What I'm Most Afraid Of

And so it was established that Yang Ji-eon was Chowa-ri's top scorer. Completely won over by the man's proposal, I went over first thing in the morning and presented several terms of our treaty. Dragged out onto the wooden porch while still half-asleep, the man yawned and nodded along. His attitude was so smooth—like a ship with the wind full in its sails—that he even asked whether my side was all right with it.

"And the third and final one. This is something Kang Eui-tae asked of me. Greet each other brightly whenever we meet. And don't frown when we're together. Did you dislike that?"

While my main theme was that he not interfere with lessons, his was simply that we get along. The man's vacant gaze, which had been trailing floating dust motes, fluttered over to me like a butterfly. After his illness a plain, detached air had settled over him. Like the forbidden fruit of knowledge one must never taste, it temptingly stole my eyes and my thoughts.

It was a completely meaningless, thoroughly pathetic notion, yet there were moments I wondered whether Eui-joo had sent the man to me because he hated the idea of me going off to university without him.

"I want jajangmyeon."

"Jajangmyeon? All of a sudden?"

"You study."

The man who had been watching white clouds and then, without preamble, mentioned jajangmyeon possessed excellent follow-through. Without ever saying whether he agreed to the contract terms or not, he simply took his wallet and left.

"Is that really all it takes?"

It was the middle of summer vacation. We still needed to discuss what would happen once the second semester began, yet the man acted as if anything after the break held no interest for him. Bewildered, I stared at the front gate swinging aimlessly after being struck by a human typhoon. He was so impatient. The sort who would plant a seed and the very next day demand to know why it had not yet sprouted.

"I don't know."

Since he had not refused, the treaty was confirmed. With that, the foundation was complete. I tore open the tape I had prepared in advance and stuck the paper listing the rules beside the man's room door. Only after it became too tiresome to count how many times the electric fan's head had swung back and forth did I finally open my workbook.

I will mention one more truly remarkable fact. Studying, which at home had felt like so much baggage, became as easy as a game of jacks at the man's house. Watching the alley where not even a single ant passed by, I had no need of headache medicine.

The man seemed determined not to disturb my private study time, present yet barely there. His purpose in doing so remained unclear. On the surface he behaved as if receiving tutoring from me were his sole objective. During breaks he supplied orange juice and snacks. He was the sort who finished a meal in under ten minutes, yet he would stay quietly at the table until I was done.

Clearing, setting, and finishing up afterward—he took charge of it all. If I tried to help he openly showed his displeasure, claiming the dishes would end up in the wrong places. That indifferent man, of all people. In any case I was receiving proper teacher treatment. Perhaps for that reason I grew as comfortable as if it were my own courtyard. Maybe the homeowner's low posture simply put my mind at ease.

"You're back?"

After more than two hours the man returned with another black plastic bag in his hand. This time the bag was quite bulky. When I swallowed hard he quickened his steps without making it obvious. Kicking his shoes off as if discarding them, he rushed inside and began unpacking. First came the yellow pickled radish, then the bowls of jajangmyeon.

"They don't deliver out here, do they?"

I recognized it from the fried egg and the three green peas perched on top. It was from the famous Chinese restaurant downtown. Word of how delicious it was had spread far and wide, yet its location right in the city center made frequent visits difficult. Even if you ordered under the name of the Chowa-ri village hall, the delivery motorcycle's key would turn only if an expensive dish was included in the order.

"Don't tell me you walked all the way there and back?"

"Eat."

My eyes stayed on the jajangmyeon while my hands cleared the workbook. At a speed that could make one faint, the desk was emptied and two bowls of jajangmyeon set upon it. The appetite-stirring scent of black-bean sauce claimed the entire porch. The man who had clearly walked the distance opened the plastic wrap with limp hands and began mixing the noodles.

"They're disposable bowls?"

"When I said I was from this neighborhood. They said collecting the dishes would be a hassle."

"Ah."

The jajangmyeon being mixed with a wet, squelching sound was the sort best eaten on moving day. As the breeze that slipped into the shade carried the smell of chunjang sauce into every corner, I asked one more question.

"But how did it not go cold? It took two whole hours."

"Walked there. Taxi back."

"You could have taken the bus there too..."

"They said it would come in an hour, so same difference. Walking or waiting for the bus—it's all the same. Walking's better if you want to stop thinking random thoughts."

