The Future of Silence: Fiction by Korean Women

O Chŏng-hŭi | WAYFARER

The snow had started that morning. Hye-ja opened the window, sat on the sill, and watched the carefree flakes turn the world giddy. The neighborhood was still, the snow muffling every tiny, squirming noise. There were no calls for the baseballs that came flying into her yard several times a day, no sound of children sneaking over the wall after them. When the girl who rented the room near the front gate worked the day shift, the neighbor children took advantage of the vacant house and climbed over the wall. Hye-ja would have her hands full; old habits die hard. The day she’d returned, a boy nonchalantly climbed over the wall, glancing at her where she leaned against the door to the veranda watching him. When she finally shouted, Hey! the boy protested: We do this all the time, me and the other kids. What’s the problem if no one’s home? Strangely, the boy’s grumbling had reassured her. It had helped her dismiss the notion that the house was haunted, that the unkempt garden was kept under a curse by a wicked ogre.

Now and then a layer of snow weighing down the bare branches plummeted to the ground and the sparrows searching for food took wing. There were no footprints in the snow between the rented room and the gate; the young woman must not have left for work yet.

Hye-ja went out to the yard and gathered a handful of snow. The white blanket came up to her ankles. If it kept coming down like this, it would be knee-deep by nightfall. She should sweep it away, she told herself. But then the sound of a piano, an unadorned, inelegant melody, caught her attention. Hye-ja sang along in a soft voice:

Hills, fields, trees

Under white, white snow.

We grow up pure of heart, you know.

She had sung this ditty as a child, and so had her own children. Probably some young mom, alone at home with time on her hands after sending her children off to school, had been watching the snowflakes fall when the melody had come to mind and she had tapped it out on the keyboard.

The music stopped abruptly, leaving Hye-ja standing blankly, mouth open. In the profound silence, her dream of the night before came back to her.

She had first dreamed this dream as a child, but the last time had been long enough ago that she had almost forgotten it. She was on a street, always the same street, following an endless stone wall, a mossy, crumbling structure that resembled an ancient fortress wall, long neglected. Where am I? I’ve been here before, she would murmur happily, taken with the familiar ambience of the place. She followed that wall seemingly forever, driven by a hunch, which became a conviction, that if she reached into one of the crevices where the wall was worn and crumbling, she would find a token of something that had been promised her—a small, pretty button, a secret mark, a tiny, folded piece of paper. But then she would awaken. She couldn’t identify the street, not at the beginning of the dream, not at the end; all she did was wander it. Awakening from the dream meant the loss of this favorite street yet again, and the return of that helpless sensation of being deserted. She felt like a lost child. Where could that street be leading? And why did it all seem so familiar? Her old, wraithlike mother, who was still alive, would have answered right away in her lucid, precise manner: It was the road to the otherworld, or else a road traveled in a former life. That Hye-ja was having this dream again after almost two years offered a hint, no, an assurance, that she was actually back home.

Her hands were growing numb. The snow she clutched was melting. She wiped her wet hands on her clothes, stamped the snow from her feet, and returned inside. Her room and the veranda were utter chaos, and she was always stepping on a water glass, a rag, the transistor radio, her pajamas, you name it. It was only natural. She had returned home a week earlier and hadn’t tended to the house since. Of course she cooked to satisfy her malignant hunger, but the dirty dishes would be shoved aside. She would fill the bathtub and soak for hours, until the hot water cooled, chilling her, and then, unclothed, she would pace the darkened veranda. She had spent much of the day before yesterday gazing at her daughter’s yellow, flower-shaped hairpin, which she had found in a crack in the concrete patio out back. The girl, now in her last year of middle school, was long past the age of using such hairpins.

Her mother-in-law had lived here until the month before, looking after Hye-ja’s husband and the two children. Now the house was empty except for Hye-ja’s belongings. What will we do with Hye-ja when she comes home from the hospital? There must have been a lot of discussion and thought. And finally her husband had made a clean break, removing her name from the family register and turning over the house to her—an unusual display of concern on his part. I’ll be moving out before too long, he had told her after the doctor said she was ready for discharge. One option, if you don’t want to go back to the house, is to sell it and get yourself a small apartment. Coming from me, maybe that idea doesn’t appeal to you. But an apartment would have its advantages. And you could stay with your family till the house is sold. . . . Hye-ja hadn’t seen him since. In any event, for an ex-husband, he had sounded considerate. Technically she had initiated the divorce, and he agreed it was unavoidable. But while she was in the hospital? That seemed to have pained him.

