Flowers of Mold & Other Stories Read online

  She’d probably stopped by his bank to make the deposit. Considering his bank isn’t even nearby, I should be grateful she went out of her way. That’s probably why they ended up coming home together. And they probably pretended to come home separately, so that I wouldn’t get suspicious. After all, my husband believes my head is full of daydreams, and he doesn’t believe in friendships between women. I’m sure he’s being careful so that my friendship with Myeonghui doesn’t end over a small misunderstanding. But our friendship isn’t like aluminum pots.

  •

  My face in the bulging surveillance mirror looks distorted and ugly. Without makeup, it seems especially sallow, and because I didn’t get enough sleep, my eyes are bloodshot. Just as my husband said, my mind really seems to be off in space. I feel as if I’m walking on sunken ground.

  Myeonghui says it’s just my nerves, but I’m certain the owner of Huimang is suspicious of me.

  “Onni, try to relax. You’re just being paranoid. I’m worried you’re going to drive yourself crazy.”

  Is she right? Am I just paranoid? Myeonghui is looking inside the ice cream cooler with my son. She often gives him what he wants. Just a couple of days ago, she bought him a box of expensive cookies that came with a cheap toy, and slipped an ice cream cone in his hand. I keep telling her not to do that. I tell her it would only spoil him and create bad habits, but she doesn’t listen.

  I come to the aisle with household goods. A sign warns that stolen goods must be compensated a hundred times the original price. Myeonghui had called it a scarecrow. I laugh to myself and repeat what she’d said. I touch a steel wool pad the way she had. There isn’t a single person in sight. Turning my back on the checkout counters, I quickly slip the scouring pad into my bra. I feel a thrill run down my spine. When I look behind me, the owner is glancing half-heartedly between the aisles.

  “Hey Light Bulb Eyes! Catch me if you can. I’m right here!”

  The owner doesn’t scare me. To balance things out, I slip another scouring pad into the other side of my bra. My breasts become extremely full. I shine those breasts in the bulging mirror. If the owner is suspicious, she’d be running up to me by now, but no one has noticed. I guess Myeonghui is right. I’m just tense because I haven’t been getting enough sleep.

  Myeonghui approaches, pushing the shopping cart. My son holds her hand and in his other hand, there’s a box of cookies that comes with a toy. If I get one more coupon, I can redeem all the coupons for a pair of rollerblades. As soon as I mention the rollerblades, my son begins to jump up and down with excitement. I pay for my things and collect the last coupon. As we’re about to step out of the store, the owner blocks my path.

  “I need to see everything inside your bag.”

  It’s only then that I realize I’d forgotten to take the scouring pads out of my bra. I swear I didn’t plan on stealing them. I have two new ones at home. It was only for fun.

  “What kind of people do you take us for?” Myeonghui yells.

  The people on the street look at us. We follow the owner back into the store. She hasn’t noticed the scouring pads stuffed inside my bra, has she? She takes everything out of the bag and places it on the floor. One by one, she checks each item against the receipt. A crowd begins to form around us. They’re all familiar faces. After all, I’ve lived in the neighborhood for six years.

  Myeonghui says to the owner, “You’re going to be sorry! You’re accusing innocent people here!”

  “Explain this pack of gum, then!” the owner cries, holding the gum up to my nose.

  It’s a pack of Juicy Fruit. I’ve never bought that gum before. Instead of me, it’s Myeonghui who shouts.

  “Do we look like people who would steal a measly pack of gum that costs three hundred won? Do you really want to kiss your business goodbye?”

  The owner refuses to back down. My senses start to grow dim. Their voices buzz in my ears.

  Myeonghui calls my husband. I don’t know how she knows his work number by heart. My son, terrified, begins to cry. She clasps his hand and wipes away his tears.

  I didn’t steal that pack of gum. But I’m not sure if my hand grabbed it without me knowing. Sweat is running down my whole body. My skin begins to prickle and burn as the scouring pads chafe against my flesh; it might even start peeling.

  My husband arrives. The dress shirt I had ironed this morning is a bit wrinkled, but seeing him away from home like this, he looks very smart. He shakes me, his hands clutching my shoulders. “Yeongmi! Yeongmi! What happened? Yeongmi, talk to me!”

