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Fiction

The Suit

By Young-ha Kim
Translated from Korean by Sora Kim-Russell
This short story by Young-ha Kim explores themes of identity, father-son relationships, and being Asian in America.

My friend F’s call came in the middle of December, when the snow would not stop coming down and Manhattan was all but paralyzed. He said he had to get to New York right away but couldn’t find a hotel room since it was Christmas, and he asked if he could stay with us for a few days. My wife and I were living in a one-bedroom apartment so all we had to offer was a loveseat in the living room, but we told him he could come if he was OK with that.

I wouldn’t say that F and I were close. He wrote poetry and worked as an editor at a publishing house. He was known in the literary world as a poet and even more well-known as a talented editor in the publishing world, but he and I had little in common. Most people who work in publishing stick to domestic literature, but he was unusual in that he specialized in translations of American genre fiction. If I had to find one thing I held in common with him, it was the fact that he worked at the same publishing house as my wife before we got married. But she said she had no memory of ever actually talking to him. She said he used to come to work, build a wall of books on his desk to seclude himself from the world, pore over manuscripts all day, and then leave. For someone like him to ask if he could stay with us, his reason for coming had to be pretty important.

He showed up in a cab at our place in Brooklyn. He said he’d been to New York a few times on business, to inquire about rights for novels, but it was his first time in our borough. His bag was small enough that he’d been able to carry it on. He kept bowing and apologizing for putting us out. During the brief time it took for him to get out of the cab and enter the building, the snow had piled up on his shoulders. He carefully brushed it off, scraped his shoes clean on the doormat, and tried to wipe away the snow that had already melted into his coat. We had dinner together. When we asked him what had brought him to New York in such a hurry, he hesitated, stopping and starting several times, before finally telling us the whole story.

“My father passed away. Or at least, that’s what I was told.”

“Your father lived in New York?” I asked.

Several days earlier, he explained, he’d been contacted by a private investigator in New York. Since he edits mystery novels and crime fiction for a living, it wasn’t difficult for him to understand the English in the detective’s email. At first he thought someone was playing a mean joke on him.

“Isn’t that just like something out of a Paul Auster novel?”

“And in New York, no less.”

“No kidding.”

According to the email, his father had passed away recently in Queens, and his dying wish was to have his ashes scattered in Korea and for his son, since he probably had a son somewhere, to carry out that wish. The private investigator said he was hired by a woman who’d been living with his father. The email included his mother’s name (and even the Korean spelling), and his birth date was more or less accurate. His father remembered him as being born on February 7, 1980.

“I always thought my birthday was March 10. That’s what it says in our family register. But he might remember it more accurately. Or it could be the lunar date.”

His mother had died when F was fifteen. He’d gone back and forth between his aunts’ houses until he started college; after that, he was on his own. When his mother was dying, she’d called him to her side and told him all about his father. He was two years younger than her and had studied art, just like her. They’d dated in college and lived together for a while, but right after he was born, his father left.

“It was 1980, you know,” he said, and smiled bitterly. “So I asked if he’d disappeared in the Seoul Spring, during all those demonstrations, or in the Gwangju Massacre.”

But his mother hadn’t even remembered that there was such political turmoil in 1980.

“That man didn’t care about any of that,” she’d told him. “He was always a little strange, living in his own world. He was soft-hearted, so he always had women wrapped around him. I found out later that he was seeing several other women when he was with me. I was the only one who didn’t know.”

His mother had raised him on her own while teaching art lessons to neighborhood kids in the living room of their small, low-income apartment. There were men he called “uncle” who’d come over and spend the night, but he never gained any siblings. When F started talking about the men in his mother’s life, my wife suddenly got up and made a big fuss about peeling fruit and putting out cookies, as if she felt uncomfortable to hear it, but F was indifferent, like he was talking about someone else. Some people are like that: reserved and introverted at first, but spilling all of their dirty secrets, and in a blunt, cool-headed kind of way, the moment they open their mouths. I’d heard once that whistleblowers tend to be like that. That they’re not talkers by nature and usually keep to themselves.

Rumors that his father had been spotted in the US reached him and his mother through multiple sources. But back in the ’80s, it was difficult to even get a passport, let alone leave the country. In the ’90s, his mom began her battle with cancer, and five years after she’d been diagnosed, she died.

“I’ve read the words ‘private investigator’ a million times while editing crime novels, but who’d have thought I’d be contacted by one myself?”

“What did he say your father did in the US?”

“Rumor has it he was an artist, a painter. But his education was in thievery.”

Each time he talked about his father, his face contorted. I could tell he was bitter.

“Do you think you’d be a different person today if your father hadn’t left you?”

My wife poked me in the side.

“I wouldn’t have written poetry,” he said.

“No?”

“I would have been a painter instead. Since my mom was always teaching other kids how to draw and paint, I also naturally starting drawing from a young age. But each time I tried, she would smack the back of my hands with a wooden ruler and tell me, ‘Go study! Go read!’ She told me that men who touch art turn into assholes. So even though I liked art better, I got into poetry. Like a left-handed person forcing himself to write with his right hand. That’s why my poetry is so terrible.”

It didn’t occur to me to lie and tell him his poetry was fine. As a matter of fact, I didn’t like F’s poetry very much. Writers would sooner say nothing about another writer’s work than lie about it. My wife comforted F instead.

“Don’t say that! A lot of people love your poetry.”

He was unswayed by what she said. I liked that about him. I thought to myself that I should take another look at his work. Maybe there was something to it that I hadn’t uncovered yet.

The next morning, F woke up early and made a big fuss about getting ready. Actually, for all I knew, he might not have slept at all. My wife set the table with bagels and coffee, but he barely ate. He was wearing an all-black suit.

“I figured I should wear something like this,” he said in explanation.

The funeral had already taken place, and most likely all he had to do was take care of some paperwork, but there was no harm in wearing black anyway. It was one of those cheap, off-the-rack suits that you buy when they’re on sale at the department store and only take out when you have a wake or a funeral to go to. Suits like that look OK when you first buy them, but they lose their shape after they’ve been to the dry cleaners a few times. That’s because the parts that should be finished with stitching are glued instead. From behind, it looks sloppy and shapeless, more like an old Korean overcoat than a Western suit jacket. Even his black shoes were scuffed white at the tips. That said, it was a look suited to a poet and editor. Somehow I wouldn’t trust a well-dressed editor. As for poets, that goes without saying.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Thanks, but that’s OK. What would she think if two Asian guys in black suits came banging on her door?”

He laughed for the first time since arriving. Was it Vonnegut who’d said that laughter was a way of coping with the fear of death?

“I’ll be fine going alone. It’s not like I’m bringing his coffin back with me.”

He wanted to deal with it on his own. Find out for himself what his womanizing father had done with his life after leaving him. See what kind of woman he’d lived with, and in what kind of home.

“All right. We’ll see you later, then. If you need any help, just call.”

“My dad’s the one who needed help. Not me.”

We thought he’d be back sometime in the late afternoon, but the whole day went by with no word. My wife prepared a Korean meal, and we waited at the dinner table for him. I got angry at first when he didn’t show, but later I started to worry.

“Don’t you think the private investigator’s email sounded a little suspicious?” my wife asked.

“What if it’s a new form of phishing?”

“Who would bother to lure in and kidnap a poor poet? What would they gain from that?”

“Do you have his phone number?”

“He didn’t leave one. I only know his email address.”

He didn’t return until the next morning. He showed up at our door suddenly, not a word of apology, a lavender-colored jar in his hand. It was clearly an urn for his father’s ashes. My wife reached for it in spite of herself and took the urn. He collapsed on the sofa in exhaustion.

“Can we get you anything?”

“I don’t suppose you have any hard liquor?”

He drank a double scotch. There was something different about him. He wasn’t the same person who’d left our place the morning before. I couldn’t say exactly what it was, but something had definitely changed. I thought maybe he’d gotten a shock of some kind, but there was more to it. He was acting like a soldier who’d walked into an ambush and had to fight for his life until backup arrived and he was finally able to catch his breath. There was no trace of the man who just the day before had sought to conquer his fear of death through bad jokes. He downed two double scotches in a row and then suddenly started talking frantically.

It was his first time in Flushing. All he knew about it was that a lot of East Asian immigrants lived there. He’d stayed in Manhattan on each of his business trips. Never dreaming that his father was so close by. F had transferred subway lines until he reached Flushing. When he came out of the station, he was momentarily bewildered. Was this China? Sidewalk eaten up by signboards and stands, hordes of Chinese people walking by and talking loudly, touts shoving fliers at pedestrians, the smell of vegetables stir-fried in hot pepper oil. A red fire truck passing by with its siren wailing told him he was still in New York.

