Ha Seong-nan
TRANS. BY Janet Hong
The Retreat
The drunken words spewed by a regular of Good Chicken were to blame. The meeting was supposed to take place at the Hanbit Academy of Mental Calculation at exactly seven o’clock. The academy director wrote the words Taegwang Tenants Emergency Meeting on the chalkboard and waited. It was twenty past seven, but still no one came. He walked toward the back of the classroom and surveyed his handiwork. What hadn’t been apparent close-up was now obvious. The words slanted down from the second syllable, so that the last word ended up a handspan below. Even his sense of balance broke down as he grew old. When he was young, he used to hold two pieces of chalk between his fingers and drag them across the board, drawing double lines so straight as if they’d been done with a ruler. He still felt like a seventeen-year-old, who could run a 100-meter dash in thirteen seconds. He scolded himself for longing for his youth. There was still so much left to do.
He went back to the chalkboard and erased everything except for the first syllable. He tried again, with his tongue sticking out. He was making the last stroke when the door banged open, startling him. The shuffle of plastic sandals approached. His writing turned crooked once more.
“Someone stole another tambourine. It’s the fifth one already. What would anyone want with a tambourine?”
It was the girl from Billboard Karaoke on the basement level.
The director carefully erased the final stroke and made another attempt. He stood at the lectern and looked at the girl’s bare feet inside her sandals.
“You’re late. You probably think you’ve got all the time in the world, but time doesn’t wait for you. Don’t have regrets when you’re old like me. Live each day like it’s your last.”
Instead of answering, she stared blankly at him from her seat and slapped her sandal against a bare heel.
Right then, Ms. Jang from Good Chicken dashed in, bringing with her the smell of fried food. She looked around the classroom. “They’re not here yet? Don’t they know what time it is?”
She had donned a plastic apron on top of her sheer fuchsia dress. The apron was splattered with grease and batter, and had faded so much it was difficult to tell what color it had once been.
“Ah, sorry! Game just ended,” said Mr. Jeong as he rushed in, still wearing arm sleeves and his fingertips stained with chalk. “If you win twice, you’ve got to lose one. It’s the only way they’ll back off.”
Mr. Jeong was the owner of Pintos Billiards on the second floor. His eyes were bloodshot from calculating hourly rates and watching cue balls bounce around the table all day.
Mrs. Park complained as she climbed the stairs. “I’ve got to drag myself up here like this, because they couldn’t wait two days until the retreat? Am I the only one with a million things to do?”
Her grumbling was punctuated by pauses. The weight she had put on suddenly made climbing the stairs difficult. When she finally reached the third floor, she hung onto the academy door, catching her breath. By the time the master of Goguryeo Taekwondo School jogged down from the fourth floor in his white uniform and indoor shoes, it was already 7:40.
At this hour, the academy was the only place they could gather. The children’s desks and chairs, arranged neatly facing the chalkboard until the adults had sat in them, were now askew. They stared at the academy director, who stood at the chalkboard with a stick of white chalk, and fidgeted in their seats to find more comfortable positions. Since each tenant had different business hours, the annual team-building retreat was the only time all the tenants came together. They began to talk about the man who was the reason for this emergency meeting.
Just past midnight the day before, he had stepped into Good Chicken on the ground floor. Ms. Jang, who had been frying chicken, heard the door open and poked her head out of the kitchen. He glanced around the joint with bleary eyes and stood swaying in the same spot. His dress shirt had come untucked from his pants and was wrinkled, like a crumpled sheet of paper. She quickly removed her apron and ushered him to table #2.
“Oh, you’ve had a lot to drink.”
She was used to drunk customers. They could be as aggressive as wild dogs, or as meek as babies. Good Chicken was a last stop for many, the kind of place they dropped by for a nightcap after drinking all evening. At partitioned tables around the room, men chugged beer, slumped back in their chairs.
The man ordered a half chicken with spicy marinade and a pint of beer, but Ms. Jang chopped up a whole chicken instead, dredging the pieces in flour and then dropping them in the pressure fryer. The chicken crackled as it hit the hot oil. While she fried chicken and poured beer, hands waved above the partitions to get her attention. She rushed here and there, serving more beer and pickled radish, and had her arm clutched by many. Sitting down next to the man, she tore the chicken into bite-size pieces and shoved them in his mouth. Most fell under his chair. The wooden floor was littered with cubed radish and coleslaw the other customers had dropped. The bits of food gleamed in the red light.
Mrs. Park from the skewer shop interrupted Ms. Jang. “Hey, we don’t have all day! My skewers are about to turn to coal. Plus, how can you believe the words of a drunk?”