  I don’t know why this man keeps calling my name like this. Surely, he doesn’t think I’ve forgotten my own name.

  Myeonghui starts to cry. “I don’t know why Onni did it. It’s all my fault.”

  My husband pats her shoulder. He doesn’t even look at me. He’s ashamed, no doubt. He’s probably wishing he didn’t know me. My husband is not the man I once knew. The shoppers glance at our faces as they pass by. I sink down beside the ice cream cooler and gaze blankly at my husband’s face. He’s talking to the owner. He and Myeonghui look like people who’ve known each other for a long time. When did they become this close? Isn’t it women who turn hot and cold like aluminum pots?

  “The capital of Austria is Vienna, Lebanon is Beirut, Lesotho is Maseru, Syria is Damascus …”

  I don’t know why I’m thinking of capitals right now. I start to mumble the words as they come to mind. I can’t stop.

  Myeonghui approaches. As soon as she bends toward me, she grimaces. Then I hear her. I hear the words she spits out, softly, like a curse.

  “She’s finally lost it.”

  I don’t stop. My words build speed.

  “Australia is Canberra, Burundi is Addis Ababa, America is Maseru, Austria is Washington, Japan is Kyoto …”

  My memory is still pretty good. I recite smoothly without stopping.

  Myeonghui cringes. Actually, it looks like a sneer. Why is she laughing at me like that?

  Maybe Myeonghui never returned the spatula she borrowed from me. She may have put the screwdriver inside my husband’s briefcase, since I keep his bag in the front hall cabinet. Anyone can burn the kettle and forget the wet laundry. Even our house key—she could have hidden it. One by one, I begin to recall all the things she’s borrowed from me. This memorization exercise seems to be working.

  Spatula, screwdriver, bottle opener, umbrella, key, garlic press …

  Myeonghui, my husband, and Seonghwan look like one family. My husband and son—is she planning not to return them as well?

  Myeonghui, the woman next door. Who is this stranger?

  Flag

  1

  The power went out late last night, at ten past midnight. While people were still sleeping, the electrical appliances stopped working. The children who woke were cranky; they missed the hum of the refrigerator and the whir of the fan, sounds as comforting to them as a lullaby. Housewives who opened the refrigerator to prepare breakfast found blood dripping from the frozen pork they’d left to thaw, the meat turned a dark red. The ice cream bars had melted, leaving wrappers full of mush around the sticks, and the marinated spinach smelled sour. It gets so humid in July that food spoils in no time. Everyone was calling the 123 hotline.

  Even up to the early eighties, power outages were common. Students cramming for their exams often studied by candlelight. Sometimes these candles caused fires. Since 1997, though, all this has become a thing of the past.

  This outage wasn’t widespread. The affected area was limited to Building D of Kwangmyeong Apartments and Towers 1, 2, and 3 of Rose Village. It could have been a worn-out line or even a bird perching on a high-voltage line. Birds on high-voltage lines are safe as long as they touch nothing else. But if they nod off and touch another line, zap, they’re finished.

  I looked at my map and checked the utility pole in question: #021/8619E. I stepped into the side street with the poles marked 8619E. The street went down a steep hill with a sixteen-meter
pole every fifty meters. It wasn’t yet ten, but the sun beat down, poised over the vents on the roof of Kwangmyeong Building A.

  Preoccupied with reading the number tags on the poles, I reached the bottom of the hill before I knew it. Behind me were the eight poles I’d gone by. I had a habit of calculating the distance by counting poles. Three hundred fifty meters later, I finally stood before #021.

  I used to work in Gyeonggi Province until they transferred me here. Back there, not a day went by without an outage. And the cause? Magpies. They would build their nests on top of the transformers and come in contact with the line, or a porcelain insulator would break off. Maybe to magpies, utility poles looked like oak trees, sturdy enough to hold nests that would last a lifetime. So not only did I replace transformers and repair lines, but I also had to move their nests into trees. But where would you find magpies here in the city? City children would never see a magpie except in a picture book about birds.

  Climbing utility poles was a piece of cake. At my old technical high school, they called me Monkey Boy. We had to go up and down the fifty practice poles rigged up on the school grounds, and I set the speed record.

