Lost Souls Read online

Off in the distance stood other scarecrows in other millet fields.

  ADVERBIAL AVENUE

  “Natto, natto-o.” That’s the tofu peddler hawking soybean relish. The sound of his voice and the call of his bugle are right outside, but the next moment they fade off into the distance. There’s a narrow lane that angles sharply around one of the other houses, and that’s where he must have gone. Sŭnggu once saw a crying child in this lane; another time he saw the same child tracing lines in the dirt for fun. Perhaps the child lived in that house.

  Sŭnggu has to go downstairs to the kitchen if he wants to wash his face. And once downstairs, he has to pass the room where his landlady sits. The eyes in the mirror on the vanity case rarely miss him. She always sits in front of her vanity; it’s as if she wants to befriend the mirror, lest it abandon her. The landlady’s stumpy neck makes her long face seem even longer; neither neck nor face takes powder very well.

  This is one of those situations where Sŭnggu has to be careful to give his landlady no cause to ask where he’s from. He has the same worry when he’s done washing his face and has to go back upstairs.

  The room next to where the landlady sits is presumably where she keeps household items, but the door is always shut. Sŭnggu wonders if that’s where the landlord is. He has seen him only once, the day he moved in—a man with eyes like slits.

  He opens the window in his room. The shiny white layer of frost on the roof tiles is melting. Visible far off, down below the rooftops, is a storm drain. Light falling on the mouth of this drain makes it glitter, rather like a fish.

  Sŭnggu lies down. The tatami feels moist and chilly. He is forever rehearsing what he’ll do if the landlord emerges from his tightly shut room and comes upstairs to ask Sŭnggu where he’s from. He’s decided he’ll say he’s from Kyushu; he’ll say he speaks the Kyushu dialect and that’s why his speech sounds different. He tosses and turns, playing out this scene in his mind.

  The beggar is sitting on the same park bench as yesterday, shivering like he was then. Sŭnggu sits down on the bench.

  Diagonally to his left sit a young couple. The man swats idly with his walking stick at a branch over his head. The thick leaves are dust-covered but still green to the eye.

  Extending past the park is a drainage ditch. Across this ditch is a dye shop; outside, fabrics flap in the wind like a swimmer’s arms.

  The man on the other bench rises, bats the leaves with his stick, and departs with the woman. Leaves tremble and fall.

  The beggar rises and Sŭnggu follows him into the street.

  The radios are heedless of Sŭnggu’s movement. Back comes their sentimental song, just when he thinks it’s fading away. Waves of humanity wash over him. Finally he loses the beggar. He feels as if his head and shoulders have been worn away and only his trunk moves forward. He sees another beggar, one with no arms or legs, rubbing his head against the pavement in supplication. The rooflines of lofty buildings fill the sky. Those buildings had better prop up the clouds or else it will rain, Sŭnggu tells himself.

  Morning has come after a night of drizzle. Sŭnggu is lying on his tatami. Suddenly his back shakes, but he’s not shivering from the chill. And it’s not the wind shaking the wooden structure of the house. The shaking is coming from below the second floor, where he lies, and from below the main floor; it’s coming from the ground. It’s an earthquake, the first he’s ever experienced. But instead of fear he feels a kind of pleasure.

  Another tremor shakes Sŭnggu’s back. The rice paper-paneled door rattles, then opens to reveal the landlady.

  The landlady asks if he realizes it’s an earthquake. Yes, he does, says Sŭnggu. The landlady’s eyes open wide and she says that earthquakes this strong are rare, and that she’s surprised at his calm response. To which Sŭnggu replies without thinking that there are no earthquakes in Korea, so he’s never had occasion to be scared of one. It’s a good thing there are no earthquakes in Korea, says the landlady, cocking her head in a coy manner; and it’s good to know Sŭnggu isn’t scared of them—but she didn’t realize he was Korean. Sŭnggu asks if she would have believed him had he said he was from Kyushu, and the landlady says she thought all along he was from Kyushu because of his accent. And then she says she has a huge favor to ask. Her face falls, as if it is all she can do to break the news: she needs Sŭnggu’s room for her younger brother, who is due to arrive from the countryside. Sŭnggu replies that he was thinking of moving anyway, so he will vacate immediately.

