Flowers of Mold & Other Stories Read online

  PRAISE FOR HA SEONG-NAN

  “These mesmerizing stories of disconnection and detritus unfurl with the surreal illogic of dreams—it’s as impossible to resist their pull as it is to understand, in retrospect, how circumstance succeeded circumstance to finally deliver the reader into a moment as indelible as it is unexpected. Janet Hong’s translation glitters like a blade.”

  —Susan Choi

  “Flowers of Mold shows Ha Seong-nan to be a master of the strange story. Here, things almost happen, and the weight of their almost happening hangs over the narrative like a threat. Or they do happen, and then characters go on almost like they haven’t, much to the reader’s dismay. Or a story builds up and then, where most authors would pursue things to the last fraying thread of their narrative, Ha elegantly severs the rest of the story and delicately ties it off. And as you read more of these stories, they begin to chime within one another, creating a sense of deja-vu. In any case, one is left feeling unsettled, as if something is not right with the world—or, rather (and this latter option becomes increasingly convincing), as if something is not right with you.”

  —Brian Evenson

  “Brilliantly crafted with precision and compassion, Ha Seong-nan’s heartbreaking collection dives into the depths of human vulnerability, where hopes and dreams are created and lost, where ordinary life gains mythological status. A truly gifted writer.”

  —Nazanine Hozar, author of Aria

  “I’m raving about this book…. It is brilliant, modern, and surprising.”

  —Charles Montgomery

  “Ha Seong-nan’s stories are familiar, domestic, and utterly terrifying. Like the best of A. M. Homes, Samantha Schweblin, or Brian Evenson, her elegantly terse style lures you in and never fails to shock. She writes the kind of stories I admire most. Ones you carry around with you long after reading.”

  —Brian Wood, author of Joytime Killbox

  STORIES

  FLOWERS OF MOLD

  HA SEONG-NAN

  TRANSLATED FROM THE KOREAN

  BY JANET HONG

  Copyright © 1999 Ha Seong-nan

  Originally published in Korea by Changbi Publishers, Inc.

  All rights reserved

  English translation copyright © 2019 by Janet Hong

  English edition is published by arrangement with Changi Publishers, Inc.

  First edition, 2019

  All rights reserved

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Available.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-940953-96-0 / ISBN-10: 1-940953-96-0

  Flowers of Mold is published under the support of the Literature Translation Institute of Korea (LTI Korea).

  This project is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts and the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew M. Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

  Printed on acid-free paper in the United States of America.

  Text set in Caslon, a family of serif typefaces based on the designs of William Caslon (1692–1766).

  Design by N. J. Furl

  Open Letter is the University of Rochester’s nonprofit, literary translation press:

  Dewey Hall 1-219, Box 278968, Rochester, NY 14627

  www.openletterbooks.org

  Contents

  Waxen Wings

  Nightmare

  The Retreat

  The Woman Next Door

  Flag

  Your Rearview Mirror

  Flowers of Mold

  Toothpaste

  Early Beans

  Onion

  FLOWERS OF MOLD

  Waxen Wings

  Your watch stopped at 3:14. The second hand fell off when the glass cover shattered. Within minutes you were unconscious. During what seemed like a nap that went on a little longer than usual, the seasons changed in the front lawn, right below your hospital room window.

  When you could walk on your own you pushed the IV stand out onto the lawn and sat in the sun. Sometimes you glanced at your watch as if waiting for someone. It was always 3:14. From the lawn you had a clear view down to the main entrance. The gate was always crowded with ambulances and visitors bearing gifts. But the girl who looked about nervously while picking her way through the bustle caught your eye. She walked not on the sidewalk but up the middle of the road, with a large backpack and a shoe bag. Ambulances with their patients and taxis with their passengers passed through her and sped away. Each time, the girl went fuzzy like an image on a television set with poor reception. From where you sat, you waited for that little girl. Leaping through a hole in time, a ten-year-old you came mirage-like to visit the you who was now twenty-seven.

  •

  You, ten years old, are cutting across the school field. You’re alone again, unable to tag along with the others. They had burst outside, crashing into you in their rush while you were still in your indoor shoes. They’re probably hanging around the snack stand, the comicbook shop, or the stationery store in front of the school right now. You’re shorter than the other girls your age by almost a foot. When you’re standing next to them your small size becomes even more obvious. You look maybe six or seven at the most. The kids in your class call you Birdie. Your backpack straps dig into your shoulders and the shoe bag drags on the dirt, leaving a lazy, winding trail.

  The abandoned field looks all the more vast today. You’ve never cut across it before. You prefer walking along its fringes, in the shadow of the school building. Already you feel it’s too much; never again will you cut across another field, hotel lobby, or lounge. You had taken the shortcut in your haste to catch up with the others, but your steps lag. You finally make it to the school gate, but lack the courage to step out and talk to them. You walk toward the playground where rainbow-colored tires protrude from the ground. The swing is swaying gently, as if someone has just been on it. You sit on the wooden seat without taking off your backpack. As you trail your toes in the dirt, the swing starts to move. You cast off your bags, and kick your feet in the air. Back and forth you go, like seaweed rolling on the waves. Soon your seat goes up as high as the metal crossbeam from where the chains hang, and your body becomes parallel to the ground. You’re covered with sweat and your mouth is pasty.

