Young-ha Diary of a Murderer

Chilling Korean crime stories from the award-winning writer
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ISBN: 978-1-83895-003-3
Verlag: Atlantic Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 208 Seiten

'Kim Young-Ha is exceedingly good' New York Journal of Books 'Sublime, galvanizing' Nylon 'Compelling' Atlantic ___________________________ It's been twenty-five years since I last murdered someone, or has it been twenty-six? In his prime, Kim Byeongsu was one of the best murderers around. But he gave it all up to become a dedicated father. Now, despite suffering from dementia, he decides to come out of retirement for one final target: his daughter's boyfriend, who he suspects is a killer too. In other dark, glittering tales, an affair between childhood friends questions the limits of loyalty and love; a family disintegrates after a baby son is kidnapped and recovered years later; and the pursuit of creative fulfilment may come at the expense of all reason. _____________________________ Readers are loving Diary of a Murderer 'A masterclass in storytelling' 'A page-turner' 'Haunting and unique' 'Reminds me why I love reading' 'Sharp, dark and edgy'

Kim Young-ha is the author of seven novels, including the acclaimed I Have the Right to Destroy Myself and Black Flower - and five short story collections. He has won every major Korean literature award, and his works have been translated into more than a dozen languages. He lives in Seoul, South Korea. Krys Lee is the award-winning author of Drifting House and How I Became a North Korean. She teaches creative writing at Yonsei University's Underwood International College in Seoul.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Young-Ha, Kim

Leseproben

DIARY OF A MURDERER

It’s been twenty-five years since I last murdered someone, or has it been twenty-six? Anyway, it’s about that long ago. What drove me back then wasn’t, as people usually assume, the urge to kill or some sexual perversion. It was disappointment. It was hope for a more perfect pleasure. Each time I buried a victim, I repeated to myself: I can do better next time.

The very reason I stopped killing was because that hope vanished.

•

I kept a journal. An objective report. Maybe I needed something like that at the time. What I’d done wrong, how that made me feel. I had to write it down so I wouldn’t repeat the same gut-wrenching mistakes. Just like students keep a notebook with all their test mistakes, I also kept meticulous records of every step of my murders and what I felt about them.

It was a stupid thing to do.

Coming up with sentences was grueling. I wasn’t trying to be literary and it was just a daily log, so why was it so difficult? Not being able to fully express the ecstasy and pity I’d felt made me feel lousy. Most of the fiction I’d read was from Korean-language textbooks. They didn’t have any of the sentences I needed. So I started reading poetry.

That was a mistake.

The poetry teacher at the community center was a male poet around my age. On the first day of class he made me laugh when he said solemnly, “Like a skillful killer, a poet is someone who seizes language and ultimately kills it.”

This was after I’d already “seized and ultimately killed” dozens of prey and buried them. But I didn’t think what I did was poetry. Murder’s less like poetry and more like prose. Anyone who tries it knows that much. Murdering someone is even more troublesome and filthy than you think.

Anyway, thanks to the teacher I got interested in poetry. I was born the type who can’t feel sadness, but I respond to humor.

•

I’m reading the Diamond Sutra: “Abiding nowhere, give rise to the mind.”

•

I took the poetry classes for a long stretch. I’d decided that if the class was lame I would kill the instructor, but thankfully, it was interesting. The instructor made me laugh several times, and he even praised my poems twice. So I let him live. He probably still doesn’t know that he’s living on borrowed time. I recently read his latest poetry collection, which was disappointing. Should I have put him in his grave back then?

To think that he keeps writing poems with such limited talent when even a gifted murderer like me has given up killing. How brazen of him.

•

I keep stumbling these days. I fall off my bicycle or trip on a stone. I’ve forgotten a lot of things. I burned the bottoms of three teapots. Eunhui called and told me she made me an appointment at the doctor’s. While I yelled and roared with anger, she stayed silent until she said, “Something is definitely not normal. Something definitely happened to your head. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you get angry, Dad.”

Had I really never gotten angry before? I was still feeling dazed when Eunhui hung up. I grabbed the cell phone to finish our conversation, but suddenly I couldn’t remember how to make a phone call. Did I first have to press the Call button? Or did I dial the number first? And what was Eunhui’s phone number? I remember there being a simpler way to do this.