She stuck her index finger in her hair and scratched her scalp. Dandruff flaked out instantly. The academy director wrote the word credibility on the blackboard.
“You think all drunk customers are the same?” Ms. Jang said, crossing her arms over her chest and turning up her nose. “I guess the men who go to your shop are full of hogwash.”
Mrs. Park jumped to her feet, sending her seat crashing behind her. “Oh, you can bet our customers aren’t the same! Just like how you and I aren’t the same, even though we both sell liquor. I don’t powder my face like a ghost and play around with drunks for some measly change. I sell food and drink, I don’t entertain men!”
Ms. Jang glared at Mrs. Park. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous!”
Mr. Jeong from the pool hall, who had been sitting between the two women, intervened. “Now what’s that got to do with why we’re all here? Let’s hear what happened.”
Once again the seat buried itself in Mrs. Park’s fleshy rear end. The academy director underlined credibility and said, “Ms. Jang, please try to give a brief summary of what happened. Your customers will be here soon.”
Ms. Jang covered her mouth and laughed. “A brief summary? Oh, I don’t know how to do that, but I’ll try. Now where was I?”
“He dropped some chicken on the floor,” Mr. Jeong said quickly.
The man drank beer, his mouth full of chicken. Pieces fell in his glass and floated in the foam. Ms. Jang attached herself to his side and said, “If you don’t like chicken, I can make something else. I have some fruit I bought this morning.”
The man grew almost cross-eyed. “I’m not drunk. Hey, you want to hear a secret?”
He clasped her face with both hands and pulled her toward him until her face was inches from his own. The smell of chicken, beer, and tooth decay hit her.
“This is a secret. You can’t tell anyone. Ms. Jang, you know I love you, don’t you? This building’s going to change hands soon. You know the amusement park nearby? That owner’s buying this place. Then he’s going to knock this whole thing down and build a studio apartment.”Ms. Jang stopped talking. Everyone, including the director, was quiet.
“Maybe it’s just a rumor,” Mr. Jeong said, rubbing his chalk-covered fingers together. His fingertips were peeling from psoriasis.
“I thought so, too, at first. I assumed he was just drunk. But he didn’t forget to take any of his change. Trust me, a drunk person never does that. I even called him this morning to make sure, and was he ever shocked! He denied everything. If he hadn’t been telling the truth, there would be no reason for him to act that way.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Jeong chimed in. “Most of the time, men just pretend to be drunk so they can cop a feel.”
The chalkboard was crowded with the words boiled down from Ms. Jang’s account: amusement park, change hands, new construction, studio apartment.
The taekwondo master, who, despite his small size, was nicknamed Arnold Schwarzenegger because of his muscular body, finally spoke up. “I’m c-completely opposed.”
His slight stammer lent his words weight. The director wrote in large letters, pressing the chalk hard against the board: completely opposed. It was something he did whenever he stressed important information to his students. Bits of crushed chalk clung to the letters.
“Then who’ll talk to the owner on our behalf?”
Everyone looked at the director. He drew his lips into a thin line.
“I guess it would be best to speak to him at the retreat?” asked Ms. Jang.
“He’ll be in a better mood after a few drinks.”
Everyone agreed. They dispersed one by one. The director straightened the desks again, but because he was upset, they kept going crooked. Even the writing on the blackboard slanted down and was no different from his first attempt. The slanted writing bothered him.
Mrs. Park hurried down the stairs after Ms. Jang. “Now that I’ve had a good look while it’s still light out, you’re definitely no spring chicken! Thirty-four? Yeah, right! How old are you really?”
Ms. Jang whipped around and glared at Mrs. Park, who stood several steps above her. She was dressed in baggy pants, the sort with an elastic waistband, but you couldn’t tell because it was buried deep in the folds of her flesh.
“You got something against me? You better watch it!” Ms. Jang cried.
“Don’t get all riled up now! All your wrinkles are showing!” yelled Mrs.
Park, hitching up her pants.
“Mind your own business,” Ms. Jang snapped as she continued down the stairs. “I heard you buy cheap gingko nuts from China and pass them off as local. And don’t you use expired chicken gizzards?”
Mrs. Park barreled down the stairs and grabbed Ms. Jang by the hair.
“How the hell would you know? Did you see me? Did you see me do it?”
Ms. Jang shrieked, stumbling, as she was yanked this way and that. She reached back and scratched the older woman in the face and chest. Mr. Jeong and Arnold ran down the stairs to break up the fight. Mrs. Park tried to fight off the men, so that she could go after Ms. Jang, who fled down the stairs.
