Flowers of Mold & Other Stories Read online

  The tenants of Taegwang Building met at the taekwondo studio on the fourth floor. They sat scattered around the padded floor.

  Mr. Jeong said worriedly, “If the director doesn’t show up tomorrow morning, our businesses are finished. He was the only one who could present our case to Mr. Kwak, but if he hasn’t even called his wife … Anyway, since we’re all here, why don’t we go over who’s bringing what tomorrow?”

  “I’ll fry up plenty of chicken,” said Ms. Jang said. “I’ll pack some soju and beer, too.”

  Mrs. Park scratched her head. “Then I’ll take care of the rice, side dishes, and kimchi.”

  Mr. Jeong wrote down each item in his notepad.

  “We’ll use the school van, and I’ll cover the gas,” said Arnold. “And don’t you worry about driving. I’ll make sure we get to our destination in one piece.”

  He was flushed from the drink he’d had earlier with Mr. Jeong. He didn’t stammer when he was drunk. Mr. Jeong checked all the items to make sure they hadn’t left out anything.

  “That’s not important right now,” Mrs. Park said. “What’s going to happen to us?”

  Ms. Jang let out a deep sigh. “Isn’t it obvious? Mr. Kwak will sell this building. He’s been going out a lot lately. Something’s obviously up. The problem isn’t if he’s selling the building or not, but when.”

  Mrs. Park turned pale. “I couldn’t sleep a wink last night. I spent all my savings on the renovation and now he’s selling the building? And they’re going to pull it all down to build an officetel? What about our security deposit? What about everything I spent on the renovation? I’m going to lose everything and be forced out on the street.”

  Mrs. Park pulled down her sleeve and wiped her face. Ms. Jang reached out to clasp her hand. Mrs. Park didn’t shake off the younger woman’s touch. Ms. Jang’s face crumpled and wrinkles broke out across her features, but no tears fell. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried.

  “But at least you’ve got kids,” Ms. Jang said. “How about me? I’ve never had a baby. All I did was age. I fried chicken and put up with drunk men, so that I could build a client base, but they’re going to tear down this building now? I wanted to buy a house in the country. I wanted to live out the rest of my life quietly. I paid the security deposit when I leased my shop, so shouldn’t I get it back when I leave? Mr. Jeong, I guess you’re in the same boat, because what’s a pool hall without regulars?”

  Regular customers were the lifeblood of pool halls. If they moved to a new location, they would have to start from scratch.

  Arnold snickered all of a sudden. “All this headache because of one man! Is it fair we have to go through this because of one person? Is money really everything? Christ. We wouldn’t have this problem if he just disappeared.”

  At his words, everyone’s face turned pale. Miss Kim saw goose bumps appear on her own skin.

  “After all, anyone could have an accident,” muttered Arnold.

  The girl read murder in their eyes. In every gaze lurked the sharp blade of an axe.

  “That’s right,” said Mrs. Park and Ms. Jang together in a small voice. “Anyone could have an accident.”

  Miss Kim gripped her knees with both hands and made her body small.

  Right then, the studio door opened and Kwak stepped inside. “I see you’re making preparations for tomorrow?”

  The gazes of all five people whipped to Kwak’s face. He saw in each stricken face the embarrassment and hostility of someone whose secret had been discovered. Kwak didn’t have the nerve to join them on the floor. It seemed the first stone would be cast at any second. Kwak tried to dispel the awkwardness in the air and laughed loudly.

  “Don’t bother taking any meat and liquor. It’ll be hard lugging it up there. Why don’t I call ahead and tell them to get everything ready?”

  He felt as if they had shoved him out of the studio. He ran up to his room. He fastened all the locks on his door. He had cleaned up the broken glass, but the trophies were still lined up one side of the room, since he hadn’t ordered the replacement glass. The tenants knew what had happened last night; he was sure of it. He sat on the floor and polished the trophies with a dry cloth. He made plans in his head for the following day.

