"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?" I replied. "What? Are you saying I’m crazy?" "Do you really have to ask? I thought things were peaceful for a while, but here we go again." "Do you have a death wish?"
I started to add another word but bit my tongue. If I kept going, he would foam at the mouth and lunge at me like a pit bull, perhaps strangling me as he had before. I quickly grabbed my car keys and ran out. "Where do you think you're going? If you're leaving, pack your bags and get out for good! Don't you dare come back!"
I drove aimlessly. I thought about crashing into something and ending it all. Then, the "White House"—the place where I first met Woobin—surfaced in my mind like a white car darting out of the darkness. In my memory, that house had shimmered in the dusk of my commute, beckoning like a sanctuary for the lost.
After graduating from college, I found a job at the Crown Hotel near the Jamsu Bridge in Itaewon, which catered mostly to foreign guests. Thank goodness I had majored in English. Between working the front desk and being called away constantly for translation, I was exhausted in body and soul. Every evening, my only wish was to collapse in my rented room.
One day, I was surprised to see a beautiful white house had bloomed like a petal on a previously vacant lot along my route home. In the reddish glow of the sunset, it shone like the cheek of a freshly bathed child. The light in the windows looked cozy and inviting. Who lives there? I wondered.
After pulling an all-night shift, I was dragging my heavy legs past the house. The ground was muddy from the spring thaw. The door was wide open. A petite woman was standing there, repeatedly rinsing a brush in a tin of kerosene. I hesitated, then plucked up the courage to speak. "Do you live here? The house is so beautiful. I’ve always wondered who lived here." She scanned me from head to toe before answering brightly, "It’s my studio." When I peeked inside with curiosity, she added, "You can come in and look around if you like." "Really? May I?" I was deeply grateful for her effortless kindness. Without thinking, I crossed the threshold of the White House. I didn't realize until much later that I should never have stepped inside.
Unlike what I had imagined, the interior was minimalist. A kitchen sat against the far wall. On a black-and-white checkered tile floor stood a long white dining table. To the left was a bathroom large enough for a vanity, and in front of it lay a king-sized bed. The large open 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. Beside it were art supplies and stacks of canvases.
[Chaerin's Perspective] It was a clear day at the end of winter. I was outside cleaning my brushes to keep the smell of kerosene out of the studio. A tall woman stopped in her tracks and asked cautiously, "Do you live here? The house is so beautiful." I usually ignored such questions, but there was something about her that moved me. She was slender with long legs and a pale, small face, but her large eyes were filled with lonely shadows. Her thick, lustrous black hair was tied back. A white shirt peeked out from under her black coat. As if possessed, I invited her in. Her name was April (Sawol), and she was my age.
"Have a cup of tea," I said. "My friends and I do figure drawing (croquis) here once a week. You can join us if you have time. We split the model fee, so it's not expensive." "I'm not good enough to draw from a model," she demurred. "Neither are we art school grads. We can learn together." The invitation came naturally. She finished her tea, looked around once more, and left with a bright expression.
[April's Perspective] Stepping out of the White House, I felt a surge of energy under the merciful sunlight. I was grateful for Chaerin’s offer. Though my family's finances had kept me from art school, I had been in the art club in high school and won several awards. I didn't want to miss this chance.
The model was a woman in her mid-thirties with a warm impression, like a woman from a Renoir painting. I soon grew comfortable with the group. It was the most exciting time of my life. Then, on a late spring day, a large man entered the house. He had a distinct face with large eyes—the black pupils floating against the whites as if staring at something far away. He was tall, well-built, and dressed in a navy jacket over a turtleneck and jeans. He looked sophisticated. Suddenly, the atmosphere in the studio turned cold. He sat at the back and ignored everyone.
The moment he walked in, my heart thundered. Chaerin and her friends didn't seem to welcome him; they whispered that he was Woobin, a returning student who was obsessed with Chaerin. They were an odd pair—the tiny Chaerin didn't even reach his shoulder. My heart ached every time his large frame disappeared out the door at the end of the session. I wondered why he kept coming back when he was so clearly unwanted.
[Woobin's Perspective] A year ago, a small student caught my eye in class. She had a "bomb" afro and a tiny face. It was hilarious. When our eyes met, she stared back as if saying, "You're the funny-looking one." I started following her home. I decided to linger around her "bomb" hair until I could figure out a way to win her over.
[Chaerin's Perspective] One day, I ran into Woobin in front of my house. "What are you doing here?" I asked sharply. "I have something to say." "Tell me at school tomorrow. I'm in a hurry." All summer, he loitered in front of my house like a vagrant. Finally, I snapped. "Why are you here every day?" "I want to ask you something... what if we date and then get married after graduation?" It was absurd. I was terrified. "You're crazy! Talking about marriage before even dating? You're out of your mind!"
I ran to my father. My father eventually met him and warned me later: "That boy isn't right. His eyes aren't normal. Be careful; you have to handle people like that gently to make them go away." My family hated tall, handsome men because my older sister had been ruined by one. Her husband was a handsome "leech" who bled her dry and beat her. To me, tall, handsome men were just bums looking for someone to suck the life out of.
[April's Perspective] I met my ideal man at the White House. His name was Woobin. Unlike the erratic Chaerin, he was calm and handsome. My heart shifted from Chaerin to him. I went to the studio every Saturday just to see him. I imagined touching him as I drew. I decided to be patient, waiting for him to notice me.
On a cold day when the first snow fell, Woobin offered to walk me home. "It's cold, isn't it?" he asked. "I'm fine," I said, not wanting to leave him. He caught me when I slipped, holding me briefly. I wanted to stay in his arms forever. "I'll take care of this lonely man," I vowed. But he didn't show up at the studio for the rest of the winter. I withered away waiting for him. Then, one spring day, he burst into the studio, walked straight to me, and pulled me outside by the wrist. I followed him without hesitation.
[Chaerin's Perspective] April never returned to the studio. A few months later, I heard she had quit her job and married Woobin. Two years later, on a winter evening, someone knocked. It was April, shivering without a coat. Her left cheek was bruised purple, and her hair was a mess. She looked exactly like my sister after a beating. She collapsed at the table and sobbed. "He turns into a beast every winter. He just lies there like a hibernating bear, blaming everyone. If I tell him to get up, he snarls and strangles me. He’s stopped working. His parents give me money and tell me to endure it, but I can't do it anymore."
She slept in my bed that night and left a thank-you note the next morning. That was our last meeting. Two years later, I received a letter from her from abroad. She had finally left him. She met a kind American editor at the hotel where she worked. They married and moved to Ohio. “I’m finally lost in the painting work I always dreamed of,” she wrote.
I felt a mix of relief and melancholy. Unlike my sister, who stayed trapped in a toxic cycle, April had the courage to cut the cord. It turned out to be a blessing that Woobin chose her instead of me. It’s ironic—April married twice, once to a wealthy "psycho" and then to an American editor, and now she just paints all day. I suppose being tall and pretty really is an advantage. Now, the White House is quiet. My friends are busy with their own marriages and only visit when they fight with their husbands. I wonder if I will just wither away here alone. I wish someone would come now, take my hand, and pull me away to somewhere far, far away.
No comments:
Post a Comment