From Wonso Pond (44 page)

113

Visiting hours with his father were over now, and as he stepped back into his cell, Sinch'ol felt his heart shudder at the sound of his cell door closing shut. He collapsed to the floor, completely exhausted. The first time he'd entered this cell, the sound of that closing door had damaged his pride, but at the same time it had sparked enough resistance in him to make him firm in his decision to stick it out to the end, however difficult. And yet now the sound of the door made Sinch'ol realize that pride had been a falsehood, a mere pretension all along. He clutched his head in his hands and screwed up his face. It was painful thinking about how worn-down his father had looked. Whether it was because of Sinch'ol, or because of the difficult life he was now living, his father seemed like a completely different person than the man he had known only two years earlier. The clothes that his father was wearing, and that haggard, gaunt expression on his face! And then those red-rimmed eyes that stared at him blankly—a father unable to speak to his son! Sinch'ol could sense in his heart his father's true feelings, even though the man hadn't spoken. The clock ticked on and on, and neither father nor son could bring himself to utter a word to the other.

“Yongch'ol's doing well?” Sinch'ol asked eventually.

His father's eyes filled with tears.

“Uh-huh,” he replied, distractedly, and then turned his face away. As Sinch'ol listened to this vague response from his father, he suddenly felt a heaviness in his chest. The thought that the boy might have died struck him like a bolt of lightning.

“Gimme some caramels!” Would he never hear that voice again? Sinch'ol leaned up against the wall, and closed his eyes tight.

“You met Judge Pak, didn't you?” his father had finally said to him. “Just do what Judge Pak tells you to do. Don't be stubborn, because it won't get you anywhere . . .”

Visiting hours had ended with these parting words. Oh, how his father's voice had trembled! The man had almost been begging Sinch'ol, and those words now seemed to pierce right through his heart, through the core of his beliefs, and into other thoughts buried deep in the recesses of his mind. What do I do now? Go along with what Pyongsik said yesterday?

Pyongsik was the student who Sinch'ol had thought so stupid, so contemptible on that last day he'd been studying in the library. Pyongsik was the one memorizing
The Compendium of the Six Laws
. He had already become a judge over preliminary hearings.

Sinch'ol had betrayed some surprise when he first saw Pyongsik, but his pride had quickly set itself into action. Or rather, Sinch'ol had forced himself to draw on that pride. Even though he could have easily turned a deaf ear to Pyongsik's advice, it was his pride that had made sitting face to face with him so unpleasant. And it was his pride that had helped him turn away from Pyongsik and refuse to answer any of his questions. In any case, Pyongsik had been courteous to him, insofar as his official duties were concerned, possibly because they'd once been friends.

In fact, now that he thought about it, Sinch'ol was sure his father had sought out Pyongsik and had entreated him to come here—indeed, there was no mistaking it. With this new revelation, Sinch'ol remembered word for word what Pyongsik had gone on about so excitedly.

“First of all let me just say that, personally speaking, I don't think that everything about capitalist society is fair. You know, it makes perfect sense to me that there are going to be brave people out there, fighting against the system and trying to build a new society. But doesn't history have a long way to go before we actually get rid of the system? You of all people should know that it's going to take a lot of time and a hell of a sacrifice before that ever happens. But to go so far as making an individual sacrifice all for the sake of justice? Now, I suppose for a man there's a sort of thrill in it all, but just think about it for a minute. No matter how much I think my sacrifice is going to contribute to the cause, a revolution isn't going to happen today or tomorrow because of what I do, nor will a revolution fail to come about because of what I don't do. We're born once in this world and that's it, so what's the point of ignoring yourself as an individual? And besides, hasn't your family fallen into pretty dire straights, just like mine has? Without us, they'd be out on the streets, begging from door to door in just a matter of time. Think about the sacrifices they'll have to make if you're locked up in here for a decade, or however long it takes . . . Now, you know very well that all the XX
^h
Party big shots have converted now—even in Japan—
and I'm sure they put a lot of thought into their decisions. What do you think about what I've said?”

