But how on earth was he supposed to come up with a thousand won? The thought gnawed at Hyung-sik’s mind. Out of the thirty-five won he’d received last month, five had gone to the Tokyo Bookstore for a complete set of Plato, ten he’d split among his students, eight paid for board to the old landlady. Now all that remained in his wallet was a five-won bill and a few silver coins. Ah, what was he to do about the thousand won? The weight in his chest grew heavier. "A thousand won! A thousand won!" Where would a thousand won come from? He wiped his sweat with a handkerchief and sighed aloud, "Where on earth would I get a thousand won?" By the time he reached his lodgings in Gyo-dong, two or three young men in flashy suits, half-drunk, rode past in rickshaws at a slant, a gisaeng seated in front of each, their bells ringing vigorously as they sped toward Cheolmulgyo. Hyung-sik jumped aside to dodge a rickshaw, then stood still and watched the six rickshaws raising dust as they raced away. "So a thousand won does exist!" he muttered. Indeed, those young men escorting gisaengs in rickshaws didn't just have a thousand won—they could have ten thousand. Hyung-sik stood there for a long moment, then dropped his head and, lost in thought, stepped into his sweltering, airless room.
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The old landlady was fixing lunch. She came out of the kitchen as he entered.
"Why so early today? No school?"
Hyung-sik tossed his hat and overcoat into the room, sat on the wooden veranda, loosened his jacket strings, and fanned himself angrily. "Hmph. The third- and fourth-year students have gone on a mass walkout."
"Again? That Bae Hak-gam fellow must be something else." She wiped her sweat with her skirt and studied his face. "What's wrong? Feeling unwell?"
"No."
"You seem worried about something. Ah, why don't you just quit that school? It's nothing but commotion day and night. Whenever there's trouble, you get all worked up. What's the point of staying?" She sat on the shaded porch of the side room and lit her pipe. Hyung-sik fanned himself wildly for a while, as if unable to contain his anger.
"School business like that doesn't bother me. I'm not worried about it."
"Then what's the matter? Something else?"
Hyung-sik flopped onto the floor, kicking his legs, and muttered to himself, "I absolutely need money."
"Hoho, so you've finally figured it out. This world runs on money. If I had money, I wouldn't be suffering like this either..."
"Your kind of suffering is nothing to me."
"Tsk, that's how others see it. I'm already sixty, you know. If I do even a little work, my back aches. I work until my back gives out, and who comforts me? (Not even a crippled child to call my own.) I'm tough to kill, that's all—what's the point of someone like me living?" She tapped her pipe stem against a stone so hard it nearly broke, reloaded, lit it from the discarded ashes, and took a few fierce puffs. Then she flew into a rage. "Even the pipe won't obey me!" She hurled the pipe into the room and went back to the kitchen to finish cooking.
Hyung-sik watched and listened to the old woman, then smiled to himself. Everyone had their own worries, he thought, and everyone believed theirs were the biggest in the world. But all people had such worries, whoever they were. Worry about having no son. Worry about not getting a government post. Worry about not marrying, or not being able to marry off a daughter. A thousand kinds of worries, but most people these days worried about having no money. In a world where money could buy not just a person's body but even their soul, it was only natural that people prized it so. "Ah, a thousand won! Where would a thousand won come from?" He sprang up and sat back down in his room. Could this house be worth a thousand won? Could the hundred-odd hardbound books crammed into the shelf fetch a thousand? No—each of those books was worth at least a thousand won in copyright alone. If he wrote a book like that and sold it to a bookstore, he'd get a thousand won. But first he had to study English composition, spend months—years—writing, send the manuscript to the United States or England, wait for the publisher to read it, decide to publish, then send a thousand-won remittance to the post office in Gyeongseong under Lee Hyeong-sik's name, and for it to cross the Pacific Ocean by ship—oh, too slow! When would that ever happen? he thought.
Then he thought again. If he hadn't bought those books, hadn't given money to his students, and had saved twenty won each month for four or five years—fifty months would have made a thousand. Yes, if he'd done that, he wouldn't have this worry. Especially giving money to those students—it was utterly pointless. He gave them what little he had with all his heart, but the students acted as if they were getting what was owed them. If he was a little late, they grumbled. Did they even feel grateful? If they grew up to become great men, maybe his help would mean something. But as things stood, they were all the same—none seemed to be outstanding geniuses or heroes. Ah, what a waste. If he'd saved the money, at least he wouldn't have this worry. Hmm—maybe he should stop giving money to the students altogether, starting this month. But then the pitiful young faces calling him "Mr. Lee" flashed before his eyes, and he couldn't bear to do it.
