Recitation
Praise for Bae Suah
“A Greater Music will grab you by the heartstrings and play you like a harp, in the best of ways. It riffs on music, language, and literature while delivering a gut-punch of an ending.”
—CASSIDY FOUST, Literary Hub
“The experience of reading the prize-winning Korean-born writer Bae Suah is simultaneously uncanny, estranging, and spellbinding, an effect that becomes perceptible the more you read…Bae Suah offers the chance to unknow—to see the every-day afresh and be defamiliarized with what we believe we know—which is no small offering.”
—SOPHIE HUGHES, Music & Literature
“This dulcet, contemplative novel [A Greater Music]…serves as an articulate and moving reflection of how life can stop ‘for a time in a certain fluid place between past and future.’”
—Publishers Weekly
“A Greater Music is another addition to a growing body of literature that explores the idea that human sexuality is more pliable and fluid than the rigid labels we assign to it.”
—MELISSA BECK, World Literature Today
“With concise, evocative prose, Bae merges the mundane with the strange in a way that leaves the reader fulfilled yet bewildered, pondering how exactly the author managed to pull this all off.”
—Korean Literature Now
“Sparse in words, dense with multiple layers of meaning, Bae’s work will surely be an international endeavor to follow closely.”
—TERRY HONG, Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center
ALSO AVAILABLE IN ENGLISH BY BAE SUAH
A Greater Music
translated by Deborah Smith
Nowhere to Be Found
translated by Sora Kim-Russell
Deep Vellum Publishing
3000 Commerce St., Dallas, Texas 75226
deepvellum.org · @deepvellum
Deep Vellum Publishing is a 501c3
nonprofit literary arts organization founded in 2013.
Copyright © 2011 by Bae Suah
Originally published in Seoul, South Korea
by Jaeum and Mouem Publishing Co. Ltd. in 2011
English translation copyright © 2017 by Deborah Smith
First edition, 2017
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-941920-47-3 (ebook)
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2016959333
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Recitation is published under the support of Literature Translation Institute of Korea (LTI Korea).
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Cover design & typesetting by Anna Zylicz · annazylicz.com
Text set in Bembo, a typeface modeled on typefaces cut by Francesco Griffo for Aldo Manuzio’s printing of De Aetna in 1495 in Venice.
Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Distribution.
CONTENTS
Recitation
1. Kyung-hee said that in her hometown, she’d been a theatre actor specialising in recitation
Several times already now, she’d had the idea of visiting the houses she’d left behind. Grasshoppers spring up around her feet, transparent carapaces propelled into the air as she crosses the dirt yard and approaches the cement buildings, their desiccated structures hard and dry as stale bread, and riddled with holes. She peers through the window into the ground-floor flat, where a naked bulb casts a cold, orange light. Objects devoid of life or utility crowd the interior. A table, a cupboard. A vase, a bed. Chairs. Clothes lacking bodies to give them shape. The chill impression of those dearly missed rental houses, whose occupants were only ever passing through. In reality, though, she never once went back to any of the places she’d left behind, and there was something peculiar about the way she only drew them again and again in her imagination, like a hometown whose precise location has grown uncertain over time. Kyung-hee enjoyed talking about the various houses she’d lived in. This one was in that city and that one was in this, some days the heart of a bygone city to which no name can now be put would irrupt into a present conversation with all the suddenness of a cloud of dust whisking up into the air, some unforeseeable instant. Such cities thicken and coalesce, appearing in front of an audience in the guise of blind women. Blind women leading groups of black pigs, blind country women singing, their earlobes crudely pierced, a woman who is both a mother and a thief, a blind peddler woman standing in front of the house. Before the curtain went up, as the prima donna stepped out onto the black, sticky floorboards of the stage, the director pressed a white stick into her hand, saying: to really inhabit this role, from this moment onwards you are blind…
Kyung-hee told us about the groups of peddlers who wandered up and down in the square near where she lived, hawking Rolexes. Adding, but obviously they were fakes. First a tall, smartly dressed young man, then a group of bashful girls, probably students at a women’s college, tried their luck with a group of travellers, asking whether they weren’t perhaps in need of a watch. Because they’d broached the topic in such an off-hand manner, as if it didn’t really matter to them either way, and because their introverted, extremely unbusinesslike body language managed to make them seem somehow above such things as commercial transactions, it didn’t immediately occur to the travellers that these were unlicensed sellers peddling fake watches. Having just arrived in some faraway country, and feeling as though they’d finally awakened from that deep, soporific stupor known as day-to-day existence, the travellers marvel at the novel perspective they now encounter, so very other from those they’d previously known; nothing could be further from their minds than the purchase of a watch, but now their footsteps slow to a stop; the seller leans in, whispering lips brought close to the travellers’ ears, seeming liable to inhale their souls. Eight hundred for one, a thousand for two. Kyung-hee herself wasn’t sure of the denomination.
