AT THE CULTURAL COALFACE: IMMERSION, SUBMERSION? – TAKE YOUR PICK
LET THERE BE LIGHT
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE FRESH, pleasant, late autumn days in Kangwŏn Province with just a hint of frost, the air so clean you could taste it. The parish priest, out for a morning stroll, felt invigorated by the crisp blow. Anxious as always to spread a bit of largess around, his one-man entourage advanced in semi-regal progress: he bowed to everyone he met, and everyone who met him bowed back. There were smiles and greetings all around. Good will to all people was in the air, on the tongue and entwined around the bending backs. Public relations was the agenda, an item of the highest priority to the parish priest.
Largess was a universal quality, to be dispensed in large quantities at all times... even when there was question of that most deadly of offences, encroachment. The foreigner always felt himself to be a prime target for encroachment, and every parish priest worth his salt held himself alert for any possibility of the dreaded offence. The world was full of people trying to encroach, but the successful parish priest could smell the kimch’i pot of encroachment before the lid was taken off. After all, protection of church boundaries, physical and spiritual, was his sacred trust.
Against this background, it should come as no surprise that on this particular morning when the parish priest turned the final corner home and noticed activity under an electric pole behind the church, he was alert immediately to the possibility of encroachment. He moved in the appropriate direction, but with neither change of pace nor expression. Everything was done with due seasonal rhythm.
‘Morning, men.’
‘Good morning, shinbunim.’
‘Nice day, men.’
‘Yes, indeed, shinbunim. Soon be winter though. Gets very dark in winter, shinbunim, very dark indeed.’
‘Ah, yes, I know, I know.
There was a brief pause after the seasonal greetings had been exchanged. It was important to hang loose, the parish priest knew, but the double dark reference was echoing through his head. His antenna was up. He did not like what he had heard. There could be encroachment here. Some investigation would be required. He began again, casually, tentatively.
‘And what’s the job here, men?’ he asked.
‘We’re putting in a light, shinbunim.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ the parish priest said. ‘It’s my pole too, I see,’ he added.
‘That’s right, shinbunim, your pole, your light.’
‘And what sort of light is it?’ the parish priest asked, stalling for time.
‘It’s a special light, shinbunim, has to be switched off every morning and on every night.’
‘Oh, I see, and who’s going to do that, may I ask?
‘Why, you, shinbunim, it’s your pole and your light.’
There was another pause. The parish priest was not pleased with the way the conversation was going. The spokesman for the work party was a move ahead every time. And there were matters here of grave concern, matters of face, matters of money. They were talking encroachment. The face could not be discussed, but the money and the encroachment sure as hell could.
‘And who’s going to pay for this light?’
‘Ah, no need to worry about that, shinbunim, it’s a special light, hardly uses any electricity at all, shinbunim.’
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The parish priest’s inner alarm system went to red alert. Lights that cost nothing. Everything costs here, everything!
‘Ah, but I do worry, men, I do. You’ll have to take it down.’
‘You’re joking, shinbunim? We’ve done a lot of work here, and it’s all for you. Lights up the church at night. Security, you know. You can’t mean us to take it down.’
The parish priest was in a bind. Making the work party take down the light could have a bad effect on public relations. He would have to bear in mind the largess principle. But this was encroachment, encroachment that was going to cost money! Something more than largess would be needed here. This called for an age-old missionary yardstick, namely, low-down cunning, with the mind of the church, of course. The parish priest puckered his forehead and pursed his lips. All externals pointed to a supreme effort at understanding, accommodation, community awareness.
A minute passed in silence while the parish priest racked his brains for a solution. He decided to shift the blame delicately to shoulders broader than his own.
‘I’d like to help,’ he said, ‘but I’d have to ask the parish council, and the parish council,’ he continued, ‘would have to ask the bishop, and the bishop would have to ask the pope in Rome. It could be six months to a year before we know.’
A master stroke, and everyone knew it. Not for nothing had the parish priest spent his decade in the orient.
