Neighbors of the 2nd Floor: A Story of Longing and Loss

선생님의 이번 글은 뉴욕 브루클린의 한 아파트에서 교차하는 여러 인생의 단면들을 정말 생생하고도 가슴 시리게 그려내셨네요. 화려했던 인테리어 디자이너 제임스의 몰락, 아들을 잃은 아이린의 방황, 그리고 고독한 노년들의 마지막 모습까지... 마치 한 편의 단편 영화를 보는 듯한 깊은 몰입감을 줍니다.

특히 술과 인생의 허무함을 연결 지어 성찰하시는 마지막 대목이 무척 인상적입니다. 선생님의 세밀한 묘사와 감정의 결을 살려, 자연스럽고 읽기 쉬운 영어로 번역해 드립니다.

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Neighbors of the 2nd Floor: A Story of Longing and Loss

After seeing my kids off on the school bus, I came back home, changed into my pajamas, and laid my tired body back in bed. Morning sunlight poked through the swaying leaves outside and tickled my eyes. I closed the curtains. In that quiet time and space, away from my husband and children, I fell into a deep sleep. In a half-dreaming state, I felt someone coming in and out of the house. My body felt heavy, as if pressed down by a rock. Suddenly, a loud bang woke me up. I listened intently. The heavy thud of boots went up and down the stairs repeatedly. Annoyed, I opened the door in my pajamas to yell, "Keep it quiet!" But then, I saw the glowing, sun-kissed face of a handsome man among the movers. My sleepy eyes flew wide open. I was suddenly wide awake.

I shut the door quickly. Apartment 3R had been vacant for a while; he must be the new tenant. Hoping he hadn't seen my disheveled appearance, I stood on my toes to peek through the peephole. "Wow, oh my god. He’s stunning." Even his voice, cool and low as he told the movers to be careful, sounded intellectual.

Amidst the movers, I also saw the hunched, slow figure of Mrs. Smith, who reminded me of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. She stopped on the second-floor landing, clutching the railing with her head bowed. She tilted her head to the right, as if checking the height of the third-floor stairs, caught her breath, and then slowly and heavily climbed up. Ah, I realized—it was the first of the month.

Once the new tenant’s things were moved in, the building went quiet. I dressed up a bit nicer than usual to go buy groceries for dinner. On the street, I ran into Irene, who lived in 2L, right across from my apartment. "Irene, did you see the handsome man who moved in?" "Yes! I saw a young man talking to the movers. He’s good-looking, isn't he? And did you see his furniture? It’s all expensive antiques."

I was excited to have a sophisticated new neighbor in my repetitive daily life. I kept my ears pricked and my eyes wide, scouting the building to find out more about him.

Whenever I heard footsteps, I looked through the peephole. Since I’m short, it was uncomfortable, so I eventually put a small footstool by the door. While I was peeking out one day, Irene came out of her apartment. She was wearing a floral blouse over skinny jeans and sliding her heels into slippers. The gold bracelets on her wrist sparkled. She seemed to be dressing up for something. I opened my door. "Irene, are you going somewhere nice?" "We have a PTA meeting today." "Oh my god, I completely forgot!" "I’ll head out first. Get ready and meet me at the school."

Irene is a Filipino immigrant with a curvy figure, bronzed skin, and large eyes. She lives with her Polish husband, a son, and two daughters. Naturally, their mixed-race children are strikingly beautiful. She is a talented woman, even speaking Polish with her husband who struggled with English.

Their marriage story is quite funny. As soon as Irene arrived in the U.S. as a nurse, she locked eyes with a Polish man while standing in an immigration line. They married just two weeks later and settled in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, a Polish neighborhood. Having lived in the building longer than I had, she welcomed me warmly as a fellow Asian.

As soon as my kids started pre-K, she invited me to work with her on the PTA.

I hurried to get ready and headed to the school. In my rush, I realized I’d forgotten some supplies. "Irene, I forgot my things. Can I go to the school office and borrow some?" "No, don't do that. We’re here to help the teachers, not bother them. It’s better to just buy what we need at the stationery store in front of the school."