Mrs. Park stood in front of her skewer shop, which still reeked of varnish. Displayed in the front window were all sorts of skewers. These plastic replicas looked a lot fresher and tastier than the real thing. The renovation had been completed two weeks ago. Some of the tightly packed tables had been removed to create more space, and she had put in a bar where the grill would be prominently displayed. Bright fluorescent lights had replaced dim tinted lights. Two years before, she had blindly trusted a newspaper ad about a skewer business being lucrative, and had opened a shop using the insurance settlement she had received from her husband’s death. But within a few days of opening, she realized she was late in the game. There were over fifty skewer franchises in the country alone. Skewer businesses had once been hot, but were fading fast. All the shops looked the same with their wooden interiors and seating so cramped one’s knees touched those of the person opposite. Even the menus were the same. Her franchisor also proved to be unstable. One day, the refrigerated truck that delivered supplies and key ingredients simply stopped coming. She called the headquarters, but the number was no longer in service. She couldn’t get her deposit back. For several months she had no customers and just shelled out money for rent. Her oldest was in the ninth grade and the youngest in the sixth grade. She used all her savings to renovate the shop. She changed the interior and expanded the menu, developing a marinade from ketchup and chili pepper paste to suit the tastes of young people, even children. During the day, before the evening customers came, she opened a small window on one side of the front display, and sold skewers off a grill to passing children and housewives. Business was just about to pick up.
She stood outside her shop, looking up at her sign. She was on her feet every day, grilling skewers from ten in the morning to midnight. As they cooked, the marinade burned and stung her eyes. Her eyes were always bloodshot, and her face lost its suppleness from being exposed to smoke all day, like a piece of sausage hanging in a smokehouse. The scratches on her face and chest prickled. Though she had been the one to pick the fight, rage still boiled in the pit of her stomach. Just then, she remembered the skewers she had left on the grill. The pieces of chicken were like lumps of coal, scorched beyond recognition.
Ms. Jang ran a brush through her disheveled hair and discovered a fistful of hair had come out on the brush.
Don’t let anyone look down on you. Don’t show a single tear.
She was never the first to pick a fight, but if someone did, she didn’t lose. It didn’t matter if it was Mrs. Park or Mr. Kwak, the building owner. She’d even grabbed drunks by the collar and forced them to settle the bill. Except for the fake tears she sometimes shed before men, she couldn’t remember the last time she had genuinely cried. She opened her compact and coated her puff with powder. She looked in the mirror at the crow’s feet around her eyes, like the cracks in a dried-up field. She pressed hard at the lines with her puff.
She felt most at ease here. Inside her dim fried chicken joint, she was forever thirty-four. To block out the sun, she had covered the window looking out onto the street with a tinted plastic sheet. There were no other windows. When the chicken was done cooking, the pressure fryer expelled steam through the outside exhaust vent. Two fans installed in the walls were always running, removing the stale smell of cigarette smoke, vinegar, and grease. The blades were sticky with grease, covered with a thick layer of dust, like iron filings on magnets. She closed up at two in the morning each night, went home, and slept until noon. She needed to shampoo her greasy hair at least twice. Her skin was pasty, since she had started wearing too much makeup from an early age. As she grew older, her makeup grew thicker. She headed to the shop by five to meet the truck that delivered raw chicken, flour mix, and marinade. To save on employee costs, she didn’t provide take-out or delivery services. After donning her apron, the first thing she did was make the batter and skim all the burned bits from the oil. Used oil tended to foam. She swept the floor and sometimes burned mugwort to freshen the air. It was time for the customers to start coming in. She pinned back her hair and put on her apron. The middle of the thick slab of tree trunk, which she used as a cutting board, was sunken in from the years of chopping. Nibbling her lower lip, Ms. Jang swung her cleaver and chopped the chicken into pieces, as if she were attacking it.
The director sat hunched at a desk in the classroom and ate the food his wife had packed him. It was so bland it almost tasted bitter. But if he didn’t stick to his diet, his blood sugar level increased right away. It was at a previous Taegwang team-building retreat that he’d discovered he had diabetes. There had been a long line of people waiting in front of the portable toilet, so he had gone searching for a private spot down the hill. Ants had swarmed toward his glucose-saturated urine.
That evening he had a late dinner because of the emergency meeting. His wife packed him both lunch and dinner, since he always had a lot of things to do, even after the other teachers had gone home. He swallowed the rest of his food.
