The other boys, as if on cue, backed off one or two steps and widened the circle, as YoungGu and JungHo drew closer together. The air simmered with the hungry, gnawing energy of pubescent boys. Within that tension, there was a brief moment in which they both left the muddy canal strewn with rubbish, the dank shadow of the bridge, and the heartless city above them. YoungGu went to a mud hut where he was born and raised, less than half a mile from that spot. Disjointed memories of his mother’s hand and the soft fur of his pet dog passed inexplicably through his mind, and he was filled with a sense of comfort. JungHo blocked out everything around him, even YoungGu, even his own physical body already beaten by exhaustion. In that split second before the first punches were thrown, he simply looked up at the sky, which glowed a violent yellow from the late afternoon sun. It offered him no comfort, nor courage, as his father had promised. But he thought that his father and mother were up there somewhere, that he didn’t come into the world alone, and so was reminded why he must keep surviving as best he can as he sprang forward with a punch to YoungGu’s head.
YoungGu easily dodged JungHo’s fist and countered with his own attack, which the smaller boy sidestepped. For the next few minutes, they sized each other up, swiping and blocking, but from a safe distance. Then JungHo hurled himself forward with his fist aimed at YoungGu’s stomach. Because JungHo had bent himself slightly at the waist, his head was now the perfect height for YoungGu to knock out with a punch. But just as the older boy confidently threw his fist, JungHo ducked under the arm and rammed his head as hard as he could into YoungGu’s middle, felling him like a tree. JungHo knew that any advantage a taller boy has is eliminated once they’re on the ground, and that whoever manages to pin the other down will almost always win no matter what size. The moment YoungGu was knocked out, more by surprise than anything else, JungHo straddled his chest and punched his head savagely and repeatedly with both fists. YoungGu quickly grabbed JungHo’s scrawny wrists, shrieking in real anger this time: “You little shit! You little shit!” Just at that moment, JungHo pulled his head back, then rammed it with all his strength into YoungGu’s forehead. YoungGu screamed out in pain, but JungHo—without even blinking—smashed his head against YoungGu’s once more, even harder this time. The older boy let go of JungHo’s wrists and lay limply, bleeding quietly. Only then did JungHo get up, wiping his own blood-smeared forehead with the back of his hand.
“Give me back my things,” he said to Loach, who tossed the drawstring pouch back to him.
JungHo dug into YoungGu’s pocket for the two pennies and added those to the pouch as the other boys silently watched. He started walking out from under the bridge, intending to find a crevice in the levee that would be easier to climb. But when he’d gone about a minute, there was a sound of footsteps running after him, and a shout.
“Hey! Stop there!” It was Loach’s voice.
“What do you want?” JungHo snarled. “You want a beating as well?”
“Don’t go,” Loach said. “Don’t you realize what’s happened?” He took a moment to catch his breath, then blurted out, “You just beat up our chief. That means you’re the chief now.”
JungHo snorted. “I don’t want to be your chief. Let YoungGu enjoy lording it over you and all his underlings. I want no part in it.”
“That’s not how it works!” Loach insisted. “Fine, you don’t want to join us? How are you going to survive out there on your own? Do you think we’re the only band of beggars in Seoul? There are many even in this one district, and then there are real gangs of grown-up criminals—do you think they’d let you live?”
“What’s that to you?” JungHo shouted. “If I die, then I die. You don’t get a say in it!”
“You are such a hothead. I’m only trying to help,” Loach said. “If you want to live, you have to stick with a group. And if you’re the chief, you can do anything you want. You can order the other boys to give you a big share and not even have to beg on the streets yourself.”
“How can you say this, when just a few minutes ago you were YoungGu’s right-hand man?” JungHo asked scornfully.
“I’m no one’s right-hand man,” Loach snorted. “I do what I can to survive. If you weren’t such a bullheaded idiot, you’d do the same.”
The two boys locked eyes for a moment. Loach had smiled while leading him to their den, and had smiled while stealing his money. He was one of those boys with small, tadpole-shaped eyes whose easy, cheap smiles for anyone and everyone made them inscrutable and loathsome. As JungHo’s mind arrived at this conclusion, he suppressed an overwhelming urge to give Loach a nasty black eye. But it was undeniable that the city boy hadn’t directly lied or intended him harm, and in this case, was telling the truth about the necessity of sticking together.
In the next instant, Loach extended his hand. JungHo took it without even knowing why—then surprised himself by shaking it up and down a few times, before they both dropped their hands as though embarrassed.
“Come on, let’s go,” Loach said. “Pretty soon, the kids who went out will come back. We have acrobats, pickpockets, straight-up beggars. Hopefully we’ll have made enough today for some supper.”
“What do you guys eat normally?” JungHo couldn’t help but ask, filled with curiosity and hope.
“Stew, or potatoes if we’re lucky. Old fish, things like that.”
“I could really use some stew. I haven’t eaten anything in more than a day,” JungHo said, and even as he spoke he felt ashamed at revealing himself.
“Me neither. But you only really need to eat every other day. My mother used to tell me that,” Loach said with another easy smile. This time, it didn’t seem so contemptible in JungHo’s eyes.
5
The Friend from Shanghai
1918