From the bus terminal, Aran walked past her home toward the sculpture park. Her home was too small at times like this when she needed to loosen the knot in her chest and calm her nerves. What the villagers called the sculpture park was simply an open patch of grassland. It was said that a certain sculptor developed the surrounding farmland many years ago by setting up a teahouse and bringing in three-dimensional artwork to the open area. There was no longer any trace of the teahouse, but scattered pieces of sculpture still remained. The sculptor was believed to be dead or to have immigrated overseas, and the sculpture pieces stood abandoned in their grotesque or severely damaged form. When Aran visited the park, she often wondered whether the sculptor had rented the land or simply taken over idle space.
Perhaps there is such a thing as destiny even for land. Despite its proximity to the city and convenient access to public transportation, the area failed to appreciate in value. Originally a wasteland, the neighborhood was comprised of residents displaced by development projects. They were brought here and dumped like garbage, with less than four hundred square feet allotted to each family. With such an inauspicious beginning, the area never grew to its full potential, and instead reached its peak with rental apartments and townhouses. Both were low-income housing with a little more than four-hundred square feet of living space. Aran lived in a multiplex, the first home she ever owned, located at the edge of the neighborhood. Although her home was far from the bus terminal, it had a wide open view of the park.
The park didn’t have a single bench, and the sculpture ruins scattered here and there served as makeshift seats. A marker indicating the artist’s name and an explanation of the work could sometimes be found, but it was rare for it to match the piece actually displayed. Worse, a marker left without an artwork was like a tombstone standing on an empty grave, sad and ridiculous at the same time. Moreover, not a single marker was modest in the explanation it offered.
“This work of art incorporates the use of tin. What is tin? It is what humans have obtained from Mother Earth using fire. The intimate yet tense interrelationship among these three forces— humans, earth, and fire—makes my soul tremble. I don’t believe creative impulse can exist without the trembling of the soul.”
This was typical. Such arrogance . . . Aran stopped to read the sign next to a heap of metal and mumbled her disapproval. At the end of the metal heap resembling congealed lava, she found a spot as flat as a millstone and sat down. She rolled up her blouse sleeves, revealing milky forearms marred by three cigarette burn marks left by Hun. The burn spots had puffed up at first into cherry-red blisters but quickly shriveled into tawny welts. Still, no one would mistake them as anything other than burn marks. Aran didn’t smoke often. Whenever the squalor of life got the better of her, making her vacillate between hope and hopelessness, she reached for a cigarette. The attraction was not the bittersweet flavor of nicotine; it was the captivating image of Miss Kim with a cigarette between her fingers. Miss Kim was a tenant in Aran’s home who worked as a bookkeeper for a hotel coffee shop in the surburbs. Money, money, money—that was all that Miss Kim talked about and cared about. And it was no wonder, because she earned little but had plenty to spend on; she had nobody to mooch off, but several family members to support. Miss Kim never succeeded in quitting smoking even though she lived in constant fear of her manager sniffing her out and firing her on the spot. After hours of abstinence at work, she would come home in the evening to relish a leisurely puff. Aran once asked if the cigarette tasted as good as she made it seem, and Miss Kim answered that she smoked not for the taste but for the respite it provided from her crappy life.
“Whoa, can you really get that from smoking? Can I try it, too?”
Aran bummed many a cigarette this way, but she only succeeded in imitating Miss Kim’s gestures, not in tasting any respite. On the day she discovered that Hun had failed the bar exam for the fourth time, Aran felt truly crappy. So she fished out Miss Kim’s cigarettes and smoked three in a row, clouding up the tiny common area that served as both a living room and kitchen. That’s when Hun walked in and snatched the lit cigarette from her hand. He pressed the burning stick into her forearm, furious with her for moping around when he had failed only four times. Aran was thirty years old. It wasn’t only four times to her. What Hun sought to crush, besides the impatience of a thirty-year-old, was the body of a thirty-year-old. Like a doting grandparent tending to his beaten and bruised grandchild, he blew on the raw burn spots and began slowly but expertly caressing her. Her body broke down, like an overripe peach releasing its sweetness in full self-abandonment. She continued to cling to him afterward and had to further endure his ridicule that she was a desperate, oversexed old maid. But Hun could not have been more clueless as to what she was desperately clinging to. It wasn’t sex; it was the last ray of hope growing ever so faint and the small possibility inching beyond her grasp.
