Flowers of Mold & Other Stories Read online

  Kwak jammed his hands in his pockets and slowly climbed the stairs. Billboard Karaoke, Good Chicken, and the skewer shop. Pintos Billiards, with a picture of a cue ball in every window, Hanbit Mental Calculation Academy, and Goguryeo Taekwondo School. Every one of these businesses was bringing down the building’s value. He felt annoyed at the thought of going on a retreat with these people in two days. It had been his father’s idea to hold an annual team-building retreat with all the tenants. Even after his death, he still exerted power over Kwak. His father had run a study hall on the fifth floor. After Kwak graduated from high school, his father sent him to study abroad in America, since no university in Korea would accept him with his grades. The subjects he ended up studying in America, paid for in American dollars, weren’t very practical. He returned to Korea only when his father died. His father’s entire wealth became Kwak’s. The first thing he did was to shut down the study hall. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his days like his father, sitting by the door, accepting small change from students or supervising the boys’ and girls’ sections. The students had called his father the Owl. At the start of every school year, the names of the students who had been accepted to prestigious universities were printed on a banner and hung in front of the building. His father had hoped Kwak’s name would be included in that list one day. The banner used to appear regularly in Kwak’s dreams. But when he had seen the wooden cubicle desks piled high outside the building, he finally felt free.

  It’s not that he hadn’t considered repairing the building. He was no expert, but he knew the cost of fixing an old building like this would be a considerable task. Plus he’d still be left with the children’s shouts that rang out from the taekwondo school downstairs all day long. What he wanted was to sell the building and use the money to build an elegant restaurant on the city’s outskirts with a stage for live music.

  He passed the bathroom, whose door was cracked open. The smell of ammonia stung his eyes. Kwak kicked the door, but it swung open again because of its rusty hinges. Frowning, Kwak walked up to his room on the fifth floor. The old building didn’t have an elevator. Even if it had been a twenty-story tower, his father most certainly wouldn’t have installed one to save on electricity costs.

  The director of the academy called out to Kwak, following him up the stairs and standing close behind, while Kwak unlocked his front door. The director was a long-time friend of his father’s. He had no sense of humor, just like his father. Kwak flipped on the light switch to reveal the spacious room.

  “So I heard a strange thing today,” the director said, his breath stale.

  Kwak said nothing.

  “I guess your silence means it’s true, then? Are you saying we should accept it as good news?”

  This time, too, Kwak remained silent. His whole body felt sluggish from the alcohol. He wanted to collapse into bed and sleep.

  “Your father poured his blood, sweat, and tears into this building. If you end up selling it, you’d be going against his wishes.”

  Kwak sat down. There were trophies and plaques displayed in the glass cabinet before him. The plaques started with the words: “This individual has contributed to the development of …” Kwak cherished these accolades.

  “Ajeossi, please stop beating around the bush. You still haven’t realized I’m a simple guy? Let me be blunt here. You’re two months late on the rent. I’m sure you know the rent here is a lot cheaper than anywhere in this area. I’ve let it go until now because you were my father’s friend, but this building isn’t right for an academy. What will kids learn from watching people go in and out of bars and the pool hall? You probably stayed because of the cheap rent, but I can’t keep hanging on to this dirty run-down building just for your sake.”

  The director’s pulse was starting to go up. He took a deep breath. “But you need to respect your father’s dying wish.”

  Kwak’s lips twisted into a sneer. “You can’t help sounding like a boring book, can you? But you’re not my teacher anymore. Try begging me instead, because that might be more effective. And quit using my father as an excuse. He’s dead.”

  Slowly the director turned away. But inside him, the fire of a twenty-year-old that hadn’t yet been extinguished flared up. He faced Kwak once more.

  “Why would I expect anything different from you? Ever since you were a little boy, you did everything your father asked you not to do. All those times, I warned him not to raise you that way, especially since you were an only child. Even in 1984 when you beat up your classmate and got arrested, I told him to leave you in jail for a few days to teach you a lesson. But he didn’t listen. I’ve seen countless punks like you, and I know how they end up. After you sell this building, you’ll squander all the money. When you’ve blown it all and have nothing left, you’ll finally see you’re a nothing—a nobody. And only then will you remember these words.”

