Hwang Sok-Yong - The Guest

In the shade of the trees along the stream, they boil water in an iron cauldron usually used for boiling cattle feed. For the first time in my life, I witness the killing of a dog — exciting and cruel enough to make your blood boil. They tie the dog’s neck with hemp string, winding it round and round many times over, then they throw the other end of the string over a tree branch and pull. As the string becomes taut, the dog’s eyes roll back into its head, flashing white, and its four legs flail frantically, suspended in midair. Then the older guys circle around; armed with wooden clubs, they beat it all over as hard as they can. The dog can’t make a sound. All it can do is rasp out a choking noise and thrash about until it shits all over the place. Once it’s over, the dog is almost formless. They singe its hair over a bonfire down by the edge of the water. Our eyes gleam eerily, filled with murder and appetite.

Ah, why does that particular summer day come back to me now? It must be because I saw the phantom of Uncle Sunnam on the same night Little Brother came to see me. All day long I’ve had a splitting headache, chills running up and down my body — maybe I’m coming down with some sort of flu.

It started pouring in the afternoon; the rain was thick and intense. The sound of thunder tore through the house. I turned off the TV and lay down on the sofa in the living room. Feeling wretched and sullen, I rifled through the kitchen cabinet and found a bottle of cognac. When was the last time I touched alcohol, I wondered. This bottle was the one Samyŏl brought home at Thanksgiving. I must have been just lying in the darkness, dreamless. Someone shook me by the arm.

Hey. Hey, Yohan. Get up. Get up.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. Someone in black, squatting down by the sofa, was shaking me awake. I wanted to sit up, but somehow my body wouldn’t budge.

Who are you?

It’s me, Uncle Mole.

Uncle Sunnam.

That’s right. Aren’t you going to pester me for tales about the old days?

Go ahead.

This tale, that tale — even the cow in the field has its own tail.

As if I’d been waiting for the joke all along, I snickered. The black thing giggled, too.

That was why I hanged you on the utility pole.

The black thing fell silent. It moved over to the chair facing the sofa. It sat down and crossed its legs.

I’ve come to take you with me.

Can’t I go tomorrow instead?

Doesn’t work that way.

I flew into a temper.

I’m not the one that made you join the Communist Party, am I? I will not go with you! I am a presbyter in the church!

The black thing rocked his legs back and forth and muttered a response: There aren’t any sides over there — no my-side-against-your-side.

Well, I killed you, so I’m definitely not on your side.

No such thing as living or dying, either.

What about forgiving and repenting?

Certainly not.

Where is ‘there,’ anyway?

Where you were born.

On the brink of losing consciousness altogether, I staggered to my feet. I moved closer to the chair and was about to lay my hand on Sunnam’s body when, with a flicker, the phantom disappeared.

It was still raining incessantly. I opened every lock in the front door to give everything inside me — not to mention everything inside my house — a chance to get out. I was getting over my flu symptoms, but I still felt drained. I wanted to wash myself clean. I went upstairs, filled up the bathtub, and immersed my body. It felt as if my whole body were dissolving, melting into the water, leaving only my soul floating on the surface. Gradually, I felt more comfortable. As soon as I got out of the bathroom, I called the new minister and asked him to visit me. I took off the robe, changed into clean underwear, took out a new pair of pajamas, and put them on. The sound of the rain grew fainter and fainter.

“We came in here and found him sleeping quietly. We weren’t sure what we should do, so we began to pray. We thought the Presbyter was still asleep all through the prayer, but when we said amen, he joined in and said it with us. We asked him whether he was feeling unwell, but he told us he felt fine and that he was quite comfortable. He said he wasn’t in any pain but that it was time for him to go to sleep.”

The young minister stopped himself, removed a notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket, and inspected it for a moment.

“I had a feeling that something unusual was going on, so I wrote down what he was saying. He said that he was returning to his birthplace, that his body should be cleansed by fire after his death and placed in a cinerarium — he also said that there’s a bankbook in a basket under the bed and that the money in the account is to be used for expenses. Soon after that he was quiet, and when we looked closely, we realized he’d stopped breathing.”

Following the minister’s directions, Yosŏp took a look underneath the bed. There was indeed a basket. It was square, like a box, and had a padlock — most likely something left behind by his late wife. He opened the lid and found a Chemical Bank bankbook wedged between a small pile of photo albums and day planners. The bedroom door opened and the deacon poked his head in.

“The people from the funeral home are ready with the coffin, sir.”

“Tell them to bring it up here, please.”

Two men from the funeral home entered, carrying the coffin over their shoulders, and Yosŏp directed them to put it down by the bed. He then began to wash and shroud the body with the young minister. The whole procedure must have been a first for the young man, but for Reverend Ryu Yosŏp it was familiar territory; his experience with such matters dated all the way back to his days in Korea — and after all, it was his own brother. Yosŏp went to take a look in his brother’s wardrobe. There were several suits, but he needed to find the hanbok 7that he remembered Yohan owning.

He found them, together with some winter underwear, in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe: Yosŏp took out the chŏgori, paji, 8and magoja 9— the durumagi , 10he set aside. With the help of the young minister, he took off Yohan’s pajamas, and they wiped down his face, arms, and chest with gauze steeped in alcohol. The abdomen, legs, feet, and toes, too, received the same treatment. Yosŏp knew well the entire panorama of events that had left his brother’s body so small and shriveled. After he finished dressing Yohan in his hanbok , Yosŏp wrapped him in a cotton sheet and, together with the minister, lifted him up by the head and legs to lay his body in the coffin. He then stuck a bundle of cloth underneath the head to steady it and filled up the space around the body with crumpled rice paper, packing it in to keep the body from jostling around. Yohan’s fellow churchgoers were called upstairs, and they all held a small service together.

At dawn, Yosŏp and his wife decided to return home for the time being, leaving the crowd of churchgoers behind. It was agreed that the wishes of the dead ought to be honored in terms of the funeral service, but they decided to put aside any further discussion on that point until Samyŏl and Pillip arrived.

* * *

On his way driving home to Brooklyn, Yosŏp had a rather bizarre experience. At some point on his route he turned the usual way, only to realize several blocks down that the street, lined by tall, dark buildings on either side, was completely dead. He sped up, expecting that normal, brightly lit streets would appear soon enough — only to find himself wondering whether he wasn’t just going deeper and deeper into this inexplicably alien place. As a three-way split in the road came into view, he slowed down and tried to sort out his thoughts.