The work party knew when they were beaten. There was some muttering about understanding and cooperation, and a lot of general shuffling, of the variety commonly experienced in Chinese restaurants when there are twenty waiters dashing hectically around but no food or drink coming. Eventually the light was removed, reluctantly it must be said, but removed nevertheless. The work party moved to the house of an unsuspecting neighbour, who bought the official line on need, convenience and price, hook, line, and sinker.
He’ll be paying for it for the rest of his life, the parish priest thought, with an indulgent smile. Better him than me.
This old sick heart (shijo)
This old sick heart
I gave to the chrysanthemum;
My skein of worries I gave to the dark grape,
And to one long song
I gave the white hair that streams beneath my ears.
(Kim Sujang 1690 -?)
THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN
Samch’ŏk Festival. August 1972.
It was hot and sticky. The parish priest was badly in need of entertainment. He had been overcooked continuously for the last two months and was desperate for any kind of diversion. Although interested in the festival, he was not overly enthused. He had been to festivals before; he knew they were rather predictable. Then he noticed on the festival programme that the circus was coming to town; one of the highlights, in fact, of the festival calendar. Now that, the parish priest said to himself, might be a way of spending an evening. He had never been to a circus. He checked again. The first performance was today.
As was his wont, the parish priest sent out runners to ascertain how preparations for the circus were proceeding. News arrived that the big top was in place but that there had been a slight mishap earlier in the day. Seemingly when the elephant, the centrepiece of the show, was being unloaded from the boat to the pier, the ropes broke and the ageing elephant dropped into the water below the harbor wall. There was consternation – a series of aigumes, ottokanies and k’unil nattas – followed by flurries of excited consultation and anxious toing and froing. Much of the evening’s entertainment depended on the gentle beast with the long trunk. Ingenuity and pride won the day. An elaborate truss was quickly assembled and a much cooler elephant was recovered from the water. To the delight of the townspeople, especially the children, the elephant although slightly lame was deemed fit enough to parade through the streets of the town, an essential part of the strategy for drawing a crowd.
The circus was scheduled to start at 5.00 in the afternoon. With time to spare, the parish priest headed for the fair green where the big top was pitched. He had seen bigger tents overlooking the sea in Kilkee, but he made no comment. He was amazed to find that despite the diminutive nature of the big top there was still a wide choice of seating, priced from ten won to five hundred. What the hell, he said, I’ll splurge. He handed over his five hundred won and found himself sitting on a raised dais in what was purportedly the royal circle. With no Chŏnju Yi sshi in evidence, the parish priest took the centre position and parked himself on the cushions.
The crowd began to spill into the tent. Soon every seat was taken. The excitement was tangible. The ring master made a point of coming over to the foreigner and addressing him in English. The townspeople were visibly impressed. The ring master enquired in English if the foreign dignitary had ever been to a circus. The foreigner assured him in Korean that this was his first experience. The crowd was even more impressed. The ‘ask in one language and answer in another gambit’ was a trick the foreigner had learned from ten years in the orient. Whenever he asked someone a question in his best Korean, the answer always came in broken English. He reversed the stratagem with a chuckle. The ringmaster had made face; he didn’t mind what language the foreigner used. The parish priest had made face by offsetting the ring master’s English with his Korean. Everyone was happy.
The ring master moved back to the centre of the ring, perhaps ten paces away. He welcomed all the citizens of Samch’ŏk; he welcomed especially the mayor, the county chief, assorted yangban dignitaries from ŭp, myŏn and ri, the managing-director of the cement factory, and of course the lone foreigner. The mayor made a short speech, which covered the weather, the season, the political climate, Pak Chunghee’s love of the people, the price of cement, the well-being of the citizens of the town, and of course the details of the town festival. To a crescendo of approval he noted that the finest circus in the land had bestowed a great honour on Samch’ŏk by deigning to come to the town as the highlight of the festival.
