The Girl Who Wrote Loneliness (16 page)

On the overpass, which we have to cross to get to our lone room in Industrial Complex No. 3, Cousin, shivering and shaking, puts the question to me in the end. About what we should do the following day. I, seventeen years old, breathe into my twenty-year-old cousin’s scarf and answer. I address her as sister, which I never had done before.

“I am going to do as you decide,
eonni
.”

Cousin goes on, still shivering in the icy wind.

“I don’t know what we should do, either.”

All through the following morning, Cousin and I are anxious and restless. Miss Lee comes over to deliver the firm message.

“No overtime starting today.”

When we get to the cafeteria at lunch, we realize that we are not the only anxious ones. All fifteen of us who have been accepted for school have anxious looks on our faces. We ask one another what we should do. Cousin and
I have the number two and number one positions, respectively. If Cousin and I do not start work, the conveyor is left empty. If Cousin and I refuse to work overtime, people will notice right away. The managerial staff from the administration and the production division, having caught on to the union’s plan, whirl around the production line all afternoon like a flock of black kites.

Foreman, far friendlier than usual, says to Cousin and me from behind us that we are getting paid the following day. They say that if the workers refuse overtime, we will not be able to meet the amount required for the buyers’ examination on the weekend, and that if that happens, the exports scheduled until March will come to nothing. And if that is the case, not only will the company suffer great loss, but the workers’ pay for the following month will be affected as well. And since we are starting school the following month, leaving work at five, an hour earlier than the regular finishing time at six, at that point we will no longer be able to work overtime even if we want to.

If we are to work overtime, we should have dinner, but Cousin and I cannot bring ourselves to either refuse overtime or eat dinner. When the bells rings to announce the end of regular work hours, the union members head to the lockers, instead of to the cafeteria, to change out of their uniforms and leave the factory. Cousin and I, unable to leave with them, stand on the roof.

The union members glance at us and ask, “Aren’t you getting off work?”

When Cousin and I return to the production line, it’s empty. The few people remaining in their seats are those who will be starting school and who are close to Foreman. Despite the fact that the conveyor belt is moving, and that Cousin and I are in our number two and number one positions, there aren’t enough people to keep the assembly line going. There is nothing for those remaining to do but to watch the conveyor belt move in silence.

“This is what shame is.” Cousin, who maintained composure
even in the icy wind, wells up with tears as she says, “This is what shame is.”

The following morning as we walk to work Cousin and I feel as if our footsteps weigh a thousand
geun
. For the first time since we started working here, our punch card is stamped with red letters that read
Tardy
. When we arrive at the production line, those who refused overtime glance at Cousin and me all at once. I feel ashamed. Yes, this is what shame is. Unable to bear the stinging glares, Cousin and I go stand in the bathroom instead of sitting at our workstations. The mirror above the taps reflects our faces. Out of the blue, I blurt out, “I’m going to be a writer.”

The bell rings to kick off the workday, but we remain standing there, gazing at each other in the mirror. I continue.

“I don’t care about anything else but writing. Even right now, I’m not a bit ashamed. Not a bit!”

Cousin says to me, “Don’t bite your lips. Doesn’t it hurt?” Then she steps closer to the tap, turns on the water and, cupping the water in her hands, splashes it on the mirror. Then she wipes the mirror with her hands, making squeaky noises. Until Foreman calls from outside, “Number One! Number Two!” to drag us out of the bathroom, Cousin keeps cupping the water and splashing and wiping the mirror, over and over.

Father, who has come to attend Oldest Brother’s graduation, bringing with him Third Brother’s tuition, which he has struggled to put together, sits at one end of our room wearing an agonized look. Father asks Oldest Brother various questions. Are we renting the room on full deposit or monthly payments? How much is the monthly rent?
After sitting for a long time with his agonized face, Father leaves for Cheongju to ask for a loan from his uncle, seeking to get a full-deposit rental contract on our current room, at least, even if he cannot get us another room, so that he can ease the burden on Oldest Brother, who won’t be able to earn money for the time being.

He returns that evening. Having failed to secure a loan, Father is now in even deeper agony. Mom sits next to Father and expresses her bitterness toward the uncle in Cheongju who refused the loan. Saying that when the uncle, the son of a widow, was attending school away from home, Father sold the rice he had harvested to send him tuition, that this is why people say goodwill is all useless. Oldest Brother tells her not to worry. That we will manage somehow. Third Brother, who has been staring at the floor, stands up abruptly and walks out of the room. Father lies down with his hand over his forehead and lets out a moan, while Oldest Brother sits at the desk next to the vinyl wardrobe with his back erect, staring intently into the pages of his textbook on criminal law.

When Mom, overcome with disappointment and sorrow, starts to cry, I squat down next to her and cry with her. Cousin starts crying as well.

Unable to forget to this day, Mom recalls what happened sixteen years ago each time Father’s uncle from Cheongju comes to visit the ancestral grave, each time she has to prepare food for a memorial rite in his wife’s place.

“You wouldn’t know what it took for your father, considering what kind of a man he is, to go all the way to Cheongju. Just the thought of that day turns the back of my neck stiff.”

Until school begins, each time the union decides to refuse overtime, Cousin and I sit at our number two and number one workstations at the assembly line, our heads hanging low.

The third time Miss Myeong
summons us, she calls us in to the managing director’s office. All of those who will be starting school are summoned there. Managing Director says, “The company is on the brink of collapse because of the union.” He jerks himself up from his swivel chair, his body in a pose that seems to say he can no longer stand it.

“I cannot believe that, in the middle of all this, you, who will be going to school with support from the company, remain members of the union. If you do not sign these withdrawal forms right this minute, your admission will be canceled!”

We sit with our backs against one another and fill out the withdrawal forms. Our withdrawal forms are posted on the company bulletin board. Next to it is a list of benefits for those who have withdrawn from the union. They will have priority in receiving payment, they will get a raise . . .

Cousin and I now avoid Union Chief. There is no way we can look at him. When I am overcome with the shame of looking away from him, I think of the hungry mallards searching for ears of rice on the snowy fields of winter. I remind myself of the promise I made one day to go see the white birds asleep with their faces toward the stars . . . I, seventeen years old and in no position to refuse overtime, pull out a sheet of paper on the conveyor belt and write to Chang.

I don’t care whether I joined the union or not. I don’t care whatever went on with the withdrawal forms. If only I could join others when they refuse overtime, I think I would be satisfied. I cannot look Union Chief in the eye, a man who treated me so kindly. If we see him standing over there, Cousin and I stop or turn around without getting done what it was that we had to do. When we see his bicycle at the market, we quickly turn toward another street. At lunchtime up in the cafeteria, when we seem him standing in line, Cousin
and I give up eating and walk back down . . .

I exert pressure on my pen and press down hard as I write.

Some day, I am going to see the beautiful birds asleep with their faces toward the sky. No matter how people look down upon us, I will never abandon this hope. I will live on with the pledge that I will someday go see them with my own eyes. The birds sleeping in the forest with their faces toward the stars will forgive me, won’t they. They will forgive everything that went on in this world. I will go and see with my own eyes the flock of egrets beautifully blanketing the forest with peaceful sleep. Do you want to come with me?

No matter what promise I make to Chang on the conveyor belt, going to school, for me, at seventeen, going to meet Ha Gye-suk and the others, is an act that makes me betray people, and makes me look away from them in shame. It leaves me with nothing else to do but to follow Cousin’s footsteps and crawl into our lone room.