Read Your Republic Is Calling You Online

Authors: Young-Ha Kim,Chi-Young Kim

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Contemporary

Your Republic Is Calling You (6 page)

Uncle, after he finished, showered, wiped the bathroom floor, and came out to get dressed.

"Thanks," he said.

She didn't doubt that their secret would remain between them. She went back to jail and was freed the next day; the prosecutor dropped the charges. The day L.A. burned up, she told Ki-yong the whole story, and afterward they went to a motel as naturally as if they were old lovers. Ki-yong wondered for a second whether he was going to have to lie
down on the bathroom floor in Uncle's place, whether that was what she secretly liked. But it wasn't. She just needed someone who would listen. Her lust was born from the excitement of confession, and Ki-yong happened to be there when she broke her silence.

"After that, Uncle sometimes came over to our house. I only saw him a few times, but it was like I had the upper hand. He wouldn't look at me. I felt sorry for my father whenever I thought about his ignorance. Like it was some kind of payback."

"Yeah, you told me that."

"Oh, I did?"

"Yeah." Ki-yong nods.

"But there's something I didn't tell you."

"What?"

"Uncle died."

"How?"

"An airplane crash in Mokpo."

"Oh, the Asiana flight headed to Seoul."

"Amazing. You sure I didn't tell you about it? Good memory. I was in the U.S. at the time and my mom called me with the news that a plane crashed in Mokpo. At first I thought my father died. But the night before she called, I dreamt that Uncle was sitting at the foot of my bed, grinning, dressed in mourning whites."

"I don't think he would be resting in a nice place," Ki-yong comments after a moment.

"Clearly." Soji pushes her hair back, and they smile listlessly at each other. "But is everything okay? You don't look too good."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"I have a headache."

"You never get headaches."

"Yeah, but I got one this morning. I guess now I get headaches. Things change as we get older."

"Yeah, it's true. Where do you want to meet later?"

Ki-yong thinks for a minute. "How about the Japanese restaurant at the Westin Chosun?"

Soji squints at him. "Now I'm getting more suspicious. What's in that bag of yours? Drugs?"

"I'm craving their sushi."

"Is that place any good?"

"I never took you? They do a good steamed cod head, too."

"You only took me to cheap places," Soji says.

"My treat, okay? It's really good."

"Thanks. So let's meet in the lobby at six."

"Okay. I'd better get going now." Ki-yong pauses at the door. "So we'll meet there at six, and if something comes up I'll call."

The hallway outside the conference room is quiet. Ki-yong bows. Soji returns his bow. Ki-yong walks toward the main entrance, where daylight is filtering through. A beat later, Soji follows. The music signaling the end of the period reverberates through the speakers; Schubert's "Trout Quintet." With that signal, the giant monster of a school starts to come alive. Like a small earthquake, the floors thunder and the high voices of students coagulate, sticky like mucus, growing slowly in intensity. The vibration and the noise, erupting from the higher floors, slither down to the first floor. Ki-yong goes back through the dark hall lined with trophies and plaques and emerges from the building. He feels sluggish. The kids who had gym brush past him and run up the stairs, chattering. The pungent, not unpleasant smell of sweat and body odor trickles into his nostrils. Ki-yong regains his energy. He might not have that much time, but he doesn't want to lie obediently on the butcher block awaiting his fate. He starts the car. Soji stands at the entrance of the school building, watching him disappear beyond the front gates.

H
YON-MI ISN'T ONE
of those kids who race around during breaks. She prefers to remain by herself, resting her chin on her hand, and look down at the grounds from the window. Some impatient boys who have gym next period run out to play basketball before the kids who just finished gym even get back to the classroom. Near the basketball court, a middle-aged man with a familiar gait and demeanor walks briskly toward the parking lot. Hyon-mi cranes her neck to get a good look. Dad! Why is he here, and not Mom? Did he meet with her homeroom teacher? But her teacher would have told her. Hyon-mi wonders if she should open the window and call out to him, but ends up just looking at his retreating figure. It's the first time she's seen her dad from above. Maybe because of the angle and the distance, he looks unusually small and dispirited. That morning, at home, he was larger than life, but the guy walking across the school grounds is a different man. He's one of many suits driving a Sonata, no different from her asshole physics teacher. Her father looks back at the school building—where kids emerge, hunched against the early spring chill—and gets into his car. A woman stands at a distance from her dad. Soji, her Korean teacher. She has short spiky hair like a Japanese career woman, so she's distinguishable from the other female teachers. It's clear that Soji walked her dad out. Why Soji, not her homeroom teacher? Her father's car glides through the front gates and turns down the steep road.

