At Least We Can Apologize Read online

  But, when it was just the two of them, they would say things like, “Man . . . When that old fart croaks the first thing I’m gonna do is put in a driving range.”

  “Didn’t you say last time you were going to put in a motel?”

  “Did I? Heh . . . anyway, next year all this is getting torn down and we’ll get it started.”

  To the right of the dormitory was a long building, half of which was the cafeteria and half of which was the workshop. Someone told us it was originally the building where the milk cows would sleep or just stand around, but they’d all been sold off long before we entered the institution. Even though all the cows were gone, the slate roofing they used to face, the cement floor with its cracks here and there, and the drainage system were all the same. Along one wall there was the same long, horizontal piping and a half-wall of perfectly lain brick. We would hang the socks to be packaged all the way down along the steel piping, or stack the boxes against it. Sometimes, when we had time, we would sit on top of the brick wall with our lunch trays and eat there. On days when we had too much soup left over, we would pour it down the drain. That was on account of the cafeteria woman not liking it when we left food uneaten. The first time we left food, she threw our lunch trays in our faces. She did the same to all of the residents. Whether old or young, whether having left a lot or a little, no exceptions, no discriminating.

  Behind the main building there was a low-lying hill. On the hill there were many pine and fir trees, thickets and weeds, as well as large boulders here and there. One snowy winter day, two rabbits came down from the hill, all the way to the backyard of the institution. The director general and the two male caretakers caught them with vegetables as bait and turned them into a soccer ball. From time to time they would kick the soccer ball around in the backyard, often sending it up the hill. Every time Si-bong and I saw that, we nodded our heads. Having come down from the hill, it was only a matter of course that they would want to go back up.

  Halfway up the hill there was a round, barbed-wire hedge that connected to the fence of the institution. Si-bong and I went all the way up to that barbed wire a total of two times. Each time was to bury a resident who had died. As there was no place on the grounds of the institution suitable to bury a person, we went all the way up there. Of course, each of those times we went with the caretakers, but the only ones digging into the earth with shovels were Si-bong and I. The earth was hard and there were lots of rocks, so the tips of our shovels clanked and clanked. Meanwhile, the caretakers rubbed their hands together, repeating with annoyance: “Man, I’m freezing to death out here.”

  5. Our Wrongs

  Every time the caretakers beat us they would ask us: “Do you know what you did wrong?”

  “I said: ‘Do you know what you did wrong?!’”

  For a while in the beginning I couldn’t answer. That was on account of not knowing what it was I’d done wrong. So, as the caretakers beat me they would yell, “We beat you like this every day because you don’t even know what you did wrong!” as they kicked me in the behind, or slapped me in the face.

  Si-bong, on the other hand, answered the caretakers’ question from the first day.

  “Yes, I know what I did wrong!”

  For a moment, the caretakers opened their clenched fists and looked at him with surprise. I looked at him as well, through the corner of my eye. Si-bong looked at the caretakers directly in the eye and spoke.

  “My wrong is that . . . Even if you hit me, there’s no knocking sense into me!”

  That day, Si-bong was beaten so hard that there was no way he could have made sense of anything. The caretakers even threw a trashcan at him, his face covered by both of his arms. Thanks to that, I was barely beaten at all. To this day, I still feel thankful to Si-bong for that. It was certainly something to be thankful for.

  Even Si-bong’s first words to me were all on account of wrongs. One dark evening, Si-bong lay in his bed and asked me.

  “Did we do something wrong?”

  Our beds were dressed with a thin layer of industrial plastic. On days when government workers would come from their offices, white sheets were spread out on top. As I touched the crinkling plastic, I thought about what it was I could have done wrong. It seemed as though I’d clearly done something wrong, but I couldn’t for the life of me think of what it was. So I continued to say nothing.

  Si-bong turned in his bed to face me and said, “I don’t like getting beaten.”