  I strapped on my leather tool belt and was about to start climbing when I felt something spongy underfoot. It was a pair of black leather shoes, pooled with water. Though the backs were crushed in and the heels worn, the shoes were placed neatly together, as if they’d been removed by a front door. A drunk certainly didn’t leave them behind. I felt a drop of water. Was the rain starting again? I looked up. About two meters off the ground, a suit jacket hung from the pole’s first peg, water dripping from its hem. It had been raining on and off until early morning.

  I climbed, my gaze locking onto each metal peg that zigzagged up the pole. The streetlight loomed above, staring down at me like a cyclops. High above the suit jacket on the other side of the pole hung a damp pair of men’s trousers. On the next peg up, a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves flapped in the wind. The breeze must have dried it out during the night. Above that hung a sweat-stained undershirt and above that, a necktie, still knotted, as if it had simply been loosened before being removed. Next, I met a pair of socks swaying back and forth in front of my face like tired balloons. When I tilted my head back to look toward the top, I saw a pair of men’s black pinstripe briefs, waving like a flag in the southeasterly wind.

  He had taken off his shoes, hung his suit, and then removed the rest of his clothes one by one as he made his way up the pole. In the end, he’d even shed his briefs, hanging them at the very top. Sitting atop the pole without a stitch of clothing, he must have resembled Adam, the first man. He would have been tense, no doubt, taking care not to touch another line. This isn’t something a drunk would dare attempt. Besides, the first peg was set far above me, and I’m pretty tall for a guy. I’m positive he was sober. Maybe he was from a technical school, too.

  I climbed up past the two transformers and streetlight; the 6600-volt line now stretched below me. I loosened my tool belt and strapped myself to the pole. Luckily, the transformers hadn’t burned out. It must have been the metal buckle from the belt; the wind must have brought it in contact with both lines and tripped the automatic shut-off.

  The street was empty. There was an elementary school nearby; I could hear the pump organ and children singing. I climbed all the way to the top. I saw the street I’d walked down and the school playground, hidden by a stone wall until now. Little kids in sky-blue gym uniforms were doing sprints in time to a whistle. I leaned back in my harness, set my feet against the pole, and gazed down at the scene sixteen meters below, now laid out flat like a blueprint. In an apartment building across the street, a fifth-floor window opened and a young woman with long hair peered out. Our eyes met. Flustered, she disappeared and the window banged shut. The organ wheezed every time it hit a G. The children sang, or rather screeched, at the top of their lungs. With a fingertip, I lifted the fluttering pair of briefs from the pole. On my way down, I deactivated the shut-off. The man’s clothes, which I had removed on my way up, now littered the ground.

  The inside pocket of the suit jacket contained a small notebook. I searched his pockets, but found no wallet. The rain had soaked through the pocket lining and left yellow splotches on the notebook, making it look like an antique world map. The grid-lined pages were filled with dates and miniscule handwriting, which I had trouble making out because the ink had run. But one thing was clear—he led a busy life. Three whole pages were crammed with names and dates of birthdays and wedding anniversaries. The next section was left blank. He had then used the remaining pages for what seemed to be a journal, but in many places the wet pages clung together. I did my best to separate them, but they ended up torn. I eased myself against the pole and read, skipping the parts that were difficult to make out. From time to time, I tilted my head back and glanced up toward the top of the pole.

  Having shed his skin, where could the man inside have gone?

  2

  APRIL 3

  On a building rooftop, a huge billboard stands on two steel columns. Paradise on Earth. Visit Hawaii Today. A Hawaiian maiden smiles down at the street. She wears a floral-print bikini and a string of flowers around her neck—a lei, they call it. Spread out behind her is the Pacific Ocean, the water sparkling with the coral reefs below. Young men with tanned bodies ride surfboards, balanced precariously on pointy waves. I can almost taste the sweetness of the coconuts clustered at the top of the trees.

  The bus moves in fits and starts. I stand clutching a plastic strap and look out the window at the billboard. My right hand is wedged between the rear ends of the people standing behind me. In that hand is a briefcase, and in the briefcase are catalogues with business cards stapled to the covers, along with some nicely packaged gum and candy. My arm went numb a while ago.