After our school work was done, we often ate lunch at a nearby Polish restaurant, gossiping over pierogi and golumpki (cabbage rolls). "Did you hear about Mrs. Smith’s son in 3L?" Irene asked. "No, what happened?" "Mrs. Smith pays the rent but doesn't actually live there much. Her drug-addict son kept coming by to threaten her for money. He eventually went to prison, and she’s been hiding out, working as a live-in caregiver for the elderly, terrified he'll find her again when he gets out. Well, he must have been released yesterday. He was pounding on her door, and when I looked out, he asked if I’d seen his mother. I told him she hadn't lived here in a long time." "How could an only child treat his mother like that?" "I know. It’s hard working on the PTA, but let’s do our best to raise our kids well. Oh, by the way, did you hear about the new tenant?" "I was just wondering! What does he do?" "His name is James. He’s mixed—Hispanic and white—and he’s an interior designer." "That explains it."

As I sipped wine, I thought back to my romantic college days. If I were a young, single woman again, I would have loved to date someone like James, with his deep, cool eyes. His lean, fit physique made his casual, minimalist clothes look even better. I drained the last bit of red wine like a vampire and stared blankly into the empty glass, lost in thought.

Back in high school, I would sit by my father while he played music and charm him with stories from school. In a good mood, he’d open his wallet, give me some pocket money, and say, "You have a drink, too." I’d sip the alcohol from a pretty little glass, enjoying the taste. My long relationship with wine started with "Majuang," which people then claimed was a world-class Korean wine. Except for my two pregnancies, wine has been a constant part of my life.

I’ve had many reasons to drink over the years. As a child, I drank because I hated my father for cheating on my sick mother. Before marriage, I drank because I felt lonely and worried about being an "old maid." After marriage, I drank because of the hardships of life. Today, I drink because I feel a sorrowful regret for my youth, which passed without ever experiencing a "proper" love like the one I imagined with a man like James.

No matter how many new inventions modern civilization churns out, is there anything quite as significant as alcohol?

Suddenly, I heard voices outside. I looked through the peephole. Michael and Sonia from 4L, along with James, were lingering in front of my door. Sonia was covering her nose. Oh no! I had been so busy drinking and daydreaming that I hadn't realized the smell of the cheonggukjang (strong fermented soybean soup) I was cooking had filled the hallway. On my tiptoes, I crept to the stove and turned it off, holding my breath. After whispering for a bit, they walked away.

I had tried so hard to be careful since James moved in, but the alcohol made me forget. Having a stylish neighbor isn't always great—it's stressful! I have to worry about the smell of Korean food and check the mirror every time I step out. Yet, when I ran into James a few days later, he flashed a bright, white-toothed smile. In a warm voice, he introduced himself and asked for my name. How kind! He had a refreshing, bubbly sort of kindness.

To get a peek at James's apartment, I decided to visit Maria in 4R. Maria stayed inside all day making quilts because she had trouble walking. She lived for the days I visited because her eyesight was failing, and she needed me to thread her needles. In return, she made quilts for my children using old scraps of fabric she’d saved from her younger days working in a sewing factory. The fabric was so old it would tear after a few washes, but Maria stitched them together like a puzzle, as if she were piecing together her forgotten past.

I knocked. No answer. I was about to turn away when I heard the sound of shuffling slippers. It took her a long time to unlock the door. The first thing I saw was the sewing machine she had used her whole life. She bragged that the machine, over 100 years old, worked better than she did at 90, sighing about her old age.

Maria had come to America by boat from a small village in Austria after WWII to escape hunger. She and her husband, Tony, saved every penny with the sole intention of returning home. By the time they finally visited, her mother had already passed away. A few years later, when they thought of going back again, her father was gone too. After years of delaying, she found she could no longer return to a hometown where no siblings or friends remained.