The lights dimmed and the show began. There was a flurry in the corner of the tent. The flap was raised and an assortment of monkeys, clowns and dogs burst into the ring to a background of the loudest, most awful music the parish priest had ever heard. The monkeys and dogs were so close to him he thought he would end up with monkeys and dogs on his lap. The elephant was next into the ring. Dressed up in horsehair hat and traditional garb, it walked somewhat gingerly as a result of the mishap in the harbour. The elephant circled the tiny ring again and again, with repeats of standing on its front legs, and standing on its back legs, punctuated by an occasional stop and gesture with its trunk to the delighted audience. The clowns raced in and out of the ring, and in and out among the crowd, raising shrieks of delight. The tight rope act was next; the clowns performed on the rope at an elevation of about ten feet from the circus floor. A series of fluid exchanges was followed by some close mid-air misses and simulated falls, all of which brought oohs, aahs, omanahs and loud applause from the audience. It was at this point that the parish priest became aware something was wrong. He felt a growing discomfort in his lower extremities, a medley of irritants first on the calves of his legs, then on his thighs and – goddamnit – rising. He knew immediately he was playing host to the flea family of the assorted dogs and monkeys in the ring. This was an emergency. The flea invasion coupled with the return of the unfortunate elephant for another performance left the parish priest in no doubt as to what he should do. He lunged from his seat, plunged through the nearest opening in the big top and took off for home like a scalded cat. He had to race-run-walk as the fleas prevented him – in conscience – from taking a taxi. He got to the house, roared for the housekeeper, stripped off, rushed into the shower, screeched when the cold jet hit him. The fleas were presumably equally shocked. He was appalled by the peach-mugwort jungle on his calves and thighs and even higher in the secret foliage. He reached for the tin of DDT, a relic of gouge times, doused all the inflamed parts of his anatomy and any other part he could reach. When he came out, he was still shaking his head. He astonished his housekeeper by dousing his discarded clothes liberally with DDT and then instructing her to burn them. ‘Goddamn circus,’ he muttered as he took down the bottle of Captain Q.
DECADE-IN-THE-ORIENT MEN
Two stalwart decade-in-the-orient-men were preparing the candidates for baptism. A rickety granny presented herself for examination.
Did she know enough to be baptized?
The examiners escorted her into the yard to the statue of the Virgin. The inquisition began.
‘Who’s that, halmŏni?’
There was a long pause before the halmŏni haltingly began,
‘Well,’ she said, ‘if it’s not Peter, it must be Paul!’
One inquisitor eyed the other. Two out of three, they agreed. Not bad. Pass!
A Word for the Wise
What a joy this man,
a catechist who speaks Latin.
‘Stercora, Thomas, ubi?’
‘Ubique, Father,
ubique’s fine.’
EPISCOPAL CLOUT
‘The parish priest is a bloody clown,’ the bishop muttered. ‘That woman is teaching birth control and abortion and God knows what all misfortune, and he doesn’t know a damn thing about it. I’ll have to handle it myself. Will you drive me up to Omuri, Paddy?’ the bishop asked one of his priests who had come into the Bishop’s House on business.
‘Certainly, bishop. When do you want to go?’
‘Now, Paddy, now!’
The bishop was very angry, so angry that very little was said during the two hour drive to Omuri, except for an occasional muttered ‘bloody clown.’ Eventually the jeep swung into Omuri. The bishop sprang out.
‘I don’t know where she lives,’ the bishop said. ‘We’ll have to look for her.’
Without more ado the bishop shot into the nearest alleyway and accosted the first woman he met.
‘Kim Chŏngsuk,’ he said. ‘Kim Chŏngsuk!’
The woman looked at the strange, corpulent, foreign figure – the incarnation of a fire breathing dragon. More than a little frightened, she took to her heels: discretion seemed the better part of valour.
‘What’s wrong with her,’ Paddy?’ the bishop asked.
‘Don’t know, bishop,’ Paddy replied.
‘We’ll try a real estate office, Paddy,’ the bishop said.
‘OK, bishop,’ Paddy replied.
As luck would have it, the real estate office manager knew Kim Chŏngsuk well, and he was able to direct the two foreigners to a house about four lanes away. After some more excitement, they succeeded in locating the house in question.
‘Leave this to me, Paddy,’ the bishop said.
Paddy had had no contrary intentions from the word go.
The bishop rang the bell and banged the gate in one deft movement, a skill he had acquired through many years of residence in an alien culture. A nice looking lady in her early forties answered the frantic ring-knock. The bishop sized his adversary up.