  Every time the driver slams on the brakes, the women shriek. Every time the bus tilts, the breasts of the woman behind me rub against my back. Every time we come to a bus stop, I find myself pushed farther back by the new arrivals, and every time a body blocks my view out the window, I crane my neck to find an opening. When the next stop is announced, someone rushes for the door and bumps my head. My glasses are knocked loose and dangle crookedly off my nose. I don’t mind, though.

  Every day for the past two years, whenever I’ve passed through this congested area, I’ve looked up at that billboard. The advertisement was just one travel agency’s ploy to entice tourists to Hawaii. The ad colors have faded from two years of exposure to the sun and the exhaust fumes of all the cars stuck in traffic. The paint is peeling and even the lei around the girl’s neck has lost its luster. But her smile remains the same, just as it did two years ago when I first saw her. I’ve been looking up at her ever since, whether hunched up like a turtle in my down parka, peering over steamed up glasses, or oblivious to the rainwater trailing down my umbrella onto my shoes in the rainy season.

  One day, that girl started to smile at me.

  APRIL 29

  The third Chrysler Korea dealership is located at a busy downtown corner. The sides facing the two main streets are fitted with enormous floor-to-ceiling glass. It’s only when you get closer you see a little enter sign on the automatic sliding doors, like a tiny blemish. From sunrise to sunset, light spills in through the windows. As I wait for the crosswalk signal to turn green, I look across to where I work. The dealership looks like a greenhouse.

  Whenever I sit at my desk, I can’t help making eye contact with the people walking by on the street. There is a cluster of buildings nearby: City Hall, two department stores, a bus terminal, and several banks. Here, I can’t even perform ordinary acts, like blowing my nose or tightening my belt. You never know when someone might be watching. The entire setup—the desks, chairs, every single flowerpot—revolves around the cars on display, not the people who work here. What amenities come to mind when you think of an office? Well, you won’t find them here. Not a single picture hangs on the wall. You don’t want people look
ing at art instead of the cars.

  I polish the windows until it’s time for the morning pep talk. A day doesn’t pass without them getting dusty and smudged. In my three years here, I’ve mastered the art of cleaning windows. I’ve yet to figure out how to become a top-notch salesman, but I know if you wipe the glass with moistened newspaper and then remove the remaining moisture with a cloth, the glass becomes so clear a bird is likely to smash into it. The showroom window is as big as the screen at the Taehan or Piccadilly. Written high up in fancy swirls is the phrase World-Class Luxury—Chrysler.

  Someone had thrown up outside the showroom window during the night. The backstreet around the corner is lined with small, windowless bars that have names like The Red Rose, Casablanca, Ruby, and Winter Wanderer. It must have been a customer from one of those places, trying to catch a taxi. There was vomit splattered all over the bottom of the window. I sprayed water onto the glass and carefully wiped away every last trace.

  Inside the showroom, a luxury sedan is waxed to a brilliant luster. It sits on a round platform and there’s a device underneath that makes it turn around and around all day long. The effect is amazing. Car buyers can’t take their eyes off it, at least until it goes all the way around. For the price of that car, you could buy yourself a small apartment on the outskirts of Seoul. I’ve been here three whole years and I still haven’t sold that Chrysler.

  Maybe my luck will change today.

  MAY 3

  Sometimes when there’s no one here, not even Miss Kim the receptionist, I’m the one who watches the office. Then I get up on the platform and climb into the driver’s seat. Still wrapped in plastic, the genuine leather seats have the new-car smell and the gear stick moves smoothly. The shift knob, with an oak wood-grain finish, is the size of an egg and fits perfectly in my hand. I know every single word in the brochure for this car. A salesman has to know all there is to know about his product. When no one’s around, I’ll chant the phrases of the advertisement. “The ultimate high-speed driving experience—feel yourself become one with the road.” There’s even a gyroscope half-set into the dashboard. It turns constantly when the car is in motion, and the driver can almost feel the earth go around. Cream-colored airbags, front and side, for both driver and passenger. In my mind, those airbags have gone off over a hundred times.