  The landlady goes downstairs, then returns saying she is terribly sorry and that Sŭnggu can stay free of charge until he finds another room—say, ten days or so—and with that she returns to him the remainder of the month’s rent. Sŭnggu says that she should keep the money that would cover the time he’ll be there. The landlady shakes her long head no, saying she won’t have a clean conscience unless she declines. Sŭnggu says he can’t rest easy either unless he pays all that is due.

  The landlady leaves the money on the tatami and scurries downstairs. Sŭnggu places the money at the side of the landing above the top step and goes out.

  From the street he turns down an alley and there, directly in front of him, is the apartment house where Ung lives. The junipers flanking the building rise above the first story.

  Ung occupies room 9 on the first floor. Sŭnggu pulls open the door, enters, and is greeted by the smiling face of a Western actress from the wall to his left. A wooden bed lies against the wall to the right; the window is also on that side of the room.

  This two-story concrete building sits on a rise, and even from the first-floor windows you can see wave after monotonous wave of slanted roofs.

  Ung taps his cigarette though there’s no ash to be dislodged, then exclaims that he was leaving school a short time earlier and was thinking about having his shoes shined when he noticed that the shoe-shine boy was Chiun; wasn’t it amazing what Chiun did to support himself in his studies!

  Sŭnggu nods and his eyes come to rest on the pile of matchboxes on the windowsill. Collected from various drinking places, they’re a bright assortment of colors.

  Ung’s head with its shiny smoothed-down hair, parted to the right, tilts back as he stretches and yawns.

  Ung is so taken with the drinking places where he finds his matchboxes that night and day seem reversed for him. For all Sŭnggu knows, it’s now dawn for Ung and he’s just risen. And if that’s the case, it won’t be day for Ung till the sunlight has vanished from his window. Sŭnggu has the impression that the lights will come on at any moment in the low dwellings visible through the window. And with that thought he leaves.

  The door to the building opens whether you pull it or push it.

  Where Sŭnggu lives the front door squeaks. For some strange reason his chest is pounding. Carefully he climbs the stairs. But the more carefully he places his feet on the old steps, the more they seem to creak. Tomorrow he’ll use the park for relieving himself and washing up. The pounding in his chest eases only as the number of remaining steps lessens.

  The money is still there above the top step. He opens the door to see a man; the man’s head turns his way. He can’t immediately place the man, and merely observes him.

  The man volunteers his name—Hunse. A face comes to mind—the face of a classmate all through middle school, one who was good at wasting the class’s time by asking the teacher questions. Sŭnggu superimposes that face on the face of the man who sits before him. His first impression is that the man’s cheekbones are too sharp. He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind: he thought Hunse was in Seoul.

  Hunse doesn’t respond to this. He takes in the room and mutters that it’s pretty big for a four-mat room.

  The beggar is at the same bench, shivering. Sŭnggu goes to a drinking fountain behind where the beggar sits.

  He takes a mouthful of water. Tilting his head back, he gargles. He notices it’s getting cloudier. He spits out the water on the street. The water in the drainage ditch that runs past the park looks da
rker than ever.

  Sŭnggu sticks his hand under the water from the fountain and keeps it there until it feels cold.

  The beggar continues to shiver.

  Sŭnggu washes his face and sits down beside the beggar. At this time of year the sun doesn’t provide much warmth. He begins to shiver like the beggar.

  Still shivering, Sŭnggu slides open the door to his room.

  Hunse says he was just downstairs washing up; he chuckles. Sŭnggu thinks there must have been an incident with the landlady.

  Hunse says he was coming out of the bathroom and shaking the water off his hands when he saw the landlady in her mirror. She got up and asked him to leave the bathroom as clean as he found it. Maybe she said that because he had blown his nose loudly while he was washing his face, he says with another chuckle.

  Sŭnggu observes Hunse’s bluish lips, then indicates the money at the top of the stairs and tells Hunse that the landlady returned part of his rent and said he could stay until he found another room, but he doesn’t feel quite right about it.