At work, it was a mystery why a pretty girl like Aran was still single. There were no more male coworkers drooling over her because all of them had now become husbands and fathers. Less attractive girls who were overshadowed by Aran had all managed to find their Mr. Right. Some of them left the company after marrying while others continued to show up at work with their pregnant bellies proudly jutting out. Aran knew as clear as day how laughable her beauty was to them. On top of her good-for-nothing beauty, she was poor. And for her to stand her ground, unperturbed, at the same company until age thirty was due to her firm belief that one day she would be the object of everyone’s envy and praise. She was determined to marry a successful guy—a guy who had passed the bar with flying colors for instance—in front of her colleagues at this very job. What Aran had clung to was not Hun’s tired body; it was the hope that one day, oh, someday, a butterfly would emerge from the cocoon and spread its wings.
Son of a bitch . . . that son of a bitch . . . Aran screamed into the void with an explosiveness that surprised even herself. Rolling down her sleeves, she realized that she would have to switch to the short-sleeve uniform in a few days. Instead of sighing with worry, Aran sniggered. It would be no big deal to quit her job before then. From now on, she didn’t have to put up with anything. Not a thing. Telling the son of a bitch that he was a son of a bitch. Walking away from a job that led nowhere for women after years of devotion and hard work. Refusing to share five hundred square feet of living space. Could all this be a mere dream? She wanted to share this surreal freedom with someone so that it wouldn’t blow away like a puff of smoke. But not Miss Kim. Miss Kim had enrolled in a ten-million-won savings plan several times, but her incessant need for cash always forced her to cancel before the maturity date. For Miss Kim, ten million won was an amount that she could only dream about having just once in her lifetime. Wouldn’t talking about an amount more than thirty times that be cruel to her? It would be nothing short of torture. And when tortured, the human reflex is to fight back in self-defense. Aran had no intention of exposing her good fortune to that kind of ill will. But it was good to have thought of Miss Kim. Try as she might, ten million won was an amount that lay beyond Miss Kim’s reach. Thirty-five times that—this calculation gave Aran a realistic understanding of her windfall. Her sense of self swelling up like a balloon, she floated up from the edge of the disfigured sculpture that had been the subject of an absurd pseudo-philosophy. Aran felt like she was walking on air. True, that feeling was elation, but it was also anxiety at the same time.
“Pain of Existence” was the title of a piece now long gone but for a signpost stuck in the ground. So pompous . . . She was about to pass by it with scorn but suddenly stopped as if her feet were glued to the ground. She remembered something about the title. She must have seen it around the same time last year because the park was filled with the most beautiful colors back then also. After failing the bar for the third time, Hun had left on a trip to let off some steam with the money she had given him. She hadn’t heard from him after a few days, so she called the Exam Village without any success in locating him. It was a beautiful weekend, so she headed toward the sculpture park to walk off her despair. That was the day she saw the “Pain of Existence” signpost standing here without any accompanying artwork. On that day also, Aran had scoffed at the title, thinking that it was only a cheap play on words compared to the real heartache and headache that she actually felt. From a distance, a ball rolled toward Aran. Behind it, a couple was laughing and clapping their hands. They were young parents of a waddling toddler. The ball that the toddler had kicked was rolling down a gentle slope, but the parents perhaps believed that their child had powered that ball. They were laughing out loud and clapping as the child ran after the rolling ball. The white rubber ball was much larger than a baseball, large enough to be held with both hands. Although an ordinary plaything, a ball like that was becoming an increasing rarity in those days. Aran quietly watched its movement, strangely mesmerized. The starting point of that ball’s momentum was not the boy’s foot but Aran’s childhood. Facing the ball rolling in from her childhood, Aran tensed up with anticipation.
It must have been Children’s Day. The neighborhood was filled with laughter as even the shantytown kids had gotten at least one inexpensive gift. Aran had picked out a rubber ball as her gift. Her mother came home late the night before and, feeling bad about not having bought a gift, she took Aran to a nearby stationery store. In addition to school supplies, the store was well stocked with various toys in preparation for Children’s Day, but most of it was cheap knickknacks sellable only in a poor neighborhood. Aran picked out a rubber ball that was the cheapest of the cheap toys. Dismayed by her modesty, her mother urged her to pick out another toy like a doll, but Aran shook her head in refusal. She didn’t choose the ball out of consideration for her mother’s pocketbook. She chose it because that was what she really wanted. She played with the ball for many days until it eventually became deflated, but during that time she proved herself to be quite adroit with it. She could go around the whole block keeping the ball tossed in the air with one hand. In front of the other neighborhood kids, she dribbled the ball while circling her leg over the top. A few of the kids thought they could perform the same stunt, but no one was able to do what she did with such ease. No matter where the ball was thrown, bounced, or rolled, it always returned to Aran. When that white ball finally lost its bounce, Aran got tired of playing with it.