  The fluorescent light of the hallway shone slightly on his eye, which was swollen so badly he looked as though he were squinting.

  “Really, as much as they hit me, I can’t seem to come to my senses.”

  When he said that, I thought about how he was really going to get it the next day. So I continued to say nothing. That was on account of figuring that, in any case, I’d be thanking him again.

  The next day, Si-bong was only slapped a few times on the cheek and wasn’t beaten at all anywhere else. I was hit in the chest, on my thighs, in my ribs, and in the face. When the caretakers asked Si-bong once more what he had done wrong, he answered in a loud voice.

  “Actually . . . I—I cursed!”

  The shorter one put his plastic gloves on and looked Si-bong in the eyes. “Cursed? Cursed who?”

  “The caretakers, sir!”

  The two male caretakers looked at each other, and then asked Si-bong again. “What did you say when you cursed?”

  “Well . . . I said . . . um . . . ‘Motherfuckers!’”

  I stood there, looking straight ahead. At any moment I expected a scream to leap out of Si-bong’s mouth. First, though, I heard the male caretakers laugh.

  “Yeah, that’s right, you little shit. That’s exactly what you did wrong. Why would you go and do something like that, now, huh?”

  The taller one slapped Si-bong in the face three times as he spoke those words. The shorter one just kept on laughing.

  The taller one looked at me and asked, “What about you? Did you curse us?”

  Rather than answer, I shook my head. I hadn’t cursed them. That is an undoubted, perfect recollection. Just then, the shorter one’s fist came flying at me. As soon as I’d fallen over, the taller one stomped down on my ribs.

  “You’re even worse, you piece of shit!”

  The shorter one took a few steps back toward the wall, then charged forward again, kicking me hard in the behind. As it happened, Si-bong stood there at attention, looking down at me, not saying a word.

  After the caretakers had gone down to the first floor office, I asked Si-bong, “When did you curse them?”

  I was feeling my ribs with one hand and, each time I did so, the pain shot all the way to the other side of my body.

  “I didn’t,” he said, taking a step closer to me.

  “Then why did you say you did?”

  “I don’t know . . . it’s what I’m gonna do now.” Si-bong brushed the dirt off my pant leg, saying quietly, “Motherfuckers . . .”

  He looked back up at my face and gave a slight smile.

  “’Cause, you know, last night I was thinking about it, and I didn’t know if it was a wrong or not.”

  After he said that to me, he repeated the word.

  “Motherfuckers.”

  6. The Wrongs that Follow the Confessions

  From the next day on, we lived creating wrongs. As we didn’t know what it was that we had done wrong, we always started with the confessions. That was on account of our being beaten less for confessing than for not confessing. Si-bong admitted to cursing the caretakers again and was beaten repeatedly in the thighs with a steel pipe. The caretakers said that committing the same wrong again was an even greater wrong. So we had to come up with new wrongs every day. Some of them became “wrongs,” while others became “greater wrongs.” On days we committed wrongs, we were beaten less, on days we committed “greater wrongs,” we were beaten a lot, and on days we admitted to nothing, we were beaten repeatedly all day long.

&n
bsp; “Actually . . . I didn’t take all of my medicine! I threw it away!”

  This was a wrong. At this point, the shorter one stood up on his toes, yanked on our hair bit by bit, and took out more medicine from the pocket of his gown.

  “Actually . . . Behind your back I made like I was going to choke you, sir!”

  This was a “greater wrong.” The caretakers knocked us down, jumped on our chests, and repeatedly punched us. For a long while they said nothing, only panting heavily, sending their fists flying.

  “We were listening the whole time to the moaning sounds coming out of your room, sirs!”

  This was yet another wrong. The caretakers looked at each other and gave a chuckle, then ordered us to give it a try and make our own moaning noises. Si-bong and I stood there at attention and, staring up at the ceiling, made our own moaning noises for some time. The caretakers laughed as they listened to us. Then they slapped us lightly on the cheek a few times. Just as they were about to leave, Si-bong made a voice imitating those of the caretakers.