  They would head to the Bukhan River by car, unload at his cottage, and take the motorboat to the island. Since it was the weekend, the river would be swarming with water-skiers, but only Kwak knew where the island was. He and the tenants would get in the motorboat and it would flip on their way to the island. But he was worried about Arnold and Mr. Jeong, who had served in the navy. The trophies shone. No, the accident had to happen on their way back from the island. By then, everyone would be drunk. While they drank, he would slip away and rig the boat engine. He would hide his life vest in the boat, and right before the overheated engine exploded, he would jump into the water and put the life vest on. While everyone panicked, the boat would sink. The rough waters of the Bukhan River would swallow the boat and its passengers.

  The tenants of Taegwang Building had gathered in one place. A sign on the door of Good Chicken said the shop would be closed for vacation. Ms. Jang was wearing large, dark sunglasses to hide the wrinkles around her eyes. Since she had woken early, she kept yawning. Mrs. Park’s feet hurt from her new running shoes. Inside the cooler were marinated meat, vegetables, and ice. A plastic crate filled with soju and beer was loaded into the van. With his camera, Mr. Jeong from the pool hall snapped photos of Ms. Jang standing in the shade. Kwak pulled up next to the van in his luxury car. It was past nine in the morning, but the academy director still hadn’t arrived. But they couldn’t keep waiting for him. If they continued to delay, they would be stuck in traffic for hours.

  “What a shame the director couldn’t join us,” Ms. Jang said.

  To Kwak’s ears, her words sounded like an accusation. He thought to himself, Oh, don’t you worry. He’s coming with us.

  They decided to take a group picture with the van as a backdrop. To get everyone in the frame, they stopped a young man walking by on the street.

  “Going on a trip? Lucky you!”

  The passerby took the camera and backed up a few steps. Mr. Jeong, who was standing next to Ms. Jang, put his hand on her shoulder. The young man laughed. “How about a smile? Everyone looks so stiff! Say kimchi!”

  They did as the young man said. They all opened their mouths and smiled awkwardly at the camera.

  The Woman Next Door

  A new neighbor’s moved into number 507. I’d just taken out the laundry and was about to hang it on the clothesline. The washer is junk now. Whenever it goes from rinse to spin, it gives a terrible groan and shudders, as if it might explode any second. Over the years, it’s shifted about twenty centimeters from its original spot. Since it’s done nothing except wash, rinse, and spin for ten years, no wonder it’s in bad shape. I pat the top of the washer and mutter, “Yeongmi, I know you’re tired, but let’s get through it one last time.” The washer wrings out the water and barely sounds its end-of-cycle buzzer.

  Yeongmi is the name I’ve given the washer. It’s also my name, though it doesn’t get used a whole lot anymore. To a washing machine, the motor is the same as a heart. A repairman who once came to fix the washer said so. He’d said the motor’s life had reached its limit. It managed to finish its job today, but I don’t know how long I can keep it going this way.

  Once my husband caught me talking to the washer. Seeing nobody else on the balcony, he’d asked, “What are you doing?” So I’d played dumb and said, “What does it look like? I’m doing the laundry.” How can a banker who has to calculate sums down to the penny understand? If I’d told him the truth, he would have thought I was crazy. According to him, my head’s stuck in the clouds. That’s why I’m always floating around in space, never touching solid ground. If he knew I’d gone so far as to give the washing machine a name, he’d probably faint. “It’s finally happened—a malfunction in your software.” Eight years ago, I wo
rked at a bank too. Back then I never thought I’d be talking to a washing machine one day. It’s not that I have anything against my husband. It’s good for a banker to act like a banker, isn’t it?

  The soy sauce stain on my son’s shirt didn’t come out. I forgot to soak it beforehand, that’s why. When I sort what can be hung from what has to be re-washed, only one of my husband’s dress shirts makes it to the clothesline. My husband says things that show how much he doesn’t understand: “The washing machine does the laundry and the rice cooker cooks the rice, so what do you do all day?”

