A Greater Music (9 page)

6)
Erich was my third German teacher; he also ended up being my last. The lessons with M only continued for a month, as by the end of this time we were living together and our relationship was no longer that of teacher and pupil. We had many conversations, but these weren't lessons. We both agreed that I needed a different German teacher; that M and I had, by this point, grown too close for her to fulfill this role. Besides, M's method of teaching left me floundering, out of my depth, yet she refused to teach “as if instructing children at grammar school.” For M, literature was the highest and yet most fundamental use of language, meaning she believed in starting her pupils on literature and only later “demoting” them to grammar. She was so secure in
this belief that there was no room for any objection. Extremely unhappy, I refused to read the linguistics book she recommended, but at the same time was forever getting myself worked up over not knowing the precise way to use separable verbs and reflexive verbs. Picking up on the fact that my German still hadn't improved much beyond “serviceable,” Joachim insisted that I make M return the lesson fees. He couldn't understand how on the one hand I was using predicates meaning “solid depiction of conditions” and “establishment of description,” or (to him) senseless expressions like “hybridity of words,” and asking him to explain absurd phrases which no one used, like “medieval itinerant students” or “solipsism,” when on the other hand, if I went to buy something at the supermarket, words like sugar, flour or biscuit would leave me stumped. According to him, I couldn't claim to be able to speak German properly without first having familiarized myself with street slang like “garbage,” “sulky,” or “floozy.” Even though M looked down on such things, I knew that what I needed was a course that would give me a thorough grounding in basic grammar. But when I brought this up with M she insisted that I also ought to master French through the same method she was advocating for German, and accused me of being crass, of acting like some Chinese exchange student who has to go back home if they fail the exam. But in the end, inevitably, M introduced me to an “artistic English and German teacher” whom she knew—Erich.