Kwak, the owner of Taegwang Building, was a vigorous, healthy man in his mid-thirties. Though it was not yet nine in the evening, he was already drunk. He weaved his car through back alleys in order to avoid roadside checks. Only when he had parked in the small lot behind Taegwang Building was he able to relax. Drowsiness suddenly swept over him. He turned off the engine and climbed out of his black BMW. The back of the building was more run-down than the front. Muggy, foul-smelling steam blasted from the exhaust vent of Good Chicken and wrapped around his legs. The garbage bags piled on one side of the lot gave off a terrible stench. Kwak walked to the front of the building and stood before the main entrance. Two men slipped into Good Chicken. The red interior light shone through the tear in the plastic sheet covering the window. Though it was dark, he could see the chipped and missing tiles on the outer wall. The letters that had spelled Taegwang Building had fallen off with the exception of one, which barely hung on. During the day, the sign was still visible by the dust that used to outline the letters.
Kwak jammed his hands in his pockets and slowly climbed the stairs. Billboard Karaoke, Good Chicken, and the skewer shop. Pintos Billiards, with a picture of a cue ball in every window, Hanbit Mental Calculation Academy, and Goguryeo Taekwondo School. Every one of these businesses was bringing down the building’s value. He felt annoyed at the thought of going on a retreat with these people in two days. It had been his father’s idea to hold an annual team-building retreat with all the tenants. Even after his death, he still exerted power over Kwak. His father had run a study hall on the fifth floor. After Kwak graduated from high school, his father sent him to study abroad in America, since no university in Korea would accept him with his grades. The subjects he ended up studying in America, paid for in American dollars, weren’t very practical. He returned to Korea only when his father died. His father’s entire wealth became Kwak’s. The first thing he did was to shut down the study hall. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his days like his father, sitting by the door, accepting small change from students or supervising the boys’ and girls’ sections. The students had called his father the Owl. At the start of every school year, the names of the students who had been accepted to prestigious universities were printed on a banner and hung in front of the building. His father had hoped Kwak’s name would be included in that list one day. The banner used to appear regularly in his dreams. But when he had seen the wooden cubicle desks piled high outside the building, he had finally felt free.
It’s not that he hadn’t considered repairing the building. He was no expert, but he knew the cost of fixing an old building like this would be a considerable task. Plus the children’s shouts rang out from the taekwondo school downstairs all day long. What he wanted was to sell the building and use the money to build an elegant restaurant on the city’s outskirts with a stage for live music.
He passed the bathroom, whose door was cracked open. The smell of ammonia stung his eyes. Kwak kicked the door, but it swung open again because of its rusty hinges. Frowning, Kwak walked up to his room on the fifth floor. The old building didn’t have an elevator. Even if it had been a twenty-story tower, his father most certainly wouldn’t have installed one, to save on the electricity cost.
The director of the academy called out to Kwak, following him up the stairs and standing close behind him, while Kwak unlocked his front door. The director was a long-time friend of his father’s. He had no sense of humor, just like his father. Kwak flipped on the light switch to reveal the spacious room.
“So I heard a strange thing today,” the director said.
His breath was stale.
“I guess your silence means it’s true, then? Are you saying we should accept it as good news?”
This time, too, Kwak remained silent. His whole body felt sluggish from the alcohol. He wanted to collapse into bed and sleep.
“Your father poured his blood, sweat, and tears into this building. If you end up selling it, you’d be going against his wishes.”
Kwak sat down. There were trophies and plaques displayed in the glass cabinet before him. The plaques started with the words: “This individual has contributed to the development of . . .” Kwak cherished these accolades.
“Ajeossi, please stop beating around the bush. You still haven’t realized I’m a simple guy? Let me be blunt here. You’re two months late on the rent. I’m sure you know the rent here is a lot cheaper than anything in this area. I’ve let it go until now because you were my father’s friend, but this building isn’t right for an academy. What will kids learn from watching people go in and out of bars and the pool hall? You probably stayed because of the cheap rent, but I can’t keep hanging on to this dirty run-down building just for your sake.”
The director’s pulse was starting to go up. He took a deep breath. “But you need to respect your father’s dying wish.”
Kwak’s lips twisted into a sneer. “You can’t help sounding like a book, can you? But you’re not my teacher anymore. Try begging me instead, because that might be more effective. And quit using my father as an excuse. He’s dead.”
Slowly the director turned away. But inside him, the fire of a twenty-year-old that hadn’t yet been extinguished flared up all of a sudden. He faced Kwak once more.
“Why would I expect anything different from you? Ever since you were a little boy, you did everything your father asked you not to do. All those times, I warned him not to raise you that way, especially since you were an only child. Even in 1984 when you beat up your classmate and got arrested, I told him to leave you in jail for a few days to teach you a lesson. But he didn’t listen. I’ve seen countless punks like you, and I know how they end up. After you sell this building, you’ll squander all the money. When you’ve blown it all and have nothing left, you’ll finally see you’re a nothing—a nobody. And only then will you remember these words.”
