From Wonso Pond (22 page)

“So it's all right to let the idiots go free?”

“Yeah, well, who says
you
get to decide what's right and what's wrong? And, besides, some nerve you have . . .”

Mother and son were suddenly reminded of what had happened the night before, and Ch'otchae quickly hung his head. After staring into the brazier for a while, he looked up again and asked, “Yi Sobang, do you know what the law is?”

Yi Sobang was caught off guard by the question, and had no idea what Ch'otchae meant by this.

“The law?”

Ch'otchae knew that Yi Sobang hadn't understood, and he wanted
to explain what he meant, but he just sat staring into space, unsure of what to say.

“What do you mean by the law?” asked Yi Sobang again impatiently.

“Come on, you know, this thing they call the law.”

“Huh? Speak some sense, boy! What do you mean?”

His mother stared at him, too. Ch'otchae knit his brow and raised his voice slightly.

“If you don't know, let's just forget about it!”

He poked at the fire in the brazier, fished out a rice cake and then began chewing on a piece of it. Ch'otchae's mother picked out one that was well done and gave it to Yi Sobang. When Yi Sobang took a bite of the warm cake, tears started to roll down his cheeks. Seeing this, Ch'otchae's mother began to cry also. Ch'otchae turned around to face the opposite direction.

“Why are you crying? I don't need to watch this, that's for sure,” he grumbled.

Ch'otchae stared vacantly at the door, which was glowing in the sunshine. The image of Sonbi doing laundry at Wonso Pond popped into his mind. And then everything that had just happened to him flashed before his eyes—what the county magistrate had said to them that day, how he had gone to beg for food at Kaettong's, and how, finally, he had run into Tokho on the path.

“What do you mean by the law?” asked Yi Sobang again.

Ch'otchae spun to face him.

“Why don't you get it? They drag you to the police station, don't they, if you break the law?”

52

When Ch'otchae started explaining what he meant by the law, it suddenly struck him quite viscerally that what he had done the night before was to break the law. Once again, that knot of confusion rose into his mind. He remembered what his mother had said to him earlier: “I was starving and I did what I did because I had no choice!” Indeed, he too had been starving, and he did what he did because he'd had no choice. However, what he'd done was against the law. He'd been starving and had gone off to find something to eat without even thinking
about what he was doing. But now that he'd eaten his fill of these soft cakes and this white rice, it finally dawned on him that he had, once again, broken the law.

Yi Sobang seemed to understand what Ch'otchae was getting at, but to him, the issue needed no further explanation.

“Look, the law is the law, and that's all there is to it. We've always had it.”

“That's all you can say?”

“Well, I guess so. It's just the law.”

It had never crossed his mind that people might have actually created the law. Indeed, Yi Sobang seemed to think that the law had existed in the world well before people ever did. Hearing what Yi Sobang had to say about the matter, Ch'otchae's sense of grief grew even more acute. Here was this inescapable, ironclad rule called the law! And yet why was it that he alone—or rather he, his mother, and Yi Sobang, this old man moaning in front of him—were the only ones forced to break it?

As he mulled this over, his heart began racing. Right about now, some family would discover that their rice was missing. And of course they'd go off to the police station and report the theft . . . A policeman might already have headed out to investigate. There might even be someone standing right outside our front gate, thought Ch'otchae, stealing a glance toward the door.

Each time the wind blew, he feared it might be a policeman coming. Each time Yi Sobang rolled onto his side, he thought someone might be opening the door, about to walk in. He kept glancing at the door in alarm.

And yet, despite the anxiety that plagued him, Ch'otchae couldn't stop stealing. He made a habit of going out each night to find food. And while his mother and Yi Sobang were in no position to tell him not to, they too, were increasingly on edge as the days went by.

One night just after Ch'otchae had come home, Yi Sobang sat down beside him.

“Ch'otchae! You've got to get out of here now.”

“Why?” said Ch'otchae, his nostrils flaring.

