Pak The Age of Doubt

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-1-7398225-3-8
Verlag: Honford Star
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 288 Seiten

The Age of Doubt collects some of Pak Kyongni's most famous works, including her 1955 debut and other stories featuring characters that would appear in her 21-volume epic, Toji. Many of Pak's stories reflect her own turbulent experiences during the period following the Korean war and the various South Korean dictatorships throughout the twentieth century.

Pak Kyongni (1926-2008) is one of Korea's most venerated writers and was hugely influential during her almost forty-years-long career. As one of the most highly respected writers in Korea, Pak's work is included in textbooks, made into TV dramas and films, and several organisations are devoted to preserving her legacy, including the Pak Kyongni House and Literary Park and the Pak Kyongni Memorial Museum.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Pak, Kyongni

Leseproben

Calculations

Hwe-in wore a simple outfit. She flung a black scarf around her neck, opened her desk drawer, and took out a sealed envelope and several hundred-hwan bills. Tucking them into the pocket of her overcoat, she went out through the front gate and walked until she came to the police box, its lights glowing red as rabbits’ eyes. Stooping down, she checked the time—5:40. Figuring it would take about ten minutes to reach Dongdaemun, she trudged ahead.

She was on her way to Seoul Station. Yesterday she’d made plans to meet Jeong-ah there at seven, before the other woman was set to leave for Busan on an eight o’clock train. Jeongah had come up from Daegu a few days earlier. She’d probably had plenty of other business to attend to, but the main goal of her visit had been to feel out Hwe-in’s intentions. Namely, to get a better sense of Hwe-in’s feelings toward Gyeong-gu, Hwein’s ex-fiancé. Still, Jeong-ah was a dear friend Hwe-in had been genuinely happy to see.

So dear, in fact, that she would have seen her off even in the dead of night, instead of in these cold, early hours of the dawn.

Dongdaemun came into view. The sloped rooftop drew closer, looking like something out of an ink painting. Wedged into the stone wall was a streetcar box office as tiny as a crab shell. Hwe-in wondered if someone would be inside selling tickets in the bitter cold at this hour. She went up close to check, but the window was shut tight. A streetcar bound for Yeongcheon went by. Trembling, she waited for the next one.

The streetlamps cast a faint glow on the asphalt, and the stars were dim and watery in the sky where the dawn and the morning seemed to be intertwined. Two boys crossed the streetcar tracks from the other side of the road and approached the spot where Hwe-in stood. They stopped and stood beside her, looking ready to board the streetcar too. The light from the streetlamps shone down on them at an angle. One boy had plump, dark lips, and a face riddled with acne, and though he was quite hefty, the way his teeth kept chattering made him seem silly, like a little kid. He looked sort of like a street rat in his shabby leather jacket. There he stood, yammering away in a North Korean accent. The other boy looked world-weary, like a student putting himself through school, a cloth-wrapped bundle in one of his arms and a bag in the other. His face was pale and hard-pressed, absent of even a glimmer of the youthful spark befitting someone his age. Yet there was a gentleness about him that he seemed to have in common with others who had suffered a great deal in life.

“What’re we gonna do if we can’t get a ticket?” he drawled, looking worried.

The sound of his accent filled Hwe-in’s ears, familiar. She found herself leaning closer to hear more of it. The rich, distinctive scent of her hometown flooded her lungs. The boys must have been students at a nearby school, headed home now that they were on break.

“Hey, don’t sweat it.”

“But if he ain’t there, we’ll be screwed, won’t we?”

“Ah right, it’s Sunday. He might not be on the clock today … but it doesn’t matter, since it’s close to my house.”

From this, Hwe-in guessed the talkative boy was going to buy a train ticket for the other boy at the station and then see him off. But for some reason, the chatty one struck her as unreliable. Seeing the country boy feebly gripping that bundle under his arm, Hwe-in felt a twinge of worry that he wouldn’t be able to get the ticket in time and was going to miss the train.

The streetcar appeared then, rattling to a stop in front of them. It was bound for Itaewon. The boys got on board, and Hwe-in followed after.

“I wasn’t able to buy a ticket,” she said to the conductor. “I hope you’ll accept cash.” She held out two ten-hwan bills. Right as the conductor reached out to take the money, someone approached them with quick, urgent strides.

“I’ve got a ticket right here.”

The country boy hurriedly placed the orange ticket in the conductor’s hand. The conductor looked a bit confused as he rang the bell, studying the boy’s face and seeming awed by his generosity.