  Hunse’s eyes open wide and he says he’s never heard of such a kind landlady, but why should Sŭnggu feel compelled to move? Hunse goes on to say that he obtained his previous room by saying he was from Kyushu, paid no rent for four months, and still got enough money back to use as a deposit on other lodgings. From now on, he’ll say he’s from Manchuria. And then he asks if there’s any good reason the landlady’s money should just sit there. Apparently not: he goes out to the landing, gathers the money, and casually stuffs it in his pocket.

  A fly makes lazy ovals in the air, alights on the wall, then drops to the floor.

  Sŭnggu starts shivering again, but not just because he’s cold.

  It rains all afternoon, the rain sweeping sideways. Outside the window umbrellas seem to float on their sides, like the rain. The sky visible above the roofs is misty.

  The steam rising from the cup looks like the misty sky. Sŭnggu holds the cup with both hands. It doesn’t quite warm him all the way through. His shoulders feel weighted down by the rain that fell on them; they shake constantly.

  Hunse asks how someone who can’t tolerate weather this cold can survive a winter in an unheated tatami room. He crushes out his cigarette.

  Sŭnggu begins to recite the contents of the menu posted on the wall: steamed rice with egg and chicken, steamed rice with pork cutlet, steamed rice with grilled eel, steamed rice with egg, curry rice. . . .

  Without asking Sŭnggu’s preference, Hunse orders two bowls of steamed rice with pork cutlet. And then he brings his face close to Sŭnggu’s and says that when close friends from the ancestral home come here, they end up on their guard toward each other instead of getting along heart to heart.

  Again Sŭnggu recites the menu: fried shrimp, steamed dumplings. . . . Hunse mutters that Chiun looks intelligent but acts dumb, and why does he have to shine shoes to get his university diploma? And then he asks Sŭnggu where he can find Ung. Sŭnggu is quick to respond that he doesn’t know. And once again he shudders; he feels a chill different from the cold outside.

  When Sŭnggu looks at the window he sees a frigid mosaic of rain streaks. If the wind comes up, it will really be cold. But the next moment the pane of glass is filled with dazzling sunshine and the streaks of rain disappear.

  He wishes they would hurry up with the food.

  Before they know it, the skies have cleared and the clouds are gone.

  Hunse says he has something to do, and they go their separate ways. In the shade of the dwellings his body seems to take on different shapes as he walks away.

  Sŭnggu tells himself that the rain heralds the approach of winter, but then he feels warmth on his back. It’s a good day to go to the park and soak up the sun.

  Perhaps the beggar is out begging; he’s not in the park. Sŭnggu visits Chiun’s place.

  He calls Chiun’s name but the doors are deaf to his calling. Chiun must have gone out to shine shoes.

  Sŭnggu walks down Kanda, and with every step he takes, the bookladen shelves of the used-book stores fill him with apprehension.

  The shoe-shine boys, spaced far apart from each other, work in the streets’ vacant lots. There’s Chiun, hunched up and absorbed in a book resting in his lap. Sŭnggu approaches. Chiun looks up and offers a hollow smile.

  Has Hunse been there? Sŭnggu asks. Chiun startles, the book falling out of his lap. Did Hunse visit Sŭnggu too? Chiun asks. He says it was a mistake not to warn him about Hunse. He was suspicious when Hunse arrived a few days ago, he continues. Hunse made off with several of his books and hasn’t returned. Chiun picks up his book, brushes it off, and says again that he made a mistake telling Hunse where Sŭnggu lived.

  Sŭnggu remains silent.

  Chiun urges him to go home, stay there, and keep an eye on his belongings.

  Sŭnggu in his dirty shoes leaves the shoe-shine boy.

  The mirror in the barbershop reflects more bodies than just the customers in the barber chairs. It reflects the face of a woman standing at the window.

  Day leaves the barbershop window and night arrives.

  Again the door squeaks when it opens. Sŭnggu’s chest pounds. Again the steps creak as he goes upstairs. But this time, as the number of remaining steps decreases, his heart jumps all the more.

