IT'S SIX, BUT Ma-ri doesn't grab her purse to leave, even though her coworkers are starting to head home, one by one. Finally, the last person to leave, the manager, comes up to her, briefcase in hand. "Aren't you going home, Ms. Jang?"
She purses her lips. "Go ahead, I'm going to..."
"Okay, see you tomorrow." He slowly heads out of the showroom, as if he's reluctant to leave. Or maybe he's conscious of the fact that Ma-ri is watching him walk away.
She's now alone in the showroom. Her eyes fixed on the manager walking away from the building, she wonders, out of the blue, about the model he's living with. Are they happy? Once, when they all went out for drinks after work, Ma-ri, coming back from the bathroom, overheard the manager whispering to the male employees that "skinny chicks aren't that great in bed. You end up getting bruises on your pelvis." Did they really do it so violently that their pelvic bones butted against each other? Well, maybe, at least in the beginning. But she can't believe that they would go at it so intensely even now, after all that time together. She grabs a pen and doodles on a piece of paper. She draws a triangle on top of a triangle, creating a six-pointed star, like the Star of David. She scrawls another triangle, and then another. The scribbling morphs into a circular mess. She writes "pelvis" next to it, and also "bruised pelvis." She draws another triangle on top of it, and writes "pelvis" in an empty space amid the doodles. She keeps scrawling "pelvis" and "bruised," over and over again. The words soon lose their meaning, looking like just any other symbol, like the triangles. She takes out another piece of paper and starts the whole process over again, drawing triangles and jotting down "bruised pelvis."
"What are you doing, Ms. Jang?"
Startled, Ma-ri whips around. I-yop is standing behind her. She slides her arm over the paper but it's too late. "What are you doing here?" she asks.
"My car's dead. The tow truck's going to get here in thirty minutes."
Unlike the manager, Kim I-yop parks in the pay lot behind the building. He isn't allowed to park in front of the showroom because he doesn't drive a Volkswagen.
"I was just killing time, because I have to be somewhere at seven," Ma-ri explains, though he didn't ask.
They stand in awkward silence. I-yop snuck over to startle her, but since the paper he glanced at had the phrase "bruised pelvis" written all over it, that image is the only thing swimming around in his head.
"So what's wrong with your car?" she asks.
"I don't know. It won't budge. I didn't want to get dirty so I didn't even pop the hood. I'm sure my insurance company is going to take care of it."
"Can you get it to start?"
"Maybe the battery's dead," suggests Ma-ri.
"Yeah, I think that might be what it is. My sister-in-law's going to be pissed that I'm late."
"Oh, right, she's looking after your son?"
"Yeah. I think she's got a new boyfriend or something. These days, she gets really annoyed even when I'm only a few minutes late."
"I have jumper cables," Ma-ri offers. She means it to come off as casual, to let him know that he can borrow them, but as she says it she feels cheap. It feels as if she's trying to seduce a man walking down the street. She wonders if it's because of her tone, or because of the offer itself.
"Wow, you have them in your car?"
"Of course," she says, getting up confidently.
He follows her outside, surprise etched on his face. The security guard runs over, hands her the keys, and says excitedly, "Oh, hi, I already pulled out your car."
Her Golf, which was parked underground, is already outside, waiting for her. For a while, the guard has been encroaching into her territory, little by little, without bothering to ask if it was okay.
"Thank you," she tells him, and gets in her car. I-yop gets in the passenger side. She turns on the engine and idles, warming it. She catches the annoyed look on the guard's face through the rearview mirror. What the hell, is he jealous? She shakes her head. What's wrong with me today? Why am I thinking that every expression and tone means something? Have I become too sensitive? Or are relationships between people always like this? Ma-ri moistens her lips.
The guard comes up and knocks on the window. "You forgot to lock the doors of the office and turn out the lights. Want me to do it?"
"No, I'm not going home yet. Mr. Kim's car battery died, so I'm going to jump it for him," Ma-ri explains.
"Ohh," the guard sighs, relieved, and nods, moves aside, and helps her back out. She drives down the alley and into the pay lot. I-yop rolls down his window and yells at the attendant that Ma-ri shouldn't be charged because she's here to jump-start his car. She pulls up in front of I-yop's car. The two cars are face to face, as if greeting each other. With the car running, she takes out the cables from the trunk, and connects her car battery's + to I-yop's +, and her - to his. Her cast keeps banging against various car parts, and each time that happens, I-yop yelps on her behalf as he hovers nearby, staring down at the exposed innards of the cars.
