UBC Ch1

Kang Eui-joo died. Kang Eui-joo, the outcast of Chowa-ri, died. Chowa-ri, Maewa-ri, Dongwa-ri—my home was in this mountain village where these three ris (villages) gathered, a place called Wari Village. According to the village chief, it used to be called “Wari Village” until the Korean War.

I had never experienced the death of anyone close to me, except for my father, who passed away when I was a baby. So, I casually asked my mom about the proper etiquette for a funeral, just to be prepared. I put ten thousand won in a white envelope, took the last bus, and hesitantly approached the funeral hall where men in black suits were smoking. Like an uninvited guest, I stood for a long time in front of the stairs leading down to the underground mortuary.

Nineteen, the age of blossoming flowers, a senior in high school. I was born in a poor neighborhood in Seoul, where they say you can get your nose cut off even with your eyes open, and grew up in Chowa-ri. My mom, who always said she had a wretched fate, lost her maternal grandfather, three siblings in bizarre accidents, and ended up with only her eldest sister left. That was my aunt. Born as the youngest and having attended countless funerals, my mom embarked on a tough, single-minded life after handling her husband’s funeral. Despite being looked down upon as a widow, she strapped me to her back and went out to learn hairdressing. And just as she was about to finish her probationary period with a meager salary, she heard news of her eldest sister, who had married and moved down south.

My aunt, who married the son of a brewery owner, suddenly appeared at her parents’ house one day and said, “I’m tired of being beaten and want a divorce,” and nothing more. In a time when it was difficult for older divorced women to make a living on their own, my stubborn maternal grandmother told her to endure it and sent her back empty-handed. After that, contact with my aunt, who had stopped visiting her family, was reestablished almost by chance. The story of my remarried aunt had trickled back to our hometown.

I was about seven years old when my mom packed her bags and went to find my aunt. Having become an expert at moving after working at diners, noodle shops, seolleongtang restaurants, and hair salons, my mom got boxes from the supermarket and called her regular moving truck driver.

She even quit the hair salon that had allowed her to obtain her official license. But instead of diligently searching for a house, my mom impulsively bought a state-of-the-art refrigerator. To me, that double-door refrigerator felt like an omen of misfortune. The hair dryer, house phone, and wardrobe that my mom bought on stressful days had always brought bad luck.

“How is it?”

“It’s big and nice.”

“This is our house.”

After a three- or four-hour drive in the moving truck, we arrived in front of a detached house. A white gate like winter snowflakes, grape vines wrapped around the shade over the faucet, six kimchi jars left by the previous owner, a yard turned into a chili pepper field, and a cozy house with a red roof were all under my mom’s name. Holding my shoulder with my rabbit bag, my mom teared up. It was my mom’s own house, who knew the hardships of living in rented rooms.

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

A woman with a flamboyant appearance, wearing red lipstick and pointy heels, came to watch the moving day. She glanced at the scene of the moving truck driver unloading the luggage and asked with an indifferent attitude.

“Are you Yang Ji-eon?”

“Yes.”

Later, I found out that a significant portion of the money for the house we moved into came from my aunt. Like a landlord of a rented house, my aunt leisurely looked around the house and told me not to let anyone outside know that she was my aunt. She insisted that I should tell people she was just a neighborhood lady or a friend of my mom.

I learned around the time of my elementary school graduation that my divorced aunt had married a wealthy man in Wari and was living cautiously, that her husband thought she had cut ties with her family, that she had actually lived that way for quite a long time, and that despite all that, she couldn’t ignore my mom who had come to find her and had lent her the money to buy the hair salon and the house.

Our mother and daughter started a new life sitting on such complicated adult circumstances like a cushion. In this Chowa-ri, where you had to walk 30 minutes to the bus stop to get to the city, I had to wake up at 5 a.m. every day to get to high school on time. Although the difficulty of life was quite high, I didn’t mind it that much. My goal was my mom’s happiness, my happiness, and therefore, the happiness of all of us.

Entering a city high school with strict divisions between girls’ and boys’ schools, I began to dream of going to college, a dream that didn’t fit our circumstances. I wanted to go to college in Seoul, get a decent job, and open a rose-scented flower shop after retirement. Spending my old age with a watering can had become my ultimate goal.

This new goal of going to college was born because my homeroom teacher in the third year of middle school had filled my mom’s lungs with air. The dream I had of learning hairdressing and following in my mom’s footsteps was hit with a fierce gust of wind. The aforementioned Seoul University, job, and flower shop were all part of it.

With the support of my aunt, who wasn’t supposed to be my aunt, and the encouragement of my mom, who had become bold enough to grab the hair of customers who picked fights, I, who had grown up receiving the sorrow and tears of two women, sang flower songs until I was seventeen. That was definitely the case until Kang Eui-joo, seventeen, moved into the abandoned house in Chowa-ri.