Aran expected the ball that the toddler had kicked to roll directly toward her as if obeying a basic law of physics, like a metal chip being pulled by a magnet. The ball, however, suddenly disappeared from sight. The child stopped running and burst into tears. The parents, their laughter dissipating in the wind, ran toward their crying child. “Don’t worry, I’ll find it for you.” After assuring the kid, Aran combed the grass patch where the ball had vanished. Near the “Pain of Existence” signpost, there were two big holes in the ground, probably made when the sculpture was moved or stolen. She couldn’t see inside the hole with her naked eye in bright sunlight, so she reached her hand in. It was so deep that only after putting in her whole arm up to the shoulder could Aran feel the smooth, round firmness. She was in luck because she found the ball in the first hole. “I found it! Hold on just a minute, I’ll get it out for you,” she said without looking at the kid who had stopped crying in the meantime. While continuing to yell out reassuring words, she tried her hardest to get the ball out. This was easier said than done because the diameters of the hole and the ball were almost the same. She could touch the ball but couldn’t scoop it out. With her shoulder blade deep inside the hole and only after digging out the dirt around the ball with her fingernails, Aran just managed to pull the ball out. But the kid had not waited for her. Holding onto each parent and swinging between them, he was already quite a distance away. A gentle breeze caressing the child’s soft hair and carrying away the parents’ happy chatter tickled Aran’s cheeks. Blushing with shame and anger, she shoved the ball abandoned by its owner back into the hole. She felt violated and grimy, like the dirt under her fingernails.
The two holes near the “Pain of Existence” sign were there just as before. Was the white rubber ball still in there? Aran dropped to the ground and stuck her arm in one of the holes. Her fingers touched a plastic bag and damp dirt; in the second hole she felt the ball. No longer firm, the ball came out easily without any digging. The ball was in sad shape, covered with a year’s worth of dirt, so Aran took it to an outdoor pump that drew underground water. At first, the neighborhood residents had flocked to the pump thinking that it drew mineral spring water, but they abandoned it after the city officials declared the water undrinkable. Aran turned the spigot and water flowed out. She washed the ball and once its white sheen was uncovered, she tossed it onto the grass. With love from the sun and the earth, the ball regained its bounce, and Aran began nudging it with the tip of her foot. Rolling and spinning the ball freely on the bright green grass, Aran felt exhilaration spread through the veins of her body all the way down to her toes. It was an unexpected but absolute pleasure. She wasn’t handling the ball; she became one with it. From the claustrophobic darkness of binding fate, she stepped out into the open sunlight and basked in it. Connecting with the ball was helping her get used to her unfettered freedom. Her new, dream-like reality definitely needed some getting used to.
It was about a month ago that she read in the newspaper about Chairman Jin Hyukboo’s death and about a week ago that she received a phone call from his eldest son, Junggi. Aran’s first thought in hearing the news about the deceased was something along the lines of, how fortunate that her mother had passed away first. If she were alive, she would have insisted on Aran joining the Jins to properly mourn his death, no matter how much she might be mistreated. When she was a young child less than ten years of age, Aran was forced by her mother to attend the well-publicized seventieth birthday party for Chairman Jin. The abuse Aran got from his family that day remained a painful memory for many years. It also afforded Aran a convenient and effective way to defy her mother until the day she died. Whenever they got into an argument, Aran cited the details of the humiliation she endured that day as a result of blindly following her wishes. There was one thing, however, that she never mentioned during those fights: how it felt to be hugged by her father. The party was in full swing and Aran had walked straight up to the seat of honor. It was neither courage nor audacity that enabled Aran to do this; it was the powerlessness she felt in acting out the part of her mother’s puppet.
“How dare she! Who does she think she is?”
She was soon bombarded by the angry stares of the outraged members of his immediate family. Her lips twitched as she suppressed a sob. Pushing others aside, Chairman Jin rushed to her and declared that she was just a little girl who had done nothing wrong. He embraced her. Aran was just tall enough at that time for her ear to rest on the old man’s chest. Listening to his pulse twittering like a small bird, Aran instinctively understood that this elderly gentleman was important in protecting her from all kinds of abuse from other people. Still embracing her in his bosom, Chairman Jin made his way through a crowd of people and handed Aran off to someone, probably a hotel waiter, outside the reception hall. That person took Aran into an elevator, walked her out through the lobby, and put her in a cab. Based on what she pieced together from her mother later, Chairman Jin was her father. As old as the hills, even as a grandfather, he would not have been a very young one.
