“Bitch. A bitch like you, in a place like this? Anything could happen, and no one would find out.”
At this point, the force of the slap had already burst the capillaries in her cheek, and the man’s fingernails had broken her skin. But Eun-sook hadn’t known that yet. She stared blankly across at the man’s face. “Listen to what I’m telling you, if you don’t want to die in some ditch where not even the rats and crows will find you. Tell me where that bastard is.”
She had met up with the translator—“that bastard”—a fortnight ago, at a bakery by Cheonggye stream. It was the day the weather had suddenly changed; she remembered having to rummage through her winter clothes to find a sweater to go out in. She used a napkin to blot away the wet patch left by the cup of barley tea, then placed the proofs on the table, facing the translator. Take your time, sir. While she occupied herself with tearing off pieces of the crunchy streusel bread, washing each mouthful down with a sip of cold tea, he went through the manuscript with a fine-tooth comb. He took almost an hour all told, occasionally asking her opinion on minor amendments and additions. Lastly, he suggested that they go through the table of contents together. She brought her chair around to his side of the table and went through the proofs page by page, double-checking the amendments and table of contents. Before they parted, she asked how she should contact him when the book came out. He smiled.
“I’ll go and look for it in a bookshop.”
She took an envelope out of her bag and held it out to him.
“It’s the royalties for the first edition. The boss said he wanted you to have it in advance.” The translator took the envelope without speaking, and slid it into the inner pocket of his jacket. “How shall we get any further royalties to you?”
“I’ll be in touch, later on.”
The impression he’d given was far removed from that of a wanted criminal. If anything, he’d come across as somewhat timid. His skin had had a yellowish cast, hinting at some problem with his liver, though perhaps it was simply due to having spent so much time indoors. The same went for his paunch and fleshy jaw. “I’m very sorry, making you come all this way on such a cold day.” She’d smiled inwardly at such unwarranted courtesy from someone who was by far her senior.
—
“This was in your drawer, you little slut…that bastard wrote it, and you’re telling me you don’t know where he is?”
Avoiding the man’s eyes as he flung the bundle of proofs onto the table, she looked up instead at the dusty tube of the fluorescent lamp. He’s going to hit me again, she thought, and blinked.
She had no idea what made her think of the fountain at just that moment. Behind her closed eyelids, glittering jets of water sprayed up into the June sky. Eighteen years old and passing by on the bus, she’d screwed her eyes tight shut. Glancing off one droplet after another, sharp little shards of sunlight burrowed through her heat-flushed eyelids, stinging her pupils. She got off the bus at the stop in front of her house and went straight to the public phone booth. Shrugging her satchel onto the floor, she swiped at the sweat trickling down over her forehead, inserted a coin into the slot, dialed 114, and waited. “The Provincial Office complaints department, please.” She dialed the number she was given and waited again. “I’ve just seen water coming out of the fountain, and I don’t think it should be allowed.” Tremulous at first, her voice became clearer as she carried on speaking. “What I mean is, how can it have started operating again already? It’s been dry ever since the uprising began and now it’s back on again, as though everything’s back to normal. How can that be possible?”
—
“Why give his contact details to some assistant editor he’s never met before, when even his own family don’t know how to get in touch with him?”
Blinking rapidly, she managed to say that she doesn’t know, she honestly doesn’t know.
He slammed his fist down on the table and she recoiled, her hand automatically flinching up to her cheek, as though she’d been hit again. And only then, upon lowering her hand, did she stare in surprise at her bloodied palm.
—
How am I going to forget? she wonders, in the darkness.
How can I forget that first slap?
The eyes of the man, who had examined her in silence at first, calm and composed like someone about to carry out an entirely practical item of business.
Herself, who, when he’d raised his hand, had sat there thinking, surely he’s not going to hit me.
The first blow, that had seemed to jolt her neck out of alignment.
Slap Two
The publisher’s niece, a lively, cheerful young woman who frequently ran errands for them, dropped by the office just before lunch.
“Ah, there you are!” Her uncle greeted her warmly, but darted a hurried glance over at Eun-sook when the latter looked up from the papers she’d been examining.
“Have the bound proofs arrived yet?” Eun-sook asked, smiling stiffly. Unable to tear her gaze from the older woman’s face, the publisher’s niece fumbled with her briefcase, eventually tugging out a proof.
“What happened to your face?” When this met with no response, the young woman cornered Yoon, who dealt with production, and asked again. “What happened to Eun-sook’s face?” Yoon merely shook his head; the young woman’s eyes widened, and she turned back to the publisher.
“Well,” he said, “I told Eun-sook she should go home early today, but what can I say, she’s a stubborn one…”
He tapped a cigarette out of his pack, stuck it between his lips and lit up. Opening the window behind his chair, he stuck his head through the gap and took such a deep drag on the cigarette that his cheeks caved right in, then finally blew out the smoke. He was middle-aged, the sort of man whom even the smartest clothes couldn’t prevent from looking permanently wrung-out. A man who used humble, honorific language even to those who were young enough to be his children. A man who, despite being the head of this tiny publishing house, hated the title “Boss” and wouldn’t allow anyone to address him as anything other than “Publisher” to his face. The high-school classmate of the translator whose whereabouts the police detective had demanded from her.
The owner’s niece left once she’d finished talking with Eun-sook, leaving the mood in the office somewhat deflated. The boss stubbed out his cigarette.
“Do you fancy some barbecue for lunch, Miss Kim? My treat. Beef skirt from that place up by the junction.”