"Get in," Ma-ri orders.
He gets into his car, as if he's never done this before.
"Try it," Ma-ri calls.
The car starts. He steps on the gas a couple of times to test it then gets out, looking happier. "Wow, that was amazing."
She smiles listlessly. She unclips the cables from each car as he watches. He lowers the hoods of both cars.
"Keep it on for at least twenty minutes," she advises.
"Okay, thanks! I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, when's the cast coming off?"
"I don't know. Hopefully soon."
He nods like a good little boy and gets back in his car. She gets in hers, backs away, and leaves the lot. He leaves too, behind her. She parks in front of the showroom again. She tells the guard that he should just leave it there, that she's going to come back for it later. She looks at her watch; it's 6:35. It's almost time for her to meet Song-uk. She goes back inside, locks her desk, and turns off all the lights except for the lamp in the showroom. She washes her hands in the bathroom and touches up her makeup. Her lipstick has faded away. She reapplies it carefully, making sure everything else looks good, then finishes up and wipes her hands with a paper towel. She wants a cigarette badly, but doesn't want to smell like smoke the first time she meets Song-uk's friend. And her youthful lover hates it when she smokes. She nods at the guard as he wishes her good evening, and waits for the light to change at the crosswalk.
The light turns green, and she crosses the street along with the other pedestrians, her footsteps falling in time to theirs. She gets into a cab.
"Kangnam station, please."
The cabbie starts the car without a word.
WHEN MA-RI SUDDENLY pops out of her office and drives behind the building with I-yop, Chol-su thinks she's with Ki-yong. He hurriedly maneuvers a U-turn to follow them, but she's already in the pay lot behind the building. Chol-su realizes the man with her isn't Ki-yong when he sees that they're connecting jumper cables to the cars. Ma-ri goes back to her office and Chol-su returns to his spot on the opposite side of the street and parks, waiting for her to leave. She does shortly, but this time she leaves her car behind, crossing the street on foot. Why is she leaving her car? Is she going to grab a bite to eat somewhere close? Is she working late? But as soon as she crosses the street, she hops into a cab, which bolts forward, passing him. Caught off guard, he zooms after the cab moving slowly southbound. Kangnam during rush hour is always chaotic, with cars fighting over every available inch of the road. Chol-su dials Jong to report the current situation, that Ma-ri has abandoned her car and, based on the fact that she's entering an area with a lot of people, she's probably meeting up with her husband. He requests backup assistance. Jong is a little skeptical of his theory. He thinks this tactic is too obvious, and admonishes Chol-su to be careful, since this could be a ploy to distract him. He adds that it might be a while before the backup officers arrive.
The cab comes to a stop at the entrance of Kangnam station. Ma-ri hops out and strides into an alley behind the New York Bakery. Chol-su parks his car in a no-parking zone, sticking a label that says "Official Duty" on the dash, and follows her on foot. She doesn't seem to be at all aware of the tail, instead appearing more concerned with pushing through the crowd and not bumping into anyone. She stops at her destination, takes out a small mirror from her purse, and checks her reflection. She puts away the mirror. She's standing in front of a red sign that says WINE-AGED PORK BELLY. Exhaust fans pointing toward the street pump out the smoke from burning fat.
Chol-su stopped eating meat five years ago, after reading a book called Simple Food for the Good Life by Helen Nearing, the wife of Scott Nearing. The book informed him that Scott died at age one hundred, and Helen at ninety-two. Chol-su wants to live a long life. If he told people that this is his life's wish, they would think he's insane, so he's never revealed it to anyone. But he believes that several decades from now, life expectancies will be lengthened to a degree unfathomable today. He wants to maintain his health until then, so he can take advantage of the pending medical revolution. He looks around. How many of these hundreds of young people will live for a long time? A few decades ago, a seventieth birthday party was reason for celebration, but now it has become ordinary, an unexciting milestone. A voice deep within him asks what he expects to accomplish by living that long. His goal is to lead a long life, to achieve old age for its own sake. Some want to be Casanova, others want to be Napoleon. A few want to conquer all the Himalayan peaks taller than twenty-five thousand feet. Still others want to walk around the world, while some people want to break the world record for the fastest one-hundred-meter dash. All Chol-su wants is to live a very long time, so he will watch those men—who brag about their successful careers or have a ton of women flocking to their sides—die helplessly. Every person enters this theater called Earth with the same ticket. Doesn't it make sense that you want to watch as much as you can before you have to leave?