Sitting by the window overlooking the Empire State Building across the East River, she sighed, saying that while New York looked almost the same as it did in 1930, she was the only one who had changed. She lamented that even after she vanished, Manhattan would remain standing.

Leaving Maria’s place, I saw James's door was open. I peeked inside. The furniture was extraordinary—high-end antiques from the 60s and 70s. The way he lived had a distinct atmosphere and dignity. Since he moved in, the vibe of the whole building seemed to have upgraded.

Later, I saw Mrs. Smith pushing open the heavy front door. "Hi," I said warmly. No response. She covered her left eye with one hand, tilted her head slightly, and looked away. I couldn't tell if she was looking at me or the wall, but her face remained a cold, mocking mask. Originally from England, she lived as a live-in caregiver elsewhere but came back every first of the month at 3 PM just to pay her rent for 3R—a rent-controlled apartment she didn't want to lose. She would stay for three or four hours in the dark apartment without electricity and then disappear. I always wondered: What does she do in that dark apartment for all those hours? My imagination ran wild.

One day, on the first of the month, I heard a piercing scream. It sounded urgent, so I ran out. Mrs. Smith was wailing that someone had broken in and stolen her things. Everyone in the building came out to see what was happening. Irene sat on the floor with her, calmed her down, and took her into her apartment. I followed. Irene made her tea and asked what happened. "My son, who was in prison, found me recently and threatened me for money. My employer called the police, and he was taken back to jail. I don't think he did this, and I don't keep valuables here, so it's not a typical thief. I didn't even realize the furniture was gone at first; it just felt empty, and when I looked closely, so much was missing. I screamed because I think there's a thief in this building. I’m sorry for the commotion."

Irene, being fluent in English and social, got along with everyone. She was always the first to have information. She was also passionate about her children’s education. Her husband’s construction business thrived, and they eventually bought a three-family building a few blocks away and moved out. When her children got into prestigious schools, I took over her role as PTA president.

I saw her often to get education tips, and she helped me settle in. However, my English was a struggle, especially when giving speeches at PTA meetings or graduations. I started carrying a small bottle of whiskey in my handbag. A quick drink acted like oil on a rusty machine, making my stuttering English flow smoothly. Eventually, my kids also got into great schools, but my drinking habit had grown.

While our children were growing up, James’s life took a dark turn. He lost his job. I often saw him looking haggard. I started hearing loud noises from his usually quiet apartment. Struggling financially, he took in a roommate. Sometimes I’d hear a thud, and looking through the peephole, I’d see him carrying out his precious antiques. A woman started coming by, too. I heard loud arguments and crying.

One day, I ran into James in the hallway. He looked like he wanted to say something, his eyes pleading for comfort. "Are you okay?" I had to ask. He started rambling as if a dam had burst. He lost his job, started hanging out at a local bar, and met a woman. He later found out she did drugs, and he started too, thinking it wasn't a big deal—until he was trapped. He wept. "Do you remember me? When I first moved into this building? I want to go back to that time." He poured out his heart, a confession of a man watching his life fall apart day by day.

Then, suddenly, Mrs. Smith’s apartment door was open, and people with laptops were coming and going. After the shock of her stolen furniture, she had become too old and frail to work. Social workers were there to check if the apartment was fit for her to return to.

The building was buzzing with rumors. People said James had stolen Mrs. Smith’s things to pay for drugs. James's own apartment was now empty; he had sold almost everything. Unable to pay rent and shunned by the neighbors, James eventually had to leave.

After a long silence, Irene called me. Her voice sounded different. We met at a park. Her usually bright face was frozen and silent. I babbled about minor things to see how she’d react, but she remained indifferent. We walked through the shopping district. It was time to go home and cook dinner, but she didn't say a word about leaving. It grew dark. She stared blankly at the sunset, and tears began to roll down her cheeks.