  Movers are lifting furniture up to the fifth floor with a ladder hoist. There isn’t much. After all, you don’t need a whole lot to fill an 800-square-foot apartment. And don’t get me wrong. I’m not the type to snoop around. But is it a crime to look? It’s not like I’m spying on people with binoculars. All the furniture looks new. I can’t stand shabby old things with peeling paint. The person who used to live in 507 brought cockroaches with him when he first moved in, and soon even our home became infested. It’s natural for any woman who’s been married a decade to eye new appliances, especially when her own are old and shabby.

  The furniture may be new, but it’s not for newlyweds, that’s for sure. One look at the bed says it all. The mattress is standing on its side, but you can easily tell it’s a single. This resident—obviously alone with these new things—who could it be? The appliances are the latest models: a washer with a transparent lid, an immaculate gas range, never-before lit. My gas range, which has to have its switch pressed several times before it lights up, can’t hold a candle to that. Who is this person? If my husband were here, he’d say something for sure, like how I’m becoming nosy because I’ve got too much time on my hands.

  •

  “Hello.”

  Right away I know it’s the new person in 507. She looks like she’s in her late twenties. Or maybe even in her mid-thirties? Don’t they say it’s hard to guess a woman’s age these days? In each hand is a large plastic bag from the department store two bus stops away. They look heavy—the plastic handles dig into her hands, creating purple welts. I’m in the middle of carrying my son’s bike up to the fifth floor, which is the top floor. Our apartment complex doesn’t have bicycle racks, because it was built back when I was in high school. Rumors of redevelopment have been floating around for the past ten years, but still, nothing. But my husband keeps insisting this apartment is a great investment. Since it was built so long ago, trying to find parking around here is madness. If they were to make room for bike racks, about two parking spots would have to go. So racks are out of the question. If I don’t want my son’s bike to get stolen, I have to carry it all the way up every time. It weighs at least twenty kilograms, more than my six-year-old son. He’d said he wanted to ride the bike, but he’s already lost interest, and has been whining for a pair of rollerblades for the past few days. You can’t just go buy anything a child asks for; you shouldn’t spoil your kids. This is the only issue that my husband and I see eye-to-eye on. I have to hook the seat over my shoulder to carry the bike, and by the time I reach the second floor, my shoulder is stiff and sore. Then it’s only curses and frustration that spur me on.

  The woman must have come up behind me. She wouldn’t have been able to pass because of the bicycle, but she doesn’t look a bit annoyed. And then to have the patience to greet me, with her heavy bags and all—isn’t that something? All I can do is bow awkwardly, hunched over. Cleaning products like scouring pads, rubber gloves, and a box of powdered detergent poke out from the bags. She opens her door while I’m chaining the bike to the stair railing and calls out, “Jal butak deuleo yo.”

  It’s a rare thing to hear these days: I entrust myself to your care. I mean, isn’t this something a new employee would say to her superior on her first day? But I’m not her boss, her elder, or even her landlord. I’m just her neighbor.

  “You know, there’s a supermarket nearby with a cheaper, better selection …” This is what I offer as a friendly greeting.

  Jal butak deuleo yo. Soon enough, I would grasp the full meaning of these words.

  My husband stops undoing his necktie and worries again. He says my reckless trust for strangers is as dangerous as a child alone by the water. He wasn’t always like this. The bank he works for merged with another bank and as a result, many employees were laid off. He didn’t lose his job, thank God, but he compared that uncertain period to the torture of hanging from an iron bar, trying not to fall. The generations that had to take mandatory P.E. exams in school know well the agony of doing chin-ups or hanging from a bar for a long time. The anxiety from those several months left a coin-sized bald spot on the crown of his head.

  My husband seems uneasy that she lives alone. “Without a family of her own at her age—isn’t it obvious what kind of woman she is?”

  “But you’d see what I mean if you met her. She seems very down-to-earth. People like that are so rare these days.”

  I’ve said things like this before, but he’s turned out to be right every time. Triumphant, he would then reproach me: “How can you be such a poor judge of character?”

  “What does she do, anyway?”

  Naturally I don’t know a thing about her. While I set the dinner table, the words he spits out from the bathroom pierce my back like darts.

  “You better not lend her any money.”

