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 there are spoilers and you may be missing some context.
Tuesday, May 14, 2019
“Su-ah shee!” I exclaimed into the voice-mail recording, “igeos-eun Rollan-duh ibnida.” Su-ah, this is Roland. “I’m in Chŏnju and would like to meet with you. I am here until Friday. Please call me.” I spoke slowly and enunciated in clear English, suppressing my Scottish brogue as I had when I taught in Korea, more than twenty years earlier. Since returning to North Berwick, my native accent had regained its full strength and had I kept it while leaving my message, my old hagwon secretary and student would surely not understand me. And from what Brad had told me, understanding English itself had become a challenge in itself. For all I knew, I was her first and last teacher.
When I dialled the number that Brad had passed on, I had a strong feeling that I would reach Su-ah’s voice mail. It was a work day, after all, and I had guessed that she would be at work, unable to take a personal call. This way, I could leave the message with my phone number and place the ball in her court. Though it would be wonderful to see Su-ah, I still had my reservations about seeing Kwon Tae-ha, the old director of the hagwon. I didn’t care about the money that he denied me in 1997. Under his employment, I had put up with countless lies and deceptions. Did I really want to hear what he had to say? Did it matter, now that so much time had gone by?
Technology had advanced over the decades to the extent that it was easy to find someone on the Internet. If you had a social-media presence, you could be found. I had a Facebook account for more than ten years: same with Twitter. If Kwon had really wanted to find me, he could have done so years ago.
Su-ah was the one who reached out to Kwon when, by sheer chance, Brad recognized her. The message only reached me through Brad and not directly from Kwon, who could have asked for my contact details and called me, himself. And yet, the message did make its way to me and here I was, back in Chŏnju, though just as much to see my friends, Brad and Wilma, as to revisit my old stomping grounds.
If Su-ah got back to me, I’d handle it accordingly, but I was going to plan my time in Chŏnju as though I wasn’t going to hear from her, or Kwon, or even Mr. Lee.
P’ungnammun, the old city gate, rests on a traffic island around which traffic flows in a counter-clockwise direction, and is all that remains of a once fortified castle, Buseong, which was built near the end of the 1300s. Japanese invasions and fires took their toll on the walls and castle, but the south gate remained, though in much disrepair. It wasn’t until the late 1970s that this imposing structure was restored to its former glory, and today a fresh coat of paint, scrubbed stone, and new tiles brightened it even further. P’ungnammun looked even newer than when I had last laid eyes upon it, especially with the noon-hour sun fast approaching.
My mind went back to my early days in Chŏnju and the tour that I had taken with another English teacher who was even newer to the city than I was. That tour was provided by an old man who had been conducting guided visits since the restoration and had actually been living within the drafty second floor all those years. There was no way that he would still be around, today, I told myself, and on this Monday morning the gate looked as though no tours were being offered. The steps that flanked the inner doors, to the north side of the gate, were blocked by low wooden gates that seemed to say that you could easily pass over them to climb to the next level, but that they would really rather that you didn’t. My memory told me that in 1997 a low, orange-painted iron gate ran along the curb and around the island but there was no evidence of that gate today and may have never been there. Low shrubs that lined much of the edge of the circle did a better job of keeping tourists from crossing anywhere but a few designated points.
Shops of all sorts ran around the opposite sides of the traffic circle, and a large plaza, where once were more shops, occupied the northeast section of this neighbourhood. Did a fire remove the old shops or did the city’s plans for an open air space?
I walked around the circle before entering the square, where many Koreans of all ages either took time to view the various sculptures and statues or sat on benches to rest and soak in the warm spring sunshine. One somber memorial depicted two golden chairs: one, with a young girl; the other, vacant. The memorial remembered the children and young women who were taken by the invading Japanese and used as sex slaves. Comfort women, they were referred as, though these helpless girls, no doubt, took any comfort in this massive act of human trafficking. The stone, emotionless face on the girl in the statue sadly marked the horror of that dark time. I stood there for a few minutes with a heavy heart. Though I knew the pain of losing a child, I didn’t want to think about the horror a parent must have felt at such a loss as this. My daughter, Laura Elizabeth, who would have been twenty-five now, had she not been taken in a violent car crash that also claimed my wife, Kristen, and my dad, at least went in the blink of an eye. These poor children were taken a piece at a time, day in, day out, year after year.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and moved on, taking the narrow, one-way street that led south from P’ungnammun and headed into the Nambu Market. It was easy to imagine that at one time, this massive market district was made up of narrow pedestrian laneways where merchants laid out all sorts of merchandise and produce, and how, over time, coverings went up to protect the patrons from sun and rain. Today, the blocks of stores have permanent roofs that provide adequate shelter year-round. After walking half a block from the old gate, I turned right onto a narrow lane and entered the east gate of Nambu Market.
