Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Vacuum cleaner bitch.When Jina sees this anonymous comment on a forum it forces her out of her stupor. It is posted on a website dissecting her public allegations of workplace sexual assault, the backlash to which forced her to quit her job. She has spent months glued to her laptop screen, junk-food packaging piling up around her, tracking the hate campaign that's raging against her online. This post stands out from the noise, for it could only have been made by someone who knew her as a student at university. The comment stirs something deeply repressed. So Jina returns to Anjin University, and to the toxic culture that destroyed the lives of many female students including one, Ha Yuri, who died tragically and mysteriously not long before Jina left. Somewhere within Jina's memories is the truth about what happened to Yuri all those years ago.Told in alternative viewpoints, in sharp, intelligent and multi-layered prose, this powerful and necessary novel confronts issues of sexism and abuse on university campuses.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 381
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
Contents
PART 1
1
Jina
My mind empties when I think back to that day. What happened to me? Which memories still remain?
There was a small lake. Its odour was thick and deep. When it rained, the dark stench spread throughout the whole neighbourhood. Its stickiness seeped in from all directions; the air, heavy with moisture, trembled in the rain. I tramped down on the blades of grass as I drifted along the roadside.
You want to know what happened? What I did?
I wasn’t satisfied until the smell of fresh green grass permeated every inch of my soles. I wasn’t at ease until the edges of my trainers were smeared dark green. Until the smell of mangled grass shot through me like a sharp cry, I couldn’t forget. Forget what was coming for me. Forget that my body was already sodden with the stench of the water, emitting its stale tang.
For a long time I couldn’t remember. But it’s sharp and vivid now, like it were only yesterday. And feels, too, like an echo from the distant past.
The voice calling my name.
Jina-ya? Jina-ya?
There was a rice field. The field was vast—so vast I thought my heart would burst. At dusk the world was coloured every warm shade of red. The air breathed in the last heat of the day, radiating the gentle scent of the afternoon sunlight. The sun trembled as I stretched out my hand. I filled my lungs with the breeze and ran to the end of the levee. The crimson-dyed evening was tender, a smile brimming with love.
Jina-ya? Jina-ya?
That day, someone called my name. I didn’t look back. Looking straight into the faraway, setting sun, I walked and walked. It was the only thing before me, all that was coming for me. I forgot the smell of the voice that clung to my body.
Wait.
The sun lighting my path never existed.
I haven’t left my flat in three months.
Stupid woman.
Today, too, people hated me. I was spending today, like every other day, alone at home, reading articles and comments written about me. The subject this time was ‘stupidity’. The pattern in which the disputes unfolded was generally similar. Someone called me stupid, and then the responses followed: she’s not stupid, just afraid. No, she wasn’t stupid or afraid, she was just a hopeless case to begin with. Then came another rebuttal. Look, let me explain to you what ‘stupid’ means. Haven’t you heard the story? The girl dancing in the red shoes. Beanpole legs limping as she walks. The girl who couldn’t stop dancing, in shoes she should never have worn. She shouldn’t have longed for what didn’t suit her to begin with. Should’ve known the shoes were bad. She had no clue the shoes weren’t right for her—you think she would have known her two legs would spread up in the air?
That’s what stupid is.
These people I’d never met knew me better than I knew myself.
My ringtone pierced the air. Like a disobedient child caught in the act, I blinked and directed my gaze down at the white flashing screen. It was Tana. I looked at the phone for a brief moment before turning back towards the monitor. I didn’t pick up.
I knew what Tana would say. She’d tell me to stop looking at what I was reading. It was obvious. At first she’d say she’d phoned out of boredom—it was only when the conversation neared its end that she’d bring up what she really wanted to talk about.
Jina-ya, don’t pay attention to any of that bullshit.
I always responded that I wouldn’t. Then, as soon as we hung up, I’d type my name, ‘Kim Jina’, into the search engine.
I was aware that what people were saying was bullshit. How could I not be? I just couldn’t stop reading. Tana knew my obsession with what other people were saying. That must be why she made a habit of stressing the same thing every time.
‘Most of them are on your side. You know that, right?’
But today I wasn’t having any of it. I ignored the phone. It continued to ring. Once. And again. And again. Then silence.
I burst out laughing. I was actually disappointed. I mean, really? I’d deliberately avoided the call, but the moment the ringing stopped, the disappointment I felt was unbelievable. Then came a violent rush of loneliness, a sickness in the pit of my stomach. I’m this predictable, this dull.
