The Girl Who Wrote Loneliness (51 page)

She adamantly defended the ethnic Koreans living in China. She said that the Korean people can never erase their national color no matter where they live. Whether they’re in America, in Japan, in Australia, or in Sakhalin, ethnic Koreans formed Koreatowns. And she said that no matter how much time passed, Koreans were Koreans, they could never be Chinese.

“Do you know how fortunate you are? Your writing carries the untainted sentiment and spirit of the Korean people. Something I could never have. I was born as an ethnic Korean in China. From the beginning, my motherland was far away. Reading your work, I can sense a strong scent of one who grew up on this land. Whether it’s about death or love or separation. It’s not something you can set out to acquire. You don’t have ancestors who had no choice but to leave this land, do you? You don’t have family in the North, do you?”

My ancestors?

I looked up at her face from my
omjia
berry tea as she asked about my ancestors. She was right. No ancestor of mine had to
leave this land. Mine was a clan that once had thrived and had much to protect. Their lofty gate collapsed as colonial rule and epidemics and war swept past, but there were still elderly members who updated the family tree. For years and years my ancestors had maintained the family gravesite here in the South, and the clan’s rice paddies nearby. We had not experienced the pain of being separated from family in the North. My ancestors had never left our corner of the South. I had encountered cities like Sinuiju or Hamheung only in books, as I did numerous other place names. Most of my family and cousins and second cousins still lived in the area. Moved only as far as the nearby towns or cities like Jeonju. None of my family had left for America or China. This city was the furthest that any of my family had traveled, and we were the ones who had done it.

She then told me, “You and I are different, as different as the fact that your family is here on this land in the South, and that my family is far away on Chinese soil, always possessing a nomadic soul. In China, I am an ethnic Korean, and here, I am someone from Heilongjiang Province. But you are wholly a Korean, whether you are in Heilongjiang Province or here. This is why you will be able to fit in wherever you go.”

As we parted she put on my wrist a filigree enamel bracelet that she said she brought from China. The green bracelet, inlaid with leaf and flower patterns, shimmered in the sunlight. She seemed sad somehow and I suggested we meet again when August arrived. I suggested we go to Mount Gaya and visit Haein Temple there.

One day Yun Sun-im asks me to come along to check on a colleague who is unwell.

“Who is it?”

“Miss Lee.”

“Is she sick?”

“Ssh.” Yun Sun-im brings a finger to her lips. When I give her a curious look, she whispers into my ear. “You mustn’t tell anyone that we’re going to see Miss Lee.”

“Why not?”

She looks around then places her finger on her lips again. I feel a sweep of chilly wind watching her cautious behavior. Spring is here but the lilacs in the flower beds of the factory lot show no signs of blooming. We stop by administration and get a pass. I thought we were going to a hospital but we head to Miss Lee’s rented room. As we pass through the entrance of the industrial complex, I glance toward the Job Training Center where I stayed when I first arrived in here, as if someone were pulling me that way. There was the teacher who wrote on the blackboard for us who had been learning soldering skills. How beautiful, to behold from behind, one who goes knowing clearly when it is he should go. There was Mom, who escorted me to this city then turned back again. There was Oldest Brother, visiting every Sunday and buying pastries for us to eat. Three years have passed since then. I worked hard, but nothing has changed in those three years. Nothing except that I started high school and am now in going on to my third year. Nothing except that the white scar left on my thumb by a hot clump of solder paste had splattered while I learning soldering skills at the Job Training Center had now turned faint.

Snow has yet to melt on the slopes of this Doksan-song neighborhood. I have on flat shoes but Yun Sun-im is wearing heels. She looks just as cautious climbing the hilly road as she did when she placed her finger on her mouth.

“Should we get some clementines?”

We buy some clementine oranges, displayed discreetly in a corner of a tiny store on the slope, and start heading up again. We turn downhill and continue for as long as we’ve climbed up the slope, then come across an alley lined with stovepipes.

“It’s that one.”

Yun Sun-im points to one of the houses, perhaps the fourth one in the alley. It is a single-story building. We push the gate, which is open, and step inside to find two doors, numbered 101 and 102, respectively. There are some ten rooms down the corridor and there are small cooking stoves lined outside in the corridor. And next to the stoves are pots, strainers, and baskets with bowls placed inside upside down to dry . . . a dizzying array of cookware without a kitchen for them to be placed in. We open one of the doors and enter. Miss Lee is lying down. She tries to sit up but Yun Sun-im stops her.

“Stay as you are, it’s okay.”

It seems she can’t get herself up even if she wants to. She lies back down, her face crumpling.

“How are you doing?”

Without answering Yun Sun-im, Miss Lee straightens her frown and gives me a smile, saying, “It’s you.”

Yun Sun-im says to me, “Sit down,” and to Miss Lee, “You said you missed her, so I brought her.” She missed me? I lower my head, feeling shy. I’ve always been on the other side of what Miss Lee’s been doing. When the union walked out on overtime shifts, I kept my place in front of the conveyor belt; when the union handed out ribbons that read, “Let’s Claim Our Rights,” I kept them inside my pocket. But still she says she missed me? Miss Lee asks Yun Sun-im, “Still no news from Chief?” Yun Sun-im shakes her head.

