The Girl Who Wrote Loneliness (25 page)

“We’re trying to study here.”

“So who’s stopping you?”

“We can’t concentrate with all the noise you’re making. Keep it quiet when you’re passing by.”

“Aren’t we even allowed to sing?”

“You’re no better than beggars!”

In an instant, everything turns quiet. The taut relay of words spirals into silence with that single line, “You’re no better than beggars.” The singing that had continued quietly comes to a halt as well. “You’re no better than beggars,” they said, but perhaps the words alarmed them as well. When this side keeps silent, the other side gently closes the door as well. Only the lilac tree stands between this side and the other. We stand still like that for a while, then someone starts out for our classroom. Quiet, gentle steps brush past the lilac tree. Our calves, after moving about restlessly all day long, churning out goods at the assembly line, walk in muted motion under the brightly lit window on the other side.

After this we never again sing as we leave the music room. Thus the song is still vividly carved in my chest. When flowering April comes around again, my heart fills up.

One night, while opening the door to the attic, I get a scare. Something from inside the door falls at my foot with a plop and it is dark. Utterly shocked, I’ve already let out a scream, which makes Oldest Brother look. The thing that has fallen at my foot is, unexpectedly, a wig.

“A girl, making such a big fuss.”

Oldest Brother picks up the wig and hangs it on the inside of the door. He must have hung it on a nail on the other side of the door and I had pulled the door too hard, making it fall.

“What is it,
Oppa
?”

He doesn’t answer. When I ask again what it is, the noise of the passing train cuts in. As we’re turning in for the night, before Third Brother is back, Oldest Brother explains.

“Starting tomorrow morning, I’m going to be teaching at a private tutoring center in Anyang.”

I am silent.

“I need to get there by six so no need for the two of you to wake up and get busy.”

“. . . ”

“After the class, I’ll stop by home to change, so if you can have some lunch packed for me, it’d be great.”

This time Cousin asks. “What will you be teaching?”

“English.”

At dawn, I open my eyes at the sound of Oldest Brother, cautiously turning on the light. When he sees that I’m awake, he signals with his eyes for me to go back to sleep. If I get up, this tiny room will only feel more crowded. I close my eyes, pretending I’m falling back asleep, then through half-open eyes, watch Oldest Brother’s movements. He quietly opens the attic door and, standing in front of the mirror hanging by the window that looks out to the subway station, puts on the wig on his naked head. He takes it off and puts it on
again, as if something’s not right. He tries it this way and that. When he turns around to pick up his bag from the desk, I get a glimpse of his face with the wig on and break into a giggle. The wig, parted in the middle, is a slapdash production: anyone could tell it’s a wig.

“Do I look funny?”

Oldest Brother brushes the bangs away from his forehead. But since it is a wig, and the bangs were designed to fall on his forehead, it is no use and the bangs fall back down in an instant. He looks in the mirror again.

“Do I look too weird?”

“You don’t look like you.”

Oldest Brother turns serious in front of the mirror. “Do I look like a Seoul National University student?”

I let out a laugh, still under the covers.

“I told them I was a student at Seoul National University. I mean, who would sign up for my class if they knew I was in military service.”

Taking care not to step on Third Brother, who had returned while we were sleeping and was now asleep with his face turned to the wall, Oldest Brother turns out the light.

“Get some more sleep now.”

As he opens the door to leave, I see the darkness outside through the gap. He takes down his shoes from the shelf in the dark and walks down the stairs, his footsteps making thick stomping sounds.

I hear the sound of Oldest Brother opening the wooden bathroom door at the bottom of the stairs; the sound of Oldest Brother coming out of the bathroom and pushing the gate to leave; the sound of Oldest Brother running down the alley toward the subway.

It’s five o’clock in the morning. His stomach is empty. The train that comes at dawn is as empty as his empty stomach. After teaching his class, he comes back by the same route he took at dawn, takes off his wig and hangs it on the inside of the attic door, takes off his suit and hangs it in the vinyl wardrobe, has his breakfast, set on the table in the empty room, dipping his rice in the lettuce soup, and leaves for
duty at the Community Service Center, carrying his lunch box. One day he announces with a bright face that he has been asked to teach an evening class as well. Now he is in a circular line. At dawn he puts on his wig, puts on his suit, heads to the tutoring center, teaches his class, then comes back, eats his breakfast, puts on his military uniform, sets out with his lunch box, then comes home again, puts on his suit, puts on his wig, and heads to the tutoring center.

