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Fiction

Dori and Jina

By Choi Jin-young
Translated from Korean by Soje
In this excerpt from Choi Jin-young's "To the Warm Horizon," Dori, fleeing a pandemic that's wiped out the country, meets the nonchalant Jina and finds herself desiring more than mere survival.

Dori

I opened my eyes. The bonfire had gone out. I could hear a babble of voices. Speaking Korean. It sounded like more than a couple of people. It was still dark outside. I woke Miso up and took a peek. There were two large box trucks parked in the vegetable garden. I did a head count. There were more than ten people. Several of them waved their flashlights into the house. I hid in the farthest corner of the room with Miso in my arms. People were busily lighting a fire and heating up their food. They made hot water from the snow and washed their hands and faces. The smell of grilled meat wafted in. I gagged. I held Miso tightly in my arms. So she wouldn’t be able to smell anything. So she wouldn’t be able to see anything. With only a wall separating us, these people ate and drank and spoke in Korean. They called each other honey, you, sir.

—Jina. Jina.

A man spoke in a low but resounding voice.

—It’s dangerous. Don’t go off on your own.

This “Jina” didn’t seem to listen to the man. The man called after Jina several more times. Along with a flashlight beam, a small head suddenly popped through the window. A little later I heard light, quick footsteps in the direction of the missing door. I hid Miso behind my back and took out my jackknife.

The flashlight beam that had suddenly appeared out of the black empty space shined on me.

—Jina, get back here. Don’t go just anywhere. I’m telling you, it’s dangerous.

The person who had lowered her flashlight before approaching me leaned out the window and shouted.

—Fine! I’m coming, I’m coming.

Jina turned from the window and looked over at me without a word. I held the jackknife up to my chest. Jina did not draw any closer. She laid down the flashlight, pointing the light at herself. With her face and body totally bundled up in bulky winter clothes, I could make out only a pair of eyes and a nose under the hat. Jina, who was staring at me intently, suddenly took off her woolen hat and revealed more of herself. Her hair was a dark blood red. I recoiled in surprise. Miso squirmed and stuck her head out from behind me.

—Oh.

Jina broke the silence.

—I see there’s a little kid, too.

She drew a little closer.

—Is she your little sister?

She asked without hesitation, as if to chat up a friend.

—Surely she can’t be your daughter.

She murmured like she was thinking out loud, combing through her disheveled hair with her fingers.

—Is it just you and the kiddo?

Jina did not put up her guard with me.

—You’re from Korea, right?

I did not let my guard down. Jina scratched her cheek, looking at me as I said nothing in response.

—A-im peurom Koria.

Out of the blue, she spoke English.

—Wheo al yu peurom?

I sensed a slight Gyeongsang dialect.

—Naiseu tu mit yu.

She took another step toward me and extended her hand.

—If it’s not this either . . . Hajimemashite.

After greeting me in Japanese, Jina quietly gazed at me for a moment, fixed her fur hat, and switched back to Korean.

—Don’t worry. We’re not bad people. No one’s infected, and we don’t eat kid liver. We’re going to spend the night right out there and leave in the morning . . . But still, I won’t tell anyone that I saw you here.

With a faint smile, Jina slowly backed away into the distance. The light faded, and the air fell dark again. I felt like I had dreamed with my eyes open. My heart was pounding hard. Not because I was afraid . . . No, I was afraid. No, it wasn’t that I was afraid . . . I was afraid.

Miso signed.

—Are we leaving now?

I nodded, then shook my head. I signed back.

—Let’s stay here tonight.

Seated upright, I kept dozing off. Between my catnaps, the view outside the window gradually deepened into a black blue. At last I ended up lying down on my side. My consciousness poured into a black pit as if I were plunging into hell. Even in my sleep, I remembered Jina’s English and chuckled. My laughing surprised me, and I woke up. A small bonfire was blazing. I sat up. Jina held out a small cup.

—Coffee.

Jina placed the cup in my hand. Wondering if this was a dream, I merely watched the pure white steam bloom and rise from the black liquid. Jina wrapped her hand around mine, tipping the cup to try the first sip. Then, without letting go of my hand, she tipped the cup to my lips. My lips were gently wetted by the black liquid. It was real coffee. Real. Coffee. I sipped it sweetly. I felt the warmth spread inside, and it felt like every cell in my body was startled awake. I did not take my lips off the cup and kept taking little sips.

Jina muttered, patting my shoes.

—Your shoes are a mess.

Her hair was blood red last night. I was thinking about how much I wanted to take off that fur hat to see if I’d dreamed it all up—just thinking about it—when my hand tugged at it, exposing her red hair.

—Agh . . . My hair’s probably super gross and oily and matted down . . .

She muttered again as she ran her fingers through her hair, but she did not show any sign of embarrassment.

—You’re also from Korea, right?

She warmed her hands by the bonfire.

—What should I call you?

I was flustered.

—You can call me Jina.

Jina came into focus, right before my eyes. Hers were the color of ash. She rubbed her nose.

—By the way, where are you going? Have you decided?

My eyes could not lie, and Jina kept trying to meet them. I lowered my head and drank the coffee. Jina laid her hand on mine and pressed down a little. It felt like she was saying, Lift up your head and look at me, so I looked up.

—Do you want to go with me?

Jina, with those gray eyes and that red hair.

—Let’s go together.

I knew. What it was I needed. Where it was.

Jina

The early risers were filling the open air with their voices and clatter. I stood outside the window and waved Dori over. She held Miso’s hand and walked up next to me. I pointed to each person, explaining who was who. Then I locked eyes with Dad. He remained unperturbed even when he saw Dori. My dad was a hard man to surprise. In Korea, my extended family all lived together in the same neighborhood. There used to be more than fifty of us altogether. More than thirty people died among us. In a matter of two days. Even then, Dad did not panic. My aunt who lost her parents and her children hanged herself. My uncle who lost his wife and his children jumped from his apartment building. My dad, who lost his parents, his wife, and his siblings, declared with a terrifying look on his face that he would not let anyone else die. Dad started accepting gold and diamonds left and right, selling off all the cars from his used foreign car dealership. Except for two box trucks, sturdy and large. He crammed our living relatives into those trucks along with a load of necessities, and we made our escape from Korea.

People used to tell me that I’m a lot like my dad. After hearing this repeatedly growing up, I really thought I resembled my dad. Now I see it differently. It’s not that I actually resemble my dad; it’s just that I grew up hearing that I resembled my dad. Which, in turn, made me a lot like my dad.

I said I wanted to take Dori and Miso with us. Dad didn’t think long about it.

—Just this once.

That was his answer.

—You can’t take anyone else now.

He added, to be safe.

—In order to ride with us, you’ll have to compensate us in some way.

He looked directly at Dori.

—If you happen to be carrying a gun, hand it over already.

Without a word, Dori opened up her knapsack and let my dad rifle through it. He then patted down Dori and Miso. When Dad found a jackknife in Dori’s pocket, he burst into laughter.

—What can you even do with something like this?

Dad mimed opening a can with the jackknife without wiping the patronizing smirk off his face. But when Dori said she had escaped Korea and traveled on foot from Ulan-Ude with Miso, he was briefly at a loss for words.

—Without anyone’s help?

Dad eyed Dori’s blank expression.

—Without killing anyone?

Dori didn’t answer. Miso, despite the scared look on her face, smiled a little when she met my gaze.

—How long did it take?

—I didn’t count the days.

He paused for a bit.

—Sure.

Dad put her jackknife in his pocket. Dori asked him to give it back.

—It’s too dangerous for you to carry.

—The itty-bitty thing that can barely open a can?

—Doesn’t matter. No.

—Please give it back.

—I’ll give it back to you when I can trust you.

—There’s no need for that. Please give it back now.

—What do you mean?

—I’m saying, it’s OK if you don’t trust me. Because I won’t be trusting you, either.

Dad fiddled with the jackknife and stared at Dori for awhile. She did not avert her gaze.

—I suppose it’s better than asking you to blindly trust me.

He returned the jackknife to Dori.

—You cannot disobey my orders from now on. If you do, I’ll have no choice but to kick you out. And it’s best that you not expect us to treat you like family.

Several of my relatives aired their grievances when they heard Dad’s decision to take Dori and Miso with us. The reproach: How many strays are you planning to pick up off the side of the road? The complaint: You must think there’s plenty of food to go around. The suspicion: Since you decided to give them a ride without knowing anything about them, what are you going to do once they start stealing from us? The concern: We might get randomly attacked just for having a little girl with us. But no one could really go against his decision.

I locked eyes with Gunji, who was reclining on a truck tire, combing his hair over his forehead, assuming a serious expression. He was the only one among us who wasn’t family. Gunji, too, came to ride in our truck because of me. We were neighbors for over a decade. Gunji spent more time at my house than his own. Gunji was often beaten up, both at home and at school. My mom even went to the school and fought with his teacher. She paid a visit to each of the parents whose children hit Gunji and argued with them one by one. But she could not fight Gunji’s dad. Such an effort could have led to her death.