Kwak stood up from his chair and strode toward the director. Nearly two feet taller, Kwak found himself looking down at the old man’s smooth, bald head, blooming with liver spots. The alcohol and drowsiness loosened his tongue.
“For your information, it wasn’t 1984. It was 1985. God, I’m so sick of your stupid lectures.”
He grabbed the director by the collar of his suit and hoisted him up so that his toes just grazed the ground. Kwak released him with a push and went back to his chair. It was a signal for the director to leave.
The director stumbled back, frantically windmilling both arms in the air, like ducks’ feet paddling furiously underwater. He reached out for something to grab, but there was nothing. All he had to do was move one foot back to steady himself. He’d been extremely agile as a young man, able to do a front tuck and land on his feet, but now he didn’t even have time to take a step back. He fell helplessly. Even as he fell, he was angry with himself. Once again, his sense of balance, broken down with age, was to blame. He toppled backward into the glass cabinet. As the glass shelves shattered, the trophies rained down on his bloodied face. He let out a deep breath.
Still in his chair, Kwak looked at the broken glass, the scattered trophies, and the director whose mouth was foaming. Why won’t the old man get up? At last, the truth finally registered. He tried to shake the director awake, but it was useless. He picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1, and then hung up right away. He locked his front door. For the next two hours, he stayed in his chair and wondered what he should do. All he had done was shift the director’s center of gravity. It was hardly news when an animal died in a jungle. But this place wasn’t the jungle and the director was not some animal. No one would believe Kwak’s innocence. Back when he lived in New York, he had seen a man get shot right before his eyes. The shooter had then taken the victim’s wallet and run away.
He tried to pull the director up, but the skinny old man was heavier than he had thought. Rigor mortis had started to set in, and his chin and neck were becoming stiff. There was a small bump on the back of his bald head. Kwak lifted the director’s sagging arm and put it behind his own neck, and wrapped his arm around the director’s waist. He barely managed to get him to his feet. As he stood at the top of the stairs, he felt pure disgust for this building that didn’t have an elevator. To avoid drawing attention, he didn’t turn on the stairwell lights. As he crept down the stairs in the dark, he resolved to sell the building first thing in the morning. Fortunately, the taekwondo studio on the fourth floor was closed. He almost dropped the director a few times as he was going past the academy on the third floor. The door was open. He glimpsed neat rows of desks and chairs. He was about to head down to the second floor when he saw a man with his back turned to the open bathroom door. He heard urine splattering on the tile floor. Just when he was about to pass by, the man called out to Kwak.
“Going somewhere, boss?”
Mr. Jeong stood outside the bathroom, zipping himself up. Kwak nodded without responding.
“Is that the director?”
“Ah, yes, we had a few drinks at my place.”
Mr. Jeong drew near. “Let me help you then. Director, it’s me, from the pool hall!”
Right then, a voice called for Mr. Jeong from inside the pool hall.
“Shoot, it’s my customer. You sure you don’t need any help?” Then he yelled toward the pool hall. “I’ll be right there!”
Kwak’s shoulders throbbed. Mr. Jeong hesitated a little, and then rushed into the pool hall. On the ground floor at last, Kwak was about to step out of the building entrance when Mrs. Park from the skewer shop greeted him. Women tended to be more suspicious than men.
“You’re closing already?” he said to her, as she lowered the metal shutters. His hair, damp from sweat, clung to his forehead.
She pointed toward Good Chicken. “I’m sure you already know, but we’re not the kind of place that stays open late. We’re a family restaurant. Though we do serve alcohol, if that’s what the customers want.”
Kwak hoisted up the director, who was slipping from his grasp. “Why don’t you head on home? Your children must be waiting. As you can tell, Ajeossi is really drunk. I’m going to drive him home.”
“Oh, his wife’s sure going to worry,” Mrs. Park said.
Kwak headed to the parking lot. The director’s feet dragged on the ground. Ms. Jang, who had been pouring used oil down the drain, jumped at the noise. Even in the dark, she recognized them right away.
“Oh my, the director’s had a lot to drink!”
Kwak headed toward his car. Ms. Jang muttered, “That’s strange, though. He never touches even a drop of liquor.”
In order to open his car door, he needed to hold up the director with one arm. A van slowly pulled into the parking lot. Because of the headlights, he couldn’t see who was behind the wheel. He stood glued in place, narrowing his eyes in the blinding light. The headlights turned off and a man hopped out of the driver’s seat.
“Mr. K-k-kwak!”
Judging from the stammer, it was the taekwondo master. Kwak opened his car door and maneuvered the director into the back seat. The director fell across the seat, so Kwak pulled him back up and propped him upright. He then said in a loud voice, “Ajeossi, I’m driving you home, okay? I’ll wake you up when we get there, so close your eyes and sleep tight. You feel fine otherwise?”
