“What? Are you crazy?” she said. “Don’t you know how much more those cost than bottles?”
“Don’t argue with me. Just drink it. It’s hot out here.”
“You want to start spending money like water, just because it’s hot? We haven’t even seen the ocean yet. I’m not taking it.” She looked away, a bead of sweat hanging precariously from the tip of her nose.
Sangchul was mad, and to show just how much, he drank both cups. His wife kept her head turned and didn’t even acknowledge him.
The inside of the waiting room was filled with a gamy smell like an abattoir from the hot breath and sweat exuded by the crowd. There were people with dark, sunburnt faces who must have been farmers or fishermen; old folks in disheveled clothes; and a few soldiers returning from leave—all looking tired from the heat, waiting for their buses. Sangchul approached a middle-aged man in shabby clothes, his face the color of dirt, whose expression said he’d do anything to forget the heat.
“How often does the bus to the beach run?” Sangchul asked.
Without looking at him, the man repeated what Sangchul had heard at the ticket window, down to the same tone. “There’s one every ten minutes.”
“But we’ve already been waiting for fifteen—no—twenty minutes.”
“They skip a bus sometimes when they feel like it,” the man said. “Since they’re short on buses, not passengers.”
“They can skip buses like this? Even during the peak holiday season?”
“Why would anyone on vacation from Seoul be taking ratty buses like this?” the man said. “Us country folk are thankful for the ride, of course, but . . . the streets are crawling with taxi cabs, and if you just step outside the station, there’s even—what do you call ’em?—Special Transport tour buses.” Finally, he glanced up and down, seeing how Sangchul and his wife were dressed. “Just wait a little,” he said, looking puzzled. “It should be here soon.”
To be sure, it would have been hard—even for Sangchul—to imagine his wife, who was squatting there on the dirt floor of the waiting room, as a rich vacationer from Seoul. She was clutching her overstuffed duffel bag for fear of it being stolen, and she wore an out-of-style one-piece dress with water droplet patterns. For some reason she had on more makeup than usual, and the sweat had smudged her face here and there, making her look exhausted and, at the same time, even more stubborn.
They already knew about the taxis crowding the streets and the Special Transport tour buses waiting in front of the station. They also knew that a taxi cost 3,000 won, and the tour bus 500 won to get to the beach. But the beat-up buses leaving from this public-bus parking lot only cost 120 won per person.
Sangchul and his wife had arrived in Daecheon an hour ago, just past noon. The “Unification” train line ran mainly along the coast after leaving Seoul. Packed with vacationers, it passed through Suwon, Cheonan, and Hongseong, finally dumping out the heat-exhausted passengers at Daecheon Station. Sangchul, who had expected a cool sea breeze there, was a bit disappointed. The view from Daecheon Station was no different from what one could have seen in any small city in the southern part of the peninsula and, except for the vacationers in colorful clothing, there was no evidence of a beach nearby. It was another thirty minutes away by car. Tour buses and taxis were lined up at the station square to take them, but Sangchul’s wife had stubbornly spurned them all and asked for directions, leading them here, to the public-bus parking lot.
“Country folk are generous, indeed,” the man muttered. “Giving up all the best things like tour buses and taxis to outsiders, while we have to be satisfied with riding old clunkers like these.”
It wasn’t clear to Sangchul whether the man was just talking to himself or if he was meant to hear.
“True, it probably isn’t the kindness of country-folk but more like the power of money,” the man added. The mass of people started to surge towards the exit. “Ah, the bus is here,” he said, getting up from the bundle he’d been sitting on. It looked like it might be a sack of fertilizer. He picked it up and—in contrast to the slow cadence of his speech—ran swiftly outside.
The people who had been stretched out suddenly leaped up all at once and rushed to the exit, turning the waiting room into chaos. They all ran onto the bus and took their seats one by one, as if they’d been trained. Even the old folks—who had just moments ago displayed the stoic faces of those who had transcended worldly things—rushed to grab seats. And once they had, they went back to being transcendent beings, watching the chaos before them like spectators watching a fire on the other side of a river.
