The following is a draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim. If you haven't read my previous novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, be warned that while there are no spoilers, you may be missing some context.
The following passage is pure fiction and never really happened, though some places and people are real.
Friday, March 6, 1998
It was the third day in a row that I had asked one of my evening students, Kim Kyu-jong, to put away his mobile phone. It was my most-rambunctious class, with more than half of the students not wanting to be there. And of those students who didn’t want to be there, Kim Kyu-jong was the leader of that pack. Always striking up conversations with others, always seeking attention. In some ways, he reminded me of one of my hagwon kids, Steven, who loved to mutter, loved to try to get the other students to laugh, and who always copped an attitude. Only, Steven was seven years old.
Kyu-jong was texting on his phone, a small, slim yellow device that had a cover that slid down to expose the dial pad. A retractable antenna allowed the phone to easily slip into a breast pocket. It looked more like a toy than a working communication device. He didn’t see me as I walked down the centre aisle, toward him. Even his colleagues didn’t warn him of my approach. But when he looked up, I was standing over him, reading the English words on the t-shirt that showed through his opened blazer: This is Never That.
“Phone, please.” I extended my hand, palm outward. Kyu-jong seemed surprised and confused, and without thinking he placed the phone into my hand. It weighed almost nothing. If I blew on it, the phone would have travelled across the room. I carried it to my desk and placed it on top. “When class is over,” I said, slowly, “you can have it back. But if I see you use it in class again, it’s mine.” I pointed at my chest to illustrate the point. A woman who sat in front of Kyu-jong translated my warning to him and I could see his eyes widen.
It was a gruelling class and I wanted to leave as much as many of the students, but I kept the lesson on track. I had to keep this class on the same page as my other classes, even though they needed the most help. An elderly gentleman, in his late sixties or early seventies, Hong Sang-woo, who sat at the front of the class, seemed to have trouble understanding me. A woman, in her thirties, Lee Ha-nui, leaned over to help him, both with translating what I said and in understanding the exercises. Whenever I called upon him to try one of the exercises, he spoke slowly or sometimes not at all. His companion would prompt him and he would repeat what she said. I didn’t like her holding his hand through everything but I expected that this was the only way he could keep up. I couldn’t understand why he was in this course: he was of retirement age. Why would he need to learn English now?
Today’s lesson was opposites: happy and sad, cold and hot, good and bad. Mr. Hong seemed to be responding better to these exercises, and I had hope for him. At least he wanted to be in the class and was making an effort. He always had a smile when something made sense.
If I could focus on the students like Mr. Hong and Lee Ha-nui, and less on those like Kim Kyu-jong, my final class of the day would be more bearable. It would be nice if my last class could be more like my morning class, with the Bak sisters and Jung-eun. They were always upbeat, always attentive, always wanting to participate. Even Shin-hye, the beautiful girl in my class, was eager, though the way her eyes transfixed on me was sometimes unnerving.
Maybe I should show her the clause in my contract.
***
The workday over, I was eager to see if my colleagues were interested in going out. Though I only taught for three days, this week, the trip to Japan had made the week seem longer. I was ready to relax at Urban Bar, my old hangout. I hadn’t been there since early in January, and with all of my travelling over the past six weeks, it seemed like longer.
I was looking forward to a glass of Laphroaig single-malt whisky. Last year, I had ordered a case through my mother, who had it shipped from Islay, Scotland. My grandfather had been a distiller with Laphroaig for many years but was now retired. He still tended a small farm, where he sold peat to the distillery. I kept the case with the owner of Urban Bar, Shin Hoon, who promised to keep the bottles safe for me. In exchange, I paid him a small fee and gave him one of the bottles to keep for himself. Over the months, Brad and I had put a substantial dent in the case, and in the time between when Tanya left me and I returned to Canada, I had finished a couple of bottles more. But I still calculated that I had about four bottles left.
“We’re going to TwoBeOne,” said Nelson when I was back at the apartment. He and Cathy were finishing a late dinner, as their last classes had finished an hour before mine. TwoBeOne was a bar that had opened at the beginning of the year. It was only a couple of blocks away from Urban Bar, near Chŏnbuk National University, and this new venue offered live music. On Fridays, members of the ex-pat community were invited to perform. “Ashley and Raymond are performing.”
Jody and Jamie had once told me that they were going to a resto-bar near their neighbourhood, where Raymond was playing bass guitar in a band. I had missed the performance and never heard of more afterward.
“What does Ashley play?” I asked.
“Piano,” said Cathy. “They have a drummer and the three of them are going to perform. Jazz, I think.”
“They’ve already gone ahead,” said Nelson. “We’ve invited Russell but he and his girlfriend are going to stay in and rent a movie.”
“Russell has a girlfriend?”
“I think he said her name was Soo-young,” said Cathy.
“I see. I’d like to pay my respects at Urban Bar,” I said, “but maybe I’ll join you afterwards.” The more I thought of my Laphroaig, the more I wanted some. It had only been little more than a week since I had a good malt, in my Ottawa home, but once I had a craving, I needed to satisfy it.
***
Urban Bar was exactly as I remembered it. Low lights, comfortable sofas, and a large, angled window that looked onto the narrow street below. Normally, soft jazz would play from the speakers that were recessed into the ceiling, but when I walked in I saw a stool in the far corner, next to the bar, upon which an ex-pat was seated. An acoustic guitar rested on his lap and a microphone was attached to a small amplifier that rested at the end of the bar. I recognized the fellow but his name didn’t immediately come to mind. Scott? Matt? He was tuning his guitar, ready for a performance.
