UNDER CHOL-SU'S direction, the Passat gently hops the sidewalk, turns elegantly, and backs into the parking space in front of the showroom. Ma-ri likes guys who can park gracefully. Good drivers tend to show off, but a man who knows how to park has a delicacy about him and an ability to concentrate.
Chol-su bids Ma-ri goodbye as he gets out of the car. "It's a nice car. I'll give you a call."
"Please do. Bye."
He gets into his Grandeur and turns on the engine. Ma-ri enters the office. The manager nods in greeting as Ma-ri says, "I'm back."
Another dealer, Kim I-yop, who started working there a year after Ma-ri, smiles brightly and greets her. "How'd it go?
"I didn't see you this morning," Ma-ri comments.
"Tong-il was sick."
"Oh ... So how is he?" Ma-ri regrets her question as soon as it escapes her lips. There is a brief silence.
"Oh, you know. Same as usual." I-yop smiles. His son has malignant lymphoma. Once, I-yop brought him to work, and the kid grinned from ear to ear, so excited to see all the sparkling cars in the showroom. I-yop placed his son in the driver's seat of a car worth more than 100 million won, and the boy happily honked the horn. The year the boy was diagnosed with malignant lymphoma, he was shuttled around to take all sorts of tests. One day, his wife's car barged over the center divider, crashing into a one-ton truck. The airbag didn't deploy and she died instantly. But emergency personnel found the two-year-old fastened in his car seat, smiling, without a single scratch. The insurance company refused to pay out in full because her car had breached the divider, and I-yop sued. The company apparently thought his wife was trying to commit suicide and that she'd purposefully shot over to the other side of the street. It was a plausible theory but nobody knew for sure. When I-yop was at work, his wife's unmarried older sister looked after the boy. Once, he confessed that he would be taken aback at the sight of her when he got home, thinking for a second that his wife was standing there. Well aware of his situation, his colleagues sometimes give him credit for their contracts, which he doesn't refuse. Judging only from his cheery surface, one can't begin to guess at the depths of misfortune that sprang on his family. At times, his cheer feels a little creepy, like the optimistic beginning of a horror movie. If someone came up to her one day and exclaimed, "Kim I-yop hanged himself last night," Ma-ri wouldn't be all that surprised.
Back at her desk, Ma-ri takes out her cell phone and double-checks the text message she received earlier that morning. Her body starts to burn up, the way it does when she soaks in the tub. Heat travels up in waves from deep within her. She will see him in one hour. They will eat together and she will stare at his lips moving delicately as he chews. Ma-ri touches her face with her hands. Her hands are cool on her hot cheeks. I'm almost forty. What am I doing?
KI-YONG BUYS A ticket and pushes through the turnstiles. Although his credit card doubles as a public transportation card, he consciously chose to purchase a single ticket. A while ago, Ki-yong bumped into a JoongAng Ilbo film critic at a movie screening. He told Ki-yong that he'd gone to some screening at Seoul Theater in Chongno. When the critic returned to his office, his phone rang. The person on the line identified himself as an employee of a messenger company, and asked him where they should deliver a package.
"Do you know where Hoam Art Hall is? JoongAng Ilbo? Come to the lobby and call up," the critic said.
"Wait, are you a reporter there?"
"Yes, why?"
"Do you know Park Hyong-sok?"
"I'll give you his number. You can call him directly."
"No, it's okay. I'm actually with the Namdaemun Police Department."
"What?"
"This is Detective Hong, Namdaemun Police Department Crime Division. Park's on this beat."
"What's this about?"
"We just want to ask you a few questions. Were you at Chongno sam-ga today around 4:00 P.M.?"
"Yes."
"Did you see anything out of the ordinary?"
"I don't know, I just went to a film screening."
"Oh, I see. Which movie was it?"
"Why do you need to know that?"
"Oh, never mind. Thank you."
"What's this about?"
"There was a murder right near there today. We're just asking around, so you don't need to be alarmed. Thanks for your cooperation. We should go grab a drink with Park one of these days," the detective said politely, and hung up.
The critic started wondering how the detective knew he had been in Chongno at that time, how he found his phone number, how he knew where to reach him but didn't know anything else about him. He had frequented police stations when he covered metro, so he was pretty familiar with the way the department worked, but he couldn't wrap his mind around this mystery.
