The Accusation Read online

  It just so happened that this was one of those times when the evening shift finished earlier than expected. This was quite frequently the case, as the tasks assigned to my work detail, which was in charge of developing and implementing new technologies, were rarely planned out in advance, and this made scheduling tricky. Conscious that my wife would be missing our nephew, I took care not to dawdle on the way home.

  Just after midnight, the interior of our building was quiet and still. I went up the stairs two at a time, past the second floor where the local Party secretary lived, to the third and highest floor, where my wife should have been asleep. But when I stepped into the corridor I could see light still seeping out through the chink at the bottom of our door.

  Still awake? I thought. She really must be missing our nephew. I recalled the plaintive tone in which she’d asked me to send him over, and felt even more sorry for letting her down. I went to open the door; it didn’t budge, but the light seeping out at the bottom abruptly died. My wife must have finally decided to try to get some sleep. I tried the handle again, but the door was latched on the inside. I knocked. There was no response. “It’s me,” I called out, rapping on the door again. In a flash, the light revived. I heard what seemed like our kitchen door swinging open, but there was still neither sight nor sound of my wife. “It’s me!” I called again.

  Only then did I hear her quick soft footsteps, and a muffled apology as she opened the door.

  “Hadn’t you gone to bed yet?”

  “I’ve had a few things to get on with.”

  Sangki!

  How could I have imagined that a dark shadow was lurking behind the very door I stepped through then? My wife began to lay out the bedding and I slowly tugged off my work clothes. And that was when I heard it—our front door opening, then closing, the sound unmistakable. I whipped around and instinctively dashed out in pursuit. Footsteps descending the stairs, quick and soft, clearly belonging to someone who knew his way even in the dark. I clattered down after them, then jerked to a halt. There were too many thoughts whirling in my head.

  So this was the answer to all the riddles. But if this was the case, what was to be gained by laying hands on the culprit? As I turned and retraced my steps, I felt the blood run backward through my veins.

  I was expecting to find my wife in a state, but not one as extreme as what confronted me when I marched in through the open door. She was collapsed in a corner of the room, sobbing with her face turned to the wall.

  “Stop crying!” I burst out, planted like a stake in the middle of the room.

  “Minsu’s uncle!” she cried.

  My wife struggled to her knees, raising her head to reveal a mask of tears. I’d used to like the way she referred to me using our nephew’s name—it felt intimate, preparation for the day when we’d have a child of our own and I’d be “So-and-so’s father.” In that moment, though, it seemed a slap in the face, a sharp reminder of where I ranked in her affections.

  “Minsu’s uncle, is it? Well, if that’s how you want it, that’s how it’ll be. A husband’s clearly not worth your while!”

  “Minsu’s uncle! That’s not it.”

  “Shut up.” Gasping with fury, I jerked the bookstand away from the wall, retrieved the packet of contraceptives I’d hidden there, and hurled them at my wife’s feet.

  I was on the point of losing my sense of reason.

  “And I suppose this isn’t what it seems either? Why are you taking them? Afraid of getting a mongrel? By who? Who is he? Out with it!”

  I seized hold of my wife’s slumped shoulders and hauled her to her feet, but she gripped my upper arms and began to shriek, her voice juddering with sobs.

  “You mustn’t, you mustn’t, you mustn’t ask me that. . . .”

  If she hadn’t released her grip and staggered hastily in the direction of the clothes chest, I wouldn’t have been responsible for my actions.

  Muttering “You mustn’t, you mustn’t” like someone who had taken leave of her senses, she fumbled with the lid of the box. She lifted it, reached inside, and brought out a notebook from beneath the pile of clothes. She dragged her feet as she walked back to me, clutching the notebook as though this was the last card she had left to play.

  “What’s this?”

  I snatched the notebook from her. Inside there were dated entries—a diary.

  “You must believe me, I didn’t know he was here. . . . He must have sneaked in while I was in the bathroom. . . . I swear I haven’t deceived you, I swear.” My wife collapsed in a heap once more, and her shoulders resumed their violent quaking.

  Only then did I recognize the signs in front of me: my wife’s disheveled hair, the loose thread hanging from the front of her jacket where a button had been torn off. She had clearly been in some fierce, desperate struggle. The blood that had been thrumming through my veins seemed to quiet down, leaving me able to think more clearly, my wife’s cries now little more than background noise. My gaze darted back to the diary, hanging open in my hand.

  4th December

  He was here again today. I remind myself that he’s looking out for my husband’s interests, but as grateful as I am, his visits are starting to bother me. Especially now when these visits seem to happen every time my husband’s out of the house. But it’s not just that—each time he shows up, his manner is slightly different from what it was before. Surely a man over forty would never think of me that way . . . but I wish I could be certain!

  What am I to do? I’m afraid that if I start discouraging him by behaving coldly, things will go badly for my husband, but I’m afraid that if I don’t . . . Well, never mind all that. What does it matter if there’s some minor trouble for me? Even death wouldn’t be too much to bear if it meant my husband was allowed to join the Party. . . .

  Sangki!