By the time Sangchul and his wife boarded, the bus was already full. Like the city buses in Seoul, it had single seats along the sides and a wide center aisle. It was an old bus, well worn and befitting the description “beat up,” and even after it was packed with people, it showed no intention of moving. Once on board, no one seemed to be in a hurry any longer. A young man in work uniform, so soaked in sweat that it looked like his back had been dunked in water, finished joking around with someone and jumped onto the bus doorway, chuckling. “Take good care of that trap of yours ’til I get it back!” he yelled outside. “I’m just gonna make one quick trip and come back to teach you a lesson. Got it, you motherfucker?” Then he turned to an old man who happened to be sitting next to him and bowed, saying, “Oh, how are you, sir?” The young man must have been the cabin chief, since he hung out of the back door and called “Orai!” banging the side of the bus with his hand to signal it was time to go.
But it seemed there were no official stops. Before exiting town, the bus kept stopping to pick up anyone with a raised hand who happened to be on the side of the road, and it became even more congested and hotter inside. Sanchul was about to say, “See, what did I say? Do we really need to suffer like this to save a couple hundred won?” but he stopped himself. His wife was looking very pale. She had always been susceptible to motion sickness, and now she must have been nauseated from being tired. All she’d had to eat since leaving Seoul was a bowl of noodles. But she wore her stubborn expression as usual, her mouth tightly shut as if she were about to start a long-awaited battle. Somewhere behind that stone face was a child who refused to lose to anyone, and now the obvious fatigue made her resolve seem pathetic and precarious.
“Are you crazy? We can’t afford a vacation in our circumstances.”
That had been his wife’s instinctive response when he’d first broached the subject of a vacation. Saying, “Are you crazy?” was a habit of hers. When he’d mustered up the courage to clumsily take her hand for the first time while they were dating, her reaction had been, “Are you crazy?”
Whenever they argued over trivial things, she was like a little cabbage worm that curls itself up at the slightest touch. If he suggested spending a little money by asking, “Hey, should we go out for dinner tonight?” or even if he told her a funny joke, it was her habit to answer, “Are you crazy?”
“Do you know how much it costs every time we leave the house?” she’d said. “There’s travel expenses, each way. We’d have to sleep somewhere. And do you think anyone’s going to feed us for free? It costs money anytime we go out.”
“I know it costs money. Let’s just tickle our nostrils with a little fresh air. Just once.”
“You’d have us throw around money like that, just to tickle our nostrils with air? What about the hole in our budget? I’m not going. If you really want to go, go by yourself.”
“I’m not backing down this time,” he said. “If you won’t come, I’m dragging you with me.”
“What’s gotten into you? Acting like you’re desperate for a vacation.”
“That’s right. I’m desperate for a vacation. I’m warning you.”
The standoff had lasted all night. What finally overcame her stubbornness was probably her realization that Sangchul’s attitude was different this time. He hadn’t planned to force them on a vacation at first. As the summer season slowly crept closer, he’d merely watched the anticipation grow in the office, but had been unable to relate. From the department chief at the top, to the typist, Miss Kim, at the bottom, every chance they got, they would all discuss which beaches were the best and which travel routes were the most convenient. Sangchul would even see them around the office, huddled anywhere over tour maps that came with some women’s magazine, murmuring. But he couldn’t manage to fit into those conversations.
Sangchul had only just managed to pay his own way through a provincial university, and he’d never even gone on a hiking trip, let alone a vacation. Even now, he usually had nothing to do with those kinds of things. Whenever the manager to the assistant manager, or the assistant manager to Miss Kim, the typist, stood over Sangchul’s desk gabbing on and on about “condo-rules-this” and “reservation-date-that,” the sound of “condo” would make him think they’d started to discuss birth control for some reason. The fact was, he’d been married for more than a year, and yet he still could not get over having to use those annoying rubber things every time. It was because of his wife’s unwavering resolve not to have children until their dream of homeownership was a reality.
The salesperson at the ticket window had said that it would take thirty minutes, but with passengers constantly jumping on and off, there were no signs of them being any closer to the beach in that time. But more people were getting off than on, reducing the number of passengers on board, so they were likely to be close. Still, seats were hard to get, and his wife’s face grew even paler, causing Sangchul to worry that she might throw up at any moment. But she kept her mouth stubbornly shut and her eyes fixed outside the window. Sangchul felt annoyed and frustrated.