‘Are you Kim Chŏngsuk?’ he said, so excited by the gravity of his mission that he forgot the seasonal references normal in Korean civilized conversation.
‘Are you a social worker?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Do you teach birth control?’
‘Of course, that’s why I’m here.’
‘And abortion?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re fired.’
‘Fired? You can’t fire me.’
‘I just did.’
‘But you can’t fire me.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t work for you.’
‘Aren’t you Kim Chŏngsuk?
‘Yes.’
‘Aren’t you a social worker?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m firing you.’
‘You can’t. I don’t work for you. I work for the government. You can’t fire me.’
‘Oh,’ the bishop said, stunned. ‘Oh,’ he repeated, groping for words. But,’ the bishop said, ‘you shouldn’t be teaching those things no matter who you’re working for.’
‘And who are you?’ the lady asked.
‘I’m the bishop.’
‘Bishop?’ she said. ‘What’s a bishop?’
‘Ah, Jasus, let’s get to hell out of here, Paddy.’
‘Yes, bishop.’
‘Bloody clown, bloody clown,’ the bishop kept muttering all the way back to the jeep.
Outside the Confessional
‘For your penance, halmŏni, three Hail Marys.’
‘What?’
‘Three Hail Marys for your penance!’
‘Three Hail Marys!’
‘What?’
‘Ah, go on, go on, I’ll say the bloody thing myself.’
GREETINGS
The parish priest was in the hospital to see one of his parishioners. He was feeling fairly sorry for himself, his head still throbbing from the night before. If anyone deserves to be in hospital, he thought, it’s me. He bumped into a nun on the corridor.
‘Nice to see you, Father. Happy New Year! How are you?’
The parish priest was in no mood for small talk.
‘Terrible,’ he said.
‘Oh! What’s wrong?’
‘Hangover.’
‘Oh! What were you drinking?’
‘Martinis.’
‘Never heard of them. What do they taste like?’
He thought for a moment.
‘Sanctifying grace!’ he said.
THE FORTUNE TELLER
The fortune teller had a nice perch in the laneway leading to the church. The wall behind blocked the wind and he had built a little awning to protect the books of his trade which were arrayed on two little stools. The third stool he sat on himself. Fervent ajumas on their way home after mass – when they thought no one was looking – checked important matters such as dates for weddings or taking a trip. The parish priest, a man with two decades experience of East Asian affairs, was wise enough to know when it behoved him not to know such things and when to avail himself of the services on offer. A kindly man, he always gave the fortune teller the high form.
‘Good morning, Mr Kim. Have you had your rice?’
‘Yes, thank you, shinbunim. Lovely day and how are you?’
‘Fine, thank you. Is it a good day for things in general?’
‘Depends on what you have in mind, shinbunim.’
‘I was thinking of planting a few trees.’
The fortune teller looked up the books. An enquiry from the foreign priest brought a measure of gravitas to his enterprise. It took a few minutes.
‘Not so good this morning, shinbunim,’ he said, ‘but anytime after three will be fine.’
When the parish priest got home, he called the cook. ‘We’ll plant the camellia today,’ he said. ‘The fortune teller says it’s auspicious after three.’
‘How much did you give him, shinbunim?’ the cook asked.
‘A thousand wŏn,’ he replied.
‘Shinbunim, you can’t get anything worthwhile nowadays for a thousand wŏn!’
Episcopal Solicitude
‘And is the parish united?’
‘You can sing that, bishop. They’re all united against me.’
‘And what are you doing for the poor of the parish?’
‘I give them the high form, bishop.’
Ch’usŏk: The Harvest Moon Festival
Celebrated Chusŏk with barrels of potent brew.
Weary revellers straddled the warm ŏndŏl floor.
Dawn shivered in; the snores rose a decibel:
too late the portent for those asleep downstream.
THE ONE TRUE CHURCH
The parish priest had his own ideas on Church and community. He announced early on that there was only one church in the area and that it was the Catholic Church of which he was head. This was not openly contested, but old and young worshippers chose to proceed with caution.
