White tongues of the dark sea’s waves lap the sand. Seagulls fly off squawking into the breakers. Offshore, a squat island seems to be retreating an impossible distance into the gloom.
Curtains of darkness part to reveal the heavens’ starry display, and at a point where sea, sky, and shore converge, a lighthouse lamp begins to wink on and off.
A young woman and a young man approach from the opposite end of the shore. Just when the incoming tide is about to wet the feet of the woman, she speaks.
“We’re almost there.”
The man casts a nervous look in the direction of the lighthouse. “Isn’t it still kind of far off?” He comes to a stop and looks out toward where the horizon has been eroded by the dark sea.
“No, it’s just past where the shore curves around.”
“I like it right where we are—look at that ocean—shall we stop here?”
“But at night it’s so nice to watch the ocean from where the lighthouse is. Besides, you promised.”
The man remains where he is, looking out at the dark sea.
“All right, I’ll go first. You can take your time.”
The man’s gaze follows the woman as she disappears into the gloom. “It’s farther than it looks during daytime,” he mutters.
Without warning, another young man appears. Taking a fistful of sand, he says, “How far could it be? Anyway, at night the best place is right where we’re standing.”
The first man peers through the darkness and inspects the other.
“Think about it: this sand is so hot during the day and now it’s so cool—and tomorrow it’ll be hot again.”
The first man’s gaze returns to the dark sea.
“Just like how the ocean is black at night and then so blue during the day.”
The first man lights a cigarette.
“Could I please have a light?”
The first man obliges.
“The first time I met Wŏri,” says the second man, “it was here at this blue-green ocean. There was so much seaweed swaying in the water—you could see it, the water was so clear. Wŏri liked to sit on a rock and watch the seaweed swaying in the water. She could sit there all day. And I liked to hide off in the distance and throw trumpet shells and things like that into the water where she was looking. As much as I used to do it, she’d still get startled and stand up—it never failed. But in no time she’d regain her composure and force a smile. Her smile was wavering just like that seaweed she was looking at.”
He inhales deeply on his cigarette, then spews out smoke.
The first man continues to gaze out at the dark sea.
“When I saw the two of you just now, it brought back such memories—I was really happy then. Surprising Wŏri where she sat on her rock was happiness itself. And then one day, a day when sky and ocean were as clear as could be, I did the same thing I always did and tossed a trumpet shell from a distance, but I threw it toward her rock instead of into the water. Wŏri got up, as she always did. But she didn’t act surprised. And guess what? Instead of me approaching her, she started walking toward me. Well, it wasn’t Wŏri at all; it was someone else. I got all flustered. She came up to me and said, didn’t I realize that I’d scare all the fish away if I threw rocks and such? I just stood there without saying anything—I didn’t know what to do. Her cheeks were quite a bit fuller than Wŏri’s. And she had unusually large eyes with dark pupils.
“And then one day I saw two women sitting side by side on the rock, looking into the water. I didn’t throw trumpet shells anymore. And after that incident I wondered if I should stop going to the rock too. But there I was walking toward it. Both women were wearing the same outfit: a white jacket and a black skirt. And both had short hair tied with a ribbon. I went up behind them close enough to see the breeze moving the hair beneath their ears. And finally I looked at their reflections in the water. The faces were those of Wŏri and that woman from the time before. When they saw my reflection, that other woman was the first to turn her head. And then Wŏri rose lightly to her feet. And with a seaweed smile creasing that familiar look of surprise on her face, she introduced the other woman as her friend Ŭn’gyŏngi. Ŭn’gyŏngi broke into a toothy smile and said it was so interesting the way the fish jumped around. The finger she pointed toward the fish darting through the seaweed was just as smooth and clear as a fish scale. I’m sure that while Wŏri was looking at the seaweed Ŭn’gyŏngi was looking at the fish.
