From Wonso Pond (39 page)

As he gazed out at the red roof of the salt bath on Wolmido, in plain view on the other side of the marsh, two questions kept circling his mind. Were they factory girls? And was that really Sonbi? He kept his eyes peeled just in case the procession passed by again on the way back.

“Hey, man, snap out of it. You see a few factory girls and you get that worked up?”

“Factory girls? Do you know for sure they're factory girls?”

“What, are you crazy? Of course they're factory girls. What the hell else are they?”

“So they're not students going to school?”

“Hell, man! You have your head in the clouds? Known throughout all of Inch'on for his treachery, the tiger boss with the twisted moustache—he just passed by, and you missed him?”

Ch'otchae listened to the man, then he looked over at Wolmido once again. Factory girls . . . Now that he knew they were factory girls, he was certain that the woman who'd caught his attention was indeed Sonbi.

“Shit, you're smitten, aren't ya? Hah, ha . . . But you need some of this, you know.”

His buddy made the sign of a coin with his fingers. As Ch'otchae strapped his load of dirt onto his back and then rose to his feet with a grunt, he looked into the distance at the smokestack of the Taedong Spinning Mill. From the top of it, as always, streamed out puff after puff of thick, black smoke.

99

That smokestack! Rising up into the air as though it was about to pierce the sky . . . Staring at it was enough to make Ch'otchae feel dizzy. He had worked there almost every day as a laborer while the mill was being built. When they'd put up the main building of the factory itself, he hadn't thought the work very dangerous. But as he recalled carrying up all those bricks to construct the smokestack, he felt dizzy even now, and everything seemed to spin in a circle around him.

Making his way up those rickety wooden ramps with three dozen bricks on his back, he'd been in a constant state of fear that the planks might collapse. When he looked down to the ground hundreds of feet below him, he felt like he was staring into a deep pool that was spinning round and round. He could feel his legs trembling beneath him and every hair on his head stood up on end. And even after he managed to pull himself together, he had only to start climbing once again to feel the smokestack swaying back and forth. Perhaps it was simply an effect of the perceived danger, but the higher up the smokestack he climbed, the more clearly he could actually see it sway. And each time he thought he saw it move, he was convinced that it was on the verge of collapse, and that he, too, was going to tumble to his death.

Knowing full well the danger involved, Ch'otchae never failed to climb up that wooden path each morning. And each time he did, he'd think, Oh, no, I've done it again!

As Ch'otchae recalled climbing the stairs, he froze in his tracks without realizing it—it was as though he had just climbed to the top of the smokestack. The dirt on his back felt the same as a load of bricks, and the sweat streamed down his lower back. His arms and legs started to tremble, and only after taking a good look around him and closing his eyes for a moment did he finally manage to bring himself to his senses. He realized that he'd probably never be able to get this smokestack out of his mind, not until the day he died. Oh, that terrifying smokestack!
He was so sick and tired of seeing it in his dreams. He couldn't count the number of times he'd had nightmares of falling from the top of it. How many of my friends have fallen to their deaths! How many of us have given our lives to these people—have no other choice but to wager our very lives for the sake of a single day's pay!

Ch'otchae's thoughts drifted again to the factory girls, and to Sonbi. He'd had a picture of Sonbi in his head all day long. He made it back to the streets of Inch'on quite late after he'd finished work. By the time he entered the soup shop, his buddies were already back from the labor market, eating their meals and drinking
makkolli
as they whiled away their time joking amongst themselves. Nothing was more comforting than this soup shop for these men. It gave them the chance to hang out with friends with a good buzz off the rice wine.

Ch'otchae had a cup of
makkolli
and then downed a bubbling hot bowl of soup almost in a single gulp. He stole a few glances around the room, very carefully, so as to escape any notice. Ever since he met Sinch'ol, he always worried that there might be a spy or two lurking in these places where so many people gathered. Outside, the same sort of thought would invariably cross his mind when he saw a man in a suit or someone particularly well dressed. In any case, it had come to the point where, besides Sinch'ol and a few buddies of his who worked at the docks, Ch'otchae looked at almost everyone with suspicion.