In all likelihood, her mother was his mistress. But Aran never witnessed her in this role. So the label “mistress” did not conjure up the same image for her as what conventional social wisdom dictated: wicked beauty, habitual indolence and extravagance, insuppressible sexuality, and shameless greed for money. Until she died, Aran’s mother worked as a domestic help. Instead of going from job to job, she only worked at a few homes of widowed or single professional women in academia. Her insistence on being selective with clients almost bordered on paranoia, for even when better-paying jobs came along, she invariably turned them down when men, either married or single, were part of the household. Her days as a mistress were evident only in a faded photo album. In it, Chairman Jin and Mother looked more like father and daughter than lovers. It was peculiar that Aran was included in every photograph and that pictures of just the couple were noticeably absent. Obviously, the album was for Aran’s benefit. Chairman Jin holding Aran in his arms and gazing at her sweetly looked just like a grandfather with his first grandchild. This was the family from her childhood although she had no memory of it. The photos must have been taken before his wife found out about their existence. Apparently that period did not last long, because the Aran in the pictures never grew up past preschool age. As is common with faded old photographs, facial expressions and clothing looked outdated and stiff but an underlying nervousness still lived and breathed within the still images. Her mother never revealed exactly how or when his family found out about them, and Aran never asked. She had no doubt that it involved much dirty laundry that neither of them cared to discuss.
Her mother probably demanded that Aran be added to his family registry in return for making a clean break from Chairman Jin. Things must not have gone her way, for Aran often heard her sighing in frustration that they had not kept up their end of the bargain. When it came to that issue though, Aran knew that her mother wouldn’t just sit around and sigh. She had no intention of rekindling her relationship with Chairman Jin, but she did everything in her power to remind his family of Aran’s existence. Invitations to graduation ceremonies, awards from writing contests or art fairs, and copies of her report card were regularly sent to his home. Aran’s attendance at his seventieth birthday party was no doubt part of this endeavor. But it took another ten years for Aran to get her name listed on his family register. She was in high school when Junggi, his eldest son, contacted her. Junggi came to meet her for the very first time to inform her that his father had retired a couple of years ago from overseeing the main operations of the corporation. At that time the distribution of his assets had been finalized in his will, and Aran could now be added to the registry without financial complications. Junggi didn’t forget to add that the inclusion came with the stipulation that she sever all ties from the family. She was only a high school student. In retrospect, she was old enough to know what she needed to know, yet she probably didn’t know much. None of this mattered to Junggi because the person he wanted to deal with was Aran’s mother. Aran served only as the indirect channel of communication.
“I have no idea why your mother so desperately wanted you to be a part of our family. You don’t gain a dime from it, really. And it’s not like we come from a long line of power . . . Do you know where our money comes from? Our grandfather worked as a foreman among menial laborers.”
He sneered with affected sympathy. Aran knew that it was intentional, that he didn’t even try to extend her the slightest courtesy as a sibling. Kind of like Nolbu, the evil brother in a famous Korean folktale, he was a mean and devious man who wanted to mar or spit on what he was forced to give away. Ever since that meeting with him, Aran used the same words to scorn her mother whenever she had the chance. Her mother had to endure greater abuse from her daughter after Aran officially became a part of the Jin family. And to her daughter’s abuse she always gave the same reply: she was never after their money or power but simply wanted the truth to be known. Proud to the end . . . Aran was sick and tired of her mother’s pride and arrogance. She knew that what her mother said outwardly and what she felt inwardly were two different things. Declaring that she now had no more regrets in life, her mother quickly lost her energy for life, became ill, and died before Aran entered college. Did she really have no regrets in life? Didn’t she feel disbelief and disappointment at being empty-handed after such a long struggle that eventually did her in? It was easier for Aran to think so. She despised anything too complicated. And what she despised about her mother was her convoluted way of thinking and living, her twisted mind that manifested itself in complete hypocrisy. Three years after her mother’s death, Aran heard through the grapevine that Chairman Jin’s wife had died also. She felt no emotion regarding her death, as she was so busy working during the day and taking college classes at night. Her hapless mother . . . If she were alive . . . Who knows, she could have married Chairman Jin and become part of his oh-so-great family . . . She could have entertained such a thought, but she didn’t. Not only was she busy living her life but she didn’t ever want to think about his terribly stuck-up, intolerant family.
When the Jin family, who wanted to sever all ties with her, contacted her out of the blue, Aran was puzzled but not daunted. The fact that she had nothing to expect from them gave her the courage to stand up to them. Aran also took comfort in the realization that as coldhearted as they may have been, they were not twisted people. The meeting took place at some apartment, not an office. When she arrived, the atmosphere was somber. Waiting for her were several gentlemen including Junggi, some middle-aged women, and a silver-haired elderly woman. The women were all wearing mourning clothes that suited their grim expressions well. Aran would not have been surprised to learn that they had never cracked a smile in all their lives.