The parish priest organized a retreat for the young, a category which included late teens to early and late twenties, in an effort to lift the community out of what he saw as a bout of the doldrums. He figured that he ought to include those contemplating revolt as well as those who had tried revolt and failed. The barber was seen as a key man among those who favoured revolution. The parish priest invited him to come to church and see for himself. The barber liked the foreigner’s custom. It gave his salon a certain oomph, so much so that to show his appreciation, he hung a cross in a prominent place on the wall. The retreat day came, but to the parish priest’s utter disgust the barber didn’t show. To check on the poor man’s health, the parish priest called around to the salon, only to find the barber doing his hair cutting thing with no religious thoughts or empathy for Church gatherings. The parish priest was a little upset. He got himself a chair, climbed up on it, whipped the barber’s cross from the wall and headed out the door at speed. The startled barber was stuck to the floor for a fateful moment, then headed off in hot pursuit. The parish priest made it back to the rectory ahead of the barber and bolted the door. The outraged barber kicked in the door but the parish priest sensing the urgency of the situation was already gone out the back heading in full flight for the Old Folks Home, where he took refuge among the grannies until the barber’s rage abated.
They say the cross never hung again on the barber’s wall.
Written on the Upper Storey of Yosŏng Posthouse (hanshi)
When the mood comes, I order a carriage;
when I feel tired, I rest.
A thousand thanks to heaven and earth
for freeing me for such leisure.
I feel sorry for the white haired official
who works the station;
he’s cast an entire life
between the hooves of a horse.
Yi Kyubo (1168–1241)
The foundress of the Seaton Sisters had been canonized, an event that inspired a huge party in Kangjin. The fathers came from far and wide. They entered into the spirit of the occasion by eating mountains of food and washing it down with barrels of drink. A very auspicious occasion, suitably celebrated, everyone agreed – at least until the evening time when the early pukers began to come to light, followed some time later by a troupe of lads who came down with what Korean describes as motor cycle runs. Many were laid low with one or both symptoms. Those that weren’t felt a certain moral superiority, which encouraged them to visit the sick, partly to assuage the suffering of the unfortunate, and partly to exacerbate the situation with a wry sense of fun.
‘How are you, Pat?’
‘Terrible, terrible,’ Pat groaned, running his hand through his hair, a picture of unadulterated misery.
‘God save us from sisters,’ he said. ‘They cause a lot of misfortune in the world.’
‘Begor, Pat, you may think you’re bad, but you should see Mick next door. He’s in a terrible state.’
‘Ho, ho!’ Pat cried, visibly pleased to hear of the misfortune of someone else. ‘Ho, ho,’ he cried again. ‘That’s terrible, terrible. And what are his symptoms?’
‘Well, you’re just puking, Pat; Mick is puking like a race horse and he has the galloping runs on top of that. He’s shit from head to toe.’
‘Ho, ho,’ Pat cried, ‘The poor man, that’s terrible.’
The assuager moved next door, thoroughly enjoying himself now.
‘How are you, Mick?’
‘Bad, bad, bad, very bad,’ Mick said. ‘It was the oysters. I knew I shouldn’t. Ah bad, bad.’
‘Begor, Mick, you may think you’re bad, but you should see Pat next door. He’s in a terrible state.’
‘Ha, ha,’ Mick cried, delighted to hear that someone was worse then himself. ‘Ha, ha,’ he repeated, ‘the poor man. How is he?’
‘Well, you’re just puking, Mick; Pat is puking like a race horse and he has the galloping runs on top of that. He’s shit from head to toe.’
‘Ha, ha, that’s terrible.
Later visitors noted that both patients were much better. Was it Heine that immortalized delectatio in the misfortune of a friend?
AT THE BISHOP‘S TABLE
‘See here, I’ve been getting reports of dancing in the parish!’
‘Arrah just a bit of waltzing, bishop.’
‘Ah, waltzing, is it,
sure that’s hardly dancing at all.’
‘Now, now, Thomas, if you don’t buck up, you could find yourself out of that fine cathedral parish and abroad in an out-station!’
‘And what would be wrong with that, My Lord?’
‘Could you fellows help me? I’ve been wondering: is there any difference between a tearoom, a beerhall and a whorehouse?’
