MyungBo was not offended, however. Years of similar experiences had left him well conscious of the coldness that enters into amicable relationships when money becomes involved. He himself had never cared that much for possessions; even as a child, he was sometimes scolded for giving away his clothes and books to poorer classmates and servants’ children. It had appeared to him then that no matter how much he gave, he would always have more than enough. As he grew older, he even relished the struggles brought on by his sacrifices. There was a soaring awareness that illuminated his soul whenever he did the right thing, which also cost him something.
This euphoria, however, was balanced by the utter terror he felt when he looked around and saw so many others to whom this consciousness was not only absent, but unknowable and abhorrent. Most people, MyungBo realized, were made of a different material than his; and it was not something that could shift, as from coldness to warmth, but an elemental and fundamental difference, like wood from metal. At a time like this, an apocalyptic time if it ever was—his people dying under the Japanese bayonet, everywhere in the world bloodshed and rape, and the war in Europe, which had only just ended—people still thought about going to university, obtaining a lucrative post, or squeezing more profits out of their land, and churning ever greater wealth, as if the world itself weren’t burning all around them. It was one thing for the starving peasants to not care about independence, and many of them did not mind whether their landlord was Japanese or Korean, as long as they got to keep some grain to feed their families. But the indifference and hostility from the educated class, who should know better and willingly take up their duty, cut MyungBo to the deepest core. Even his wife would have preferred that he had stayed in Korea to take a position or while away his years waiting to inherit his father’s land. She never said this, but MyungBo knew her feelings. Regarding their marriage, he was profoundly disappointed at not being understood exactly where he felt most proud of himself.
This was surely the reason he had felt so taken in by Dani, who had shown such acute perception and genuine empathy for the cause. Turning his hat mindlessly in his hands, MyungBo recalled Dani’s brilliant eyes and her eloquent, expressive lips. It was such a shame that people only ever saw sensuality in that lovely face, which was so clearly full of intelligence and purity. And more than that—there was something very touching about her, strong and proud yet simultaneously very tender and open. But at that moment, MyungBo abruptly stopped his musing and rose from his chair. The secretary had announced that SungSoo was ready for him.
“Have you been waiting a long time?” SungSoo asked him as he entered the office.
“No, not very long,” MyungBo said, smiling weakly. “And I would have waited even longer. I am indebted to you for the rest of my life.”
Instead of protesting, SungSoo remained quiet and lit up a cigarette with downcast eyes. Leaning back and sinking into his deep-seated chair, he breathed out the smoke while crossing one long leg over the other.
“I won’t say it hasn’t been . . . troublesome,” he replied at last.
“I understand that. I truly do, my friend.” MyungBo blushed. “But you, with your intelligence and education, you must surely understand that with this contribution, you’ve gained your place in history. Don’t you?”
“Ah, history! Ha!” SungSoo laughed a hollow laugh, scattering wisps of smoke. “Fine, MyungBo, let’s discuss history then. You remember as I do the story of Koguryo? That martial kingdom of our ancestors ruled not just the entire northern part of the Korean peninsula, but far into Primorski and Manchuria, for seven hundred years beginning in the first century. Then after its demise, Balhae ruled another three hundred years in those same territories. Now though, those lands belong to Russia and China, and who do you see there? The Russians and the Chinese. Then what happened to the Koreans who used to live there for a thousand years? They’ve been wiped out, or they’ve moved to the south, or intermarried with the Russians and the Chinese. But the few ethnic Koreans, the descendants of Koguryo who remain, do they mourn the loss of their mother country? No, they have no longing or patriotism for the Korean peninsula. Their identity has been completely diluted in the past thousand years.
“The concept of a nation is a pure construct. It serves to hold up our reality, we need it for government et cetera, but it is neither self-evident nor natural, and becomes more meaningless when you think of it in historical context. For all of human history, nations have been destroyed, absorbed into others, reborn, or forgotten, and that makes no difference to the well-being of the posterity. Whether it’s Koguryo, the Roman Empire, or ancient Persia, it’s all the same. We were annexed by Japan nine years ago, now that’s a fact. If nothing changes, then in a thousand years, there won’t be a ‘Korea’ or the ‘Korean people.’ But people then will not care one bit that their country was once, a thousand years ago, independent.”
The logic of his argument was clear to both of them. A self-satisfied smile appeared on SungSoo’s handsome face as his friend struggled to collect his thoughts.
“What you’re saying appears very rational,” MyungBo said at last. “You may be right that all of this—all the struggle, death, and sacrifice—won’t matter at all in the grand scheme of history. But what you’re saying is like this: suppose there is a little boy who is playing on the train tracks. Suddenly you see the train approaching, and the boy is too young or too scared to know how to save himself. Then you say to yourself, ‘Well, in the grand scheme of things, he will eventually die, whether it’s now or sixty years down the road. So why should I bother saving him? Better to just go about my business.’ That might be rational, but that doesn’t make it right.”
SungSoo was about to respond, “Who is to say what is right then? Is it always you?” But changing his mind, he quietly extinguished his cigarette while MyungBo sat up straighter and cleared his throat.
“Well, that’s enough talking, I think. You wanted to check on the progress?” SungSoo rose from the chair, pulling down at the hem of his smart wool suit. “Come now, let’s go downstairs.”