Ever since they’d left Seoul, his wife had exhibited none of the giddy excitement someone going on holiday should feel. After finally caving and agreeing to come on the trip, she’d spent the entire night doing calculations, pondering how they might spend the least amount of money and have a thrifty vacation. Though his leave from the company was for four full days, she decided the vacation would be for three days and two nights. She picked Daecheon Beach because it was close to Seoul and therefore less expensive to get to. From the moment they’d boarded the train at Seoul Station, the vacation had become a tedious battle to spend as little money as possible.
The bus stopped in front of a cigarette shop with a red mailbox out front, and the man in the seat ahead of them got up. After Sangchul’s wife sat down, practically in a faint, a large bundle appeared through the same door through which the man had just left, and behind it the wrinkled face of an old woman whose hair had gone half gray. The bundle must not have been very heavy; she quickly hefted it in one hand and—of all places—immediately came up next to where his wife was sitting, as if she’d already made up her mind before getting on. When Sangchul’s wife hesitantly got to her feet, the old woman said, “Sit. I’m getting off soon, anyways.”
Even before she’d finished that sentence, the old woman had already parked herself halfway on the seat. “It’s hot enough already, but I had to drink a glass of soju that I shouldn’t of at a wedding, and now I’m burning up from inside,” she rambled, without prompting. “The way they spoil kids these days. Wasted effort, I say. But anyway, are you feeling alright, young lady?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Your face says something different. Sit here. I take this bus all the time, so I sit if there’s a seat and stand if there isn’t. I said sit.”
Hearing all of this, the young man sitting in front of them turned around and said, gruffly, “Sit here.” He trudged to the front of the bus. But from the looks of everyone collecting their things, they must have been nearing the end of the line, anyway.
Sangchul felt tired and drained when they finally got off, as if they were at the conclusion of a long and difficult journey, rather than at the start of their summer vacation. He saw a sliver of blue in the gaps between all the motels and restaurants, and though he had been anticipating it, the ocean seemed to find a way of appearing unexpectedly. For a moment, they paused, transfixed, and stared at the ocean.
“Smell that? It’s the smell of salt water.”
“No, it’s not the ocean. It’s the people,” his wife said. Regardless of whether it was the ocean or the people swarming on the beach, the breeze was carrying a faint fishy scent deep into their noses.
Suddenly they were surrounded by women and little children with dark faces. “Homestay?” they said. “Looking for a homestay?”
“How much for a room?” his wife asked.
“How many nights?”
“Two.”
“Two nights would be fifteen thousand won. It’s the same wherever you go.”
“Lady, we have a clean room. Come to our place. It’s close to the beach, and there’s even a shower.”
But his wife repulsed them all and, for some reason, ran after the old woman they’d met on the bus, who was now carrying the bundle on her head and walking in the direction opposite the beach. After speaking with her for a long time, Sangchul’s wife came back and said, “It’s all taken care of, dear. We got a deal for ten thousand won.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s overpriced around here. I asked the lady if she had an empty room, and she said yes. So I said we’d pay her ten thousand won if she let us stay for just two nights.”
Sangchul just stood there blinking.
She yanked him by the arm. “So, let’s go.”
“I don’t know about this,” the woman said. “I haven’t even talked it over with the old man. . . .”
“Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll explain it all to him.”
“He’s probably out in the field. He’s a stubborn mule. Oh, dear.”
Leaving the beach behind, they walked along the road for a bit, then got on a path that cut through rice fields.
“Isn’t this too far?” the old woman said. “You folks should stay closer to the beach.”
“It’s fine. We can think of it as exercise. How far could it be, anyway?”
The old woman showed no sign of stopping any time soon. The sun beat down mercilessly on their heads, and sweat dripped off their faces, running down their arms and backs. Sangchul was tired and felt his already frayed nerves start to stand on end.
The old woman’s house was more than a fifteen-minute walk from the beach. The orange slate roof did not match the smoke-stained clay walls, giving the impression that it was the only thing ever updated on the old house, but since the property was surrounded by a grove of acacia trees at the edge of the foothills, it was quite peaceful.
“The room is a mess. I’m so sorry.”