We first met Kyung-hee in front of Central Station, after the last train had just pulled in. It was summer, late at night, and the taxi drivers were striking yet again. There had already been several announcements over the station’s P.A. system directing passengers to the temporary bus stop nearby, but these were seemingly incomprehensible to Kyung-hee, as she was still sitting on her big suitcase when all the other passengers had disappeared. She was wearing a long-sleeved denim jacket over a pigeon-grey dress; she looked exhausted, but not to the point of having lost that tension or agitation peculiar to travellers. Feeling unaccountably friendly, we offered to accompany her to whichever hotel or hostel she was planning to stay at. But Kyung-hee’s answer was that she didn’t have a reservation at any hotel or hostel in this city; she’d merely arranged to meet someone at the station, but he seemed to have forgotten their appointment, or else something had come up to prevent him from keeping it. He wasn’t someone Kyung-hee knew directly; they’d been introduced through a mutual friend who lived in Vienna, and he’d agreed to let Kyung-hee use his living room for a few days, though now of course he hadn’t shown up. We’ve never seen each other in the flesh, you see, but we’re both part of a community of wanderers who let out their homes free of charge, Kyung-hee explained. If someone comes to visit whichever city I happen to be living in, I give them somewhere to stay, and then when I go travelling, other people in other cities will let me use their living room, veranda, guest room, attic, or even, on the off chance that they have one, a barn. It all depends on their individual circumstances. So I know nothing about these people aside from their name and the city they live in, and if something comes up so that they can’t come and meet me, well, that’s unfortunate, but there’s nothing to be done. I just have to spend the night at the station, then take the first train to another city the following morning.
Our curiosity had been piqued, so we stayed and talked with Kyung-hee a little further; in the end, our conversation went on for much longer than we’d initially antici
pated, even after we had impulsively invited Kyung-hee to come and spend a few days with us. Of course, this had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Kyung-hee came from the same city as we did! After all, it was such a long time ago that we’d emigrated. We’d forgotten the city we’d left behind, a forgetting that could almost be called complete, and even the threadbare skeins of faded memories, which we used to wear like sorrowful clothes, had, in time, slipped furtively from our withered shoulders. Our first impression was that Kyung-hee’s travelling was entirely aimless, quite unlike our own one-off relocation, which we’d undertaken specifically in order to die in a city other than the place of our birth. We couldn’t immediately tell where she came from, and like I said, we didn’t care. Judging from her talk about the various cities she’d lived in, we simply pegged her as northern Chinese or Mongolian, or perhaps, though this wasn’t very likely, a member of some Siberian tribe. We’d never personally met a woman from Mongolia or northern China, or, for that matter, from some Siberian tribe, but we thought we’d noticed the tell-tale traces in Kyung-hee’s high cheekbones, and that characteristic northern expressionlessness which, at certain moments, crept over the upper part of her face. But we were mistaken.
Back in her hometown, Kyung-hee said, she’d been a theatre actor specialising in recitation. Despite being from the same place, we couldn’t recall ever having heard of any such occupation or art form. During Kyung-hee’s stay we had some other immigrants over to dinner, old-timers, and she spoke to them about her travels; intriguingly enough, at certain points her voice itself revealed her experience as a ‘recitation actor’, belying our shared conviction that we had never heard of such thing back in our hometown. She described herself as a traveller constrained by lack of money. One day several years ago, she’d heard the news that her old German teacher, whom she hadn’t seen for a number of years, and with whom she hadn’t exchanged so much as a phone call after their abrupt parting, had died, and after that everything was irresolvably vague and depressing, and neither happiness nor unhappiness could touch her anymore, and so she suddenly decided, though it was impossible, that she needed to go in search of him, she needed to travel; this, apparently, had been the initial motivation for her current roving life, an entirely unplanned development which now seemed to have been inevitable.
Kyung-hee told us that the secret salespeople all wore leather shoes buffed to a sheen, as though they had some kind of appointment to go to. On bright and sunny days their foreheads and the backs of their hands were the colour of rust, and the skin that wrapped their figures was a mixture of scurf and gooseflesh. As the afternoon declined, she said, they would shield their eyes with their hands and gaze up at the darkening sun; at such times vague shadows, blackish splotches in the shape of leaves, would tremble on the backs of their hands. From planes passing by overhead, she explained.