A-yong comes over and sits next to her. "Whatcha looking at?"

"Nothing."

A-yong rolls her small eyes in a knowing way and asks, "Are you going later?"

"Where?" Hyon-mi averts her eyes, pretending to fiddle with something.

A-yong whispers, "Jin-guk's house. Are you going?"

"Oh..."

A-yong narrows her eyes. "Stop pretending like you don't want to."

"I should go, right?"

"You mean you want to go, don't you?"

Hyon-mi, starting to get annoyed, gnaws on her nails. "You know, I don't get him."

"Who cares? You like him, and that's all that counts."

"I don't know. That's the thing I'm not sure about."

"It's his birthday. You should at least go to the party."

"Are you going, too?"

"Should I? Won't I be the clueless third wheel if I go with you?"

"No way. I'm not going by myself."

"Is it true that his parents are divorced?" A-yong asks.

"I don't think so. I don't really know."

"I heard people talking. You haven't been to his house, have you?"

"No."

A-yong snickers and starts doodling a cartoon figure of a girl with long legs and big eyes on Hyon-mi's notebook. "Or you can go alone. I'm not going."

"Why not?"

"It doesn't matter. Do whatever you want." A-yong goes back to her seat, grinning mischievously.

Students are returning from the cafeteria or from hanging out with their friends in other classrooms. Hyon-mi glances
at Jin-guk, who is coming in the back door. When their eyes meet, Jin-guk looks away. Hyon-mi stares down at her desk. Doodling in her notebook, she wonders why she's suddenly attracted to this guy. She didn't even know he existed at the beginning of the semester but then, just in the past two weeks, she's become obsessed with him. He isn't that good in school or noticeably popular. At the beginning of the semester, their math teacher, nicknamed King Kong, said, "I don't know if you guys know, but a long time ago, there was something called ham radio. Amateur wireless communications..." A few kids looked at Jin-guk, murmuring, "They're still around." That was when she became conscious of his existence. Visibly excited, King Kong approached Jin-guk, but Jin-guk only mumbled, "My dad did it, so..." But King Kong dug deeper, and found out that Jin-guk had a third-level amateur wireless communication license.

Hyon-mi is fascinated that, in an age of instant messaging and chatting, Jin-guk knows Morse code. He has his own call signature, something unique and different from an instant messaging ID, which anyone can have. Hyon-mi feels close to Jin-guk. A former Go champion and a wireless communication aficionado: they're both holdouts from a bygone era.

T
HE MAN WHO
made the appointment to test drive the Passat comes into the showroom just minutes before 10:00. Through the large showroom window glass, Ma-ri sizes up the car he arrived in, the way shoe salesmen judge people by their shoes. It's a 2003 silver Hyundai Grandeur, the kind of car driven by someone who doesn't depend on a monthly wage, a ride for a man who owns his own business even if it's small, who wants to hear that he has style but doesn't have an adventurous streak. A good candidate for a Volkswagen. Volkswagen customers are different from people
who buy other German cars, like Mercedes or BMWs. They tend to be organized entrepreneurs who dislike showing off. Never gangsters or swindlers, they exude less masculinity. And they're the kind of people who think they are extremely knowledgeable about cars.

The man walks toward Ma-ri, his steps precise and confident. Like a man who hasn't ever been punched in his entire life. Economical and neat, he doesn't make unnecessary movements. He's taut, from head to toe. His pinstriped navy blue suit isn't cut from the best cloth but it's stylish, with a little nip at the waist.

Ma-ri smiles and stands up. "Are you...?" she trails off.

"Yes, I made an appointment yesterday. My name is Park Chol-su."

"Yes, hello." Ma-ri hurriedly takes out a business card from its case on her desk. She fumbles a little and the cover of the case starts to fall. The man, who is observing her every movement, snatches the falling cover swiftly and hands it to Ma-ri.