He headed for Northern Boulevard. In front of a Chinese-owned jewelry shop, he paused. A sign in Korean, “We are buying gold,” had caught his eye. The shop had identical signs written in English, Chinese, and Spanish to advertise the fact that they purchase gold. What did they do? Run the sentence through Google Translate? On the subway, as well, he’d seen signs written in awkward Korean posted by the New York City Transit Authority. “Get on safe, even if busy.” There were worse ones. “Train surfing will get you hurt all over and then dead.” He felt the urge to take out his red pen and edit them. He wanted to forget about the complicated issue of his dead father’s ashes and sit at his desk and fix bad sentences instead.

But before he knew it, he’d arrived at the address sent to him by the private investigator. Since he’d followed the Google Maps app on his iPhone, he’d made no wrong turns. It felt strange to think that a manmade satellite in outer space had guided him to his dead father. Didn’t Yuri Gagarin say, “I see no God up here,” after going to space? There’s no God, but there is Father. He’s watching me through the eyes of a satellite.

He rang the bell. A woman came to the door. She was a dark-skinned black woman with skin like ebony, and was much younger than he’d expected. She was tall and slim. Naturally, he assumed he was at the wrong address. But then she spoke.

“You must be Peter’s son from Korea. Right? Come on in.”

It was dark inside. He sat on the sofa in the living room. His eyes slowly adjusted. There was a faint smell in the air, like a cheap scented candle that had been left burning. It was a modest home. Shoddy Christmas decorations hung on the wall, and a meter-high Christmas tree sat in the corner. The woman offered him wine. Her name was Alex White. She told him she’d immigrated to the US from Jamaica when she was very young.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” he said. “What was your relationship to my father?”

“He was my partner.”

The word partner didn’t mean much to F. When Alex saw that he didn’t know how to respond to that, she brought out a shoebox. It was filled with photos of her and his father. There was even one of the two of them lying next to each other in bed, and a Polaroid of them sipping cocktails next to a pool at a resort. The man named Peter in the photos looked healthy. His chest looked more muscular than F’s, and that confidence that you only sense from men who’ve been loved by women their whole lives was beaming straight into the camera. His round, cleanly shaved head gleamed. He reminded F of a lion lazily licking its paws on the plains of the Serengeti. The leisure, the hidden aggression, the brave cunning.

“Peter was a wonderful man,” Alex said dreamily.

“How long were you together?”

Alex thought about it for a moment.

“About two years?”

“Only two years?”

“What? Two years is a long time.”

“How did he die?”

“He had cancer.”

“What type of cancer was it?”

It was important for F to know. Recently, his doctors had begun asking about his family medical history. His mother had had breast cancer. So it wasn’t a good sign that his father also had cancer. If his father was indeed twenty-four when his mother got pregnant with him, as she’d told him he was, then he’d died before his sixtieth birthday.

“Pancreatic. He lived for only two months after the diagnosis.”

Alex brought out his ashes.

“There’s nothing else for you to take. Peter was a great guy, but he wasn’t wealthy. From what I heard, he lived off of women his whole life. He had a lot of female admirers.”

“Can I ask you one more thing?”

Alex nodded.

“You’re young and beautiful. Why did you live with someone as old as my father? What I mean is, what exactly did you find appealing about him? You say he had no money.”

“Thank you for the compliment. But I have to correct you on a couple of things. First, I’m neither young nor beautiful. Now, now, don’t get me wrong. Back when my ex-husband and I were married, I was a looker. This house was originally my ex-husband’s. When I first set foot in this country, I was just a little black girl with nothing but the clothes on my back. But I’m not young anymore. And second, Peter didn’t look that old. Of course, I have a hard time telling how old Asians are. But Peter was a powerful man. I never imagined that he would have a son like you.”

“I see. I understand what you’re saying. But what I mean is, what was it about him that attracted you to him?”

“Hmm. Peter was . . .,” Alex thought hard for a moment. “Noble.”

“Noble?”

“Maybe it was his bloodline, but he was dignified. He told me your family is descended from royalty?”

His father was indeed a Yi, but he’d never heard anything about being from one of the royal families. F had taken his mother’s last name, which was Kim. Alex said that when they first met, his father had told her he was descended from Korea’s last royal family of the Joseon Dynasty and that that was why he had no choice but to live in exile. She said that he’d immigrated to the US to escape the oppression of the dictatorial military government that hated royals.

“He used to say Koreans couldn’t live without a king. That a country that had been ruled by kings for over two thousand years would eventually go back to being a monarchy.”

“What kind of work did my father do? I heard he was an artist.”

“An artist? Something like that.”

Alex smiled slyly.

“Something like that?”

“He did makeup for dead people. Do they have that in Korea?”

“We do, but it’s a little different. You leave the casket open here for mourners, but we don’t do that in Korea.”

“He was very good. The pay wasn’t bad, either. Of course, he spent it as fast as he made it.”

“Did he drink, or gamble?”

“No, he invested in beauty.”

Beauty.

“He didn’t paint?”

“Not that I ever saw.”

Alex held out the urn. As she did so, she asked him to pay her back for the funeral expenses and the private investigator’s fees. Her tone made it clear that she would only give him the urn if he gave her the money.

“My father left nothing behind?”

“Nope.”

She was blunt. Her voice had changed completely from when she’d shared her memories with him a moment ago.

“Don’t bother looking around like that. I told you this place belongs to me. Peter was living with some other woman in the Bronx and didn’t bring much with him when he moved in.”

He finally realized why Alex had hired an investigator and invited him to the US. She’d paid for his father’s funeral and wanted to be compensated for the costs. F took out his wallet. He didn’t have enough cash. Alex told him there was an ATM at a gas station not far from her house. F went to get money. When he handed her a bundle of cash, her face brightened.

“Oh, wait. His clothes. You should take those with you.”

Alex took F upstairs. She opened the closet to reveal a row of suits.

“I don’t need these,” F said.

“So it’s OK if I donate all of them to the Salvation Army?”

“Hold on.”

F ran his hand over the clothes hanging there. They felt good under his fingertips. They were soft and fine and sturdy. The fact that the fabric had touched his father’s skin appealed to him.

“I can’t take all of them. Only a few. They’re keepsakes, after all.”

“OK. It’s all the same to me either way. Oh, and his underwear is in the bottom drawer.”

While they were talking, the doorbell rang downstairs. Alex went down to get the door and soon came running back up.

“You’d better come down.”

A young Asian man was sitting in the same spot on the sofa where F had been sitting a moment ago. He was wearing a black suit and even had a similar build, which made F feel like he’d floated up out of his body and was looking down at himself. The other man obviously got a weird feeling too when he saw F coming down the stairs. He sprang up from the couch the moment he saw him. Alex stood between them with her arms out like a football referee trying to stop a fight.

“He says the detective contacted him too,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

Alex called the private investigator and spoke to him. When she hung up, she looked disconcerted.

“It seems the detective passed the case on to his partner in Korea. They did the search in Korea and sent the official email from their main office. The Korean detective did send them several leads, but they didn’t expect more than one person to show up.”

“There are no private detectives in Korea,” F said sullenly.

The other man, who was standing there awkwardly, said, “It was probably one of those ‘errand services.’ Don’t they also tail people and do background checks? Illegally, of course.”

F shook hands with him. He said his name was J. J had received the exact same email. Both of their mothers were named Kim Hee-gyung. It was a common name. They were both born in Seoul in 1980 to women named Kim Hee-gyung who had studied art. Even stranger, both of their mothers had passed away. Either the man named Peter had dated two art students named Kim Hee-gyung at the same time and had sons by both of them in the same year, or one of them was not related.

“The detective said they couldn’t take responsibility for this mishap. The evidence they were going on was attached to the bottom of the emails they sent. He also said the email doesn’t guarantee that you’re genetically related to Peter, and that obtaining confirmation is entirely your responsibility.”

J seemed to have trouble understanding Alex. So F interpreted. J thanked him. F gave him his business card.

“I work in publishing.”

J took out his business card. He was a salesperson for a company that imported medical equipment. J asked what he thought about getting a DNA test right away.

“I’ve heard it can take weeks at the earliest to get results in the US,” Alex said.

They both had to get back home for work soon. There were no Christmas vacations in Korea. Nor would it be easy to come back to get the DNA results. The inconclusive conversation continued over the dinner table. Alex opened a California merlot. They had Bohemian steaks for their main course. These roasted potatoes are delicious, J said.

“Sitting at the table with two people who look like each other makes me feel like we’re some kind of family,” Alex said.

“Americans have a hard time telling Asians apart,” J said, glancing at F. “They think we all look alike.”

“What do you do with the ashes of a father you never lived with?” F asked J.

“Good question. It just seemed like I should come get them.”

“In that case, should I take them back with me for now?”

“Absolutely not.”

J reacted strongly.

“Why not?”

“I had to take off of work and sit on a plane for hours to come all the way here, too. I can’t go back empty-handed . . .”

After they’d gone around in circles several times, Alex offered a suggestion.

“This might sound like a stupid idea but . . . what if the two of you try on one of Peter’s suits? They must be at least ten years old by now, maybe older. It’s possible he had them made when he was around your age, so you could both try one on and whoever it fits better can take his ashes first. Then, after you get back to Korea, you can get a DNA test.”