Hye-ja had returned to this house, though, as soon as she was discharged. Humans are forgetful creatures, the doctor had said. She was back to full health, mentally and physically, and she could live a normal life, like she had before. And she shouldn’t be afraid, that was the most important thing. She felt lethargic, as if resting up after a long journey. Occasionally she was startled into a sense of reality by the ring of the telephone and the voices of people seeking her departed husband and children. No, they’re not here, they moved. . . . I don’t know. Curt, blunt responses and the conversation was over, after which she would frantically rummage through the house for some trace of them. It was as if she wanted to obliterate all the time she had been away. The stickers on the wall, the long, black strands of glossy hair in the hairbrush, the handkerchief with the embroidered corner—she discovered these and other traces, but all they did was make her powerfully, vividly aware of the enormous gap that now separated her from them. They wouldn’t be coming back, and she could never recover the hours she’d been away from them. Hadn’t they been capable of the stronger ties that a deeper love offered? Even if they couldn’t conceal from each other the shame and fear that lurked persistently in the depths of their hearts? After scouring the house one last time she sat, clasping her arms about her knees and silently sobbed. When she had cried herself to exhaustion, she felt a gentle gnawing in her empty stomach. That familiar hunger was like an old friend who had come to comfort her.

The doorbell jarred Hye-ja awake. She had eaten her lunch of cold rice mixed with spicy pepper paste and taken a short nap. Who could it be? Confused and startled, she opened the door to the veranda just as the bell rang again. Registered mail! Your seal, please! The mailman’s cap was visible above the iron gate. Flustered by the mailman’s insistence—why would anyone have sent her a registered letter?—she opened the vanity drawers in succession from force of habit. Most were empty and sure enough, her seal wasn’t there. I don’t have it! Hye-ja shouted in agitation toward the gate. For god’s sake, then use your thumb! came the response.

The letter was for Hye-ja’s tenant. There was no sign of life from across the yard, and the girl’s kitchen door, which gave access to her room, was padlocked. Hye-ja pushed the kitchen window open, deposited the letter, and went back inside. As she steadied her pounding heart, her hand stopped in the act of closing the yawning drawers of the vanity. There it was, her little appointment book, long forgotten but definitely hers, smudged by her own hands. She fished it out and turned the pages. 29th: Tŏksu Palace; dry-clean winter suit; 16th: 3 p.m., Araya; Shinsegye, Bargain Sale, 15th–21st, woolen shirt & vest—among these notes were items faintly remembered, and many she couldn’t recall at all. 3rd: Umi Florist, flower basket, mixed carnations X 60—a gift for a teacher’s sixtieth-birthday celebration? As she searched her memory, Hye-ja read each of the entries, sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning. And then in back, a column of telephone numbers, those of her college classmates. They were members of a circle, friends who met once a month, women with whom she felt relatively close. Why hadn’t she thought of them? Finally, something to do. She began quickly to dial. First the editorial offices at the women’s magazine where Suk-ja worked. But Suk-ja had long since left, she was informed. Then Ae-gyŏng’s house. The number you have dialed is out of service; please check the number and try again. She examined the Arabic numerals and redialed. Same result. It was strange. She felt bewitched. Myŏng-hwa’s telephone rang incessantly—no answer. Patiently she dialed Ch’un-ja at home. Not at this number anymore, came a curt voice, followed by a click. Hye-ja replaced the receiver and let her mind go blank, oppressed for the first time by the enormous reality of the two years she had lost. She felt bitter and betrayed.

This’ll be the last one, she swore to herself, and like a gambler staking her destiny on her last card, she dialed the fifth number with grim determination. She heard the ring and then a Hello, and Chŏng-ok’s face rose before her. She forced herself to speak slowly: Chŏng-ok? It’s me, Hye-ja. Oh, my goodness! My goodness! This ambiguous exclamation was followed by silence. Hye-ja imagined a terrified look on Chŏng-ok’s face, the look of someone who had received a call from the dead. It’s been a long time. It really has, said Chŏng-ok. How is your health? And then, still sounding flustered, she added, Where are you? I’m home now. How are the others doing? I haven’t been able to reach anybody. Well, that’s understandable—a lot of us have moved.

Hye-ja told her friend she would like to see her. There was a brief pause. "Well, as it turns out, we’re throwing a farewell party for Pong-sŏn. She’s going overseas with her husband. Remember the Sky Lounge on the thirteenth floor of the Kolon Building, in Kwanggyo? We’re meeting there at seven o’clock. Everyone’ll be happy to see