Han Kang - The Vegetarian

“Why shouldn’t we? Because I’m your brother-in-law?”

“No, it’s nothing to do with that.”

“Then why not? Come on, you said you were all wet!” She was silent. “Did you fancy that kid?”

“It wasn’t him, it was the flowers…”

“The flowers?”

Her face instantly blanched, as if in fear. Her lower lip, red and swollen from worrying it with her teeth, trembled imperceptibly.

“I really wanted to do it,” she said carefully. “I’ve never wanted it so much before. It was the flowers on his body…I couldn’t help myself. That’s all.”

He watched as she turned her back on him and walked decisively over to the door. As she scrunched her feet into her trainers he shouted over to her: “If…” He couldn’t keep a shrill note from his voice. “If I painted flowers on myself, would you do it then?”

She turned around and stared back at him, and he understood her gaze to be one of complicity.

“And…I could film it?”

She laughed. Faintly, as if there were nothing she wouldn’t do, as if limits and boundaries no longer held any meaning for her. Or else, as if in quiet mockery.

—

I wish I were dead.

I wish I were dead.

So die.

Unable to understand why the tears were streaming down his face, he clutched the steering wheel and set the wipers to frequent, only to realize that it wasn’t the windshield that was blurred but his own vision. He couldn’t understand why the words “I wish I were dead” were ceaselessly being hammered out inside his head like an incantation. Nor could he understand why the words “so die” would inevitably follow, as though the response were coming from someone inside him, and yet not him. And he couldn’t understand how that simple mantra, like a conversation between two strangers, could be sufficient to calm his shuddering body.

He lowered the windows all the way down, on both the driver’s side and the passenger’s. The car raced along the dark highway amid the roar of the wind and the nighttime traffic. The trembling started in his hands and then spread through his whole body, so he gritted his teeth and pressed down on the accelerator. Every time he glanced at the speedometer he was shocked by how fast he was going, and rubbed his eyes with shaking fingers.

—

Wearing a white cardigan over a black dress, P walked up to the main gate of the apartment building. The two of them had dated for four years, until she broke up with him. Later, she’d married one of her primary school classmates, who’d passed the bar examinations. Her husband was the main breadwinner, but she’d managed to successfully combine married life with her own work. She’d held several private exhibitions, becoming something of a name among the Gangnam collectors, which had of course provoked a flurry of jealous slander from those who knew her.

P soon noticed the car, as he’d left the front and back emergency lights on. He drove down toward the gate and shouted, “Get in!”

“Anyone might recognize me here — hell, even the porter knows my face. What on earth do you want at this time of night?”

“Just get in. I’ve something to tell you.” P reluctantly did as he asked. “It’s been a while, I know. Sorry for calling you up out of the blue like that.”

“You’re right, it has been a while. And this isn’t like you. I don’t believe you just had a sudden urge to see me again.”

He rubbed his forehead impatiently. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Go on.”

“It’s a long story. Let’s go to your studio. Is it nearby?”

“Just a five-minute walk…but won’t you tell me what’s going on?” P shouted at him, her strident tone demanding that he hurry up and give her a straight answer. She’d always been hot tempered. He was suddenly glad of her vitality, of her strong character, which he had at one time found somewhat wearying. A sudden impulse to embrace her gripped him, then faded away as abruptly as it had come. Just the vague memory of an old emotion.

—

“It’s a good thing my husband’s working tonight,” said P, switching on the studio lights. “Otherwise there might’ve been one hell of a misunderstanding.”

“Take a look at the sketches I mentioned.” He held them out to her and she gave them her full attention, an earnest expression on her face.

“Interesting. You know, I’m surprised. I didn’t know you knew how to use color like this. So.” She rubbed her sagging jawline. “This is quite an about-turn. Could you really exhibit something like this? Your nickname used to be ‘the May priest,’ you know. After Gwangju, your art was so engagé , almost as though you were atoning for surviving the May massacre. You seemed so serious, so ascetic…all very romantic, I have to admit.” P peered at him closely over her glasses. “I can see you’re aiming to transform your image, but…isn’t this a little extreme? Of course, it isn’t for me to argue the pros and cons.”

Not wanting to get into a debate with P, he kept quiet and began to take off his clothes.

P seemed a little surprised but nevertheless resigned as she mixed the paints in the palette and selected a brush. “Well,” she murmured, “it’s certainly been a long time since I last saw you naked.”

Slowly, painstakingly, P began to paint. The brush was cold, and the sensation was ticklish yet numbing, a persistent, effectual caress.

“I’ll make sure my personal style doesn’t come through. I mean, I like flowers too, so I’ve drawn plenty in my time, but yours have a distinctive energy about them. I’ll bring your drawings to life.”

It was well past midnight when P finally announced that she was finished.

“Thanks,” he said, shivering from the cold.

“If there was a mirror I’d show it to you.”

He looked down at his chest, stomach and legs, all covered with goose pimples, and at the huge red flowers painted there.

“I like it. You’re better at it than me.”

“I’m not quite sure about how the back’s turned out. In your sketches it seemed like you’d put more emphasis on the back.”

“I’m sure it’s great. Given your reputation, that is.”

“I tried to paint them the way you drew them, not how I’d choose to do it myself, but I guess I couldn’t stop a little bit of myself coming through.”

“I’m really grateful.”

Only then did P laugh. “Actually, when you took your clothes off I got kind of turned on…”

“Oh?” he remarked absentmindedly, hurriedly slipping his clothes on. He felt a little warmer with his sweater on, but his limbs were still stiff.

“Now, for some reason…”

“What?”

“It looks wrong. Seeing you with your whole body covered in flowers, it feels kind of…pitiful. I never felt that way about you before…” P came over and finished buttoning up his shirt for him. “I should at least get a kiss, seeing as you called me up in the middle of the night.”

Before he’d had the chance to respond, P pressed her lips to his. The kiss was a palimpsest of memories, of all the countless kisses they’d shared in the past. He felt as though he were about to cry, but he couldn’t tell whether it was because of happy memories, or friendship, or fear of the boundary he was intending soon to cross.

—

It was late, so he knocked softly on the door rather than press the buzzer. Instead of waiting for an answer, he tried the handle. As he’d expected, the door opened.

He stepped into the pitch-black living room. The glass door to the veranda let in the pale gleam from the streetlights, but it wasn’t bright enough for him to be able to make out anything. His foot bumped against the shoe cupboard.

“Are you asleep?”