“Why are there so many freaks around these days? The world is going crazy,” Woobin said.
“If everyone around you is strange except for you, doesn't that prove you’re the strange one?”
“What? Are you calling me crazy?”
“Do you really have to ask? I thought things were quiet for a while, but here we go again.”
“Do you have a death wish or something?”
I shut my mouth. If I provoked him further, he might choke me like he did last time. I quickly grabbed my car keys and ran out.
“Where do you think you’re going? If you’re leaving, pack your bags and never come back!”
I drove aimlessly. Thinking, ‘I want to crash into something and die,’ the White House where I first met Woobin suddenly flickered in my mind like a white car rushing out of the darkness. In my memory, that house shone in the twilight of my commute, as if beckoning, ‘All who wander, come to me.’
After graduating from university, I found a job at the Crown Hotel near the Jamsugyo Bridge in Itaewon, where the guests were primarily foreigners. Thank goodness I was an English major. Between working the front desk and being summoned whenever an interpreter was needed, I was exhausted in body and soul. Coming home late, my only desire was to lie down in my studio apartment. It was strange to see a white house blooming like a petal on a spot that had been a vacant lot until recently. The house glowed rosy, reflecting the red sunset like the cheek of a freshly bathed child. The lit windows looked cozy and inviting. Who lives there?
I had pulled an all-night shift with overtime. The weather had softened, and the frozen ground was melting into slush. I was dragging my heavy legs, carefully picking dry spots to step on, as I passed the White House. The door was wide open. A petite woman stood in front, repeatedly dipping and cleaning a brush in a can of kerosene. I hesitated, then gathered my courage to ask.
“Do you live here? The house is so beautiful. I’ve wondered who lived here every time I passed by.”
She scanned me from head to toe before answering with a bright expression.
“It’s my studio.”
As I peered inside with curiosity, she added, “You can come in and look around if you’d like.”
“Really? I’ve always been so curious.”
I was deeply grateful for her effortless, natural hospitality. Before I knew it, I had crossed the threshold of the White House. By the time I realized I should never have crossed that threshold, it was already too late.
Unlike what I had imagined, the newly built house was devoid of furniture. The kitchen occupied the wall facing the entrance. In front of it, on a black-and-white checkered tile floor, sat a long white dining table large enough for ten people. To the left of the kitchen was a bathroom large enough for a vanity. In front of that bathroom lay a king-sized bed, looking ready to receive a weary body. The large space from the entrance to the kitchen served as the workspace. An easel held a large painting of a woman in a black dress with her head bowed. Next to it were art supplies and stacks of canvases.
It was a clear, crisp day toward the end of winter. I was outside cleaning my brushes to keep the smell of kerosene from soaking into the studio. A tall, slender woman stopped in her tracks, hesitated, and asked in a cautious voice.
“Do you live here? The house is so beautiful.”
I usually ignored people who pestered me with comments about the house being white or pretty, or asking to rent it, but there was something about her aura that moved me. She had a slender build, long legs, and large eyes filled with lonely shadows that contrasted with her pale, small face. Her glossy, thick black hair was tied back. A white shirt peeked out from under her black coat. As if possessed, I drew her into the studio. Her name was Sawol. She was the same age as me. After a quick look around the studio, she nodded and prepared to leave with a grateful look.
“Have a cup of tea before you go. I was just about to make some.”
“Thank you. I once wanted to go to art school myself…”
She sat tentatively on the edge of the chair.
“Make yourself comfortable. My friends and I hire a model once a week for croquis (life drawing). You’re welcome to join us if you have time. We split the model fee, so it’s not much of a burden.”
“I’m not skilled enough to draw from a model.”
“Neither are we, and we graduated from art school. We can learn from each other.”
The invitation came naturally to me, even though I barely knew her. She finished her tea, scanned the studio once more, thanked me, and left with a bright face.
Leaving the White House, I walked with a vigorous stride, unlike when I entered, embraced by the merciful sunlight pouring from the clear sky. I was grateful for Chaerin’s offer to be friends and draw together—it was a blessing in my weary life away from home. Though my family’s circumstances prevented me from going to art school, I had been in the art club in high school and won several awards. I didn't want to miss the chance to use my talent.