Or else it was sunspots caused by seething solar flares, or eclipses, rare and invisible to the naked eye. At the time, one of them recalled how, several years ago on a flight to Japan, he’d passed over that city where Kyung-hee used to live. Muttering as if to himself, he said, “If the plane we were on had been the kind that flies really low, beneath the clouds, then the shape of that grey city would have stretched out beneath us, a wide, flat disc glinting like a sheet of beaten iron on the other side of the windows. The bone structure and flesh of a city, a long valley seemingly gashed into the land, a dried-up river bed cratered with red depressions, or the gaping mouth of a huge cement cellar. But even then, given that we would have been asleep at the time, our cricked necks jammed into the creases of our headrests, it’s unlikely that we would have spotted any travellers roaming the streets, any mysterious wandering traders in the square by the department store. Ah, I’ve just remembered, I was in that city another time, on an eight-hour stopover while I waited for a transfer flight to New Zealand. I paced up and down the airport corridors, trying to make sense of the hazy, distorted images visible on the far side of the windows. Why is it, I wonder, that no one ever talks about how those places known as airports, and the time spent there, feel like one of the stages of metempsychosis, a waystation on the journey from this life to the next? As the night lengthened, I huddled up on a chair in the smoking room and smoked a cigarette. And in the chair opposite, it’s all coming back now, there was this enormous monkey with a chain around its neck, crouching in exactly the same pose as me.” After all, the city had an airport, Kyung-hee said, or rather muttered, her words somewhat indistinct. Someone else responded that every city has an airport. Almost every city, another voice corrected, but so quietly it was practically inaudible.
“There was one girl I became friends with, a watch seller, and before I left that city she offered to share some work with me. You see, she thought I was leaving for the same reason as everyone else, because rents had doubled in the space of a few years.” After a pause, Kyung-hee continued. She always spoke as though entirely oblivious to the interest which people had in that city, with its airport and aeroplanes, though perhaps she was just pretending. When the rainy season swept up the country, she said, the secret sellers all went north ahead of it, and the lonely square became the preserve of umbrella-sheltered travellers. Standing there quietly in their dark raincoats, waiting for the bus, they looked like the trees known as ‘black poplars’, planted at regular intervals in the asphalt.
Kyung-hee had spent two years in that city, renting a room right in the centre; towering over her lodgings was a skyscraper so tall it was difficult to judge where it ended and the sky began, while down below the pedestrian underpass stretched for several kilometres. The second-floor window had an old wooden frame, and its glass was blurred with dust and soot, but she said that if you shunted it open you could look down onto a large, square fountain, always dry, and an intersection webbed with zebra crossings, a tangle of black and white radiating out like the spokes in a bicycle wheel. Above all this hung the enormous elevated expressway, slicing through the heart of the city as though suspended in mid-air. The fountain’s stepped base recalled a ziggurat, and halfway up its obelisk was a hook on which they sometimes flew the national flag, though Kyung-hee had no idea what its original function might have been. Every time I looked out of the window, that fountain reminded me of Egon Schiele’s gaunt, decapitated Venus; she smiled as she told us this. The six footbridges and eight zebra crossings converged at a narrow space in the middle of the road, between the elevated expressway’s colossal pillars; here, where pedestrians waited for the lights to turn green, lurked a handful of leather goods shacks, their semi-underground rooms lit up even in broad daylight. You have to take your shoes off before entering, but every time the lights change such a maelstrom of pushing and shoving breaks out that unless you make sure to stow them securely, they’ll almost certainly end up getting kicked away somewhere. Once that happens there’s no way you’ll find them again. After you pull open the glass door and step inside, watch your step on the loose cloth lining the stairs in lieu of a carpet. The tiny flight of stairs leads to a room where the proprietor, squatting on his haunches, offers the customer tea. The room is both his living space and a workshop-cum-store; you could also think of it as a kind of museum. You should close the door behind you as quickly as possible, to keep out the dust devils and the cacophony of swarming vehicles. While the proprietor snips away at the leather with his enormous scissors, you, the customer, sit and drink your tea, glancing uneasily up towards the door, trying to spot your shoes. Even with the door closed, the blaring car horns are every bit as deafening as they are up in the street, and the shack’s entire structure threatens to collapse every time a tremor is passed down from the enormous motorway overhead—in short, the walls of the shack are almost completely ineffectual in muffling the din and vibrations from the passing traffic, so it’s really no wonder you’re on edge, especially since this is your first time. And look outside the door, at those callous feet trampling all over your shoes, so battered they look like an old, worn-out pair t
hat’s been dumped by the side of road! A gang of motorbikes surging this way, people scattering in all directions like a shoal of sardines, then crowding back in again! The proprietor lists the various items he is able to craft from leather: shoes, saddles, women’s belts, hats, and he can even stitch on some bells if you like. A drum with bells, he says, wouldn’t be a problem—if that’s what the customer wants. Every now and then he breaks off from his needlework and gently works the leather with his teeth. Each time he does so, Kyung-hee said, a rank animal stench wafts up from the spit-soaked hide, heady in the narrow confines of the store.