After Gunji’s mom became sick and died, his dad drunkenly tried to kill Gunji and himself. Gunji hid in our cellar and refused to come out, even after his dad died. I was not able to look after Gunji, who had starved for several days, stuck in the dark cellar. Recalling those days . . . time collapses on itself. I can’t recall the events in order . . . No, there is no order. Everything happened at once. Gunji’s dad and my mom and my relatives and our neighbors all died in an instant. The sun came up even when I did not sleep. I could not breathe, but I did not die. I was in a state of consciousness where I could not distinguish whether the things I was seeing and hearing were nightmares or reality. Looking at a burning building, I wondered if it was something that I had done. Looking at the people who had died, I trembled with fear, unsure if I had killed them. The world spun on in a macabre dance. A distorted melody sounded from every direction. Though I did not speak, a spell of curses leaked out on their own. Though I didn’t cry, tears flowed down my cheeks. When I got on the truck to leave, I met eyes with Gunji, who had been quietly watching us from behind the cellar door. Only then did I realize that Gunji was still alive. I sprinted over and grabbed him by the hand. Gunji held on to the door and refused to come out. Even when I pulled so hard that I nearly fell backward in that high-stakes game of tug-of-war, Gunji would not budge one bit. Dad jumped out of his truck, threw me on his shoulders, and tossed me into the cargo hold. Shrieking at the top of my lungs, I ran back to Gunji. If they wanted to take me with them, they had no choice but to take Gunji along as well. My family did not take to Gunji, who was not family to them. But Gunji kept his head up. He grew much more assertive than he ever was in Korea.

—Sis.

The other day, Gunji had talked to me with a dazed look on his face.

—I just remembered this time I was watching soccer on the salon TV, a game against Qatar or something. Anyway, some old man getting a haircut was watching it too and got all riled up and started cursing. Then he said, “Ah, they’re such crap, it’s like they’re playing with their feet!”

I waited for Gunji to continue.

—He was mad that they were playing soccer with their feet.

Gunji said again, this time with emphasis. Only then did I understand and burst into laughter.

—So the lady was like, “They run around and kick the ball with their feet. What are they going to do, run their mouths like a certain somebody around here?”

I could picture that whole scene so well that I was giggling for awhile, then stifled myself mid-laugh. I felt the adults’ icy stares.

We who had lost our family and become refugees could not laugh.

We had left our jokes and our laughter behind in our hometown.

The adults did not speak unless it was absolutely necessary. To them, words were like a bucket used to draw from a well of emotions. The longer they talked, the more biting sentiments like criticism and resentment splashed past the brim. And though they never raised their voices or spat out horrible insults, conversations kept cooling off. The self-recrimination and guilt—the belief that it was a sin to have survived and a further sin to continue evading death, that you and I were wicked humans all the same—had struck deep into people’s dim eyes and speech. I knew. That our misery made us like this. That we were pinned down by death. That we could not be free from memory, that we were too exhausted to look out into the future. For those reasons, I was even more certain that I did not want to gradually resemble misery. I did not want to belittle life. I did not know what death or life really was at this point, but I at least did not want to think of it as some kind of mistake or punishment. With that sort of thinking, I could cope with neither Mom’s death nor my life.

—I might be wrong to think this way, but . . .

One night, Gunji spoke as if he’d entered a confessional booth. He said there were times when he actually felt relieved to live in the present, where he didn’t have to go to school and his dad was gone and everyone was equally unfortunate. That now he didn’t think about wanting to die, at least. That he felt confident about not getting beaten up by anyone if he were to return to Korea and attend school again, but didn’t want that sort of “what if” to materialize.

—So you don’t want to go back to Korea?

—There’s nothing good there anymore. Your mom’s not there, either.

—Do you have somewhere else you want to go, then?

—I’ve been thinking about that all this time, and . . .

Gunji was thinking about the future. The kid who used to have a habit of repeating, “It’s better for scum like me to just drop dead.”

—I think an ocean that’s warm year-round would be nice.

Gunji said even if it took a long, long time, he would keep moving forward and never give up and reach a place like that at any cost. He said he would build a house by the beach and swim in the ocean. He said he would catch fish and pick sweet, tangy berries and give them to someone he loves. Gunji had a dream. This dream that he’d never had in Korea he developed after the disaster.

—Sis, do you want to go back to Korea?

I thought I’d for sure go back to Korea once everything settled down. How could I have thought such a thing? What was in Korea? There was nothing there. Just as there’s nothing here. No. Here, there’s family. There’s an endless road before us, and a tomorrow we can’t predict. Back in Korea, I wanted to be a fashion designer, but now a dream like that is useless. A warm ocean where I can build a house and swim around and catch fish and . . . I must dream such dreams. Because fashion designers may no longer exist, but an ocean that’s warm year-round must exist somewhere. Because regardless of how much time passes and whether humans go extinct, the ocean would be there.

—Or, do you wanna come with me?

Gunji’s eyes shone with determination, something I’d never seen before in him. To dream. To share that dream. For Gunji, a dream was something new that he’d never touched before, something like first love that could be simply embraced without alteration or calculation because he’d never failed at it before. I tried imagining the warm ocean of a world in ruins. Like the silence that lingers after a long symphony, the image grew empty and forlorn somehow.

I tried to give Dori my shoes, but she wouldn’t take them. She turned away even when I slipped her some food that I’d saved for her. Dori didn’t touch anything belonging to the truck. She’d sit only on the outermost edge, where she could, at any moment, open the door and jump out; in the meantime, she sat in her corner like someone who could neither see nor hear, or like a bundle of blankets. Seeing Dori act that way, one of my aunts commented that “at least she knows her place.” My aunt-in-law was less forgiving, though, saying, “That girl is too cold-hearted. When an adult asks her something, she should at least say something in response.” Even as the adults exchanged such words with one another, Dori didn’t change her silence or her blank expression. She sat still like a doll and even breathed silently, and only appeared to become human when she looked at Miso. I, in turn, became a doll as well. I sat across from them and just kept staring at Dori.

Every part of Dori—her eyes, nose, lips, ears—was slender and long. Her slim, petite body looked like a sapling one would plant on Arbor Day. I wanted to comb the tangle of hair coming down from her fur hat. I wanted to comb it and put it in a nice braid or just cut it to her shoulders. I wanted to tell her, You’re really cute. How old was she? Where had she lived? What had she done for a living? What had happened to her parents? How had life in Korea been for her? Though I was curious about all of those things, I didn’t ask her anything. I didn’t ask; I simply gazed at her. Inside the bumpy car I’d made conversation only in my head, taking silence as a reply, and so I thought it was fine to not know those things. I didn’t know Dori’s wounds, and Dori didn’t know mine— perhaps that’s why we could see each other as we were in that moment. It was even possible for us to build a new story of our own.

After speeding down a two-lane expressway all day, we drove into a city in ruins. Like all the places we’d passed through so far, it was shrouded in snow and darkness. I occasionally spotted some people but couldn’t tell if they were locals who lived there or drifters stopping by. The streets were bleak and dirty, and every store bore traces of having been looted. We decided to repair the car and spend the night there.

Even when my family gathered for dinner, Dori and Miso sat far away from us as they ate a little bit of canned food and drank bottled water from their bags. And then they disappeared. I worried that they’d maybe left for good, but they returned before dark. Dori was wearing shoes that weren’t new but didn’t have holes in them. Miso’s shoes were different, too. Dori made a small fire using the building near our truck as a windbreak and laid out everyone’s sleeping bags. Watching her do that made me angry. Especially because I was wound up after spending the whole day fretting over Dori: where she was and what she was eating and how she was feeling.

—Go sleep in the car instead. If you’re uncomfortable around the adults, you can just stay by my side, y’know.

Dori tucked a blanket over Miso and checked on the fire.

—I’m telling you, even if something bad were to happen, it’s safest to be by my side.

Dori shook her head and muttered.

—There’s nowhere safe.

—Yeah. So let’s stick together.

—I’m fine out here.

—But I’m not fine with that.

—Don’t worry about me.

—How can I not worry about you? I’m the one who put you in this car.

—I really do appreciate it.

Dori spoke very slowly.

—I’m being careful for a reason. Everyone’s lost their family. They probably don’t like me showing up out of the blue and acting like I’m part of the family. Why did my kid die, and why is that kid alive. Why is that kid eating the food that my kid should’ve eaten. That’s how they look at me . . .

—Fine. Suit yourself.

Because I couldn’t tell Dori she had it all wrong, because I couldn’t hate her for saying what she said, because I couldn’t argue any longer, I was about to turn around when Dori held my hand and promptly let it go. A small box sat in my hand, like a magic trick. I opened the box. Lipstick. Glossy and rose scented.

—Where did you get this?

I murmured, unable to take my eyes off the tube. Dori gestured to my hair.

—I thought it’d go well together.

