Blood Sisters Page 15

  “Donghyuk, stop kidding around! Stop making shit up, you drunk asshole!”

  “What are you talking about? I shouldn’t marry Jihyun?”

  “You don’t even know him very well. What do you love about him?”

  “I think I know him somewhat. He went on several blind dates intended for an arranged marriage, he dated a Miss Korea, he is quite a bit older than me, but … he is nice, rich … I don’t think I can find someone like this again. Did you marry the café owner because you loved her?”

  “Well, love is an illusion caused by hormonal confusion.”

  “I have a contrarian streak, so now I want to marry Jihyun. We’re going to have so many babies, enough to start a soccer team. We will live happily ever after till the end. Jihyun, I’ll be waiting here, come home as fast as you can, okay? How many days will you be in Italy? You’re coming back soon, right?” I kiss Jihyun’s forehead. I feel like that’s not enough so I kiss his eyelids and lips. I don’t know if it’s about being caught off guard or Donghyuk being there, but Jihyun pulls back, muttering, Wait, wait.

  The three of us drink in silence. I don’t think I like wine. Donghyuk tells me I’ll like it soon enough if I train my palate and continues refilling my long glass with the golden drink. I think I’m not born to be high-brow. Jihyun lies down on the couch. He doesn’t seem to feel well. Why wouldn’t he go to the bed?

  I find my bag, and check if the wallet is still in there. My books and other belongings must be still at Instant Paradise or in the apartment in that building. Oh, but Sol and Eunyong got them for me. They must be still in the trunk. I should grab them in the morning.

  “I’m going to step outside for a minute. When Jihyun wakes up, tell him I have his key, so he can lock the door and go to bed. Are you going to stay over tonight?”

  “You’re taking off in the middle of the party? Lame.” Carrying a glass in each hand, Donghyuk stumbles after me to the door. He pushes one of the glasses into my hand and clinks the other one against it.

  “Cheers to Yeoul’s future! To our brief youth!”

  Opening Ceremony

  It’s been a while since I was on campus. Sol would probably nag me if she saw my face. What happened to your face? Did you get into another fight? How’s your leg? What’s this smell from your coat? What would you like for the evening snack? She’d ask all these questions at once.

  The campus is deserted. At this time last year, mid-March, when I was a freshman, there were small groups of students hanging out here and there. A well-dressed couple walk toward me from the clock tower. The girl is holding her books against her chest instead of keeping them in her backpack.

  Today is the longest day of my life. I head to the café to find Eunyong so we can search for Sol together, but the café’s sign is off. 10:15 is too early for the shop to close. I think about going into the café, but I have a bad feeling. The dim light seeping out the door looks like that of a bathhouse, except it feels like these lights aren’t dimmed to make people more comfortable, but to conceal something.

  I feel like I can’t make sense of anything unless I trace my turbulent day with Sol. Why am I so weak and indecisive? Eunyong is street-smart and practical, but it looks like I won’t find her tonight. Jihyun and I can communicate only so far. He’s also leaving for Italy the day after tomorrow, so I don’t want to burden him with complicated stories. I feel like someone is following me, and I keep turning around to check. Only mindless pedestrians going their way.

  I pass through the narrow passage behind the Humanities building to get to the female students’ lounge. The acrylic sign dangles. Sol, please be here. I think I might just pass out if you are not here, gone to the dorm or copy room or dining room.

  The door opens before I muster the courage to approach it. A woman calmly steps out of the Female Student Association’s official meeting room. She bends her knees and starts to lock the door.

  “Wait!”

  “Huh? Yeoul Sunbe?”

  “Is no one in there? Where’s Park Sol?”

  “I was waiting for you this whole time. Hold on.” I follow Yeonju into the room, feeling dumbstruck. Yeonju at first seemed strangely distant and severe, but she proves my first impression wrong. The room is disheveled. She opens the gray cabinet and pulls out something from behind lumps of papers and pens. “Sol Sunbe told me I have to give this letter to you. She told me I have to make sure you receive it.” Yeonju hands me what looked like a leftover invitation from a past event and takes off her glasses to carefully wipe them.

  “What’s this? You were waiting for me this whole time for this? Were you covering yourself with this dirty blanket to keep yourself warm? Have you eaten?”

  I walk Yeonju to the back gate and wait listlessly. I look around to see where I should go. I heard there are undercover cops everywhere on campus. I walk slowly, past the student building, then the old library that just lit up, and the darkened Arts building. The bronze statues seem to be turning their heads and twitching. They’re watching me. I keep looking for a better place to be alone.