Like on that day last summer.
My boyfriend grabbed me by the neck.
Right. It’s a stupid story.
Lately I’m most envious of the people who think my story is pointless. I, too, want to look at myself and think, ‘I just don’t get her.’ To see myself in that same way. To become another person. A person totally distinct from this someone I can’t understand, don’t want to understand. I want to heave a deep sigh and call out my own name.
Jina-ya, come on. Why would you do that?
I wish emotions were something you could choose to feel. The fear that someone might leave me, discarded, without value—I hate that feeling. People have realized the hold these thoughts have over me, and treat me in whatever way they please. I want to stop consoling myself, to stop telling myself that despite all this I’m still okay. I want to harden. To not feel anything at all. What I need is to lay my body on a bone-dry mound of hay. To breathe in the parched, stiff scent of the grass. To have every drop of moisture sucked from me. And then, one day, looking at the dampened heart of another, draw a long breath and ask,
Come on, why would you do that?
Why didn’t you end things?
He was my senior at work, and it was the fifth time he’d assaulted me.
That day, I reported him.
I’ve thought enough.
I shot up from my chair and put some water on the stove. For tea. Or coffee. But inside my head the thoughts continued to unravel like balls of yarn, one after another, disordered and entangled.
Like Tana said, not everyone was bad-mouthing me. Some said I was brave, some offered help. I was thankful, but their words weren’t enough to rid me of my shame and embarrassment. Sometimes what was more crushing was not what he did to me, but the fact everyone knew.
Click. I extinguish the flame the moment it ignites. Taking a bottle of water from the fridge, a gulping noise sings out as the cold liquid slides down my throat. I still want tea or coffee, but it feels like a hassle. I don’t want to do anything that requires attention or exertion.
What’s the point?
My psychiatrist advised me to do something for myself. Eat your favourite food, tidy up, exercise, talk to friends. I went to three sessions before giving up. It felt like the psychiatrist wasn’t simply listening to me, but doing me a favour by listening to me. The last time I went, I was handed a questionnaire to fill out, but each and every checkbox was a struggle. These kinds of things: do you often feel lonely? Do you ever feel insignificant? Are you often unable to control your emotions? I felt I might as well be taking one of those online psychology tests. The last question was something like this:
Do you feel like the world is out to get you?
I didn’t go back after that. I didn’t follow a single one of the doctor’s recommendations. Especially not today. The bin is full to the brim with junk-food packaging. Clumps of dust and hair balled up on the floor. As long as it’s not for anything in particular—and by that, I mean occasionally getting up to take out the overflowing rubbish—I don’t leave the flat at all. Inside the flat, I barely move, either. I order food over the internet, and anything I can’t get online, I don’t eat.
Three months of this. Since leaving my job, this has been my life.
I’m the living record of a terrible mistake.
‘This isn’t your fault,’ Tana would say whenever I put myself down.
I know. That’s why I miss Tana, and why I don’t want to listen to her. I want to feel her affection, but hate feeling how I’ve become someone requiring constant encouragement. Just because she’s a friend, it doesn’t make it any less embarrassing to bare myself in front of her each and every time we speak. And whenever I talk to Tana, I have to do my best to hide my brokenness—I don’t want her to know I’ve been ruined to an extent beyond what she can handle. I’m afraid of seeing the look in Tana’s eyes that says she’s had enough. But concealing my teeming anxiety is exhausting. Just the fact that I need to exert myself irritates me. I don’t want to lose Tana, but I also don’t want to work to keep her. Just the fact I have this mindset makes me a terrible human being.
I’m suddenly overcome by the most awful thought. That’s right. I am that kind of person.
That’s why he hit me.
I hurriedly pull out the cold water again and drink from the bottle. I try to push the thought away, but in the end I can hear his voice once more, distinctly. He said the same thing every time he hit me.
‘Don’t think this is over.’
At the end of the trial, he was fined three million won for assault.
My chest freezes solid.
If anyone were to meet me as I am now, they’d likely think me weak—but I haven’t always been this way. I became weak.
I thought if the police investigated him, he’d be put under house arrest, surveillance, something—but none of that happened. I knew nothing about the legal system. I’d likewise thought there’d be protective measures put in place for the victim. I could of course apply for a restraining order. But that took time. I needed evidence as to why he shouldn’t be allowed contact with me, and then that evidence needed to be approved. I didn’t know the laws. I didn’t know the trial would take so long. Believing he would at some point be punished, I waited. Then five months passed.