I could have gone to a private study school, which would have been cheaper, or even tried self-study; why didn't I? Instead, I followed M's recommendation and started meeting up with Erich twice a week. The lessons were really well put-together, and Erich's teaching method was genuinely effective, but I still wasn't easy to teach. I was only too aware of the kind of student I was—in all the years I'd spent at school, I'd never once given a lesson my full
attention. Those sixteen years of formal education hadn't taught me a single thing. Thanks to my parents, I'd already mastered hangul and basic sums before I ever set foot in a classroom. Perhaps, like some kind of prodigy, I was already reading by myself at the age when most children are only stumbling through the alphabet. My parents took all this as a matter of course, and everything stemmed from there. Before long I was able to read books cover-to-cover, and ended up better acquainted with the pleasure of reading than that provided by school or friends. Once I started school I was forced to study the alphabet despite already knowing all the letters, which immediately put me off the lessons. In any case, these were little more than Spartan exercises in rote learning. I would sit there with my own book hidden inside the textbook, and after several years of this I'd lost all ability to even attempt to concentrate on what the teacher was saying. Even the most exciting topics fell on deaf ears. Meanwhile, the school curriculum progressed far beyond what little I'd picked up at home, moving on to topics which I hadn't a hope of understanding unless I paid attention in class, but by then the habit was too far ingrained, and I couldn't bring myself to concentrate even once the lessons stopped being mere repetitions of things I already knew. In less than two years I could only think of school as an endless progression of tedious, dragged-out hours, of feigned obedience and non-participation. The only way for me to get through each lesson was to read a book the whole time. Naturally, there was a limit to the number of books I could get my hands on, so it wasn't unusual for me to read the same book more than ten times. At first no one had any idea that I wasn't listening in class, because I always did the homework and my grades were generally above average. However, this was only possible because once I got home I would run through the things we'd been taught that day. This self-study
became progressively less effective as the lessons increased in complexity. From a certain point onward the equations I was faced with remained completely impenetrable no matter how many times I went over them, and when the exam period came I had reams of notes to read, which, to make matters worse, were peppered with words that might as well have been written in a foreign language, and the free periods we were given at school simply weren't enough time for me to take in such an enormous amount of information. Instead of flowing on by, the everyday reality of school piled up on top of me, suffocating me under its oppressive weight. The lesson periods gradually became longer, and I spent those long hours battling anxiety and ennui as I sat there with my head bowed over the textbook, secretly engrossed in novels that I'd borrowed from the school library or saved up my pocket money to buy. After several rereads of the romance novels that all schoolgirls read at least once, like Louise Lynch, Jane Eyre, and the Anne of Green Gables series, I moved on to Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. These were followed by Thomas Mann and Heinrich Böll, Hemingway and Sartre, Kafka, Camus, but I can't really say that I genuinely
read
any of the books from that time; rather, they were simply something for my anxiety to worry away at. Besides, my reading list was determined by whichever old woodblock-printed editions I could get from the library. It made little difference to me whether I was poring over the minute type of Proust's
À la recherche
, some cheap romance novel, a graphic novel,
Judgment
, which had left me completely baffled, or
Lady Chatterley's Lover.
They were all just something to fill the time until the lesson was over. Because I couldn't concentrate on what was being said, because even the teacher's voice itself was nothing more than a string of meaningless sounds, I never understood a single thing, and eventually gave up all hope that I ever would. Before long, I was finding school almost
impossible to bear. What had started out as a simple inability to concentrate during lessons gradually became more serious, and I was even making excuses to get out of physical education or art class, claiming that I wasn't feeling well or had forgotten to bring my materials. I opened my mouth as wide as everyone else during choir practice, but I was only miming. I never made a single friend, either, which could have injected at least a small amount of enjoyment into my experience of school. One day during class, the teacher came over and gave me two sharp raps on the shoulder with her pointer (my head was practically buried in my book), then pulled out the book I'd been concealing inside my textbook. She then announced my latest test scores in front of all the other students—the greatest punishment anyone could think of. She demanded to know why a student who had the temerity to do so poorly in a test, a test which, moreover, her own diligent teaching should have amply prepared that student for, had been reading a book instead of listening to the lesson. I don't remember the title now, but the book in question was some run-of-the-mill detective story. When I made no attempt at an answer, the teacher opened the book at random and started to read it out loud to the rest of the class; in the passage she read, the female proprietor of a dive bar was talking to the detective, in a suggestive, bantering way. If I remember correctly, their exchange had been fairly critical to the plot, containing a clue about how the investigation would turn out. It was the kind of thing that would satisfy an adolescent schoolgirl's keen sense of shame and morality. The other students all burst into laughter at the superficiality of the dialogue. Of course, the teacher laughed too. So this is the kind of thing you read! She curled her lip in contempt. And with your test scores never more than 70 at the very highest. Reading this nonsense, well, it's not appropriate, I'll have to confiscate it. You'd better watch yourself, now. Watch
your attitude in my lessons. I'll make sure the other teachers know, too. That you were reading some trashy book during class, that is. We'll all have to make sure we keep a good eye on you. I'm no pushover! (This was one of her favorite threats, which she always delivered with a particular relish.) At the time, no one thought to ask me whether I wanted to keep on attending school—well, of course they didn't. The book was confiscated and I was made an example of, but I still carried on hiding my own books inside the textbooks, and I never did learn to listen in class, not even when I went to university. I couldn't listen, and so I couldn't understand. After graduation I never saw any of them again, my classmates. And there are things I can't grasp even now. Why do we have to go to school in order to learn things that we could learn just as well from reading books? The only thing school teaches us is how to submit to the will of the group, nothing more. Of course, unlike me, the majority of children don't yet know how to read when they start school. I've no idea how they manage to make it through school, keeping up the proper student lifestyle for all that time. In any case, there was no way I could learn German in anything resembling a school environment. Self-study would have been ideal, but given how very different German was from Korean I thought it might be a good idea to have a teacher, at least for the meantime. If school hadn't been such a nightmare for me I would have gone to a private academy, which felt less restrictive as it was up to you if and when you felt like dropping out.

Erich was a frequent player in my nightmare. He wears a long brown coat that comes all the way down to his ankles, reminding me of a kaftan, and a large hat that hides his face. He never used to dress so strangely when I knew him, but the mysterious logic of dreams means I instantly recognize him as Erich. He catches sight
of me while reading the paper, then gets up and comes straight over to the table where I'm sitting. We're in some downtown café, packed with the weekend crowd, or else, perhaps, the smoking room in the national library.

“Long time no see. How've you been?” Always this same beginning. “I'm planning a birthday party next week; you'll come, won't you? You came last time, with M.” He gets a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and writes the address on the memo pad the café provides for each table. And holds it out to me. Of course, this being a dream, I'm sitting there paralyzed, unable even to look away.

“How is M, anyway? I haven't seen her in ages. Are you two still together? Or don't you see her any more?”