Only after checking out the shop for a while did he feel enough at ease to enter the inner room. He wanted to sleep a while in the heated room that was available to the shop's clients before heading back to his own place. It was boiling hot inside the room, and the stench of booze was almost as thick as smoke. He went to the warmest part of the floor and found a wooden pillow to rest his head on, but as soon as he lay down, that long line of factory girls came into his mind, followed by an image of Sonbi. Just then, he heard one of his buddies come in from outside shouting.

“Just look at him! Already dead asleep, are ya? Come on, wake up!”

Ch'otchae opened his eyes, but only when his friend kicked him in the backside.

“What the hell! Just leave me alone, will you? I'm trying to get some sleep.”

His friend was drunk and staggering, and now he scowled at Ch'otchae.

“What's your problem anyway, man? Not paying for drinks anymore . . . How much you make today, anyway? Just buy me one drink, will ya? Hand over some money, man, mon-ey!”

His head swayed from side to side, and he finally collapsed to the ground. The sand caught in the folds of his clothes poured out onto the floor.

“Ha, ha . . . Oh, man! Those factory chicks sure are something . . . all those girls . . . they're killing me! Hah, ha . . .

Oh, dong-dong, one autumn night
The moon, dong-dong, is shining bright
Of my love, dong-dong, my thoughts
Way up there, dung-dung, are caught

Fall is here, my boy, and the moon is shinin'. Now, don't tell me you ain't got no girl! Hah, ha . . . Or wait, you aren't hitched yet, are ya?”

100

Ch'otchae stared at him without a word in reply. His friend's eyes were red and seemed to glimmer at the mention of the opposite sex. Ch'otchae imagined Sonbi for a moment but then felt something he wasn't used to feeling. His heart was now racing, and he jumped to his feet despite himself. His friend stared at him as he got up to go.

“Hey, man. Why won't you answer me?”

Instead of replying, Ch'otchae smiled and made his way out to the kitchen. The woman running the place had been busy working her way around the kitchen when she happened to notice Ch'otchae coming out.

“Mister, you owe me money today.”

Ch'otchae stopped. “How much altogether?”

“Well . . . fifty chon.” She turned up a face with flat features as she softly studied the expression on his. The tables just behind them were still surrounded by workers slurping away at their soup.

“Here, take thirty for now.”

“You're coming back tomorrow?”

“We'll see. I'll get you your money, sooner or later.”

“Yes, well . . .”

The soup lady clearly wanted her remaining twenty chon now, but Ch'otchae ignored her and called out to his friend, who was also getting up to go.

“You're drunk, man. Just lay down and sleep it off.”

“You mean you're not going to buy me a drink?”

“Some other time, I promise. Today I'm flat broke.”

“Broke? Oh, come on.”

His friend kept clinging to him, but Ch'otchae finally managed to drive him off and make his way outside. Would men like him ever develop a class consciousness? Ch'otchae wondered. Before he'd met Sinch'ol, he himself had bought alchohol the very instant any money fell into his hands. When he wasn't drunk, his mind always felt clouded and his feelings boxed-in, which he found unbearable. The others had hard lives, too, but they had women and children at home, and after a day's work they had the comfort of hearing: “Daddy's home!” or “Honey, go get some rice with that money.” But Ch'otchae had no one to share his feelings with, and when he got home all he could do was stare at the wall. It was no wonder he used to get angry with himself and rush to the tavern. But now that he had met Sinch'ol, Ch'otchae had given up both smoke and the bottle. He tried to avoid all the idle chatter, and was more likely to be found retreating into his own mind, even though his friends gave him a hard time. “Hey man,” they'd joke. “What's the matter with you? Did some girl make you go dry?”

Ch'otchae walked slowly down the street, ever aware of his immediate surroundings. For fear that a spy might be following him, he paid careful attention to each alleyway as he made his way back to his landlord's house.