  That night, I stayed standing in the middle of the room for the whole time it took me to read that diary, from the first to the very last page. This diary in which my wife had recorded two years’ worth of incidents and feelings, albeit frequently skipping days. I didn’t simply read this diary; it hauled my gaze across its pages, my mind on a knife-edge, so that even granting the speed with which I raced through it, the words felt imprinted on my memory, like a photograph. Some entries follow:

  13th March

  A message came from the local Party secretary, saying that my husband would be too busy to leave the factory today so I should bring him his lunch at work. And so I ended up revisiting the technology innovation department, my husband’s current place of work and my own former one, for the first time in a very long while.

  Just as the name suggests, the department deals with developing and testing new tools and techniques to improve factory production. It’s a small place, set a little apart from the main building, and with only a handful of permanent staff. Min-hyuk happened to be with me when I received the message, so I brought him with me to see his uncle.

  Though it’s been only six months since I got married and stopped working, each familiar sight brought a smile to my face. The corrugated red roof, which used to shimmer with heat haze even in the winter, so long as the weather was mild; the little prep room that looked like a matchbox stuck onto the side of the building; its tiny, blue-framed window, where the weeping willow’s trailing limbs used to dance in the breeze through every season, sending me into a daydream just like a silly schoolgirl; my desk, its sloping surface recalling the ones we used to have at school, where I sat and sketched out technical drawings or drafted models—everything was just as I remembered. The desk happened to be vacant just then, so I sat down. There in that spot, the joy of getting to know my future husband, the sorrow of getting to know him better, flooded back as intense as when they’d first swept over me.

  That unforgettable day when I, a young woman fresh out of mechanic school, first sat in front of that desk! That day, as all days, the
name Lee Il-cheol attracted my notice, when I glimpsed it through the willow branches swaying just outside my window, on the bulletin board that stood in the yard. As I read on with mounting surprise, the title of the bulletin—‘Comrade Lee Il-cheol, Inventor! Further success in new inventions: the automatic plane!’—reminded me of a poster from middle school: “Great talent plus great effort! Student Lee Il-cheol’s Study Experience,” further ensuring that the name lodged in my mind. . . .

  There I was on my very first job, a colleague of the senior I’d held in such esteem, who had always seemed so far above me! I was so delighted by this lucky chance, and so proud to be working shoulder to shoulder with such an upstanding young man, that the desk I sat at felt like an old friend, and the willow outside the window seemed to dance for sheer joy.

  To think how swiftly that happiness vanished! I hadn’t been there long when, one day toward the end of the afternoon, an announcement was made. All Party members were to stay behind that evening, as the Party cell secretary had an important matter to discuss.

  When I laid down my tools and headed to the break room for the meeting, how shocked I was to see the brilliant inventor, head lowered and shoulders slumped, trudging out through the main door! That young man—whose formal education had stopped at middle school, yet whose unflagging program of self-study had left him with greater intelligence and skill than any college graduate; who, like the legendary creature with the head of a dragon and the body of a horse, outstripped everyone else in both brains and brawn—how could anything of importance be discussed without him?

  But such meetings were called quite often, and each time saw the “inventor” turned out of the break room with his tail between his legs! Why was I so affected by this contemptuous treatment? Why, when I found out that he had been unable to attend college, as his poor standing prevented him from joining the Party, did I find myself imagining how both the middle-school poster and the recent bulletin must seem meaningless imitations to him, mere children’s toys compared with the real thing? My sympathy was so great, I even began to feel a vague, indeterminate hatred on his behalf. But this hatred was mingled with a far more tender feeling toward the inventor himself, that young man with the burning eyes, so humble and diligent despite his extraordinary mind. . . .

  People write books and sing songs claiming that love is this or that. But to me, love was indistinguishable from sympathy. That intolerable fretfulness at your inability to take any of the suffering on yourself, that irrepressible impulse to offer up your own flesh as a sacrifice, anything to bring some measure of relief . . .

  In just such a blaze of sympathy, love budded within me and burst into glorious flower. While I sat immobile at my old desk, letting my mind slide back into bygone days, Min-hyuk went haring around the workshop, darting into and out of the break room as though it was all his private domain. He even came out with a shrill little song about how his uncle was number one here, so he had the right to do as he pleased. . . .

  Seeing Min-hyuk in such high spirits, blithely unaware of the reality of the situation, threw his uncle’s misfortune into sharper relief. My eyes grew misty at the thought of him having to go through life as a gemstone scuffed by ignorant feet. Oh, when would Min-hyuk’s uncle join the Party and see his true worth discovered?

  23rd April

  It was late afternoon, and I was busy mending my husband’s work clothes when Min-hyuk burst into the apartment. He was sobbing so violently he could barely speak, and his cheeks were streaked with grubby marks.

  “What’s all this, hey?”

  “I-I c-can’t be class president anymore.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “The t-teacher s-said so. . . .”

  “But why?”

  “D-don’t knoow.”

  With great difficulty I managed to calm Min-hyuk down and dry his tears, but there was no chance of carrying on with my sewing. He still had his satchel with him, I noticed, meaning he’d come straight here from school. No doubt he expected that I would be able to solve this problem with a click of my fingers. His confidence in me was a heavy burden.

