Han Kang - Human Acts

The eyes of the man, who had examined her in silence at first, calm and composed like someone about to carry out an entirely practical item of business.

Herself, who, when he’d raised his hand, had sat there thinking: surely he’s not going to hit me .

The first blow, that had seemed to jolt her neck out of alignment.

The publisher’s niece, a lively, cheerful young woman who frequently ran errands for them, dropped by the office just before lunch.

‘Ah, there you are!’ Her uncle greeted her warmly, but darted a hurried glance over at Eun-sook when the latter looked up from the papers she’d been examining.

‘Have the bound proofs arrived yet?’ Eun-sook asked, smiling stiffly. Unable to tear her gaze from the older woman’s face, the publisher’s niece fumbled with her briefcase, eventually tugging out a proof.

‘What happened to your face?’ When this met with no response, the young woman cornered Yoon, who dealt with production, and asked again. ‘What happened to Eun-sook’s face?’ Yoon merely shook his head; the young woman’s eyes widened, and she turned back to the publisher.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I told Eun-sook she should go home early today, but what can I say, she’s a stubborn one …’

He tapped a cigarette out of his pack, stuck it between his lips and lit up. Opening the window behind his chair, he stuck his head through the gap and took such a deep drag on the cigarette that his cheeks caved right in, then finally blew out the smoke. He was middle-aged, the sort of man whom even the smartest clothes couldn’t prevent from looking permanently wrung-out. A man who used humble, honorific language even to those who were young enough to be his children. A man who, despite being the head of this tiny publishing house, hated the title ‘Boss’ and wouldn’t allow anyone to address him as anything other than ‘Publisher’ to his face. The high-school classmate of the translator whose whereabouts the police detective had demanded from her.

The owner’s niece left once she’d finished talking with Eun-sook, leaving the mood in the office somewhat deflated. The boss stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Do you fancy some barbecue for lunch, Miss Kim? My treat. Beef skirt from that place up by the junction.’

This sudden show of sociability chimed oddly with Eun-sook. It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder before, but now she began to doubt. The boss had also called in at Seodaemun police station, early yesterday afternoon — not that long before she had. How had he persuaded them to leave him alone?

‘Thank you for the offer, but I’m fine with getting something myself.’ Her answer might have seemed a little frosty, but she couldn’t really help that given that her swollen face hurt too much for her to smile. ‘You know I don’t like meat.’

‘Ah yes, that’s right, you’re not a meat fan.’ The boss nodded to himself.

It wasn’t so much eating meat that Eun-sook disliked; what really turned her stomach was having to watch it cook on the hot plate. When the blood and juices rose to the surface she had to look away. When a fish was being griddled with the head still attached. That moment when moisture formed on the frozen eyeballs as they thawed in the pan, when a watery fluid flecked with grey scum dribbled out of its gaping mouth, that moment which always seemed to her as though the dead fish was trying to say something. She always had to avert her eyes.

‘So then, what shall it be? What would you like to eat, Miss Kim?’

Yoon chose that moment to pipe up.

‘You’ll bend our ears for us if we go somewhere expensive and run up a huge bill. Let’s go to that cafe we went to last time.’

With Yoon making three the office would be empty, so they locked the door behind them before walking up to the cafe by the junction. It was next door to the barbecue place the boss had originally suggested; a fairly ramshackle place, where homestyle boiled rice was dished up by a proprietor whose summer flip-flops exposed a toenail black with rot, while in winter she shuffled around with grubby socks stuffed into tatty old snow boots.

As they were finishing their meal, the boss turned to Eun-sook.

‘Shall I stop by the censor’s office tomorrow?’

‘That’s always been my job …’

‘Well, there was a lot of hassle yesterday; I’m just sorry you had to be involved in that.’

She looked across at him, pondering his words. How had he contrived to come out of there unharmed? By sticking only to what were, strictly speaking, the facts? Kim Eun-sook is the editor in charge. The two of them met at the bakery by Cheonggye stream and went through the manuscript proofs. That’s all I know . He’d stuck to the facts, nothing wrong with that; but was that bitter thing called conscience quietly needling away inside him?

‘It’s always been my job,’ Eun-sook repeated, but firmer this time. She attempted a smile but the pain rendered it a sorry affair, and she twisted away to save the boss from being troubled by the sight of her swollen cheek.

Once everyone else had left the office and headed home, Eun-sook wound her ink-black scarf around the lower portion of her face, making sure that her cheeks were covered all the way up to her eyes. She gave the kerosene stove one last double-check, switched off all the lights and even flicked the fuses to the down position. Standing before the door, its glass darkly mirroring the lightless office, she closed her eyes for just a moment, as though steeling herself before stepping outside.

The evening wind was bitter. It chilled the skin around her eyes, the only part left exposed by the scarf. Still, she didn’t want to take the bus. After a day spent sitting at her desk, she took pleasure in an unhurried walk home through the streets. This was the only time of day when she chose not to shut out the inchoate thoughts which surfaced, unbidden, as she threaded her way through the streets.

Was it because he is left-handed that the man hit my right cheek with his left hand?

But when he tossed the proofs onto the table, when he handed me the biro, he definitely used his right hand …

Is it that the specific emotional rush when you attack someone sparks a reflexive response in the left hand rather than the right?

The bitter taste at the back of her mouth was identical to the bile which surfaced before a bout of carsickness. Swallowing saliva was her usual trick to quell this familiar nausea, the sensation occurring simultaneously in the back of her mouth, her throat and stomach, and unaccountably tied to thoughts of you. Yet it wasn’t enough, this time, so she got some gum out of her coat pocket and started to work it with her teeth.

Wasn’t his hand a little on the small side, compared with most men?

She threaded her way between men in monochrome blazers, schoolgirls wearing white surgical masks, women whose skirt suits left their calves exposed to the biting wind, walking with her head bowed.

Wasn’t it a hand like any other, not especially large or coarse, one you could see on any man?

She walked on, conscious of the scarf’s slight pressure against the swelling. She walked on, the strong scent of acacia coming from the gum she made sure to keep on the left side of her mouth. Remembering how she had sat there, neither seeking to flee nor uttering the faintest cry of protest, merely waiting, holding her breath, for that second slap to come flying towards her face, she walked on.

She alights from the bus at the stop in front of Deoksu palace. Just like the day before, her scarf is wound around her face all the way up to her eyes. Beneath the scarf, the swelling has subsided, leaving in its place the clear imprint of a hand-sized reddish bruise.