Spring Day

Did he really go to Sangju’s house at dawn that final day in May? Is it true, as Sangju says, that he just lay there with the bedcovers over his head, even though he knew it was Myongbu pounding frantically on his front gate?

Leaning against a gingko tree by the road, I went over that question again and again. I had asked myself the same question before and always arrived at the same conclusion: it was unthinkable. Nevertheless, I kept searching for an answer. As I gazed now at the waves of traffic flowing in and out of the square, that vision of Myongbu at Sangju’s gate kept coming back to me, troubling me deeply.

The vision begins with Myongbu staggering through the fading, indigo darkness. His outline is unclear, his feet are moving frantically, anxiously, and he’s gasping for breath. Daybreak’s layers of murky darkness surround his body, making it seem as if he’s struggling to swim up through the waters of an immense ocean. Tu-tu-tu-tu-tu...From somewhere I can hear the ominous, metallic rattle of automatic weapons being fired and gradually coming closer—a noise like rocks being churned on a beach, or like waves crashing against the shore. With his back pressed against the alley wall and desperate to evade his pursuers, Myongbu edges toward Sangju’s house. Before long, he reaches Sangju’s front gate, quickly looks around, and in a muted voice calls out: Sangju...Sangju...it’s me, I’m here. Open up... Sang-juuuu. But there’s no reply from inside. Tu-tu-tu-tu-tu. The sound of the shots comes closer and closer and Myongbu calls Sangju’s name more urgently, shaking the front door, but there’s still no answer from inside. It’s me...I’m here...Please, open the door...before it’s too late. Myongbu desperately shakes the door again. Tu-tu-tu-tu-tu. The sound comes closer, and in front of the door that never opens, Myongbu collapses to his knees. Sangju. Help me, please. Before it’s too late...please...Suddenly, he hears the pounding of heavy boots advancing in a flurry. Myongbu shrinks with fright and rises from the ground. He tries to escape, stumbling toward the alley. Soon after, Myongbu disappears into the indigo shadows, and from the direction he runs comes the chaotic sound of rifle shots, wild with rage.

I shook the frightening vision out of my head. Surely not...no. That just couldn’t be. That vision might have merely come from Sangju’s own delusions. I shook my head again. But why would Sangju concoct such a wild story, and then start believing it himself? I had no answer. And Sangju’s diary, which I held in my hand, did not have the answers either. Though, of course, there’s no reason he would have explained everything in notes to himself—it’s not as if he had planned from the start to hallucinate...

I received a similar assessment of things from Sanghui when I met her at a café last night. I had called her the day before to tell her that I was going to visit Sangju in the hospital, and she had told me she had something to give me. She brought along Sangju’s diary, which he’d kept until his most recent hospitalization.

“Brother always seemed to think he was being chased by someone. I didn’t know why until a few days ago, when I began to guess...”

“Are you saying Sangju became paranoid because of Myongbu’s death?” I asked.

“I’m not sure...Anyway, you’ll understand after you read this.”

“I’ve glanced at it before. I was wondering if you could answer something else for me?” I hesitated for a moment, as Sanghui stared at me intently. “Sangju seems to believe Myongbu came to him at daybreak on that final day, when he was being chased, and he was killed on his way back because no one had opened the door for him...