“Do you remember that place?” “Where?” “The place where we just got off the bus in the middle of winter?”
You shook your head indifferently and looked out the window. Your eyes followed a tall man walking by in faded jeans and a black sweater, and your shoulders trembled ever so slightly.
Our conversations were always a series of missed connections, each of us answering with something unrelated, yet we were inseparable throughout our college years.
One day, when the sky looked ready to spill heavy snow at any moment, you looked up for a long time and said, “There’s a place I need to go. It’s where I went with him on a day like this. Follow me.”
As we gazed out the window of the intercity bus, you signaled me to get off as soon as you saw a village with a large lake. Across the lake, gray smoke rose like birds into the dark sky from scattered chimneys. With your lips firmly pressed together, you slowly glided across the frozen surface of the lake, then suddenly let out a cry. You called out your boyfriend’s name as if he were standing just on the other side.
“Kwon-taek Han~!”
The sound skated across the ice and returned as an echo. ‘Kwon-taek Han… Kwon-taek… Taek…’
As we ran across the ice toward the village, we heard the sound of the frozen surface cracking beneath our feet. Startled by the thought of plunging into the icy water, we grabbed each other's hands and screamed. After carefully stepping off the cracked ice, we looked back at the distant, unreachable village with longing. Yet now, when I ask where that place was, you tell me you can't remember!
My memory of that day is faint, but I remember dark clouds covering the sky as if rain was about to fall. I was sitting on a bench in my brand-new gray dress when you came running toward me, waving your hand. “Hey, you look great! Where did you buy that dress? Let me borrow it. I don’t have anything to wear to my blind date this Saturday.”
You loved going on blind dates. The day before a date, you would always come to borrow my clothes. Men never hesitated to choose you—with your perfect silhouette, your tan skin, and your large, exotic eyes. But those meetings never lasted long.
“I think it’s over. He hasn’t called,” you would grumble with a pout. Then, out of habit, you’d move on to the next date. Even that day we went to the lake, weren’t you just so anxious waiting for your boyfriend’s call that you suggested we hop on a bus to nowhere?
“Do you remember when we went to that mountain cabin? We couldn't sleep that night, so we went outside and shivered in the cold while looking at the stars.” “When was that?” “The snow was so deep we were afraid of getting our shoes wet, so we secretly put on those big army boots belonging to the guys we liked. We wandered through the white forest, dragging those heavy boots along.” “Ah… that.” “Where was that place?” “I don't know. The story about the boots rings a bell, but I can’t remember the place.”
You really liked the man who owned those boots, didn’t you? On the day you were supposed to meet him, your swimming exam happened to overlap with your meeting time, making him wait for hours. Didn’t you say he wandered through the snowy night looking for your house, only to end up in the hospital with pneumonia? Sometimes I wonder where that cabin was—the one where the stars moved across the pitch-black sky like a blanket over the white snow.
“How did things end with him?” I asked. You fell silent for a moment, as if collecting painful memories. “I told you, he went to the army. I met him once before he left. I told him I’d wait, but he just turned away coldly, asking why I’d bother. I really liked him. I still remember him playing the violin in his black turtleneck. I can’t forget him. I’ve always regretted not visiting him in the hospital.”
You looked as if your life had taken a wrong turn because you couldn’t hold on to him. With a deeply sorrowful expression, you picked up your coffee cup, set it back down, and stared at me with vacant, sad eyes.
“I wonder what those men are doing now?” I asked, leaning my chin on my arm. “Why? Why are you upsetting me by bringing up all these useless old memories? What’s the point of remembering?” “Because you asked if there was anywhere I wanted to go. I wanted you to take me back to those places.”
Eventually, fed up with living with your poor, aging parents and your brother’s family, you suddenly got married, saying that marriage was your only way out. You came to me saying you were marrying a man completely different from the ones you had dated before. “Who is it? Why the sudden marriage?” In a small, fading voice, you said, “A man recommended by the lady at the neighborhood stationery store. He’s a graduate of a prestigious university. He’s short and from the countryside, and his looks are nothing special, but he’s a self-made man. I’ve decided to just forget everything and get married.”
After having your second child, Han-su, you moved to Gangnam and were so busy struggling for your husband and children that we lost touch for a while. We eventually met in Cheonho-dong, where I believe you started your newlywed life. You seemed satisfied with your quiet, stable life, and said in a soft voice: “When Hanna was born, she had no hair at all. Still, I brush her head every day as if she has a full head of hair.”
If you take a side path from Garosu-gil in Sinsa-dong and walk a little, there is a bakery on a narrow corner. Inside, the scent of sugar and flour mingled into a soft, airy fragrance. Brahms' Symphony No. 3, 3rd Movement was playing. The melody, which felt like it was pulling me into a lonely autumn, filled the small bakery.
I sat by the window overlooking the three-way intersection. Behind the display case, a pale-faced woman in a white uniform was kneading dough. I was imagining that she might be the owner who ran the shop herself when you walked in.
Despite your age, you were dressed as if you had borrowed your daughter’s clothes—black jeans, a white crop top with a GUESS logo, and a brown leather jacket with the collar turned up. You rubbed your forehead as if you were about to say something. Then, a tall man stopped behind you, rubbing his nose. He had his Burberry coat collar up and his hair tousled over his forehead, wearing a meditative smile.