Since there was no other solution, they went along with Alex’s arbitration. She went upstairs to get a suit. Based on the lining, it was a high-end Italian-made suit. It had long gone out of style, but even at first glance, you could tell it was nice.

“Seems that’s the thing to take, and not the ashes,” F said bitterly as he tossed back a shot of scotch.

J went into the other room and tried on the suit first. Alex looked him over with a keen eye and asked F, What do you think? Little short in the arms?

“It looks too small,” F said.

“But it’s not a bad fit,” J protested. F tried the suit on next.

“The moment I slipped the jacket on, I knew. Even the waist size on the pants was just right. When I stepped out of the room, it was game over. They were both speechless. They knew there was no contest. And especially, the look in Alex’s eyes . . . She looked like she was seeing her dead lover come back to life. To think that he got that kind of look from women his whole life, that Peter . . . I was so jealous.”

F jumped up from the sofa as if to reenact the moment. Then he did a little spin, like a fashion model, in front of my wife and me. We hadn’t realized until he stood up that his clothes had changed. We just thought there was something a little different about him. We took a close look at the suit. The shade was similar to the suit he’d left in that morning, but it was closer to navy. The jacket was wrapped tightly around F’s upper body like a suit of armor. The design looked like it was straight out of Scorsese’s Goodfellas. It hugged his body perfectly but without looking uncomfortable. He looked like he could get into a fight with the person standing next to him without ripping a single seam.

“We each plucked a couple of hairs. We gave one to Alex and one to each other. We also split the ashes. J jumped up and left as soon as he had everything.” F continued. “He plans to get a DNA test as soon as he’s back in Seoul. I guess he’ll do what he has to do. I took Peter’s toothbrush too, just in case. From what I’ve seen on American TV, you can get DNA even off of a toothbrush.”

“What’ll you do if he’s not your father?”

“I’ll send it all to him. Why would I need someone else’s father’s remains?”

“And the suit?”

F was tight-lipped and wouldn’t answer my question. We all fall in love with certain clothes. And sometimes that love can be very strong. My wife also asked him something she’d been holding back.

“By the way, where did you sleep last night?”

This time as well, F did not answer. The frightening thought hit me that this poet who spent his days editing crime novels behind a secluded desk in a publishing house might not be who we thought he was, and I too kept quiet. After he packed and left for JFK, my wife cleaned the apartment from top to bottom like she never had before. As if to erase every last trace of him.


슈트
© Kim Young-ha. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Sora Kim-Russell. All rights reserved.

English Korean (Original)

My friend F’s call came in the middle of December, when the snow would not stop coming down and Manhattan was all but paralyzed. He said he had to get to New York right away but couldn’t find a hotel room since it was Christmas, and he asked if he could stay with us for a few days. My wife and I were living in a one-bedroom apartment so all we had to offer was a loveseat in the living room, but we told him he could come if he was OK with that.

I wouldn’t say that F and I were close. He wrote poetry and worked as an editor at a publishing house. He was known in the literary world as a poet and even more well-known as a talented editor in the publishing world, but he and I had little in common. Most people who work in publishing stick to domestic literature, but he was unusual in that he specialized in translations of American genre fiction. If I had to find one thing I held in common with him, it was the fact that he worked at the same publishing house as my wife before we got married. But she said she had no memory of ever actually talking to him. She said he used to come to work, build a wall of books on his desk to seclude himself from the world, pore over manuscripts all day, and then leave. For someone like him to ask if he could stay with us, his reason for coming had to be pretty important.

He showed up in a cab at our place in Brooklyn. He said he’d been to New York a few times on business, to inquire about rights for novels, but it was his first time in our borough. His bag was small enough that he’d been able to carry it on. He kept bowing and apologizing for putting us out. During the brief time it took for him to get out of the cab and enter the building, the snow had piled up on his shoulders. He carefully brushed it off, scraped his shoes clean on the doormat, and tried to wipe away the snow that had already melted into his coat. We had dinner together. When we asked him what had brought him to New York in such a hurry, he hesitated, stopping and starting several times, before finally telling us the whole story.

“My father passed away. Or at least, that’s what I was told.”

“Your father lived in New York?” I asked.

Several days earlier, he explained, he’d been contacted by a private investigator in New York. Since he edits mystery novels and crime fiction for a living, it wasn’t difficult for him to understand the English in the detective’s email. At first he thought someone was playing a mean joke on him.

“Isn’t that just like something out of a Paul Auster novel?”

“And in New York, no less.”

“No kidding.”

According to the email, his father had passed away recently in Queens, and his dying wish was to have his ashes scattered in Korea and for his son, since he probably had a son somewhere, to carry out that wish. The private investigator said he was hired by a woman who’d been living with his father. The email included his mother’s name (and even the Korean spelling), and his birth date was more or less accurate. His father remembered him as being born on February 7, 1980.

“I always thought my birthday was March 10. That’s what it says in our family register. But he might remember it more accurately. Or it could be the lunar date.”

His mother had died when F was fifteen. He’d gone back and forth between his aunts’ houses until he started college; after that, he was on his own. When his mother was dying, she’d called him to her side and told him all about his father. He was two years younger than her and had studied art, just like her. They’d dated in college and lived together for a while, but right after he was born, his father left.

“It was 1980, you know,” he said, and smiled bitterly. “So I asked if he’d disappeared in the Seoul Spring, during all those demonstrations, or in the Gwangju Massacre.”

But his mother hadn’t even remembered that there was such political turmoil in 1980.

“That man didn’t care about any of that,” she’d told him. “He was always a little strange, living in his own world. He was soft-hearted, so he always had women wrapped around him. I found out later that he was seeing several other women when he was with me. I was the only one who didn’t know.”

His mother had raised him on her own while teaching art lessons to neighborhood kids in the living room of their small, low-income apartment. There were men he called “uncle” who’d come over and spend the night, but he never gained any siblings. When F started talking about the men in his mother’s life, my wife suddenly got up and made a big fuss about peeling fruit and putting out cookies, as if she felt uncomfortable to hear it, but F was indifferent, like he was talking about someone else. Some people are like that: reserved and introverted at first, but spilling all of their dirty secrets, and in a blunt, cool-headed kind of way, the moment they open their mouths. I’d heard once that whistleblowers tend to be like that. That they’re not talkers by nature and usually keep to themselves.

Rumors that his father had been spotted in the US reached him and his mother through multiple sources. But back in the ’80s, it was difficult to even get a passport, let alone leave the country. In the ’90s, his mom began her battle with cancer, and five years after she’d been diagnosed, she died.

“I’ve read the words ‘private investigator’ a million times while editing crime novels, but who’d have thought I’d be contacted by one myself?”

“What did he say your father did in the US?”

“Rumor has it he was an artist, a painter. But his education was in thievery.”

Each time he talked about his father, his face contorted. I could tell he was bitter.

“Do you think you’d be a different person today if your father hadn’t left you?”

My wife poked me in the side.

“I wouldn’t have written poetry,” he said.

“No?”

“I would have been a painter instead. Since my mom was always teaching other kids how to draw and paint, I also naturally starting drawing from a young age. But each time I tried, she would smack the back of my hands with a wooden ruler and tell me, ‘Go study! Go read!’ She told me that men who touch art turn into assholes. So even though I liked art better, I got into poetry. Like a left-handed person forcing himself to write with his right hand. That’s why my poetry is so terrible.”

It didn’t occur to me to lie and tell him his poetry was fine. As a matter of fact, I didn’t like F’s poetry very much. Writers would sooner say nothing about another writer’s work than lie about it. My wife comforted F instead.

“Don’t say that! A lot of people love your poetry.”

He was unswayed by what she said. I liked that about him. I thought to myself that I should take another look at his work. Maybe there was something to it that I hadn’t uncovered yet.

The next morning, F woke up early and made a big fuss about getting ready. Actually, for all I knew, he might not have slept at all. My wife set the table with bagels and coffee, but he barely ate. He was wearing an all-black suit.

“I figured I should wear something like this,” he said in explanation.

The funeral had already taken place, and most likely all he had to do was take care of some paperwork, but there was no harm in wearing black anyway. It was one of those cheap, off-the-rack suits that you buy when they’re on sale at the department store and only take out when you have a wake or a funeral to go to. Suits like that look OK when you first buy them, but they lose their shape after they’ve been to the dry cleaners a few times. That’s because the parts that should be finished with stitching are glued instead. From behind, it looks sloppy and shapeless, more like an old Korean overcoat than a Western suit jacket. Even his black shoes were scuffed white at the tips. That said, it was a look suited to a poet and editor. Somehow I wouldn’t trust a well-dressed editor. As for poets, that goes without saying.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Thanks, but that’s OK. What would she think if two Asian guys in black suits came banging on her door?”

He laughed for the first time since arriving. Was it Vonnegut who’d said that laughter was a way of coping with the fear of death?

“I’ll be fine going alone. It’s not like I’m bringing his coffin back with me.”

He wanted to deal with it on his own. Find out for himself what his womanizing father had done with his life after leaving him. See what kind of woman he’d lived with, and in what kind of home.

