Marilyn and Me. Ji-min Lee
and magazines, I recognized him instantly when I met him for the first time. Ku-yong, who studied art in Japan, wasn’t famous, but he enjoyed a quiet fan base of passionately devoted readers—I was one of them. Truth Seeker, the main character of his editorial cartoons, was a sly and honest thinker, just like him, and Dandy Boy, the main character of the adventure cartoon serialized in a youth magazine, was a stubborn dreamer whose future seemed precarious, just like his. He was the rare artist who loved his work without being taken over by it. It’s entirely because of the war that someone like him now does odd jobs wearing cotton work gloves instead of handling sharp pen nibs.
The war broke out during a brutal, broiling summer. Every day until I crawled home, exhausted, in the evening, I was shut inside a small room, drawing dozens of Stalin portraits for the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, while downstairs Ku-yong drew propaganda posters exhorting the North Korean People’s Army to launch a full-scale offensive. We were two loyal dogs with a talent for drawing; I was the female on the verge of starving to death, repenting my consorting with American imperialists, and he was the quiet male bringing me balls of rice and water. I didn’t feel well and spilled as many tears as I shed drops of sweat. People think Communism was what treated me poorly, but in reality it was myself. I would drink from the cup of water I washed my brushes in as I willed the awful summer to pass. At that point I didn’t know the half of it. When the recapture of Seoul by the southern forces was imminent, Ku-yong was taken north before I was, but managed to make a dramatic escape and reach safety. Eventually, the South determined that he had collaborated with the enemy and took him into custody. His talents were highly valued, however, and he was thus assigned to the psychology unit of the army headquarters and began to draw cartoons for the Ministry of National Defense. Whereas he once conveyed the grand news of victory for the People’s Army, he now began to depict women being violated by the Chinese Communists in a new, realistic, graphic style, broadcasting the tragedy of war. Ku-yong told me later that he could smell ink even in his sleep; even fermented soybeans would smell like paint. He returned to Seoul after the South retook the capital and decided he was done with art. This decision was as logical as the laws of nature in which spring followed winter. It also revealed his respect towards his newly recovered freedom.
Last year, when I bumped into him in Chong-dong, he explained bluntly why he had stopped drawing: “You see, it’s a waste of time for me to sit inside a room all day.”
Oddly enough that comment made me feel at ease. At first, even acknowledging his existence reminded me of that demonic summer, which made me want to avoid him, but his loneliness and his reclusive tendencies pulled me in. After all he was a colleague from a wretched phase in our lives. We had both exhausted our God-given talents in this godforsaken land.
“Ae-sun—I mean, Alice—I think I’m going to make art again.”
I have nothing to say to that. I should be applauding him for starting over, for overcoming his wounds and his helplessness, but I turn away, my hands laced together. It shouldn’t be a surprise to him that I’m this ungenerous; I’m dismayed that my friend is no longer defeated or despairing. I feel instantly alone. I’m disappointed with myself.
“Shall we walk towards Chonggyechon?” he asks. “We can get something to eat on the way.”
That’s such a long, dirty walk, especially in these worn shoes. But I don’t voice my feelings. What made him change his mind? I feel as if I’ve been punched twice today: Hammett’s words to me in the office are still buzzing in my ears and now even Ku-yong is irritating me. I could make excuses and tell myself I wasn’t such a great artist anyway, but I’m enveloped by a strange guilt.
We pass Supyo Bridge and the shacks balanced on either side of Chonggyechon. Built from rough pieces of wood, the shacks appear to have been made with the remnants of Noah’s Ark. It’s as if Noah and his descendants managed to survive by eating the animals they saved. The evening is filled with the smell of food and filth, along with the sounds of clean laundry being ironed, beaten with sticks, and of babies crying. A worker cleaning his tools at a hardware store spots us and smiles slyly. We must look like pathetically destitute lovers out on a date.
Ku-yong takes me to his favorite bar. A Homecoming poster is stuck to the greasy wood-paneled wall. Clark Gable’s and Lana Turner’s nice smiles are incongruous with this place. The barmaid’s son, playing marbles in front of the furnace, greets us spiritedly and shows us to a fairly clean table. The barmaid, who was serving liquor up in the loft, quickly slips down the ladder. I must be hungrier than I realized; before the mungbean pancakes arrive at our table, I empty half a kettle of makgolli. Ku-yong keeps pouring me more. By the time he starts to irritate me, I realize I’m drunk. I loosen my grip on my cup.
“I hope great things happen for you this year,” he says, smiling and tearing a piece of pancake for me. Affection lingers in his eyes.
I’m confused. I hope he’ll stop at sympathy. Affection disarms you. I don’t want any of it. I prefer to be honestly misunderstood than insincerely understood. “You’ve somehow managed to find hope for yourself so you’re all set,” I say tartly.
He doesn’t deflate. That alone makes me feel trapped. “Ae-sun—I mean, Alice,” he begins. I can tell from his voice that he’s been considering what to say for a long time. “I hope you’ll find peace. I’ve been living the last few years like an idiot. I don’t regret it, of course, but I want to have a different life. I hope you’ll be able to forget the past, too. This isn’t you. We both know it.”
I stare resolutely at the table, refusing to meet his eye.
“Be with me. In whatever way that may be. Ae-sun—I mean, Alice …” Ku-yong isn’t even embarrassed. He’s as earnest and frank as his cartoon characters.
I must have sensed that something like this would happen. That must be why I came along. I decide to save him by putting a firm end to this ridiculous melodrama. “You can’t be with me, Ku-yong. You can’t understand my pain. Do you know why? I’ve killed. I’ve killed a child. And then I went insane and tried to kill myself. I failed at doing that so I went crazy. I’m fine now, but you never know when I’ll lose my mind again.”
The boy, who was eavesdropping, scampers off in shock. Ku-yong stares down at the floor uneasily. He doesn’t even attempt to take in what I’m saying. “Stop with the bitterness and mockery. That’s not you.”
For some reason this makes me sad. “Let go of your expectations. Don’t waste whatever remaining love you have for humanity on me.”
“You’re so frustrating, Ae-sun! Look around. People are living, they’re being strong, they’re as good as new. Why do you keep insisting on staying in the past?”
I lose my confidence for a moment. “Why do you want to take on my nightmares I don’t want to remember?” I ask. “What do you know about me, anyway? Do you remember the state I was in when we bumped into each other last year? You looked at me like you’d lost all hope for me.”
In fact, Ku-yong regarded me with shock, like a burn victim seeing himself in the mirror for the first time. Anyone else making that expression would have infuriated me, but oddly enough I stared at him with the same expression on my face.
“Don’t you remember?” I ask him. “I looked just like Seoul—hopeless, though nobody wanted to say that out loud. I was at my worst in Pusan, but I wasn’t much better back here. I tried, though. I tried to be ordinary and be one of those people. But it didn’t work for long. One day I was walking downtown and I passed the bombed-out fire station. All the windows were gone and you could see the darkness inside. It was like an enormous skull with two eye sockets. It began to laugh, its jaw juddering. I jumped onto the first streetcar that came. But it started to fill up and I was stuck among people and I couldn’t breathe and I was sweating and my ribs felt like they were breaking and I could hear a horrible noise and everything turned dark. I started to smell blood, and every time people brushed against me I felt like I was being torn to pieces. I sank down, below people’s legs. I was curled up like that on the floor, screaming for help. Do you know what they did? In order to gawk