Recitation Read online

  “So was this before or after her she worked as a receptionist at a yoga studio?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I know she’s worked as a museum guard, behind the till at an Asian supermarket, and on the floor at a hippy clothing shop, modelling ‘ethnic’ clothes for a travel catalogue, as a cleaner at a youth hostel, as a street musician in Salzburg during the festival, as a picture postcard vendor, as a cloakroom attendant at the opera house. But this is the first I’ve heard of a yoga studio.”

  “It’s a strange thing,” Banchi muttered as though lost in thought, his gaze riveted to the supermarket entrance. “For decades, Maria provided countless wanderers from all over the world with a place to stay, but aside from frequently moving from one rented room to another, did she herself ever actually go travelling?”

  “She often used to say that she wanted to go to the country where you live, Banchi, to see a dead horse…”

  “Yes, but those were just words. In reality, she never went travelling. Considering that she was Karakorum, that’s actually pretty ironic. She wasn’t your average Karakorum, that’s for sure. She must have put up more wanderers than any other Karakorum in the world.”

  “You said ‘was’ a Karakorum. Why the past tense?”

  “Well, because I don’t know for sure that she still is living as a Karakorum. It’s probable, though.”

  “Thinking about it, she’s the only Karakorum we know!”

  “Did Karakorum really exist?”

  “…”

  “The ancient city of Karakorum, I mean.”

  “What are you talking about, Banchi? This is the twenty-first century,” Kyung-hee said jokingly. “Something exists as long as it exists on the internet, never mind that nobody can see it. I’m talking about the internet forum Karakorum, for wanderers who have their own houses.”

  “Ah, it strikes me that even if I hadn’t had any firm intention to see Maria during my time in this city, I might have ended up bumping into her anyway. After all, I probably would have stopped by the supermarket once or twice. But now I know she doesn’t want to see me, I’m not going to go up to her and start acting like I know her. All I want to know is that she’s doing okay, that she’s in good health. If I could just see that with my own eyes it would set my mind at ease, and I’d have no problem forgetting all about her. So if she gets in touch with you, please tell her there’s no need to worry about me pestering her.” “Tell her that you understand her fears,” Banchi added, “but that I’m nothing like that Japanese guy.”

  “Well… I don’t know how much longer Maria’s going to work in this supermarket. Because she’s doing cleaning work too, you know. She said she can earn ten euros an hour that way. No, twelve euros, it was. Anyway, she’s working as an unregistered cleaner. Needless to say, that way you don’t pay any tax, so it’s even better. Apparently it’s mainly foreigners’ houses she cleans. And working two different jobs over a long period wears you down. So if she’s going to quit one of them, it would probably be this supermarket job, because here she has to pay tax on her wages.”

  Kyung-hee finished speaking and coughed again.

  “Shouldn’t you buy yourself some medicine?” Banchi asked, sounding faintly worried.

  “No, I can’t take cough medicine. Drugs that dilute bronchial secretions can sometimes paralyse my larynx, and that makes me unable to pronounce certain consonants properly. For example, like ‘ㅋ’, the aspirated ‘k’ sound, or ‘ㄲ’, the tensed ‘k.’ It’s a form of temporary dyslalia. For a voice actor like me, Banchi, that could be a serious issue. And besides, I have to call Berlin now.”

  “But you don’t have any public performances coming up, so why can’t you take some medicine? I’m no expert, but if it’s a temporary thing, then even if you take some cough medicine, any symptoms will have worn off after a few days, right?”

  “I’m afraid of contracting a permanent speech impediment.”

  “What are you talking about, that’s not something you can just catch like a common cold.”

  “I’m being extra-careful because there’s a family history of speech impediments.” Kyung-hee stood up, clutching the bunch of flowers in one hand. “So it’s best if I call Berlin straight away, before I lose my voice. Besides, I’ve just noticed that empty phone booth over there.”

  “If you go to Berlin, what will you order at the restaurant?” Banchi asked, also standing up.