He told Ki-yong, tentatively, "It's probably from some surveillance camera footage or something. They're on every subway platform these days."
Ki-yong carefully pointed out the obvious. "How would they find your phone number from a blurry image? And if they knew who you were from the image, they wouldn't have called you like that."
"What do you think happened?" the critic asked, his expression serious. Even a native of capitalism wasn't sure what to make of a situation that could have been written by George Orwell. He was as shocked as Cain hearing God's voice.
"I don't know," Ki-yong replied, but he did know. It was probably the credit cards that doubled as public transportation cards. The police would have narrowed their search to men in their twenties and thirties and questioned all the men fitting the profile who went through the Chongno sam-ga station around that time. Once they even caught a murderer on the loose at 3:00 A.M. by analyzing the footage of a speed-monitoring camera on Olympic Highway. Detectives of the Kangnam Police Department surmised that a murderer would have adrenaline pumping through his veins right after committing a crime, that he would be more likely to speed, and their hunch had proven correct.
Ki-yong pretends to drop his ticket on the ground and glances quickly behind him. He feels his gut fold over his belt as he bends down. Once upon a time, he boasted a taut physique with hard muscles, envied by members of the combat team. The very fact that he spent time with the combat agents, professional assassins who specialized in infiltration and escape, meant he was in good shape. But that was a long time ago. He is becoming an average middle-aged South Korean man, his belly round, his chest puny, and his arms jiggly. People relax when they look at his belly. They assume that someone like him can't be a mugger. It's safest to be a man who is uninteresting, neither too old nor young. Someone living a settled life. The kind of man who supports his family but is ignored by them. These ordinary men sometimes take part in risky transactions when the opportunity presents itself, their hearts racing, trying to believe they're safe because everyone does it. They can become mired in a bog of corruption, perhaps in the form of kickbacks, bribery, or slush funds, and they don't foolishly dream that they can wade out of it. Nothing has changed since their college days when they clandestinely studied Kim Il Sung's Juche Idea. Some men say that being involved in politics is like balancing on prison walls—morally precarious. But Ki-yong believes that this is the common fate of all men. Those men who were once bewitched by illegal ideology in college are probably leading the same mundane life as Ki-yong. They would have realized the harsh reality that is capitalism and quickly given their all to the world into which they were born.
Wading through the most dangerous moment of his life, Ki-yong knows nothing, other than that an order was issued. I want to know more. I want to know more. I want to know more. Ki-yong thirsts to know—not what is going on, but whether he is the only target. He needs to know whether the others are aware of what is going on. Why was he given Order 4? Was his identity revealed or did he inadvertently leak something? The two possibilities sound like the same thing, but they are actually very different. If it is the former, the authorities are recalling him for his protection; the latter, to punish him. But there is no way to know which it is until he returns. During the Cold War, the KGB had overseas spies return to Moscow under the pretext of holding an important discussion, then killed them. A furnace waited for the moles who aided the enemy. The shamed spies were slowly slid into the smelter's melting iron, surrounded by their colleagues, like the Terminator. Of course, sometimes there really was a discussion, and afterward they would be sent back out again. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know a thing. Ki-yong has no idea what is happening. He has been living as a forgotten spy since Lee Sang-hyok was purged. As he hasn't engaged in very many activities there hasn't been much chance to be discovered. But you never know. It is possible that he unwittingly made a fatal error, or it could always be a misunderstanding. Anyway, he has less than a day. He has to find something out, anything, before the deadline. There has to be a clue somewhere. I'm sure there was some kind of sign but I just didn't notice it. What happened to me in the past few days? Was there an odd phone call or a stranger following me? If there had been, wouldn't I have noticed it? No, his senses could have been dulled because he's been living complacently for so long.