I know. I should have informed the company and requested to be reassigned departments, or instead asked for him to be moved to another team. But I was more afraid of other people knowing than I was of seeing him. So the whole year we were dating, I didn’t make a single friend at work. I kept my colleagues at a distance. At first my shyness had been the problem, but later it was the fear our relationship would be found out. As time went on, I didn’t want anyone knowing what had happened to me. And when I started exceeding my performance targets again and again, I became a complete outcast. It was immediately clear I was first and foremost a competitor. Owning up to these people and asking for their help was unimaginable. I didn’t feel there’d be a single person on my side.
After I told my story, someone actually said this to me: I would never have expected it from you. You didn’t look like the type of girl this kind of thing happens to.
What exactly should a woman who’s beaten by the man she loves look like? And what about him, the man who hit me, who as he beat his girlfriend, whispered he was going to kill me? What does Lee Jinsub look like?
I can say one thing for certain. He was a good-looking man. I still remember it all clearly. His height clearing 180 centimetres, deep-set eyes, sharp nose—features that would arrest your gaze from far away. But, how should I put it? He didn’t have much of a personality, and so despite his good looks, left somewhat of a vague impression. Because of that, ironically, I felt less nervous around bigger guys when I was with him. He didn’t assert himself aggressively, nor did he do anything to flaunt his presence. Even if he had, his vagueness meant it never felt that way. In fact, it was only as he looked down at me, hands squeezed around my neck, that I felt his presence distinctly. Forced down against the floor, unable to breathe, I could see him clearly. There, in the centre of my blurring field of vision, was the distinct image of his face.
He knew very well how he came across to people. He told me once. That there was a time a different girl would confess her feelings for him almost every day. And he said this too. That he’d never dated a short girl with darker skin like me. He felt very certain of what his type was, and made sure to emphasize it. I like girls with soft, porcelain skin. He said that was the kind of girl who suited him. We look perfect together. But he said there weren’t many girls like that, and that it took a lot for him to tell a girl she was beautiful. I couldn’t be angry at him, though. After all, he whispered this to me as I shrunk away—but I don’t care about any of that when it comes to you.
His words were like looking into an upside-down mirror. My face inverted inside of it. As soon as his certainty faded, I would become nothing—it was clear. Yet I, upside down, always smiled. I looked prettier that way.
One of the online comments said this: women who lose themselves over words like that are pathetic.
I hope they all continue to live with such certainty.
And then, when something unexpected comes their way, they’ll crumble to pieces all the easier.
He took for granted that he’d been the one to choose me—but he never considered that I could have chosen him. He was wrong, of course. I chose him. And I was certain, too. Red shoes? Didn’t know I’d be dancing forever? No, that was wrong as well. I hadn’t even realized I was dancing. I believed those two flailing legs were not my own, and so I was certain. That I would never love a man like him.
It was summer then, too. I’d recently moved jobs from another company. He was the manager of the department I was assigned to. The first day I worked late, I went out to get something to eat. When I came back, he called me over. He slid across a few papers, seemingly trying to avoid the gaze of our colleagues. They were documents outlining the work’s contents and procedures. And he passed me a coffee. It smelt good.
That wasn’t enough, though. That was useless by itself.
It wasn’t just that he was good-looking—I knew all sorts of things about him. That he was good at his job. That he had an excellent reputation. That the female employees enjoyed talking with him. That he was the son of a rich family. That he was related to one of the directors. That everyone envied him. That he’d never once doubted he was a ‘good guy’.
As he handed me the coffee, his fingertips brushed mine.
‘If you’re struggling with anything, let me know. I’ll give you a hand.’
I didn’t misunderstand the situation that day. Instead I ignored the old flat, crumpled circle rising sharply in my mind.
It was emotion; it was memory.
I was nineteen, and would turn twenty the following year. Before moving to study in Seoul, I went to high school, and then university, in the small city of Anjin, North Jeolla Province. It took around an hour by bus from my home town of Palhyun. Anjin was filled with the stark colonial leftovers of red brick buildings and homes with bright blue tiled roofs. There was a small lake in the city. On rainy days the smell of damp would seep right into your hair. At sixteen I arrived in Anjin, and at twenty I left.