Helen Nearing said that eating meat was unnatural for humans. It makes sense if you think about it. If an apple tree grows in the street, we would pluck an apple off a branch and eat it without guilt. But nobody would rip a leg off a chicken passing by. Chol-su agrees with that basic premise. Eating meat is cruel. To boot, human intestines evolved specifically to digest vegetables, making it longer than that of carnivorous animals. That means that meat ends up rotting as it slides down each intestinal curve. He thinks that makes sense, too. He always felt heavier the day after he consumed a lot of meat. But it's hard to avoid meat in this society, especially since he works in such a macho environment at the Company. When his department goes out for dinner, he orders bean paste soup and rice as soon as they get to the restaurant, saying he's starving. He fills up on lettuce wraps of rice and hot peppers. Within the first year, the chronic sensation of a full stomach disappeared and his complexion cleared up. His breath no longer stank and he stopped burping. Every morning, he gets up at dawn and runs along the river, and he lifts weights at night. Now, whenever he smells meat cooking, he feels nauseated.
Chol-su also read Beyond Beef: The Rise and Fall of the Cattle Culture by Jeremy Rifkin, the writer of Entropy: A New World View. His beliefs grew firmer. He carefully read the detailed descriptions in the book that revealed the terrible living conditions of cattle, pigs, and chickens, raised solely to be killed. He couldn't comprehend the cruelty of humans. He decided to quietly lead a vegetarian life. Well, it wasn't really vegetarianism, since he refrained only from eating beef, pork, and poultry. He didn't think there was any reason to avoid wild seafood, since it wouldn't have been injected with antibiotics or fed genetically engineered crops, and there wouldn't be the additional problem of animal cruelty.
But something strange started to happen after he shunned meat. Before, he'd go on dates, to see movies or to have dinner. He didn't meet anyone he thought he could marry, but he believed it was just a matter of time. He believed he would eventually meet his future wife, and didn't think much about it. But women disappeared from his life completely once he stopped eating meat. For whatever reason, he lost touch with the women he used to see, and he grew apart from his former girlfriends. They all got married or fell in love with other men. He couldn't get a second date with the women he did go out with. He bored them, and they'd be yawning by 10:00 P.M. The only difference between then and now was that he had stopped eating meat, but he didn't go around confessing that fact. He even wondered whether meat had pheromones in it. Or maybe the women detected something in him that was a turn-off, perhaps the sluggishness of someone who has given up all competition. Most women might be into aggressive men who weren't picky about food and preferred to live a fuller but shorter life. But he doesn't really dwell on the problem. Helen was twenty years younger than Scott, he reassures himself, and there's no reason he wouldn't be able to find someone like Helen, someone who loves that he's a vegetarian. Anyway, despite everything, he's proud of himself, proud of the way he was able to reverse a habit he maintained for thirty years. This shows that he can change many other aspects of his life. And his body is clean, not weighed down with toxins and waste.
Ma-ri walks straight into the pork belly restaurant, without an ounce of hesitation despite the foul odor it is emitting. She quickly becomes less attractive to him. It isn't a pretty picture to imagine the hot, rancid cooked fat passing through her mouth, stomach, and intestines. He can't easily shake the image. He peers into the restaurant through the gap between WINE-AG and ED PORK BELLY on the window. It's dark inside. The interior is decorated in a Zen style, pretty nice for a pork belly restaurant. She's sitting in a corner. He squints, trying to see the man she's facing. It isn't Ki-yong. The guy looks to be in his early twenties, probably still in college, and it doesn't seem like he's a client or a member of her family. His shaggy hair covers his forehead and eyes, and he's wearing big baggy jeans with frayed hems. Another young man comes out of the bathroom and joins them, and they start pouring soju into one another's glasses.
KI-YONG EXITS THE subway at the Uljiro entrance and walks past Lotte Department Store. It's rush hour—the buildings surrounding the street are vomiting a mass of people. It's nearly impossible not to bump into someone. The Westin Chosun is located behind the department store. He circles the hotel first before going into the lobby. He pauses at the Wongudan Shrine, the final display of vainglory of the waning Choson Kingdom, which lasted until the Japanese occupation in 1910, and glances at the cars parked in the valet lot. That would be where the authorities would park a fully rigged surveillance van. But he doesn't see any windowless vans. He studies the people on couches in the lobby. Nobody is acting suspiciously. Soji is sitting beyond the concierge desk, reading a book.