“All right. We’ll see you later, then. If you need any help, just call.”

“My dad’s the one who needed help. Not me.”

We thought he’d be back sometime in the late afternoon, but the whole day went by with no word. My wife prepared a Korean meal, and we waited at the dinner table for him. I got angry at first when he didn’t show, but later I started to worry.

“Don’t you think the private investigator’s email sounded a little suspicious?” my wife asked.

“What if it’s a new form of phishing?”

“Who would bother to lure in and kidnap a poor poet? What would they gain from that?”

“Do you have his phone number?”

“He didn’t leave one. I only know his email address.”

He didn’t return until the next morning. He showed up at our door suddenly, not a word of apology, a lavender-colored jar in his hand. It was clearly an urn for his father’s ashes. My wife reached for it in spite of herself and took the urn. He collapsed on the sofa in exhaustion.

“Can we get you anything?”

“I don’t suppose you have any hard liquor?”

He drank a double scotch. There was something different about him. He wasn’t the same person who’d left our place the morning before. I couldn’t say exactly what it was, but something had definitely changed. I thought maybe he’d gotten a shock of some kind, but there was more to it. He was acting like a soldier who’d walked into an ambush and had to fight for his life until backup arrived and he was finally able to catch his breath. There was no trace of the man who just the day before had sought to conquer his fear of death through bad jokes. He downed two double scotches in a row and then suddenly started talking frantically.

It was his first time in Flushing. All he knew about it was that a lot of East Asian immigrants lived there. He’d stayed in Manhattan on each of his business trips. Never dreaming that his father was so close by. F had transferred subway lines until he reached Flushing. When he came out of the station, he was momentarily bewildered. Was this China? Sidewalk eaten up by signboards and stands, hordes of Chinese people walking by and talking loudly, touts shoving fliers at pedestrians, the smell of vegetables stir-fried in hot pepper oil. A red fire truck passing by with its siren wailing told him he was still in New York.

He headed for Northern Boulevard. In front of a Chinese-owned jewelry shop, he paused. A sign in Korean, “We are buying gold,” had caught his eye. The shop had identical signs written in English, Chinese, and Spanish to advertise the fact that they purchase gold. What did they do? Run the sentence through Google Translate? On the subway, as well, he’d seen signs written in awkward Korean posted by the New York City Transit Authority. “Get on safe, even if busy.” There were worse ones. “Train surfing will get you hurt all over and then dead.” He felt the urge to take out his red pen and edit them. He wanted to forget about the complicated issue of his dead father’s ashes and sit at his desk and fix bad sentences instead.

But before he knew it, he’d arrived at the address sent to him by the private investigator. Since he’d followed the Google Maps app on his iPhone, he’d made no wrong turns. It felt strange to think that a manmade satellite in outer space had guided him to his dead father. Didn’t Yuri Gagarin say, “I see no God up here,” after going to space? There’s no God, but there is Father. He’s watching me through the eyes of a satellite.

He rang the bell. A woman came to the door. She was a dark-skinned black woman with skin like ebony, and was much younger than he’d expected. She was tall and slim. Naturally, he assumed he was at the wrong address. But then she spoke.

“You must be Peter’s son from Korea. Right? Come on in.”

It was dark inside. He sat on the sofa in the living room. His eyes slowly adjusted. There was a faint smell in the air, like a cheap scented candle that had been left burning. It was a modest home. Shoddy Christmas decorations hung on the wall, and a meter-high Christmas tree sat in the corner. The woman offered him wine. Her name was Alex White. She told him she’d immigrated to the US from Jamaica when she was very young.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” he said. “What was your relationship to my father?”

“He was my partner.”

The word partner didn’t mean much to F. When Alex saw that he didn’t know how to respond to that, she brought out a shoebox. It was filled with photos of her and his father. There was even one of the two of them lying next to each other in bed, and a Polaroid of them sipping cocktails next to a pool at a resort. The man named Peter in the photos looked healthy. His chest looked more muscular than F’s, and that confidence that you only sense from men who’ve been loved by women their whole lives was beaming straight into the camera. His round, cleanly shaved head gleamed. He reminded F of a lion lazily licking its paws on the plains of the Serengeti. The leisure, the hidden aggression, the brave cunning.

“Peter was a wonderful man,” Alex said dreamily.

“How long were you together?”

Alex thought about it for a moment.

“About two years?”

“Only two years?”

“What? Two years is a long time.”

“How did he die?”

“He had cancer.”

“What type of cancer was it?”

It was important for F to know. Recently, his doctors had begun asking about his family medical history. His mother had had breast cancer. So it wasn’t a good sign that his father also had cancer. If his father was indeed twenty-four when his mother got pregnant with him, as she’d told him he was, then he’d died before his sixtieth birthday.

“Pancreatic. He lived for only two months after the diagnosis.”

Alex brought out his ashes.

“There’s nothing else for you to take. Peter was a great guy, but he wasn’t wealthy. From what I heard, he lived off of women his whole life. He had a lot of female admirers.”

“Can I ask you one more thing?”

Alex nodded.

“You’re young and beautiful. Why did you live with someone as old as my father? What I mean is, what exactly did you find appealing about him? You say he had no money.”

“Thank you for the compliment. But I have to correct you on a couple of things. First, I’m neither young nor beautiful. Now, now, don’t get me wrong. Back when my ex-husband and I were married, I was a looker. This house was originally my ex-husband’s. When I first set foot in this country, I was just a little black girl with nothing but the clothes on my back. But I’m not young anymore. And second, Peter didn’t look that old. Of course, I have a hard time telling how old Asians are. But Peter was a powerful man. I never imagined that he would have a son like you.”

“I see. I understand what you’re saying. But what I mean is, what was it about him that attracted you to him?”

“Hmm. Peter was . . .,” Alex thought hard for a moment. “Noble.”

“Noble?”

“Maybe it was his bloodline, but he was dignified. He told me your family is descended from royalty?”

His father was indeed a Yi, but he’d never heard anything about being from one of the royal families. F had taken his mother’s last name, which was Kim. Alex said that when they first met, his father had told her he was descended from Korea’s last royal family of the Joseon Dynasty and that that was why he had no choice but to live in exile. She said that he’d immigrated to the US to escape the oppression of the dictatorial military government that hated royals.

“He used to say Koreans couldn’t live without a king. That a country that had been ruled by kings for over two thousand years would eventually go back to being a monarchy.”

“What kind of work did my father do? I heard he was an artist.”

“An artist? Something like that.”

Alex smiled slyly.

“Something like that?”

“He did makeup for dead people. Do they have that in Korea?”

“We do, but it’s a little different. You leave the casket open here for mourners, but we don’t do that in Korea.”

“He was very good. The pay wasn’t bad, either. Of course, he spent it as fast as he made it.”

“Did he drink, or gamble?”

“No, he invested in beauty.”

Beauty.

“He didn’t paint?”

“Not that I ever saw.”

Alex held out the urn. As she did so, she asked him to pay her back for the funeral expenses and the private investigator’s fees. Her tone made it clear that she would only give him the urn if he gave her the money.

“My father left nothing behind?”

“Nope.”

She was blunt. Her voice had changed completely from when she’d shared her memories with him a moment ago.

“Don’t bother looking around like that. I told you this place belongs to me. Peter was living with some other woman in the Bronx and didn’t bring much with him when he moved in.”

He finally realized why Alex had hired an investigator and invited him to the US. She’d paid for his father’s funeral and wanted to be compensated for the costs. F took out his wallet. He didn’t have enough cash. Alex told him there was an ATM at a gas station not far from her house. F went to get money. When he handed her a bundle of cash, her face brightened.

“Oh, wait. His clothes. You should take those with you.”

Alex took F upstairs. She opened the closet to reveal a row of suits.

“I don’t need these,” F said.

“So it’s OK if I donate all of them to the Salvation Army?”

“Hold on.”

F ran his hand over the clothes hanging there. They felt good under his fingertips. They were soft and fine and sturdy. The fact that the fabric had touched his father’s skin appealed to him.

“I can’t take all of them. Only a few. They’re keepsakes, after all.”

“OK. It’s all the same to me either way. Oh, and his underwear is in the bottom drawer.”

While they were talking, the doorbell rang downstairs. Alex went down to get the door and soon came running back up.

“You’d better come down.”

A young Asian man was sitting in the same spot on the sofa where F had been sitting a moment ago. He was wearing a black suit and even had a similar build, which made F feel like he’d floated up out of his body and was looking down at himself. The other man obviously got a weird feeling too when he saw F coming down the stairs. He sprang up from the couch the moment he saw him. Alex stood between them with her arms out like a football referee trying to stop a fight.

“He says the detective contacted him too,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

Alex called the private investigator and spoke to him. When she hung up, she looked disconcerted.

“It seems the detective passed the case on to his partner in Korea. They did the search in Korea and sent the official email from their main office. The Korean detective did send them several leads, but they didn’t expect more than one person to show up.”