From the mudflats deep inside me, something lifts its head with great effort and shouts, What are you trying to do? What are you trying to achieve by digging out obscure little details? Don’t try to make a summary, lining up events in chronological order. That will only make it more and more unnatural. You’re not under the illusion that life is a movie, are you? You’re not thinking life can have a linear plot, are you?

He told me, It was after my father passed away. I remember I was at the sink, he said, brushing my teeth. My father, he used to clear his throat with a dry cough, you know, in the middle of brushing his teeth, and it was after his death and I was brushing my teeth and I found myself clearing my throat with a dry cough. I stopped brushing. Unable to think the sound had come from me, I looked around for Father. Only a while later I said to myself, Ah, that’s right. Ah, that’s right. Father has passed away. I resumed brushing, feeling quite strange. That was the moment I actually felt Father’s absence for the first time. The feeling of absence, I think, can manifest itself in such unexpected places. Absence by death is especially difficult to feel at first. Gradually, we realize in our everyday lives that the person is no longer here, that we cannot see him again. Through things like a chair that he liked to sit in when he was alive; the spot where he used to keep his soapdish; the way he wore his socks—things like that. These things are not included in history. Or in chronology.

Third Brother grows more and more gaunt. I secretly put 3,000 won in his pocket, then Cousin says we are out of briquettes.

“What will we do, we’ve used up our living allowance.”

I retrieve the 3,000 won from Third Brother’s pocket and give it to Cousin.

But he grows more and more gaunt. When I take out the empty lunchbox from his schoolbag, along come handouts printed with the words “Down with Dictatorship, Abolish Yusin Constitution.” He returns late at night, takes off his clothes, drenched with the smell of teargas, lies down next to Oldest Brother and goes to sleep. He does not say much about anything. One night we are heading straight home without having to stop for groceries. We get off the bus and are walking down the tree-lined street amidst the factories when Cousin calls out, “It’s Third Brother!” On a bench under one of the trees, Third Brother is sleeping with his schoolbag tucked under his head. I shake him awake.

“
Oppa
, what are you doing, sleeping out here?”

“I thought I’d lie down for a minute, but fell asleep.”

He slowly stirs himself up. Then one morning I am packing his lunch but cannot find his lunch box.

“Get your lunch box for me.”

Still, no lunch box appears. I open the door and ask him again to get it.

“I lost it.”

“Your lunch box?”

“I was sleeping on that bench yesterday and someone took my bag.”

“Why would you sleep out there? You should come back to the room and sleep.”

Brother smiles shyly.

“The room’s crammed as it is and if I’m back that early, you two will feel uncomfortable, changing and washing up.”

One day, Oldest Brother brings to our lone, remote room, a woman with a face like a doll’s.

“This is my sister and this, my cousin.”

This doll-like woman’s name is Mi-yeong. She has huge eyes. She has long lashes, a small build, and a yellow gold necklace dangling on her long neck. She has delicate fingers, wears high heels and a short skirt. The woman stays for a while, sitting there in the room, then leaves.

“Who is she,
Oppa
?”

“. . . ”

“Your girlfriend?”

“. . . ”

“What did you bring her here for?”

“Why, you don’t like her?”

“Well, that’s not the point.”

“What is it then?”

“You should have taken her somewhere else instead of bringing her here. That’s stupid. If I were your girlfriend, I’d run away.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. It just occurred to me.”

Oldest Brother says, “Why, you little. . . .” and laughs. He tells me she wouldn’t do that but I start feeling anxious that she will someday bring him sadness.

I arrive at school one day to find a daytime program student waiting for me.

“Did you happen to take my PE uniform from the locker?”

I shake my head.

“Where did they go?”

Number fifty-six. She and I share the same desk and locker. She slams the locker shut and stomps out, carrying her schoolbag.

“I can’t wait to move on to our second year.”

In her second year, she would not have to share her classroom with us. She will move to the main building. Since our program has only a few classes, we will not move to the main building even in our third year. The student comes back and fires stinging words.

“Please keep your hands off the locker.”

When she’s gone, I step in front of the mirror. My eyes appear blank. Mi-seo walks over and asks what’s wrong.

“Her PE uniform’s missing.”

“And she says you took them?”

“. . . ”

“Why are you standing there doing nothing when you’ve been wrongly accused?”