  One day, after pumping yourself up as high as the beam, you let go of the chains. Freed from the swing, your body soars—only for the briefest moment—but you feel as though you’re flying. If not for the law of gravity you would have risen into the air, past the leaves of the sycamores flanking the field, and disappeared beyond the five-story school building. But like Newton’s apple, your small, light body is pulled to earth, and you land deftly on the sand. Soon enough you learn your hang time—the time you’re able to remain airborne—is a little longer than the other children’s. The other kids on the swings try to copy you and jump in midair. But no sooner have they jumped than they tumble onto the sand. By now, you can even pick a spot to alight on while you’re pumping your legs. Where you’ve landed there are prints, as neat and clearly etched as a bird’s.

  While others move on to the adventure playground and seesaw, you stay on the swings, thinking of different ways to make a bigger jump, to hover longer in the air. But in the end, you curl up in midair and do a somersault. In a flash, all the kids abandon their games and gather around you.

  “Hey, that’s easy! I can do that, too.”

  A jealous classmate tries to copy you and jumps from the swings. But she lands headfirst and begins to howl through her sand-filled mouth. Her nose is bleeding and her face is scratched up. Your homeroom teacher comes running.

  “This is very dangerous! Who started this?”

  All at once, every gaze i
s directed at you, but now the eyes are cold. After this incident, you never see anyone jump from the swings, at least not on the school playground. You don’t go near the swings again.

  “Teacher, I want to fly, but the ground keeps pulling me down.”

  You sit facing your teacher in the empty classroom after everyone has gone home. For the first time she looks at you very closely.

  What a small child, she thinks. She recalls the woolen dress she recently bought; it had accidentally shrunk in the wash. Every feature is smaller on this child, just like the shrunken dress. Suddenly, an uneasy thought flashes across her mind. This child who wants to fly, what if she decides to take flight from a rooftop? The teacher shakes her head as if to dislodge this disturbing thought, but in her mind you keep falling from the school roof. The teacher looks into your small eyes and speaks, emphasizing each word.

  “I want you to listen very carefully. Only birds can fly. It’s impossible for people to fly. You’re just able to stay in the air a little longer, that’s all. Can you tell your mother to come see me?”

  Your mother comes home from work at seven o’clock every night, and if she misses even a single day, she’ll lose three days’ pay. For lack of anything better, your teacher makes you write “People cannot fly” over and over again on the chalkboard. Because you’re so small, your writing reaches only halfway up the board. The teacher stands behind you and thinks, So that’s why they call you Birdie.

  •

  When you enter middle school you push aside thoughts of flying; you’re too old to play on the swings, and you’re no longer naïve enough to confess your desire to fly. You learn more about this gravity that keeps pulling you down.

  Back then it was the trend among students to write famous quotes on the covers of their notebooks. But instead of writing something like “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree,” you write, “The force of gravity between two objects is directly proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them.” You believe if people could escape the confines of gravity, they could fly like birds. However, you find even the task of simplifying the law of gravity difficult. You’re still smaller than the other girls. The average height of a middle school girl then was five foot two, but you’re a mere four foot nine.

  One day, the P.E. teacher tells you to go to the gym just as you’re about to walk into your classroom.

  The small indoor gym feels like the inside of a fridge. You shiver from the cold. A voice rings out from the dark.

  “So you’re the girl the P.E. teacher mentioned? Come over here.”

  You hesitate because of the thick exercise mats on the floor.

  “It’s okay, just walk across with your shoes on, but it’ll be the last time.”

  You keep stumbling on the padded mats. A young woman with short hair is sitting on a vault. In her hand is a long stick that touches the ground. Although it’s March and still cold outside, her legs exposed below her short skirt are bare. On her small dangling feet are kid-size indoor shoes.

  “Shall we have a look?”

  She hops down. Up close she’s much smaller than you had guessed.

  From now on as soon as you’re dismissed from school, you run straight to the gym. There, no one calls you Birdie. Everyone is small like you. You finally feel at peace. You put the vault into position for the older students and clean the gym after practice. On sunny days you drag all the mats outside to air them out. Since your school sits on top of a hill, you can see them spread out in front of the gym, even from the bus stop at the bottom of the hill. The glare from the light hitting the mats turns the gym into a snow-capped peak. Practice starts with front and back rolls, then the splits. When you sit with your legs spread apart, straining to do the splits, the coach instructs the older students to sit on your shoulders. If you cry out, the coach jabs you in the stomach with her stick. The tender flesh around your groin turns black and blue. You wear the same leotard as the other gymnasts, but you’re so scrawny the leotard keeps riding up to reveal the cheeks of your small bottom. You get home later and later. Now, it’s your mother who waits up for you. She buys you a wristwatch, but your wrist is so small you have to punch a new hole in the strap. Summer comes and you practice your vaults. You don’t take off the watch, even though the sweat that collects under the leather band makes your skin swell, leaving a pale strip around your wrist. While you perform your endless tumbles, autumn changes to winter, and winter changes to spring.