“There are no private detectives in Korea,” F said sullenly.

The other man, who was standing there awkwardly, said, “It was probably one of those ‘errand services.’ Don’t they also tail people and do background checks? Illegally, of course.”

F shook hands with him. He said his name was J. J had received the exact same email. Both of their mothers were named Kim Hee-gyung. It was a common name. They were both born in Seoul in 1980 to women named Kim Hee-gyung who had studied art. Even stranger, both of their mothers had passed away. Either the man named Peter had dated two art students named Kim Hee-gyung at the same time and had sons by both of them in the same year, or one of them was not related.

“The detective said they couldn’t take responsibility for this mishap. The evidence they were going on was attached to the bottom of the emails they sent. He also said the email doesn’t guarantee that you’re genetically related to Peter, and that obtaining confirmation is entirely your responsibility.”

J seemed to have trouble understanding Alex. So F interpreted. J thanked him. F gave him his business card.

“I work in publishing.”

J took out his business card. He was a salesperson for a company that imported medical equipment. J asked what he thought about getting a DNA test right away.

“I’ve heard it can take weeks at the earliest to get results in the US,” Alex said.

They both had to get back home for work soon. There were no Christmas vacations in Korea. Nor would it be easy to come back to get the DNA results. The inconclusive conversation continued over the dinner table. Alex opened a California merlot. They had Bohemian steaks for their main course. These roasted potatoes are delicious, J said.

“Sitting at the table with two people who look like each other makes me feel like we’re some kind of family,” Alex said.

“Americans have a hard time telling Asians apart,” J said, glancing at F. “They think we all look alike.”

“What do you do with the ashes of a father you never lived with?” F asked J.

“Good question. It just seemed like I should come get them.”

“In that case, should I take them back with me for now?”

“Absolutely not.”

J reacted strongly.

“Why not?”

“I had to take off of work and sit on a plane for hours to come all the way here, too. I can’t go back empty-handed . . .”

After they’d gone around in circles several times, Alex offered a suggestion.

“This might sound like a stupid idea but . . . what if the two of you try on one of Peter’s suits? They must be at least ten years old by now, maybe older. It’s possible he had them made when he was around your age, so you could both try one on and whoever it fits better can take his ashes first. Then, after you get back to Korea, you can get a DNA test.”

Since there was no other solution, they went along with Alex’s arbitration. She went upstairs to get a suit. Based on the lining, it was a high-end Italian-made suit. It had long gone out of style, but even at first glance, you could tell it was nice.

“Seems that’s the thing to take, and not the ashes,” F said bitterly as he tossed back a shot of scotch.

J went into the other room and tried on the suit first. Alex looked him over with a keen eye and asked F, What do you think? Little short in the arms?

“It looks too small,” F said.

“But it’s not a bad fit,” J protested. F tried the suit on next.

“The moment I slipped the jacket on, I knew. Even the waist size on the pants was just right. When I stepped out of the room, it was game over. They were both speechless. They knew there was no contest. And especially, the look in Alex’s eyes . . . She looked like she was seeing her dead lover come back to life. To think that he got that kind of look from women his whole life, that Peter . . . I was so jealous.”

F jumped up from the sofa as if to reenact the moment. Then he did a little spin, like a fashion model, in front of my wife and me. We hadn’t realized until he stood up that his clothes had changed. We just thought there was something a little different about him. We took a close look at the suit. The shade was similar to the suit he’d left in that morning, but it was closer to navy. The jacket was wrapped tightly around F’s upper body like a suit of armor. The design looked like it was straight out of Scorsese’s Goodfellas. It hugged his body perfectly but without looking uncomfortable. He looked like he could get into a fight with the person standing next to him without ripping a single seam.

“We each plucked a couple of hairs. We gave one to Alex and one to each other. We also split the ashes. J jumped up and left as soon as he had everything.” F continued. “He plans to get a DNA test as soon as he’s back in Seoul. I guess he’ll do what he has to do. I took Peter’s toothbrush too, just in case. From what I’ve seen on American TV, you can get DNA even off of a toothbrush.”

“What’ll you do if he’s not your father?”

“I’ll send it all to him. Why would I need someone else’s father’s remains?”

“And the suit?”

F was tight-lipped and wouldn’t answer my question. We all fall in love with certain clothes. And sometimes that love can be very strong. My wife also asked him something she’d been holding back.

“By the way, where did you sleep last night?”

This time as well, F did not answer. The frightening thought hit me that this poet who spent his days editing crime novels behind a secluded desk in a publishing house might not be who we thought he was, and I too kept quiet. After he packed and left for JFK, my wife cleaned the apartment from top to bottom like she never had before. As if to erase every last trace of him.


슈트
© Kim Young-ha. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Sora Kim-Russell. All rights reserved.

슈트

김영하

 

후배인 F가 연락을 해온 것은 눈이 몹시도 내려, 뉴욕 시내가 마비되다시피 한 12월 중순이었다. 급히 이쪽으로 올 일이 생겼는데 크리스마스 시즌이어서 호텔을 구하기가 너무 어려우니 며칠만 내 집에서 신세를 질 수 없겠는가 물었다. 나는 아내와 침실 하나짜리 아파트에 머물고 있어 내줄 수 있는 게 거실의 2인용 소파밖에 없는데 그거라도 괜찮으면 오라고 했다.

F와 내가 평소 가깝게 지낸 사이라고는 할 수 없었다. 그는 출판사에서 편집자로 일하면서 시를 썼다. 문학판에선 시인으로 통하고 출판계에선 유능한 편집자로 더 쳐주지만 나하고는 별 인연이 없었다. 보통 문인들은 출판사에서도 국내문학을 주로 맡는 편인데 그는 특이하게도 미국의 장르문학 전문이었다. 굳이 나와 인연을 찾는다면 아내가 결혼 전에 다니던 출판사의 동료라는 것 정도인데, 막상 아내는 그와는 별로 말을 섞어본 기억이 없다고 했다. 책상 위에 책으로 담을 쌓아 세상으로부터 스스로를 격리한 뒤, 하루종일 원고를 들여다보다 가는 사람이라고 했다. 그런 사람이었으니 내게 부탁을 했을 정도면 꽤나 큰 마음을 먹었을 게 분명했다.

그는 택시를 타고 브루클린에 있는 우리집에 나타났다. 소설의 판권을 알아보러 뉴욕에 두 번인가 출장을 오기는 했어도 브루클린은 처음이라고 했다. 짐은 기내에 들고 탈 수 있을 정도로 단촐했다. 신세를 지게 되어 미안하다며 몇 번이나 고개를 숙였다. 택시에서 내려 현관까지 들어오는 그 잠깐 사이에도 어깨에 눈이 소복하게 쌓일 정도였다. 그는 꼼꼼하게 눈을 털고 신발을 현관 매트에 박박 비벼 물기를 닦아내려고 애썼다. 우리는 함께 저녁을 먹었다. 무슨 일로 이렇게 황망히 뉴욕에 왔냐는 질문에 그는 몇 번을 망설이다가 사연을 털어놓았다.

“아버지가 돌아가셨어요. 아니, 그렇다고 들었어요.”

“부친이 뉴욕에 사셨어?” 내가 물었다.

며칠 전, 뉴욕의 한 탐정으로부터 연락을 받았다고 했다. 미스테리나 범죄물을 주로 편집하는 그이다보니 탐정이 보내온 이메일의 영어는 해독하기가 어렵지 않았다. 처음에 그는 누군가의 짓궂은 농담이라고 생각했다.

“꼭 폴 오스터의 소설 같은 얘기잖아요?”

“게다가 배경은 뉴욕이고.”

“그러게요.”

그 이메일에 따르면, 그의 아버지가 얼마 전에 퀸스에서 죽었는데 유언인 즉, 유골은 한국에 뿌려지기를 원한다는 것, 아들이 하나 있을 테니 찾아서 부탁하라는 것이었다. 탐정을 고용한 사람은 아버지와 함께 사는 여자라고 했다. 이메일은 그의 어머니의 이름을 적시하고 있었고(심지어 한글로도 부기되어 있었다), 그의 생년월일까지도 얼추 비슷했다. 아버지는 그의 생일을 1980년 2월 7일로 기억하고 있었다.

“여태 저는 3월 10일로 알고 있었다니까요. 호적에 그렇게 나와있으니까요. 어쩌면 아버지의 기억이 더 정확할지도 몰라요. 음력, 양력 뭐 그런 것일 수도 있고요.”

그의 어머니는 F가 열다섯 살 되던 해에 세상을 떠났다. 그는 두 이모의 집을 전전하며 자라다가 대학에 들어간 이후에는 제 힘으로 살아왔다. 그의 모친은 세상을 떠나기 전에 그를 불러 아버지에 대해서 소상하게 일러주었다. 어머니보다 두 살 연하의 아버지는 어머니와 마찬가지로 미술을 전공하는 대학생이었다. 둘은 같은 대학에서 만나 연애를 하고 동거에 들어갔지만 그가 태어나자마자 아버지가 어머니를 떠났다고 한다.