Ah, how was he to get a thousand won? What if someone went tonight with a thousand won and took Yeongchae? Or what if someone had already gone last night and taken her home? Then last night, had she surrendered the body she'd kept pure for nineteen years to some filthy beast? Had she pushed him away at first, crying and screaming, resisting, then finally given in helplessly? (As he thought this, the image appeared vividly before him: the beast-like man, his eyes bloodshot with lust, lunging at poor pretty Yeongchae, and Yeongchae crying, pushing, resisting with all her might, then finally collapsing with a cry of despair.) Hyung-sik's whole body tensed with grief and rage, and he let out a long breath. Then again—what if Yeongchae learned she'd been sold to someone and ran away unnoticed at night? Where would she go? That beautiful face! A nineteen-year-old beauty with no one to protect her! Everywhere there would be beasts with a thousand won. Would she try to run away?
No! If Yeongchae—so resolute in her chastity—found out her body had been sold to some man, wouldn't she, in her fierce pride, kill herself?
"Suicide? Suicide?" Hyung-sik trembled.
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What was he to do? How could he get a thousand won and rescue poor Yeongchae—beloved Yeongchae—his benefactor's daughter? This way? That way? His mind churned without rest. At one in the afternoon, he went to Andong Kim Jang-ro's house to teach English to Seon-hyeong and Sunae. The elder was out visiting, and his wife received Hyung-sik. After the wife went inside to fetch Seon-hyeong and Sunae, Hyung-sik sat alone in the corner room used as a classroom, waiting for his two pupils. On one wall hung a picture of Jesus on the cross; on the other, a photograph of Andong Kim Jang-ro himself. Both pictures were decorated with flowers, likely Seon-hyeong and Sunae's handiwork. Jesus on the cross wore a crown of thorns, blood streaming from the wound in His side made by a Roman soldier's spear. His head tilted left, His eyes turned heavenward. At the foot of the cross, some wept with faces hidden in their skirts; others stared indifferently. Off to the side, soldiers cast lots for Jesus' clothes. Hyung-sik gazed at it for a long time and thought. The one on the cross was a man. The ones who put the crown of thorns on His head and stabbed His side were men. The ones wiping tears with the hem of their skirts and the ones standing by impassively watching—also men. And the ones who, after killing a man, cast lots to divide his clothes—also men. All of them were the same men, he thought. Every day, every moment in the world of human life, all comedies and tragedies were wrought by the hands of men. The students who petitioned for the teacher's dismissal, the Bae Hak-gam whom they opposed—were they not all men? And that poor Yeongchae, the greedy old woman trying to sell her, the beast-like men trying to buy her, and he himself grieving for her—were they not all men? In the end, were they not all the same kind, differing only slightly in light and shade, calling each other "you" and "I," "right" and "wrong"? That Jesus could have been the Roman soldier who stabbed His side, and that Roman soldier could have been Jesus. The only thing unknown was what force it was that made one a clown, another a Chunhyang, another a Lee Do-ryeong, another a Jesus, another a Roman soldier who stabs Jesus' side, and another a mere indifferent onlooker. Thinking this, Hyung-sik felt all of humanity were brothers like himself, and he pitied them—pitied a life that, ruled by some unknowable force, could not help but produce tragedies and comedies against its own will every day, every moment. If men did evil the way the corrupt magistrate Namwon did—forcing the pitiful Chunhyang to be beaten against his own will—then who could condemn him? By that logic, he should not hate Bae Hak-gam, nor even the wicked Jews who spat in Jesus' face and demanded His death.