This hotel is a good place to hide out in case he needs to bolt. He could disappear among the shoppers if he goes toward Lotte, and the Sogong-dong underpass in front of the hotel stretches all the way to Namdaemun Market. He could hide in the numerous tunnels that make up the shopping centers under the streets that lead to Myongdong or to City Hall, or dash down the nearby dark alleys. Even the Westin's underground garage is perfect for escape, as it's connected to the parking lot of the President Hotel.
He looks at his watch. It's 6:15. He places a call from a phone booth. In the place of a standard ring, he hears the tune of "Russia Romance."
Soji picks up. "Hello?"
"Hey, it's me."
"Hi. Why are you calling from this random number?"
"Oh, my phone battery died. I'm in a phone booth. I'm running a little late. Sorry."
"That's okay."
He listens carefully to see if she sounds unnatural. They hang up, and he walks out of the booth, continuing to watch her through the glass. Nobody approaches her and she doesn't get a call. He waits for ten minutes. She's just sitting there, reading. Still, he waits a little longer. It can't hurt to be careful. He walks toward Myongdong, but spots a line of cops standing guard. What's going on? Is a diplomat or a high-ranking official coming through? Is there going to be a protest? He doesn't feel like going through a tunnel of cops. He stops and, pretending that he's getting a phone call, presses his cell to his ear, and doubles back toward the hotel. He pauses at the entrance of the hotel and looks around again.
If one goes swimming or plays tennis after a long hiatus, one's disappointed in one's stiffened muscles and frequent mistakes, but surprised that one's body hasn't forgotten the basic moves. This is how Ki-yong feels. In the last couple of hours, he has reengaged mental muscles he hasn't used in a long time. His senses have become more acute, his visual field has expanded. The images that hit his retina are transformed instantly into words and stored in his brain. Three burly men in suits, a woman in sunglasses, two drivers in their cars, two bellhops, no suspicious cars—this is the way he's processing his surroundings, the way he was trained to do years ago.
He circles the hotel again and uses the back entrance to get to the lobby. A couple of men are unloading a refrigerated truck. He can hear Mary Hopkin's "Those Were the Days" through the open door of the truck. Oh, my friend, we're older but no wiser.
He comes to a halt in front of Soji, who raises her head. "Oh, here you are."
"Did you wait a long time?"
"No, I got here right before you called."
"Let's go eat," he suggests.
They take the stairs down to the basement. At the Japanese restaurant, the manager, a model of hospitality and decorum, shows them to their table. They sit down and are handed warm towels. He looks at her hand. "Soji, what happened to your hand?"
A red gash, tinted pink because of the medicine she slathered on, adorns the back of her hand. "Oh, I hurt myself." She smiles bashfully, like a student acknowledging a mistake.
"I don't remember that from earlier today."
"No, it happened later, in the afternoon."
"You beat up the kids?"
"No!" She waves her hands, startled.
"I'm joking," Ki-yong reassures her. He orders sushi. She wants braised cod head, but it's sold out, so she orders sushi as well. Ki-yong adds shrimp tempura to their order, worried the sushi won't be enough.
"How about some hot sake?" he asks.
"Sure."
Ki-yong orders the drinks and stands up. "Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom." Ki-yong goes outside and looks around. Nobody is loitering in the corridor. He notes that there are three different exits, and checks each quickly, darting down each path. He glimpses a door that leads to the kitchens of both the Japanese and Western restaurants. They probably have side doors for food deliveries, which probably lead to the street. He also double-checks the passage to the parking garage before heading back.
"So," Ki-yong says as he sits down, "did you bring it?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"You didn't bring it?"
"Can I just ask you something?"
"Okay," Ki-yong says, and nods reluctantly.
"What's in the bag anyway? Is it really a novel?"
"Why're you suddenly so curious?"
"Well." Soji smiles, embarrassed. "I just feel like it's mine, since I've kept it for so long. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I guess. But it's mine. I just asked you to look after it for a while."
"Yeah, but because I had it for so long, I feel like I should get to find out what I've been keeping safe for five whole years. You know that short story by Lee Seung-woo titled 'People Don't Know What Is in Their Houses'?"