  “Fried rice at the cheapest Vietnamese restaurant. Prawns and tofu, with coriander.”

  “See, your pronunciation is perfectly clear!”

  “Because I haven’t taken any medicine yet, obviously! And I’ve already got a bottle of Noscapine syrup with me. The instructions say the recommended dose is one 5mm spoonful, no more than four times a day, but I’ve frequently taken ten times that and not had any problems. I’ll take some if the coughing really gets to be too much, so you can stop worrying.” Kyung-hee shouted all this back at Banchi as she ran over to the public phone booth. “My mother’s had a gluten allergy for twenty years. Then last year she was finally diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. My father came through two bouts of stomach cancer hardy as a machine, but now he suffers from a pseudo allergy to all kinds of food additives and chemicals. Not only that, but certain acids and natural preservatives in fruit leave all his mucous membranes bloody. Blood leaking out of his eyes and rectum especially. So aside from the nurse’s sweet saliva he can barely swallow anything but tasteless water!”

  Kyung-hee splashed noisily through the puddles that had gathered by the roadside. Muddy water splattered all over her Wellington boots and the hem of her skirt, but she didn’t pay any attention; if anything, she swung her arms even more vigorously, making her look like some huge speckled bird. Her flight was arrested when she careened into a fridge that had been dumped by the side of the road, and she almost fell over, but quickly regained her balance and carried on running, bursting into loud laughter.

  “What’s a pseudo allergy?” Banchi asked, trying to keep up with her.

  “The symptoms are the same as for a regular allergy, but it’s actually due to an intolerance for a particular medicine, nothing to do with the human immune system! Hysteric symptoms.”

  “Bwah!”

  “So that’s how I know I’m going to end up with some kind of pseudo dyslalia sooner or later!”

  “And what are these so-called ‘hysteric symptoms’?”

  “Babies who were born in Chernobyl after 1986 suffered those kind of symptoms, did you know?”

  “No, I never heard about that.”

  “Whatever it is, we can’t stop it coming to us!”

  “Whatever it is, for god’s sake, calm down. Slow down.”

  “Some form of illness is inevitable before we die.” Kyung-hee stopped in front of the public phone booth, her breath coming in loud gasps. She was still clutching the bunch of chrysanthemums, which had been reduced almost to bare stems. “I have to call Berlin, before I contract some kind of illness and my voice completely disappears!”

  “It was a young woman who writes a magazine column,” the healer yelled, so loud it made Kyung-hee’s ears ring. “A young female journalist, can you hear what I’m saying?”

  Kyung-hee replied that she could indeed hear him perfectly well, so there was no need to speak quite so loudly.

  “Okay, it’s just that there’s always a lot of noise on this line, and the other person often struggles to make out what I’m saying, so I’ve gotten used to having to shout. Especially when I have to call Seoul, you can’t imagine what a hassle that is. Though actually, the situation seems to have improved these past few days. Perhaps the issue wasn’t having an old handset but the phone company’s shoddy circuits. Anyway, I called Seoul yesterday, I only spoke a little bit louder than the other person, and heck, they probably could have heard me at that distance even without the aid of a telephone. But I’m no stage performer, you know; modulating the volume of one’s voice at will is no piece of
cake for an ordinary guy like me.” The healer delivered this apology in as loud a voice as ever.

  “You’re saying a female magazine reporter came to Berlin to look for me?” Kyung-hee asked, somewhat perplexed. “What on earth for? And how did she know I was here in the first place?”

  “Well, I’ve no idea about any of that,” the healer said brusquely. “It’s not like we had an in-depth conversation. Maybe she wants to interview you? Given that she reports on public performances, arts and culture, that sort of thing.”

  “Why would she interview me?”

  “Because you’re an actor, of course,” the healer said, as though this were blindingly obvious. “Supposing that she was coming to Berlin on business anyway, there’d be nothing strange about her wanting to take that opportunity to meet you, an actor, and interview you.”