I put it on immediately. My lips being dry and chapped, I couldn’t apply the product as smoothly as I had in the past but felt better just smelling the sweet rose scent right under my nose. Dori cleaned up my lip line with her finger. I tried to put it on Dori as well, but she dodged and refused. Elated, I jumped around Dori like a filly, and then brought over my sleeping bag and blanket from the truck.

—Didn’t you say you didn’t want to sleep in the car? I can sleep here, then.

—Your dad won’t like that.

—Doesn’t matter.

—If your dad doesn’t like me, then I can’t ride in his car.

—You should lie down soon.

Dori didn’t listen to me, and I didn’t listen to Dori either. I clutched the lipstick, lay on my side, and looked at her. The moment Dori gave it to me, I realized how much I’d been wanting it. On this desolate, frozen expanse of land—on this endless, endless road—amid these people weary from misfortune and despair, I’d been wanting exactly this sort of thing. Something that I couldn’t eat or wear, but made me more myself. Something that I couldn’t do without, like jokes and laughter, despite everyone calling me pathetic. And then I was filled with regret. When we left Korea I’d grabbed only a few photos as keepsakes of Mom, but I really should’ve held onto more things like the lipstick. Mom’s makeup, Mom’s scarves, Mom’s pajamas, items that bore Mom’s scent and trace.

My mom’s hair salon was a fun playground. I played with the brushes, wigs, and makeup there from a very young age. It always smelled nice in the salon. The yogurt in the fridge and the coffee mix never ran out, and there was always some snack, like pastries or rice crackers or boiled sweet potatoes, set on the old table in front of the sofa. Mom didn’t have to prepare the food herself because the neighborhood ladies kept bringing it over. They reminded me of the rabbit in a children’s song, who comes to the spring to wash his face, but leaves after only drinking the water; they would bring food to share, chat about all sorts of things, and then suddenly clear out of the salon saying, “Oh, look at the time.” The regulars were like sparrows that delivered all sorts of fun stories in their beaks.

The summer I turned fifteen, I was playing with the straightener, alone, when I completely burned off the ends of my hair. That was when Mom cut my hair short. I was very pleased with myself in the mirror. Because Mom had shaped my hair well, I sometimes cut my own hair. It was very easy. I just had to cut away my hair with salon scissors as I’d cut down weeds. Once I even cut Gunji’s hair. When I finished, he erupted like a volcano. I insisted on how cool and unique his new hairstyle was. Despite being persuaded, Gunji came back from school the next day and erupted again. I also learned how to do makeup from my mom. Mom was good at finding colors that complemented my skin tone. Mom was someone who loved beautiful things, was beautiful herself, and knew how to find beauty. Grandfather had left it up to Mom and Dad to choose a name for me because I was a girl. Mom named me in a heartbeat. I loved my name. Because it was the first present that my mom ever gave me. Even when I got into a fight with a friend, my annoyance would subside as soon as she called my name. I’d think, How important could this petty grudge possibly be?

—Jina.

Dori called my name, caressing my cheeks.

—Please, I’m asking you. Go sleep in the car.

Half asleep, I still managed to shake my head.

—We have to stay together. That’s the only way we can be safe.

I don’t know if I said that before I fell asleep or while dreaming. I’m not even sure if it’s something I said or something Dori said. When I opened my eyes in the morning, nothing else but those two sentences had stayed with me so vividly. Like a tattoo across my heart, of a maxim that only I could recognize.


From 
해가 지는 곳으로 (Seoul: Minumsa Publishing Group, 2017). By arrangement with the publisher. Translation © 2018 by Soje. All rights reserved.

English Korean (Original)

Dori

I opened my eyes. The bonfire had gone out. I could hear a babble of voices. Speaking Korean. It sounded like more than a couple of people. It was still dark outside. I woke Miso up and took a peek. There were two large box trucks parked in the vegetable garden. I did a head count. There were more than ten people. Several of them waved their flashlights into the house. I hid in the farthest corner of the room with Miso in my arms. People were busily lighting a fire and heating up their food. They made hot water from the snow and washed their hands and faces. The smell of grilled meat wafted in. I gagged. I held Miso tightly in my arms. So she wouldn’t be able to smell anything. So she wouldn’t be able to see anything. With only a wall separating us, these people ate and drank and spoke in Korean. They called each other honey, you, sir.

—Jina. Jina.

A man spoke in a low but resounding voice.

—It’s dangerous. Don’t go off on your own.

This “Jina” didn’t seem to listen to the man. The man called after Jina several more times. Along with a flashlight beam, a small head suddenly popped through the window. A little later I heard light, quick footsteps in the direction of the missing door. I hid Miso behind my back and took out my jackknife.

The flashlight beam that had suddenly appeared out of the black empty space shined on me.

—Jina, get back here. Don’t go just anywhere. I’m telling you, it’s dangerous.

The person who had lowered her flashlight before approaching me leaned out the window and shouted.

—Fine! I’m coming, I’m coming.

Jina turned from the window and looked over at me without a word. I held the jackknife up to my chest. Jina did not draw any closer. She laid down the flashlight, pointing the light at herself. With her face and body totally bundled up in bulky winter clothes, I could make out only a pair of eyes and a nose under the hat. Jina, who was staring at me intently, suddenly took off her woolen hat and revealed more of herself. Her hair was a dark blood red. I recoiled in surprise. Miso squirmed and stuck her head out from behind me.

—Oh.

Jina broke the silence.

—I see there’s a little kid, too.

She drew a little closer.

—Is she your little sister?

She asked without hesitation, as if to chat up a friend.

—Surely she can’t be your daughter.

She murmured like she was thinking out loud, combing through her disheveled hair with her fingers.

—Is it just you and the kiddo?

Jina did not put up her guard with me.

—You’re from Korea, right?

I did not let my guard down. Jina scratched her cheek, looking at me as I said nothing in response.

—A-im peurom Koria.

Out of the blue, she spoke English.

—Wheo al yu peurom?

I sensed a slight Gyeongsang dialect.

—Naiseu tu mit yu.

She took another step toward me and extended her hand.

—If it’s not this either . . . Hajimemashite.

After greeting me in Japanese, Jina quietly gazed at me for a moment, fixed her fur hat, and switched back to Korean.

—Don’t worry. We’re not bad people. No one’s infected, and we don’t eat kid liver. We’re going to spend the night right out there and leave in the morning . . . But still, I won’t tell anyone that I saw you here.

With a faint smile, Jina slowly backed away into the distance. The light faded, and the air fell dark again. I felt like I had dreamed with my eyes open. My heart was pounding hard. Not because I was afraid . . . No, I was afraid. No, it wasn’t that I was afraid . . . I was afraid.

Miso signed.

—Are we leaving now?

I nodded, then shook my head. I signed back.

—Let’s stay here tonight.

Seated upright, I kept dozing off. Between my catnaps, the view outside the window gradually deepened into a black blue. At last I ended up lying down on my side. My consciousness poured into a black pit as if I were plunging into hell. Even in my sleep, I remembered Jina’s English and chuckled. My laughing surprised me, and I woke up. A small bonfire was blazing. I sat up. Jina held out a small cup.

—Coffee.

Jina placed the cup in my hand. Wondering if this was a dream, I merely watched the pure white steam bloom and rise from the black liquid. Jina wrapped her hand around mine, tipping the cup to try the first sip. Then, without letting go of my hand, she tipped the cup to my lips. My lips were gently wetted by the black liquid. It was real coffee. Real. Coffee. I sipped it sweetly. I felt the warmth spread inside, and it felt like every cell in my body was startled awake. I did not take my lips off the cup and kept taking little sips.

Jina muttered, patting my shoes.

—Your shoes are a mess.

Her hair was blood red last night. I was thinking about how much I wanted to take off that fur hat to see if I’d dreamed it all up—just thinking about it—when my hand tugged at it, exposing her red hair.

—Agh . . . My hair’s probably super gross and oily and matted down . . .

She muttered again as she ran her fingers through her hair, but she did not show any sign of embarrassment.

—You’re also from Korea, right?

She warmed her hands by the bonfire.

—What should I call you?

I was flustered.

—You can call me Jina.

Jina came into focus, right before my eyes. Hers were the color of ash. She rubbed her nose.

—By the way, where are you going? Have you decided?

My eyes could not lie, and Jina kept trying to meet them. I lowered my head and drank the coffee. Jina laid her hand on mine and pressed down a little. It felt like she was saying, Lift up your head and look at me, so I looked up.

—Do you want to go with me?

Jina, with those gray eyes and that red hair.

—Let’s go together.

I knew. What it was I needed. Where it was.