“제가 80년생이잖아요.”

그가 씁쓸하게 웃으며 말했다.

“그래서 엄마에게 물었죠.  서울의 봄이나 광주항쟁 같은 일에 휘말렸던 거죠? 그렇죠?”

어머니는 1980년에 그런 일이 있었다는 것조차 기억하지 못하는 사람이었다.

“그 남자는 그런 일에는 아무 관심이 없었어. 자기만의 세계에서 살아가는 좀 이상한 사람이었어. 마음이 물러서 여자가 꼬였지. 나중에 알고보니 그때 나말고도 여자가 여럿 있었어. 나만 모르고 있었지.”

그의 어머니는 작은 서민아파트 거실에서 동네 아이들을 상대로 한 미술교습을 하며 그를 키웠다. 삼촌이라며 찾아와 자고 가는 남자들이 여럿 있었지만 아이는 그 하나뿐이었다. F가 자기 어머니의 남자관계에 대해서 말할 때, 아내는 듣기가 거북한지 갑자기 일어나 과일을 깎는다, 쿠키를 내온다 수선을 떨었지만 정작 F는 남의 이야기 하듯 차분했다. 소심하고 내성적이지만 일단 입을 열면 단호하고 냉정하게 모든 것을 털어놓는 사람들이 있다. 내부폭로자들이 대체로 그렇다는 얘기를 어디선가 들은 적이 있다. 그들은 원래 떠벌이가 아니라 조용히 일만 하던 사람들이라고.

그의 아버지를 미국에서 보았다는 소문이 여러 경로를 통해 그들 모자에게 들어왔다. 그러나 80년대에는 여권을 받는다는 것부터가 어려웠다. 90년대에 들어서면서 그의 어머니는 암과 싸우기 시작했고 진단을 받고 5년째 되던 해에 세상을 떠났다.

“범죄 소설 편집하면서 탐정이라는 단어를 수도 없이 봤지만 내가 그들로부터 연락을 받을 줄을 누가 알았겠어요?”

그가 말했다.

“부친께서는 미국에서 뭘 하셨대?”

“소문에는 화가라고, 그림을 그린다고 들었어요. 배운 게 도둑질이잖아요.”

아버지에 대해 말할 때마다 그의 얼굴이 일그러졌다. 원망이 있는 게 당연했다.

“혹시 부친이 너를 떠나지 않았다면 지금과는 다른 사람이 됐을 거라고 생각해?”

아내가 내 옆구리를 쿡 찔렀다. 그가 대답했다.

“시를 안 썼을 거예요.”

“그럼?”

“그림을 했을 거예요. 엄마가 아이들을 데리고 늘 그림을 그리고 있었으니까 저도 자연스럽게 어려서부터 뭘 그리곤 했죠. 그럴 때마다 엄마가 나무 자로 제 손등을 내리쳤어요. 너는 공부를 해야한다고, 글을 읽어야한다고 말했죠. 남자가 그림에 손을 대면 개망나니가 된다고요. 마치 왼손잡이가 억지로 오른손을 쓰듯이, 저는 미술을 더 좋아하면서도 시를 쓴 거예요. 그러니 제 시가 이 모양 이 꼴이죠.”

나는 빈말로라도, 네 시가 어때서, 라고 말해주지 못했다. 사실 나는 F의 시를 별로 좋아하지 않는다. 문인들은 상대의 글에 대해서 말을 안 하면 안 했지 호오를 속이지는 않는다. 아내가 대신 F를 위로했다.

“F씨 시 좋아하는 사람이 얼마나 많은데. 그런 말 하지 말아요.”

F는 아내의 말에 흔들리지 않았다. 문득 그런 점이 마음에 들었다. 나는 그의 시를 다시 들춰봐야겠다고 생각하고 있었다. 어쩌면 내가 미처 발견하지 못한 뭔가가 있을지도 몰랐다.

 

다음 날 아침, F는 일찌감치 일어나 수선을 피웠다. 아니, 잠을 자지 않았는지도 모른다. 아내가 베이글을 커피와 함께 차려주었는데 그는 거의 먹질 못했다. 집을 나서는 그는 위아래로 검은 정장을 입고 있었다.

“어쩐지 이런 옷을 입어야할 것 같아서.”

그가 변명하듯 말했다. 장례는 이미 끝났을 테고 몇 가지의 사무적인 절차만 남았을 가능성이 크지만 검은 정장을 입어서 손해를 볼 일은 없을 것이었다. 백화점에서 할인판매를 할 때 사두고는 상가집에 갈 때만 꺼내 입은 것 같은 값싼 기성복이었다. 그런 옷은 살 때는 단단하고 멀쩡해보이지만 드라이클리닝을 몇 번 맡기면 옷의 형태가 허물어진다. 바느질로 마감해야할 부분을 접착제로 대신하기 때문이다. 그래서 그런 재킷은 뒤에서 보면 마고자를 걸친 것처럼 맵시가 안 나고 후줄근해보인다. 그가 신은 검정 구두도 코가 하얗게 닳아 있었다. 그러나 편집자나 시인으로서는 잘 어울리는 옷차림이라고 할 수 있었다. 옷을 잘 빼입은 편집자는 어쩐지 신뢰가 안 간다. 시인이야 더 말할 필요가 없고.

“내가 같이 가줄까?”

“고맙지만 됐어요. 검은 양복을 입은 동양 남자 둘이 나타나 문을 두들기면 어떻게 생각하겠어요?”

그가 처음으로 킬킬대며 웃었다. 농담은 죽음의 공포를 처리하는 방식이라고 말한 것은 커트 보네거트였던가.

“저 혼자 가도 충분해요. 관을 들고 오는 것도 아니고요.”

그는 혼자 감당하기를 원하고 있었다. 바람둥이 아버지가 자신을 떠난 후 어떻게 살아왔는가를. 어떤 여자와 어떤 집에서 살아왔는가를.

“그럼 잘 다녀와. 도움이 필요하면 전화하고.”

“도움이 필요한 건 내가 아니고 아버지예요.”

 

오후 늦게쯤엔 돌아올 거라고 생각했는데 그는 밤이 이슥하도록 아무 소식이 없었다. 아내는 한식으로 저녁을 차려놓고 기다렸다. 처음에는 화를 내다가 나중에는 걱정하기 시작했다.

“탐정의 이메일이라는 게 좀 수상쩍지 않아요? 신종 피싱 아닐까?”

“가난한 시인을 유인, 납치해서 누가, 무슨 이득을 보겠어?”

“전화번호도 없어요?”

“안 적어놨네. 이메일만 있어.”

그는 다음 날 오전에야 돌아왔다. 미안하다는 말도 없이 집으로 불쑥 들어오는 그의 손에는 연보랏빛 단지가 들려 있었다. 유골단지임이 분명했다. 아내가 자기도 모르게 팔을 뻗어 단지를 받아들었다. 그는 온 몸에 진이 빠진 듯 소파에 털썩 몸을 던졌다.

“뭐 좀 줄까?”

“혹시 독한 술 좀 있어요?”

그는 스카치위스키를 더블로 들이켰다. 그는 좀 달라져 있었다. 전날 아침 집을 나설 때의 그가 아니었다. 무엇 때문이라고 딱히 특정할 수는 없지만 분명 변화가 있었다. 충격적인 일을 겪어서인가 생각했지만 그런 것만은 아니었다. 돌연한 적의 기습에 맞서 격렬한 전투를 치르다 지원병력의 도착으로 겨우 한숨을 돌린 병사 같은 태도가 있었다. 어설픈 농담으로 죽음의 공포를 이겨내보려던 전날의 그는 온데간데 없었다. 두 잔의 스카치위스키를 연거푸 스트레이트로 마신 그는 갑자기 미친듯이 말을 하기 시작했다.

 

그는 플러싱에는 처음이었다. 동아시아 이민자들이 모여 산다는 것만 들어 알고 있을 뿐이었다. 출장 왔을 때는 맨해튼에 묵었다. 아버지가 그렇게 가까운 곳에 살고 있을 줄은 꿈에도 모른 채.

F는 지하철을 여러 차례 갈아타고 플러싱에 도착했다. 역에서 밖으로 나왔을 때는 여기가 중국이 아닌가 잠깐 어리둥절했다. 인도를 슬금슬금 먹어들어오는 입간판과 매대, 요란하게 떠들며 지나가는 중국인들의 무리, 공격적으로 전단지를 나눠주는 호객꾼들, 고추기름에 채소를 볶는 냄새. 사이렌을 울리며 달려가는 붉은 소방차만이 거기가 뉴욕임을 알려주었다.