The taekwondo master quickly climbed back into his van and moved aside to let Kwak pass. As he drove by, Kwak saw Miss Kim sitting in the passenger seat. In his rearview mirror, Kwak caught the master unloading cans of beer and snack bags from the back of the van.
He had managed to get onto the road, but he didn’t know where he should go. He had no idea where the director lived. Not once had he given the director a ride home. He glanced at the rearview mirror. With his lips pressed stubbornly together, the director appeared to be sleeping. Just three hours earlier, Kwak had been drunk, thinking only about going to bed. But now his buzz was gone and he was wide awake. Kwak turned down an alley and came out onto the main road; he repeated these actions again and again. He even drove out to the reclamation ground where apartment buildings were being erected, but it was as bright as day from the lights of the amusement park and adult entertainment businesses nearby. Luckily, he found an alley where the security light wasn’t working. He shut off his headlights, put his car in first gear, and crept deeper into the alley. He opened his trunk to find something to dig with. All he could find was a broken ski pole. He stabbed the ground with it, but the ground was concrete. He looked everywhere for a place to dig, but there wasn’t one. After poking at the concrete with the ski pole, he lost his temper. “What kind of city has no dirt ground?”
Kwak pulled the director out of the back seat and loaded him into the trunk. In the cramped space, he looked like a baby curled up in a mother’s womb. By the time Kwak returned to Taegwang Building, it was past four in the morning.
At that hour, Arnold, the taekwondo master, was attending the counter at Billboard Karaoke. The open sign had been turned off hours before. After midnight, the customers were let in through the lowered metal shutters. Taegwang Building was located in a secluded spot. Most customers requested alcohol. Karaoke rooms were banned from selling alcohol. Miss Kim, the owner of Billboard Karaoke, converted one of the rooms so that she could sleep there. Two nights ago, she had gone out, after leaving Arnold in charge. On his way back from the bathroom, Arnold had seen her walking next to Mr. Kwak. She’d been crying quietly while Mr. Kwak smoked a cigarette, his gaze fixed elsewhere.
A year ago, Miss Kim had taken over the karaoke business from her parents. The basement, where fresh air and sunlight never entered, ended up ruining her father’s health. Her parents moved to the country. In order to provide for their living costs and hospital fees, she began to sell liquor. When rumors spread that Billboard Karaoke stayed open until late and sold alcohol, business improved. Sometimes drunk customers grabbed her hand and wouldn’t let go, but all the hassles stopped once Arnold started to help out. The door beside the counter opened and Miss Kim came out, dragging along her slippers. Arnold gazed at her pale face. He couldn’t look directly at her. “M-make sure you g-get some sun at the r-retreat. And don’t stay c-c-cooped up here during the day. C-come up to the taekwondo studio once in a w-while. Your body will break d-d-down if you don’t exercise.”
She grimaced. She felt drained, listening to Arnold stammer. She cut him off. “How many groups do we still have? I wish they’d go home already.”
Arnold swallowed the words he wanted to ask: Why were you crying that night?
She had been aware of Arnold’s feelings for her for some time, but she was never going to admit it. He couldn’t have been any more different from Mr. Kwak. For the past three months, Mr. Kwak called only when he needed her. Once she had woken up in a hotel room to find he had already left without her. The day before yesterday, he had said he didn’t want to see her anymore. “I can change,” she’d told him. She had tried begging, and when that hadn’t worked, she’d threatened to tell other people about their relationship. But he was hardly concerned. “Go ahead, see if I care. Who do you think will be worse off—me or you? Do you want to grow old, frying chicken and entertaining men like Ms. Jang?” A few hours earlier, Mr. Kwak had seen her in the van with Arnold. He would have realized she was selling alcohol illegally. He now had a good excuse to be rid of her.
When Kwak opened his eyes it was past ten in the morning. When he saw the shattered glass and scattered trophies, he remembered the events from the night before. The director was still in the trunk of his car. It was May. The May heat would speed up the decomposition rate. He just hoped the scavengers that feed on dead animals would stay away. He opened his window and gazed down at the parking lot. Tomorrow was the team-building retreat. Anyone with a corpse locked up in his trunk would have no mind to leave on a trip, but he decided to look at the situation differently.
About an hour up the Bukhan River from Nami Island, Kwak had a small cottage on the riverside, where he went motorboating and waterskiing in the summer. The retreat was to be held on a deserted island reached by motorboat from the cottage. It wasn’t exactly an island, but more a mound that bulged out from the river. Kwak called that mound the back of a whale. The ground there was soft, composed of earth and clay. He could dig over a hundred holes.