Before I met Hyeongyu sunbae, I thought good-looking, rich, smart guys were liked only by women. But that wasn’t true. The guys liked him even more. Being close with Ryu Hyeongyu was something to be proud of. It felt like being on a level with him. If level and position are determined by who you associate with, he resembled a kind of unachievable dream.
So I dreamt, too. I liked him. It was my dream, and I wanted to cherish it, secretly, quietly. It would have stayed a pleasant memory to this day—if only his girlfriend hadn’t found out.
She was in my year, and different from me in every way. Standing next to her, I felt even plainer. Still carrying my high-school weight; tanned skin; grades a complete mess, unable to adjust to university life. Above all, I was a loner. I didn’t fit in anywhere. Fiddling awkwardly with my still-wet hair, stealing glances at the people around me. Couldn’t they have shown just a little compassion? I heard people talking behind my back—Who does she think she is? Rumours started that I was following Hyeongyu sunbae around. Then other rumours, other gossip continued the knotted trail and stuck—though I can’t say this was the deciding factor, I transferred to a university in Seoul at the end of my second year. I was determined not to let the same thing happen twice.
I had no intention of making a complete mess of myself—for nothing other than to see his lovely face one more time—all over again. I felt confident.
But the coffee he handed me smelt so good. The swelling circle. The slowly expanding sharp curve. The whole time I sipped the coffee, I could still feel the warmth where his fingertips had brushed mine. Not long afterwards, he bought me coffee again. The next time it was snacks. He texted me asking if I’d got home safely. He asked what I got up to on the weekends. Was this important? It was important. The feeling of being important to someone. The twinkling light invading the worn-out empty home that was my heart. These things were important. I was dancing.
Around the end of summer, he asked me on a date.
He said he wanted to see me again. He said he wanted to keep seeing me. He said he was happy.
I remembered that feeling every time he gripped me like a wrinkled mound of clothes. He clearly loved me. He’d just changed a little. Surely he can change again? Surely he can go back to how he was before? Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe he’s a bit depressed, finding it difficult to cope with the stress. Could I have made him feel lonely? Then maybe it’s my fault. I didn’t read the situation; I didn’t pick up on it at first—it’s my fault. I’ll try harder. If I treat him better, if I remind him of how he used to feel about me, we can go back to being happy, like we were at the beginning.
‘I’m an affectionate person. You’re just not bringing it out in me. Can’t you help me show my affectionate side?’
The resolutions I’d made really were important. I didn’t want to die, however—it was only after the fifth time his hands had almost squeezed the last breath out of me that I realized what was more important was survival. That’s why I was able to report him.
Once I’d decided to end it with him, the things I used to want lost all their meaning. I didn’t want to earn his approval and I didn’t want to earn his love. Was it really this simple? This easy? Had these things really been so worthless? Enduring him, holding on while my body was crushed—these things were so, so hard. He was probably taken aback. He’d been used to me putting up quietly with it all.
I refused to come to an agreement with him, and wouldn’t accept his apology. I asked that he leave the company. I told him he needed to be punished by law. I remember the expression on his face. He would have hit me if he could. The trial lasted five months. But it’s really funny—in the end he was proved right.
‘Don’t think this is over.’
I wasn’t a weak person. I didn’t want to become a weak person. I didn’t want him to remember me as a weak person.
But a mere three million won—really?
I was forced to see him every day. The man who threatened to kill me. Would he really leave me alone? Even if privately he let me be, would he really play fair at work? Wouldn’t he punish me? Or treat me unjustly? Spread weird rumours? I was overwhelmed by every kind of anxiety, I was angry, it wasn’t fair. It was then that I pulled myself together completely. The problem wasn’t people finding out—what I needed was protection.
After agonizing a long while, I posted my story online.
It was a film review message board, but I uploaded it there anyway. The number of times he hit me, the violent language he used, the extent of my injuries, the medical certificate and photos, the judge’s ruling—I posted everything. Of all the message boards I knew, it was the one that got the most traffic. Film critics and magazine journalists were registered too—I thought I could get some help from the press.
When the first snow fell, my post was published in a news article. He was sent on paid leave.
I had no idea this would only be the beginning.