Jina

The early risers were filling the open air with their voices and clatter. I stood outside the window and waved Dori over. She held Miso’s hand and walked up next to me. I pointed to each person, explaining who was who. Then I locked eyes with Dad. He remained unperturbed even when he saw Dori. My dad was a hard man to surprise. In Korea, my extended family all lived together in the same neighborhood. There used to be more than fifty of us altogether. More than thirty people died among us. In a matter of two days. Even then, Dad did not panic. My aunt who lost her parents and her children hanged herself. My uncle who lost his wife and his children jumped from his apartment building. My dad, who lost his parents, his wife, and his siblings, declared with a terrifying look on his face that he would not let anyone else die. Dad started accepting gold and diamonds left and right, selling off all the cars from his used foreign car dealership. Except for two box trucks, sturdy and large. He crammed our living relatives into those trucks along with a load of necessities, and we made our escape from Korea.

People used to tell me that I’m a lot like my dad. After hearing this repeatedly growing up, I really thought I resembled my dad. Now I see it differently. It’s not that I actually resemble my dad; it’s just that I grew up hearing that I resembled my dad. Which, in turn, made me a lot like my dad.

I said I wanted to take Dori and Miso with us. Dad didn’t think long about it.

—Just this once.

That was his answer.

—You can’t take anyone else now.

He added, to be safe.

—In order to ride with us, you’ll have to compensate us in some way.

He looked directly at Dori.

—If you happen to be carrying a gun, hand it over already.

Without a word, Dori opened up her knapsack and let my dad rifle through it. He then patted down Dori and Miso. When Dad found a jackknife in Dori’s pocket, he burst into laughter.

—What can you even do with something like this?

Dad mimed opening a can with the jackknife without wiping the patronizing smirk off his face. But when Dori said she had escaped Korea and traveled on foot from Ulan-Ude with Miso, he was briefly at a loss for words.

—Without anyone’s help?

Dad eyed Dori’s blank expression.

—Without killing anyone?

Dori didn’t answer. Miso, despite the scared look on her face, smiled a little when she met my gaze.

—How long did it take?

—I didn’t count the days.

He paused for a bit.

—Sure.

Dad put her jackknife in his pocket. Dori asked him to give it back.

—It’s too dangerous for you to carry.

—The itty-bitty thing that can barely open a can?

—Doesn’t matter. No.

—Please give it back.

—I’ll give it back to you when I can trust you.

—There’s no need for that. Please give it back now.

—What do you mean?

—I’m saying, it’s OK if you don’t trust me. Because I won’t be trusting you, either.

Dad fiddled with the jackknife and stared at Dori for awhile. She did not avert her gaze.

—I suppose it’s better than asking you to blindly trust me.

He returned the jackknife to Dori.

—You cannot disobey my orders from now on. If you do, I’ll have no choice but to kick you out. And it’s best that you not expect us to treat you like family.

Several of my relatives aired their grievances when they heard Dad’s decision to take Dori and Miso with us. The reproach: How many strays are you planning to pick up off the side of the road? The complaint: You must think there’s plenty of food to go around. The suspicion: Since you decided to give them a ride without knowing anything about them, what are you going to do once they start stealing from us? The concern: We might get randomly attacked just for having a little girl with us. But no one could really go against his decision.

I locked eyes with Gunji, who was reclining on a truck tire, combing his hair over his forehead, assuming a serious expression. He was the only one among us who wasn’t family. Gunji, too, came to ride in our truck because of me. We were neighbors for over a decade. Gunji spent more time at my house than his own. Gunji was often beaten up, both at home and at school. My mom even went to the school and fought with his teacher. She paid a visit to each of the parents whose children hit Gunji and argued with them one by one. But she could not fight Gunji’s dad. Such an effort could have led to her death.

After Gunji’s mom became sick and died, his dad drunkenly tried to kill Gunji and himself. Gunji hid in our cellar and refused to come out, even after his dad died. I was not able to look after Gunji, who had starved for several days, stuck in the dark cellar. Recalling those days . . . time collapses on itself. I can’t recall the events in order . . . No, there is no order. Everything happened at once. Gunji’s dad and my mom and my relatives and our neighbors all died in an instant. The sun came up even when I did not sleep. I could not breathe, but I did not die. I was in a state of consciousness where I could not distinguish whether the things I was seeing and hearing were nightmares or reality. Looking at a burning building, I wondered if it was something that I had done. Looking at the people who had died, I trembled with fear, unsure if I had killed them. The world spun on in a macabre dance. A distorted melody sounded from every direction. Though I did not speak, a spell of curses leaked out on their own. Though I didn’t cry, tears flowed down my cheeks. When I got on the truck to leave, I met eyes with Gunji, who had been quietly watching us from behind the cellar door. Only then did I realize that Gunji was still alive. I sprinted over and grabbed him by the hand. Gunji held on to the door and refused to come out. Even when I pulled so hard that I nearly fell backward in that high-stakes game of tug-of-war, Gunji would not budge one bit. Dad jumped out of his truck, threw me on his shoulders, and tossed me into the cargo hold. Shrieking at the top of my lungs, I ran back to Gunji. If they wanted to take me with them, they had no choice but to take Gunji along as well. My family did not take to Gunji, who was not family to them. But Gunji kept his head up. He grew much more assertive than he ever was in Korea.

—Sis.

The other day, Gunji had talked to me with a dazed look on his face.

—I just remembered this time I was watching soccer on the salon TV, a game against Qatar or something. Anyway, some old man getting a haircut was watching it too and got all riled up and started cursing. Then he said, “Ah, they’re such crap, it’s like they’re playing with their feet!”

I waited for Gunji to continue.

—He was mad that they were playing soccer with their feet.

Gunji said again, this time with emphasis. Only then did I understand and burst into laughter.

—So the lady was like, “They run around and kick the ball with their feet. What are they going to do, run their mouths like a certain somebody around here?”

I could picture that whole scene so well that I was giggling for awhile, then stifled myself mid-laugh. I felt the adults’ icy stares.

We who had lost our family and become refugees could not laugh.

We had left our jokes and our laughter behind in our hometown.

The adults did not speak unless it was absolutely necessary. To them, words were like a bucket used to draw from a well of emotions. The longer they talked, the more biting sentiments like criticism and resentment splashed past the brim. And though they never raised their voices or spat out horrible insults, conversations kept cooling off. The self-recrimination and guilt—the belief that it was a sin to have survived and a further sin to continue evading death, that you and I were wicked humans all the same—had struck deep into people’s dim eyes and speech. I knew. That our misery made us like this. That we were pinned down by death. That we could not be free from memory, that we were too exhausted to look out into the future. For those reasons, I was even more certain that I did not want to gradually resemble misery. I did not want to belittle life. I did not know what death or life really was at this point, but I at least did not want to think of it as some kind of mistake or punishment. With that sort of thinking, I could cope with neither Mom’s death nor my life.

—I might be wrong to think this way, but . . .

One night, Gunji spoke as if he’d entered a confessional booth. He said there were times when he actually felt relieved to live in the present, where he didn’t have to go to school and his dad was gone and everyone was equally unfortunate. That now he didn’t think about wanting to die, at least. That he felt confident about not getting beaten up by anyone if he were to return to Korea and attend school again, but didn’t want that sort of “what if” to materialize.

—So you don’t want to go back to Korea?

—There’s nothing good there anymore. Your mom’s not there, either.

—Do you have somewhere else you want to go, then?

—I’ve been thinking about that all this time, and . . .

Gunji was thinking about the future. The kid who used to have a habit of repeating, “It’s better for scum like me to just drop dead.”

—I think an ocean that’s warm year-round would be nice.

Gunji said even if it took a long, long time, he would keep moving forward and never give up and reach a place like that at any cost. He said he would build a house by the beach and swim in the ocean. He said he would catch fish and pick sweet, tangy berries and give them to someone he loves. Gunji had a dream. This dream that he’d never had in Korea he developed after the disaster.

—Sis, do you want to go back to Korea?

I thought I’d for sure go back to Korea once everything settled down. How could I have thought such a thing? What was in Korea? There was nothing there. Just as there’s nothing here. No. Here, there’s family. There’s an endless road before us, and a tomorrow we can’t predict. Back in Korea, I wanted to be a fashion designer, but now a dream like that is useless. A warm ocean where I can build a house and swim around and catch fish and . . . I must dream such dreams. Because fashion designers may no longer exist, but an ocean that’s warm year-round must exist somewhere. Because regardless of how much time passes and whether humans go extinct, the ocean would be there.

—Or, do you wanna come with me?

Gunji’s eyes shone with determination, something I’d never seen before in him. To dream. To share that dream. For Gunji, a dream was something new that he’d never touched before, something like first love that could be simply embraced without alteration or calculation because he’d never failed at it before. I tried imagining the warm ocean of a world in ruins. Like the silence that lingers after a long symphony, the image grew empty and forlorn somehow.

I tried to give Dori my shoes, but she wouldn’t take them. She turned away even when I slipped her some food that I’d saved for her. Dori didn’t touch anything belonging to the truck. She’d sit only on the outermost edge, where she could, at any moment, open the door and jump out; in the meantime, she sat in her corner like someone who could neither see nor hear, or like a bundle of blankets. Seeing Dori act that way, one of my aunts commented that “at least she knows her place.” My aunt-in-law was less forgiving, though, saying, “That girl is too cold-hearted. When an adult asks her something, she should at least say something in response.” Even as the adults exchanged such words with one another, Dori didn’t change her silence or her blank expression. She sat still like a doll and even breathed silently, and only appeared to become human when she looked at Miso. I, in turn, became a doll as well. I sat across from them and just kept staring at Dori.