This was where I used to shop for furniture, cookware, and other essentials, including food staples. Immediately on my left, as I entered the sheltered corridor, I saw a traditional furniture store, with lacquer-covered tables, wardrobes, cabinets, and shelving units. To my right, a shop with electric floor, desktop, and ceiling fans. For several dozen metres, the corridor stretched and offered just about everything you would need to furnish a home or dress yourself. Down another long pathway, rice, beans, and other dry goods could be purchased. The shops that ran along the outside perimeter offered other produce and likely faced the outdoors because of the strong aromas that they produced. I passed several shops and recognized items that I had purchased for the various apartments that I had kept as a teacher. There were even some faces that seemed vaguely familiar, though more worn from the passing decades. The recognition did not appear requited.
I made a couple of laps of the market, passing myriad colours and sounds, and was almost surprised to see a western couple, the first non-Korean people that I had seen since arriving in Chŏnju. They passed with little more than a courtesy nod, as though I was just one of hundreds of foreigners who made Chŏnju their home.
Home: that was a word that I never used in the two years that I lived here. I never went “home” when I was leaving one place to return to where I lay my head at night. Home was where I used to live with Kristen and Laura. After they were gone, I barely lived, myself. It took the combined forces of my mother and my sister, Siobhan, to get me to start living again, and as soon as I was back on my own two feet, I was here, in Chŏnju. My dwellings while I worked for Kwon’s hagwon or Jeonju University were merely called ‘the apartment.’
“I’m heading back to the apartment,” I would say to Brad and Wilma, or Tanya before she lived with me, after an evening at Urban Bar, when I was ready to call it a night.
One weekend, in Seoul, Tanya and I were walking along the main street in the Itaewon neighbourhood, when a middle-aged man passed by and asked, “Where are you from?”
“Chŏnju,” was my quick reply, “Chollabuk-do.”
The confusion on his face was priceless. “No,” he clarified, “where are you really from?”
Before I could say, “I’ve just told you. Are you calling me a liar?” Tanya jumped in to end the joke.
“We’re from Canada.”
“It’s not where I’m really from but that’s good enough,” I said, but by then, the stranger was no longer interested in talking to me.
“Ah, Canada is beautiful,” he said.
“Oh, have you been there?” I asked.
Tanya gave me a stern look before turning to the stranger, smiling, and saying “Annyong-hee gyae-seyo,” while pulling me away, leaving the question unanswered, even though we knew the answer to that question, that declaring a home country as beautiful was just a polite thing that Koreans said.
“You’re so bad,” she laughed, giving me a playful punch in the arm as we continued down the street. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Anything you want,” was my loving response.
“Just wait ‘til I get you home.”
It may have been home to Tanya, but to me, even with her lying next to me at night, it was never more than the apartment.
I emerged from Nambu Market from the north gate, with the circle for P’ungnammun just a block to my right. I could smell countless dishes being cooked in countless restaurants, and my stomach indicated that it needed fuel.
Instead of walking back to the old fortress gate, I turned to the left until I found a narrow pedestrian corridor which led northward. The small shops that lined much of this thoroughfare were closed or out of business, and very few people passed me as I headed back toward the upscale shopping district, where I knew I would find larger restaurants that were more commonly frequented. Even when I lived in Chŏnju, I tried new restaurants by looking at photos of the food that were often posted on boards outside the doors or affixed to the windows, and I would judge the quality of that food by the number of patrons inside. I finally reached the area near what was now a department store called Zara but was the Core Department Store when I lived in Chŏnju, and found a wide assortment of places to eat. What caught my eye was a photo in a window with a dish that had grey noodles, shredded cucumber, thin strips of pork, and a hard-boiled egg on top, sitting in a clear broth, and I immediately recognized what it was, even before I read the name, in Hangul, below the picture: naengmyeon, an ice-cold favourite lunchtime meal. The crowded dining area told me that I could not go wrong here, and I ventured inside.