2
You need to grow up
Iknow you’re upset with us, Jina-ssi. But listen to our side of the story for a minute. To be honest, I really don’t think I need to justify myself at this point. We’re both a laughing stock now that the press has picked it up. But let’s be honest, the company looks so bad. We need to be able to plan ahead. Our employees should be able to trust us. To be confident we’ll deal with any issue, whatever it is. You think the company can trust you lot now? Dating—whatever you call it—why did you have to bring the company into it? Why post it online? You should have come to me. I had no idea. After all, Jina-ssi, you never looked like that kind of girl. You really should’ve come to me first. What were you thinking? Both your name and the company’s are out there now. Jinassi, image is everything for us. We’re a travel company. As the director, should I really have to be calling you in for this? Jina-ssi, do you know how irresponsible you’ve been? You’ve done colossal damage to our revenue.
You wrote it yourself. That you couldn’t trust the company would handle it properly, and that’s why you asked for help online. Do you know how much you’ve lowered employee morale? You realize the company could hold you legally liable. Why are you so shocked? You didn’t know? You’re saying you never thought you’d have to take responsibility for something like this? Did you ever once ask for our help? Did we refuse? That’s why you posted it online? That wasn’t it, was it? When you said you couldn’t trust we’d handle it properly, you were lying, weren’t you? It was a lie. You lied.
You know Manager Lee is like a son to me, right? It was me who asked him to take time off. What he did was wrong. Guess I’m a feminist too. I teach our youngest properly. My son’s nine, and I always tell him—girls need protecting. If another lad breaks your nose, you go and punch him right back—but girls are a different matter. Our son would never, ever hit a girl, even as a joke. And he doesn’t tease them then do a runner, or pull pranks to make them cry. He’s a decent kid. But sometimes girls hit him. Young girls are too cocky these days. Our boy is so restrained the girls think they’re winning by their own strength. They chase him and kick him, punch him in the stomach—it’s unbelievable. They seem to get some kind of joy out of beating up the boys. They’ve got no idea my lad is just letting them off the hook. If you ask me, their parents need to get their acts together. Boy, girl, what does it matter? Isn’t it the punching that’s the issue? If a girl takes a swing at a boy, she needs a bollocking.
We tell lads to control their anger—just in case they don’t know their own strength and end up causing proper harm. But letting girls run around punching and kicking whoever they like—does that make any sense to you? Those kinds of girls, they’re unattractive. I can’t speak when it comes to you, but those girls, they act up to get the lads’ attention. Either that, or they really just hate losing. I’ve worked a good number of years now, and girls like that grow up exactly the same. They don’t listen. They’re obstinate. They’re unattractive. I don’t want to generalize, but those kinds of girls, their faces are stuck like that forever. The lads are just the same. There are always the ones that don’t listen to a word you say. No manners. They think they’ve come this far because they’re God’s gift or something. They’re so arrogant. Men shouldn’t be able to get away with it. I’ve gotten off topic, but what I’m saying is—I’m on your side, Jina-ssi.
It really never crossed my mind that Miyoung-ssi would post screenshots of the employee chat room to go against what you said. The other staff didn’t see it coming either. I guess we all trusted her. The conversations we had weren’t criticizing you, Jina-ssi. We were just onlookers sharing how bad we felt about the whole situation.
Look, it was within that context that I said you’d ‘ruined a good man’s life’. Jina-ssi, every story has a context. You need to take that into consideration.
Manager Lee made a mistake. He was wrong. I’m not siding with him. Miyoung-ssi probably wasn’t either. I suppose she just felt bad for Manager Lee and wanted to tell the story from a different angle. She wanted people to know he was someone we trusted, and that’s why she wanted them to see our conversation. Of course, that was just how Miyoung-ssi saw it—I’m not saying that’s how it actually was.
And all hell broke loose when you posted it online, didn’t it? Everyone was tearing into Manager Lee and slagging off the company. Miyoung-ssi must’ve thought we needed some balance. I don’t know her exact reasoning. Maybe the rumours she had feelings for him were true, and maybe she’d just misunderstood you as a person. Anyway, I feel really bad seeing you hurt like this.
But Jina-ssi, it’s like I said. Listen to the context, Jina-ssi.
I heard you hardly ever picked up the tab at dinner? All right, I know. Just listen to what I have to say first. What I want to say is—it was about a year ago. Manager Lee looked like there was new life in him—I knew he must’ve started seeing someone. I can tell right away. Young lads give it away immediately. But it wasn’t long before his face changed. His mind seemed elsewhere. So I went for a drink with him.
Manager Lee doesn’t give things away easily. He never once mentioned your name.