그는 노던 블루바드를 향해 걸었다. 중국인이 운영하는 금은방 앞에서 그는 잠시 발걸음을 멈추었다. “우리는 금을 산다”라는 한글 문구가 그의 시선을 잡아끌었기 때문이었다. 가게는 영어, 중국어, 스페인어, 한국어로 금을 매입한다는 의사를 밝히고 있었다. 구글 번역으로 돌린 건가? 그가 타고온 지하철 안에도 뉴욕시 교통당국이 붙인 어색한 한글 안내문이 있었다. “분주하더라도 안전하게 승차해야 한다.” 더 심한 문구도 있었다. “열차 서핑을 하다가는 만신창이가 되어 사망할 수가 있다”. 그는 붉은 펜을 꺼내들고 교정을 보고 싶은 충동을 느꼈다. 죽은 아버지의 유골 같은 복잡한 문제는 잊고 책상 앞에 앉아 잘못된 문구나 고치고 싶었던 것이다.

그러나 그는 어느새 탐정이 알려준 주소 앞에 도착해 있었다. 아이폰에 내장된 구글맵을 따라가니 실수가 없었다. 우주의 인공위성이 자신을 죽은 아버지에게로 인도했다고 생각하니 이상한 기분이 들었다. “여기에 신은 없다.” 우주 공간으로 올라간 유리 가가린이 말했었지. 신은 없지만 아버지는 있어. 위성의 눈으로 나를 보고 있지.

그는 벨을 눌렀다. 여자가 나왔다. 피부가 흑단처럼 까만 흑인으로 생각보다 아주 젊었다. 키도 크고 날씬했다. 당연히 그는 잘못 왔다고 생각했다. 그러나 여자가 말했다.

“한국에서 온 피터의 아들이군요. 그렇죠? 들어와요.”

집안은 어두웠다. 그는 거실 소파에 앉았다. 눈이 천천히 암순응을 시작했다. 싸구려 향초를 피워놓은 것 같은 냄새가 희미하게 떠돌고 있었다. 집은 소박했다. 벽에는 조잡한 크리스마스 장식들이 걸려있었고 구석에는 1미터 높이의 크리스마스 트리가 놓여 있었다. 여자는 와인을 내왔다. 그녀의 이름은 알렉스 화이트였다. 아주 어릴 때 자메이카에서 이민을 왔다고 했다.

“개인적인 질문을 좀 해도 될까요? 아버지와는 어떤 관계였나요?”

“그는 내 파트너였어요.”

파트너라는 말이 F에게는 잘 와닿지를 않았다. 뭐라고 말을 해야할지 몰라 머뭇거리는 것을 보고 알렉스는 구두상자 하나를 들고 왔다. 알렉스와 그의 아버지가 함께 찍은 사진들이었다. 둘은 한 침대에 누워있기도 하고 플로리다쯤으로 보이는 휴양지 수영장에서 칵테일을 마시고 있기도 했다. 사진 속의 피터는 건강해보였다. 가슴의 근육은 F의 것보다도 더 단단한 것 같았고 평생 여자들에게 사랑받은 사람에게서만 느껴지는 자신감이 카메라 렌즈를 향해 육박해오고 있었다. 깨끗하게 빡빡 밀어버린 둥근 머리에서는 광채가 났다. 세렝게티 평원에서 느긋하게 제 발을 핥고있는 사자를 연상시켰다. 여유, 숨겨진 공격성, 대담한 교활함 같은 것들.

“피터는 멋진 남자였어요.”

알렉스가 꿈꾸듯이 말했다.

“만난지는 얼마나 됐나요?”

알렉스는 잠깐 생각을 해보더니 말했다.

“한 이 년?”

“이 년밖에 안 됐다고요?”

“왜요? 이 년이면 긴 시간이예요.”

“왜 돌아가셨나요?”

“암이었어요.”

“무슨 암이었나요?”

그건 F에게도 중요한 정보였다. 언젠가부터 의사들은 그에게 가족의 병력에 대해 묻기 시작했다. 어머니는 유방암이었다. 아버지마저 암이라는 것은 좋은 소식이 아니었다. 어머니의 말대로 그를 임신했을 당시 아버지가 스물넷이었다면 아직 환갑도 안 된 나이에 간 것이다.

“췌장암. 진단 받고 두 달도 못 살았어요.”

알렉스는 유골단지를 가져왔다.

“가져가실 게 이것밖에 없네요. 피터는 멋진 남자였지만 재산은 없었어요. 내가 들은 바로는 평생을 여자들에게 얹혀 살았대요. 좋아하는 여자들이 많았어요.”

“하나만 더 물어봐도 될까요?”

알렉스가 고개를 끄덕였다.

“당신은 젊고 아름다운데 왜 아버지 같은 늙은 남자와 살았습니까? 그러니까 내 말은, 내 아버지에게 구체적으로 어떤 매력이 있었냐는 겁니다. 가난하기까지 했는데.”

“고마워요. 하지만 몇 가지 교정할 게 있어요. 첫째, 나는 젊고 아름답지 않아요. 아, 아, 그럴 것 없어요. 전 남편과 결혼할 때만 해도 나도 좀 쓸만했죠. 이 집은 원래 그 전 남편 것이었죠. 처음에 이 미국땅에 발을 디딜 때만 해도 몸뚱아리 하나밖에 없는 깜둥이 계집애였다고요. 하지만 이젠 더 이상 젊지 않아요. 그리고 둘째, 피터는 별로 늙어보이지 않았어요. 나는 동양 사람들은 나이를 잘 모르겠더라고요. 그는 파워풀한 남자였어요. 그 사람한테 당신 같은 아들이 있으리라고는 정말 상상도 못했어요.”

“좋아요. 무슨 말인지 알겠어요. 그런데 내 말은 아버지의 어떤 점이 당신을 잡아 끌었냐는 거예요.”

“음, 피터는……”

알렉스는 골똘히 생각을 해보더니 이렇게 말했다.

“……고귀해요.”

알렉스는 노블(noble)이라는 단어를 썼다.

“고귀하다고요?”

“혈통이 그래서 그런 건지는 모르겠지만 기품이 있었어요. 당신 집안이 로열패밀리라면서요?”

아버지가 이씨인 것은 맞지만 왕가의 후손이라는 이야기는 들은 바가 없었다. F의 성은 김씨로 엄마의 성을 따른 것이었다. 알렉스에 따르면 아버지는 자신을 몰락한 조선 왕실의 후손이며 그 때문에 이렇게 망명 생활을 할 수밖에 없다고 소개했다고 한다. 왕조를 싫어하는 군사독재정부의 탄압을 피해 미국으로 왔다고 말했다고 한다.

“결국 한국 사람들은 왕을 필요로 할 거라고 말하곤 했어요. 2천년 동안 왕이 통치하던 나라는 결국 왕조로 돌아가게 돼 있다고 했어요.”

“아버지는 여기서 무슨 일을 했나요? 화가라고 들었는데요.”

“화가요? 비슷한 거죠.”

알렉스는 배시시 웃었다.

“비슷한 거라고요?”

“그는 죽은 사람들을 메이크업하는 일을 했어요. 한국에는 그런 것 없어요?”

“있지만 좀 다르죠. 여기는 관을 열어놓고 조문객을 받지만 우리는 그렇게 하지 않아요.”

“솜씨가 아주 좋았어요. 벌이도 나쁘지 않았어요. 씀씀이가 커서 버는 족족 다 써버렸지만요.”

“술이나 도박을 했나요?”

“아뇨. 그는 아름다움에 투자했지요.”

아름다움이라.

“그림은 안 그렸나요?”

“나는 본 적이 없어요.”

알렉스는 유골단지를 가지고 왔다. 그러면서 장례 비용과 탐정 수수료를 달라고 했다. 그래야만 유골단지를 넘겨줄 태세였다.

“아버지가 남긴 유산은 하나도 없나요?”

“없어요.”

알렉스는 단칼에 잘라 말했다. 조금 전 추억을 나눌 때와는 완연히 다른 태도였다.

“그런 눈으로 집 둘러볼 것 없어요. 아까도 말했듯이 이 집은 내 거니까요. 피터는 브롱크스의 다른 여자 집에 살다가 몸만 이리로 옮겨왔답니다.”

그제서야 알렉스가 탐정을 고용해 미국으로 불러들인 이유를 알았다. 그녀는 장례를 치렀고 그 비용을 정산받고 싶었던 것이다. F는 지갑을 꺼냈다. 현금은 충분하지 않았다. 알렉스가 집에서 멀지 않은 주유소에 현금지급기가 있다고 알려주었다. F는 돈을 찾아왔다. 현금 다발을 받자 알렉스의 표정이 환해졌다.

“아, 참. 옷이 있어요. 그건 가져 가요.”

알렉스가 F를 이층으로 데려갔다. 옷장을 열자 양복들이 줄줄이 걸려있었다.

“저는 필요가 없어요.”

F가 말했다.

“그럼 전부 구세군 자선 상점에 기부해도 돼요?”

“잠깐만요.”

F는 옷걸이에 걸린 옷들을 손으로 쓰다듬어 보았다. 손끝에 닿는 감촉이 좋았다. 보드랍고 촘촘하면서 단단하다는 인상이었다. 아버지의 살이 닿았던 옷이라는 점도 그의 마음을 끌었다.