‘The price, bishop!’
Association of Images
Things linked with bikes:
bad language,
the definitive wobble,
twelve crates on the carrier,
leg contortions,
pigs going to market,
ladders at zebra crossings,
chaos,
broken glass,
stroke.
THE PARISH PRIEST BAMBOOZLES THE LOCAL GENDARMERIE
In Kangwŏn Province in the old days, the priest in the town, especially if he was a foreigner, required some watching. A plainclothesman was always assigned to note all his movements; he wrote down carefully when the priest left the compound, when he returned, and presumably whom he visited. If he left the town in his jeep, the time was duly noted, as was the time of his return. Of what possible interest this was to anyone remains a mystery. We always presumed our phones were tapped, though it would have taken a genius to decode our messages. We used Irish and Irish-English; the erudite even used Latin. Konglish, however, was the lingua Franca and it was totally impenetrable to the local folks. We went for a nolo, which meant to go somewhere on a fun outing; we were mianhaeyo, which meant we were sorry or indebted, we were hwaga nasŏ, which meant angry; we were nŭjŏ, which meant late; we were out of ton, which meant broke. The NFG designator on a parishioner’s file meant no f’ing good. We had a language that no policeman could decode. Of course, this may be the reason the police were always so worried about our sasang, meaning ideology or philosophy of life.
There was a timid knock. The housekeeper opened the door and admitted two uncomfortable looking policemen in plain clothes. The parish priest welcomed them, sat them down and ordered coffee, all the while wondering what the visit was about. One of the pair was his regular tail; the second man was new. These were fractious times; church and government were in sandpaper relations over human rights. Park Chunghee’s purported yushin reform, which would in effect give him the presidency for life, was a huge bone of contention. One or two priests had been deported for their involvement in human rights demonstrations, but for the most part the pressure was more subtle, a sort of diplomatic pressure exerted primarily by the Immigration Office, and secondarily by the police and whoever was in charge of tapping phones. Foreigners dreaded going to the Immigration Office. The officials were cold, unfriendly, and you just never knew what document they were going to ask for next. You arrived each time armed with passport, residence permit, seal, and a multitude of statements and guarantees, some of which had to be notarized. Inevitably there were delays. If you were on the list of parlous persons, you were sent home to bring further documentation. By the time you picked up your residence permit, it was time to apply again. The drill was to exert a constant squeeze. And believe me, it worked!
The parish priest had been at most of the local prayer meetings and some of the demonstrations in Seoul and locally, but he suspected that his main sin had been one of association with those who were perceived to be trouble-makers rather than any personal goof he might have made himself. He talked affably about the weather, the town, the tourist season, business, anything in fact that would keep the two policemen away from the errand that had brought them in the first place.
It took a good thirty minutes for one of the policemen to get around to introducing the dreaded topic of why they were here. And when he did so, it was with a cough of embarrassment.
‘Shinbunim,’ he said, we have a request to make.’
‘Oh,’ said the parish priest, ‘a request for me. Always glad to oblige. Whatever can it be?’
‘We want you to fill in a form, shinbunim.’
‘A form, is it? That’s no problem at all. I’ve filled in hundreds of them. The immigration people have a room full of my forms. I often wonder what they do with them, because they’re always the same forms. And are you working for immigration now?’ he added sweetly.
‘This isn’t for immigration, shinbunim.’
‘So who’s it for?’
There was an embarrassed silence followed by a tentative reply.
‘This is for internal security.’
‘Internal security. Now that’s a sobering thought. I’ve never heard of a priest filling in a form for internal security before. What’s the form all about?’
‘It’s about sasang.’
‘Sasang,’ the parish priest said. ‘What’s sasang? I never heard of that before. Do the parishioners need it?’
‘No,’ shinbunim, it’s not the parishioners’ sasang that’s the problem. We know that already. It’s your sasang, shinbunim, that we’re interested in.’
‘My sasang? Now I’m totally confused. You’ll have to explain.’
‘Well sasang is what you think.’
‘What I think? Do the police want to know what I think?’
‘Well, it’s not that exactly.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘It’s your philosophy.’