They were probably Chairman Jin’s sons, daughters, and their spouses. A month had passed since his death, and the fact that they were still wearing mourning clothes seemed pretentious to Aran. She was wearing a canary yellow two-piece outfit. She looked good in most colors, but she knew that she always commanded a presence in bright yellow.
“Some daughter . . . Didn’t even come to the funeral . . .”
The oldest-looking woman with silver hair sized up Aran from head to toe with a sharp eye and mumbled under her breath as she looked far into the distance.
“Don’t waste your breath, Sister. Look how she’s dressed. She’s hopeless.”
“You called me here for this? Wasn’t it you people who wanted to have nothing to do with me?” Aran ignored the women and addressed Junggi.
“Sisters, may we be alone?”
One word from Junggi was all it took for them to shuffle toward the bedroom, and only the men remained. Except for Junggi, the other men were all unfamiliar and indiscernible from one another. One of them, politeness ingrained in his professional mannerisms, handed her his business card. He was a lawyer with the last name Lee, not Jin.
“He is the lawyer who’ll carry out Father’s will. Father apparently left you this apartment,” Junggi said indifferently, as if talking about the affairs of strangers.
“This apartment? Is this a joke?”
“No. It’s true,” said the lawyer who had handed her his card. There was a softness about him; he was much less businesslike than Junggi.
“Even if that was his wish, I’m sure they have no intention of carrying it out. I know these people.”
“These people? I like that you’re bold, but you’re bordering on being rude. You’re right. We’re not happy about giving you anything, but our hands are tied, you see. He even notarized the will before his death.”
Aran had addressed the lawyer, but Junggi answered her. She had spoken with venom, but he was smiling. It wasn’t a forced smile but a suave, unctuous one. They’re playing with me, playing me for a fool. Before she could recover from the insult, Junggi continued talking with a straight face.
“All matters of inheritance had already been settled before you became a member of our family. This place was Father’s last asset he owned under his name. This is also where he passed away. That’s why we feel that he left you the most valuable thing, even though it’s nothing compared to what we received from him. It’s hard for us to think just in terms of actual value. What he gave us, we split among ourselves; but what you got was everything, everything that mattered, all to yourself. So we feel a sense of betrayal. Especially Elder Sister. She almost passed out from shock at what he left you and was deeply hurt. Why wouldn’t she be? When Father became ill, she moved into the same building and took charge of caring for him. That’s not easy to do for someone with her own family to care for. But she knew that it would be harder for a daughter-in-law to care for Father, so she took on the burden herself. Five long years she tended to him. For the rest of us, we feel so indebted to her that we’re willing to go along with her wishes. And she is so dead set against you living here. What can we do? Her only wish is for us to stop you from moving in. Considering everything she’s done for us, it’s the least we can do. But we also have to honor Father’s will. That’s why we’ve decided to buy the apartment from you. Do you understand everything I’m telling you?”
Aran didn’t, so she turned her head sideways. Her eyes met those of the lawyer, who nodded to her with a reassuring look.
“The market value of this apartment as of last year was at least four hundred and fifty million won, but after the 1997 financial crisis—I’m sure you know all about that—it isn’t sellable now, even at three fifty. Those desperate to sell are getting much less than that. If you don’t believe me, you can stop by a realtor’s office on your way out. Mr. Lee here is doing everything he can on your behalf. He’s essentially your proxy looking out for your best interests, not so much ours. He and our party have reached an agreement to give you three hundred and fifty million won after various expenses. In actuality, we’re buying this apartment way above the market value. With that money, you can buy a much better place. Or if you prefer, you can keep the money in cash, which is worth more with the current market interest rate than what four hundred and fifty would have been before the crisis. Do you get it? Since I’m obligated to give you this apartment, I wouldn’t dream of ripping you off in any way. That would be like robbing from the blind. We came to this decision only because we don’t want you living here. Not only does Elder Sister live a few stories upstairs, but most of us also live in or near the same apartment complex.”
“You should take this offer.”
Nodding his head in approval like a kibitzer at a chess game, the lawyer took out a bundle of documents. Aran was dumbstruck. Obediently, she stamped her seal page after page in the places that the lawyer pointed to. Whenever her eyes met his eyes, she felt relieved, as if exchanging silent communication with an ally in enemy territory. The money was to be paid in its entirety in a week without any deposit or down payment, and Junggi asked the lawyer to tie up all the loose ends in a week. A silver-haired woman barged out of the bedroom, practically foaming at the mouth.
“Sister, please get ahold of yourself. It’s all over now.” The other women rushed after her like a school of flickering fish.