I was frustrated. And annoyed. I threw the cell phone across the room.

•

I didn’t know what poetry was, so I wrote honestly about the process of murder. My first poem, was it called “Knife and Bones”? The instructor remarked that my use of language was fresh. He said that its raw quality and the perceptive way I imagined death depicted the futility of life. He repeatedly praised my use of metaphors.

I asked, “What’s a metaphor?”

The instructor grinned — I didn’t like that smile — and explained “metaphor” to me. So a metaphor was a figure of speech.

Ah-ha.

Listen, sorry to let you down, but that wasn’t a figure of speech.

•

I grabbed a copy of the Heart Sutra and began reading:

The instructor asked me, “So you really haven’t studied poetry before?” When I responded, “Is it something one has to learn?” he said, “No. Rather, if you have a bad teacher, it’ll ruin your lines.” I said, “That so? That’s a relief.” Then again, there are at least a few things in life you can’t learn from others.

•

They took an MRI. I lay down on a medical table that resembled a white coffin and went into the light; it felt like a kind of near-death experience. I floated in the air and looked down at my body. Death is standing by my side. I understand. I am going to die soon.

A week later, I had some sort of cognitive abilities test. The doctor asked questions and I answered. The questions were easy, but answering them was hard. It felt like putting your hand in a fish tank and trying to catch a fish just out of reach. Who is the current president of Korea? What year is it right now? Please repeat the last three words you just heard. What is seventeen plus five? I was sure I knew the answers, but I couldn’t remember them. How could I know but not know? How was this possible?

After the exam, I sat down with the doctor. He looked grim.

“The hippocampus has atrophied,” he said, pointing at the MRI scan of my brain.

“It’s unmistakably Alzheimer’s. We can’t be certain at this point how far it’s progressed. We’ll need to keep watch over time.”

Next to me, Eunhui sat quietly, her mouth firmly shut.

The doctor said, “Your memories will gradually disappear.

Your short-term memory and your recent memories will go first. It can be slowed but it can’t be stopped. For now, take the prescribed medication regularly. And write everything down, and keep those notes on your person. In time you may not be able to find your own house.”

•

I’m rereading a yellowed paperback copy of Montaigne’s Reading it as an old man is surprisingly enjoyable: “We trouble life by the care of death, and death by the care of life.”

•

On the way back from the hospital, we were stopped at a checkpoint. The policeman looked at Eunhui and me like he knew us, then sent us off. He was the youngest son of the village association leader.

He said, “We’re running a checkpoint because there’s been a murder. Working day and night with no end in sight is killing us. What do people think, that murderers wander around in broad daylight saying, ‘Please catch me’?”

He then told us that three women had been murdered between our district and the neighboring one. The cops had deduced that it was the work of a serial killer. The women were all in their twenties and had been killed late at night on their way home. They had rope burns on their wrists and ankles. The third victim was found soon after my Alzheimer’s verdict, so naturally I asked myself: Am I the murderer?

At home I flipped through my wall calendar and checked the suspected dates. I had foolproof alibis. I was relieved it wasn’t me, but I didn’t like knowing that someone was kidnapping and killing in my territory. I warned Eunhui that the murderer could be lurking among us. I told her what precautions to take and never to be out alone late at night. It would be over for her as soon as she got into a man’s car. And it was dangerous to walk with headphones on.

“Please don’t worry so much,” she said.

At the front door, she added, “It’s not as if murders happen every day.”

•

These days I write everything down. There are times when I find myself somewhere unfamiliar and stay confused until I get back home, thanks to the name-and-address tag hanging from my neck. Last week someone took me back to the local precinct.

The policeman greeted me with a smile. He said, “Sir, it’s you again.”

“You know me?”

“Of course. I probably know you better than you know yourself.”

Really?

“Your daughter is on her way. We’ve already contacted her.”

•

Eunhui graduated from an agricultural college and was hired by a local research center. She works on improving crop varieties. Sometimes she takes two different varieties and grafts them to create a new species. She practically lives at the research center, in her lab coat, and occasionally pulls all-nighters. Plants aren’t interested in what time humans arrive at and leave work. Sometimes the...