Without a single light turned on to greet him, Ch'otchae's room seemed rather lonely. And tonight, for some reason, he felt confined in this room and particularly bored, so he toyed with the idea of going out to see Sinch'ol. He figured that Sinch'ol probably wasn't at home, though, so he simply sat down and leaned against the wall. He always went to bed without lighting a lamp. Because he had grown up in dark rooms as a child, he truly enjoyed sitting in the dark like this. And if for some reason he did have to turn on a light, he would grow restless, and his eyes would start to sting—he hated it.

Oh, Sonbi! Was that really her? Maybe she's even seen the notes that I deliver there every day. But then again, can she even read? Not
likely! They did say there's a night school in the factory, though, didn't they? Who knows, maybe she has learned the Korean alphabet . . . As these thoughts now raced through his mind, so too came another—he should learn how to read too. There had to be some place they'd teach him! Maybe he could even ask Sinch'ol. This thought made Ch'otchae break out into a smile. That a full-grown man going on thirty should repeat the letters of the alphabet in front of Sinch'ol seemed quite silly. And more than that, he didn't have the need for it or the time to spare.

Ch'otchae slept soundly for some time, and then gently rose out of bed. He felt completely reenergized. As he opened the door and quietly made his way outside, the clock in the neighbor's house struck two. Like clockwork, he always walked out of the gate at two a.m.

The usually lively streets of Inch'on had come to a complete standstill, and only the occasional light from a lantern flickered here and there in the darkness. He stood outside his gate for some time, carefully taking in his surroundings, when suddenly he felt a rush of emotion and was struck with an indescribable sense of excitement. He heard the faint sound of a foghorn from a steamship far off in the distance, softly echoing through the city streets. He set off without letting his guard down for even an instant. When he finally made it to Sinch'ol's boarding house, Sinch'ol gave him a hearty welcome and invited him inside. Ch'otchae could tell that Sinch'ol had just gotten home after finishing his work. He could see the exhausted look in his narrowed eyes. Sinch'ol rubbed his eyes and took a good look at Ch'otchae. There was a flicker of anxiety in Ch'otchae's darkened face, but there was also a certain dignity to it, something more courageous that glowed.

101

Back when Sinch'ol had first met Ch'otchae, he had thought of him as nothing more than a simple, honest worker—or rather, Ch'otchae had been so unbelievably naïve that Sinch'ol had taken him for something of a fool. Yet in the course of only a few months, Ch'otchae seemed like a completely different person. When Sinch'ol sat face to face with him, as he was doing now, he even found himself feeling somewhat intimidated.

“You'll have to be careful, my friend,” he said to Ch'otchae. It seems the police have begun a crack down by following the trail of our leaflets—so you've got to be extra cautious.”

Ch'otchae had been staring straight at Sinch'ol with wide-open eyes, but now he shifted his gaze to the ground. It seemed as though they both might be arrested before long. He hoped that only the uneducated people like him would be arrested, those unable to take on the more important roles. If by any chance important figures like Sinch'ol were captured, the future looked quite bleak for the laborers in Inch'on, who were only just on the point of coming into class consciousness. If Ch'otchae or the other laborers were arrested, they would most likely be able to put up with the beatings—no matter how bad they were. But could Sinch'ol and the others? With such soft, white flesh? This worried Ch'otchae more than anything.

Whenever Sinch'ol sat face to face with Ch'otchae, whenever he had an important mission for him to carry out, he always phrased it like this: “This is what we've got to do”—the we meaning we, the workers. Yet the way Ch'otchae saw things, Sinch'ol was the one person who seemed different from the others. Whenever Sinch'ol spoke to him, Ch'otchae almost always felt a rush of emotion that was hard to describe: He's doing all this for our sake, working so hard to help us open our eyes . . .

“They've decided reports should be made once a month from now on, so why don't you come again on the fifteenth of next month? You've got to watch out, though, you understand? Stay on your guard around friends, and of course you know very well to stay away from anything like alcohol or women, so I won't say anything more about that . . .”