“The next day I began scaring the fish again. There was a stretch of days when Wŏri was in the city and was either late getting here or didn’t show up at all. Ŭn’gyŏngi would arrive by herself and kid me about how sad I must be that Wŏri wasn’t there. And I have to admit that while I was scaring away Ŭn’gyŏngi’s fish, I did wish I was surprising Wŏri instead while she looked at the seaweed. You see, with Wŏri, when I threw the trumpet shells I’d then have to approach her before she would get up and flash that seaweed smile, but the days with Ŭn’gyŏngi, I would throw the shells and she would turn and look and then approach me first. Maybe it was Wŏri’s doing, asking Ŭn’gyŏngi to come here by herself while she, Wŏri, avoided me. In fact, my relationship with Wŏri was strange in that we didn’t talk much to each other. I tossed trumpet shells, she got up and looked surprised, but we never really talked. If anything, the clearer her seaweed smile became, the less we said. Granted, we didn’t make much of an effort. But in spite of that we were happy as could be. Strangely, though, from the time Ŭn’gyŏngi appeared on the scene, our wordless times together began to feel awkward to Wŏri and me. Perhaps Wŏri realized this and avoided me because of it. In fact, I feared the awkwardness, so when I was with Wŏri I began to look forward to Ŭn’gyŏngi’s presence. It was only when the three of us were together that Wŏri was bright and cheerful.
“One day we three were playing a phonograph in a pine grove on a hill overlooking the ocean. The cello sobbed, and before the piece was over Wŏri asked me to put on a waltz. And then she asked Ŭn’gyŏngi to dance, extending her hand cheerfully and saying she would lead. Ŭn’gyŏngi got right up, and there she was in Wŏri’s arms. The ocean seemed to revolve about the waists of the two women. The waltz came to an end and Wŏri asked me to play it again. In the shade of the evergreens the waists of the two women revolved endlessly in the ocean’s embrace. Another day we went out on the ocean in a boat. Ŭn’gyŏngi was rowing. The boat approached the buoy where the water gets rough and just as Ŭn’gyŏngi began to bring the bow about, Wŏri snatched the oars from her. Out to sea she rowed. The water grew rougher. The sea pitched and Ŭn’gyŏngi watched the waves slap against the boat, and then she covered her eyes and lay down in the bottom of the boat. And there was Wŏri, her white face wearing that seaweed smile. I thought it would go away because of the swells, but it remained a while. And so the beach season passed. We were back in the city before the leaves of the oaks on that hill overlooking the ocean had turned yellow.”
The first man flicks his cigarette butt into the sea.
“Back in the city Wŏri would visit me and bring cut flowers—cosmos and mums. Ŭn’gyŏngi was always with her. I made coffee for them. And then one day well into the fall Wŏri came by herself. She was wearing a light raincoat. I hadn’t realized it, but outside it was drizzling. Out we went. We walked the streets in the misty drizzle, no words passing between us. We passed through the long, dark back alleys and walked all the way down a street with neon streetlights, which gave the effect of melted light on the pavement. Where the lights came to an end we turned right. The river is right there. I guess we wanted to see the autumn rain falling on the river. Some old boats, no longer seaworthy, lay overturned on the bank. The dark shadows of masts and the upside-down reflection of streetlights on the surface of the water rippled in the drizzle. Fine though it was, after a while it felt heavy on our shoulders. We turned back. Once more we were in the street with the neon lights. Our feet trod the neon stream on the pavement all the way to the end. Only the dark back alleys remained. Wŏri came to a stop. I did too. Wŏri slightly lowered her already bowed head, raised her coat collar, and walked a few steps down a side alley. She stopped, turned back, and approached me, and finally she spoke. What did I think of Ŭn’gyŏngi? she asked. Without thinking, I simply said I loved her. Even in the dark I could tell her face was trembling, and I saw her seaweed smile. And now it was I who walked off down the side street. I kept asking myself why I had lied, but unlike Wŏri, I didn’t turn around and speak.”
The first man kicks at the water lapping at his feet.