“What do you mean why? You've just got to leave. This isn't the only place people can make a living . . . I hear they've got these places in Seoul and P'yongyang they call factories, where poor folk like us can go to work and make money—earn a decent living. You should go find one.”

A policeman had dropped by the house that afternoon, and Yi Sobang had become even more afraid for Ch'otchae's welfare. He was worried that Ch'otchae might be arrested—maybe even tonight.

“You know . . . I'm just a cripple, Ch'otchae, so I can't go anywhere. But if I had a set of strong legs like yours, do you really think that I'd stay cooped up here in the middle of nowhere?”

When Ch'otchae thought about it, Yi Sobang seemed to make sense.

“So you're sure that these . . . these things exist? These . . . factories?”

“Well, how am I supposed to know for sure? But that's what my friends from Seoul and Pyongyang say! They worked in factories when they were young, then quit when they got older and came back home to beg for a living.”

“Well, I guess I'll just have to find out for myself !”

The prospect of working for money at a factory seemed like the dawn of a new day to Ch'otchae, a ray of sunshine brightening the dark future he'd always pictured for himself. He didn't want to stay in that village for a moment longer. He jumped right to his feet.

“All right, Yi Sobang, I guess I'm off to Pyongyang, or maybe Seoul.” Yi Sobang had only mentioned the factories because he'd been afraid the police might surprise Ch'otchae and take him into custody. But now that Ch'otchae was saying he was ready to take off, Yi Sobang felt the world spinning around him.

“What? You can't go off just like that.”

“Sure I can! The only reason I'm still here is that I never knew any better,” answered Ch'otchae, heading straight out the door. “You take care, Yi Sobang. I promise to come back with lots of money . . . Just don't tell mom anything, okay?”

Yi Sobang followed after him, walking with the aid of the new stick Ch'otchae had made for him.

“You know, Ch'otchae, now that I think about it, I'm not so sure now if those things called factories actually exist. Why don't you just wait and ask around in town first? You can't just head out like this . . .”

But Ch'otchae was running off without a word in reply. Yi Sobang somehow found the strength to chase after him. Once Ch'otchae was gone, he might never see the boy again! He just wanted hold his hand one last time, so he scrambled as best he could out the village gate. But Ch'otchae had long since vanished from his sight. Out from behind the hill in the distance, the crescent of a moon slipped into the sky.

53

On the morning of December 25th, giant flakes of snow silently filled the skies over Yongyon village, burying all its houses, both high and humble, with snowflakes the shape of peony flowers.

Before long the bell started to sound: cling-clang, cling-clang. Its peal pierced through the white snow, drifting far, far off into the distance.

“Heavens, the bell is already ringing.”

Changing into her soft and silky Sunday best, Okchom's mother glanced down at Sonbi, who was helping her into the clothes, with a look that told the girl to work faster. After helping her into her skirt, Sonbi picked up her blouse. Okchom's mother quickly took off the blouse she'd been wearing, revealing the half moon of her plump shoulders.

“Oh, how wonderful you are, my daughter! You've warmed them up for me.”

The clothes had been laid out on the hottest corner of the heated floor, so her back was now toasty warm. The door opened, and Tokho came inside.

“Aren't you ready yet?”

Tokho took a seat in the warm corner of the room and lit up a cigarette.

“I think maybe I'll skip work today.”

“Well, yes, what's wrong with not going to the office on such a happy occasion?”

Okchom's mother looked at Tokho, beaming with joy. Ever since they'd gotten rid of Kannan, the two hardly fought at all now.

“I'll have to make an offering today,” she said. “Could you give me some money?”

“Another offering? What for?”

“Today's collection is for the destitute . . . You know, for all the beggars. We're making an offering in order to rescue the poor creatures. Give me something, okay? Generous donors get their names posted up on the wall. You don't even have to be a believer to make an offering, either. Some people who come just to watch make offerings, too, when they feel like it. You should go over to the church yourself and offer five won . . .”