‘Ah, my philosophy, is it? Ah, that’s easy. Why didn’t you say so? I’m a scholastic. I follow Thomas Aquinas.’
‘Thomas who?
‘Aquinas.’
‘Was he Marxist, or socialist?’
‘You must be kidding. Aquinas was Aristotelian.’
‘Oh! What’s that?’
‘Well, you’d have to begin with Plato and do all the rounds of Greek philosophy to understand the term Aristotelian. It would take months of explanation. Give us the form there and I’ll sign the sasang as scholastic. Will that do?
‘Ah, never mind the sasang bit, shinbunim. We’ll fill that in ourselves. Fill in the rest of the form.’
The parish priest quickly filled in the form: name, address, home address, title, employer, port of entry, date of entry, date of expected departure. He’d done it a million times. He liked the employer question best. Invariably he giggled and wrote the pope’s name. He thanked the police for their care in always looking after him, and their broadness of disposition in dealing so well with his many gaps in understanding. And as he thanked them, he moved them gently in the direction of the doorway. Many bows on both sides were followed by much shaking of hands and a final goodbye.
The parish priest closed the door. Saved again by low-down cunning, he thought with a grin!
Seoul Cabby Objects
‘More tests!’ the Celt moaned,
unaware that he had an audience.
‘I’m sick of bloody tests,
of endless trekking to hospitals!’
The cry of the Celt
was interpreted as song.
The taxi driver turned around.
‘No singing, please,’
he said, ‘in my car.’
LADY OF PERPETUAL SUCCOUR
It was a strange name for a temple, I suppose, no doubt influenced by local devotion to Maitreya. Perhaps some sick child had been made whole through the intercession of the Goddess of Mercy.
The monks were at table.
‘What gobshite put the statue facing the wrong way?’ a very young monk asked.
There was a stunned silence at the temple table. The neophyte had obviously not yet learned the wisdom of custody of the tongue at temple luncheon gatherings.
‘Pass the salt, please,’ the head monk said in a mortified voice.
They got through the lunch without the anticipated explosion. On the way out the oldest monk in the group addressed the neophyte. ‘Could I have a word with you, young man?’
‘Certainly,’ the neophyte said.
‘You know,’ the old monk began, ‘When I was head monk here many years ago, I put up that statue.’
‘I didn’t know,’ the young monk said. ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘I know you didn’t know. That’s why I’m telling you. Come out into the yard.’
The two men went outside and stood beside the statue.
‘What do you see?’ the old man asked.
‘Where?’ said the neophyte.
‘Over there.’
‘Where?’
‘Ah, out the gate, man,’ the old monk said testily.
‘I don’t see anything.’
‘Ah, across the road, look, man!’
‘I don’t see anything.’
‘Ah, use your eyes, man. Can’t you see it’s a whorehouse. I couldn’t have her looking in the door of a whorehouse. That’s why I put the statue where it is,’ the old monk said triumphantly. ‘I couldn’t have her looking at a whorehouse,’ he repeated.
‘Indeed you couldn’t,’ the neophyte said. ‘Indeed you couldn’t.’
‘You see now why the statue is where it is.’
‘I do, I do.’
‘Good. Well, don’t make a stupid goddamn comment like that again.’
‘I won’t, I won’t. Thank you for telling me.
Marriage Tribunal
But was the marriage consummated, halmŏni?
Oh, it was, bishop, it was.
How do you know, halmŏni?
I was there, bishop, I was there.
POSHINT’ANG
The bishop of Wŏnju, known affectionately to his priests as Danny Chi, was getting out of jail. His incarceration for opposition to Park Chunghee’s yushin constitution had been a cause célèbre. Many of his priests had grown beards to express their solidarity and support. Now the great man was getting out, and a suitable bash had been organized to honour the occasion. The party was in the bishop’s house. Hŭng was in the air. Much soju was consumed. Someone said the occasion called for poshint’ang (soup that fortifies the body), a particular favourite at clerical gatherings. On such an auspicious occasion, nothing could be denied the guests. The executioner was dispatched to the back yard and the bishop’s beloved Chindo dog was summarily executed. The meat was delicious, everyone agreed, the soup tantalizingly good. You need a good dog for good dog meat, the assembly of clerics proclaimed. Eventually the revelling petered out and everyone went to bed but not before several more barrels of soju had been consumed.
