But where are they?
The wood’s inky shadows dappled the damp, sandy soil of the clearing. I flickered amid those patches of light and shade, thinking where should I go, how do I get there? I should have been grateful, perhaps, for the ease, the neatness with which my blackened, rotted face would disappear. The body that had caused me such shame was going to be devoured by the flames—that was no cause for regret. I wanted to pare myself down to a simpler existence, just as I had while I’d still been alive. I was determined not to be afraid of anything.
I’ll go to you.
And just like that, everything became clear.
There was no hurry. As long as I set out before the sun came up, I’d be able to find my way to the heart of the city by the lights in the windows. I’d be able to grope my way through the lightening streets, to the house where you and I used to live. Perhaps you’d found my sister in the meantime. Perhaps I’d be able to greet her again, in the only way left to me—by haunting the edges of her body. Or no, maybe she was already back there, in the room we used to share, waiting for me, hovering by the window, or above that cold stone terrace.
—
I slipped between the fire’s orange flames as it burned itself out. The tower of bodies collapsed into an indistinguishable heap of glowing embers, bodies formerly separate now mingled together.
The fire subsided, and darkness crept back into the woods.
The young soldiers were kneeling in the dirt, propping each other up shoulder to shoulder, sleeping like the dead.
It was then that I heard it: an almighty thunderclap, like thousands of fireworks going off at once. A distant scream. Living breaths snapped like a neck. Souls shocked from their bodies.
—
That was when you died, Dong-ho.
I didn’t know where, I only knew that was what it was: the moment of your death.
I whirled up and up through the lightless sky. It was pitch dark. Nowhere in the city, not a single district, not even a single house, had their lights on. There was only one, distant point of light, where I saw a succession of flares shooting up, glittering shards of light being scattered from the barrels of guns.
Should I have gone there, right then? If I had, would I have been able to find you, Dong-ho, to ease the terror you must have felt at having just been knocked from your body? With that thick, heavy blood still creeping from my shadow-eyes, amid the dawn light being calved from the night slow as an iceberg, I found it impossible to move.
At four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, the editor Kim Eun-sook received seven slaps to her right cheek. She was struck so hard, over and over in the exact same spot, that the capillaries laced over her right cheekbone burst, the blood trickling out through her torn skin. How many slaps had it taken before that happened? She couldn’t be sure. Wiping the smear of blood away with the palm of her hand, she stepped out into the street. The late November air was crisp and clear. About to walk onto the pedestrian crossing, she paused, wondering whether it would be wise to go back to the office. The stretched skin was tightening over her rapidly swelling cheek. She had gone deaf in her right ear. One more slap and her eardrum might have burst. She swallowed the metallic blood that had gathered along her gums, and turned toward the bus stop that would take her home.
Slap One
Now begins the process of forgetting the seven slaps. One per day, then it’ll be over and done within a week. Today, then, is that first day.
She turns the key in the lock and steps inside her rented room. She removes her shoes and lines them up neatly, then lies down on the floor, on her side, without even bothering to unbutton her coat. She rests her left cheek on her folded arms. The right cheek is still swelling. The upward pressure prevents her from opening her right eye properly. The toothache that had begun in her upper molars throbs up to her temples.
After lying in the same position for close to twenty minutes, she gets up. Stripping down to her white underwear, she hangs up her clothes, slides her feet into her slippers, and shuffles out to the washroom. A scoop of cold water from the washbowl to splash onto her swollen face. She opens her mouth as far as she can manage, and brushes her teeth so gently it’s more like a caress. The phone rings, then cuts off. She dries her wet feet with the towel, and as soon as she steps back into the room the phone rings again. She reaches out to pick up the receiver, then changes her mind and yanks the cord out at the wall.
“What will happen if I answer?” she mumbles to herself, rolling out the thin mattress and cotton quilt. She isn’t hungry. She could force herself to eat something, but it would only give her indigestion. It’s cold under the quilt, and she huddles into a ball. That phone call just now would have been from the office; probably the boss. She would have to answer his questions. I’m okay, it’s just that they hit me. No, only slaps. I can still come to work. I’m okay, I don’t need to go to the hospital. My face is a bit swollen, that’s all. Good thing she’d pulled the cord out.
As the quilt’s cocoon starts to warm up, she cautiously straightens out. Outside the window, it is six o’clock and already dark. The light from the streetlamp glows dully orange through a section of the glass. Once her tension has dissipated a little thanks to the warmth and her comfortable position, she turns her mind to the task at hand.
Now, how am I going to forget the first slap?
When the man struck her the first time, she didn’t make a sound. Neither did she cringe away in anticipation of the next slap. Rather than jumping up from her seat, hiding under the interrogation room’s table, or running to the door, she waited quietly, holding her breath. Waited for the man to stop, to stop hitting her. The second time, the third time, even the fourth time she told herself would surely be the last. Only when the palm of his hand came flying toward her face for the fifth time did she think, he’s not going to stop, he’s just going to keep on hitting me. After the sixth time, she wasn’t thinking anything anymore. She’d stopped counting. But when the last slap had been delivered and the man plumped down across the table from her, lolling against the back of the folding chair, she silently added another two to her mental tally. Seven.
His face was utterly ordinary. Thin lips, no noticeable irregularities to his features. He wore a pale yellow shirt with a wide collar, and his gray suit trousers were held up by a belt. Its buckle gleamed. Had they met by chance in the street, she would have taken him for some run-of-the-mill company manager or section chief.