“He mustn’t get caught. If he does, he’ll be sent to purification training. I received a D grade and managed to be released, but there’s no chance Chief will get a D grade.”

A look of concern appears on Yun Sun-im’s face. “Don’t worry too much. You’ll hear from him, I’m sure.”

At Miss Lee’s words, Yun Sun-im probes my face. Ah, Yun Sun-im and the union chief? The two of them?

“Those inhuman thugs. Saying this nation’s in disarray because of people like myself.” When Miss Lee says this, discouraged,
Yun Sun-im lifts her blanket. Underneath, Miss Lee’s legs are encased in plaster. The legs that used to scurry about, always busy.

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Better now.”

“What in the world did they do to you?”

“. . . I was kicked on the stairs that led to the basement and rolled all the way down. The interrogation room was in the basement, you see. My hands and feet were tied, so the injury was bad.”

“Were they trying to kill you, pushing you down the stairs with your hands and feet tied?”

“But I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“Listen to you!”

“I got out, that’s what counts. Chief will never make it out if he gets caught. So if you hear from him you have to tell him this. They mean serious trouble, these people. I heard that if they shave your head, it means they’re going to kill you. Some got beat up so bad, their intestines got ruptured.”

Yun Sun-im closes her eyes tight then opens them. “You should have lunch.”

Yun Sun-im goes out to the hallway and lights the stove to cook two packs of
ramyeon
noodles. The soup is warm and tasty, more so because the room is so cold. Miss Lee puts down her chopsticks after a short while and Yun Sun-im peels a clementine to offer her.

“How are you managing to prepare food?”

“I have Seo-seon next door . . . She’s got a strong spirit.”

Miss Lee stops in the middle of speaking about Seo-seon and looks at me.

“You should, too. Be strong-spirited . . . No reason to be discouraged. Are you continuing to write? . . . Whenever I saw you write, your notebook on the conveyor belt, it made me feel good somehow.”

“It wasn’t my writing. I was just copying someone else’s.”

“When you become a writer someday, you should write about us, too.” Miss Lee smiles, patting my head.

Now more people show up at the factory to pick up their severance pay or overdue wages than to work. The company no longer seems intent on production. Our employers no longer seem intent on employing us. Our employers want us to forget about the time that we were employed and evaporate into nowhere. We miss the times when we rejected overtime shifts to demand shorter work hours, welfare and hygiene, higher overtime pay. Our hands feel anxious now that they have stopped producing goods. Our employers no longer carry out mass dismissal. Dismissals call for severance pay. The security office, which used keep a strict eye on promptness, is now silent. It’s hard to believe that it was once a venue for so much conflict, cutting an hour’s pay for being one minute late to work.

One morning, Oldest Brother brings up a question at breakfast. “Are you allowed to keep attending school after quitting work? You need to study if you want to go to college.”

Oldest Brother thinks for a while then asks, “Since Cousin is not experiencing trouble continuing with school after quitting work, things should be okay for you as well, right? Whatever the regulations are, you’re in third year now, so they won’t throw you out or anything, will they?”

“. . .”

“You should quit.”

Quit? That would be what the company wants. They want us to leave of our own accord. Three months of pay was overdue. So even if we get paid, we are getting paid for work that was done three months ago. But how can I quit, when Oldest Brother is unemployed as well, after the tutoring center closed down.

“I’m being discharged from military soon. I’m going to quit civil service and get a job at a corporation.”

“Corporation?”

“A big corporation. Have you seen the tall building across the street from Seoul Station?”

I have seen it. The building that appeared like a gargantuan beast when I first got off the night train in this city with Mom. She had told me that it was nothing to be afraid of, nothing but steel frames.

“That’s where I’m going.”

“Into those steel frames?”

“Just hold on for a while. When I quit my civil servant post, I’ll get some severance pay. Then we’ll move.”

“Move?”

“Yes, we’re going to move.” Oldest Brother smiles again, making an effort.

Oldest Brother brings it up again in the evening.

“Did you hand in you resignation?”

“No.”

“I told you to!”

The next day he asks again. When I say I haven’t, he looks at me incredulously.

“You have a slim chance getting into college even if you do nothing but study from now on.”

I stare back at him incredulously. Even if he’s going to start working for a corporation, if I quit my job now, how will we pay rent and . . . ? Oldest Brother seems not to care what I think, and points to the desk. There are three shopping bags filled with books.

“I got you books you need to start studying for the entrance exam. Don’t even think about math or English, just focus on subjects you can study by rote.”

He pulls out money from his pocket.

“Study home economics as your elective. I didn’t know which study guide I should get for that. Go to a bookstore near school and ask for one that most of the daytime students use.”

I put down my spoon, startled, and stare at Oldest Brother. I swallow hard the food in my mouth without chewing.

“It’s a late start, but if you work hard you’ll be able to get into a junior college at least.” His voice is like a stream of water. It seems
as if somewhere, where it is I don’t know, my favorite flowers are blossoming all of a sudden, all at once.

“Let’s eat.”

Oldest Brother’s chopsticks head for the steamed spinach on the table. He gazes at me, sitting there still and blank. “What is it?”

I put down my spoon and pull up closer to him. “
Oppa
!” Oldest Brother stops eating and looks at me. “Do you really mean it?”

“Mean what?”