Just as the old woman said, the room was a mess. It seemed to be a shed, actually, with sacks of grain stacked up against the bare dirt walls.
Sangchul’s wife must have shared his disappointment to some degree. “This is great,” she said with a forced smile. “We should be able to vacation here. See? There’s a forest, and it’s cool. And look how quiet it is.”
Regardless of how peaceful and cool it was in the house, they had not traveled all that way just to roll around on someone else’s floor. They quickly tidied up the room, unpacked, and walked the long way to the beach under the blistering sun.
After a couple of hours at the beach, when the hot sun began to sting their backs, they decided to return to the homestay. They needed to wash themselves off before getting dressed, and so they headed for the showers adjacent to the dressing rooms.
The words “shower” and “₩300” were painted on the wall of the shed-like building, and there was a man in a straw hat standing by the entrance with cases of drinks and beach toys. When they produced a thousand-won bill he said, “Just go in. I don’t collect the money.”
“What do you mean, ‘just go in’?” Sangchul asked. “Do you mean it’s free?”
The man’s face was burnt by the sun and his forehead was deeply creased. He glared at Sangchul. “You sure do talk brash, mister,” he said. “We’d all starve to death if we just gave things away for free around here. Just go in and see—there’s a machine that collects money.”
Because the man turned away so quickly, before they even had time to feel offended, Sanchul and his wife went inside without understanding what he’d meant by “a machine that collects money.” It was like a public restroom inside. The building was divided down the middle into sections for “men” and “women” by a cinderblock wall and, to either side, one by one, people were busy under the evenly spaced showerheads. There were signs that said, “Automatic Shower ₩300—₩100 coins only,” stuck to each stall. They only worked when coins were inserted. When Sangchul came back out, his wife was already waiting. Neither of them had coins, but the man in the straw hat—without even turning his head to look at them—said, “Sorry, I haven’t got any change for you.”
“Why won’t you make change? How else are we supposed to shower?”
“I never said I wouldn’t make change. I said I don’t have coins to spare.”
“This is unbelievable. Then what are all those coins for?” Sangchul’s wife pointed to the small plastic basket filled with one-hundred-won coins.
The man finally turned to look up at them, forming even more creases on his forehead. “Lady, do you really have to know what these coins are for?”
“Yes, I must,” she said. With her customary stubborn expression that never accepted defeat, she looked at the man, waiting for an answer.
“It’s to give out as change after people buy something,” he said matter-of-factly, as if to say it was nothing to get worked up over. “Satisfied?”
They had nothing to say. Obviously, if they wanted coins, they would have to buy something.
“We don’t have a choice,” Sangchul said to his wife. “Let’s just get a hundred-won pack of gum or something.”
“I don’t have any gum for a hundred won,” the man said. “Sorry.”
“Well, what do you have?”
“As you can see, all I have to eat or drink is cola.”
“How much is that?”
“Seven hundred won.”
Sangchul’s wife made a sound resembling a scream. “What in the world!” she said. “That’s crazy! It’s a rip-off.”
The man raised his hand, took off his straw hat, and looked straight at them, revealing many more fine wrinkles on the rest of his face.
“Look here,” he said. “You may be here for fun, but I’m here to make a living. Would a shop that’s open year-round be charging the same prices as us seasonal folk? We earn a living one season out of the year like grasshoppers. We have to pay taxes and rent, too, and do you think water just comes up out of the ground all by itself? If you order a glass of cola to drink under one of those beach parasols over there, that’ll cost you five hundred won. Think how much a bottle would be. How much does a glass of cola cost at a café in Seoul?”
“Honey, let’s go.” Sangchul’s wife tugged on his arm.
“What do you mean?” Sangchul said. “Go where?”
“Do you plan on spending a thousand won to pour a bucket of water over your head? That’s two thousand won for the two of us. We might as well shower with cola.”
“We can’t just not wash.”
“If we just wait a little bit, we can douse ourselves with all the water we want at the homestay. We can’t go on letting ourselves be robbed blind like this, can we?”
Sangchul saw that the hard, shell-like expression had formed on her face. It drained him of his strength every time.