That morning, the Korean teacher was the first person to arrive at the academy. The director, without fail, had always been the first to arrive and the one to unlock the door. But that morning, the front door was already unlocked, and there was a lunchbox on top of the desk closest to the door. The lid was on loosely, and the container was smeared with grains of barley and sauce that gave off a sour smell. She wiped the desks with a clean rag and walked over to the director’s desk. His black dress shoes were placed neatly under his desk. Changing into indoor shoes was the first thing he did when he came to work, and judging from the fact that he was in his indoor shoes, he hadn’t gone far. She went to the chalkboard to grab the eraser. There were traces of words that had been left behind. She tried to erase them, but they persisted. Very much opposed, she read aloud.
It was only when the director’s wife called that the Korean teacher learned the director had not gone home the night before. “But he came to work this morning,” she said. “He’s stepped out for the moment, though.”
He still wasn’t back by noon. The day passed uneventfully. Both the director’s wife and Korean teacher believed he had come to work, but left to run an errand. No one thought he was missing.
Mr. Jeong from the pool hall chalked his cue, estimating the angles between the three balls on the green felt table. Arnold watched his hands closely, a cue stick in his own hand. Mr. Jeong shot, but the white ball bounced off the wrong cushion. It was rare that he missed.
“You’re saying the director isn’t back from this morning?”
Arnold nodded.
Mr. Jeong pointed upward with his finger. “Did you ask Mr. Kwak? They were together last night.”
Arnold bent over his cue. “Well, he came to work this morning. That’s what the Korean teacher said.”
Mr. Jeong took a sip from his yogurt drink. “Maybe he went to the bathhouse to relax and ended up falling asleep from all the drinking last night.”
Arnold followed the white ball around the table. “But he’s never like that.”
Mr. Jeong adjusted his grip on the cue. “Every clock stops sooner or later. More often if it gets old.”
As Kwak was going down the stairs, he saw Mr. Jeong and Arnold in the pool hall. Mr. Jeong pointed up toward the ceiling and Arnold shrugged in response. The night before, both men had seen Kwak half-carrying the director down the stairs. Just then, Mr. Jeong seemed to glimpse Kwak standing outside the door, but Mr. Jeong quickly turned away, pretending he hadn’t seen him. All the tenants of Taegwang Building were witnesses.
Kwak scrambled back up to his room. He opened his window and had a cigarette. He gazed down at the parking lot. A woman was peering into Kwak’s car. She raised her head, looking toward his fifth-floor window with narrowed eyes. It was Ms. Jang from Good Chicken. Kwak hurriedly ducked out of sight. That’s strange. He never touches even a drop of liquor. He clearly recalled what she had said the night before.
The tenants of Taegwang Building met at the taekwondo studio on the fourth floor. They sat scattered around the padded floor.
Mr. Jeong said worriedly, “If the director doesn’t show up tomorrow morning, our businesses are finished. He was the only one who could present our case to Mr. Kwak, but if he hasn’t even called his wife . . . Anyway, since we’re all here, why don’t we go over who’s bringing what tomorrow?”
“I’ll fry up plenty of chicken,” Ms. Jang said. “I’ll pack some soju and beer, too.”
Mrs. Park scratched her head. “Then I’ll take care of the rice, side dishes, and kimchi.”
Mr. Jeong wrote down each item in his notepad.
“We’ll use the school van, and I’ll cover the gas,” said Arnold. “And don’t you worry about driving. I’ll make sure we get to our destination in one piece.”
He was flushed from the drink he’d had earlier with Mr. Jeong. He didn’t stammer when he was drunk. Mr. Jeong checked all the items to make sure they hadn’t left out anything.
“That’s not important right now,” Mrs. Park said. “What’s going to happen to us?”
Ms. Jang let out a deep sigh. “Isn’t it obvious? Mr. Kwak will sell this building. He’s been going out a lot lately. Something’s obviously up. The problem isn’t if he’s selling the building or not, but when.”
Mrs. Park turned pale. “I couldn’t sleep a wink last night. I spent all my savings on the renovation and now he’s selling the building? And they’re going to pull it all down to build an officetel? What about our security deposit? What about everything I spent on the renovation? I’m going to lose everything and be forced out on the street.”
Mrs. Park pulled down her sleeve and wiped her face. Ms. Jang reached out to clasp her hand. Mrs. Park didn’t shake off the younger woman’s touch. Ms. Jang’s face crumpled and wrinkles broke out across her features, but no tears fell. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried.