“다는 못 가져가겠고 몇 벌은 가져갈게요. 그래도 유품이니까.”

“그래요. 어차피 나는 상관없으니까요. 참, 아래 서랍에 그의 속옷들도 있어요.”

그런 이야기를 나누고 있는데 아래에서 벨 소리가 들렸다. 알렉스가 내려갔다가 금세 다시 뛰어올라왔다.

“잠깐 내려와 봐요.”

조금 전까지 F가 앉아있던 거실 소파에 젊은 동양 남자가 앉아 있었다. 위아래로 검정색 정장을 입고 있는 데다가 체구도 비슷해 마치 조금 전의 자기 모습을 유체이탈을 통해 내려다 보는 듯한 느낌이 들었다. 남자 역시 계단을 내려오는 F에게 이상한 기분을 느꼈음이 분명했다. F를 보자마자 자리에서 벌떡 일어났다. 알렉스가 둘 사이에 서서 싸움을 말리려는 미식축구 심판처럼 팔을 양쪽으로 벌렸다.

“F. 이쪽도 탐정에게서 연락을 받았대요. 어떻게 된 일인지 나도 모르겠어요.”

알렉스는 탐정에게 전화를 걸어 통화를 했다. 그러더니 난처한 얼굴로 말했다.

“탐정은 한국쪽 파트너에게 일을 맡겼던 모양이예요. 수배는 한국 쪽에서 하고 공식 이메일은 탐정사무소에서 보냈대요. 한국쪽에서 일러준 곳으로 몇 군데 보내기는 했지만 이렇게 둘이나 올 줄은 몰랐대요.”

“한국에는 탐정이 없어요.”

F가 뚱하게 말했다. 그러자 어정쩡하게 서 있던 남자가 말했다.

“심부름센터 같은 거겠죠. 비슷한 일을 하잖아요? 불법이긴 하지만.”

F는 남자에게 악수를 청했다. 그는 J라고 했다. J 역시 같은 이메일을 받았다. 둘의 어머니는 이름이 모두 김희경이었다. 흔한 이름이었다. 둘은 모두 서울에서 미술을 전공한 김희경이라는 여자의 1980년생 아들이었다. 공교롭게도 둘의 어머니는 모두 세상을 떠났다. 피터라는 남자가 김희경이라는 미대생 두 명과 동시에 사귀어 같은 해에 두 여자에게서 모두 아들을 얻은 게 아니라면 둘 중의 하나는 그와 무관했다.

“탐정은 이 사태가 자기들 책임은 아니라면서 이메일 하단에 단서 조항이 있었다네요. 이 이메일이 유전적으로 당신이 그의 아들이라는 것을 보증하는 것은 아니며 그것을 입증하는 것은  전적으로 당신의 책임이다라고.”

J는 알렉스의 이 말을 잘 알아듣지 못하는 것 같았다. 그래서 F가 한국말로 통역해주었다. J는 고맙다고 말했다. F는 명함을 건넸다.

“저는 출판 일을 합니다.”

J도 명함을 꺼냈다. 그는 의료기기를 수입하는 회사의 영업사원이었다. J는 지금이라도 유전자 검사를 하는 게 어떠냐는 의견을 냈다.

“미국에서는 아무리 빨라도 몇 주는 걸린다던데요.” 알렉스가 말했다.

두 사람 다 곧 회사로 복귀해야하는 상황이었다. 한국은 크리스마스 휴가라는 게 없다. 유전자 검사가 끝난 후에 다시 온다는 것도 쉬운 일이 아니었다. 결론 없는 대화는 저녁 식탁으로까지 이어졌다. 알렉스는 캘리포니아산 멜롯을 한 병 땄다. 메인은 보헤미안 스테이크였다. 오븐에서 구운 이 감자, 맛있네요. J가 말했다.

“서로 닮은 두 사람이 식탁에 같이 앉아 있으니까 우리가 무슨 가족 같아요.” 알렉스가 말했다.

“미국 사람들은 동양 사람들 얼굴을 잘 구별을 못 하더라고요. 다 비슷하다고 생각하죠.”

J가 F를 힐끔거리면서 말했다. F가 J에게 물었다.

“생전 함께 살아보지도 못한 아버지의 유골이 어디에 필요할까요?”

“글쎄요. 그냥 가야되나보나 싶어서 온 거죠.”

“그럼 일단 제가 가져갈까요?”

“그건 안 되죠.”

J는 강하게 반발했다.

“왜요?”

“저도 일껏 휴가 내서 비행기 타고 여기까지 왔는데 빈손으로 돌아간다는 게……”

그런 겉도는 대화가 반복되고 있을 때, 알렉스가 안을 냈다.

“좀 바보 같은 말처럼 들릴 수는 있는데…… 두 사람, 피터의 양복을 입어보는 게 어때요? 피터가 오래 전에, 아마 10년도 더 됐을 거예요. 어쩌면 두 사람의 지금 나이쯤에 맞췄을지도 모르는 옷인데 그걸 입어보고 더 잘 맞는 사람이 일단 유골을 가져가는 거예요. 그러고나서 한국에 가서 유전자 검사를 해요.”

별다른 방법이 없었으므로 둘은 알렉스의 중재에 따랐다. 알렉스는 양복을 한 벌 가지고 내려왔다. 안감을 보니 이탈리아산의 고급 정장이었다. 유행과는 거리가 멀었지만 한눈에 보기에도 윤기가 자르르했다.

“유골이 아니라 그걸 가져야겠다는 생각이 들더군요.”

F는 스카치위스키를 입안으로 털어넣으며 씁쓸하게 말했다. 먼저 J가 옷을 들고 방으로 들어가 갈아입고 나왔다. 알렉스가 날카로운 눈으로 살펴보더니, 어때요, 팔이 좀 짧은 것 같지 않아요, 라고 F에게 물었다.

“좀 작아 보이네요.”

“그렇지만 이 정도면 아주 잘 맞는 건데요.” J가 항의했다. 이어 F가 그 정장을 입었다.

“재킷을 걸치는 순간, 딱 감이 오더라고요. 바지의 허리 사이즈까지 딱 맞았어요. 입고 나가니까 게임 오버. 둘 다 한동안 아무 말도 없었어요. 승부가 끝났다는 걸 안 거죠. 특히 알렉스의 그 눈빛은 정말…… 죽은 애인을 다시 보는 것 같았나봐요. 여자들한테 그런 눈빛을 받고 살았었다니, 피터라는 그 남자, 정말 부러웠어요.”

F가 마치 그 순간을 재현하려는 듯 소파에서 벌떡 일어났다. 그러고는 아내와 내 앞에서 마치 패션모델처럼 유연하게 한 바퀴를 돌았다. 그가 일어나기 전까지만 해도 아내와 나는 그의 옷이 바뀌었다는 것을 알아차리지 못하고 있었다. 그냥 사람이 조금 달라졌다고만 생각했던 것이다. 우리는 그가 입은 정장을 자세히 살폈다. 아침에 입고 나간 옷과 색조는 비슷했지만 좀더 진청색쪽에 가까웠다. 마틴 스콜세지의 <굿 펠라스>에 나오면 그대로 어울릴 것 같은 디자인으로 갑옷처럼 단단하게 F의 상체를 감싸고 있었다. 몸의 굴곡에 타이트하게 잘 맞아떨어지면서도 전혀 불편해보이지 않았다. 예컨대 당장 옆사람과 주먹질을 해도 아무 일 없을 것처럼 보였다.

“우리는 머리카락을 뽑았어요. 알렉스에게도 주고 우리 둘도 나눠가졌지요. 유골 분도 조금 나눠줬어요. 그 친구, 그것들을 받자마자 벌떡 일어나 바로 가버리더라고요.” F의 말이 이어졌다. “서울에 돌아가는대로 DNA검사를 해보려고요.  그 친구도 그 친구대로 하겠지요. 혹시 몰라서 피터의 칫솔도 가져왔어요. 미드에서 보니까 칫솔에서도 DNA를 검출해내더라고요.”

“만약 아니라고 판정이 난다면?”

“그 친구에게 보내야지요. 남의 아버지 유골 갖고 있어봐야 뭐하겠어요?”

“그 정장은?”

F는 그 질문에 대해서는 입을 굳게 다물고 답하지 않았다. 우리는 모두 어떤 옷과 사랑에 빠진다. 그리고 그 사랑은 때로 매우 굳건하다. 아내 역시 참고 있던 질문을 던졌다.

“그런데 어제는 어디서 주무신 거예요?”

F는 이번에도 대답하지 않았다. 출판사의 구석진 책상에 앉아 하루종일 범죄소설을 편집하는 이 시인이 어쩌면 우리가 생각하던 그런 사람이 아닐 수도 있다는 좀 섬뜩한 생각이 들어 나도 입을 다물었다. 그가 짐을 챙겨 JFK 공항으로 떠난 후, 아내는 전에 없던 규모의 대청소를 했다. 마치 F의 흔적을 깨끗이 지워버리겠다는 듯이.  <끝>

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