The waitress, her hair pulled into a bun, brings them chawan mushi and two sake cups. He sinks his spoon into the soft egg custard. "Some things are better left unknown."
The chawan mushi is fragrant, but it feels scratchy as it slides down his throat.
"I don't think ignorance has ever helped mankind. Not knowing has always been the basis of meaningless violence," Soji insists.
Ki-yong puts his spoon down in his empty bowl. The clank resonates unusually loudly. "Soji, this doesn't have anything to do with mankind, it has to do with my personal life. It's completely private. It has to do with my future."
She spoons the chawan mushi silently. "Ki-yong, can't you share a personal problem with me? Why can't I be in your future?" Her voice is low and soft, but he winces at the desperation laced in her words.
"What are you talking about?"
"You've never been like this before," Soji explains. "Why wouldn't I think it's odd?"
"What do you mean 'odd'?"
"You suddenly appear at my school to ask me to bring you the thing you gave me for safekeeping five years ago, you buy me dinner at a fancy Japanese restaurant in a hotel. It's all a little strange, like you're about to leave and go somewhere far away."
Ki-yong picks up a sliver of ginger with his chopsticks and puts it in his mouth. "Do you like ginger?"
"No." Soji shakes her head, taken off guard.
"What about honey?"
"Don't change the subject."
"No, I'm really genuinely curious."
"I don't really like either. I eat them sometimes but I don't seek them out."
Ki-yong swallows the ginger and takes a sip of the hot sake. "I guess that's fairly normal. Everyone eats it once in a while, when they go to a Japanese restaurant or if they drank too much the night before."
"That's true."
"Soji, I might have to go to a place where honey and ginger are prized items. Where, when women give birth, they are given a few spoonfuls of honey stirred into a glass of water, and they're so grateful for that because it's so expensive."
She frowns. "Where are you going? Somewhere like Laos?"
He looks deep into her eyes. "If it were you, would you go?"
"I don't know. For how long?"
"Not for a short trip. If I go I don't know if I'll be able to come back."
The waitress brings their tempura and sushi, interrupting their conversation. Soji plucks a piece of ginger and slips it in her mouth, and he sips his sake, his leg trembling uncontrollably.
"I knew something like this would happen at some point," Soji confesses. "It always seemed you weren't really from here. Maybe it's because you're an orphan, but you always seemed lost."
"I did?"
"I slept with you, remember?"
"That was only once, though."
Soji laughs. "You can't sleep with a woman without her knowing everything about you."
"I've never heard that before."
"Tell me, Ki-yong, where exactly are you going?"
Ki-yong pushes a piece of sushi in his mouth. He isn't sure what kind it is, only that it's a lean white fish. "It's better if I don't tell you."
"Why do you say that?"
"Eat," Ki-yong urges, pointing at her food with his chopsticks.
Soji picks up a piece of shrimp sushi. Ki-yong drinks some miso soup; it tastes nutty and silky.
"I never thought I was going to die a teacher, even when I was younger. I always thought I would live a wonderfully tragic and dramatic life. My dream was to leave home and write in a faraway place, like Hemingway or Joyce. Is Ma-ri going with you?"
"I haven't told her."
"What?" Soji can't believe it. She wonders what that means. "You haven't told her yet, or you won't?"
"I'm not going to tell her."
"Why not?"
"She wouldn't come with me. And I don't have the right to make her unhappy."
"But you're married!"
"Well, we were, until now."
"Wow, Ki-yong, you're really cold. I never thought you were this detached."
"Do you want to come with me?"
"Yeah, but you have to give me some time. I have to collect my retirement pay and I want to get my security deposit from my landlord."
Ki-yong laughs, the heartiest since this morning.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing." He shakes his head. "You really have no idea where I'm going, do you?"
"No. How would I know?"
"Can I have the bag now?" Ki-yong holds his hand out.
Soji takes the black bag out of the shopping bag she brought it in and hands it over to Ki-yong. He takes it and feels it with his hands, trying to gauge if everything inside is intact. The lock is still intact, too. "Thanks for taking good care of it." They raise their sake cups and clink.
"I had a hard time finding it," Soji says, and presses her lips together.
"So people really don't know what they have in their houses."
"I couldn't remember where I'd put it, since it isn't something I ever used."
"So where did you find it?"
"In a big clay jar outside."