My girlfriend doesn’t pay for anything. That’s what he said to me. I know, I know. It wasn’t like you spent nothing at all. After all, you’re earning, too. But apparently he almost always paid for dinner? And the drinks, too? Yeah, all right. You bought the coffee, Jina-ssi, and the cinema tickets. I know, I know. Presents? All right. I didn’t know about that. I can’t know each and every transaction between the two of you. I’m sure you took good care of him in your own way, Jina-ssi. But presents weren’t what was important to him.
You knew Manager Lee is all front, right, Jina-ssi? He looks like he’s from a rich family, when actually they’re drowning in debt. You were aware of this, right? Once he’s sent money home each month, made the loan payments, and taken out his living costs, the guy has nothing left. There were even rumours going around that he’s related to one of the directors, but none of it’s true. The lad’s proud and refuses to show any weakness—that’s all it is. His whole life he’s hardly ever been able to spend a thing on himself. On the surface he looks like someone with a decent job living off a good wage. Naturally it’s the man’s bravado that’s to blame. He wanted people to think he was well-off.
Honestly, I reckon you must’ve found that front attractive at the beginning, Jina-ssi. I’m right, aren’t I? Let’s be upfront. Manager Lee is out of your league, isn’t he? I’m not being sexist here. That’s just the reality. But in the end you found out everything about his situation. And you kept seeing him? Because you loved him? And about love. Love lets us put up with just about anything. But listen, Jina-ssi. I heard you like high-end restaurants? And on holiday you refused to stay in motels—insisted he book a hotel instead? And once when he came back from a business trip to China, you sulked that he hadn’t bought you a gift from the duty-free store?
All right, I know. Manager Lee probably said he was okay with it all. That’s what I’d expect. I’m sure you had your own reasons, too, Jina-ssi. But just listen to everything I have to say, Jina-ssi. When it comes to me—look, maybe it’s because I’m a bit older than your generation—you lot will probably find me conservative. I don’t think men spending money on women is such a big deal. My woman’s worth every penny. Of course I’d spend money on her. She’s my woman, after all. When I was first dating my wife, I spent money without even thinking. I wanted to do everything I could for her. That’s love. I know about love too, you know. But what I’m saying is this. It’s also because my wife gave her all to me too. She was the one who filled our fridge with banchan. She always knew what I needed right away. How could I not be thankful? And my wife had the sense to know when to say no. I was so grateful for that. Jina-ssi, do you think people always mean it when they offer to do something for you? You should’ve known to refuse. I had no idea you had so little sense, Jina-ssi.
I’m not taking sides here. I’m just saying I understand the context. Context, all right? Those things were always suffocating him, dragging him near to explosion. His family were asking him for money, the bank was chasing him too. He just wanted a bit of encouragement from his girlfriend, but then you’d just stare at him expecting him to do something for you—honestly who wouldn’t be messed up after that?
What Miyoung-ssi did was wrong. I know. She took things too far. But that’s not what’s important. It’s that part she wrote. When she said you’d got what you wanted from him and then even labelled him a violent offender—that part. I think there was a misunderstanding on her side, too. The important thing is to look at the context of why that misunderstanding happened in the first place.
I know you’re good at your job, Jina-ssi. You read the article so you’ll know already, but I didn’t say a thing about this particular issue. Society runs on competition, Jina-ssi. You kept getting better results, so of course everyone was on guard. You need to be careful in those situations. Even if you get good results off your own back, people will get jealous. But who’s going to accept you did that all on your own, if you go and get help from Manager Lee? You remember the time you stayed late to work on that presentation, don’t you? Apparently you carried a mountain of paperwork over to his desk and screamed at him to find something useful in it? No? Okay, all right. All right, but the important thing is that’s what people think. The way you acted caused a misunderstanding, Jina-ssi. It’s not what you say, but how you say it. I’m not saying you lied, I’m saying rumours were going round the company saying you were taking advantage of Manager Lee. That’s what’s important.
It’s absurd that Miyoung-ssi’s post was turned into a news article. It’s not like this is some kind of celebrity scandal. We’re wallowing in mud now. I’ll say it again, but I don’t want to take sides here. I don’t want to talk about why Miyoung-ssi took things so far, or what her feelings behind it were. An individual’s privacy needs to be protected. I’m not saying what you did was wrong, Jina-ssi, I’m saying that’s how it looked. People have the right to their own opinion. Once you’d bled Manager Lee dry, he couldn’t take it anymore and let it out through his fists—some people might see it that way.
