Han Kang - Human Acts

Now begins the process of forgetting the seven slaps. One per day, then it’ll be over and done within a week. Today, then, is that first day.

She turns the key in the lock and steps inside her rented room. She removes her shoes and lines them up neatly, then lies down on the floor, on her side, without even bothering to unbutton her coat. She rests her left cheek on her folded arms. The right cheek is still swelling. The upward pressure prevents her from opening her right eye properly. The toothache that had begun in her upper molars throbs up to her temples.

After lying in the same position for close on twenty minutes, she gets up. Stripping down to her white underwear, she hangs up her clothes, slides her feet into her slippers and shuffles out to the washroom. A scoop of cold water from the washbowl to splash onto her swollen face. She opens her mouth as far as she can manage, and brushes her teeth so gently it’s more like a caress. The phone rings, then cuts off. She dries her wet feet with the towel, and as soon as she steps back into the room the phone rings again. She reaches out to pick up the receiver, then changes her mind and yanks the cord out at the wall.

‘What will happen if I answer?’ she mumbles to herself, rolling out the thin mattress and cotton quilt. She isn’t hungry. She could force herself to eat something, but it would only give her indigestion. It’s cold under the quilt, and she huddles into a ball. That phone call just now would have been from the office; perhaps the boss would come over. She would have to answer his questions. I’m okay, it’s just that they hit me. No, only slaps. I can still come to work. I’m okay, I don’t need to go to the hospital. My face is a bit swollen, that’s all . Good thing she’d pulled the cord out.

As the quilt’s cocoon starts to warm up, she cautiously straightens out. Outside the window, it is six o’clock and already dark. The light from the street lamp glows dully orange through a section of the glass. Once her tension has dissipated a little thanks to the warmth and her comfortable position, she turns her mind to the task at hand.

Now, how am I going to forget the first slap?

When the man struck her the first time, she didn’t make a sound. Neither did she cringe away in anticipation of the next slap. Rather than jumping up from her seat, hiding under the interrogation room’s table, or running to the door, she waited quietly, holding her breath. Waited for the man to stop, to stop hitting her. The second time, the third time, even the fourth time she told herself would surely be the last. Only when the palm of his hand came flying towards her face for the fifth time did she think, he’s not going to stop, he’s just going to keep on hitting me . After the sixth time, she wasn’t thinking anything any more. She’d stopped counting. But when the last slap had been delivered and the man plumped down across the table from her, lolling against the back of the folding chair, she silently added another two to her mental tally. Seven.

His face was utterly ordinary. Thin lips, no noticeable irregularities to his features. He wore a pale yellow shirt with a wide collar, and his grey suit trousers were held up by a belt. Its buckle gleamed. Had they met by chance in the street, she would have taken him for some run-of-the-mill company manager or section chief.

‘Bitch. A bitch like you, in a place like this? Anything could happen, and no one would find out.’

At this point, the force of the slap had already burst the capillaries in her cheek, and the man’s fingernails had broken her skin. But Eun-sook hadn’t known that yet. She stared blankly across at the man’s face. ‘Listen to what I’m telling you, if you don’t want to die in some ditch where not even the rats and crows will find you. Tell me where that bastard is.’

She had met up with the translator — ‘that bastard’ — a fortnight ago, at a bakery by Cheonggye stream. It was the day the weather had suddenly changed; she remembered having to rummage through her winter clothes to find a sweater to go out in. She used a napkin to blot away the wet patch left by the cup of barley tea, then placed the proofs on the table, facing the translator. Take your time, sir . While she occupied herself with tearing off pieces of the crunchy streusel bread, washing each mouthful down with a sip of cold tea, he went through the manuscript with a fine-tooth comb. He took almost an hour all told, occasionally asking her opinion on minor amendments and additions. Lastly, he suggested that they go through the table of contents together. She brought her chair round to his side of the table and went through the proofs page by page, double-checking the amendments and table of contents. Before they parted, she asked how she should contact him when the book came out. He smiled.

‘I’ll go and look for it in a bookshop.’

She took an envelope out of her bag and held it out to him.

‘It’s the royalties for the first edition. The boss said he wanted you to have it in advance.’ The translator took the envelope without speaking, and slid it into the inner pocket of his jacket. ‘How shall we get any further royalties to you?’ ‘I’ll be in touch, later on.’

The impression he’d given was far removed from that of a wanted criminal. If anything, he’d come across as somewhat timid. His skin had had a yellowish cast, hinting at some problem with his liver, though perhaps it was simply down to having spent so much time indoors. The same went for his paunch and fleshy jaw. ‘I’m very sorry, making you come all this way on such a cold day.’ She’d smiled inwardly at such unwarranted courtesy from someone who was by far her senior.

‘This was in your drawer, you little slut … that bastard wrote it, and you’re telling me you don’t know where he is?’

Avoiding the man’s eyes as he flung the bundle of proofs onto the table, she looked up instead at the dusty tube of the fluorescent lamp. He’s going to hit me again , she thought, and blinked.

She had no idea what made her think of the fountain at just that moment. Behind her closed eyelids, glittering jets of water sprayed up into the June sky. Eighteen years old and passing by on the bus, she’d screwed her eyes tight shut. Glancing off one droplet after another, sharp little shards of sunlight burrowed through her heat-flushed eyelids, stinging her pupils. She got off the bus at the stop in front of her house and went straight to the public phone booth. Shrugging her satchel onto the floor, she swiped at the sweat trickling down over her forehead, inserted a coin into the slot, dialled 114 and waited. ‘The Provincial Office complaints department, please.’ She dialled the number she was given and waited again. ‘I’ve just seen water coming out of the fountain, and I don’t think it should be allowed.’ Tremulous at first, her voice became clearer as she carried on speaking. ‘What I mean is, how can it have started operating again already? It’s been dry ever since the uprising began and now it’s back on again, as though everything’s back to normal. How can that be possible?

‘Why give his contact details to some assistant editor he’s never met before, when even his own family don’t know how to get in touch with him?’

Blinking rapidly, she managed to say that she doesn’t know, she honestly doesn’t know.

He slammed his fist down on the table and she recoiled, her hand automatically flinching up to her cheek, as though she’d been hit again. And only then, upon lowering her hand, did she stare in surprise at her bloodied palm.

How am I going to forget? she wonders, in the darkness.

How can I forget that first slap?