A Distant and Beautiful Place

Cold Water Pass

220 Cold Water Pass The woman’s voice flowing from the telephone was dreadfully thick and hoarse. At first it was difficult to tell whether the owner of the voice was a man or a woman. The moment I heard it I spread open the pages of my memory and began searching for its owner. I had received telephone calls from two husky-voiced women in the past. One was the editor of a corporate newsletter, the other, a publisher. While I had met neither, I had a preconception that both were active, no-nonsense career women. Of the two, I hastily concluded that it must be the editor and replied to her polite inquiries in a halfhearted tone. Something was cooking on the stove, and I was in no mood for idle conversation. Oblivious to my impatience, the woman paused in silence for a moment after confirming once more in that husky voice that I was indeed the person she was looking for. “Did you . . . By chance did you ever live next to the railroad tracks in Chônju?” she asked in a diffident tone. I had assumed she was going to ask me to write an essay or short story, something along those lines, so the question was completely unexpected. However, she was right. I was from Chônju, and I had lived in the neighborhood by the railroad tracks. The railroad, which in my childhood passed through a residential area, had been relocated to the outskirts of the city several years earlier, but scenes from the old neighborhood remained clear in my mind. When I said yes, I had lived there, the voice on the telephone paused once more. “You may not remember me, but my name is Pak Ûnja, Ûnja from the steamed dumpling shop by the train tracks.” Cold Water Pass 221 The voice was even more diffident now, as if she could hardly expect me to remember the name of a playmate I hadn’t seen for well over twenty years, as if she were resigned to the possibility that I might not remember at all. Pak Ûnja. I remembered the name clearly, so clearly that by the time the voice on the phone mentioned the dumpling shop I had already smelled the cellophane noodles and pork lard used in the dumpling stuffing. However, I didn’t tell her that. The years had taught me to disguise my pleasure, and I tried as best I could to control my voice as I said, “Yes, I remember the name quite clearly.” Even so, my delight must have flown over the telephone lines because the husky voice immediately jumped several octaves. It was naturally hoarse, and now it fairly crackled as the words gushed forth. “I’m so pleased! How long has it been? I didn’t think you’d remember me. I was afraid to call . . . but your name is popping up everywhere! You know, I’ve been showing people the newspapers and bragging how you’re my friend. I knew you’d make it, way back when you liked reading all those comic books. I phoned the newspaper and they gave me your number. I’ve had it for more than a month but I didn’t have the courage to call till now. Wow! So, how long has it been, anyway?” It was exactly twenty-five years since I had last heard Ûnja’s voice. It was in second grade when I had made friends with the daughter of the couple who ran the steamed dumpling shop, so it was exactly twenty-five years. Since my name comes up on bylines here and there, on occasion I receive telephone calls from names buried deep in the past, names I can easily live without hearing again. Of course, I am happy to hear from them, and we reminisce, but that’s it. They are invariably one-shot reunions, always ending with the ritual promise to keep in touch or get together, although we are all too aware of the solemn fact that we have taken quite different paths in life. But never had I imagined a call from Ûnja, the girl from the dumpling shop. She may have discovered my name and face in a newspaper somewhere, but to tell the truth, I was the one who couldn’t believe that she remembered me. And even if she did remember me, there was no reason she should call the newspaper for my address and...