“And so winter set in. Wasn’t that a lot of snow we had last winter? On one of those days when we had a large snowfall Ŭn’gyŏngi and I ended up getting married. And then one day when wet snow was falling Ŭn’gyŏngi went out, and she came back with Wŏri. I hadn’t seen her after we parted on that rainy autumn night. The only news I’d had of her, by way of Ŭn’gyŏngi, was that she had married a doctor here in the city. Ŭn’gyŏngi disappeared into the kitchen to make coffee. Wŏri was wearing a gray skirt with red lines running across it. The skirt was wet from the snow and she kind of trailed it along as she walked to the window where we kept a vase of cineraria. She stood looking at the vase and murmured that flowers must have their own temperature, judging from the condensation where the plant touched the glass. And then she buried her face among the leaves and flowers. I observed her profile, noticed her face was thinner. There she was, her lips touching the blossoms and a single line of tears streaming down her cheek. Just then Ŭn’gyŏngi appeared carrying a tray with three coffee cups. The plant was quite fragrant, wasn’t it, she said to Wŏri. Only then did Wŏri lift her head from the plant. It seemed she hadn’t noticed her tears, because not until then did she dab at them with the back of her pale hand. Ŭn’gyŏngi wondered if one of the leaves had pricked her, with her face being so close to the plant. Wŏri’s lips formed her unmistakable seaweed smile. Ŭn’gyŏngi put sugar cubes in the coffee and mused that after the cineraria had withered, it would still be a while before it was beach season again. In no time Wŏri had gone back out by herself into the wet snow.
“One day Ŭn’gyŏngi was playing a jazz record when she casually remarked that Wŏri had told her she had separated from her husband. When the record was over Ŭn’gyŏngi added that Wŏri had offered no particulars, but there was no doubt in her mind that the husband was infatuated with another woman and Wŏri must have asked for a separation. At any rate, she said, she couldn’t leave Wŏri all alone now, and she adopted a grave expression I had never seen before. From then on she visited Wŏri occasionally. One day she came home and told me that the woman Wŏri’s husband was infatuated with was a nurse he had employed. She then said that if there was any trouble involving me and another woman, she wouldn’t feel jealous at all. When I said that must be because she didn’t feel any affection toward me, she opened those big eyes with the black pupils even wider and produced a nervous laugh that I had never heard before. Then she flung open the curtain, and the warm rays of the early summer sun were practically enough to blind me.
“That blinding sunlight was coming through the window the next time Ŭn’gyŏngi brought Wŏri home. We turned on the record player. The sound issuing from the record was strangely lucid that day. Suddenly Ŭn’gyŏngi stood Wŏri up, drew her close, and asked her to dance. Wŏri dutifully rested her left hand on Ŭn’gyŏngi’s shoulder. Compared with that time they danced in the pine grove on the hill overlooking the ocean, Ŭn’gyŏngi looked more ample, whereas Wŏri was drawn. The record came to an end. Ŭn’gyŏngi put another record on, and you can probably guess what it was—the waltz we had played that day. Ŭn’gyŏngi turned to me and said she’d make coffee, and asked me to dance with Wŏri in her place. And then she stepped lightly into the kitchen. I was at a loss, but I couldn’t just stand there, so I approached Wŏri. I took her right hand in my left and placed my right hand on her waist. And that’s when I felt it, a chill that went right through me. Before I could tell whether the chill came from her hand or her waist, the record ended. Ŭn’gyŏngi returned with the coffee. Wŏri picked up a sugar cube and I had the impression her hand was trembling, as if she had a fever or something. Ŭn’gyŏngi remarked that the coffee had come out a bit strong, but then she murmured that she didn’t measure coffee as well as I used to do when I made coffee for them, and produced an innocent smile. Wŏri silently added cream to her coffee. Ŭn’gyŏngi spoke up again, saying that there were times when the aroma of strong, freshly brewed coffee was like the smell of the sunshine drying saltwater-moistened sand. All Wŏri did was stir her coffee. Ŭn’gyŏngi sipped her coffee and murmured that when the sun shone through the green curtains it reminded her of the ocean. Some color came to Wŏri’s face, and she wondered out loud about the seaweed and the little fish. Ŭn’gyŏngi said with a twinkle in her eye that they were probably doing just fine, and remarked that it was beach season now that the cineraria were long since gone. But there was no seaweed smile from Wŏri. I fiddled with the paring knife, poking at the apples. Wŏri left, walking off into the dazzling sunlight. Compared with the times she’d walked off into the wet snow, she looked thinner. The peonies in the garden had all withered. A longing for the ocean welled up inside me. And that’s what brought me here.”
The first man gives the second man a studied look through the darkness, then lights a fresh cigarette.
“I didn’t realize mine was out,” says the second man. “Can I use yours for a light?”
The first man obliges.