Every part of Dori—her eyes, nose, lips, ears—was slender and long. Her slim, petite body looked like a sapling one would plant on Arbor Day. I wanted to comb the tangle of hair coming down from her fur hat. I wanted to comb it and put it in a nice braid or just cut it to her shoulders. I wanted to tell her, You’re really cute. How old was she? Where had she lived? What had she done for a living? What had happened to her parents? How had life in Korea been for her? Though I was curious about all of those things, I didn’t ask her anything. I didn’t ask; I simply gazed at her. Inside the bumpy car I’d made conversation only in my head, taking silence as a reply, and so I thought it was fine to not know those things. I didn’t know Dori’s wounds, and Dori didn’t know mine— perhaps that’s why we could see each other as we were in that moment. It was even possible for us to build a new story of our own.

After speeding down a two-lane expressway all day, we drove into a city in ruins. Like all the places we’d passed through so far, it was shrouded in snow and darkness. I occasionally spotted some people but couldn’t tell if they were locals who lived there or drifters stopping by. The streets were bleak and dirty, and every store bore traces of having been looted. We decided to repair the car and spend the night there.

Even when my family gathered for dinner, Dori and Miso sat far away from us as they ate a little bit of canned food and drank bottled water from their bags. And then they disappeared. I worried that they’d maybe left for good, but they returned before dark. Dori was wearing shoes that weren’t new but didn’t have holes in them. Miso’s shoes were different, too. Dori made a small fire using the building near our truck as a windbreak and laid out everyone’s sleeping bags. Watching her do that made me angry. Especially because I was wound up after spending the whole day fretting over Dori: where she was and what she was eating and how she was feeling.

—Go sleep in the car instead. If you’re uncomfortable around the adults, you can just stay by my side, y’know.

Dori tucked a blanket over Miso and checked on the fire.

—I’m telling you, even if something bad were to happen, it’s safest to be by my side.

Dori shook her head and muttered.

—There’s nowhere safe.

—Yeah. So let’s stick together.

—I’m fine out here.

—But I’m not fine with that.

—Don’t worry about me.

—How can I not worry about you? I’m the one who put you in this car.

—I really do appreciate it.

Dori spoke very slowly.

—I’m being careful for a reason. Everyone’s lost their family. They probably don’t like me showing up out of the blue and acting like I’m part of the family. Why did my kid die, and why is that kid alive. Why is that kid eating the food that my kid should’ve eaten. That’s how they look at me . . .

—Fine. Suit yourself.

Because I couldn’t tell Dori she had it all wrong, because I couldn’t hate her for saying what she said, because I couldn’t argue any longer, I was about to turn around when Dori held my hand and promptly let it go. A small box sat in my hand, like a magic trick. I opened the box. Lipstick. Glossy and rose scented.

—Where did you get this?

I murmured, unable to take my eyes off the tube. Dori gestured to my hair.

—I thought it’d go well together.

I put it on immediately. My lips being dry and chapped, I couldn’t apply the product as smoothly as I had in the past but felt better just smelling the sweet rose scent right under my nose. Dori cleaned up my lip line with her finger. I tried to put it on Dori as well, but she dodged and refused. Elated, I jumped around Dori like a filly, and then brought over my sleeping bag and blanket from the truck.

—Didn’t you say you didn’t want to sleep in the car? I can sleep here, then.

—Your dad won’t like that.

—Doesn’t matter.

—If your dad doesn’t like me, then I can’t ride in his car.

—You should lie down soon.

Dori didn’t listen to me, and I didn’t listen to Dori either. I clutched the lipstick, lay on my side, and looked at her. The moment Dori gave it to me, I realized how much I’d been wanting it. On this desolate, frozen expanse of land—on this endless, endless road—amid these people weary from misfortune and despair, I’d been wanting exactly this sort of thing. Something that I couldn’t eat or wear, but made me more myself. Something that I couldn’t do without, like jokes and laughter, despite everyone calling me pathetic. And then I was filled with regret. When we left Korea I’d grabbed only a few photos as keepsakes of Mom, but I really should’ve held onto more things like the lipstick. Mom’s makeup, Mom’s scarves, Mom’s pajamas, items that bore Mom’s scent and trace.

My mom’s hair salon was a fun playground. I played with the brushes, wigs, and makeup there from a very young age. It always smelled nice in the salon. The yogurt in the fridge and the coffee mix never ran out, and there was always some snack, like pastries or rice crackers or boiled sweet potatoes, set on the old table in front of the sofa. Mom didn’t have to prepare the food herself because the neighborhood ladies kept bringing it over. They reminded me of the rabbit in a children’s song, who comes to the spring to wash his face, but leaves after only drinking the water; they would bring food to share, chat about all sorts of things, and then suddenly clear out of the salon saying, “Oh, look at the time.” The regulars were like sparrows that delivered all sorts of fun stories in their beaks.

The summer I turned fifteen, I was playing with the straightener, alone, when I completely burned off the ends of my hair. That was when Mom cut my hair short. I was very pleased with myself in the mirror. Because Mom had shaped my hair well, I sometimes cut my own hair. It was very easy. I just had to cut away my hair with salon scissors as I’d cut down weeds. Once I even cut Gunji’s hair. When I finished, he erupted like a volcano. I insisted on how cool and unique his new hairstyle was. Despite being persuaded, Gunji came back from school the next day and erupted again. I also learned how to do makeup from my mom. Mom was good at finding colors that complemented my skin tone. Mom was someone who loved beautiful things, was beautiful herself, and knew how to find beauty. Grandfather had left it up to Mom and Dad to choose a name for me because I was a girl. Mom named me in a heartbeat. I loved my name. Because it was the first present that my mom ever gave me. Even when I got into a fight with a friend, my annoyance would subside as soon as she called my name. I’d think, How important could this petty grudge possibly be?

—Jina.

Dori called my name, caressing my cheeks.

—Please, I’m asking you. Go sleep in the car.

Half asleep, I still managed to shake my head.

—We have to stay together. That’s the only way we can be safe.

I don’t know if I said that before I fell asleep or while dreaming. I’m not even sure if it’s something I said or something Dori said. When I opened my eyes in the morning, nothing else but those two sentences had stayed with me so vividly. Like a tattoo across my heart, of a maxim that only I could recognize.


From 
해가 지는 곳으로 (Seoul: Minumsa Publishing Group, 2017). By arrangement with the publisher. Translation © 2018 by Soje. All rights reserved.

도리와 지나

도리

 

눈을 떴다. 모닥불은 꺼져 있었다. 웅성거리는 소리가 들렸다. 한국말이었다. 한두 명이 아닌 것 같았다. 바깥은 아직 어두웠다. 미소를 깨우고 바깥을 엿봤다. 텃밭에 커다란 탑차 두 대가 서 있었다. 사람 수를 세었다. 열 명이 넘었다. 몇몇이 손전등으로 집안을 비췄다. 미소를 안고 벽 모서리에 숨었다. 사람들은 분주히 불을 피우고 음식을 데웠다. 쌓인 눈을 모아 더운물을 만들고 손과 얼굴을 씻었다. 구워진 고기 냄새가 흘러들었다. 헛구역질이 올라왔다. 품 안의 미소를 세게 안았다. 아무 냄새도 맡지 못하게. 아무것도 보지 못하게. 벽 하나를 사이에 두고 사람들은 먹고 마시며 한국말을 했다. 여보 자네 형님이라고 서로를 불렀다.

지나, 지나.

한 남자가 낮지만 짱짱한 목소리로 말했다.

위험해. 혼자 다니지 마.

지나라는 자는 남자의 말을 듣지 않는 듯했다. 남자는 몇 번이나 더 지나를 불렀다. 손전등 불빛과 함께 작은 머리 하나가 창 안으로 불쑥 넘어왔다. 잠시 후 떨어져 나간문 쪽에서 가볍고 날랜 발소리가 들렸다. 미소를 등 뒤로 숨기고 잭나이프를 꺼내 쥐었다.

까만 허공에서 갑자기 나타난 손전등 불빛이 나를 비췄다.

지나, 이리 와. 아무 데나 들어가지 마. 위험하다고.

손전등을 내린 채 내게 다가오던 자가 창밖으로 몸을 내밀며 소리쳤다.

알았어. 가, 간다고.