“Get your filthy name off our family register, you, you, bitch! Two generations of money-grubbers who seduced our father!”
Mr. Lee quickly got Aran on her feet and, guarding her with his back, took her outside. While they were waiting for the elevator, Junggi followed them out and told her not to worry. He said he would make sure things went as planned. Outside, Mr. Lee hailed a cab for Aran. Watching him walk toward the parking garage, Aran thought that he looked just like the hotel waiter at the seventieth birthday party. Chairman Jin Hyukboo. He sure did live a long time. His firstborn, Junggi’s older sister, appeared to be almost seventy years old herself.
A week passed from that fateful day. During the week, Aran still could not get a realistic grasp of her three hundred and fifty million won. She didn’t question or fret over whether or not she’d actually see that much money in her hands. Even without such worries, the past week had been hell. She was just like her mother. Her mother did not believe in easy money or strokes of luck. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, she used to say. That was a principle she lived her life by. Greater than the awe over the three hundred and fifty million was Aran’s dread of the people who’d rather part with that much money than include her in their family. How disgusting and wretched she must be in their eyes. The one thing Aran’s mother hated the most while raising her was her cruel blame: Why did you have me? It was a good thing that her mother was not there. Aran felt a murderous hatred toward her already-dead mother. Aran, how disgusting and wretched are you? She could forgive her mother for being a mistress, but not a mother who brought her into this world to live like this. She wanted to kill her for that.
On the morning of the day exactly one week from their meeting, Mr. Lee called. He asked Aran to come not to the apartment but to Junggi’s office. In the presence of the two men, she received thirty-five certified checks each in the amount of ten million won. It suddenly occurred to Aran during this transaction that Junggi bore a striking resemblance to her father as she remembered him on the day of his seventieth birthday. Junggi looked as old as his father did then, but more importantly, he no longer felt like the complete stranger he had seemed during their previous meeting. Because she was ashamed by this sense of familiarity that flowed so naturally, Aran tried to appear nonchalant when receiving the checks. Apparently amused by her feigned indifference, Junggi grinned peculiarly, by moving only one corner of his lips.
“I’m not sure if you researched housing prices, but you can be sure that we’re giving you a fair amount based on the current market price. Mr. Lee here is in complete agreement with me. In terms of interest, you can get more now than you would have with four hundred and fifty million won before the financial crisis. With this money, you can buy a property or keep it in cash. It’s all up to you. If you want, I can help you to invest the money with low risks and high returns. I’m sure you can easily net four or five million won per month from these investments. Given that you’re single, I’m of the opinion that it would be better for you to invest rather than to buy a property. You can do a lot with four or five million by yourself. Since you seem to have put off marriage, you should consider studying abroad. Become a successful professional. That won’t be so hard for you now. Instead of a house, I hope you invest that money in yourself so that you can live the life you want. But that’s just my opinion. Of course, you’re free to do what you want with the money. If you invest, the principal of three hundred and fifty will remain untouched while bringing in four or five hundred per month in interest. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”
Aran, who was unfazed by the big sum of three hundred and fifty million won, was deeply shaken by the notion of a monthly income of four or five million. A pleasant shudder ran through her spine when she understood her windfall. Was there such a thing as a free lunch? And wasn’t it what she and her mother had secretly been after for all these years?
“Well, you can even study abroad,” Aran addressed the white ball bouncing around her feet. Then she kicked it hard with the intent of sending it far away. She must have lacked the strength or the ball must have been too deflated, for it dropped to the ground not too far away and rolled back toward her like a loyal puppy. Ah, you stupid ball. Aran lightly shoved the ball back into its original hole.
When she came home, Aran suppressed her excitement and called her office. She said in a feeble voice that she wouldn’t be able to work for a few days due to a severe flu. Since this was the first time that she had ever called in sick, the department manager treated her graciously enough. But a close colleague called her back after a few minutes, fretting that it was no time to play hooky over a little cold, given the many recent layoffs.
“I don’t know why I’m feeling like this. I just want to sleep in all day,” Aran said. Her friend was genuinely concerned, but Aran brushed her off casually. Miss Kim, who left for work earlier than Aran and came home later, saw Aran in bed until late the next day and immediately assumed that she had been fired. Aran didn’t deny it, smiling ambiguously. Almost envious of Aran’s indifference to being jobless, Miss Kim again whined about money.
“You have some money saved up, right? You’re so lucky. You have a home and no needy family members bugging you for handouts. I can’t afford to get fired. At least not until I pay off the installments on my ten-million-won savings plan. After I get that money, then I can quit or be laid off. You’ll see.”
Aran wondered how much money Miss Kim thought that she had saved up. She felt bad for Miss Kim, whose meager imagination could certainly not have exceeded a guess of ten million won.