Because the restaurant was full, I was placed at a four-seating table where two young women were already enjoying what looked to be samgyetang, a ginseng chicken soup, and a version of bibimbap that is served in a stainless-steel bowl, rather than a hot, stone bowl. Both looked delicious and I was encouraged in my choice of venue.
The women seemed shy to have a westerner join them at their table. It was common to double up on seating arrangements during lunch rushes, as many people did not linger and looked to eat as quickly as possible before returning to work. The first time I met Kwon, he took the secretaries, another teacher, and me to lunch. He only spoke a little between bites and as soon as his meal was finished, he got up from our table, paid the bill, and walked out without so much as a goodbye. I looked at them, smiled, and said “Annyong haseyo,” which seemed to break some of the tension.
“Annyong,” they said, almost in harmonized unison.
The server came immediately and I ordered the naengmyeon in Korean. This drew utterances of surprise from my table companions, and as soon as the server left with my order, one of the young women asked, “Excuse me, but where are you from?”
“Scotland.”
“Why do you come to Chŏnju?”
“I lived here twenty years ago,” I said, subduing my accent. “I used to teach English at Jeonju Dae Hakkyo and at a hagwon. And your English is very good.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” she said, raising her hand to her mouth as she let out a little giggle. “When I was a little girl, I study English at hagwon. I also learn English at university.”
I studied the young woman’s face. She was in her mid to late twenties. When I taught at Kwon’s hagwon, I had some students as young as six or seven. I wondered where those kids were now? In the hagwon, the kids used western names: where was Janet? Mary? Laura? Kenny? Steven? Fred? If I was to pass them on the street, would I recognize them today? Would they recognize me? “Did you grow up in Chŏnju?” I asked her.
“Yes. I went Chŏnbuk University. I study business and economics.”
“And does your friend speak English?” I turned my head to face the woman who was seated next to me.
“I speak little English. English no good.” She was still shy.
“But I understand you, so it is good.”
“Ah, no, no.”
“Why you come back to Chŏnju?” the first woman asked.
“To find some old friends. I also have friends in Seoul, who I visited. I will see them again on Friday.”
My food arrived and the women returned to their meals. I focused on my own lunch and we didn’t speak again while we ate. The naengmyeon tasted just as I remembered it, with crunchy bits of onion floating in the frigid broth. This was the perfect meal for a hot day, and though it was only spring, the heat in Chŏnju at this time of year could rival a typical summer’s day in North Berwick.
The women finished their lunch and got up to leave. “Nice to meet you,” said the woman who had been sitting across from me.
“Likewise,” I said. To her friend, I said, “Chal-ga,” which loosely translated to go well and brought a smile to the woman’s face.
“Nae, annyonghee-kye seyo.”
Watching the women leave, I noticed that many tables were now vacant, the lunch rush hour over. I turned to my smartphone as I slurped my noodles and read messages from Fiona. It was a rainy day in East Lothian but tomorrow promised sunshine and warmer temperatures. And, by warmer, she meant a high of eighteen degrees Celsius. Already, at midday in Chŏnju, it was ten degrees warmer. I was tempted to call Fiona but I doubted that she would appreciate an early-morning awakening. I was beginning to regret leaving her at home but she showed little interest in travelling to Korea and she said that it should be my reunion with Brad and Wilma, in the country where our friendship had formed. She said she would stay home and, as she put it, “keep the home fire burning.”
Home. There was the word again. But when it came to North Berwick and the place on the corner of Abbey Road and Westgate, home was the only word that would ever best-describe it. My home in Canada, in the house in Ryan Farm, in Ottawa, was a fading memory. With Kristen and Laura Elizabeth gone, it was just a structure. They still lived in me, in my heart, but I needed to walk away from that house, to find a new home. And I turned to the only other home that still truly held my heart.
And with Fiona, who kept the home fire burning, it was a warm home filled with the love I needed.
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