  •

  Standing in front of a hot stove frying fish in 34-degree August heat is the worst. The dried corvinas I had put in the freezer all have their heads wrenched up. Some have burst bellies. It’s because the ice trays had been thrust on top. Even fish don’t turn out the way I want them to. The fish cook unevenly, since not all the parts are on the grill. Just as I’m flattening their raised heads with a spatula, the doorbell rings. It’s the woman next door. She steps into the front hall, flicking her gaze around our apartment. I can’t help feeling embarrassed, since everything is old and scratched up. My son’s toy blocks and grimy stuffed animals are scattered all over the place, and what about the dingy wallpaper smeared with his fingerprints? Just then, the washer spins the laundry with agony, as if it’s wringing its heart. But listen to this woman.

  “Oh, everything is so cozy here! I don’t know how long it’s been. I used to live in a house like this. Pots with permanent stains …”

  The warped drawers are hanging open, exposing their contents. To my shock, the woman heaves a sigh, pursing her lips to hold back tears. After gaining control of her emotions, she finally speaks.

  “Is it okay for me to call you Onni?”

  Big sister. I’m so flustered I forget to invite her in. She speaks again, as if she just recalled why she’s come.

  “I was wondering if I could borrow something …” She hesitates and then mumbles, “A spatula.”

  A spatula? I’m stunned once more. Although I’ve lived here for six years, no one’s ever come to borrow a spatula. It’s totally out of place, as foreign as, let’s say, the name Remington rifle. Not once has a spatula come up in conversations with my husband. And would I ever need to mention it to my six-year-old son? So of course it would sound alien to my ears.

  The woman points at my right hand. In my hand is the spatula I was flipping the corvinas with. Needless to say, I’ve also given it a name. Frying things can get so tedious sometimes. There’s some greasy fish meat stuck on the end. I hurriedly flip over the corvinas and hand it to her.

  “Thank you, I’ll bring it back right away,” she says apologetically.

  A cheap 1000-won spatula with a burnt plastic end? I’m the one who feels bad. I call out to her as she’s disappearing out the door. “Make sure you wash it first! It probably stinks like fish!”

  Just that morning, my husband had looked at me, shaking his head. “You act like you know everything about her and you don’t even know her name?”

  Remembering his words, I rush out into the corridor in my bare feet. “By the way, what’s your name?”

  Her v
oice comes to me through her open front door. “It’s Myeonghui!”

  She seems to be in the kitchen, flipping something with the spatula. After a slight pause, she says, “Myeong, as in bright, and Hui, as in feminine. Myeonghui.”

  •

  Myeonghui is a single, twenty-nine-year-old who teaches composition, four days a week, at an afterschool academy for elementary students.

  “So did you learn anything about her?”

  My husband’s a little twisted sometimes. I’m not a detective and Myeonghui isn’t a criminal. He mocks women’s friendships. He says our friendships are like aluminum pots, boiling over one moment and turning cold the next.

  There are still more than ten corvinas left from the bundle I’d bought. My son is already complaining it’s always fish. It’s only after I place one on the grill that I remember the spatula, but a ramen ladle is hanging from the spatula hook instead. I rummage through the shelves, but can’t find it. The fish is starting to burn.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll flip you over, hold on a sec.”

  I lower the heat and even search the master bedroom. But there’s no way the spatula could be there. I crawl on the kitchen floor, peering at the gaps between the floor and sink. My whole body is covered with sweat. My knees slip several times.

  “Onni, it’s me. Can I borrow the spatula again?”

  Myeonghui, who’s come in at some point, is gazing down at me. Spatulas aren’t tiny like beans. So it would be impossible for it to fall in a crack, wouldn’t it? I try to flip the corvina with a pair of metal chopsticks, but it breaks into two chunks.

  Myeonghui doesn’t ring the doorbell anymore. She tries the doorknob and if it’s unlocked, she opens the door and lets herself in. I’m not so uptight. If someone opens up to me, I open up, too. Again last night, my husband said women were truly incomprehensible creatures. He asked how in the world we could have become so close in one week. I blurted, “As long as you’re a banker, you’ll never understand. You have no right to criticize her. Plus, you haven’t even met her.”