  After passing the granite walls of the museum, the Bridge on the River Kwai appears. It’s just a rusty metal bridge, but we call it that. Beneath the bridge is a deep ravine. Sunbes call it the valley Mirinae, like the Milky Way … a barred spiral galaxy, billions of planets, black holes, even the deepest darkness become beautiful the moment someone gives them a name. The rocks protrude into the sky and water gurgles as it flows through them. If I had to choose a favorite spot on campus, this would be it. One day when acacia flowers were in full bloom, Sol and I sat on the Bridge on the River Kwai, dangling our legs and singing. To be more precise, I was learning a song called “When the Day Arrives” from her. When both our voices were getting hoarse, I handed her a postcard. I positioned the card in a way that the picture of a mysterious girl flying through the night sky was at the top.

  Sol recognized the painting. “Chagall’s Acrobat.” She enunciated the English title, then translated it into Korean: A Jester. She had to be a show-off as usual. She told me Chagall painted for the masses. Flowers, trees, forests, people, houses—they all exist in his paintings for the people.

  “Nah, that doesn’t sound right,” I said, but didn’t insist on it. I don’t remember what I actually wrote on the postcard. I think I closed by saying I really liked her. That we were sisters, bound by friendship thicker than blood. I think I might’ve written Let’s not change but then erased it because I felt embarrassed about it. Also because I felt bad about Jimin Sunbe for some reason. Did I cry a little then? Wait, was it Jimin, not Sol, who sat by my side like a small gift box?

  There are a few lit streetlamps by the bridge. One, two, three … I take twenty-one steps along the bridge. My age. It’s too young for certain things but too old for some other things. With those steps, I end up in the middle of the bridge. When I sit down, the bridge is cold against my butt, but I can take it. I look around. No one is here. I lick my finger to open the folded letter. It feels like a late reply to my postcard. Three pages. My heart is thumping, but there is a lightness upon seeing the letter: Sol’s handwriting is terrible, I chuckle.

  Hey friend,

  How was last night? I don’t know for certain when you’ll receive this letter, but I suspect you received it today. I’m right, aren’t I? (Remember, I can foresee everything.) Hehe, did you sleep with him? Jihyun, that old man, he seems like a nice person with lots of money. But he’s not really cute, don’t you think? Jihyun, that old man, he seems like a nice person with lots of money to whom you should feel grateful for what he’s done for you. But he’s too pale, don’t you think? Okay. Are you going to marry him? If you love him, I guess that shouldn’t be a problem, but I was just wondering. Can I offer you some advice?

  I ask you to reconsider your decision to be with him, if you are only with him for his support during the difficult times. We need to directly face the confusion, scarcity, and despair. We must endure the present. What I’m trying to sa
y is that the problems don’t go away even if you flee under the wings of a supporter, under his shade. (To be entirely honest, I’m blinded by jealousy, so I don’t really know what I’m talking about. I know you need security and a sense of peace more than anything, but I’m afraid you will go away somewhere safe, somewhere far away with this man, and I love you.)

  More than anything, I question whether I deserve to give this advice, since I’m fleeing myself, going into hiding. Do you know what I’m talking about? You were hospitalized during it, so you might not know the situation in detail, but you might’ve heard the news coverage. The student occupation at the American Cultural Service building? At the time, a few Sunbes who support North Korea’s Juche ideology got arrested, and the Female Student Association’s president, Boyong, is wanted by the police. I’m not safe either, apparently. Remember the sign I OPPOSE THE IMPORT OF FOREIGN PRODUCE? The one we hung on the American Cultural Service building during the occupation? I wrote that (in my terrible handwriting, of course) with paint as a member of Patriotic Students Who Oppose Foreign Powers. My name could definitely come up during an interrogation and torture. There are too many political factions on campus, and the college is controlling some of them with the promise of scholarships. It’s just not safe to be on campus, that’s for certain. I want to love my enemy, but I don’t even know their faces. Here’s a secret: I have an enemy within me as well. The enemy wants to study without causing trouble, win a scholarship, pass the exams. The enemy howls that she doesn’t want to waste the money her mother made by selling apples on the side of the road and her father by embalming. That enemy tries to persuade me that I can help the weak after I get a stable job as a pharmacist. So she limps to the library even in her dreams. She is pathetic. She doesn’t care about democracy, freedom, or justice—those are just big ideas to her—and she doesn’t care to serve the People. She watches the Sunbes who became career politicians on the basis of their past involvement with student protests. I constantly ask myself if a person can serve others without an ulterior motive, without immoral desires.

  Hehe, do you like me writing in this dark, sardonic tone?

  By the time you read this letter, I will probably be in hiding. You won’t find me crashing at a friend’s place or at my parents’ house. I’m tiny, so it’ll be easy for me to hide. Don’t waste your energy, is what I’m trying to say. But don’t worry. We will meet again. I want you to know how much I trust you and love you. I’ll be back for the May 1st festival like nothing happened. I plan to host a gay and lesbian festival. Of course, neither of us is a real lesbian, but … well, what do I know. Are you certain about your sexual orientation? Anyway. I dream of a community that embraces all marginalized minorities—people with various sexual orientations, people with disabilities, the impoverished urban population, sex workers. I hope you also have a dream. There is no such thing as complete despondency.