For the next three days, three hundred and fifty million made Aran full without eating and alert without sleeping. She couldn’t sleep the first night because of her excitement; she lost her appetite the next day thinking about the wad of checks overburdening her shabby five-hundred-square-foot apartment. She dithered around all day, having lost not only her appetite but also the ability to concentrate on anything else other than the money. She didn’t have the courage to take the checks outside of her home, let alone leave them there unattended. So she had no choice but to guard them. One time, she stood on the street corner looking at her house. Even the home’s façade looked different to her, knowing that it was holding assets many times its own worth. Aran got scared, thinking that if it looked different to her untrained eye, professional thieves and con artists could spot it a mile away. People strolling down the street all seemed like shady characters ready to rob her of her newfound wealth. It wasn’t only the home that felt strange because of its sudden increase in value. She felt that way about herself, as if she had grown golden scales all over her body.
She spent all day bundling the checks, counting them one by one, or sorting them into separate piles; she stored them together, and then she changed her mind and stored them separately in smaller amounts. She was so exhausted from her fickle handling of the money that she had no energy left for other chores. Even at night, she was so busy hiding the checks inside leaves of books, between layers of clothing, and under the bed that she had no time to plan what she could actually do with her money. She knew she was being a pathetic basket case, but safeguarding three hundred and fifty million won was hardly a chore. Perhaps touching, handling, and fretting over that much money was what she dreamed about all along. She even thought about cashing in the checks so that she could spend all night counting the small bills. Just when Aran was making herself ill from trying to get used to her three hundred and fifty million, she got a call from Junggi. The first thing he asked about was the money.
“I have it just as you gave it to me,” Aran replied.
“Good. I’ve been waiting for you to consult with me but you haven’t called. I know that you have worked all these years so that you’re savvy about money and other matters. But I’m still concerned about you. Too often I see even the people who’ve been professionals all their lives get duped out of their savings. Father would not have wanted me to just hand you a onetime payment and leave you on your own; he would have wanted me to make sure that you’re taken care of. So I’ve been thinking. It’s true that real estate values have hit rock bottom and it’s also true that experts don’t expect them to recover anytime soon. Interest rates will fall eventually, but for now, they’re quite high. People like us in business have been hit hard, but it has been sweet for those with money to invest. Before the rates go back down, I recommend that you lock your money into sound investments. I think that’s your best bet for now. An investment trust company has been courting me to try their various packages so I thought of you. What do you think? I’ve told you this before, but depending on the investment options you choose, you can easily net four or five million won in interest income.”
The down-to-earth sum of several million still held a greater appeal to Aran than several hundred million. At least for now. Junggi said that he’d send an investment specialist over to her home. The specialist who showed up at her doorstep bearing a gift a couple of hours later was none other than the branch manager. As soon as he arrived, Junggi called again to reassure her that he was a trustworthy and knowledgeable professional. The branch manager gently chastised Aran for missing out on interest income by leaving her cash in the closet for so many days. He suggested that she diversify her investment portfolio by choosing four options: a tax-break savings plan, a six-month and a one-year fixed income plan, and an annuity plan. Once she accepted his recommendations, the branch manager promised to make the investments effective as of that day lest she lose another day’s worth of interest. Then he wrote her a receipt for the deposit and took the certified checks with him. Aran was elated just thinking that she could sit around and earn more than a hundred thousand won a day. And to be rid of such a burden! Why didn’t she think of doing this before? Like a fool, she had already lost out on several hundred thousand won by doing nothing with the money. But it was smart of her to have left the money untouched until Junggi called. Surely, she had demonstrated her naïveté instead of imprudence and greed. Most of all, the branch manager coming in person to collect the money had given her a taste of her new social status. Sipping the orange juice from the beverage set he had brought for her, Aran basked in self-satisfaction.
