Ears When Father returned, the ripe afternoon sun was pushing its way up onto the saucepots and a strand of cloud covered part of the yard and the flowerbed. I was in the sunflower room stealing glances at the burning light splashing out of the red mouths of three or four open pomegranates, when Father opened the front gate and shouted out as if angry, did the briquettes come? There must have been some soot left in the yard, even though I'd swept up carefully. Out on the maru the baby in my little sister's arms immediately doubled up crying. Mother woke up then as well. "Oh, why does he always have to shout?" It was hard to tell from Mother's hoarse voice whether this was a rebuke or a grievance, but Father pretended not to hear, and after washing his hands at the water tap, he suddenly walked over to my room. I quickly stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray. "Haven't you given up those cigarettes yet? You keep saying your lungs are giving you trouble." His voice was still angry as if something had happened. "So, when are you leaving us?" "I was thinking of taking the bus tomorrow afternoon." "When?" "Tomorrow!" I shouted with exasperation and looked at Father leaning against the door with his hands behind his back. He frowned, pointing to his ear, and then again all but shouted, I can't hear too well! On top of angina and stomach problems his hearing had been deteriorating for a long time now, but it seemed as if the situation had taken a turn for the worse in the past few months. Several years ago, after he had gone to the hospital with bloody pus flowing out of his ear, Father had given up in a single day the alcohol and cigarettes that had been his lifetime companions. But there was no way to combat old age. "You think my ears are my only problem? These eyes are so bad now I can barely see!" He waited for the cigarette smoke to disperse and then stepped into my room as if he were a guest. "This is a mess, isn't it?" It was the atmosphere in our house to which he referred. "She was kicking up such a fuss I had to bring her home, but I think we'll have to go to a big hospital before long…she's just not her usual self…since spring she's been constantly losing 50 list_ Books from Korea
Vol.19 Spring 2013
her temper…and, as if that wasn't enough, your big sister's been deserted and come back home…you can't sit still for a minute like any normal person would…and who knows what's going on inside the little one's head, even the spirits couldn't figure that out." Behind that obstinate exterior there was probably any number of problems she was brooding over. We were exchanging such thoughts when Mother's voice resounded once more. "Would someone go and turn the heat off until evening! You'd think you were trying to boil me to death." I didn't even have to look to know my older sister had come out of her room and was standing on the maru, unable to keep anyone happy. Father groaned and stood up with a few dry coughs. "If you can't give up completely then at least try sucking on a piece of eundon." I wondered if they still sold those tiny silver capsules that were supposed to help you give up smoking, and picked up a box of matches to take aim at a stray cat, which had climbed over the wall and was poking around our saucepots. The matchbox landed between the flowerbed and the saucepot platform. The cat scampered over the wall with a meow. The next moment my father appeared from around the back and walked out the gate carrying a briquette burning with blue flames. I opened the door to the east room and carefully asked my sister if she would like to move to the sunflower room. Then we wouldn't have to heat the inner room in the daytime. She hurriedly covered her breast, blushing, and shook her head in refusal. The east room had been hers alone until she married and left home. A print of Claude Monet's "Impression: Sunrise" had hung on the wall like a crest since she was in junior high. She had hardly ever ventured near the west or sunflower rooms while she lived at home. No one told her to stay away, but she would shut herself up in her room like a silkworm in a cocoon. Inside that Monet print hanging on the wall. Inside those wrinkles of quiet light steeped in mist. She seemed to think of our house as somewhere to stay for a while before moving on. But that while had turned into 32 long years. She had taught art at a junior high school before her marriage. When she finally gave in to demands to meet a prospective marriage partner, introduced by a friend of my mother's, they said she had agreed to marry like a child being sent away for adoption.