Suddenly, she burst into a violent sob. "What’s wrong? What happened?" "My son... he died in a car accident." I froze. I couldn't even ask how it happened. The image of her handsome, bright son’s face haunted me. I wanted to do anything to comfort her, but I felt lost in a fog. I cried with her in silence. I gave up on going home, took her arm, and we walked through the dark streets for a long time. She said she wanted something hot to eat, as if to melt her frozen heart. We went into a Japanese restaurant, and she buried her sad face in a bowl of shrimp udon. "I’m so sorry. I had no idea. You have to stay healthy for your daughter and husband," I whispered. We parted, and my legs felt heavy, as if I were pulling them out of a deep swamp.

As soon as I got home, I downed a glass of wine. The hazy feeling of the alcohol offered a small comfort in the fog of my grief.

There’s a story about an alcoholic in a treatment center who begged visitors to bring him apples, saying, "An apple a day keeps the doctor away." Everyone thought he was trying to be healthy, but it turned out he was making cider in his room! That story feels a little too close to home.

I drink when I’m sad, when I’m happy, when I feel good or bad, when I’m tired, when it rains, or when it snows. I make up excuses: I drink to make my painting lines more fluid, or because I have writer's block. When I run out of excuses, I just say, "It’s just one glass."

Social workers made several trips to prepare Mrs. Smith's apartment, but the news came that she had died before she could move back.

The door to her apartment was opened, and furniture was hauled out—unexpectedly high-quality pieces. It seemed she had bought them one by one while working as a maid, dreaming of a comfortable life in her old age. There was so much furniture piled on the sidewalk that people had to walk around it. It was hard to believe all that was inside an apartment she barely lived in. She was a hoarder; it was a miracle the floor hadn't collapsed. I wondered if she sat in that dark apartment every month just imagining herself happy among those beautiful things.

She was gone, and her furniture sat there waiting for a new owner. Even as death pursued her, she had clung to her possessions as if she would live forever. Now, those things would be tamed by someone else’s touch.

Maria, who had watched Mrs. Smith’s furniture from her window, signaled me to come up. Unlike Mrs. Smith’s, Maria’s apartment was cavernously empty. The 100-year-old sewing machine greeted me in the empty space, and the Empire State Building beckoned from the window. I caught my breath and found peace in that emptiness.

Maria touched the bell-shaped necklace on her chest, her sad eyes asking what had happened to Mrs. Smith. Lately, she had been polishing that necklace like a sacred medal. "If I fall, this button will automatically alert someone to come save me," she said. "But just in case it doesn't work, if something happens, cut the door chain and take me to the hospital. And when I’m gone, take the sewing machine. And that mirror on the wall, too."

The day Maria collapsed, the alarm she trusted never rang. It wasn't until the next day that we cut the chain and found her. She had fallen backward, and the sight was haunting. The "bell" necklace sat on her chest, shining proudly, as if it had nothing to do with her death.

Irene’s son is gone, and so are Mrs. Smith and Maria. Is this what life is? Struggling through agony only to vanish into nothingness?

Looking into the red depths of my wine glass, I wonder why I drink every day. If I die early and my husband remarries, some other woman will enjoy everything I’ve worked for. It feels unfair. I think of my mother, who died young after years of illness. It stings to think of my father’s girlfriend and my daughters-in-law easily spending the money she saved so strictly. "It's just their luck," my father would say dismissively.

I suppose it’s the way of the world that a man can't live forever mourning his dead wife. But the sense of injustice is strongest because it comes from those closest to us. Who is there to blame? I must blame myself for not managing my life better. To avoid leaving as early as my mother did, I really need to quit drinking. I hesitated over the wine I’d poured, then covered the glass with a coaster and stood up.

On a sunny spring day, James—who I thought was in rehab—reappeared in the neighborhood. He walked past me, pretending not to see me. He was unrecognizable. His face was gray and scarred, his nose looked crooked, and several front teeth were missing. He walked toward a vacant warehouse by the river as if he had a motor in his legs, likely looking for drugs. I waited to see if it was really him. A while later, he came back, walking with a slumped posture, stopping to nod off every few steps. He looked like any other homeless person. As he got closer, I saw a faint smile on his face while he dozed on his feet. The last I saw of him was his back as he dragged his feet toward nowhere. Neighbors said his girlfriend died of an overdose. Sometimes I look out the window, hoping a similar-looking man might be a healthy James returning, but he never did.