“Those fake-watch salesmen you mentioned,” a woman chimed in, “I used to see them too”; she was one of the immigrants we’d invited, but she was only stopping here temporarily, just like Kyung-hee. “I used to see them loitering in the square in front of the department store, holding rolled-up copies of the Seoul Herald —you know, as though they’d arranged to meet someone there, and were just killing time until they showed up. There was this one woman, sometimes she’d come up to me and try and get me to buy a watch; now I think of it, she looked an awful lot like you. At least, like you probably would have looked, twenty-odd years ago. Early one morning, we were riding the bus from the airport into the centre. Mornings often began with scattered showers, but the clouds soon dissolved in the brightening day, leaving the whole world suffused with the sun’s honeyed glow. The sky’s blue intensified with every passing second, and the shreds of cloud sailing away to the east were a purer white; the light sharper, more distilled. The sunlight glinted cold and smooth off every conceivable surface, as if the whole world was scintillating light, and all sharply-defined borders were being reflected in an enormous mirror—that was how it looked. I told her I didn’t need a watch, that I didn’t have the kind of job that went with one of those heavy, yellow-gold watches she was flogging. And then you, no, the young girl with the black hair—she couldn’t have been more than twenty—gave me this bald stare, and asked if that meant I didn’t have a job. I didn’t answer, I just smiled. So she said in that case she would guide me up Monkey Mountain. Unfortunately, though, Monkey Mountain wasn’t in our itinerary. So you, no, the young woman, I mean, gave me up for a lost cause. She waved her rolled-up newspaper and marched off to another part of the square, though she didn’t actually seem all that put out. Her jet black hair, her deep, delicate eyelids, from which raindrops could have scattered at any moment, or actually, perhaps that’s it, her big black umbrella, yes, it’s so vivid now, as though I’m seeing it again right in front of my eyes. The square had a large flowerbed, packed full of sunflowers, right next to the bus stop for the airport shuttle, so there was always a line of people there, some standing, some sitting on their suitcases. I can see it all now, right this very moment, scene upon scene overlaid upon the present time like a painting of trembling light dappled with dark, confounding the senses. Two blind beggars shuffling from store to store, playing a Chinese fiddle, but when you got up close to them you could see that the things they held in their hands weren’t the fiddles I’d seen in Shanghai, why, they were nothing but cassette players, though I suppose the long, slim antenna which extended from the recorder’s round bulk might, from a distance, have resembled a fiddle’s long neck. Each of the beggars had a middle-aged woman to guide them, and each of these had a small child strapped to her back, bald as a monk; men in police uniform were keeping a lookout at the level crossing; stunted youngsters loafed around in white shirts; a woman stood in the centre of the square, beating a grey quilt with a paddle; another old woman held the quilt by the corners, pulling it taut; over to one side was a makeshift stall, just a small table and chair for street peddlers to hawk souvenirs; those tourists who’ve decided to go to Monkey Mountain were gathered around the stall; of such elements was the scene composed. The square was bustling with life, yet with a strange undercurrent of agitation. Being tourists, our gazes snagged on every little thing. And so I can’t recall exactly where she wandered off to, that young woman who was selling watches. Even with the peddlers constantly crying Monkey Mountain! to Monkey Mountain!, the sound produced by each solitary droplet of clear water as it was shaken from the woman’s umbrella onto the pavement was noticeably loud and distinct, much more so than would be usual in our day-to-day reality; a sound that throws open the door of memory, which is linked to sensation, so now all of a sudden it’s as though Monkey Mountain, which I never once set eyes on, which I’d never even heard of before then and never have since, really does exist, a concrete, intimately familiar location—at least, that’s how it seems to me.”