The man who had returned from untimely exercise seemed hungry enough to try eating the jajangmyeon before it was even mixed. Just as his chopsticks were about to score into his mouth I urgently pulled his bowl toward me. They say even a dog does not touch a person while he is eating. The man's eyes, fixed on me in a frozen pose, seemed to say exactly that.

"I haven't taken a single bite yet. Eat from this one."

Before I could be scolded, with quick hands I swapped his bowl and mine. While I was happily mixing the less-mixed jajangmyeon with two chopsticks, the space in front of me—which by now should have been noisy with the sound of noodles being sucked—was as quiet as a temple. When I looked up, the man appeared a little sulky.

"There's something I'm curious about."

"What is it?"

The moment our eyes met the man promptly began his question. Even the smile that curved as if finding something absurd looked somehow empty. Not that his head seemed empty, but that the person himself felt hollow, like an empty can. Frankly, even if the North invaded tomorrow this man looked like the type who would take a nap without a second thought. When such a man smiled it was either to mock or to tease—one of the two.

"Do you know what the scariest thing in the world is?"

"...Monthly rent?"

"Getting attached."

As if following the man's idle remark, a scruffy white puppy came over the gate. The puppy that settled into its familiar spot was one I had also met on the day I first saw the man in Chowa-ri. After that day it had appeared and vanished by turns, leaving only the empty food bowl, so I had eventually assumed it had run away. The man greeted with a faint smile the puppy that entered as if the place were its own home and flopped down on its belly.

"Looks like a motel now."

Saying that, he took a large bite of jajangmyeon and immediately stood. Chewing, he went into the kitchen and returned with a bowl heaped high with dog food. When he set it on the floor the white puppy dashed over and buried its nose in it.

"So you're raising it."

"I'm not."

Answering the instant he sat, the man fully entered combat with the jajangmyeon. The puppy whose tail spun like helicopter blades, ready to lift off into the sky, was of no concern to him. I stole glances at the puppy's rear to my heart's content while holding a piece of pickled radish in my mouth. Then a pair of chopsticks came along and gave my sacred jajangmyeon bowl a light tap.

"Eat first and then look. If you have time you can brush its fur too."

"Is that all right? It's so cute. We can't keep a dog at my house. My mom has allergies."

I did not want to leave any of the jajangmyeon, if only out of consideration for the man's effort. He because he was hungry, I because I wanted to play with the dog—we skipped words and worked our chopsticks. I liked wrapping black jajangmyeon around pickled radish to eat; he ate the noodles as fast as if he were competing in a contest. Still, thanks to the man's much-improved chopstick skills, my eyes and heart felt at ease.

"Hm?"

Finding the man's silence suddenly strange, I looked over. He was staring blankly at the completely empty pickled-radish dish I had finished, then added a single remark.

"Next time I'll ask for more pickled radish."

"...I ate almost all of it."

Of course about a third remained, but I had always had a small appetite. Eating this much was already a lot. Yet the man, whose smile had intensified, froze the midsummer day cold with his expression. Sensing the atmosphere had turned strange, I blurted out whatever came to mind.

"By the way, what name did you give that one? Heindung-i? Bok-soon-i?"

"It doesn't have one."

"Doesn't have one... why?"

The gaze that had lingered on the pickled-radish dish rose. It was around then that a cool light settled in his eyes, enough that one could easily mistake it for a glare. The man hung a smile more carefully than before at the corner of his mouth. Raising only one side of his lips, he twisted his head in an odd way.

"If I give that one a name?"

"...Yes."

"Then it won't be able to go out and come in freely. This little yard becomes its home for life. But wandering the neighborhood is that one's only joy in living—would it be right for me to take that away?"

The man's words were longer than ever and very slow. After he finished he leaned his upper body back, lightening the mood. In front of my dazed self he rummaged through his bulging pocket.

"What should I do."

"...What?"

"Should I buy more pickled radish?"

The conversation bounced here and there like a rubber ball bought at the stationery shop in front of an elementary school. Struck by it, I ended up with a bad head that kept thinking of the man the next day, and the day after that.

"It's fine."

I found myself wishing summer days would go on forever. Even now, for no reason I can name, I am shivering with cold.

I could not finish the jajangmyeon and left some. I was dying of apology; the man blamed every bit of it on the fallen pickled radish. Looking at him more and more, he could not help but be a strange and mysterious man.