Not knowing what to do, Sangchul looked around at the beach that was approaching its peak of noise and heat. Large speakers, scattered everywhere, were blaring loud music, and multicolored tents of every size crammed the sand. Inside those pyramid-like structures, people slept, cooked on portable stoves, or played cards. He could not help but be amazed at how people so stubbornly insisted on continuing their usual habits in such cramped spaces. It revealed to him how truly frivolous and futile the activities of everyday life were, especially here, in contrast to the undulating ocean that stretched out forever, beyond where people clamored and splashed about. But no one seemed the least bit interested in such comparisons. Sangchul envied those people. They must know that the only virtue to be sought out here was the fulfillment of pleasure and desire. In this enormous, synchronized dance, his wife was the only one separated from the pack of people who seemed to be engaged in a reckless and futile dance like marionettes with their strings cut.
Because his wife walked off without even looking back after collecting her clothes from the dressing room, Sangchul had no choice but to follow. They waded through the mass of people and finally managed to escape the beach. Motels, lounges, restaurants, and other buildings lined the edge of the sand. Beyond those, bisected by a road, were more of the same, and once they’d passed those and a few homestay lodges, they were at the paddies and fields. Sangchul finally realized how ridiculous and stupid the two of them must have looked as they stepped onto the path into the rice paddies, where the swaying green stalks of rice reeked of pesticide. Since they hadn’t showered, they were still in their swimsuits. And now that they were no longer on the beach, their semi-naked appearance was not only inappropriate—where the ocean was nowhere to be seen—but shameless and downright immoral. Farmers working the fields straightened their backs and paused to stare in disapproval, though they were also clearly entertained. But the two of them could not turn back now, nor could they just get changed right there on the path. Their homestay was still over ten minutes away. They had no choice but to be even more shameless, more immoral, and laughable, as they went on.
The sun was still hot, and their backs were soaked in sweat once again; the salt they hadn’t rinsed off stung like grains of sand. Sangchul’s wife kept her mouth closed—with that stubborn, childlike expression—and walked with her eyes fixed straight ahead. Her frail swimsuit-clad body did not fit in here with the distant hills in the background and the green rice paddies with paths cut between them. The movement of her hips was more caricature-like than seductive, her face smudged with stubbornness and sweat. . . . When Sangchul saw all this, frustration and rage boiled up inside, but it was already too late to get angry. All the anger he could not express simply turned into self-ridicule and shame, smoldering, producing an acrid smoke inside him.
When they stepped in through the outer gate, they saw a gaunt and sunburnt old man scraping silt from his shovel. He stood up, surprised. He must have been the owner, back from working the field.
“How do you do?”
“W-who are you?” the old man said.
“We’re the homestay guests, sir.”
“Home what?”
“Homestay. Your wife told us we could stay in that back room, over there.”
The old man seemed puzzled by that statement. He did not even blink or show any reaction.
“Sorry for the trouble, sir,” Sangchul said, bowing his head.
The old man just tossed his shovel aside, loudly snapped the towel from around his neck, and stalked off inside.
Later, as he was drawing water from the well in the courtyard, Sangchul overheard the old couple.
“Do you plan to sell our ancestral tablets too, if the price is right?” the old man was saying.
“Who said anything about selling ancestral tablets? It’s just an empty room,” the old woman replied. “We can make some money without lifting a finger. How much do you make from digging dirt in the fields all day?”
“We made it this long without. Now you’re telling me we have to rent out our home at our age just for a little money?”
“It’s because we live so far from the beach. Is there anyone in town who doesn’t offer a homestay?”
“Even for ill-mannered city kids! Where do they think they are, walking around naked like that in broad daylight?”
“Don’t get excited. They might hear you.”
“Let them hear. I won’t stand for it.”
Sangchul felt terribly ashamed. When his wife came with a bar of soap wrapped in a dry towel and said, “What are you doing? Why haven’t you drawn up the water? Want me to wash your back?” that shame turned into annoyance and anger.
“How can I wash myself here?” he said. “Have you no shame?”
“Well, where else would you wash, if not by the well?” his wife said. “I just can’t understand you sometimes. Hurry up. Bend over.” She easily defused his anger at first, but then she went on and on: “Oh, I had a great idea. Tomorrow, let’s take some water with us when we go to the beach. We won’t need much—just enough to rinse off the salt. No need to argue over change anymore. How great is that?” Sangchul felt like he was about to lose his mind.