“As soon as I got here,” says the second man, “I went to that rock. The one where Wŏri looked at the seaweed and Ŭn’gyŏngi watched the little fish. The seaweed and the little fish are still there, just like before. But unlike before, Wŏri and Ŭn’gyŏngi aren’t sitting on the rock. The next day I went back to the rock. But I didn’t throw a single trumpet shell. I sat by myself, looking down at my reflection in the water. And I realized it’s just as easy now for Ŭn’gyŏngi to maintain our empty marriage as it was for me to lie when I was walking in the drizzle with Wŏri that night and she asked me what I thought of Un’gyôngi, and I said I loved her. And so to break this pattern of lies among us I made up my mind to meet Wŏri here.”
The first man gives the second man a stricken look, and then his gaze drops to the incoming tide at his feet.
“But when it got dark, my daytime decision to arrange for Wŏri to meet me here faded away. All I did was walk this sandy beach, where on a night like this you can look out to sea but not make out the horizon. This sand that’s lost the heat of the sun reminds me of how cool Wŏri’s body temperature was. The following day, while I was sitting on the rock, I decided once more that I ought to have Wŏri meet me here. Today I was back, looking down at the seaweed and the little fish. And then it occurred to me that even if Wŏri did come, this time she could easily pretend she was looking at the fish and not the seaweed. I jumped down from the rock. And I threw one last trumpet shell.”
At this point the second man tosses his cigarette into the water. “Say, do you hear a voice? Isn’t that the woman you came with calling from over by the lighthouse?”
The first man looks toward the lighthouse. “It’s the sound of the waves.”
The second man scoops up sand with both hands. “All I’m going to do at night is walk this beach. This beach that’s so like Wŏri’s body. And over and over I’ll feel this sand that’s cold like Wŏri’s body colder even than our flowers. The harder I grab this cold sand the faster it slips through my fingers.”
The first man also grabs some sand, and proceeds to scatter it over the water.
“And I’ll scatter this sand over the water too. Just now I had a feeling that I simply ought to go into the ocean. There’s seaweed in that ocean. All I have to do is go into the ocean and that seaweed will wrap itself around me. Just like Wŏri’s body. To go to sleep wrapped up in seaweed—what else could I ask for? And if the fish want to take a bite out of me when I’m decomposed, that’s fine. All I have to do is jump into the ocean. And it would have to be a night like this, a night when there’s no moon and the stars are faint. Simply turn my back on that lighthouse, go into the ocean, and let the seaweed wrap itself around me.”
The first man looks out to sea again.
“I even thought of leaving my will on a sand dune. And even if Wŏri comes here, I won’t be happy. The real Wŏri is in the ocean. If I get washed away by the wind and the tide before daybreak, it’s fine.”
The first man takes another handful of sand and scatters it over the water.
There is only the sound of the dark sea.
The first man walks off in the direction opposite the lighthouse, whence he came.
“Wait—isn’t that the woman calling you?”
The first man comes to a stop. “It’s the waves,” he says, but with no indication that he has listened for a voice. He resumes walking.
White teeth gnaw at the dark sea’s sandy edge.
A woman, walking quickly, appears out of the darkness from the direction of the lighthouse.
“Why didn’t you follow me? It’s so pleasant watching the ocean from the lighthouse.”
The second man merely looks out to the dark sea.
“You know, at the lighthouse the smell of fish scales carries on the breeze more than the smell of seaweed.” She approaches the second man and starts. “Who are you? Where did he go?”
The second man simply points toward the sea, in the direction the first man has gone.
“What?! He went in? Then he must be underwater. Save him!”
“He’s down too deep.”
“Won’t you save him—please?”
“He’s all wrapped up in seaweed.”
The woman squats in a heap.
“I had something to tell him. Didn’t he say anything?”
“I’ll bet he left a note on that sand dune saying he used to be quite happy.”
“Oh? Well, I don’t believe it. It’s a lie. And when I said it’s nice at the lighthouse at night, I was lying too. I guess he wanted to find happiness on his own.”
The woman buries her face in her hands and begins to sob, her shoulders heaving.
The lighthouse lamp continues to wink on and off. The horizon, the sky, and the sea are a seamless black. Without a word, the second man disappears over the sand dune and into the darkness.