other people, and always focused on his studies. Additionally, he was neat and noble in his looks, so when Father or Mom chided, “Why don’t you try to be more like your oldest brother,” we simply felt small, unable to refute or give excuses. He was someone who always tried his very best. Not only in schoolwork but in his courteous attitude toward Father and Mom and his brotherly attitude toward his younger siblings. He had always done the best he could from where he stood.

But now Third Brother is glaring at him.

Oldest Brother holds Third Brother’s steady glare and says, “Go on and eat.” Then he says, “Your sister is going to attend night classes after her shift at the factory.” He even adds, “And you know what? She says she wants to be a writer.” Only then Third Brother looks away and lifts his spoon to eat. A shadow of gloom covers his face. We finish eating in silence.

After the dishes are done, I feel awkward about going back into the room and so I head to the roof, where I find Third Brother standing by the railing. He gazes down at the jagged rows of factory chimneys. Third Brother had a strong sense of pride. He would not lose to anyone. Rather, it would be more accurate to say he was good at many things. In the country, there was no kid who did not fear him. He was a good athlete, had an intimidating presence, and was an avid reader, which
made him knowledgeable. Wherever he went, he was a leader. But now he had failed to get into a first-tier university and is about to become a student at a night college. When I turn back down, not wanting to intrude on his thoughts as he gazes down at the factory chimneys, he calls out my name. I approach and Third Brother strokes my head.

“Is it true what Oldest Brother says?”

“About what?”

“That you want to be a writer?”

Because it is Third Brother who is asking, I lose my confidence. It is he who should be a writer, not I. It was he who read with a scary intensity, while I had only been glancing over his shoulder at his opened books. It was he who had introduced me to almost all the writers I’d come to enjoy and the books that I’d read up to that point. As a matter of fact, he was not only an avid reader but was just as good a student as Oldest Brother and a far more outgoing one, surrounded by friends. He always came in first in school marathons, played the bass drum in band, played varsity handball, and was appointed president of the student council year after year. If there was one aspect of him that was different from Oldest Brother, it was that he was not your typical model student. He was a mischievous troublemaker as well. Father never used his cane on us, but Third Brother was the sole exception. For he would take an entire box of instant
ramyeon
noodles from the store or steal our neighbor’s chicken with the neighborhood boys.

But at the same time, every chance he got he was writing in his notebook, endlessly erasing and writing and erasing again. Wherever you opened in his notebook, the page was filled with small letters, hazy like fog. His love of writing was so strong that it made me wonder why he had chosen to major in law and not in literature. Because this was who he was, I did not have the confidence to say to him that I wanted to be a writer.

“You have the composure.” When I don’t answer, Third Brother begins again. “You have the composure. So you will make a good writer. I want you to
take over my aspiration as well.” Third Brother continues. “I’m going to be a prosecutor and help lift up our family.”