The model, who had worked for the university Chaerin graduated from, was a gentle-looking woman in her mid-thirties, pleasantly plump like a figure in a Renoir painting. She was friendly with everyone. It was, of course, nude modeling. I was flustered at first, but after a few sessions, I got used to it. On days when the model couldn't make it, I even volunteered to pose in thin clothing for my friends. A few men dropped in occasionally. After the sessions, some of the female friends would stay late, drinking and chatting until dawn. We would lie on the king-sized bed, our heads clustered in the center like a blooming flower, talking until we fell asleep. Naturally, I joined them and enjoyed my youth. It was the most exciting time of my life.
It was late spring, as the magnolias were shedding their petals. A large man walked into the White House. He had a distinct face with large eyes—dark pupils floating on white—as if he were looking at somewhere far away. His hair draped to the right, and he was tall and sturdy. He looked refined in a turtleneck, blue jacket, and jeans. Suddenly, the atmosphere in the studio turned cold. He sat heavily behind the group and avoided our eyes.
The moment he walked in, my heart sank. Chaerin and her friends didn't seem to welcome him. They whispered that he was Woobin, a student returning from a leave of absence who was obsessed with Chaerin. Woobin and Chaerin, who barely reached his shoulder, were an ill-matched pair. Chaerin treated him as a mere acquaintance from school; she didn't cast him out, but she didn't welcome him either.
Realizing the friends didn't want him there, he would leave reluctantly after the sessions. Every time his large back disappeared through the door, my heart ached. I hoped someone would stop him, but Chaerin would keep chatting, unaware he had even left. I wondered why he kept coming back when everyone shunned him. By the time I found the answer, I was already past the point of no return.
Woobin had taken a leave of absence three years ago for personal reasons and returned last year. His first memory of Chaerin was a petite woman in green corduroy. He found her hilarious because of the "afro" hair perched on her small face. When their eyes met, she stared back as if saying, “You’re the funny-looking one.” He followed her after class, drawn by her small stature and freckles. He found out where she lived and began loitering around, trying to figure out a way to approach her.
One day, Chaerin confronted him in front of her house.
“What are you doing here? Do you live in this neighborhood?”
“Actually, I have something to tell you.”
“What? Say it at school. I’m in a hurry. Tell me tomorrow.”
During the last summer break of her college years, Chaerin saw Woobin lingering outside again, this time with a man as thin and tall as a bent bamboo.
“Are they crazy? They don't even look at me at school, so why are they camping out in front of my house?”
Woobin loitered there all summer like a jobless thug. Eventually, Chaerin snapped.
“Why are you standing in front of my house every day?”
“I have something to say, but it's hard to say on the street. Shall we go to a cafe?”
“Just say it here. I have somewhere to go.”
Woobin hesitated, then blurted out: “How about we date and then get married after graduation?”
It was absurd. It was chilling.
“You’re crazy! Talking about marriage before we even date? You’ve lost your mind!”
She slammed the door and ran to her father. Her father, who hated tall, handsome men because of his eldest daughter’s past heartbreaks, went out to handle it. He took Woobin to the Hamilton Hotel coffee shop and gave him some "advice": “If you want to catch your prey, you must hide in the forest and wait. A frontal assault only makes her run away. Retreat for now.” But he warned Chaerin: “That guy is strange. His eyes are off. He’s not normal. Be careful.”
Following the father’s advice (or perhaps just falling into his own patterns), Woobin stopped loitering as winter approached. He felt heavy, disconnected, and his interest in Chaerin faded. He spent the winter lounging at home and skipped his graduation. When the snow melted, he thought of Chaerin’s freckled face. He heard she was working in her studio and followed a friend there.
When Woobin and his friend walked into the studio, Chaerin was stunned. She wanted to scream and kick them out, but her father's warning echoed in her head. She masked her frustration with a cold, polite nod. She decided to ignore him, figuring he’d stop coming eventually.
But in that White House, Woobin found his true ideal. Her name was Sawol. Unlike the erratic Chaerin, Sawol was calm, capable, and beautiful. She was a talented artist and even took the friends to visit an American couple she knew in Ichon-dong. Woobin’s interest in Chaerin evaporated. His "love arrow" redirected toward Sawol.