  Don’t overthink your problems at home, don’t blame yourself for the deaths of others. I think you do those things either because you are genuinely dumb, or you have some sort of romanticized masochistic tendency. You’re a little perverted, but I believe you will become healthier. Don’t laugh. Believe me.

  I got to know Eunyong thanks to you. I’m a little torn. There are a lot of dangers swarming around her. Sungyun is a serial rapist and a thug. He may have committed theft or murder too. He seems like a psychopath. Don’t get ahead of yourself and put yourself in danger. Be safe.

  The sun is rising. I’ve been here all night. I haven’t slept. Whenever I hear someone dragging her shoes as she walks by, I look out, thinking maybe it’s you. The Humanities building has been strangely quiet.

  A week from now (March 21st, 3 PM), I’ll meet you there. You know where—the river we went to that day? You don’t seem to get it. Fine. I guess I have to give you a hint: a story with “backbone.” I’ve been speaking in code this whole time. Did you notice? I doubt this writing will fall into the wrong hands, but just in case. I didn’t even use your or my real name for that reason. Do you like the tone I’m writing in? You like Nietzsche. I’m trying to imitate Nietzsche’s tone, or more accurately, I’m writing in a mode of awkward translation. It’s so fun to write like this, isn’t it?

  Time to close this rambling letter. I’ll close with a postscript, a quote from Nietzsche.

  I’ll wait there. I miss you. Don’t rush.

  P. S. Whoever will have much to proclaim one day must long remain silent unto himself. Whoever intends to ignite lightning one day must long be a cloud.

  Tears pour from my eyes. They’ve been flowing for a while. What’s happening to me? I don’t think tears are somehow more sacred than any other excrement like snot, saliva, urine, blood, or pus. No, I’m not thinking anything. Nothing at all. I just cry and laugh. I don’t understand everything Sol is saying here, but that doesn’t matter. The stars are beautiful tonight. But as I look up at the sky, it’s not the stars twinkling I want to understand, it’s the darkness that the stars hang against, and the darkness that hangs behind that. The impenetrable darkness that neither lightning or fire can break through, the darkness I can see between the branches where the sky and the land merge. Is there more darkness behind that darkness? I rub my eyes but it’s still not clear where I am. I feel like I’m locked in a strange prison called The World. There has to be an Exit. Of course there is.

  Okay, I can do it. I have the courage within me. Now I’m ready to start. With my friend, and with slow, steady steps, one after another … I rub my face hard with my palms. I make fists with my hands. I like myself right now. The trees exhale fresh air and the water murmurs around me. I want to be kind to those who have been cruel to me. I fold the letter and stand up.

  In the distance I see a long, blue shadow approaching. Someone is walking toward the bridge. I lean against the railing so they can pass me. From the other direction, two more people walk toward the bridge. The metal of the bridge rattles. Is it my legs that are rattling or this old metal bridge? Why are there several men in dark suits walking from opposite directions to this bridge at night?

  “Get her! Now! Don’t let her escape!We’ll make sashimi out of her tonight!” It’s a familiar voice.

  The men rush at me. Oh shit, I find myself hopping onto the railing. Leche is good at landing lightly like this. And I—like the girl in The Acrobat—I spread my arms, and cross my left leg in front of the right. I spin my arms in a circle like a propeller, but my body does not fly up into the air. Quite ordinarily and simply, I move.

  Kim Yideum is an outspoken feminist hailed as one of the greatest poets in South Korea today, and her works in translation include Cheer Up, Femme Fatale (Action Books, 2015), and Hysteria (Action Books, 2019). Having received her PhD with a dissertation on Korean feminist poetics, she has taught at Gyeongsang National University, served as a culture columnist, and hosted a poetry radio show. She has received numerous awards for her poetry, including the Poetry and the World Literary Award (2010), the Kim Daljin Changwon Award (2011), the 22nd Century Literary Award (2015), and the Kim Chunsoo Award (2015). Ms. Kim owns and operates Café Yideum, a bookstore–café, in Ilsan, a satellite city of Seoul. Blood Sisters, originally published to great renown in South Korea in 2011, is her debut novel.

  Jiyoon Lee is a poet and translator whose most recent publications include Poems of Kim Yideum, Kim Haengsook, and Kim Minjeong: The Collection of Contemporary Korean Poetry (Vagabond Press, 2017). Her translation of Kim Yideum’s book of poetry, Cheer Up, Femme Fatale (Action Books, 2015), was shortlisted for the Lucien Stryk Prize. She is also the author of Foreigner’s Folly (Coconut Books, 2014), Funsize/Bitesize (Birds of Lace, 2013), and IMMA (Radioactive Moat, 2012). She received her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Notre Dame.

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