Anyway, it’s true that you provoked him that day, Jina-ssi, isn’t it? So why exactly did you post it to begin with? If you really had to post it, you should have at least been objective and explained how you were unfair to him, too. Then the staff would have understood your position. Did you expect them to side with you after you wrote that the company had no interest in these things, and that you couldn’t trust your colleagues? How could you be so immature? You need to grow up, Jina-ssi, grow up.
Apparently that day you’d asked him to buy you a designer handbag? When he refused, you called him a waste of space? That was what really pissed him off, am I right?
3
Jina
Ihad so many answers within me. For you, my dear. And again, my dear, for you. For you, my friend. And again, my friend, for you.
There was plenty I could have said. I could’ve brought them all before me and told them everything I’d been through. I could’ve explained my issue—the one you think you understand better than me, my dear—in great detail. I never questioned Kim Miyoung; about how she, my closest friend at work (at least that’s what I thought), could post about me online and call me a cheap slag like that. Or the way she published contents of that work group chat, where they all gossiped about me, as ‘evidence’ of my reputation. How once my name had been leaked, even my parents found out. How those anonymous individuals who’d once taken my side turned their backs and treated me like dirt overnight. How as the news scandal unfolded, my parents started getting calls at home, and soon everyone I knew had found out my business. I didn’t say a thing.
Even now I sometimes get calls to my mobile. Snickering voices. Unprovoked curses seething with rage. I hear those words spoken by people I’ve never met:
You bitch. Go die.
Why does everyone tell me to go die like that?
I could’ve sued Kim Miyoung. I could’ve searched out the internet trolls and reported them one by one. I could’ve done anything if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t do a thing.
I lost the will to fight. And then I locked myself up at home.
Thoughts slosh like water in a cup full to the brim. My head swims. I crane my neck back and stare at the ceiling. Diagonal lines on the wall pour over my face like rain. There’s no way to prevent the growing damp. My phone buzzes again. A text this time. Tana, of course.
‘Whatever you’re reading right now, stop looking at it.’
I smiled. She seemed pretty worried. I sent a reply.
‘I’m not reading anything.’
I’d been reading until just a moment ago, but I wasn’t looking at anything right then, so it wasn’t exactly a lie. I thought it was a reasonable response. Her reply was instant.
‘Then what are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
This time there was a gap. The absence of an immediate response made me fret unnecessarily. Feeling left with nothing to do, I repeatedly picked up the phone and set it back down again. I turned my head surreptitiously towards the monitor, but my phone vibrated once more and a message appeared on the screen.
‘I told you, if you’ve got nothing to do, come to Anjin.’
I didn’t respond.
Tana believed Seoul was making me unwell. She wasn’t necessarily wrong. Seoul was unfamiliar, I had no friends, and the guy I’d been seeing had hit me and got off with just a fine. I handed in my resignation, but I might as well have been fired. My savings had run dry, too.
Lately I’ve been wondering why I’m still trying to tough it out alone in this city.
Why? Why am I going to all this effort?
But even so, I don’t miss Anjin.
Tana sees Anjin as our home town, but to me, home is the tiny village in Palhyun County where my parents live. It was never my choice to be in Anjin. I was only there because of my parents’ pestering. I needed to study in at least a largish city to get into a good university, they said. It was all right at first. I was young, and a city like Anjin was better than the countryside. That was how I ended up in Anjin, like a 1970s country boy chosen as the family breadwinner, sent to the city to study. My parents wanted me to go to teacher-training university in Anjin. Though it might not seem like much of a goal, to my parents, who ran a tiny supermarket and farmed off rented land, it was pretty ambitious. They hoped I’d settle down in Anjin. What I thought would be easy to achieve soon became difficult. Though my grades were decent, they weren’t good enough for teacher-training university, and as I lost confidence, my marks plummeted even further. It would’ve been better if I’d just given up on it all, but I’d never been that sort of person. I began to wake up more and more in the middle of the night. Each day I was tortured by thoughts of becoming a nobody who’d never amount to anything. At first, I would cry sometimes, but later even that stopped. I just slept. It became more difficult for my body to grow tired. With the grades I had, I was able to get into Anjin University’s Eurasia Cultural Content department. It was a new department, with a goal of creating and developing Anjin’s cultural exports; the city had gotten some attention at the time as a ‘modern cultural tourist destination’. Though slightly grandiose, the course taught management of bibliographical information, and I applied upon hearing you could get a job straight after graduating. There are a few things I remember from classes. ‘The relics of modern culture and their tourism value’; ‘The value of archival management contributing to the cultural export business’; ‘Information session on the preservation of Anjin’s traditional culture—with a focus on recording traditional folk music sung during rice planting’; ‘Conference on the records of Anjin Pansori’; ‘Exhibition of Japanese Colonial Period local activist archival material’. And yet, in one class we read Jane Eyre in English. This was apparently for the creation of worldwide-reaching cultural exports, but everyone knew it was simply the only thing that particular English department lecturer was able to teach. And there were yet other classes where they made us write novels, or poetry, claiming it was content creation or whatever. The department made no sense.