  “I still don’t get it. It’s not like I’m even remotely famous; I’ve never had a single journalist want to interview me before. And why on earth come all the way to Berlin to interview me, now of all times, when I haven’t had any work for ages.” Kyung-hee’s voice sank, trembling with despondency. “So which magazine was it?”

  “Hmm, she did mention the name, but as it’s not my field…” The healer dragged his words out diffidently. “Anyway, I was on the phone with your boyfriend and he told me that you’re planning to come to Berlin anyway, that you’ve already bought the ticket.”

  “Banchi isn’t my boyfriend.”

  “Well, whatever. Isn’t it true that you’ve bought a train ticket to Berlin?”

  “Yes, but just on the off chance that I might happen to feel like going there… so no one’s come looking for me aside from this journalist?”

  “No, no one.”

  “Any post?”

  “Well, nothing that’s come since you left.”

  “Ah, I see.” Kyung-hee shivered and sighed. Involuntarily relaxing her grip, the bunch of chrysanthemums fell to the floor. All that remained in the hand that had been clutching the flowers was a bundle of newspaper. As the public phone booth was open, without sides, the exhausted Kyung-hee was forced to lean against the body of the telephone set. “Banchi and I might be going to another city. We’re thinking it through now. Banchi’s interested in forming a Buddhist organisation, not a political organisation, a ‘poor people’s Buddhist group’ he’s been mulling over with a friend. I’m not a Buddhist, but I think I’d like to help them if possible. So I might not be coming to Berlin, actually… if that woman gets in touch again, I’d be grateful if you could tell her that I’m not living there anymore.”

  “But…” the healer paused, as though deliberating over how much to say, “…in that case, what about the letter the journalist left for you? I promised her I’d send it on to you.”

  “No, why would she have left a letter at your house?” Feeling a lethargy-induced headache coming on, Kyung-hee, whose mood had soured along with her rising nausea, raised her voice without realising it. “And why should I read a letter from a woman I don’t know?”

  “I told you, she’s a young female journalist…”

  “Journalist or whatever, she’s just some strange woman!” Kyung-hee’s words came hard and fast. “I’ve no interest in meeting her!”

  “Look, there must be some misunderstanding, this woman just…” the healer stammered, clearly flustered. “She just said she wanted to meet you one time… all said and done, she’s a journalist, a female journalist, very young, and quiet as a sleeping cat. Surely it’s okay for her to want to meet you? It doesn’t seem such a terrible impertinence to me.”

  “I can’t stand journalists. The way they talk, the way they write, their business cards, the whole lot of it!”

  “Why are you getting angry at me? All I did was pass on a message. The young female journalist who wants to meet you…”

  “I swear, if you say ‘young female journalist’ one more time…” A sharp retort was spinning around on the tip of Kyung-hee’s tongue, and she only just managed to swallow it down.

  “But you’re the one who said you might come back here. Didn’t you always say this was ‘your Berlin address’? Weren’t you the one who asked me several times before you left to let you keep this place as a fixed address, even though you wouldn’t be living here anymore? To let you keep this address all the time you’re travelling, so a part of you could stay behind, and anyone who wanted to find you could come and look for you here?”

  “…”

  “You told me you were going back to Korea. You acted as though you were going to look for a steady job in Korea and settle down there, permanently. And weren’t you the one who begged me to write down all of the addresses you were using, of all the friends you were staying with, while you went gadding around central Asia, then to Europe, then to China, then back to Vienna, and to get in touch if someone came looking for you?”

  “…”

  “So all I did was pass what you told me on to her. To a young female journalist from Seoul. Saying that you were certain to visit Berlin again. On top of that, I even shelled out on an expensive phone call all the way to Vienna. I don’t suppose you have a problem with that? And now you’re acting like I’ve done something wrong, I can’t make head nor tail of it!”

