JungHo had every right to be angry at YoungGu’s defection, but he felt it was okay to let his friend go. Loach had also left the organization, saying he couldn’t swear the oath that was required. In reality, the oath was hard for even JungHo. Renouncing his worldly possessions was not insurmountable, since he owned so little to begin with. (MyungBo himself had given up half of his estate to be distributed among the poor and to be used for missions—and that took true fortitude, JungHo believed.) The second part of the oath, being ready to give up his life for independence, was another matter. From observation, JungHo knew that there were two kinds of activists: those who were destined to die young in action, and others who would live on to govern, to negotiate, to write manifestos, and so on. It was obvious that MyungBo was the latter—he was much too essential, and his scholar’s hand was more useful for writing letters and declarations than firing guns. On the other hand, it had already been several years since JungHo (and MyungBo) quietly realized that he would never read or write well. This was a disqualifying weakness, he knew. JungHo let these thoughts roll through his mind in waves—they sometimes roared and clashed, and sometimes quieted down into a narrative that made sense. When he felt most calm, he believed that MyungBo would ask him to do something only he could do, at precisely the right moment.
One evening after YoungGu and Loach left, JungHo saw them for dinner at the Chinese restaurant. They were in a fine, drunken mood familiar to old friends gathered in a place of fond memories—a feeling like sitting on the grass in summer twilight. It was blissful at first, and as the night went on, took on a shape of indistinct sadness. Even though they were all still young, JungHo felt strongly that something was completely behind them already. YoungGu was a father of a daughter with another one on the way. Loach had himself saved enough money to open a general store near YoungGu’s restaurant. JungHo hadn’t sought to do any of those things. But if he’d been able to build something small and real with Jade by his side, that would have been everything to him. He was startled to realize he hadn’t seen her in almost three months. Last time he went, he’d gotten the feeling that she had a new man, and had left feeling worse than before seeing her at all. It was a unique form of self-torture that he’d no longer administer on himself.
After saying goodbye to his friends, JungHo went alone to the stone bridge over the canal to smoke and think. Resting his elbows on the railing, he took out the silver cigarette case from his inner pocket. It was tarnished in places, and the engraving was hard to make out. But—he ran his finger over the light grooves—of course it was still there. Time had the effect of muting everything, but it could never erase something real.
From time to time, JungHo went to certain low-end restaurants where there were women who took care of his needs in the back room. They were not courtesans, just whores who lay with anyone for a price, but he liked them and hungered for them. With one very young girl, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen at most, he’d felt a sort of brotherly affection along with physical desire. This didn’t strike him as an infidelity to Jade because it helped him keep the better parts of him for her over such a long time, and so was maybe an act of faith. He considered going to see this girl. It would be nice to lie in someone’s arms for a while. Then, shaking his head, he decided against it.
It occurred to him now that he had never just told Jade his true feelings. Perhaps she knew and was refusing to acknowledge it. Perhaps she hadn’t seen him that way but would now realize what’s always been in front of her. When he arrived at her house, the maid told him she was out and asked if he’d wait inside. He opted to stay outside to breathe a little better in the fresh air.
He was wearing his only winter suit, one of two shirts, and an old overcoat, but everything was clean, pressed, and starched by MyungBo’s housekeeper. No one could say he looked like a dirty street urchin or an outcast. Some women passed by and glanced at him with friendly curiosity, which bolstered his confidence. He was finally ready to tell her.
*
JADE HAD GONE OUT that morning to the set of her new film near the Han River. It was chilly and windy by the water, and she wasn’t feeling well. Between takes, her costar asked her if she was all right.
“I’m just a little tired, but I’ll be okay,” she replied.
“It’s too cold today. I feel sorry you have to be in that thin little blouse,” he said with a smile. It was the kind of smile that men give to show, Yes, I care about you. Jade knew her costar liked her, and though she never planned on returning his feelings, his consistent availability made her feel immediately better.
She was suffering because HanChol had graduated from university, and instead of allowing them to begin their new life together, it had only brought on fresh anxieties. At first, it shocked both of them that he couldn’t find a job immediately. Many companies had laid off workers since the market crash, and only a few were hiring new employees. There were thousands of applicants for perhaps five or ten openings at a firm, which were first given to the Japanese and then the pro-Japanese elites. Without family connections or wealth, a degree was utterly worthless. Out of pride, HanChol refused to write letters to his estranged Andong relatives or hobnob with young bourgeois men from college—although avoiding the latter, strictly speaking, was less from his integrity than from an instinctive understanding that they would not welcome him. The more Jade tried to soothe him, the more HanChol acted aloof and cold, because he found himself becoming isolated in a woman’s love when he should be liberated in the company of other men. Jade knew that he felt this way. So she tried to demand as little as possible from him, even if that ground her down with unhappiness.
Jade had believed that all he required was some distance and a job, and rejoiced when HanChol finally found a position as a mechanic at a bicycle shop. It didn’t even require a college degree, but he had already spent months sending résumés to dozens of different companies and banks to no avail. If HanChol was disappointed, he hid it well. Years of fixing his own rickshaw soon gave him the ability to figure out any problems that a bicycle might have just by looking and tinkering for a few minutes. The night before, HanChol had come over and told her how he had even fixed his boss’s own bicycle.