  Kwak stood up from his chair and strode toward the director. Nearly two feet taller, Kwak found himself looking down at the old man’s smooth, bald head, blooming with liver spots. The alcohol and drowsiness loosened his tongue.

  “For your information, it wasn’t 1984. It was 1985. God, I’m so sick of your stupid lectures.”

  He grabbed the director by the collar of his suit and hoisted him up so that his toes just grazed the ground. Kwak released him with a push and strode back to his chair.

  The director stumbled back, frantically windmilling both arms in the air, like ducks’ feet paddling furiously underwater. He reached out for something to grab, but there was nothing. All he had to do was move one foot back to steady himself. He’d been extremely agile as a young man, able to do a front tuck and land on his feet, but now he didn’t even have time to take a step back. He fell helplessly. Even as he fell, he was angry with himself. Once again, his sense of balance, broken down with age, was to blame. He toppled backward into the glass cabinet. The glass shelves shattered, and the trophies rained down on his face. He let out a deep breath.

  Still in his chair, Kwak looked at the broken glass, the scattered trophies, and the director whose mouth was foaming. Why won’t the old man get up? At last, the truth finally registered. He tried to shake the director awake, but it was useless. He picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1, and then hung up right away. He locked his front door. For the next two hours, he stayed in his chair and wondered what he should do. All he had done was to shift the director’s center of gravity. It was hardly news when an animal died in a jungle. But this place wasn’t the jungle and the director was not some animal. No one would believe Kwak’s innocence. Back when he lived in New York, he had seen a man get shot right before his eyes. The shooter had then taken the victim’s wallet and run away.

  He tried to pull the director up, but the skinny old man was heavier than he had thought. Rigor mortis had started to set in, and his chin and neck were becoming stiff. There was a small bump on the back of his bald head. Kwak lifted the director’s sagging arm and put it behind his own neck, and wrapped his arm around the director’s waist. He barely managed to get him to his feet. As he stood at the top of the stairs, he felt pure disgust for this building that didn’t have an elevator. To avoid drawing attention, he didn’t turn on the lights. As he crept down the stairs in the dark, he resolved to sell the building first thing in the morning. Fortunately, the taekwondo studio on the fourth floor was closed. He almost dropped the director a few times as he was going past the academy on the third floor. He glimpsed neat rows of desks and chairs through the open door. He was about to head down to the second floor when he saw someone urinating with the bathroom door open. He heard urine splattering on the tile floor. Just as he was about to pass by, the man called out to Kwak.

  “Going somewhere, boss?”

  Mr. Jeong stood outside the bathroom, zipping himself up. Kwak nodded without responding.

  “Is that the director?”

  “Ah, yes, we had a few drinks at my place.”

  Mr. Jeong drew near. “Let me help you
then. Director, it’s me, from the pool hall!”

  Right then, a voice called for Mr. Jeong.

  “Shoot, it’s my customer. You sure you don’t need any help?” Then he yelled toward the pool hall. “I’ll be right there!”

  Kwak’s shoulders throbbed. Mr. Jeong hesitated a little, and then rushed back into the pool hall. On the ground floor at last, Kwak was about to step out of the building entrance when Mrs. Park from the skewer shop greeted him. Women tended to be more suspicious than men.

  “You’re closing already?” he said to her, as she lowered the metal shutters. His hair, damp from sweat, clung to his forehead.

  She pointed toward Good Chicken. “I’m sure you already know, but we’re not the kind of place that stays open late. We’re a family restaurant. Though we do serve alcohol, if that’s what the customers want.”

  Kwak hoisted up the director, who was slipping from his grasp. “Why don’t you head on home? Your children must be waiting. As you can tell, Ajeossi is really drunk. I’m going to drive him home.”

  “Oh, his wife’s sure going to worry,” Mrs. Park said.

  Kwak headed to the parking lot. The director’s feet dragged on the ground. Ms. Jang, who had been pouring used oil down the drain, jumped at the noise. Even in the dark, she recognized them right away.