  “I’m sorry, and I’m grateful to you for letting me know. I should have said that earlier. Only, I don’t have any coins left…” Realising that she’d made a mistake, Kyung-hee hastily tried to explain herself. But by this point the healer had flown into a rage, and there seemed no getting him out of it. The telephone receiver was bleeping every second, warning her that her money was about to run out, but the healer couldn’t have cared less.

  “You expect me to assess whether everyone who comes looking for you is someone you’re genuinely expecting, and then pass that information on to you? What’s that about?!”

  “Of course not. I understand. I said I’m sorry. But my coins have run out, we probably won’t be able to talk much longer…”

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  “I’ve let you keep this house as ‘your Berlin address’ for several years by my reckoning, free of charge! I mean, you don’t even pay rent!”

  “And I’m grateful for that. But…”

  “You had visitors over several times, and I never breathed a single word of complaint, isn’t that right?”

  The call cut off with a snap. Kyung-hee’s two-euro coin had exhausted its effect.

  Kyung-hee hung up the receiver, turned back to look at Banchi, who was idly scuffing his shoes against the kerb a few metres away, and shook her head. It’s not him. It’s not his letter. Banchi’s sullen expression told her that he wasn’t particularly interested. Kyung-hee kicked the bunch of dried flowers that had fallen to the floor and walked out of the booth. And asked Banchi if he fancied going to Café Goat for some coffee. Banchi said he didn’t want to. Oh, that’s right, you don’t want to do anything, Kyung-hee sniped, walking past Banchi and continuing along the pavement. Banchi didn’t want to ask her outright about the location of this so-called Café Goat she’d dreamed up. Kyung-hee swung her arms as she walked, not looking where she was going, and a truck whisked by so close it almost sheared off the tip of her nose. She wobbled, coming within an inch of falling into the road, but just about managed to hold her nerve. The driver of the truck pulled up in the next alleyway, poked his head out of the window and stuck his middle finger up at Kyung-hee, fixing her with a furious glare.

  “Do you know what just occurred to me?” Kyung-hee said to Banchi, who’d come up behind her. “When I first came to the city where you live, the roads were in such a wild, barbarous state that I was afraid I’d be knocked down and killed. But, as you will have seen just now, it was right here in the middle of Europe that it came this close to actually happening.”

  “It’s your own fault, swanning across the road without looking where you were going.”

  “And the thought I had immediately afterwards was that if I did end up as roadkill here, a
nd didn’t have you by my side like I do now, you or anyone else, no one would ever be able to discover who I actually am, or no, to be more precise, who this body without a passport belongs to, where I came from.”

  “You do see articles like that in the paper, now and then.”

  “The body of an unregistered East Asian woman, who was not in possession of an ID card.”

  “They’d check the missing persons list first. You’re ethnically Asian, yes, but you could still be a citizen of the US or some other foreign country, so they’ll ask the various embassies here to verify your identity. And I guess they’ll find out certain clues from your clothes and shoes.”

  “From the trademark ‘made in China’, you mean?”

  “And they’ll put up an ad about you in the police stations and the train station, and maybe wait for people who’d recently seen you or spoken with you to come forward and make a statement. From the look of the girl at the rented house where we’re staying, you can safely count her out for coming forward of her own accord. Besides, she doesn’t know what countries we come from, or even our names. If we didn’t turn up she’d just pack up our things, stuff them in the basement, and forget about us. Just like every other inhabitant of this city, she never knew a single thing about us, and she never cared to. Thinking about it, the first to come forward would probably be those policemen you had the run-in with yesterday.”

  “I guess that’s true. Perhaps they’d be my only eyewitnesses.”

  “And whatever they say about you would be your last official record.”

  “We didn’t know who she was…”

  “Well, that would be true, at least. And they’ll say, it seems we got her confused with some other foreigner.”

  “We got her confused… Banchi, my chest hurts. That would be the final sentence of my autobiography. But while I’m still living, I absolutely refuse to imagine what they might say about me after I’m dead. My final act of volition would be to refuse to know anything about that.”