The table and sofas in front of the window were occupied by two men and two women. It could have been me, Brad, Wilma, and Tanya, though their looks were nothing like ours and they didn’t look like anyone was involved with another. I chose a small table near the wall, opposite the entrance, and sat facing the bar, close to the upcoming performer, whatever his name was.
Shin Hoon, the bar owner, saw me and his eyes went wide. Was he not expecting to see me again? He had been standing on the opposite end of the bar from the guitarist, smoking a cigarette and filling serving bowls with popcorn. As soon as his initial reaction had subsided, he picked up one of the bowls and came to my table, where he set the popcorn in front of me.
“Mr. Shin, so nice to see you again.”
“Rolan-duh, welcome back.” He was able to pronounce the R in my name but no word, not even a non-Korean word, could end in a hard consonant. “I almost didn’t expect you to come back.” He was smiling but seemed disturbed, as though my presence was unwelcome. In truth, the last few weeks that I had been in Chŏnju, before returning home, I had been drinking hard, would drown my sorrow at the loss of Tanya in a bottle of whisky. It was a habit that I knew I had to break.
“I have far too much Laphroaig left to leave it all behind,” I said. Hoon laughed nervously and I became worried. “What is it? What’s happened?” My eyes shifted toward the bar and the shelves of various bottles against the glass backdrop. In the centre of the middle shelf, with lights shining down upon it, was one of my bottles, about one-third full.
Our entertainment started. Scott or Matt, or whatever his name was, started into a rendition of David Bowie’s “Ziggy Stardust.” He wasn’t bad but I was suddenly not in the mood to hear him.
“What the fuck, Shin?” My Scottish brogue came through. “Surely you’re not selling glasses of my whisky.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, almost whining, “I didn’t know you were coming back.”
“Of course you did. The last time I was in here I told you to take good care of my bottles. If I wasn’t coming back, don’t you think I would have taken them with me?”
“I’m sorry, Rolan-duh. I’m sorry.”
“Well, I’ll take them now. How much is left?”
“One.”
“One? One what? One bottle, in addition to the almost-empty bottle above the bar?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus Christ, Hoon. I left you four bottles. In six weeks, you sold nearly three bottles? How much did you charge per glass?”
It looked like Shin Hoon was going to cry. “Iman won.” He was no longer able to speak English.
“Twenty thousand? Per glass?” I knew that Hoon charged ten-thousand won for a glass of Johnny Walker Blue Label whisky, which would net him about a quarter of a million won for the bottle, giving him a tidy profit. Charging double for the Laphroaig, he had helped himself to a large sum, considering he hadn’t paid for the bottles in the first place.
“I will pay you back,” he said, on the verge of tears.
“You’re damned right you’ll pay me back. I’ll take…” I had to remember the numbers in Korean. I hadn’t said them often. “Baekman-osib-man won. You can keep what’s left in that bottle. Give me the remaining, full bottle.”
“I don’t have that money on me.”
“Of course you do, Shin. I know you have a safe under the bar. I saw it when we first put my case behind it.”
Hoon bowed his head in shame, and nodded. “I’m sorry. Right away.” He walked behind the bar and then disappeared under the counter.
The song continued. “Ziggy played for time, jiving us that we were voodoo, the kid was just crass, he was the nazz, with God-given ass...” I wondered what nazz meant, or was it just a made-up word that Bowie threw in to make his lyrics rhyme.
Hoon stood up after a few seconds. He had a filled bottle of Laphroaig in one hand and a thick envelope in the other. One-and-a-half-million won, in ten-thousand won notes, is pretty thick. I was used to seeing a bundle that size in my monthly payments from Kwon, before the hagwon went belly-up. I remembered that the safe opened with a keypad code, and inside, he must have had stacks of a half-million won. He only needed enough time to open the door and grab three stacks. He must have had envelopes either in the safe or nearby. It appeared that my last bottle of whisky was also nearby.
Nazz… Nazareth. Jesus. Son of God. King of the Jews. Did nazz mean holy? King?
“Ziggy played… guitaaar.” The song ended as Hoon returned to my table. The bar had fewer than a dozen patrons, and our performer received only a smattering of applause. I was in no mood to cheer.
“Here you go, Rolan-duh. Again, I’m sorry.” He placed the envelope and bottle in front of me.
I stood and picked them up. “I’m sorry, too, Hoon.”
He reached out to shake my hand. “Are we okay?”
“No, Hoon, we are not. Goodbye.”
Another song started as I made my way to the door. It was a Smith’s song: “I Know It’s Over.”
“Yes, it certainly is,” I said under my breath, without looking back.
***
I wanted to see Ashley and Raymond perform at TwoBeOne. I knew that Jamie and Jody, as well as some of my colleagues, would likely be there, as Raymond was a long-time friend and they would soon be leaving Korea. But with an unsealed bottle of whisky and an envelope that was too thick to put in my pockets, I would raise too many questions. I would contact Jamie and Jody tomorrow and arrange to get together with them. I would take them out for a meal as a small token of my appreciation, for having them put Tanya and me up, and then to put up with me after Tanya left. I would treat them to whatever they wanted.
I walked to Paltal-ro, where I was easily able to hail a taxi back to the apartment. In the hallway, I could see a faint glow of light coming from Russell’s apartment but heard no sound. I wasn’t about to disturb him and his girlfriend. I went straight into my unit, unsealed the whisky bottle, and poured myself a double measure.
One way or another, I was going to have my malt.
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