"Really?" He sniffs it. It smells faintly like dry earth a split second before rain.
"It shouldn't smell bad; it's a rice jar. Doesn't it smell like rice?"
"Maybe," Ki-yong says.
"I broke the lid while I was taking it out."
"Oh, that's how you hurt your hand?"
"Yeah, I was trying to catch the falling lid. Jeez, what kind of idiot tries to grab a heavy, falling jar lid?"
They are quiet for a while. Their sushi plates become emptier.
Ki-yong says, "Soji, as a writer..."
"Yeah?"
"Do you believe that you will accept whatever life gives you, happily?"
She thinks for a moment, and nods. "I think so. I was just thinking that I've been living so placidly for the past few years. Hemingway fought in the Spanish Civil War, and André Malraux participated in Mao's Long March. But when I look around, I realize there's no possibility of a revolution or danger anywhere here, except maybe adultery—but I don't want to go on such an ordinary adventure. Do you know what I mean?"
"Do you really think that any experience helps with the creative process?"
"I'm sure it's better than having none. A blind man can probably draw well, maybe even amazingly well. But if he could see, and experience the world with his eyes, I'm sure he would be an even better illustrator."
"But if you had been blind and suddenly you could see, wouldn't you be overwhelmed by what you saw and lose your instincts?"
"Are you talking about Yonam? There's a story in one of Yonam's collections about a blind man who can suddenly see. He goes out into the streets and promptly gets lost. And he pleads with people, saying, I can't figure out how to get home, can someone help me? So a passerby tells him, Just close your eyes."
Ki-yong has never been a big fan of adages. He doesn't enjoy fancy words and clever or paradoxical expressions. He doesn't think they contain the true meaning of life. This time, he says the same thing he says every time someone tells him something like this: "That's an interesting story."
"But I think it just shows Yonam's ignorance. Sure, you could get lost during the first few minutes, but once you reconcile sight with the other senses you developed while you were blind, it would be even easier for you."
Ki-yong remembers hearing about someone like this. Aldous Huxley lost his vision in his youth but he recovered it in his late twenties through surgery, and went on to write passionately. He, for one, didn't close his eyes again. "Dialectical development?"
"Exactly! Relying only on your senses and revering ignorance only does you a disservice." Her eyes sparkle.
Ki-yong is reminded of Soji in college. He closes his eyes. People often feel sad on returning home and running into someone they haven't seen in a long time, because the encounter reminds them that they have grown old, although in their minds they are still their young selves. A boy doesn't become an old man, but an old boy. Similarly, a girl grows up into an old girl.
"Ki-yong?"
"Yeah?" He opens his eyes.
"Tired?"
"No, my eyes hurt." He presses his eyes with his fingers.
"When are you leaving?"
He removes his fingers. Although his eyes are open, his eyesight isn't bright. "Tomorrow."
"That soon? Are you ready?"
"No."
"Are you thinking about doing something awful?" Soji looks at him suspiciously.
"What do you mean?"
"Are you depressed?"
"No."
"It seems like you are."
"If I were depressed I'd be lying in bed. I wouldn't be out and about like this."
"Well, I'm glad."
"Thanks. I guess it's good at least one person's worried that I'm suicidal."
"What about Ma-ri?" Soji reminds him.
"Ma-ri's basically a roommate."
"If this is an attempt to get me to go with you up there, it's not working," Soji jokes, pointing above her head toward the white, clean-sheeted guestrooms on the higher floors.
"I don't think Ma-ri feels any lust anymore. I wonder if she's already at that age where her supply of female hormones is starting to dwindle?"
"Can I tell you the truth?" Soji asks.
"Yeah."
"It's just that she doesn't like you. You didn't know that?"
"Then she'd still be lustful, even if she didn't like me. She doesn't have lust."
"How do you know?"
"I know."
"How?"
Their conversation jumps back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball bouncing over a net.
"I'm telling you, I know."
"Well, how?"
"I was trained to know."
"What?"
"I was trained to listen in on conversations and spy on people, to discern truth and lies from someone's words."
"What, were you in some kind of special task unit?"
"Soji."
"Yeah?"
"You know where I was born?"
"Where?"
He smiles awkwardly and writes "Pyongyang" in Chinese characters on a napkin.
Soji glances over, squinting, then her head shoots up quickly, shocked. "What? Is this true?"
