Your Republic Is Calling You (9 page)

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?

M
A-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.

K
I-YONG LIKES
going to Seoul Art Cinema, where the old Hollywood Theater used to stand. The theater shows the works of filmmaking titans of times past, relying on government funding to finance its operations. He feels safe and cozy, sitting inside a dark, empty theater. He sometimes relaxes so much that he falls asleep. Here, he doesn't feel like an outsider. People come to see old films and they don't care who else is watching. These movie-goers are capitalist snobs, who put on a show of being hip and ironic to conceal their snobbery. Large cities breed anonymity precisely because of this attitude, this pretension of sophistication. Everyone can live together, each person's real self hidden away. Homosexuals, criminals, prostitutes, and illegal immigrants like Ki-yong. But he's not sure if his analysis of his fellow movie-goers is correct. He would probably never be able to understand these young Seoulites. They may be pretentious, they may not be. Maybe, because they grew up watching all kinds of movies from all over the world and got tired of Hollywood's current predictable fare, they have
gone back to the origin of all the copies. Maybe they have ended up sincerely loving Luchino Visconti and Ozu Yasujiro.

Ki-yong didn't live the cultural experiences the others take for granted. He spent his childhood ignorant about King Kong and Mazinger Z, Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan, Donald Duck and Woody Woodpecker, Superman and Spiderman. Instead, he had to study Steve McQueen's
Papillon
and
The Great Escape,
movies that played on TV during every holiday in the South, and experienced
Gone With the Wind
and
Ben-Hur
on cable. He didn't know about the time the soccer titan Cha Bum-Kun was a Bundesliga star. He couldn't say, like the others, that he remembered the huge pop phenomena Kim Chooja and Na Hoon-Ah. At Liaison Office 130, he memorized and rememorized cultural facts and took quizzes on a weekly basis, but he learned his cultural history only intellectually. He could answer the questions but couldn't feel what the answers meant, and this made him think of himself as a human made of circuits and microchips. He knew more facts about Cho Yong-pil and Aster and Seo Tae-ji than anyone else, and could rattle off the history of professional baseball or the student movement of the 1980s, but this knowledge didn't fill the emptiness. He remembered the shockwaves created by Lee Mun-se's second album and the Korean baseball series of '86 and '87 when Sun Dong-yul's Haitai beat the reigning champs, Samsung, but that memory could never be a substitute for his emotional citizenship.

The tedium exuded by these movie buffs intimidated Ki-yong. Everything that elicited the disinterested comment "This is so lame" was unknown, or at least new, to him. He devoted energy and time figuring out which parts were boring to others. It was the life of a transplant, having to give his all just to understand the mundane.

At the Anguk-dong Rotary, he walks toward Nagwon Arcade. Old men are clustered in front of the Seniors' Welfare Foundation, selling magnifying glasses and black-market cigarettes. Others, wearing wool caps, wander among the peddlers, trying to amuse themselves. Ki-yong weaves through the cigarette smoke billowing from the groups of old men, passes the rice cake stores displaying special prices for weddings, and goes up the stairs of Nagwon Arcade. Nagwon—
Paradise.
The normally ordinary word feels unfamiliar to him all of a sudden. When he was young, he went around referring to socialist paradise this and socialist paradise that. At the time he never doubted that the phrase referred to Pyongyang and North Korea. But now he thinks it is a brazen slogan. Paradise? Was it Hitler who said that the masses are fooled by big lies?