  “By any chance, are you wearing nothing but pantyhose now?”

  As soon as he said that, the caretakers took to our throats. That was on account of it having turned into a “greater wrong.”

  Once, after a full week of constantly thinking of new wrongs to confess, neither Si-bong nor I could come up with anything more and had nothing left to say. That day, all day long, the caretakers dragged us around, beating us with belts on our chests and on our shoulders, on our backs and on our sides. They said that it was because we had committed “an even greater, much greater wrong,” and that that must have been why we weren’t talking. They yelled at us to tell them what it was right away, but we truly couldn’t think of anything else. As the caretakers continued to whip us with belts, it became even more difficult to think of anything. And for that, the beating continued.

  After we confessed a wrong, we always made sure to commit it. That was on account of our feeling unsettled after having the confession in our heads all day long. So, on days we said we didn’t take our medicine, we really threw it away instead of taking it. On days we said we’d cursed the superintendent in the bathroom, we really cursed him. We made sure to commit exactly the wrongs we confessed, and only those wrongs. Only that way could we ease our minds and sleep soundly. Sometimes, on days when we forgot to commit the wrongs we’d confessed, we would get out of bed and pound on the door to wake the caretakers. Generally they would start off by kicking us as soon as they opened the door, still, Si-bong and I would endure it until we had fully committed our wrongs. Once Si-bong motioned as if to strangle one of the caretakers who had turned his back, and when the other caretaker saw this, he strangled Si-bong. Through choked gasps Si-bong pounded the floor with one hand. At that moment I watched Si-bong with envy. That night, he snored loudly in a deep, peaceful sleep.

  7. Medical History

  Si-bong and I continued walking. The frozen earth was starting to melt and the mud stuck to our shoes. Waves of warmth drifted up from a bundle of straw in the middle of a deserted field. Crows made small circles overhead as they came down to settle in the crown of a poplar by the road. Si-bong and I walked along with our hands shoved into the pockets of the work clothes given to us at the institution. We didn’t speak at all. The day’s sun was warm, but the wind was strong.

  The unpaved road led to an industrial highway of four lanes. As we walked, we stayed close to a sound barrier that shot up out of the ground like the blade of a giant saw. Passing semis sounded their air horns and, when they did so, Si-bong would stop, cover both ears with his hands, and stand there for a long while. Each time, I waited for him.

  Once we’d arrived at a bus stop, we sat down on the bench for a minute to catch our breath. Si-bong’s forehead was glistening with sweat.

  He asked me, “Are you gonna take the bus?”

  Staring at the other side of the road, I answered. “It’s too far to walk to your house.”

  “But . . . I probably can’t take the bus.”

  Only then did I look Si-bong directly in the eyes. The sweat continued to collect on his forehead. The collar of his shirt had become dark with moisture.

  “You can’t take the bus?”

  “Yeah, ’cause there’s no bathroom.”

  I didn’t quite understand what he meant.

  “A long time ago I was in a taxi and I had to go to the bathroom.” He was scratching his head as he spoke. “So the taxi pulled over and I squatted down right in the ditch by the side of the road to take care of my business, but when I got up, the taxi was gone.”

  “Wow . . . it just left you there and drove off?”

  “No. It ended up underneath a semi. It was a pitch black night.”

  I let out a long sigh. “Was there anyone else in the taxi?”

  “My father, my mom.” He let out a short laugh. “Ever since then, every time I get into a car I have to do a number two. That’s why my little sister used to hit me all the time . . . Never really got better.”

  When Si-bong first came to the institution in the director general’s van, his pants were heavily soiled. The director general kept cursing him, and the male caretakers snickered and said, “Sir, what are we gonna do with a guy this messed up?”

  That day, under the orders of the male caretakers, I spent a long time trying to clean Si-bong’s pants. The smell didn’t go away easily. Only now did I understand why that was.