지나는 창에서 몸을 거두고 나를 가만히 쳐다봤다. 나는 잭나이프를 가슴께까지 들어 보였다. 지나는 더 다가오지 않고 손전등 불빛이 자기 쪽을 향하게 내려놓았다. 모자와 옷으로 얼굴과 몸을 둘둘 감싸서 눈과 코만 간신히 알아볼 수 있었다. 나를 빤히 쳐다보던 지나가 갑자기 털모자를 벗어 자기를 더 자세히 보여 줬다. 머리칼이 어두운 핏빛이었다. 놀라서 뒤로 물러섰다. 등 뒤의 미소가 몸을 뒤틀더니 고개를 빼꼼 내밀었다.

어.

지나가 입을 열었다.

꼬마도 있네.

지나가 조금 다가왔다.

동생이야?

친구에게 말을 걸 듯 스스럼없이 질문했다.

설마 딸은 아니겠지.

헝클어진 머리칼을 손가락으로 정리하며 혼잣말하듯 중얼거렸다.

너랑 꼬마랑 둘뿐이야?

지나는 나를 경계하지 않았다.

한국에서 온 거 맞지?

나는 경계를 늦추지 않았다. 대답 없는 나를 바라보며 볼을 긁던 지나가 느닷없이,

아임 프롬 코리아.

영어를 했다.

웨어 알 유 프롬?

경상도 억양이 느껴졌다.

나이스 투 밋 유.

한 발 더 다가오며 손을 내밀었다.

이것도 아니면…… 하지메 마시떼.

나를 가만히 쳐다보던 지나가 털모자를 다시 쓰며 말했다.

걱정 마. 우린 나쁜 사람들 아니야. 병에 걸린 사람도 없고 아이 간을 먹지도 않아. 저기 밖에서 밤을 보내고 아침에 떠날 거야. ……그래도 여기서 널 본 건 비밀로 할게.

지나는 엷은 웃음을 지으며 뒷걸음질로 천천히 떠났다. 빛이 사라지고 허공은 다시 깜깜해졌다. 눈을 뜬 채 꿈을 꾼 것 같았다. 심장이 거세게 뛰었다. 두려워서가 아니라…… 아니, 두려웠다. 아니, 두려운 게 아니라…… 두려웠다.

미소가 손짓으로 물었다.

우리 지금 떠나?

나는 고개를 끄덕였다가 가로저었다. 미소에게 전했다.

오늘 밤 여기에 있자.

 

 

앉은 채로 자다 깨길 반복했다. 몇 번의 선잠을 지나는 동안 창밖은 서서히 검푸르게 변했다. 끝내 모로 누워 버렸다. 지옥에 빠져들 듯 까만 구멍으로 정신이 모조리 쏟아졌다. 잠결에도 지나의 영어가 생각나 잠깐 웃었다. 웃다가 놀라 눈을 떴다. 작은 모닥불이 타오르고 있었다. 몸을 일으켜 앉았다. 지나가 작은 컵을 내밀었다.

커피.

지나가 내 손에 컵을 쥐여 주며 말했다. 꿈인가 생각하며 새하얀 김이 피어오르는 검은 물을 가만히 쳐다만 봤다. 지나는 자기 손으로 내 손을 감싸고 컵을 기울여 한 모금 먼저 마셔 보였다. 그러고는 내 손을 놓지 않은 채 내 입술로 컵을 기울였다. 검은 물에 입술을 조금 축였다. 정말 커피였다. 진짜, 커피. 한 모금 달게 마셨다. 내장이 따뜻해지며 모든 세포가 황급히 깨어나는 것만 같았다. 컵에서 입술을 떼지 않고 조금씩 계속 마셨다.

신발이 엉망이네.

지나가 내 신발을 만지며 중얼거렸다. 지난밤 지나의 머리칼은 핏빛이었다. 꿈을 꾼 건 아닌지 털모자를 벗겨 보고 싶다고 생각했는데, 생각뿐이었는데 내 손이 털모자를 잡아당겼다. 빨간 머리칼이 드러났다.

아……. 머리카락 떡 진 거 엄청 잘 보일 텐데…….

손가락으로 머리칼을 정리하며 중얼거렸다. 당황한 기색은 아니었다.

너도 한국에서 왔지?

모닥불에 손을 쬐며 물었다.

내가 너를 뭐라고 부르면 돼?

나는 당황했다.

넌 나를 지나라고 부르면 돼.

눈앞의 지나가 점점 더 선명하게 보였다. 눈동자가 잿빛이었다.

근데 넌 어디로 가? 갈 곳을 정했어?

손으로 코를 비비며 지나가 물었다. 나의 눈은 거짓말을 하지 못하고 지나는 자꾸 나와 눈을 맞추려고 했다. 나는 고개를 숙이고 커피를 마셨다. 지나가 내 손등에 자기 손을 얹더니 살짝 힘을 줬다. 고개를 들고 자기를 보라는 뜻 같아서, 고개를 들었다.

나랑 같이 갈래?

빨간 머리칼과 회색 눈을 가진 지나.

나랑 같이 가자.

나는 알았다. 내게 필요한 것이 무엇인지. 그것이 어디에 있는지.

 

*

 

지나

 

잠에서깬 사람들이 소리로 바깥을 채워 가고 있었다. 창가에 서서 도리에게 손짓을 했다. 도리가 미소의 손을 잡고 내 옆에 섰다. 나는 사람들을 가리키며 누가 누구인지 설명했다. 그러다 아빠와 눈이 마주쳤다. 아빠는 도리를 보고도 태연했다. 아빠는 좀처럼 놀라지 않는다. 한국에서 아빠 엄마의 형제들은 모두 같은 동네에 모여 살았다. 다 모이면 50명이 넘었다. 그중 30명 넘는 사람이 죽었다. 겨우 이틀 사이에. 그때도 아빠는 당황하지 않았다. 부모와 자식을 잃은 고모는 목을 맸다. 아내와 자식을 잃은 이모부는 아파트에서 뛰어내렸다. 부모와 아내와 형제를 잃은 아빠는 더는 아무도 죽게 놔두지 않겠다고 무서운 표정으로 선언했다. 수입 중고차 매매업을 하던 아빠는 금붙이나 다이아몬드를 받고 닥치는 대로 차를 팔아 치웠다. 커다랗고 튼튼한 탑차 두 대만 빼고. 그 차에 죽지 않은 친척들과 생필품을 가득 싣고 한국을 빠져나왔다.

사람들은 나를 보고 아빠를 닮았다고들 했다. 워낙 어렸을때부터 그런 말을 들어서 나는 내가 정말 아빠를 닮은 줄 알았다. 지금 생각은 다르다. 나는 아빠를 닮은 게 아니라 아빠를 닮았다는 말을 듣고 자랐을 뿐이다. 그 말이 나를 아빠처럼 만들었고.

 

 

도리와 미소를 데려가고 싶다고 말했다. 아빠는 오래 고민하지 않았다.

이번뿐이야.

하고 말했다.

이제 넌 아무도 태울 수 없어.

확인하듯 덧붙였다.

차에 타면 어떤 식으로든 대가를 치러야 할 거다.

도리를 보며 말했다.

혹시 총을 가지고 있다면 미리 내놓고.

도리는 말없이 자기 배낭을 열어 보였고, 아빠가 배낭을 뒤지도록 내버려 뒀다. 아빠는 도리와 미소의 몸도 뒤졌다. 도리의 주머니에서 잭나이프가 나오자 아빠는 실소를 지었다.

이런 걸로 뭘 할 수 있지?

아빠는 잭나이프로 통조림 따는 시늉을 하면서 우습다는 표정을 거두지 않았다. 하지만 도리가 미소를 데리고 한국을 빠져나와 울란우데부터 걸어왔다는 말을 듣고는 잠시 말을 잃었다.

누구의 도움도 없이?

도리의 무감한 눈빛을 보며 아빠가 물었다.

아무도 죽이지 않고?

도리는 대답하지 않았다. 미소는 겁먹은 표정을 하고서도 나와 눈이 마주치자 조금 웃었다.

얼마나 걸렸지?

날짜는 세지 않았어요.

……그래.

아빠는 잭나이프를 자기 주머니에 넣었다. 도리가 그것을 돌려 달라고 했다.

네가 갖고 있기엔 위험해.

겨우 통조림이나 따는 그런 게요?

어쨌든 안 돼.

돌려주세요.

널 믿을 수 있을 때 돌려줄게.

그럴 필요 없어요. 지금 주세요.

무슨 뜻이냐?

……믿지 않아도 된단 말이에요. 나도 그럴 테니까.

아빠는 잭나이프를 만지작거리면서 한참 동안 도리를 쳐다봤다. 도리는 시선을 피하지 않았다.

……무턱대고 믿어 달라는 것보다는 낫구나.

도리에게 잭나이프를 돌려주며 말했다.

지금부터는 내 말을 어기면 안 된다. 멋대로 굴면 쫓아낼 수밖에 없어. 널 가족처럼 대해 줄 거란 기대는 하지 않는 게 좋고.

