PEN American Center - Hwang Sok-Yong Reads from The Old Garden

Excerpt from The Old Garden by Hwang Sok-yong
Translated by Jay Oh.

2

After I was discharged from the hospital, I went back to my sister’s highrise apartment building. I hated the place. When every family member went into their own room and closed the door, it was just like a prison, everyone perfectly locked down. There was no trace of the old village left in that neighborhood. All I could see were the interiors of cars, paved roads, and sidewalks overlaid with colorful blocks in various shapes.

One day I remembered a comrade who had finished his sentence seven or eight years ago. I asked around and found his phone number. When I called, at first he could not say a word. I patiently waited for him to calm down.

“Everyone has already heard that you are back. I called Seoul and everywhere else, but they kept saying we should leave you alone, let you rest a bit. We have a place for you here, too, we were just waiting for you to contact us.”

“So how’s everyone?”

“Good. Well-fed, a roof over head . . . the world has changed so much.”

He mumbled, somewhat like an old man. He was in his mid-forties. All my friends would be almost fifty or older. A generation was gone.

Kwangjoo. The word did not thump my heart any more. Before, whenever I envisioned that city’s name, my whole body became enflamed as if there was a ring of fire around that word. Now it sounded like a famous tourist attraction. How many years had passed by? I began counting by nodding. One, two . . . seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. Would I recognize anyone? In my mind they were still babyfaced and gawky and so young. The dead are forever young.

I decided to take a trip and first unpacked my bags from the prison, spreading the contents all over the room. There was shabby underwear, a couple of winter sweaters, thick woolen socks, a muffler and knitted mittens, a few books, an unfinished tube of toothpaste and a new toothbrush with its bristle still stiff, a hand exerciser, and a golden turtle made by non-violent criminals. The hand exerciser, along with the Buddhist prayer beads, was made by those who worked at the wood shop during their spare moments. A Chinese juniper stick was carved into an oval shape, then cut wooden pins were densely wedged in. On chilly mornings when my hands were frozen, they said, I should put it in one hand and roll it around inside my palm. It would be like getting an acupuncture, which would prevent frostbite and help blood circulation. I put the well-worn thing in my hand, then opened and closed it. The golden turtle was a large piece of laundry soap skillfully carved and painted glistening gold. It had a place of honor on top of the shelf next to the toilet, for good fortune. As soon as I had come outside, these things turned into shabby and pathetic junk.

“Why don’t you throw it away, all of it.”

My sister was looking in from behind.

“I will . . . later.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I want to see some old friends.”

“Yes, I think it’ll be good for you to change your environment. We’ll look for a place for you while you’re gone.”

“My own place?”

“You know, you have to start preparing for a real life, get married, all that. Mother made me promise again and again before she passed away. There’s something she left for you, too.”

“Do you happen to know . . . Professor Han’s address?”

“I told you, didn’t I? I have her letters. I guess it’ll be okay . . .”

She came closer and sat down.

“I wasn’t going to tell you until later, but . . . she’s dead.”

I took a deep breath, broken in two, then slowly exhaled.

“At first, I just put them away, but we didn’t know when you’d be out, so I opened and read them.”

My head down, I just stared at the floor. My sister silently left the room then, a little later, opened the door and passed me a handful of letters.

“I’m not sure this is the right thing to do. I thought I’d give them to you much later.”

The door was closed. There was the familiar circular handwriting of Yoon Hee. The envelopes, bearing the address of a small city college where she once worked, had become discolored and yellow during the last few years. The letters were sent to my sister’s university. There were three of them. One was dated November 1995, the next February 1996, and the last simply Summer 1996.

Dear Hyun Woo,

It has been so long since I wrote your name down. I feel like I’m addressing someone who is no longer in this world. It breaks my heart.

Yes, it’s been fifteen years since you left Kalmae. Did you receive the letter I sent to the prison on the year of the Olympics?

I’ll tell you later, but that was a very difficult time for me. After that, I left the country for five years. Thanks to you, I painted a lot. I quit after two solo exhibitions, and now I don’t want to paint any more. I guess I’m sick of this greedy world so full of cultural products. Meanwhile, you’re hanging in there in the middle of it all like an icicle hanging from the slate roof of a shed, precarious but pure.