The bishop was first up in the morning. He was feeling a bit groggy but anything was better than being in jail. As was his custom he made his way out to the yard to talk to his dog. Consternation. The dog was nowhere in sight. Staff were summoned forthwith.
‘Where’s the dog?’ the bishop growled.
‘My Lord, you ate the dog last night!’
Tears rolled down the episcopal cheeks.
Poem of Flower Stone Pavilion (hanshi)
Already the last of autumn is in the woodland pavilion;
a poet’s thoughts are without end.
Distant mountains touch the sky with blue;
frosted leaves redden toward the sun.
The mountain spews out a lonely rounded moon;
the river is replete with ten thousand li of wind.
Wild geese crowd the sky; whither are they bound,
their cries cut off, caught in evening cloud?
Yi Yulgok (1536–1584)
NO BONES
‘No bones,’ the parish priest said. ‘No bones.’
He put down the phone, sat back in his chair and continued the conversation as if he had just said the most normal thing in the world. Butcher, graveyard robber, crematorium executive – who or what was being refused? No one knew, but there wasn’t a man in the room who would not have killed to find out.
A slip of the tongue by one of the sisters solved the mystery. The parish priest, a man of some eloquence, had perfected the art of preaching four sermons in one, but his elongated masterpieces were a source of great confusion to the sisters who craved guidance through his labyrinth of the word: they wanted the bones of his sermon in advance. ‘No bones, no bones,’ was his answer. Only the initiated knew that there were no a priori bones: the bones were born in delivery.
Early Morning Aggravation
Never keep the phone in your sitting room.
Knock at the door: parish priest in long johns.
Thanks be to God, the housekeeper’s in.
‘Put on your trousers, shinbunim, you’ve a visitor.’
Oh Jesus, what will the people think!
‘Ah, come in, come in. What’s wrong?’
‘I had a dream, shinbunim, a dream.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t believe in dreams.’
‘Neither do I, shinbunim! But I dreamt
I bought a statue of the Virgin.
I brought it home and made a tabernacle.
When I woke in the night,
the light that shone from it
lit everything for ten li around.
How much are they, shinbunim?’
Oh Jesus, this is what the people think.
PRIESTS NOT QUITE FOREVER
Men had started leaving the priesthood. There had been three or four in quick succession. Shock waves were rocking the Columban Richter scale. A mass visitation was decreed by the Superior General. The abbot, an affectionate title for our regional superior at the time, was very ill at ease in this most necessary of duties. He set out on a trial run taking the vice-abbot with him, a known wag.
Their first stop was a man of unimpeachable propriety. There was a long introductory chat about the weather and Korean politics. The interviewee was much more au fait with these matters than the inquisitors. After the third long pause, the inquisitors broke the ice.
‘You know why we’ve come, Tommy?’
‘Well, to tell you the truth, I have no idea,’ Tommy said. ‘I presumed ye were a bit lonesome in Seoul and came out for a chat.’
Tommy knew better than most that four hours in a jeep was a long haul for a chat, but he had no intention of making their intrusion any easier than necessary.
‘Men have been leaving, Tommy. We’re very concerned.’
‘Well, ye can rest easy, lads. I’m not thinking of anything like that at the moment.’
‘Ah, we know that Tommy. It’s the example we’re worried about.’
‘The example?’
‘It’s Stella, your cook? She’s the problem’
‘Ah, Stella, is it. You’re worried about my Stella?’
Stella was in her sixties, big as a house, the plainest woman in the province and the worst cook.
‘Gentlemen,’ Tommy said with a smile. ‘Stella’s star would have to shine considerably brighter before there’s likely to be any trouble here.’
Invitation
An orchid on the balcony;
a bonsai tree on the table inside –
the pot is ugly but who cares? –
Marian Anderson singing
a volume of Yang Wanli in my hand.
I sit here savouring the moment.
Won’t you come and visit?
If you bring the cheese,
I can promise poetry talk
and a bottle of St. Estephe!