Pyongsik's face seemed lit with pathos as he looked at Sinch'ol. But that Pyongsik would attempt to win him over with this selfish theory of individualism struck Sinch'ol as both amusing and beyond contempt. He refused to give Pyongsik a reply.

“Well,” said Pyongsik, reading Sinch'ol's mind. “Go back in there and think about this very carefully. I have a job to do here, but I'll do my best to support you, since the two of us go way back.”

Just then, the guard standing beside them shouted out an order.

“On your feet!”

114

How weak he had been today, how very pathetic his sense of determination, as he listened to his father pleading with him, and as he looked into his father's hollowed eyes. Sinch'ol let out a deep sigh. He thought of his friend Pamsongi, and then one by one he saw the faces of all his fellow comrades who were locked up in this very same prison. But then it was Ch'otchae, back in Inch'on, whose face in particular kept flashing into his mind, blown up to a frightening size. It was to avoid seeing that face that Sinch'ol now opened his eyes. Only last night he'd thought of Ch'otchae with such fondness, but now that same face was somehow terrifying.

Shining through the window like red skeins of thread, the rays of the sun cast an elaborate pattern on the wall. The glass, the iron bars, the thick metal netting and the fine wire mesh, and making its way through all four layers was that sunlight! This was Sinch'ol's one and only friend. Each time the guard looked through the
mihari
hole, Sinch'ol asked him the time and made marks on the wall following the sun's path of movement. Sinch'ol now looked at that ray of sunlight and calculated that it was just about half past eleven. I bet Father's home by now, he thought. He must be going through sheer hell. It looked as though his father had lost his job at the school. And with several members of his extended family still relying on him for support, Sinch'ol could easily understand, even without seeing it for himself, the sort of poverty their life must have been reduced to.

What should he do? Judging from the situation back home, there was
no question that he simply had to get out of here, but more importantly, it was his own weak state of health that made it impossible for him to stay. He thought back to how he'd been tortured at that first police station, and shuddered. That was one thing he could never go through twice in his lifetime. Not knowing what you were in for was one thing, but once you'd had a good taste of it, it was better to drop dead right on the spot than ever go through something like that again.

Though he didn't know for sure, it seemed as though it would take one or two years for his case to come up for deliberation. And a decision might take ten or twenty years—though he had no way of being sure even of that. In any case, it all would take far more than a decade. He might even end up spending his whole life in prison. Thinking about it was simply overwhelming. Sinch'ol thought about Pyongsik. He went over very carefully again what his friend had told him.

He'd refused to listen to Pyongsik's sickening spiel, but now less than twenty-four hours later what Pyongsik had told him seemed to make sense. But even so, he had far too much pride to hang his head in front of Pyongsik. He let out a deep sigh and glanced down at his feet. He noticed an ant climbing up and down his toes. With great delight Sinch'ol picked up the ant and placed it in the palm of his hand. The ant was oblivious to what had happened to it, and quickly tried to crawl away. But Sinch'ol caught it, placed it back in his palm, and stared down at it again.

The longer Sinch'ol stared at the ant, the more it seemed that he, too, was wasting all his efforts. The ant hadn't known what he was getting into when he entered this cell, for there was no reason to visit a dreary prison cell without a scrap of food to munch on. Today would be rough for the ant, for he'd been captured and he wouldn't get a thing to eat. And so, too, for Sinch'ol. It wasn't just that he'd willingly suffered by giving up the means to any income, or that he had ended up here in jail. Even if he were lucky enough to make it out alive in a couple of decades, he'd be so far behind the others that he wouldn't be able to relate to either side. And in the end there'd be nothing left for him to do but become someone like Ilp'o and Kiho—a stuffy, fallen intellectual.

But could he just up and leave this place? Sinch'ol started shaking his head. There was, however, precious little effort put in the gesture, and Sinch'ol realized that his head was moving side to side very, very slowly.

Fading in and out of range, Sinch'ol then caught the sound of a willow flute, and he jumped to his feet.

115

Sinch'ol quickly turned away from the
mihari
hole. He tried to catch the sound of the guard's footsteps, then moved in front of the window. The windowsill was just higher than jaw-level and came up even with his lips. He stared out at Mount Inwang. It was bathed in the warm rays of the sun and stood up crisply against the sky . . . Just then a bird called out from somewhere close by and Sinch'ol shifted his gaze.