For a moment, the image of your husband’s face—rigid, as if framed in a box—flashed through my mind. I asked with my eyes who the man was and sat there silently. You looked back and forth between me and the man, then whispered in his ear. He nodded, kept his lips tight, and walked out the door just as he had entered.
“What happened? Did you get a divorce?” “Divorce? No, just…” You hesitated, glancing at me. You shrugged, stared at the floral pattern on your coffee cup, and fell silent. “I was going to meet him nearby and end things, but somehow we ended up here.” “You should have met someone more impressive. He doesn't seem as good as your husband.” “My car broke down on the highway, and he was so kind to help. I was grateful, so we had tea and became close. He’s more romantic than he looks.” “Why? What’s wrong with your husband? He makes good money and he’s hardworking.” “My husband is like a long novel—he’s tedious. Short stories are much more exciting to read.”
You brushed it off with a quirky remark and looked around with a bored expression. We parted in a hurry that day and didn’t contact each other for a long time.
Years later, when I visited Korea, I called you. You suggested we go play golf. “I don’t know how to play golf,” I replied. As if you couldn’t believe your ears, you practically dragged me to the golf course. “Everyone in this tiny country plays! How can you live in America and not play golf?”
You sat me down on a hill overlooking a beautiful small peak and a bubbling stream, then went off to play. “Did you wait long? I finished early because I thought you’d be bored.” You took off your sunglasses and kept tucking your perfectly neat hair behind your ears, checking my expression. If you had known my habit of rubbing the bottom of my pockets when I’m bored, you should have stopped there. But with an intense gaze, you lectured me on the passion of golf until the sun began to dip behind the peaks.
“Learn golf. It’s so good for your health. There’s nothing in the world as fun as golf. To socialize with the upper class, you have to know how to play. Make sure you learn when you go back to the States. Let’s play together next time.”
When you visited your daughter Hanna, who was studying in New York, you called me. You asked to meet in front of Bergdorf Goodman on 5th Avenue, right next to the Plaza Hotel—a place I had never stepped foot in. Beneath your cherry-colored hair, your large eyes scanned my outfit from head to toe with a look of disappointment. “Where do you buy your clothes?” “At a thrift shop called Beacon’s Closet in Brooklyn. Only two or three times a year when the seasons change.”
As if my opinion didn't matter, you walked into the department store. You bought just one piece of lingerie, one bag, and one dress, yet it cost over fifteen thousand dollars. I hesitated—should I stop you from buying more? In that moment, the clerk said your card was declined. I pretended not to hear. The shopping bag looked so light. Could that really be fifteen thousand dollars worth of stuff? With that thought, I followed you into Central Park.
As soon as we sat on a bench, you pulled out a pack of Marlboros—the one with the red roof on a white background. The thought flashed through my mind that a pack of Camels, wandering through the desert, might have suited you better. With a sophisticated motion, you lit a cigarette, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. You lit one for me, too.
It reminded me of that day at the frozen lake when we couldn't reach the village. We had stood there smoking, our breath mingling with the smoke like the kitchen fires rising from the distant chimneys. As we parted, you quietly slipped the pack of cigarettes into my bag. “Don’t let my daughter see. You keep them and bring them when we meet next time.” “Hey, why hide it from your grown daughter? She’ll smell it anyway. Just smoke together.” “I can't do that. It’s not good for her upbringing.” You chewed your gum, straightened your clothes, and walked away looking like a model citizen.
A few days later, we met in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. As soon as you saw me, you mimicked the motion of smoking. You inhaled the Marlboro I gave you as if you had been starving for it. Then, you handed me a phone number scribbled on a piece of paper. You gave a small smirk and spoke as if it were no big deal. “Hey, call this number for me.” “Who is it? Why don’t you call?” “It has to be in English. I was walking yesterday and this handsome guy kept following me, wanting to talk. We chatted for a bit, and he gave me his number when we said goodbye. My English isn't good enough to call.” “Are you crazy? Why would I call a stranger for you? If you want to do it, do it yourself. You even dated a guy from the US military to learn English back in the day.” “Call him so we can all have dinner together. He’s really handsome.” “You’re out of your mind. Meet him yourself. I have to go home and cook dinner.”
The last time I saw you was when you visited New York with your husband—your "tedious long novel"—decked out in luxury brands. My husband drove us all to Cold Spring in Upstate New York. You might not remember because you were with your husband, but he was dressed very modestly, unlike you. His sincerity and calm demeanor were evident.
While I talked with your steady and dependable husband, your gaze was already far away. You were peering at the people coming out of the station near the restaurant. The train left, and you were already looking toward some other 'distant shore.' I wanted to pull out a Marlboro and light it for you, but I couldn't—you seemed to be playing the role of the perfect wife in front of him.
When the bill came, your husband asked mine while offering to pay, “How much tip should I leave?” You glared at him as if he were petty and frustrating, then turned your eyes to the next table with a look of resignation, as if looking for someone else.
As I watched your bored expression, I rewound our past days in my mind like a film. You seemed to be dreaming for a moment, then woke up, gave your husband a forced, trembling smile, and said it was time to go.
How did we drift so far apart? Tracing back these ancient memories, I sometimes get confused about whether these things happened to you or to me. But does it really matter whose memory it is? The scenes of the places we shared still shake me to my core from time to time.
No comments:
Post a Comment