This letter is written by me, not your wife, not your child. I am no one to you. Perhaps it’ll never reach you in prison. I wonder when you will be able to read my letters. So I thought of Professor Oh. At least, I knew the address of her university. Your comrades once told me your sentence would be reduced one day, but I can no longer welcome any change at this point. I’m not saying I don’t want you to be released. The world has changed, and people are beginning to find errors, too late and it’s so lopsided. Then from the other side, those who caused many of those errors are now saying, ‘see, we were right!’ Ah, my precious one, what are you thinking now?

I’m not well. I know it’s nothing serious, but I’m going to the doctor today. I want to quote what you used to quote often. “Even during the tempest, time passes.” It’s quite windy today. The glass windows are rattling. I would like to believe that even the tiny window of yours might let in many days of wind and rain and sunlight, nights of starlight and moonlight, the sound of birds and maybe even of people living in the distance.

I dream about you once in a while. But you know what’s strange? You’re always the person I knew in Kalmae. In my dreams you never answer me, no matter how many times I ask you to. I run around the kitchen, trying to prepare something delicious for you, but when I come back, the door to the terrace is wide open, so is the entrance. A strong wind has come into the house and the window drapes are fluttering. Already you’re gone. Sometimes we are at the beach. Remember what you used to say? Let’s go to the last village on the peninsula, where there is no checkpoint. We can weave fishnets and harvest seaweed, spend a few days, bake some potatoes for dinner. At the beach, I gaze at the boundless horizon. When I turn around, you are returning to the mountain, swinging your arms. You don’t turn around, not even once, and I call for you forever. Was that your imprisoned spirit?

I’ll write again after the doctor’s appointment. I think it’s nothing. I am a prisoner here until you return to this side of life, a life of dust. I’ll be perfectly healthy again.

November 1995, Yoon Hee

Ah, I’m shocked how long it has been since the last time.

So I wrote to you the day before I came to this hospital. I haven’t forgotten you. I was a little surprised at first, but not too sad. They said I have cancer. It’s already quite advanced. My body is shrinking, like a taut balloon losing air. But I still think clearly, and I think of Kalmae during the terrible long nights here. I think of everything, every facet of it, until I’m satisfied that I have collected my memories, down to the last, tiny fragment, then I fall asleep. The next evening, however, there are still things I’ve forgotten that must be added.

Do you remember that outdoor bathroom in the spooky bamboo field behind the fruit shed? The one with mud walls and ridiculously long and wide wooden supports and inhabited by monstrously big crickets. There was a piece of wooden board with a hole in it, and the container underneath was so deep. You used to joke that it took awhile to hear something land at the bottom when you did your business. Once I had a stomachache in the middle of the night. I think I had eaten a bad watermelon. I begged you to escort me with a flashlight. I felt like I had returned to my childhood. You know that I am the eldest daughter. Once I turned ten, I had to go to the bathroom by myself and guard the door for my siblings, suppressing my own fear. Father at the time was always drunk, mom was out selling things and came back just before the curfew began. So when I say childhood, I mean before I started school. Daddy, are you there? Yes, I’m here. Don’t worry, take your time. Daddy, daddy! I’m here. I kept calling you like I used to then. You said to me, If you’re scared, leave the door open. There’s a cool breeze, and the stars are bright. I peeked through the slightly opened door. There really was a night sky full of stars, like golden sand scattered everywhere. Look, there goes a shooting star. I saw it, too. A long, delicate line of light stretched across and then disappeared into darkness. I remembered a night like that while lying in this hospital bed and receiving painkillers.

Jung Hee has been taking care of me. It has already been three months. Of course, she is married now and has two children.Mom visits from time to time, but I begged her not to come too often, because she just sits over there and quietly weeps. Jung Hee will mail this letter for me.

I wish you were near me. Maybe it is better this way, I look so awful now. Flowers are still beautiful when dried out and dying, there’s beauty while they fade away. Why does a person’s body get so terribly destroyed?

