Han Kang - Human Acts

‘Good God, they’re on the roof,’ the man next to you muttered. ‘They shot Yeon-gyu from the roof.’

Another burst of gunfire rang out from the roof of the next building along. The man Yeon-gyu, who had been staggering to his feet, flipped backwards as though someone had pushed him over. The blood spreading from his stomach washed greedily over his chest. You looked up at the faces of the men standing next to you. No one said anything. The man who’d spoken was shaking silently, his hand over his mouth.

You opened your eyes a fraction and saw dozens of people lying in the middle of the street. You thought you saw a pair of light blue tracksuit bottoms, identical to the ones you were wearing. Bare feet — what had happened to his trainers? — seemed to be twitching. You tensed, about to dash over, when the man standing next to you seized hold of your shoulder. Just then, three young men ran out from the next alleyway along. When they shoved their hands under the armpits of the fallen and hauled them up, a burst of rapid-fire gunshot exploded from the direction of the soldiers in the centre of the square. The young men crumpled like puppets whose strings had been cut. You looked over at the wide alley adjoining the opposite side of the street. Thirty-odd men and women were pressed up against the wall, a frozen tableau, their staring eyes riveted to the scene in front of them.

Around three minutes after the gunfire had ceased, a strikingly diminutive figure dashed out, unhesitating. The man ran as fast as he could towards one of the people lying on the ground. When another burst of rapid-fire gunshot put paid to his efforts, the man who’d been keeping a firm grip on your shoulder moved his large, coarse hand to cover your eyes, saying ‘You’ll only be throwing your life away if you go out there now.’

The moment he took his hand away, you saw two men from the opposite alleyway run towards a young woman as though pulled by a huge magnet, grab her arms and lift her up. This time the gunfire rang out from the roof. The men somersaulted head over heels.

After that, there were no more rescue attempts.

Around ten minutes of tense silence had gone past when a couple of dozen soldiers stepped out of their column, walking in pairs towards those who had fallen nearest them. They worked swiftly and methodically, dragging them back to the other soldiers. As though this were the cue they’d been waiting for, a dozen men ran out from the next and opposite alleyway, to lift up those who had fallen further back. This time, no shots rang out. The men who’d been standing with you left the safety of the wall to retrieve a group who had breathed their last, then hurriedly disappeared down the alleyway. And yet, you made no move to go and help Jeongdae. Left alone, you were frightened and, thinking only about avoiding the snipers’ sharp eyes, shuffled quickly sideways along the wall, your face pressed up against the bricks, your back turned to the square.

The house was quiet that afternoon. Despite all the upheavals, your mother had still gone to open up your family’s leather shop in Daein Market, and your father, who’d injured his back a while ago carrying a heavy box of hides, was lying down in the inner room. You pushed open the main gate, which was always left with one half unlocked, the metal rasping against the stone. As you stepped into the yard, you heard your middle brother chanting English vocabulary in his room.

‘Dong-ho?’ Your father’s voice carried clearly from the main room. ‘Is that Dong-ho come back?’ You didn’t answer. ‘Dong-ho, if that’s you then get in here and give my back a trample.’

Giving no sign of having heard, you walked across the flower bed and pushed down on the handle of the pump. Cold, clear water crackled into the nickel washbasin. You plunged your hands in first, then scooped up the water to splash over your face. When you tilted your head back the water ran down over your jaw, along the line of your throat.

‘Dong-ho, that is you outside, isn’t it? Come in here.’ With your dripping hands pressed against your eyes, you remained standing on the stone terrace. After a while, you slipped your feet out of your trainers, stepped up onto the wooden veranda and slid open the door of the main room. Your father was lying prone in the centre of the room, which was thick with the smell of moxa cautery.

‘The muscle was giving me gyp earlier, and I couldn’t get up. Give it a trample down near the base.’

You peeled off your socks and lifted your right foot up onto your father’s lower back, careful not to press down with your full weight.

‘Where’ve you been gadding off to? Your mother kept phoning to ask if you’d got back. It’s not even safe to go around the neighbourhood, with this demo. Last night there was shooting over by the station, and some people were even killed … it doesn’t bear thinking about. How can anyone go up against a gun with nothing but an empty fist?’

You switched feet with a practised movement and cautiously pressed down between your father’s spine and sacrum. ‘Ah, that’s the spot, just there …’

You left the inner room and went into your own, next to the kitchen. You curled up into a foetal position on the papered floor. Sleep sucked you down so suddenly it was like losing consciousness, but not many minutes had passed before you started awake, jolted out of a terrifying dream whose details were already impossible to remember. In any case, the waking hours that stretched out in front of you were far more frightening than any dream. Naturally, there were no sounds of anyone moving around in the room Jeong-dae shared with his sister, a tiny annex off the main gate. Nor would there be when evening came. The light would stay switched off. The key would stay skulking at the bottom of the dark-brown glazed jar next to the stone terrace, undisturbed.

Lying in the hush of the room, you see Jeong-dae’s face with your mind’s eye. You see those pale blue tracksuit bottoms thrashing, and your breathing becomes constricted, as though a ball of fire has lodged itself in your solar plexus. Struggling for breath, you try to replace this image with that of Jeong-dae on a perfectly ordinary day, or right now, pushing open the main gate and stepping into the courtyard as though nothing had happened. Jeong-dae, who still hadn’t had the growth spurt that usually comes in middle school. Whose older sister Jeong-mi found a way to get milk for him even when times were tight, hoping it would make him grow. Jeong-dae, whose plain features made you marvel that he could be related to Jeong-mi. Who still managed a certain appeal in spite of his flat nose and buttonhole eyes, who could bring about general hilarity just by screwing up his nose and deploying his megawatt grin. Whose disco dancing at the school talent show, his cheeks blown out like a pufferfish, had made even the scary form teacher burst out laughing. Who was more interested in making money than in studying. Whose sister nevertheless gave him no choice but to prepare for the entrance exams for liberal arts college. Whose paper round was carried out behind the back of this same sister, the bitter evening wind whipping his cheeks red as soon as winter set in. Who had an ugly wart on the back of his hand. Who, when you played badminton together in the yard, was incapable of playing any shot other than a smash, seemingly under the illusion that he was representing the South Korean team in some international match.

Jeong-dae, who nonchalantly slid the blackboard cleaner into his book bag.

‘What’re you taking that for?’

‘To give to my sister.’

‘What’s she going to do with it?’

‘Well, she keeps talking about it. It’s her main memory of middle school.’

‘A blackboard cleaner? Must have been a pretty boring time.’