도리와 미소를 태우겠다는 아빠의 결정을 듣고 몇몇 친척이 불만을 드러냈다. 도대체 몇이나 주워 태울 작정이냐는 비난. 먹는 게 남아도는 줄 아는가 보다는 불평. 어떤 애인지도 모르고 태웠다가 도둑질이라도 하면 어쩔 거냐는 의심. 어린 아이를 데리고 다니다가는 애꿎은 공격을 당할 수도 있다는 걱정. 하지만 아무도 대놓고 반대하지는 못했다.

트럭 타이어에 기대앉아 머리칼을 이마 너머로 빗어 올리며 한껏 진지한 표정을 짓던 건지와 눈이 마주쳤다. 우리 중 가족이 아닌 사람은 건지뿐. 건지도 나 때문에 트럭에 타게 됐다. 건지와는 10년 넘게 이웃이었다. 건지는 자기 집보다 우리 집에서 더 많은 시간을 보냈다. 건지는 자주 맞았다. 집에서도 맞고 학교에서도 맞았다. 우리 엄마는 학교까지 찾아가서 건지의 선생과 싸웠다. 건지를 때린 아이들 부모를 일일이 찾아다니며 따졌다. 하지만 건지 아빠와 싸우지는 못했다. 그랬다가는 살인 사건이 날 수도 있었다.

건지 엄마가 병으로 죽은 뒤 건지 아빠는 술에 취해 건지를 죽이고 자살하려고 했다. 건지는 우리 집 창고에 숨어들었고 자기 아빠가 죽은 뒤에도 창고에서 나오지 않았다. 어두운 창고에 틀어박혀 몇 날 며칠 굶고 있던 건지를 나는 전혀 챙겨 주지 못했다. 그때를 떠올리면…… 시간이 뭉개져 버린다. 순서대로 떠오르지 않고…… 아니, 순서가 없다. 모두 한꺼번에 터져 버렸으니까. 건지 아빠와 우리 엄마와 친척들과 동네 사람들이 순식간에 죽었다. 잠을 자지 않아도 해가 떴다. 숨을 쉴 수 없는데 죽지 않았다. 보고 듣는 것이 악몽인지 현실인지 구분되지 않을 만큼 각성 상태였다. 불타는 건물을 보며 내가 저지른 짓이 아닌가 의심했다. 죽은 자를 보며 내가 죽인 것은 아닐까 공포에 떨었다. 세상이 흉한 춤을 추었다. 기괴한 노랫소리가 사방에서 들렸다. 말하지 않는데도 저주의 주문이 절로 새어나왔다. 울지 않는데도 눈물이 흘렀다. 떠나려고 트럭에 올랐을 때, 떠나려는 우리를 창고 문 너머에서 가만히 지켜보던 건지와 눈이 마주쳤다. 그제야 건지가 살아 있다는 걸 깨달았다. 달려가 건지 손을 잡아끌었다. 건지는 문을 붙들고 나오려 하지 않았다. 줄다리하듯 거의 누워서 잡아당겨도 건지는 꿈쩍하지 않았다. 아버지가 황급히 트럭에서 내려와 나를 떠메어 짐칸에 집어넣었다. 나는 괴성을 지르며 다시 건지에게 돌아갔다. 나를 태우려면 건지를 태울 수밖에 없었다. 가족들은 가족이 아닌 건지를 달가워하지 않았다. 그래도 건지는 주눅 들지 않았다. 한국에서보다 훨씬 씩씩하게 지냈다.

 

 

누나.

얼마 전 건지가 멍한 표정으로 말했다.

방금 생각난 건데, 전에 미용실에서 축구 보고 있는데, 카타르랑 붙었나 그랬어. 근데 이발하러 온 아저씨가 그걸 같이 보다가 열 받아서 막 욕을 하더니 아, 축구를 발로 하나. 그러는 거야.

나는 건지의 다음 말을 기다렸다.

축구를 발로 한다고 화를 냈다니까.

건지가 한 번 더 강조했다. 그제야 이해하고 웃음을 터트렸다.

그래서 아줌마가, 축구를 발로 하지 그럼 누구처럼 입으로 하냐고.

그 장면이 너무 잘 그려져 한참을 흐흐거리며 웃다가 웃음을 감췄다. 어른들의 차가운 시선이 느껴졌다.

가족을 잃고 피난민이 된 우리는 웃을 수 없는 자들.

농담과 웃음을 고향에 버리고 온 사람들.

어른들은 꼭 필요한 말이 아니면 하지 않았다. 그들에게 말이란 감정을 길어 올리는 두레박 같았다. 말이 길어질수록 비난과 원망처럼 차디찬 감정이 찰랑찰랑 흘러 넘쳤다. 언성 높여 싸우거나 흉한 말을 내뱉는 것도 아닌데 대화의 끝은 자꾸 서늘해졌다. 살아남은 것도 죄도 살겠다고 도망치는 것도 죄라는, 너나 나나 몹쓸 인간이라는 자조와 책망이 눈빛에도 말투에도 깃들어 있었다. 안다. 불행해서 그렇다는 걸. 죽음에 억눌려 있다는 걸. 기억에서 자유로울 수도 없고 미래를 전망하기도 힘들어서라는 걸. 그래서 난 더더욱 불행을 닮아 가고 싶지 않았다. 삶을 업신여기고 싶지 않았다. 죽음이나 삶이 무엇인지 아직 잘 모르지만, 적어도 그것을 어떤 잘못이나 벌이라고 생각하고 싶지는 않았다. 그런 생각으로는 엄마의 죽음도 나의 삶도 견뎌 낼 수 없다.

이런 생각이 잘못일 수도 있지만……

어느 밤 고백 성사라도 하듯 건지가 말했다. 학교에 가지 않아도 되고, 아빠도 없고, 모두가 공평하게 불행한 지금이 차라리 홀가분하게 느껴질 때도 있다고. 적어도 지금은 자살하고 싶다는 생각은 들지 않는다고. 만약 다시 한국으로 돌아가서 학교에 다닌다면 이젠 누구에게도 맞지 않을 자신이 있지만, 그런 만약 같은 건 일어나지 않으면 좋겠다고.

한국으로 돌아가고 싶지 않다고?

거긴 이제 좋은 게 없잖아. 아줌마도 안 계시고.

그럼 넌 가고 싶은 데가 따로 있어?

그걸 여태 생각해 봤는데……

건지는 미래를 생각하고 있었다. 나 같은 건 차라리 뒈지는 게 낫다는 말을 입에 달고 살던 애가.

1년 내내 따뜻한 바다가 좋을 것 같아.

건지는 오래오래 걸려도 포기하지 않고 계속 나아가 꼭 그런 곳에 닿을 거라고 했다. 해변에 집을 짓고 바다에서 헤엄을 치면서 살겠다고 했다. 물고기를 잡고 새콤달콤한 열매를 따서 사랑하는 사람에게 줄 거라고 했다. 건지에게는 꿈이 있었다. 한국에서는 없던 꿈이 재난 이후 생겨 버렸다.

누나는 한국으로 돌아가고 싶어?

모든 게 잠잠해지면 당연히 한국으로 돌아가게 되리라고 생각했었다. 어째서 그런 생각을 했던 걸까. 한국에 무엇이 있다고. 그곳에는 아무것도 없다. 이곳에 아무것도 없는 것처럼. 아니지. 이곳엔 가족이 있지. 끝없이 펼쳐진 길이 있고 예상할 수 없는 내일이 있다. 한국에 있을 때는 패션 디자이너가 되고 싶었는데 이제 그런 꿈은 소용이 없다. 따뜻한 바다에서 집을 짓고 헤엄을 치고 물고기를 잡고…… 그런 꿈을 꾸어야한다. 패션 디자이너 같은 건 없어졌지만 1년 내내 따뜻한 바다란 어딘가에 반드시 존재할 테니까. 시간이 아무리 흘러도, 인간이 모두 사라져도 거기 있을 테니까.

아니면 누나도 나랑 같이 갈래?

건지의 눈빛이 반짝거렸다. 전에 본 적 없는 결연함. 꿈을 꾼다는 것. 그 꿈을 나눈다는 것. 건지에게 꿈이란 전에 닿아본 적 없는 새것, 실패해 본 적 없어 재지 않고 있는 그대로 품을 수 있는 첫사랑 같은 것이었다. 폐허가 된 세상의 따뜻한 바다를 상상해 봤다. 기나긴 교향곡이 끝난 뒤 오래 맴도는 적막처럼 어쩐지 공허하고 서글퍼졌다.

 

 

도리에게 내 신발을 주려고 했지만 받지않았다. 먹을 것을 따로 챙겨 주어도 외면했다. 도리는 탑차의 그 무엇도 건드리지 않았다. 언제든 문을 열고 뛰어내릴 수 있는 가장 바깥쪽에 앉아서, 보이지도 들리지도 않는 사람처럼, 이불 보따리처럼 있을 뿐이었다. 그런 도리를 보고 작은 엄마가 그래도 눈치는 있다고 말했다. 여자애가 너무 차가워요. 어른이 뭘 물으면 대꾸는 해야지. 외숙모가 말했다. 어른들이 그런 말을 주고받아도 도리는 무표정과 침묵을 거두지 않았다. 숨소리도 내지 않고 인형처럼 가만히 앉아 있다가 미소를 바라볼 때만 사람이 되는 것 같았다. 덩달아 나도 인형이 되었다. 맞은편에 앉아 도리를 내내 쳐다보기만 했다.

