Nineteen Without Eui-joo

Nineteen without Eui-joo tasted like muk without soy sauce. The ingredients were excellent, yet it was bland, missing its very core. Chowa-ri forgot Eui-joo as simply as boiling a three-minute curry. Most people barely remembered the news that the child who had left no mark at school or in the neighborhood had died of consumption. In a village that hated outsiders with a passion, even an unfamiliar car would set them trembling and watching intently. The house that had entered such a village like a thorn stuck in the flesh grew more desolate with each passing day. Eui-joo's bicycle had been stolen, and the pots and other belongings had been neatly cleared away. With the ominous rumor that lights came on every dawn, the place that had become the pinnacle of local resentment turned into the neighborhood's official abandoned house.

My spring and summer at nineteen, as a model student, grew busy with preparations for the Suneung. Special tutoring was brought in to make up for the time I had wasted grieving Eui-joo's death. It was forced on me by Mother, the only person in the neighborhood who knew of my friendship with him. She seemed firmly convinced that Eui-joo and I had merely known each other by face. Mother, who always said men were wolves and therefore not to be approached, had never liked the sickly Eui-joo; she must have hated the sight of her daughter soaking her pillow with tears over his death. So Mother's campaign to distract me began. That was her tutoring offensive, and my aunt's pocket-money games. Sadly, the effect was minimal. I still grew melancholy whenever I saw a river or a skinny schoolboy.

My last timid wish was only this: that the lives of the boys who had tormented the ailing Eui-joo would not be smooth. Whenever bruises appeared on Eui-joo's body, nine times out of ten it was their doing. I should have told that bastard of an older brother—I became someone who regretted it every single night.

The funeral held on a winter night still felt like yesterday, yet somehow I had finished the first semester of my third year and entered summer vacation. On a summer day when a cool breeze rose along the road home, even studying lost its interest. My only pleasure was eating cubed watermelon in front of the fan. When solving problems grew tiresome, I would ride my bicycle out at night to meet Mother. On the occasional nights when she worked a side job and came home near midnight, I would find myself heading to Eui-joo's house for no reason. Looking at the blue gate with its peeling paint, I could almost believe that tomorrow Eui-joo would come to collect his side-dish containers.

That day was one of those days. Mother, who lived for the pleasure of growing her savings, had gone to a friend's factory for side work, and I, having finished the closing ceremony, was riding my bicycle around the village once to soothe the summer.

In the old days I had talked excitedly of all the things I would do when I became an adult—this and that, places to go, things to eat—my chest swelling with anticipation. But once I tore July from the calendar and passed the halfway mark of the year, my heart grew restless. Every adult I knew said this was the good time. It was true that water bills, electricity bills, and the sorrows of a workplace were not yet themes of my life, and that was good. Being able to grieve a friend for nearly half a year was good. I was taking my cue from Mother's words that, busy with making a living, she had no time even to shed a single tear when her husband died.

Eui-joo's empty place had locked my mouth tight. The private thoughts I could never tell Mother, never tell my gossipy, prim friends, I had poured out to Eui-joo. Missing the friend who had been my confidant, the bicycle drifted again in the familiar direction. Past the mill uncle's tobacco field, past the narrow unpaved path, past the house of Auntie Mi-jeong, the poorest in the village, and into the lonely alley that led to the house of rumors.

"Oh."

The bicycle wheel that had been spinning uselessly with a squeak came to a stop. Unable to believe what I saw, I unconsciously let go of the handlebars. The house where the lights had always been kept off all day to save on electricity bills must have been possessed by firefly ghosts.

A dog barked. Unable to hold back my curiosity, I even stepped up onto the wooden veranda where the light was on. Had Eui-joo's brother sold the house? But who would buy a ruined shack in a backwater village? If someone had bought it, if a moving truck had come, the village elders' radar would have caught it long ago.

I tried out the hypothesis that Eui-joo had not actually died but run away. That life had become unbearable, that I was the only person he knew, that he had simply fled because he missed his brother who had gone out to work. But as I pushed the gate open with the front tip of my bicycle, the ankle of hope twisted. The smell of cigarettes—an adult's exclusive property—was wandering the yard. The owner of the smoke seeping into my nostrils was nearby.