“But at least you’ve got kids,” Ms. Jang said. “How about me? I’ve never had a baby. All I did was age. I fried chicken and put up with drunk men, so that I could build a client base, but they’re going to tear down this building now? I wanted to buy a house in the country. I wanted to live out the rest of my life quietly. I paid the security deposit when I leased my shop, so shouldn’t I get it back when I leave? Mr. Jeong, I guess you’re in the same boat, because what’s a pool hall without regulars?”
Regular customers were the lifeblood of pool halls. If they moved to a new location, they would have to start from scratch.
Arnold snickered all of a sudden. “All this headache because of one man! Is it fair we have to go through this because of one person? Is money really everything? Christ. We wouldn’t have this problem if he just disappeared.”
At his words, everyone’s face turned pale. Miss Kim saw goose bumps appear on her own skin.
“After all, anyone could have an accident,” muttered Arnold.
The girl read murder in every person’s eyes. In every gaze lurked the sharp blade of an axe.
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Park and Ms. Jang together in a small voice.
“Anyone could have an accident.”
Miss Kim gripped her knees with both hands and made her body small.
Right then, the studio door opened and Kwak stepped inside. “I see you’re making preparations for tomorrow?”
The gazes of all five people whipped to Kwak’s face. He saw in each stricken face the embarrassment and hostility of someone whose secret had been discovered. Kwak didn’t have the nerve to join them on the floor. It seemed the first stone would be cast at any second. Kwak tried to dispel the awkwardness in the air and laughed loudly.
“Don’t bother taking any meat and liquor. It’ll be hard lugging it up there. Why don’t I call ahead and tell them to get everything ready?” He felt as if they had shoved him out of the studio. He ran up to his room. He fastened all the locks on his door. He had cleaned up the broken glass, but the trophies were still lined up one side of the room, since he hadn’t ordered the replacement glass. The tenants knew what had happened last night; he was sure of it. He sat on the floor and polished the trophies with a dry cloth. He made plans in his head for the following day.
They would head to the Bukhan River by car, unload at his cottage, and take the motorboat to the island. Since it was the weekend, the river would be swarming with water-skiers, but the island was a spot only Kwak knew. He and the tenants would get in the motorboat and it would flip on their way to the island. But he was worried about Arnold and Mr. Jeong, who had served in the navy. The trophies shone. No, the accident had to happen on their way back from the island. By then, everyone would be drunk. While they drank, he would slip away and rig the boat engine. He would hide his life vest in the boat, and right before the overheated engine exploded, he would jump into the water and put the life vest on. While everyone panicked, the boat would sink. The rough waters of the Bukhan River would swallow the boat and its passengers.
The tenants of Taegwang Building had gathered in one place. A sign on the door of Good Chicken read the shop would be closed for vacation. Ms. Jang was wearing large, dark sunglasses to hide the wrinkles around her eyes. Since she had woken early, she kept yawning. Mrs. Park’s feet hurt from her new running shoes. Inside the cooler were marinated meat, vegetables, and ice. A plastic crate filled with soju and cans of beer was loaded onto the van. With his camera, Mr. Jeong from the pool hall snapped photos of Ms. Jang standing in the shade. Kwak arrived in his luxury car. It was past nine in the morning, but the academy director still wasn’t there. But they couldn’t keep waiting for him. If they continued to delay, they would be stuck in traffic for hours.
“What a shame the director couldn’t join us,” Ms. Jang said.
To Kwak’s ears, her words sounded like an accusation. He thought to himself, Oh, don’t you worry. He’s coming with us.
They decided to take a group picture with the van as a backdrop. To get everyone in the frame, they stopped a young man walking by on the street.
“Going on a trip? Lucky you!”
The passerby took the camera and backed up a few steps. Mr. Jeong, who was standing next to Ms. Jang, put his hand on her shoulder. The young man laughed. “How about a smile? Everyone looks so stiff! Say kimchi!”
They did as the young man said. They all opened their mouths and smiled awkwardly at the camera.
Ha Seong-nan is the author of five story collections and three novels. Over her career, she’s received a number of prestigious awards, such as the Dongin Literary Award in 1999, Hankook Ilbo Literary Prize in 2000, the Isu Literature Prize in 2004, the Oh Yeong-su Literary Award in 2008, and the Contemporary Literature (Hyundae Munhak) Award in 2009.
photo by Laura Pak
Janet Hong is a writer and translator based in Vancouver. Her translation of Han Yujoo’s The Impossible Fairy Tale was a finalist for both the 2018 PEN Translation Prize and the 2018 National Translation Award. She has also translated Ancco’s Bad Friends, Seong-nan Ha’s Flowers of Mold, and Keum Suk Gendry-Kim’s Grass.