I met Irene a few more times while Mrs. Smith and Maria passed away and James vanished. "There’s a free bus to Atlantic City twice a day. Want to go get some fresh air, walk by the beach, and gamble a bit?" I couldn't refuse her. I took $100 and boarded the bus. After lunch and a walk, I lost all my money at the slot machines.

Irene told me that while she tried traveling and cooking classes to forget her son’s death, only gambling helped her numb the pain. she called me constantly to go back to Atlantic City. "Irene, my kids are preparing for college right now. I can't leave the house that often. Please understand." She stopped calling, respecting the importance of education.

I felt guilty for not being there for her because I was focused on my own life. I downed a glass of wine. Just as Irene gambled to forget her son, I drank to comfort myself for the guilt of not comforting her. "Honey, you’re going to become an alcoholic!" my husband warned. "I’m not an addict!" "Let’s try quitting for a month." "My only joy is a glass of wine in the evening! Fine, I’ll stop."

Stopping a lifelong habit felt like a gear had stopped turning; everything was quiet and desolate. Just as people rush home to watch a drama, I looked forward to that evening glass. Words cannot describe the emptiness of life without it.

After my kids went to college, I called Irene. "I haven't seen you in the neighborhood. Let's meet up!" "I’m busy going to gambling tournaments in Las Vegas. They send me free tickets and hotel stays," she said, her voice sounding bright.

One day, while on a bus, I saw Irene walking in ragged clothes. She had a hat pulled low and was using a cane. Had she lost everything to gambling? A few days earlier, I’d seen a photo of her building listed for sale at a real estate office. I tried calling her, but I couldn't reach her.

When I look at my two lovely sons, my eyes sparkle. "How did a husband like a potato and a wife like a pickled cucumber produce such handsome sons?" In a great mood, I drink a glass for the older one, and another for the younger one. "Mom, drink slowly," the younger one says. "Mom, stop drinking," the older one says, hiding the bottle under the table. They both look at me with sad, worried eyes. "I’m sorry. I won't drink anymore." Without the wine, I become quiet and feel empty. I get sleepy. "I’m going to lie down for a bit." Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I feel like I can hear James's footsteps from upstairs. I tell myself I have to quit so I don't end up like him.

Thinking of my sons' sad eyes, I watch the clock, trying to wait until 5 PM to drink. When I worry I might be an alcoholic, I stop for a while. I can go two weeks without a drink. See, I’m not an addict, I tell myself, and then I go back to waiting for 5 PM.

I used to hate going to the kitchen to cook, but now I rush there just to have my wine. Like a laborer using a drink to soothe the toil, I find I can do all the housework in a flash once I have my wine. It’s my "energy tonic," my spinach that makes me strong like Popeye—so how can they tell me not to drink?

I’ve lost contact with Irene. I suspect she sold her house and left the neighborhood. I read an article once about a daughter grieving over her gambling-addicted mother who would disappear to Atlantic City and sit at the bus stop with a blank expression. Why does that image of the woman in the magazine always remind me of Irene?

"The weather is chilly; how about some spicy stir-fried squid and a glass of wine tonight?" I coax my husband. "Sounds great!" He excitedly stirs the squid and vegetables in the wok, shouting nonsense Chinese like "Ni hao ma! Xie xie!" We talk and talk, repeating the same stories as if hearing them for the first time, neither of us wanting to leave the table. "You two seem to have such a great relationship," people say. I used to nod confidently. But honestly, that "great relationship" was often fueled by the wine.

Drugs, alcohol, gambling, hoarding—they all break us down piece by piece. We have to wake up before we are completely ruined. The wine has simply done its duty as wine. Now, I must do mine.