And then, without even waiting for my answer, he whips around and disappears. And while all this is going on I just sit there staring at him, silent, transfixed. As if I'm chained to the seat. What agony it is. His pale, almost blond hair; his plain, conservative earring; his small, gray, inexpressive eyes; the lines around his serious-looking mouth; the skin of his face and neck, covered, if you look closely, with dense, fine, almost transparent hairs; even those guttural “r”s; in my dreams, I would encounter all these things quite distinctly. The dreams always unfolded in practically the same way. His clothing might be a little different, maybe instead of a hat he would be wearing big socks, or he might not use exactly the same words, but for the most part there would be no difference. He comes across me by chance, asks after M, disappears.

Erich was a great teacher. He was strict, always a positive quality for a teacher, but witty with it, and since he had experience with all kinds of students it never took him long to figure out how he should tailor his approach to each individual. He was also the only teacher whose first question was about what I actually
wanted to get out of the lessons. When I told him I was hoping to be able to read, and eventually write, in German, he said “That might be impossible. But I guess we can try.” This seemed neither unkind nor insulting, and in fact I considered it an uncommonly frank and intelligent response. Each week I would have one private lesson and one with two other students, both Chinese. I enjoyed these lessons, despite Erich's strictness, and even though there was a lot of homework it never felt like too much to cope with. Not getting on with your fellow students can be even worse than having an unsympathetic teacher, but the two Chinese students were even more of a pleasure to be around than Erich was. That was a happy time for me, which I suppose made me more inclined to be tolerant of others. I paid up-front for three months of lessons, and when we came to the third and final month Erich said “So, you told me you wanted to write in German; what shall we start with?”

I hesitated, suddenly aware that I would have to hand in anything I wrote to Erich. The mere prospect of another person reading through my error-strewn German was terrifying. But some things just need to be done, whether we like it or not.

“Well,” I said, “I guess I just have to start writing. Simple as that. Right?”

So that's what I did, writing and submitting one German composition per week. Erich had the Chinese students translate Joyce's
The Dubliners
from English into German, one chunk at a time—their English was good, but they weren't interested in writing their own German compositions. Every time they made a fuss about it being too hard Erich reminded them that in Germany, this level of English text was used for high-school students. I chose to write about the zoo for my first piece, and took great pains over its structure and imagery. I called it “The Character Who Can Prove That They Are Going to the Zoo,” and though I realized that such an
unnaturally long title probably sounded a little odd, privately I flattered myself that it wasn't all that bad. But the moment Erich heard it he pulled a face and said that it didn't make sense, I'd have to edit it down. According to him those weren't the right words for the context, besides which the metaphor was clumsy. When he handed it back to me the whole thing was a mess of red ink, with only a bare handful of sentences having escaped unscathed. I can speak conspicuously (clearly). The hippopotamus is a woman who is unconnected to things (indifferent to things). It was dark (imprecise). I intend to strip off (free myself from) thoughts. I intend to sever from (break off with) you. Eventually you will become a post (part) of the scenery . . . Worst of all was the comment that Erich wrote in the margin: “content not clearly expressed.” This was a terrible blow to my self-esteem, and after that I couldn't bring myself to show the piece to M. For my second piece, “Germans' Interior Decoration,” I made an effort to keep my sentences relatively short and not use any expression that I didn't fully understand. The piece that resulted was so unbearably banal it could well have been written by a child at kindergarten, yet, and despite the many errors it still contained, Erich showered it with praise. But it was shame, not pride, that I felt. The piece was nothing but a collection of incomparably commonplace, meaningless statements, exactly the kind of writing I hated—really, truly, hated. Normally I couldn't stand anything that “read easily,” and I'd only written it like that in order to avoid making too many errors and confusing the reader. The very act of writing it felt like I'd physically injured myself. And yet, with all that said, I'd gone ahead and written it all the same. It was only ever intended for me to practice forming simple sentences, not stun anyone with its literary perfection; it had about as much of the latter as did the mangled ad phrases at a Chinese takeaway. The worst thing was
that Erich had introduced me to the Chinese students as “a writer in her home country.” Naturally, this was of no great concern to them, but it made me even more acutely aware of the wretchedness of what I'd written. It was even more embarrassing than the first, error-strewn piece, which Erich had criticized for its “absolutely incomprehensible” German. After these initial knocks to my self-esteem, I began to write about M.