After washing, they squatted to one side of the courtyard and made dinner on their portable gas stove. By the time the rice had cooked, their bodies were drenched in sweat yet again.
But when night came, it occurred to Sangchul that it might not have been such a bad idea to stay there. Even from the room where they lay, he could see stars in the night sky—so many, in fact, that they seemed to be spilling over. The sea breeze shook the acacia trees behind the house, and they could hear the never-ending sounds of frogs and insects. They lay side by side, listening.
In the dark, he reached out his hand. His wife was lying straight with her hands folded over her breasts. His hand rested somewhere between her hip and elbow for a long time, and except for her belly rising and falling with her breath, the two of them lay still, pretending to ignore his hand. Then her stomach growled, and it startled him as much as if she had screamed.
Sangchul slowly started to move his hand. Sweat—whose, he didn’t know—put up resistance between his palm and her bare skin. From the darkness outside, the insects, and from beyond, the frogs, were crying desperately. When he slipped his hand under her pajamas, she suddenly stopped him.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Just stay still.”
Her hand holding his was surprisingly strong.
“We can’t. I didn’t bring any balloons.”
“So what if we don’t have any balloons.”
By “balloons,” they meant condoms. Sangchul wrapped his arms around his wife.
“It’s nice, isn’t it? The mood’s alright, too.”
“I said, no.”
She pushed him away, annoyed. But he held her tighter and whispered, “Are we just going to sleep after coming all this way? We’re on vacation, after all.”
“Are you crazy?”
He knew that she wasn’t meaning to insult him in that moment. But then she followed up with, “Do you want us to ruin all our plans because of your ‘vacation mood’?”
Suddenly, what came into Sangchul’s head was something he should never say to her in a situation like this. But when he did think of it, he could not resist.
“Damn it,” he said. “You’re the crazy one—crazy about money.”
“What did you say?”
He knew he had just crossed an invisible, fraught line that neither should touch, but that realization made him spout even more words. They started pushing each other’s buttons then, and only stopped after madly stabbing each other—despite knowing that their weapons were double-edged—drawing their own blood each time they attacked the other.
When his wife started to cry, Sangchul didn’t know what to do. As he listened helplessly to her sobbing in the dark, he felt a fierce enmity boiling up, but he couldn’t tell whether it was towards himself or someone else. For a moment, it was frighteningly clear—like an irresistible urge to kill—but at the same time he realized that he was too tired even to lift a finger.
One day, he had come home early from work. As he was about to ring the doorbell to their walk-up apartment, he heard music coming from inside and noticed that the front door was unlocked. Without giving it much thought, he went in and looked inside the room from which the loud music came. It was daytime, but the room was dark from the closed curtains, and his wife—oblivious to his presence—was dancing. Disco or go-go—whatever it was involved shaking her whole body in a frenzy, with bizarre movements of the hands and feet. His wife’s limbs moved breathlessly to the frantic melody as she shook wildly, her eyes closed, like a shaman possessed. Not knowing what to do, Sangchul quickly sneaked outside before she could notice him and stood for a moment, dumbfounded, before he went back down the stairs. His heart was racing as if he had committed some terrible crime. He could not erase the memory of the expression on her face. It was more than just the joy of dancing—she looked as if she were feverish and suffering from unbearable pain. He waited helplessly for half an hour before he climbed the stairs again. The music had stopped by then. He knew that the door was unlocked, but he rang the doorbell again and again. Then he saw his wife’s unbelievably normal, pale face appear at the door.
Sangchul could never forget that image. Sometimes it would even superimpose itself over other memories of his wife.
What could it have been? he thought, lying there in the dark. What could have made her let down her hair and dance like a madwoman in that dark room? She lived every day like it was a battle, her only wish being to escape their tiny ten-pyeong rental and own a home of her own; she was a woman who did not shy away from cleaning other people’s homes for 5000 won a day, who was fixated on the monthly finance club dues of 150,000 won. She was the small, stubborn woman who was too stingy to wear lipstick, the woman who personally inspected condoms in the dark by blowing each one up like a balloon. What magic would it take to unlock the heavy latch and release the woman trapped deep inside?