“Thank you. Here you go.” Hwe-in thrust the money at the boy like she couldn’t bear to have it in her hands. The thorniness in her voice surprised even her, and she realized she was probably being rude. Obviously, the boy wouldn’t accept the money, and even offering it to him must have made her look mean, the sort of person who would heartlessly turn down an act of kindness. But seeing as they had never met before, Hwe-in had no choice but to adopt the cold formality she would in any business transaction. No matter how harsh her words sounded even to her ears, she couldn’t let that sway her.

“No need for all that. It’s fine,” the country boy replied in a prim Seoul accent, his face blushing red. Resigned, Hwe-in took a seat, leaving a good amount of space between herself and the boys.

The streetcar started up again, twisting like a big snake. The air was so cold it felt like it would soon freeze and coil up inside their car, spacious and empty but for the three of them. Outside the rattling windows, the darkness fluttered like a blackout curtain. When she looked into the glass, Hwe-in found her own face reflected back. She quickly looked away. Even the boys were silent now. Hwe-in knew she should say something, perhaps try showing more gratitude; she felt deeply troubled about just pocketing the money and taking a seat. She couldn’t very well thank the boy again, yet when she tried instead to feign obliviousness, staring blankly out the window, all her worry rolled itself up into that little streetcar ticket that was spinning around and around before her eyes. Despite herself, she found her gaze returning to the reflection in the glass. She took in her own sad eyes. Turned her head a bit to the side. All right, she thought. Let me buy his ticket. It should be no problem if I ask Sung for help.

Right—it wouldn’t be too hard to get a train ticket if she asked a favor of Sung, who was affiliated with the company where she worked. Hadn’t she asked for a similar favor on Jeong-ah’s behalf just the day before? Stowing this timely idea away in her mind, Hwe-in lowered her gaze and studied the tops of her shoes. She contemplated how she might casually bring up her intentions to the boys. It was bound to be awkward. Where were the polished and composed words when she needed them? She tutted, annoyed and embarrassed with herself. Did I ever ask you to buy me a ticket? She felt restless. All at once, she remembered being in almost the exact same situation a few days earlier.

She had been waiting for someone at a coffee shop called Black Cat. It was around six in the evening, and the café was teeming with people—almost no empty seats in sight. Hwe-in didn’t normally frequent places like this, and the moment she stepped inside, she was overwhelmed. Like a lone girl surrounded by a pack of wily boys, she was at a total loss for what to do. She made a reasonable effort to remain calm, but her cheeks burned red. Seeing only one empty seat in the entire café, Hwe-in grudgingly sat across from a man she didn’t know. She thought about just leaving and waiting outside, but there were two entrances, plus it would be a hassle to make her way back out to the street now. Besides, she could feel the tearoom waitress’s sharp glare burning holes in the back of her head. With no other bright ideas coming to mind, she sat there, suffocatingly close to a stranger. As smothered as she felt in that coffee shop, the atmosphere as heavy as lead, the thing she was most worried about was where to let her gaze fall. She couldn’t simply stare at the table or the wall, and she definitely couldn’t look at the man across from her. So she studied the entrance to the left, which seemed like a natural spot to watch as she willed the person she was waiting on to hurry and show up. Whenever someone came in, though, Hwe-in’s eyes darted around like a startled rabbit’s, which served to embarrass her all the more. She felt renewed anxiety about where to look, eyes hopping to a vase, a landscape painting, the wall. Nervous, she brought her hand to the kerchief around her shoulders, absently running her fingers over it. Just then, a boy selling newspapers came by. Hwe-in was quick to speak up.

“I’ll take one,” she said.

The boy passed her by, not seeming to have heard. The saliva in her mouth dried up, and even that one request she could manage seemed to have come out as a whisper. She felt embarrassed in front of the man across the table. She sat quietly until the paper boy came around again. This time, Hwe-in called out, “Newspaper, please!”

“Which paper would you like?”

“The Seoul Shinmun.”

“Which one?”

“The Seoul Shinmun, I said.”

She reached into her pocket, took out a hundred-hwan bill, and placed it on the table. At that moment, the man across from her deftly snatched up a copy of the Dong-a Ilbo and rummaged around in his pockets. His hand came out clutching three tenhwan bills. He reached into his back pocket again and found one ten-hwan bill wedged between thousand-hwan bills. He fished it...