February 1996, Yoon Hee

The doctor notified my family of something today. I read everything in Jung Hee’s uncontrollable sobs. He must have told her to be prepared or something like that. Around noon, mom came by with a minister and a couple of her fellow churchgoers. Are you still a materialist? I’m not being sarcastic. I adore their faith. Who knows if there is something beyond the darkness. Still, if I could carry on longer. I want to see you once.

The hospital grounds were once filled with acacia flowers, so familiar from my youth. They are gone, swept away, and the world is covered with dark green.

After we left that place, I once painted your young face. Later, in the empty space I painted myself, older, as I looked then. You looked like my son.

Here’s a lyric from a popular song. “Why can’t love survive time? Why is love just like death?”

I once read in a Buddhist scripture. When the body dies, the part one was most attached to deteriorates first.

You in there, me out here, that’s how we spent a lifetime. It was tough, but let us make peace with all the days. Goodbye, my darling.

Summer 1996, Your Yoon Hee

P.S. My sister passed away three days later, in the evening of July 21. According to her wish, her body was cremated. Before she died she said these words to me. I’m going to Kalmae, tell Mr. Oh, if you see him later, tell him to please come there. She made me promise, so I did. I do not know when Mr. Oh will be able to receive this letter, but I wanted you to know.

Han Jung Hee

After persevering in solitary confinement for a long time, your small emotions are mostly hidden deep underneath a thick layer of insensitivity. Showing them helps no one. In the beginning, you forget words. It’s an easy one. You can’t remember when last you actually wanted to use them. More words disappear from your mind, even the names of those around you. The next step is when you cannot recall names of everyday things that are right in front of you. Wait a minute, what was that thing called? Then comes the symptom of muttering to yourself. Hey, it’s time to sleep, or that guard is such a stickler, or you fart and complain to yourself, gee, that stinks. Among the prisoners, those with long sentences rarely smile or cry. During the audio-and-visual education lessons, when they show you movies, prisoners shed their tears in darkness and cry to their heart’s content. Their eyes are red and bloodshot when they walk out of the room. For those who have spent too much time in solitary confinement, however, their ability to express feelings is taken away. It is impossible to empathize. You forget words, feelings. Even your memories get bleached away.

I sat there in the room in a daze, her letters in my hand. Startled, I put the letters back in their envelopes, then put them in the innermost pocket of the travel bag I had packed. My nephew was not home yet, probably he would be working late again. My brother-in-law and I sat in the living room while my sister prepared dinner. We sat a little apart on a sofa and stared at the television without talking. In between programs there was a cooking segment. A prim woman in her thirties wearing an apron put out pots and pans and began cooking.

“In this hour, we’ll make a soup with dried pollack. As many of you know, it is made in many different regions, a very well-known cure for hangovers. It’s easy to make, and it is very soothing, a perfect soup to comfort those troubled stomachs the morning after.”

Her hair was neatly pulled into a ponytail, a few strands falling to the side secured by a simple barrette in the shape of a butterfly. The neck of her sweater was modest, and her apron had blue stripes and was edged with frills. She looked like a proper housewife, an ordinary woman such as are found everywhere in the world.

“Here are the ingredients. We need dried pollack, ginger extract, chopped garlic, and some pepper for seasoning. Fifty grams of ground beef, and to season the meat we need one teaspoon of soy sauce, three tablespoons of chopped garlic, a little bit of pepper and one teaspoon of sesame oil. Also needed are one scallion, chopped, one egg, and a little salt.”

Staring at the television and thinking of a warm pollack soup for a family, my eyes welled up and a tear rolled down my cheek. My brother-in-law saw this and was about to say something, but he turned around and lit a cigarette, pretending he did not notice anything. I stood up surreptitiously and sneaked into the bathroom. For the first time in a long time, I looked at myself reflected in a big mirror.My closely cropped hair was half gray, which made me look tired. Both eyes were bloodshot, and underneath them were two crescent bags deeply creased and shadowed. Without the prison uniform I looked like the old man I was. I washed my face with cold water. I dried my face, took a big breath through my nose, and went back to the living room. Both my sister and my brother-in-law pretended not to have noticed anything and remained silent. That was how I said goodbye to Han Yoon Hee.