"Thank you."

They exchange business cards.

"Is the car ready?" Chol-su asks.

"Yes, it's right outside."

Chol-su looks down at Ma-ri's arm. "How did that happen?"

"Oh, it's nothing." Ma-ri smiles brightly, as if she had known him for a long time. After bowing to the manager, Ma-ri leaves the showroom with Chol-su.

THE WEIGHT OF ENNUI
10:00
A.M.

C
HOL-SU GETS
in the driver's side of the car as Ma-ri buckles up in the passenger seat. He checks the gauges, the parking brake, and the rearview mirror. After carefully glancing around the car, he tentatively starts the engine. Ma-ri offers some tips from the passenger seat, but he doesn't seem to need much help. The Passat passes Yangjae Highway and merges onto the highway toward Pundang. Chol-su abruptly guns the engine to test the car's reaction time and weaves in and out of the lanes, leaving other cars behind. His expression doesn't change but he has melded with the car, breathing with it. Ma-ri can almost feel the adrenaline pumping from his brain—a man, restrained but agile, calm but giving in to an intense energy, is sitting next to her. Unconsciously, Ma-ri moves away from him and leans against the window.

A test drive is dangerous in many ways. Drivers are encountering a particular car for the first time, so they are basically beginners. They usually can't locate what they need quickly and panic. Since they aren't yet used to the feel of
the brakes and have trouble reining in their excitement, the car jerks or swerves. And they floor it without an ounce of hesitation, something they don't do in their own cars. The rpm gauge dances beyond the red line and their bodies are plastered to the seats, as if someone is pulling them from behind. A few times, Ma-ri has actually wondered whether men were aroused by the smell of a new car. As soon as their feet touch the accelerator, their breathing grows irregular and excited. Their upper bodies lean forward, in attack mode, and their aftershave mixes with their sweat, emitting musk. The scent of virile males. Forgetting that Ma-ri is sitting next to them, they swear and revert to a state of boyhood. In this tight space, their shoulders brushing against each other, a peculiar tension grows between the test drivers and Ma-ri. The men become attracted to her, a chick who understands cars, and Ma-ri sometimes feels a burning heat, sitting next to these boylike men. But as soon as they return to the showroom and the men hand over the keys, they revert to being nice, polite middle-aged men. They leave quickly, looking a little embarrassed. They bluff a little, acting as if they might buy the car right away, quickly going over their financial situations in their heads, then get back into their own cars, feeling a little shriveled.

Chol-su switches into manual mode and shifts gears. The car jolts forward.

"Powerful engine," he comments.

"It has good horsepower, but the torque is what sets this car apart."

He glances into his rearview mirror and switches into the passing lane. "When I was young my family had a Mark V. Have you heard of it?"

"No."

"Ford and Hyundai collaborated on it. It was our first car. When my father washed the car in the parking lot of our apartment complex, the kids would come out to watch."

"There weren't many cars back then," Ma-ri agrees.

"It wasn't because of the car; it was because of my father, who was a comedian. The kids would swarm over and imitate him. But he was different in real life, quiet and introverted. When he didn't react, the kids would taunt him with his stage name."

"Did he do anything?"

"Sorry?"

"Your father. Did he do anything about it?"

He smiles. "He would say that kids throw rocks at monkeys in a zoo and bang on windows of a pet store because they want to communicate. Because the animals don't respond to them, the kids try to talk to them the only way they know how."

Ma-ri nods. The rpm needle shoots past 2,500.

"If they kept calling out to him, he would put the rag on the hood of the car, turn around, and do his signature silly dance, grinning. The kids would laugh and copy him, and the whole neighborhood would be filled with dancing kids. Then he would turn around, finish washing the car, and come back home. He would put Karajan on the record player, lie on the sofa, and listen to it without speaking. Watching him, I understood that being a comedian was harder than it looked."

"Ah..."

"The next day, my father would be back on TV, joking and dancing his trademark dance. Oh, how did I get to this? Sorry about that."

"No, no, it's a funny story."

His eyes harden. "You think that's funny?"

Ma-ri starts to apologize. "No, that's not what I meant. I meant..."

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