“What money do I have?” snapped Tokho.

“Well, you could do it for my sake. They all call me ‘Mrs. Mayor, Mrs. Mayor,' you know.”

“And you know perfectly well that I'm not made of money.”

“Oh, just be a dear and give me something today, wouldn't you? Two won from me and five won from you? That's seven won altogether.” She could already envision her name written up there on the wall of the chapel, alongside her husband's.

Tokho tossed his cigarette butt into the ashtray.

“Things aren't exactly easy right now. We keep spending and spending, but we hardly bring in a thing . . .”

As he mumbled something else under his breath, Tokho fished out his wallet from inside the pocket of his waistcoat. Okchom's mother held out her hand with insistence.

“Money doesn't grow on trees, you know.”

He handed her a ten-won note. The nerves around her mouth started to twitch, which they had a habit of doing whenever she was pleased.

“Okay, let's go Granny,” the woman called out, stuffing the bill into her pocket. Granny came into the room.

“Oh, heavens, you're not going to wear that, are you? How humiliating!” cried Okchom's mother, her eyes fixed on Granny's dirty jacket.

Granny was at a loss for words.

“Go on now. Put something different on! What is that thing, anyway? Surely you've got a cotton one.”

Sonbi jumped to her feet, went off to Granny's room, and brought back her cotton jacket. Granny hadn't wanted to wear out this new one, which she'd made that fall. After changing into the new clothes Sonbi brought her, Granny picked up the cushion that Okchom's mother would sit on, as well as the woman's Bible bag and the pouch into which she would place her shoes. Okchom's mother looked at Tokho.

“Tell me you'll stop by this evening?”

She stood there staring at him, as though she wasn't going to leave until he replied. Tokho smiled.

“We'll see how things go . . . Oh, hell, you know the last thing I want to do it go to church and watch all those people praying . . . What is that all about anyway, everyone closing their eyes . . .” He chuckled.

Hardly surprised by her husband's remarks, Okchom's mother spun and left the room. Oh, if only I could go too, thought Sonbi as she gathered
up the clothes Okchom's mother had taken off and carefully folded them.

“So have you thought about what I said to you the other day?” asked Tokho, watching her from the side.

Sonbi looked at Tokho in surprise, and then hung her head in silence. It had been so long since Tokho had brought up the subject she'd assumed that he'd simply been drunk when he first mentioned it.

Sonbi breathed not a word in reply.

54

“Now, Sonbi, I've been meaning to ask you about this for some time, but I've been so busy at the office that it completely slipped my mind. Hah, ha. You can't very well start in the middle of winter, though, can you? So let's make it this spring. How about it?”

His words were incredibly tender. Sonbi was so overcome with emotion that she blushed all the way to the ears.

“Nowadays, a girl can't marry into a decent family if she doesn't know how to read. And you know, I think of you a member of the family, Sonbi, so I don't see why I shouldn't help make your dreams come true . . . Especially someone like me without a son of his own. Hah, ha . . .”

Whenever Tokho opened his mouth, he always ended by saying that he had no heir—though it was more an unconscious addition than an intentional one.

“Well, what do you have to say about it?”

Tokho slid to Sonbi's side and stroked her hair. Sonbi bent back a little in her seat.

“Don't you want to go off to study?”

He craned his neck to peer into her eyes. But this was too much for Sonbi, and she gently rose to her feet.

“Why won't you answer me? Heh, heh . . . You're like a daughter to me, Sonbi . . . Why shy away from me? Sit back down! And answer me, will you?”

Sonbi had risen to her feet in confusion. She didn't want to sit back down again, but at the same time, she didn't dare just leave. She stood there at a loss as to what she should do.

Tokho looked at his watch, then jumped to his feet.

“Well, I guess I'll just have to ask you about it some other time . . . But you have to give me a straight answer, Sonbi . . . There's no reason for you to be so reserved—we're all family here . . . I don't understand why you're acting like this.”