"Calm down. Lower your voice," Ki-yong orders. He eats the last piece of sushi and drinks some soup. "It's true."
"It can't be. I've known you forever! Since college!"
"I came down before that."
Soji puts her hand to her forehead, something she always does when she's taken by surprise.
"I'm older than you think I am."
"Oh, I ... I see. So ... yeah ... oh, no wonder, yeah ... okay. So, you ... no really, Mr. Kim ... no, I guess that's not ... even your name. So really, why..."
"Calm down, Soji. I came down because I was ordered to come down. I've never told anyone."
"Ma-ri?"
"She doesn't know."
Soji's features contort, panic appearing on her face. "Why are you telling me any of this?" Soji asks, her eyes bulging.
"You..." Ki-yong hesitates. "You're a writer. You use whatever life happens to throw at you..."
Soji's expression stiffens. "That's it?"
"Well..."
"Are you telling me you've given me something to write about? Am I supposed to thank you or something?"
"No, that's not it. You have to understand, I just got my return order this morning, and I have to go back tomorrow. It's so cruel, don't you think? I've been chased the whole day, and I've only just managed to evade them. Now I'm here, and I'm able to relax for the first time today."
"You do know that under the National Security Law it's a crime to not report North Korean spies, right?"
"You know I'm committing a crime just by sitting here looking at you?"
"Yeah."
"I always thought it was an interesting crime: you're breaking the law not by doing something, but precisely because you're not doing something. I always thought people who get caught for this must feel so frustrated. Helpless."
"Look, I'm sorry."
"I take back whatever I said earlier about how ignorance doesn't help mankind. I was being flippant in my own ignorance. Now here I am, committing a crime for just knowing something about you."
Ki-yong lowers his head and eats another sliver of ginger and a clove of marinated garlic. He wonders how strongly he would smell of garlic if he were caught now and interrogated.
"Ki-yong."
"Yeah."
"Don't go."
"Then what should I do?"
"Give yourself up."
"Aren't you scared of me? I'm an agent and a member of the Party. I've sworn allegiance to the Party and the Dear Leader."
"You've changed. I mean, you must have changed. I know you. You like hirasake, sushi, Heinekens, and movies by Sam Peckinpah and Wim Wenders. You like the story of Meursault shooting the Arab and you underline the elegant prose of a far right-wing pundit, Yukio Mishima. You eat seafood pasta at Sunday brunch. You drink scotch at a bar near Hongik University on Friday nights. Right? I think you just told me because you don't want to go. You secretly want me to talk you out of it, isn't that right?"
"Don't you think all of those preferences were merely a part of my disguise?"
"Why would you do that? To make me feel comfortable with you so you could recruit me to the other side?"
"Maybe."
She closes her eyes, as if to gather her thoughts. "You know the plays that are on extended runs, for ten or twenty years? You're like those actors who have been in the play for so long that they don't remember who they were before the play. You live that same role every night, no matter how you live during the day. So then you find yourself confused, since the Ki-yong at night has more continuity than the Ki-yong during the day. You know how the portrait of Dorian Gray ages instead of the man himself? I don't know who you were before, but you've become so good at this particular role that it's come to a point where it's hard to tell which part is you and which part is the character. Like Dorian Gray's portrait being the real Dorian and Dorian Gray the man being fake, I think this is the real you. Forget about your original self."
"The authorities up there don't think that. They think that this Ki-yong is the fake one. They forgot about me for over ten years, but now someone's found me and is trying to make the agent in the file and the real me become one and the same. It's like, everyone's clapping, the show's over, and I've come back to the changing room."
She reaches across the table and grabs his hand. Her tears drop onto it. "Don't go, Ki-yong."
"If I don't, they're going to send someone to kill me." Plus, he would be arrested by the South's public security authorities and charged with murder. But he doesn't say that.
"You won't be safe even if you go back," Soji insists.
"But if I go back I'll have a fifty-fifty chance to live. If I don't..."
"You always have a fifty-fifty chance to live. If you die, that's it. Those odds mean nothing. The odds when you're playing Russian roulette are one out of six, but every time the trigger's pulled, the odds are always fifty-fifty. You live or you die. Don't you think that's true?"
He doesn't say anything. She cries, silently. He wonders why she's crying, but he's oddly comforted by her tears. The waitress comes over and pours them tea. Soji takes her hand away to wipe her eyes. The tea is warm and soothing.