By now, he is standing on the subway platform. He hears the announcement that the train is about to arrive. He draws in a deep breath, inhaling it all, like he is going to cherish these scents forever—minute dust particles, the smell of car lubricant, liquor on the breath of an old drunk, the perfume of a young, sexy woman. He holds his breath, then exhales slowly through his nose. Right then, the subway train rattles past him and slows. The people on the platform wait patiently for the doors to open, standing docilely on the footprints on the floor, pasted behind the yellow line to encourage queuing. Will I have to go back? Will I be safe if I go? Will I even be able to decide whether to go or not? Why would I go back? No, I can't. I can't. I can't go back. He places a hand on his forehead and steps back. The doors open and people rush out of the car and the quicker ones push in and find seats. Ki-yong continues to waver as he takes in the scene inside the car—the announcement that the car will leave soon, the automatic door vibrating, impatient and ready to shut at any moment, the black-hatted conductor sticking his head out to check the platform, the provocative jeans ad on the side of the car, the model's sexy ass sticking out like a duck's, the seagull-shaped stitching on the pockets emphasizing the curve of her behind, the dirty floor covered in black splotches of spat-out chewing gum, the calm gazes of passengers sitting inside. He can't decide whether to get on or not. Finally, the car doors bang shut, as if yelling, Get out of here! He feels as if a door were slammed in his face, or as if his innermost secrets have been revealed. The people sitting in the subway car leaving the station look at him as if they could see the dark, murky waters churning in his heart. They smile conspiratorially and look back at him standing immobile on the platform. Asshole! Know your place. Act your age and status. We all learned what we can and can't do under this system. Don't you know it's a crime not to follow those rules? Go back to the empire of strong red paint strokes, the country where children, blowing on their frozen hands to keep them warm, turn their cards in unison to create an ever-changing backdrop in the stadium during the Mass Games, where people scorn women in other countries for wearing jeans. Your republic is calling you. Everyone seems to be yelling at him from inside the subway car, their hands cupped around their mouths. He imagines plugging his ears with his hands, but that wouldn't drown anything out. The subway car, headed toward Ponghwasan, leaves behind a sharp metallic screech, as if refusing to hear Ki-yong's reply, and resolutely disappears into the dark tunnel.
He is the only one left standing on the platform. He is overcome with emotion. There is something sweet about these cheap sentiments. His eyes closed, Ki-yong revels in his memories. He wants to wriggle deeper into his own wet insides, into the warm darkness, like a snail thrown on the ground. He wants to close his eyes and ears and stay somewhere safe and forget about the order. Isn't it possible that someone will call him tomorrow and tell him it is all a joke?
At that moment, someone bumps into him. His eyes fly open. It's a young man with spiky burgundy hair, wearing ripped, baggy pants. The young man stops, pulls off his earphones, and bows politely. "I'm sorry." He seems sincere, although his appearance would suggest otherwise.
Ki-yong tells him it's okay and goes to sit on a bench. The young man plugs his earphones back in and perches on the edge of a bench, bopping along to his music. His hairstyle and face remind Ki-yong of Bart Simpson, and his loose red T-shirt is emblazoned with Che Guevara's face. He is probably listening to Rage Against the Machine, or some similar band. The most capitalist country in the world produced these far-left lyrics, and on the CD—filled with the imagery of a Vietnamese monk sitting cross-legged while engulfed in fire, young Seoulites throwing Molotov cocktails—the singers swear, scream, and yell that we have to smash the system. It's fitting music for the kid in the Che Guevara shirt. If Stalin and Lenin were alive to hear this music, what would they think? Would they feel the urge to send the band to the Siberian archipelago?
Five laborers, wearing dirty pants and carrying a red flag, pass Bart and Ki-yong, following the yellow line drawn on the floor. There must be a large workers' rally in the afternoon. They are talking among themselves—they're uninterested in Che Guevara. They concentrate on their own problems: the rise in part-time positions, the once-trusted leftist government's anti-labor policies, and the asshole employer who keeps evading collective bargaining negotiations.
Now that he has one day left in this world, every cliched image in front of his eyes comes to life. He greedily absorbs everything that the world scribbles at him, his entire being having turned into a dried-up, brittle piece of recycled paper. Like an amateur poet burning with creativity, like a young boy who experiences his first kiss, everything around him becomes poetry. He notices things that form a contrasting resonance, like Bart Simpson and Che Guevara, or irony, like the jeans model and the shabby workers bearing a red flag. People seem to be actors who suddenly appear to awaken his sensitivity toward capitalist society.