  Your first period still hasn’t come. You’ve noticed every month that the girl sitting next to you in class sneaks a hand into her bag, whisks out a mysterious object, hides it in the folds of her clothes, and then slips away to the bathroom. Neither do you show the usual signs of sexual maturity. You have no habits common to middle school girls, like pulling down a bra that keeps riding up, and there are no photos of golden-haired boys, singers, and movie stars in your bag. On your way to the gym after school, you see the other girls flock to the TV station to watch a broadcast on the large screen outside. They’ve never even heard of the people you follow, like Nadia Comaneci and Nellie Kim. Because of practices and meets, there are many days when your desk is empty. For this reason, you gain the envy of others.

  In eighth grade, you start watching a girl named Yunhui—a tenth grader and already the Seoul representative at the national games, where she won gold in the balance beam. When Yunhui does a demonstration on the beam, you study her every move. You can tell she’s special, just from the way she mounts the beam. Instead of placing the springboard at the end like the other gymnasts, she positions it alongside the beam. She does her approach run, jumps, and then lands doing the splits, on a surface only four inches wide. Even though you’re still learning the basics, you sometimes go up on the beam when no one is around. Every time you take a step, you have to flap your arms like a bird to keep your balance. Like Yunhui, you grow out your hair and pull it back into a knot at the crown of your head. You need a dozen bobby pins to anchor the willful strands. With your hair pulled back so severely, your eyebrows and the corners of your eyes yank up, making you look always angry.

  Your event is the uneven bars. When you soar between the 8- and 5-foot bars, your small size and long hang time become very clear. But when you try to keep yourself straight during the handstand, your arms keep shaking. Full turn after cast handstand, swing to low bar, then transfer to high bar. But your hands slip and you fall to the mat. Every time this happens, the coach’s long stick jabs your stomach. As further punishment, you have to do an hour-long handstand in the middle of the gym. If you fall over or break your form, you have to start all over again. Blood pumps down into your face, and your arms start to wobble uncontrollably. Bare legs—some pale, others reddish or sallow—pass by, and an occasional sarcastic remark is tossed your way. A pair of pale slender legs stops before you. The calves and thighs visible above the legwarmers are covered with dark purple bruises. You raise your blood-gorged face. It’s Yunhui. Because it’s Yunhui, your face turns even redder.

  “With handstands, try to forget you’re holding up your body and pretend it’s the ground instead you’re holding up. It works for me. Your landing earlier was really impressive by the way.”

  You don’t see Yunhui at the gym anymore. She was selected for the Asian Games and so she’s moved to the athletes’ village. Every night, you write her a letter. You lose interest in going to the gym. For being late, you have to do leapfrogs and handstands or hang from the bar. You see a photo of Yunhui in the sports section, in a feature on athletes to watch in the Asian Games. You’re confident, of course, but so is your coach, that Yunhui will receive a medal. But when the news arrives, it’s not about medals. Yunhui has had an accident. She took a bad fall in practice, damaged her spinal cord, and became paralyzed from the neck down.

  Yunhui doesn’t come back to school. Now, you no longer struggle to keep your body straight
when doing a handstand on the bar. After a full turn on the high bar, you can pull off two and a half flips before you land. You recall how you used to go on the swing as a ten-year-old. Once again, the desire to fly takes hold and the familiar battle against gravity begins. In ninth grade, you become the star athlete of your school. By now, you have your own peculiar way of walking—body straight, chin and heels raised high.

  Once you skip practice and visit Yunhui, who had remained in the hospital after the accident. It’s lunchtime when you arrive. A middle-aged woman, who appears to be her mother, tries to feed her, but she clamps her mouth shut. After attempting to pry Yunhui’s mouth open with the spoon, the woman smacks her daughter on the head. Yunhui falls across the bed and her face is buried in the pillow, but she cannot get up. The mother starts to weep; she pulls her daughter up and places a pillow behind her back. The girl who is leaning pathetically against the bedframe is not the Yunhui you knew. She is plump and white. Even her wrists peeping out from the cuffs of her hospital gown are covered with fat folds, like silkworms. Her hair, which used to be pulled back in a neat knot, is cut so short it leaves her ears exposed.

  You go home without entering the ward. That day, you cut your hair short. Because you skipped practice and cut your hair, your coach yells at you while jabbing your stomach with her stick. You have to clean the gym, a lowly job reserved for seventh graders, and you stay behind, practicing well into the night to make up for missing practice. You keep falling off the uneven bars and run toward the springboard, only to stop and repeat the approach run. Once on the vault, before you can take a step, you tumble to the mat. All of a sudden, there are sharp pains in your stomach as if your coach is jabbing you with her stick. It’s your first period.

  In high school the routine is the same. You still go to the gym, you still train under the coach with the bare legs. When there’s a tournament coming up, you don’t go to class. Swing, support, release. While you repeat these steps, the bruises on your body multiply. Countless times a day you squeeze the rosin bag with your callused hands. Even though you chalk just your hands, there are white handprints on your leotard, legs, and arms as if someone slapped you. Menthol sports rubs are now your perfume. Your face is angular and your torso has taken on the shape of an inverted triangle.