Kang Eui-joo.

After confirming the name on the funeral hall lobby screen, I slowly took a step. In some rooms, there were cries of injustice, in others, the sound of stomping feet, and in others, silence was drying up hearts. I stood in front of room 101, the darkest, most secluded, and the only one without a chrysanthemum wreath.

I didn’t know if a funeral was being held, or if there was a chief mourner. As expected, only flies buzzed around the funeral hall for Eui-joo, the outcast of Chowa-ri. There was only one pair of old men’s dress shoes in the shoe rack. Looking at the emptiness of the desolate shoe rack, I thought of Eui-joo’s sneakers with his worn-out heels.

“Idiot.”

I didn’t want to cry, so I pressed my finger against the tip of my nose, which was starting to sting. I should have told Eui-joo. I think of you as a friend, I’m not ashamed of you at all, I’m not pitying you, I should have said that.

Thinking about how lonely Eui-joo’s last moments must have been, I didn’t dare stand here.

“Here to pay your respects?”

Then, a voice that sounded like it had just woken up from a nap in the darkened funeral hall came. I didn’t know anyone was there, so I was startled and looked up. Inside the chilly funeral hall, in the area lined with white tables, a person was sitting.

“I actually have an older brother.” Eui-joo had once told me.

The villagers gossiped, suspecting Eui-joo’s background. Even I, who only verbally protested that it wasn’t true, didn’t fully believe Eui-joo’s words. His mother ran away when he was five, his father ran away three years ago, and his brother left for work last year. Still, he said that his brother was the only one who found him a house, sent him money, and sometimes called.

Kang Eui-joo, who moved into the abandoned house of a con artist who had committed large-scale fraud in the village and fled in the night, was naturally not well-received by the people of Chowa-ri.

It was my well-connected aunt who told me that Eui-joo’s funeral was being held. Now that I had come here, it seems that there were no lies in Eui-joo’s words. Unless my heart that cherished Eui-joo was a lie.

11:40 p.m. I, who had secretly run out of the study room and come all the way here, spoke with a nasal voice in front of Eui-joo’s brother. Eui-joo’s brother, who came out to greet the mourners, had broad shoulders, was tall, and looked healthy. He was 180 degrees different from Eui-joo, who had a frail physique and always coughed. I was just saddened by that dry face where no trace of Eui-joo could be found.

“You’re Eui-joo’s brother, right? Actually, Eui-joo kept waiting.”

Eui-joo, who was already weak, completely collapsed after the bullies at the same school threw him into the water. I had vaguely heard that his lungs or stomach were weak. Eui-joo, who didn’t want to burden his brother, only went to quack doctors in the neighborhood and eventually died on the street.

The first person to discover him was an old woman called Jeju’s wife, and at that time, I was unaware of Eui-joo’s news because I was taking winter vacation classes. I found out late that he had died because my mom and aunt were keeping it a secret. He was taken to a hospital in the city in an ambulance, but he died, and they were holding a funeral at a remote funeral hall. He skipped school as often as he ate because he was sick, and I was his only friend and acquaintance.

I had no one to pour out my resentment on but Eui-joo’s brother, so I cried and cried until people from the next room looked in. Eui-joo’s brother did nothing but watch me crying in my school uniform, holding a white envelope, crying like a child throwing a tantrum.

It would be understandable if a complete stranger suddenly came and poured out tears of resentment. It would be understandable if he was angry at me for losing my temper at someone who had lost his only sibling. Perhaps resembling Eui-joo, who was foolishly kind, his brother guarded his spot with an indifferent gaze.

“I’m sorry.”

It was instantaneous that my tears, which had subsided as they had no one to receive them, turned into shame. Without saying much, I handed over the white envelope with both hands.

“Where do I give this?”

I hoped Eui-joo in heaven didn’t think I’m embarrassing. It would be a relief if he didn’t grab his stomach and laugh, saying, “What a disgrace.”

But even after a long time, the white envelope was not taken. My gaze, which had been unable to lift up due to embarrassment, finally reached beyond the tips of my shoes. His gaze, which had been fixed on the white envelope, also moved. I had come to pay my respects, but only now did I make eye contact for the first time. Calm-toned eyes, exotic features, but the impression he gave was that of a Korean person.

I wondered if he was a person with only one expression. An unmoving corner of his mouth, cloudy eyes. It was as if he was telling me that he didn’t care whether I cried or not.

“You’re Yang Ji-eon.”

Moreover, the fact that he knew my name was another shock.

“Want to get some food?”

That’s probably why I, who had to go back soon, had set foot in the funeral hall. I was as shocked by my first meeting with his brother as I was by Eui-joo’s death.