Han Kang - Human Acts

‘No, it’s just there was a story connected with it. It was April Fool’s Day, and the kids in her class covered the entire blackboard with writing, for a prank — you know, because the teacher would have to spend ages getting it all off before he could start the lesson. But when he came in and saw it he just yelled, “Who’s classroom monitor this week?” — and it was my sister. The rest of the class carried on with the lesson while she stood out in the corridor, dangling the cloth out of the window and beating it with a stick to bash the chalk dust out. It is funny, though, isn’t it? Two years at middle school, and that’s what she remembers most.’

You slowly pushed yourself up, palms braced against the cold paper floor. Walked to the door, slid it open, put your slippers on. Shuffled across the narrow courtyard and stopped in front of the annex. You reached down into the glazed jar, thrusting your arm in all the way up to your shoulder, and rummaged around. The key clanked and scraped against the earthenware; your fingers closed around it, and you fished it out from underneath the mallet and hammer. The lock on the annex door clicked open. You slid off your slippers and stepped inside.

The room showed no signs of recent disturbance. The notebook was still lying open on the desk, just as you remembered it from Sunday night, when Jeong-dae had been close to tears and you’d thought to calm him down by making a list of places Jeong-mi might have gone to. Evening classes; the factory; the church she occasionally attended; her uncle once removed in Ilgok-dong. The next morning, the two of you had called in at all those places, but Jeong-mi was nowhere to be found.

You stood in the centre of the room, the day darkening around you, and rubbed your dry eyes with the backs of your hands. You kept on rubbing until the flesh was hot and tender. You tried sitting at Jeong-dae’s desk, then lay prone with your face pressed to the chilly floor. You ground your fist into the concavity at the centre of your sternum, which was starting to throb. If Jeong-mi were to come in through the main gate right this second, you would race over and fall to your knees at her feet, beg her to go with you to look for Jeong-dae among the bodies lined up in front of the Provincial Office. Isn’t he your friend? Aren’t you a human being? That’s what Jeong-mi would scream while she thrashed you. And you would beg her forgiveness while she did.

Just like her brother, Jeong-mi is small for her age. On top of that, her short bob means that from the back, she looks like a senior student at middle or even primary school, though she’s actually just turned nineteen. From the front, too, she can easily pass for a high school first-year, especially as she only ever wears light make-up. Despite her feet being swollen from standing up all day, she insists on wearing high-heeled shoes for the walk to and from work. Far from being the type to thrash anyone, her light tread and quiet voice makes it impossible to imagine her ever getting properly angry. And yet, according to Jeong-dae, she had strong opinions on certain matters, and was more than capable of holding her own in a debate. It’s just that people don’t know. She’s actually even more stubborn than my dad .

In the two years she and Jeong-dae have been living in your annex, you’ve never once had a proper conversation with Jeong-mi. She worked at a textile factory, and was frequently on night shifts. Jeong-dae, too, was often home late — because of his paper round, though to his sister he pretended to have been studying at the library — so the coal fire in the annex kept going out that first winter. On evenings when she got home before her brother, you’d hear her soft knock on your door. Face haggard with exhaustion, short hair tucked behind her ears, excuse me, the fire … it seemed an effort for her just to part her lips. Every time that happened you would spring to your feet and hurry over to the fireplace, pick out some hot briquettes with the tongs and hand them to Jeong-mi in a long-handled pan. Thank you , she would say, I didn’t know what to do .

The first time the two of you exchanged more than this handful of words was one early winter’s evening the previous year. Jeong-dae had tossed his book bag into a corner as soon as he got home from school, then headed straight back out for his paper round. He still wasn’t back when you heard what to you was the unmistakable sound of her knock. So tentative, as though she was afraid of harming the wood, as though the tips of her fingers had been swaddled in soft rags. You opened the door straight away, and stepped out into the kitchen.

‘I was just wondering, I don’t suppose you still have any of your first-year textbooks?’

‘First-year?’ you echoed dully, and she explained that she was planning to attend night school starting from December.

‘The world’s changed since they assassinated President Park. The labour movement’s gathering strength, and now our bosses can’t force us to work overtime any more. They’re saying our salaries will go up too. This could be a great opportunity for me, I need to take advantage of it. I want to start studying again. But I’ve been out of school so long, I’m not sure I’d be able to just pick up where I left off; I want to go back over the things we did in the first year before I make a go at anything else … then, by the time Jeong-dae’s on holiday, I should be okay to move on to the second-year stuff.’

You asked her to wait just a moment, then clambered up into the loft. Her eyes widened when you climbed back down, bearing an armload of dusty textbooks and reference books.

‘My goodness … what a steady young man you are, holding on to all this stuff. Our Jeong-dae threw all his out as soon as he was done with them.’ She accepted the books, adding: ‘Please don’t tell Jeong-dae about this. He knows it was because of him that I couldn’t keep on with my studies, and he already feels bad enough as it is. So please don’t let the cat out of the bag until I’ve passed the high school entrance exams.’

You stood there staring at her smiling face, dumbfounded by this unprecedented volubility, and by the blossoming in her bright eyes, pale petals unfurling from tightly closed buds.

‘Perhaps, once Jeong-dae’s gone on to university, I might even be able to follow in his footsteps. University. It’s possible, if I study hard enough. Who knows?’

At the time, you doubted whether she would be able to keep her studies a secret. If Jeong-dae came home to find her with those textbooks spread open, where in their tiny single room could she possibly hide them? Behind her skinny back? And Jeong-dae usually stayed up late to do his homework, so it wasn’t as though she could just wait until he’d fallen asleep.

After only a brief while, these doubts were replaced by more intimate imaginings. The soft fingers that would peel open the pages of your textbook, mere inches from Jeong-dae’s sleeping head. The words those barely moving lips would repeat: My goodness, what a steady young man he is, holding on to all this stuff … those affable eyes. That exhausted smile. That muffled-sounding knock. You felt lacerated by everything you imagined going on in the annex, a bare couple of metres from the room where you spent the nights tossing and turning. In the early hours of the morning, when you heard her stepping out into the courtyard and washing her face at the pump, you would roll up the quilt and crawl over to the door, pressing your ear up against the paper, your eyes, heavy with sleep, still closed.

*

The second truckload of coffins pulls to a stop in front of the gym. Squinting even more than usual because of the sun’s flat glare, you manage to pick out the figure of Jin-su, climbing down from the front passenger seat. His brisk steps carry him in your direction.