I really hated Anjin. And I even hated that girl who pushed her way through every difficult situation towards happiness. ‘Jane Eyre’.
I no longer have anywhere else to go.
My phone rang again. Not a text this time, but a picture.
A lake blanketed in wet fog. Not far from our high school, it was somewhere Tana and I often went as students. Our teachers, fearful of accidents, threatened the pupils not to set foot near the lake, but we of course paid no notice. We often saw other students chatting by the water. It was an all-girls’ school. Though we all wore the same uniforms, with the same shoulder-length hair, we could instantly tell who was who. But bringing to mind that time, the faces of those girls—now nothing more than an after-image—all look the same. Even Tana’s and mine.
Gazing at the lake and its throng of fog, little different from all that time ago, I was hit with something like nostalgia. No matter how much I’d hated the place, I couldn’t prevent the memories piling up. Part of me was already plugged with that watery mud dug up from Anjin. It neither hardens nor dries.
No matter how you try, memories are difficult to ignore.
Should I go down to Anjin to see Tana at least?
No. I don’t want to. I leant my head back again and closed my eyes. If nothing else, I didn’t want to go like this, not in this state.
I strained to remember how I’d felt when I left Anjin. How humiliated, tormented. I don’t want to trigger that old feeling of trying to stick it out somewhere I’d never belonged. Then, is Seoul not the same? I’ve never felt welcome in this city. I have no clue how to live like other people. Things seemingly second nature for everyone else—getting a job at a good company, watching films and reading books at the weekend, then finding a decent partner and going on dates and days out, marrying, having kids… How do they do it? How does finding happiness come so naturally to them? For me, the only thing that comes naturally is self-pity.
I’m not going back. I opened my eyes and deleted the photo of the lake. Else I’ll keep looking at it, and my resolve will weaken. I know that much by now. I’m the kind of person to do stupid things when I lose resolve. I mustn’t let that happen.
Just then, another message arrived: a photo of Tana and me in front of the lake. It’d been taken on a visit to Anjin, when I was around twenty-four. It was after Tana passed the postal civil servant exam. Tana and I had happened to be in the same department at university. Nothing unusual. It was a small city, and at the time the department was new and had been extremely popular. Whoever you spoke to would know someone you knew. But Tana rarely came to classes. She poured all her hours into part-time jobs, and whenever she’d saved a bit of money, would go off on a trip. I’d thought she’d always live her life like that, when one day she suddenly announced that she wanted to be responsible for post sent all across the world, and started studying for the civil service exam. Two years later, she’d passed. That was when we took the photo. I’d also just secured my first job. Maybe that’s why we both look relaxed. We were so young, enjoying our lives; you can sense our expectation and positivity for the future. There’d been a time like that.
I’d once never dreamt such a time would come for me. My friendship with Tana was the one and only relationship I hadn’t messed up. It gave me courage to believe I could form a similar connection with others, too. And so, I thought—if I leave Anjin, I’ll be able to find another friend like Tana, right?
I had no friends in Palhyun, either. The adult world is simply an extension of childhood. I struggled to make friends with the owner’s and caretaker’s children at the place my parents rented. They knew no one would call them out on it if they bullied or pulled horrible pranks on other kids at school. We were friends, but we weren’t equals. Those children could pick on me whenever they liked, and they did exactly that. When they were kind to me, it was occasionally well-intentioned; but when I was kind to them, I was working hard to be seen as a ‘good person’ so they wouldn’t bully me. There’s one kid I still remember. Song Boyoung.
The youngest daughter of the Palhyun Police Captain. Song Boyoung bullied whoever, whenever she felt like it. Her most frequent target was Chunja-ne’s granddaughter.