On the wooden veranda that Eui-joo had swept and wiped every evening with a dry rag sat that unwelcome guest. A man who did not even startle at my sudden appearance in the yard. That unchanging blank expression was not unfamiliar. The way he casually put out his cigarette, as if looking at a pigeon that had made an emergency landing, was utterly natural.

"Hello."

It was Eui-joo's older brother, the man named Kang Eui-tae. Unlike before, when his face and arm had seemed injured, his features had cleared. He looked thinner, as if he had no appetite in the summer. The way he had the fan cord connected to the room draped over his leg was a sight. That indifferent expression in particular made a person's knees go weak. The man in the soybean-paste-colored T-shirt was lying uncomfortably.

Just as I was about to step back, thinking I had come to the wrong place, the man's cold question arrived before I could open the gate again.

"What was your name again."

The man I had thought would only watch whether people left or not asked that. Having failed to escape, I turned the bicycle I had been pulling out back around and looked behind me. He was fiddling with a lighter in one hand. Swallowing hard, I brought the bicycle fully into the yard.

"Um, that is, Yang Ji-eon."

"Right, Yang Ji-eon."

Taking it to mean our business with each other was finished, I bowed my head and lifted the bicycle high. But the day that had gone thoroughly wrong would not let me go so easily.

"Ji-eon."

At the familiar form of address from the man who sat without moving, the bicycle dropped with a thud. The wheel of the fallen bicycle spun freely as if its chain had broken, making a rough sound. Even while I floundered to right it, the man's voice rang out clearly.

"Bring me some side dishes."

"Pardon?"

"There's nothing here. Even if there is, it's all rotten."

"Is that... so?"

"As a housewarming gift, side dishes, please. Ah, and if you've got any rice or something, just one bowl."

My mouth fell open in shock. Bringing side dishes was not difficult, but I had never had any sort of friendship with Eui-joo's brother to begin with. The way his eyes rolled sideways as if tapping a calculator was detestable. Something like a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth. The man puffed out one cheek with his tongue and made a thoroughly low-quality proposal.

"The left one's Eui-joo's room, right? There were some letters he wrote to you or something."

"Pardon?"

"Want to read them?"

Even without that temptation I probably would have brought him the side dishes. I knew better than anyone that there was nothing in Eui-joo's house. How many side dishes had I offered up to Eui-joo—how could I not know the state of the refrigerator? But the man's shameless attitude woke the rebellious streak inside me.

"If you don't want to..."

At my timid reply that went against my heart, a smile more sly than last time settled on his lips.

"Then I'll have to torment you."

"Pardon?"

My legs, which could only answer "Pardon?" like a fool, were already slipping out the gate. When I yanked hard on the bicycle wheel caught on the threshold, it rattled and spun by itself. Thinking only of the man's words about bringing side dishes, I climbed onto the bicycle. The bicycle that had wobbled at the start picked up speed as it left the alley.

I, who by rights should have returned home and opened my workbooks, packed side dishes as if I were fleeing a disaster. Into the yellow school bag went pickled cucumbers, stir-fried zucchini, soy-braised beef, and more; I zipped it shut. I was curious about the man who resembled Eui-joo in not a single way, afraid of him, and wanted to learn this and that about stories connected to Eui-joo. It was a curiosity I had never felt toward the neighborhood people, Mother, or my aunt, who had treated Eui-joo like a borrowed bundle. Perhaps the patience of someone who had only swallowed words of mourning inside had finally run out.

Someone who could talk about memories of Eui-joo had moved into Chowa-ri. With a heart that could not tell whether this was joy, sorrow, or simple curiosity, I closed the refrigerator.

As the man had demanded, I also scooped rice into a new side-dish container. The bag strap pressing heavily on my shoulder could not restrain my excited steps. Right now I felt exactly as I had when going to give side dishes to Eui-joo—crossing a line of fire to find freedom. I must be lonely, after all.

Looked at another way, it meant I had something to do besides aimlessly roaming the neighborhood. Each time I pressed the pedals hard, the side-dish containers in the school bag jostled against one another, clanking, clanking.

Perhaps my true summer vacation was only beginning now.