She must have fallen asleep. Waking up from a restless nap, she wondered if it was common for bank branch managers to make personal visits to clients even within the upper echelons of society. She had never heard of such a thing. Her pre-nap self-importance quickly turned into suspicion. She must have been under some kind of spell. Innocent souls bamboozled by con artists maintain that they were temporarily shortsighted by greed. Aran must have been similarly tempted by one day’s interest income. Giving in to self-doubt, she nearly drove herself mad. The sleepless nights spent hiding the checks were nothing compared to the torture she was experiencing now. Junggi would never . . . Her belief in him was undermined by her distrust of the members of his clan who would have no qualms about giving just to take away. She could just see the smug smile on their lips and hear their mocking sneers buzzing in her ears. It did occur to her that they had absolutely no reason to be so cruel to someone who had made no demands. This thought, however, was overpowered by the suspicion that she had fallen prey to their perverted scheme. Despite her fears, she did not have the courage to call Junggi and find out the truth. Calling him would only prove that she was a poor ignoramus who didn’t know what to do now that she had gone from rags to riches. The manager had told her that he would send someone or come personally tomorrow to bring her the paperwork for her new accounts. Telling herself that waiting was the proper thing to do, Aran barely made it through the night, trying to soothe her tormented soul. Even if the manager did come, how could she trust the bank books he brought with him when she didn’t trust him as a person anymore? Aran, empowered by this fresh new doubt, resolved to never again be taken for a gullible fool. With a beating heart, she took out the branch manager’s business card and dialed his phone number. She half expected to get a stranger or a disconnected number. But she was transferred directly to the branch manager. Before he could say anything, Aran told him that she would stop by his office that day since she planned to be in the area on other business. His office building, located downtown, was grand and impressive.
As soon as she entered the building, she received VIP treatment from the bank staff. She was immediately led into his office and while sitting cross-legged on a plush couch, fragrant green tea was brought to her. An assistant brought the papers to the office, and the branch manager once again explained in detail the different interest rates, features, and benefits according to the account type.
“I hear that you’re going to study abroad. Well, best of luck to you,” he said with a smile when they parted. Then he walked her to the lobby.
Walking out politely and gracefully as someone worthy of such VIP treatment, Aran turned around and stared at the bank building. Unless that majestic building vanishes like a mirage, my three hundred and fifty million is a sure thing, she thought. Once the nightmare disappeared, the whole world became beautiful. Like a foreigner charmed by the perfume of an unfamiliar city, Aran strolled down the street lined with clean-cut buildings and then stepped into a hip café playing rap music. She thought of her mother who dreamed about skipping work on a rainy day to listen to French pop songs. Her foolish mother, a fastidious housekeeper who dreamed such dreams. Although Aran was in possession of the same amount of money as before, she was now completely freed of her burden, her anxiety gone without a trace. She felt like someone who had undergone a difficult rite of passage or someone who had just recovered from a disease. At any rate, she thought that she’d never again experience that kind of angst in her lifetime. Up until now, she had lived her life like a barnacle desperately clinging to things, but now, she was able to take a step back and look at the world in a whole new way. Aran headed toward her home. Now that she could leave this hellhole anytime she wanted, the neighborhood amused her like a charming scene from a movie set. With money acting as a lubricant between her and the world, everything was good and beautiful.
When she saw the sculpture park, she thought of the ball in the ground. It was cruel to leave it in dark confinement when it had already tasted the freedom of rolling on grass. My poor ball, thought Aran, and she turned toward the park. She meant to kick the ball far away after retrieving it, but instead, she began juggling it with her feet. Happiness began bubbling inside her like a refreshing carbonated beverage. She must call Hun first when she got home. How long had it been since she last slept with him? She wanted to make love as soon as possible. She wanted to have fun with him, to make him do the same humiliating things he made her do many times over. A complete role reversal. Who knew that roles could be reversed this easily? She could watch the flesh burn on his flaccid arms, force him to crawl around the floor, or make him lick her body all over like a panting dog. Aran laughed out loud like a mad woman.
Sleeping with Hun was not the only reason she wanted to see him. She had something to tell him. That her dream was no longer to wait for him to crawl out of his cocoon and spread his wings so that she could become his good housewife. Aside from her, he had eight other family members clinging to that same dream, patiently waiting for his metamorphosis. She’d lighten his load by removing herself from that group. It wasn’t that Hun had totally outlived his usefulness. Even without his wings, he could serve as her lapdog anytime she needed one, only to be discarded like an old shoe when she grew tired of him. From now on, the one who has to live in fear of being dumped is you, Hun. Not me. The person who can do as she pleases is me. Not you. You must know that the haves have power over the have-nots for the same reason that men have power over women.
What Aran was juggling with her feet was not a white ball but Hun. Toying with him was so much more fun than becoming one with the ball. She kicked the ball with all her might. It flew far, far away and disappeared as soon as it touched the ground, in the vicinity of the “Pain of Existence” signpost. Not bad. Could this be a hole-in-one? She muttered under her breath, casually recalling the sports lingo she’d picked up somewhere. She turned around, with absolutely no intention of retrieving the ball from its hole.
Who knew that she’d come to such a reconciliation with the Jins? Only after tasting the power of money or the greed for it was she able to forgive them for the hardship she’d endured. Realizing this about herself suddenly brought her a sense of loss. The sorrow that she felt was vague and fleeting, like a waft of hillside grass or farmland fertilizer gently breezing past city dwellers.