도리는 눈, 코, 입, 귀 모두 가늘고 기다랬다. 작고 마른 몸이 식목일에 심는 묘목 같았다. 시간이 흘러 조금 친해진다면 털모자 아래로 내려온 헝클어진 머리카락을 빗어 주고 싶었다. 잘 빗어 곱게 땋거나 어깨에 닿을 정도로만 잘라 주고 싶었다. 너 정말 귀엽다고 말해 주고 싶었다. 몇 살일까. 어디에 살았을까. 무슨 일을 했을까. 부모님은 어떻게 되었을까. 한국에서의 생활은 어땠을까. 그런 것들을 궁금해하면서 아무것도 묻지 않았다. 묻지 않고 바라보기만 했다. 덜컹거리는 차 안에서 침묵을 대답 삼아 마음으로만 말을 걸다 보니, 그런거 몰라도 그만이란 생각이 들었다. 나는 도리의 상처를 모르고 도리는 나의 상처를 모르고, 그러니까 서로를 지금 그대로 볼 수 있을지도 모른다. 우리만의 이야기를 새로 쌓을 수도 있을 것이다.

 

 

2차선 도로를 종일 달려 폐허가 된 도시에 들어섰다. 여태 지나온 곳처럼 눈과 어둠으로 뒤덮여 있었다. 간혹 사람이 보였지만 원래 그곳에 살던 자들인지 떠돌다가 잠시 머무르는 자들인지 분간할 수 없었다. 거리는 스산하고 더러웠으며 상점마다 약탈당한 흔적이 남아 있었다. 그곳에서 차를 정비하고 밤을 보내기로 했다.

가족들이 모여 식사를 할 때도 도리와 미소는 멀리 떨어져서 자기 배낭의 통조림과 물을 조금 꺼내 먹었다. 그리고 사라져 버렸다. 혹시 떠난 것은 아닐까 걱정했는데 밤이 깊어지기 전에 돌아왔다. 새 것은 아니지만 구멍이 나지 않은 신발을 신고. 미소의 신발도 바뀌어 있었다. 도리는 트럭 근처 건물을 바람막이 삼아 작은 불을 피우고 침낭을 폈다. 그 모습을 보고 있자니 화가 났다. 도리가 어디에 있고 무엇을 먹고 표정은 어떤지, 그날 내내 도리를 신경 쓰느라 바짝 예민해져 있었기에 더 그랬다.

그러지 말고 차에서 자. 어른들이 불편하면 내 옆에만 있으면 되잖아.

도리는 미소에게 담요를 덮어 주고 모닥불을 살폈다.

만약 나쁜 일이 생기더라도 내 옆에 있는 게 제일 안전하다니까.

도리가 고개를 저으며 중얼거렸다.

안전한 곳은 없어.

그래. 그러니까 같이 있자.

여기가 편해.

내가 불편하잖아.

신경 쓰지 마.

어떻게 신경을 안 써. 내가 널 태웠는데.

……고마워하고 있어.

도리가 아주 천천히 말했다.

그래서 조심하는 거야. 다들 가족을 잃었잖아. 갑자기 나타난 내가 가족처럼 구는 거 맘에 안 들거야. 어째서 내 자식은 죽고 저 아이는 살아 있는가. 내 아이가 먹었어야 할 밥을 왜 저 아이가 먹고 있는가. 그런 눈빛…….

알았어. 맘대로 해.

아니라고 말할 수 없어서, 그런 말을 하는 도리를 미워할 수도 없어서, 더는 고집부릴 수가 없어서 돌아서려는데 도리가 내 손을 잡았다가 놓았다. 손에 작은 상자 하나가 남았다. 마술이라도 부린 것 같았다. 상자를 열어 봤다. 립스틱이었다. 윤기로 반짝이는 립스틱에서 장미 향기가 났다. 이런 걸 어디서 구한 거야? 립스틱에서 눈을 떼지 못하고 중얼거렸다. 도리가 내 머리칼을 가리키며 잘 어울릴 것 같다고 했다. 당장 립스틱을 발랐다. 입술이 트고 메말라 예전처럼 매끈하게 발라지지 않았지만 코밑에서 느껴지는 달콤한 장미 향만으로도 기분이 좋아졌다. 도리가 손가락으로 입술을 정리해 줬다. 도리에게도 발라 주려고 했지만 몸을 빼며 거절했다. 들떠서 도리 주변을 망아지처럼 뛰어다니다가 차에 올라 침낭과 담요를 챙겨 왔다.

차에서 자기 싫다며. 그럼 내가 여기서 자면 되지.

너희 아버지가 싫어할 거야.

상관없어.

너희 아버지가 싫어하면 난 차에 탈 수 없어.

너도 얼른 누워.

도리는 내 말을 듣지 않고 나도 도리 말을 듣지 않았다. 립스틱을 꼭 쥐고 모로 누워 도리를 바라봤다. 도리가 내게 그것을 주어서 내가 그것을 얼마나 원하고 있었는지 알게 되었다. 황량하게 얼어붙은 대지 위에서, 끝도 없는 길 위에서, 불행과 절망에 지친 사람들 틈에서 나는 바로 그런 것을 원하고 있었다. 먹을 수도 입을 수도 없지만 나를 좀 더 나답게 만드는 것. 모두가 한심하다고 혀를 내두르지만 내겐 꼭 필요한 농담과 웃음 같은 것. 그리고 후회했다. 한국을 떠나며 엄마 유품이라고 챙긴 건 사진 몇 장뿐인데, 이런 걸 챙겼어야 했다. 엄마의 화장품, 엄마의 스카프, 엄마의 잠옷처럼 향기와 흔적이 남아 있는 것을.

엄마의 미용실은 신나는 놀이터였다. 아주 어릴 때부터 그곳에서 빗과 가발과 화장품을 가지고 놀았다. 그곳에서는 늘 좋은 향기가 났다. 냉장고의 요구르트와 커피 믹스는 동난 적이 없었고 소파 앞 낡은 탁자에는 빵이나 뻥튀기나 삶은 고구마 같은 주전부리가 놓여 있었다. 엄마가 따로 준비하지 않아도 이웃 아줌마들이 자꾸 가져왔다. 세수하러 왔다가 물만 먹고 가는 토끼처럼, 같이 먹자고 가져와 놓고 이런저런 수다를 떨다가 시간이 벌써 이렇게 됐는냐며 황급히 미용실을 빠져나가 버렸다. 단골손님들은 온갖 재미있는 이야기를 물어다나르는 참새 같았다.

열다섯 살 여름 방학 때 혼자 고데를 가지고 놀다가 머리카락 끝을 다 태운 적이 있다. 그때 엄마가 머리카락을 짧게 잘라 주었다. 나는 거울 속의 내가 무척 마음에 들었다. 엄마가 머리 모양을 잘 잡아 주어서 때로는 나 혼자서 커트를 했다. 아주 쉬었다. 미용 가위로 잡초 잘라 내듯 슥슥 머리카락을 잘라 내면 되었다. 내가 건지 머리칼을 잘라 준 적도 있다. 커트를 다 끝냈을 때 건지는 화산처럼 화를 냈다. 나는 건지의 헤어스타일이 얼마나 멋지고 개성 있는지 끈질기게 설명했다. 내 설득에 넘어갔던 건지는 다음 날 학교에 다녀오더니 다시 화신처럼 화를 냈다. 화장도 엄마에게 배웠다. 엄마는 내 피부에 어울리는 색깔을 잘 찾아냈다. 엄마는 아름다운 것을 좋아했고, 아름다웠고, 아름다움을 찾아낼 줄 아는 사람이었다. 내가 여자라서 할아버지는 내 이름을 아빠 엄마에게 맡겼다. 엄마는 단숨에 내 이름을 지었다. 나는 내 이름을 아주 좋아했다. 엄마가 내게 준 첫 선물이니까. 친구와 싸우다가도 그 친구가 내 이름을 부르면 짜증스러운 감정이 가벼워지곤 했다. 사소한 서운함이나 불만이 무슨 대수냐 싶어졌다.

지나.

도리가 내 볼을 쓰다듬으며 나를 불렀다.

부탁이야. 차에 들어가서 자.

잠결에도 고개를 저었다.

우린 같이 있어야 해. 그래야 안전해.

그 말을 잠들기 전에 했는지 꿈속에서 했는지 모르겠다. 내가 한 말인지 도리가 한 말인지도 헷갈린다. 아침에 눈을 떴을 때 그 말만이 선명하게 남아 있었다. 마음에, 나만 알아보는 좌우명을 타투로 새긴 것처럼.

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