  He slides open the rice-paper door. Hunse is not there.

  He turns on the light. The cape that should be there on the wall is gone. As is the two-volume dictionary that should be there in the corner. But rather than regretting the loss of the dictionary and the cape—his only defenses against the oncoming cold—he is relieved to know that Hunse is gone.

  Sŭnggu turns off the light and goes out. The streetlights are on tonight. Sŭnggu’s shadow is in front of him. The next streetlight draws near. Now it is Sŭnggu who is in front of his shadow.

  THE PLAYERS

  Another clear day. On mornings like this it’s good to be here in the small park, an enclave of cleanliness tucked away among the busy streets, no trash flying about.

  Before he knows it he’s yawning. With the yawn, moisture gathers in his eyes and the print of the newspaper in his lap grows blurry.

  He returns to the missing-person notice. Small but obvious wart between left ear and upper lip. Age nineteen. Average height. Western-style clothing. North Hamgyŏng accent. Dimple on right cheek when smiling. He crumples the newspaper, tosses it on the ground—the park’s first piece of litter that day—and leaves.

  He examines the face of a passing woman. Wart between left ear and upper lip? Nope. She’s somebody’s middle-aged wife, and instead of a wart near her lip there’s a red spot above her right nostril. Must have had several husbands.

  He wonders how many men Suk had before him. There was the young man with the horse face, the champion speed skater. And before Horse Face there was Pretty Boy. Prettier, in fact, than Suk. And before Pretty Boy, High Pockets the piano player. Before the piano player he’s not sure. So he himself was number four at least. He has no idea where she went after leaving him, or how many others she’s left.

  Before he realizes it his feet have brought him to Yongjae’s studio.

  Reclining on the platform, a nude model.

  Yongjae is taking a break. “You’re a little late,” he says.

  “Such a nice day I decided to catch some sun in the park.”

  The long hand of the model reaches for a pack of cigarettes. She lights up.

  “She new?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “A dame a day.”

  Yongjae’s head turns toward the model.

  “I’ll bet I finish this one.”

  “Is that a trumpet shell? Wasn’t it a snail shell yesterday? And what happened to the winter landscape? Damned if I can keep up with you.”

  “I can’t help it—I keep changing my mind about what I want to paint. And so the model has to change too. But I always use the old scene as background for the new one, so it’s not a complete waste.”


  Against the dreary chrome yellow of the winter field crawls a snail whose crimson feelers are larger than its shell, and against the background of the crimson feelers a blue trumpet shell is taking shape. He looks in turn from the model to the part of the trumpet shell that’s been sketched, and at that point the woman gets up, barely covering herself with a dressing gown. She doesn’t look at the canvas.

  Yongjae says in an undertone, so that only he can hear, “I think they’re most attractive when they take off that last piece of clothing—you don’t want them naked to begin with.”

  The model takes the coffeepot and disappears into the kitchen.

  “What do you think? I got her from a friend. This time I’ll finish for sure. But who knows? My painting has a way of wearing out the models.”

  “You mean you have a way of bedding the models. You ought to be thankful for what you’ve already had and make a donation to a poor guy like me.”

  “You mean you still haven’t figured out where your wife went?”

  “Change of plans—starting today I’m looking for a missing woman who comes with a reward. This woman has a wart between her upper lip and her left ear. Who knows, if she’s nude maybe we’ll find a wart near her left nipple. What do you think—would that get your creative juices flowing? And she has a dimple on her right cheek when she smiles. When I find her, how about if I bring her here instead of taking her back to her husband? Actually, though, a place like this might not be healthy for her.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  The model returns with a steaming pot of coffee, coffee so strong it’s probably not healthy.

  Between sips Yongjae mutters, “So, you’re going to ask me what else is new? Well, after Taeung split up with his wife, he fell and dislocated his leg. And Chohun, he’s the luckiest of the bunch.”

  Off to lucky Chohun’s place before the model has removed her dressing gown.

  Chohun is by himself, a cigarette in his mouth, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, folding paper.