Finally, Sangchul thought he was close to figuring out why he’d been so insistent about taking the vacation. But now, even though they were here at the beach, his wife just continued to fight her lonely and tiresome battle.
He reached over his wife’s shoulder and caressed her face. He felt wetness on his hand.
She suddenly turned to him. “I was wrong,” she said. “Like you said, it’s all my fault. I am crazy.”
She continued to sob like a child and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Let’s do it. Hurry. Okay? Please, let’s do it now,” she said as she hastily began to undress.
But when he was finally ready to begin, he realized he no longer had the strength. He tried mightily, with eyes focused in the dark, but the more he tried, the more he felt an impotence that started in some corner of himself and spread quickly throughout his entire body like a balloon leaking air. He finally retreated from his wife’s body.
She did not make a sound. She lay still, not even trying to cover her nakedness. Feeling miserable, he peered into the darkness before his eyes. The insects in the courtyard and frogs in the rice paddies were still crying tirelessly.
They spent their remaining days at the beach like people going through the motions out of obligation, and on the third day they set out early for the return trip to Seoul. When they finally got home, it felt like they had come back from a very long trip, though they had actually only been gone two nights.
It was only when he was about to insert the key into the door handle that he was struck by a strange premonition, and when the door creaked open by itself, as if by magic, as he twisted the handle, that premonition became a reality.
“Oh, my God!” His wife ran inside, her face ghostly.
They recognized, at a glance, what had happened while they were away.
“We’ve been robbed.” His wife ran from the big room to the small room, and from bathroom to the kitchen, like a madwoman.
The entire place had been thoroughly and methodically ransacked. The wardrobe doors were open, every single drawer pulled out, leaving clothes strewn about like spilled entrails. They were clearly the unlucky victims of burglars who targeted empty houses during the holiday season. But it was more than just bad luck—it was evidence that their lives could be destroyed at any time. The burglars had been brazen—they had eaten dinner there. Strands of ramen noodles and bits of kimchi were everywhere, and trails of spilled ramen soup extended from the kitchen to the bedroom like crusted blood stains.
“What should we do?” his wife said to him, still shaking. “We should report it to the police.”
Sangchul himself had no idea what to do until then, so he thought it remarkable that his wife remembered the police.
“But first, don’t we have to figure out what was lost?” he said.
They started rummaging through the open drawers and scattered clothes, again. The TV was still there, of course, and there were no immediate signs of anything missing from the drawers in the wardrobe that contained only a few out-of-season clothes.
“Oh, no, the tape recorder!” his wife shouted, but they soon remembered taking it with them on the trip. And the gold ring—only eight grams, which was their only wedding present—was still on her finger.
“Hang on.” She turned to him, pausing her frantic search. “What do we have worth stealing?”
He suddenly came to his senses. The fact was that—when he thought about it—there was really nothing worth taking from their tiny place. Other than the old TV missing its channel dial, some worn clothes, and a bunch of dust-covered books, what was there? His wife didn’t use a bank, so of course there was no bank ledger, and they didn’t even have a cheap camera. He was dumbstruck and, at the same time, felt like he was coming out of a trance.
“Of all the places they could have broken into, those burglars had to pick a place like ours that doesn’t even have a pair of chopsticks to take. I feel sorry for them.”
Maybe she meant it as a joke, but his wife mumbled that nonsense with a straight face, like an idiot. They couldn’t tell who started first, but they began to laugh. And perhaps because of the sudden release of tension, once they started, it became uncontrollable. That’s right, we don’t own anything. They were hysterical, as if the fact that they were so poor that burglars had nothing to take had worked some kind of ironic revenge.
“Are you crazy, dear?” she said to him for laughing so hard, unaware of the fact that she was laughing, too. For some reason, he felt those words light a fire in him, as if they were some seductive provocation. He saw a spot of skin peeling from his wife’s sunburnt nose like a scab from a wound. For a moment, a single image popped into his mind. It was of the two of them dancing like they were possessed, on top of these terrible remnants of the pillaging by burglars, just like savages celebrating their victory after returning from a long, hard battle.