He went to the studio every Saturday just to see her. He sat behind her, drawing her, his mind filled with fantasies of touching her. He decided to play it "cool" as Chaerin’s father suggested—being silent and occasionally vanishing like smoke—waiting for Sawol to notice him. He felt her eyes waver when she looked at him. But then, the familiar exhaustion hit. He wanted to hibernate again. He felt he might lose her if he didn't act, but he was so sleepy.
It was a cold, windy day when the first snow fell. Woobin stayed late, listening to the others talk. When everyone left, Sawol followed him into the snowy night. She wanted to walk with him forever.
“It’s cold, isn’t it?” Woobin asked.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said softly.
Sawol trembled. As she slipped on the snow, he caught her and held her briefly. She wanted to stay in his arms.
“Go on in. See you next Saturday.”
She watched his broad, lonely back disappear into the snow and vowed, “I will be the one to protect and love this lonely man.”
But the next Saturday, he didn't show up. Nor the Saturday after that. He didn't come all winter. Sawol withered away, waiting for him, while the others in the studio completely forgot he existed.
When the yellow forsythias bloomed, Woobin suddenly appeared, looking healthier. Sawol jumped up with a cry of joy. He walked straight to her and pulled her outside. She followed him without hesitation.
The friends in the studio were baffled but relieved when Woobin took Sawol away. Sawol never returned. A few months later, news arrived that she had quit her job and married him. Chaerin wondered if Woobin had used the same blunt marriage proposal on Sawol. She sincerely hoped Sawol would be happy.
Two years later, in early winter, there was a knock at the studio door. It was Sawol, shivering without a coat. Her left cheek was bruised purple, and her once-glossy hair was a tangled mess. She looked exactly like Chaerin’s sister used to look after being beaten by her husband. Sawol broke down in tears.
“He turns into a beast every winter. He just lies there like a hibernating bear and blames everyone. If I tell him to get up, he growls. If I resist, he chokes me, hits me, and throws things. He stopped working for his father and won't even change out of his pajamas. His parents tell me to endure it and give me money, but I can't do it anymore.”
Sawol stayed the night. Chaerin lay awake, wondering: Why was I cleaning my brushes outside the moment she passed by? Was it my fault for letting her cross the threshold, or was it her own destiny? The next morning, Sawol was gone, leaving a thank-you note. She had gone back to him. That was the last time they met.
Two years after that, at Christmas, Chaerin received a letter from abroad. It was from Sawol.
‘After I left your place, I stayed one more winter at the request of his parents. Spring came, and we were fine for a while. But the next winter, he hibernated again. His parents put him in the psychiatric ward at Soonchunhyang Hospital, but it was no use. He refused to acknowledge his illness. I finally left and went back to the Crown Hotel. I was close by, but I couldn't bring myself to visit the White House.
To be honest, I think I didn't want to be associated with anyone from that house anymore. I'm sorry. I missed our happy times and lingered in front of the house often, but I always turned back.
Then I met an American editor stationed in Seoul. He is a kind, calm man. When he confessed that he wanted to care for me, I broke down. I wanted to leave Korea and forget everything. We married and moved to Ohio. Now, I am living the life I dreamed of, immersed in my painting.’
Chaerin put the letter down, feeling a mix of relief and melancholy. Rain tapped against the window. The theme from the movie In the Mood for Love played in her mind. Unlike her sister, who remained trapped in a toxic cycle, Sawol had the courage to cut the cord and start over.
Sawol was right. Looking back, all the men who had drifted in and out of the White House were "soulless." It was a blessing she hadn't ended up with one of them. Woobin was eventually hospitalized by his parents.
Sawol got married twice, Chaerin thought. Once to a wealthy but "crazy" Korean man, and again to an American editor, living her dream in Ohio. Does the world grant wider escape routes to beautiful women?
Her friends were all busy with marriage or life; painting had become an afterthought. They only came to the studio when they fought with their husbands. The men had stopped coming, too. Chaerin wondered if she would wither away alone in this white house. She wished someone would walk in right now, take her hand, and lead her somewhere far away.
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