But he had to save Yeongchae. Even if this were all a play, he had to save Yeongchae—the thought surged up from somewhere unbidden, and Hyung-sik looked away from the picture of Jesus and stared blankly at the ceiling. Four or five flies were performing their own play, just like humans—chasing, fleeing, alighting, rubbing their front legs together. Hyung-sik lowered his head. This family had a thousand won, he was sure. "Teacher!" He opened his eyes at the sound. Seon-hyeong and Sunae stood in the doorway, books and pencils in hand, waiting for him to open his eyes and raise his head before bowing politely. Startled, Hyung-sik quickly rose and returned the bow. Then, smiling cheerfully, he said, "It's even hotter than yesterday." He invited the two girls to sit, and sat down across from them with the desk between them. The two girls lowered their heads and opened their books. Looking at them, Hyung-sik felt the turmoil in his mind ease somewhat, his spirit refreshed. He gazed at the two bowed heads—their black hair, the wide light-blue ribbons pinned to their Western-style chignons. Then he looked at their fingers resting on the desk. When a gentle breeze brushed past, a faint scent wafted from their bodies and hair. Dampness from Seon-hyeong's ramie summer jacket clung to her fair skin, the wet patch widening and narrowing each time she moved. Sunae shifted a couple of times to pull her skirt out from under her. Beads of sweat dotted Seon-hyeong's forehead; now and then she dabbed them away with the hem of her skirt and fanned herself with her hand beneath the desk. Hyung-sik felt a fragrant, cool breeze blow into his heart, which had been aching since morning. Women, he thought, were very beautiful creatures. The soft roundness of their shoulders, the rosy bloom of their cheeks, the long blackness of their hair, their seated postures, the way their jacket strings were tied—especially the broad jacket ribbon that narrowed gradually and then crossed in the middle, the upper end slanting toward the left breast, the lower end fluttering away, skimming the right elbow—that was particularly charming. Sitting there looking at these two girls, an indescribably sweet delight spread through his whole body; even the flow of his blood felt gentle and pleasant. Life could be joyful if one wanted it to be. Simply sitting quietly, facing one another with no purpose or scheme—life became loving and happy. The bodies of women, the bodies of men, indeed all things in heaven and earth—if one only looked at them quietly, intimate communication arose, warm love grew, sweet pleasure bloomed. It was a waste to spoil this beautiful joy, so carefully built, by clever talk, words, and fussing. Hyung-sik sat watching the two girls recite and write their A, B, C's.
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The two girls had learned their A, B, C's well. Seon-hyeong, dreaming of going to the United States, and Sunae, determined to learn more than anyone else, had spent all yesterday and this morning memorizing and writing them with hardly a break. They also felt a kind of pleasant pride—learning English for the first time seemed a mark of great learning. Seon-hyeong imagined herself wearing fine Western clothes and a Western hat with a feather, going to the United States and chatting freely in English with Western girls from the United States her age. She smiled to herself. If she mastered English, her status would rise, and others would love and respect her more than they did now. When she went to the United States, graduated from a university in the United States like a girl from the United States, and came back home, someone would surely accompany her. That companion would be a man... a tall, handsome man... a man who had graduated from a university in the United States. Of course, Seon-hyeong had never seen such a man, nor had she ever heard that such a man existed. But anyway, when she returned from graduating from a university in the United States, that man would surely be her companion. And what if, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, on the ship's deck, they stood facing away from each other, looking at the sea, and a wave made her lose her balance and she fell into his arms? That might become their fate—after returning home, they might build a warm family together. A brick two-story house, she would play the piano... Such were the dreams of Seon-hyeong, who had just begun learning English. She had not yet been struck by Cupid's arrow. In her heart, there was yet no thought of life, no thought of man and woman. She believed the whole world was like her own home, and all people were like herself. Or rather, it would be more accurate to say she had never thought about whether the world was like her home or not, whether all people were like herself or not. If one compared her to a flower blooming on a warm spring morning, she was a flower that had just opened, knowing nothing of wind, rain, age, or withering and falling. No one had ever told her that wind and rain existed, or that when they came together, even a blooming flower might fall, and even unopened buds might fall. She recited the Bible. But only recited it. She believed God created Adam and Eve, that Eve was deceived by the serpent and ate the forbidden fruit of knowledge, bringing age, death, and all sin into the world; she recited heaven and hell, Jesus on the cross, why Jesus was crucified—just as the Bible said. She read in the daily newspaper's third page about robberies, murders, fraud, adultery, people starving to death, people hanging themselves—all kinds of things. She even passed these stories on to her friends. But that was all. She considered all these things—everything mentioned above—to be utterly unrelated to herself. Or rather, she didn't even consider whether they were related. She was still as she was born. Put chemically, as she was physiologically composed—like a machine still stored in the warehouse, never once used in practice. She was not yet a person. Having grown up in a Christian home, she had already received the baptism of heaven. But she had not yet received the baptism of fire that is life. Had Seon-hyeong been born in a so-called civilized country, she would have received the baptism of life from an early age—from seven or eight, or even four or five—through poetry, novels, music, art, and stories. By the time she turned seventeen or eighteen, she would have already become a true woman, a real person. But Seon-hyeong had not yet become a person. The 'person' inside her had not yet awakened. Whether this 'person' would ever awaken—that, only God knew.