As if to remind him that he isn't observing a scene in a play, another train clatters into the station. When the doors slide open, Ki-yong enters the subway car, brushing past a Sikh in a turban. Cheap perfume assaults his nose, then dissipates. He looks for an empty seat and sits down. Right before the door is about to shut, someone runs up and sticks his foot in the gap. The door reopens and he gets on. Ki-yong's senses spring to attention. Is this man following him? Did he wait until the last moment because he was worried Ki-yong wouldn't get on or that he would get off as soon as he got on? The man, wearing a black jacket and overly shiny shoes, walks slowly toward Ki-yong and sits next to him. He has a free newspaper in his hand. The car isn't empty, but there are open seats other than the one next to him. As soon as the man sits down, he starts reading his newspaper, but Ki-yong feels that the whole thing is unnatural. If he's a tail, which side is he on? If the man is the agent in charge of supervising Ki-yong's return, it would be smarter not to go back north. If they trust him, he won't be followed. This means he probably did something wrong, and that's why they're bringing him back. But if the man is with the South's National Intelligence Service, it would be better for Ki-yong to follow the order and return obediently. Then Order 4 would have been sent to ensure his safety, to ward off the arrest, torture, and the possibility that he would, in a state of hallucination and desperation coming from the injection of narcotics and lack of sleep, blow the others' identities, putting them in jeopardy.
All he has to do is figure out which side this suspicious man is working for. His newfound poetic sensibility disappears in a flash, and he assumes the armor of prose, of detachment. He glances at the paper the man is reading. No hints are forthcoming. Ki-yong takes out his cell phone, pretends to look for a text message, and flips his phone open and shut several times. Finally, Ki-yong makes up his mind and stares into the man's face, as if he just discovered that someone was sitting next to him. He sees that the man is starting to look unsure. Ki-yong opens his mouth. "Do you believe in eternal life?"
Ki-yong unfastens his briefcase, as if he's about to take out some pamphlets. But he doesn't let down his guard. If the man takes out a pair of handcuffs or a pistol, he's ready to jab his elbow into his side and grab the emergency hammer from its glass box above his head. If he could get to the hammer, he would smash it down on the guy's head without hesitation, the way he was trained a long time ago. The man's skull would fracture, probably requiring brain surgery. The man would give the sign if he is the agent in charge of guiding Ki-yong back north. But he doesn't. The man stands and turns toward Ki-yong—since Ki-yong is sitting down, he's at a disadvantage. But Ki-yong resolves not to be defeated easily, and tenses his thighs and calves. The man continues to look down at him, his eyes narrowed. He doesn't look surprised or even suspicious, just annoyed. If he thought Ki-yong was an evangelist, he could have just waved him off, so why did he stand up like that? The man and Ki-yong glare at each other, sizing the other up. But the man looks away first. He walks to the front of the car toward an empty seat between two women. The train brakes suddenly, and the car lurches, but the man doesn't lose his balance or even sway, quickly sliding in between the two women. He glances at Ki-yong and goes back to his newspaper. Is he not a tail? Does he merely dislike evangelists? Ki-yong waits for the doors to open. People get off and on. The announcement blares that the car will leave the station shortly. Ki-yong bounds out of his seat right before the doors close and runs onto the platform. The man doesn't look at him, immersed as he is in the newspaper. No harm in being careful. Maybe he succeeded in getting the man off his tail. Standing on the quiet platform, recovering his calm, he mutters to himself, Do you believe in eternal life?
MA-RI STANDS UP and looks at the clock. The manager throws her a sidelong glance, as he always does.
"I have a lunch meeting..."
The manager asks quietly, without raising his head, "Is it regarding a sale?"
Even though he's a car salesman, he has a way with words. A former French literature major who revered Albert Camus, he always throws her off. It's annoying, the way his words carry a tone of attack, something she can't openly complain about.
"No."
"Okay."
She acknowledges Kim I-yop with her eyes and leaves the showroom. She stands in front of the crosswalk. Napoli is about one thousand feet to the left, on the other side of the twelve-lane road. The chilly air soothes the itch on her left arm that has been bothering her all morning. She thinks about the lobe in the brain that governs the sensation of itching, the lobe whose name she doesn't know. An itch isn't pure pain or pleasure, but a commingled sensation, one that makes her feel like she is going to go crazy if she doesn't scratch it. It coaxes her to revel in instant, sweet gratification. An itch is like sexual desire. She thinks that's why, on the night she lost her virginity, she lay in bed feeling ticklish where the boy's hands touched her skin.
The light at the crosswalk turns green but a couple of cars run the red and zoom through. Everyone starts walking across the street at once. Ma-ri steps off the curb.