There was a small pond outside the window, and beside that, a perfectly-sized weeping willow, whose branches draped softly down, one over the other, like a woman's let-down hair. The willow's leaves were a vivid bluish-green. Though the branches of the tree had been bare of leaves, and had been swept by the early spring winds when he'd first laid eyes upon them, in no time at all its leaves had turned into a beautiful color. How many times a day had he looked out onto that willow tree! And each time he looked, he met it with a new set of feelings. He would think of Wonso Pond in Yongyon and then, by association, of Sonbi. But his vision was somehow that of a different Sonbi than before—a Sonbi from whom he now felt distanced. What remained in his mind were his memories of Okchom. Oh, Okchom! he thought. Could she still be single? Still be waiting for me? Not likely! I bet she's somebody's wife by now! But I doubt she'll ever forget me . . . He stared blankly out onto the pond. The shadows of the willow branches seem to cast themselves here and there deep into the blue water. Just like his scattered memories of Okchom's face, which lay deeply buried within his heart.

Suddenly Sinch'ol heard the eerie sound of the willow flute again. It was a tune from his childhood, “The Widow's Cry,” played with one hand over the tip of the flute so as to twist the sound of each note. He looked up to see where the sound was coming from: Mount Inwang in springtime . . . He could see children, and men and women in the flower of their youth carefully walking up the mountain shoulder to shoulder. He could hear the cheerful voices of the children, as clearly as the skylarks chirping beneath the blue sky. It seemed like just yesterday that he'd climbed that mountain with his own friends . . . Sinch'ol felt so sorry for himself that he was practically ready to stamp his feet
on the ground. He deeply regretted not having listened to his father in the first place. He knew that it was dirty and vulgar for him to entertain these thoughts, but he couldn't help it. It drove him to his wit's end to think that because of these empty visions and idle dreams, the flower of his youth was going to rot behind these metal bars. And why should he alone make this sacrifice? It would be meaningless . . . As Sinch'ol looked out onto the men and women climbing Mount Inwang, in his heart he was deeply torn. For he knew full well that all this anguish and pain was not his alone—there were so, so many others locked up in here with him.

The sound of the flute gradually grew fainter. Should he compare it to the point of a needle, piercing in and out of his troubled mind with each twist and turn of his thoughts? Or a razor-sharp sword slicing effortlessly through the chambers of his heart? Oh, the sounds of that flute, drifting through the blue sky like so many wisps of smoke! Without thinking, he clutched his head in his arms. He scowled at the iron bars that crisscrossed darkly before his eyes. He longed for the world outside, just as his throat thirsted for water. He wanted to feel the air in his lungs beneath that blue sky.

Suddenly the sound of a metal clank took Sinch'ol by surprise, and he quickly sat down.

“What do you think you're doing!”

His heart shuddered at the guard's thundering voice.

“Get over here and sit down!”

Sinch'ol had no choice but to take a seat closer to the door.

“Don't look outside! Next time that happens, you'll pay a price for it!”

The anger was surging up at the base of his throat, and Sinch'ol just barely managed to hold it back. All he could do was to sit there in silent exasperation. The guard stayed for a moment glaring at him, then closed the peephole shut with a clank. Sinch'ol leaned against the wall, and let out his breath in sheer anguish. He opened his hand and found that the ant had disappeared. Having lost his friend the ant, he grabbed the
Lotus Sutra
, placed there beside him, and he opened it.

116

Sonbi had lost her appetite. She skipped dinner before coming onto the factory floor with several of her co-workers. It was Sonbi's turn on the
night shift. All the factory girls hated working at night, and whenever their turn came up, they twisted their faces and shook their heads back and forth. The factory girls on friendly terms with the male workers, however, liked the night shift. Of course there was always a supervisor on the job, but they worked on several different shifts throughout the night. And each time a shift change came around, the girls managed to exchange eye contact with the men who carried in the barrels of silk cocoons. The supervisors didn't watch over them as vigilantly as they did during the day, so it was at night that these girls tried hardest to flirt with the male workers.