  “Oh my, the director’s had a lot to drink!”

  Kwak headed toward his car. Ms. Jang muttered, “That’s strange, though. He never touches even a drop of liquor.”

  In order to open his car door, he needed to hold up the director with one arm. A van slowly pulled into the parking lot. Because of the headlights, he couldn’t see who was behind the wheel. He stood glued in place, narrowing his eyes in the blinding light. The headlights turned off and a man hopped out of the driver’s seat.

  “Mr. K-k-kwak!”

  Judging from the stammer, it was the taekwondo master. Kwak opened his car door and maneuvered the director into the back seat. The director fell across the seat, so Kwak pulled him back up and propped him upright. He then said in a loud voice, “Ajeossi, I’m driving you home, okay? I’ll wake you up when we get there, so close your eyes and sleep tight. You feel fine otherwise?”

  The taekwondo master quickly climbed back into his van and moved aside to let Kwak pass. As he drove by, Kwak saw Miss Kim sitting in the passenger seat. In his rearview mirror, Kwak caught the master unloading bags filled with beer and snacks from the back of the van.

  He had managed to get onto the road, but he didn’t know where he should go. He had no idea where the director lived. Not once had he given the director a ride home. He glanced at the rearview mirror. With his lips pressed stubbornly together, the director appeared to be sleeping. Just three hours earlier, Kwak had been drunk, thinking only about going to bed. But now his buzz was gone and he was wide awake. Kwak turned down an alley and came out onto the main road; he repeated these actions again and again. He even drove out to the reclamation ground where apartment buildings were being erected, but it was as bright as day from the lights of the amusement park and adult entertainment businesses nearby. Luckily, he found an alley where the security light wasn’t working. He shut off his headlights, put his car in first gear, and crept deeper into the alley. He opened his trunk to find something to dig with. All he could find was a broken ski pole. He stabbed the ground with it, but the ground was concrete. He looked everywhere, but there wasn’t a single place to dig. After poking at the concrete with the ski pole, he lost his temper. “What kind of city has no dirt ground?”

  Kwak pulled the director out of the back seat and loaded him into the trunk. In the cramped space, he looked like a baby curled up in a mother’s womb. By the time Kwak returned to Taegwang Building, it was past four in the morning.

  At that hour, Arnold, the taekwondo master, was tending the counter at Billboard Karaoke. The open sign had been turned off hours before. After midnight, the customers were let in through the lowered metal shutters. Taegwang Building was located in a secluded spot. Most customers requested alcohol. Karaoke rooms were banned from selling alcohol. Miss Kim, the owner of Billboard Karaoke, had converted one of the rooms so she could sleep there. Two nights ago, she had gone out, after leaving Arnold in charge. On his way back from the bathroom, Arnold had seen her walking next to Mr. Kwak. She’d been crying quietly while Mr. Kwak smoked a cigarette, his gaze fixed elsewhere.

  A year ago, Miss Kim had taken over the karaoke business from her parents. The basement, where fresh air or sunlight never entered, had ended up ruining her father’s health. Her parents moved to the country. In order to provide for their living costs and hospital fees, she began to sell liquor. When rumors spread that Billboard Karaoke stayed open until late and sold alcohol, business improved. Sometimes drunk customers grabbed her hand and wouldn’t let go, but all the hassles stopped once Arnold started to help out. The door beside the counter opened and Miss Kim emerged from the room, dragging along her sandals. Arnold gazed at her pale face. He couldn’t look directly at her. “M-make sure you g-get some sun at the r-retreat. And don’t stay c-c-cooped up here during the day. C-come up to the taekwondo studio once in a w-while. Your body will break d-d-down if you don’t exercise.”

  She grimaced. She felt drained, listening to Arnold stammer. She cut him off. “How many groups do we still have? I wish they’d go home already.”

  Arnold swallowed the words he wanted to ask: Why were you crying that night?