  For my own family, I could boast nothing better than a father who was a member of the municipal administration board, but Min-hyuk’s parents held even this lowly position in high esteem. The boy had clearly picked up on this, hence his coming to me before his parents. The tears might have stopped streaming down his face but they were still there in his eyes, dark shining eyes like those of a young calf. It was impossible for me to do nothing. Instructing Min-hyuk to stay and amuse himself, I went straight to the people’s school. As chance would have it, the supervisor of the senior years—the Boy Scouts—was none other than Moon Yeong-hee, a childhood friend I’d lost touch with. Seeing her, I figured this would be easier than I’d thought. But as soon as she’d heard what I had to say, I realized that this was far more serious than a snub from some snot-nosed kid.

  “There’s no secrets between us,” she began, “so I’ll tell you very frankly how things stand. This is an issue that comes up time and again once the children become Boy Scouts. I received a proposal from their homeroom teacher to give your nephew the post of class president. His grades were already at the top, and his comportment was first-class. But when I went to get the proposal ratified by the Party secretary, I got, ‘Comrade, don’t you know that this child’s father was deported to Wonsan?’ and, well, that was that. The Boy Scouts are the first level in the Party hierarchy, so we simply can’t use the same criteria as we did when the children were younger.”

  Moon Yeong-hee’s words left me utterly dumbfounded. Even if I could have thought of something to say, I doubt I would have been capable of producing the words.

  “But I had no idea you were the boy’s aunt. With a standing like yours, how—”

  “That’s all done with,” I broke in sharply, cutting Moon Yeong-hee off in mid-flow. Now that I’d found my tongue again, I thought I might as well make use of it. “I know you’ve told me all this only as a kindness, and I’m grateful for your friendship, truly I am. I’d never ask for this favor otherwise. Your husband works in the citizens’ registration department, doesn’t he? Could you ask him to get me a copy of the file on my husband’s family?” Of course, I was well aware of their standing, but my shock that a case of rotten roots could affect even such a young bud as Min-hyuk forced me to take this risk.

  Though Moon Yeong-hee promised to do what she could, I walked out of the schoolyard with faltering steps.

  30th April

  Some days it seems life is just a never-ending obstacle course. Each day brings some new setback, tying my stomach in knots. Today’s was meeting Seon-hee at the ration center. Two years my senior at middle school and a former classmate of my husband’s, she’d always treated me with the utmost kindness. The center was so crowded, we had to wait outside for over an hour after we’d received our coupons. We’d just been standing there chatting about this and that when she asked me a question out of the blue.

  “Has he paid a visit to your apartment?”

  “Who?”

  “You know, Jang-hyuk, one of the three from our school who went to study abroad.”

  “Ah, him. The judge’s son . . .”

  “That’s right, that’s right. Him.”

  “How is he?

  “You mean he still hasn’t been to see your husband?”

  “Oh, I . . . I’m not sure. . . .”

  “Well, he looked pretty much the same at the alumni gathering. It was just a few days ago, right after he got back. At my house.” Seon-hee frowned at me.

  “What is it?”

  “Before we sat down to eat someone asked why Comrade Il-cheol wasn’t there, and Jang-hyuk said Il-cheol was away visiting relatives so he’d decided to visit him separately.”

  If my ration center number hadn’t been called just then, I’m not sure how I would have kep
t my composure. As it was, I rushed in to the counter with only the barest of nods to Seon-hee, a riot of thoughts drumming in my head. If this Jang-hyuk didn’t want to associate with someone of my husband’s standing, why couldn’t he just admit it? Why did he have to tell such a stupid lie? It was bad enough that my husband had to deal with mean-spirited contempt, but to ostracize him like that was something else—as though Jang-hyuk genuinely feared contamination. It was all too sad for words.

  9th May

  I was on my way home with the noodles I’d ordered when a child came up behind me and grabbed my hand. Turning, I saw that it was Jeong-ho, who lived in the same building as Min-hyuk.

  “Min-hyuk’s crying,” the boy told me.

  “Oh? Where is he?”

  “There, there under that tree.”

  With the noodles balanced on my head, I let the boy pull me along, ducking into an alley with a barbershop on the corner. Bright green leaves had just begun to sprout from the tree by the side of the road, and Min-hyuk was indeed standing there beneath them. He was leaning against the trunk and staring blankly into the distance, not crying now at least but certainly seeming to have something on his mind.

  “Min-hyuk! What’s the matter?”

  No sooner was the question out of my mouth than Min-hyuk started to sniffle. Jeong-ho answered for him.

  “We’ve just come from school. Min-hyuk crossed the stone bridge first, and some kid said, ‘That brat crossed the bridge first, who does he think he is?’”

  “And you’re just standing here crying about it?” I scolded Min-hyuk. “Jeong-ho, who’s the one that called him a brat? Some big bully?”

  “Pfft . . . Min-hyuk could swat him like a fly!”

  “Then why didn’t he? Instead of crying like a dummy.”