  Si-bong and I started to walk again. We were headed toward the train station. Since trains have bathrooms, we could ride without worry. We’d been walking for a while without speaking when Si-bong asked me.

  “So . . . how did you end up in the institution?”

  I stopped and stood for a while, trying to recall the memory from long ago. It wouldn’t come to me. I told him what I could remember.

  “I . . . I walked in.”

  “You walked in? By yourself?”

  “No, my father walked me to the superintendent’s office.”

  My father had spoken with the superintendent for a long time. The whole time all I could do was stand outside the door. From inside I could hear my father’s voice in bits and pieces.

  “So he’s really not normal . . . He’s just not normal!”

  My father came out of the superintendent’s office and looked me in the eyes without saying anything. He gave me a stroke on the head and disappeared down the other end of the hall. I was left to the male caretakers right away. From that day on, I really had become someone who wasn’t normal, a resident of the institution who couldn’t remember his father’s face, his mother’s, his home, his age, nothing. I told Si-bong the whole story. All that I knew, all that I remembered, that was it.

  8. Meeting Si-yeon

  We arrived at Si-bong’s house just as it was getting dark. It was on the eighth floor of an apartment block. The building seemed quite old and the corridor was a mix of aged graffiti, faded advertisement decals, and cobwebs. In front of the elevator stood a rusty bike and a dining room chair with a broken leg, and there were broken flowerpots here and there.

  Before we’d even rung the doorbell someone opened the door and came out of Si-bong’s apartment. It was Si-bong’s younger sister. I knew that her name was Si-yeon because I had already heard it from Si-bong before.

  As she bent over to zip up her boots she yelled into the house.

  “What are you, some kind of moron?! Yeah, that’s right, you’re a goddamn moron!”

  Then a man’s raspy, cracked voice, thick with phlegm, could be heard coming out of the house.

  “I told you, yesterday was just bad luck! Today’s a sure thing!”

  Si-yeon took the handbag from her shoulder and threw it into the house. “Get out! Get out, you son of a bitch! Just go to that fucking racetrack or whatever and live there, why don’t you!”

  We were only a few steps away from Si-yeon, but she didn’t see us. So we just waited there quietly.

  “I said, just 30,000 won! I t
old you no question I can turn it into 300,000!”

  “Open up my bag yourself, you son of a bitch! There isn’t even 3,000 in there!”

  “How ’bout you just sell some of your clothes or something? Just last time at the cleaner’s the owner seemed to like them!”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  As she said those words, Si-yeon sank to the floor. For a moment she buried her face in her knees. She stood back up and that’s when her eyes met ours. Si-bong gave her a bright smile, and raised one hand in greeting. I greeted her politely with a bow. Si-yeon seemed glued in place as she looked at Si-bong.

  “If that’s too much, what about getting another credit card? You could get a cash advance . . .”

  The man’s voice could still be heard, coming from inside, but Si-yeon didn’t answer. She kept her eyes glued to Si-bong. Because of that, I was able to get a better look at her face. From her thick head of permed hair to her leather skirt, small lips, the birthmark the size of a baby’s fingernail under her left eye, her slender arms . . . she seemed to have nothing in common with Si-bong.

  “What is this?” Si-yeon’s tone was different than before, softer.

  “Yeah, I was in an institution for a while, but they closed down there, too.” Si-bong kept the smile on his face as he answered her. Si-yeon took her gaze away from Si-bong and looked at me.

  “Ah, this is my friend, Jin-man. He doesn’t know where his house is, so he came along with me.”

  I bowed again in greeting. A nice smell came from her. It was a smell that I’d never smelled once before in the institution. It made me feel good.

  “Why aren’t you answering? If we just do this right and get a new credit card we can make so much!”

  Suddenly a strange man stuck his face out the door. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and had a moustache. He looked back and forth between her and us. Si-yeon kept her gaze on her brother.