  She has been aware of Arnold’s feelings for her for some time, but she was never going to admit it. He couldn’t have been any more different from Mr. Kwak. For the past three months, Mr. Kwak called only when he needed her. Once she had woken up in a hotel room to find he had already left without her. The day before yesterday, he had said he didn’t want to see her anymore. “I can change,” she’d told him. She had tried begging, and when that hadn’t worked, she’d threatened to tell other people about their relationship. But he was hardly concerned. “Go ahead, see if I care. Who do you think will be worse off—me or you? Do you want to grow old, frying chicken and entertaining men like Ms. Jang?” A few hours earlier, Mr. Kwak had seen her in the van with Arnold. He would have realized she was selling alcohol illegally. He now had a good excuse to be rid of her.

  When Kwak opened his eyes it was past ten in the morning. When he saw the shattered glass and scattered trophies, he remembered the events from the night before. The director was still in the trunk of his car. It was May. The May heat would speed up the decomposition rate. He just hoped the scavengers that feed on dead animals would stay away. He opened his window and gazed down at the parking lot. Tomorrow was the team-building retreat. Anyone with a corpse locked up in his trunk would have no mind to leave on a trip, but he decided to look at the situation differently.

  About an hour up the Bukhan River from Nami Island, Kwak had a small cottage on the riverside, where he went boating and water-skiing in the summer. The retreat was to be held on a deserted island reached by motorboat from the cottage. It wasn’t exactly an island, but more a mound that bulged out from the river. Kwak called that mound the back of a whale. The ground there was soft, composed of earth and clay. He could dig over a hundred holes.

  That morning, the Korean teacher was the first person to arrive at the academy. The director, without fail, had always been the first to arrive and the one to unlock the door, but the front door was already unlocked, and there was a lunchbox on top of the desk closest to the door. The lid was on loosely, and the container was smeared with grains of barley and sauce that had gone sour. She wiped the desks with a clean rag and walked over to the director’s desk. His black dress shoes were placed neatly under his desk. Changing into indoor shoes was the first thing he did when he came to work, and judging from the fact that he was in his indoor shoes, he hadn’t gone far. She went to the chalkboard to grab the eraser. There were traces of words that had been left behind. She tried to erase them, but they persisted. Completely opposed, she read aloud.

/>   The Korean teacher learned the director had not gone home the night before only when his wife called. “But he came to work this morning,” she said. “He’s stepped out for the moment, though.”

  He still wasn’t back by noon. The day passed uneventfully. Both the director’s wife and Korean teacher believed he had come to work, but left to run an errand. No one thought he was missing.

  Mr. Jeong from the pool hall chalked his cue, estimating the angles between the three balls on the green felt table. Arnold watched him closely, a cue stick in his own hand. Mr. Jeong shot, but the white ball bounced off the wrong cushion. It was rare that he missed.

  “You’re saying the director isn’t back from this morning?”

  Arnold nodded.

  Mr. Jeong pointed upward with his finger. “Did you ask Mr. Kwak? They were together last night.”

  Arnold bent over his cue. “Well, he came to work this morning. That’s what the Korean teacher said.”

  Mr. Jeong took a sip from his yogurt drink. “Maybe he went to the bathhouse to relax and ended up falling asleep from all the drinking last night.”

  Arnold followed the white ball around the table. “But he’s never like that.”

  Mr. Jeong adjusted his grip on the cue. “Every clock stops sooner or later. More often if it gets old.”

  As Kwak was going down the stairs, he saw Mr. Jeong and Arnold in the pool hall. Mr. Jeong pointed up toward the ceiling and Arnold shrugged in response. The night before, both men had seen Kwak half-carrying the director. Just then, Mr. Jeong seemed to glimpse Kwak standing outside the door, but Mr. Jeong quickly turned away, pretending he hadn’t seen him.

  Kwak scrambled back up to his room. All the tenants of Taegwang Building were witnesses. He opened his window and had a cigarette. He gazed down at the parking lot. A woman was peering into Kwak’s car. She raised her head, looking toward his fifth-floor window with narrowed eyes. It was Ms. Jang from Good Chicken. Kwak hurriedly ducked out of sight. That’s strange. He never touches even a drop of liquor. What she’d said the night before rang through his head.