Everything Belongs to Us Read online

  Jisun was as unimpressed with love letters as she was with Swiss chocolates, the grandeur of her family’s home, her wardrobe, which appeared magically stocked with new clothes each season, her driver, her housekeeper—her effortless life in general. She had everything, yet she refused to understand why someone else—someone like Namin, for example—might want a taste of that fantasy for herself.

  “Trust me, you wouldn’t want this either,” Jisun said now, about the letters. She heaved a sigh, as if being admired were the heaviest burden in the world.

  She always seemed to know what Namin was thinking yet still arrived at the wrong conclusion.

  “You’re probably right,” Namin said.

  —

  LATER, WHEN JISUN left her alone to use the bathroom, Namin poured out a bottle of Jisun’s red nail polish into the wastepaper basket, dripping the bright scarlet color over the pages. It was a childish, spiteful impulse, satisfying her need to waste something precious that they both enjoyed. The nail polish was not allowed at school, and they’d be scolded by any adult who saw them wearing it on the street. But they spent painstaking hours coloring their nails anyway, changing their minds, rubbing or peeling it off, choosing another color, and starting all over again. All the while knowing they could wear it only in Jisun’s bedroom and would have to remove all trace of it before they went out. Jisun owned three colors: red, pale pink, and clear. The cap of the nail polish was made of smooth black plastic and stamped with a logo of white interlocking Cs facing opposite directions. Jisun had once explained that the Cs stood for Chanel. From France.

  Drizzling the polish in wide, lazy swoops over the ruined love notes, Namin inhaled the sharp fumes of the chemicals until her eyes started to water. She was careful not to get any drops on the white carpeting, which would have been a far more serious transgression—way beyond what she wanted to achieve. She wanted only to know what it was like to destroy something simply because she wanted to. The way Jisun did all the time, without considering the cost or consequences.

  The anvil dropped again on the gate, louder and more insistently this time. Knowing Jisun, Namin was sure she would stay out there knocking for hours until she was let in.

  Namin stood on the other side of the door and considered her options. She was surprised to discover she no longer felt angry about their argument. She had been furious at Jisun’s claim that her activism was somehow meant to benefit her, as if Namin were helpless to fight her own battles. But she had covered so much new ground in the past months, worrying about her sister, launching her bid for Circle membership. Her emotions about Jisun seemed like a point on a map, far away. Already their lives had shot out in such different directions.

  She opened the door.

  Jisun had a way of looking disarranged and wild that was not simply a matter of what she wore or how she combed her hair. Her features—eyes, skin, mouth—readily betrayed the color and heat that stayed hidden in other people. Her posture and the angular cast of her arms made her look perpetually poised for action, restless. Even in the coldest winter, she could never be bothered to button her coat or wrap a scarf over her throat, a vision of layers that did not lie still. Everything was on her face—so Namin saw the apology, whether or not Jisun spoke the actual words. Apologies were never difficult for her anyway, because she had no fear of diminishment.

  “I’m surprised you had time out from your busy savior schedule to come here,” Namin said. Their old routine. A way to come back. “Is someone else keeping an eye on the world for you?”

  “Truce,” Jisun said.

  Namin saw the car and Ko’s telltale cigarette smoke. “I seem to remember someone accusing me of elitism last time,” she said. “What did you do, donate your bus tokens to your factory sisters? Are you protesting the treatment of transportation workers? What is it this time?”

  “So I guess you haven’t heard yet.”

  Namin laughed. Typical Jisun, thinking the world revolved around her latest skirmishes. “If it’s about you, no, I haven’t heard. Was there a news flash? I’m not exactly tuned in to the underground circuit.”

  “Let me come in.”

  “What about him?” She nodded at the car. “Isn’t he leaving?”

  “He’ll have to stay. I’m not allowed to go anywhere without him.”

  Namin thought quickly. She knew Jisun probably wanted her to ask, but she didn’t need to be a detective to figure out that if Jisun was being chaperoned, she must have crossed the line with her father somehow. The car was here and Namin had a better idea than letting Ko idle on the corner. She stepped over the threshold and shut the door behind her with a resolute bang. “Tell me later,” she said. “As long as he’s here, we might as well make him useful.”

  —

  THEY SPENT AN unproductive hour combing the neighborhood for Mr. Hong. Namin kept thinking he must be on the next block, just out of sight. It was a strange experience to drive around the neighborhood she knew so well, ignoring everything for the exception of one man. She had thought the car would make it easier, but it was like navigating a tank around a rice field. She wished she could lift all the buildings off their foundations to get a clear view of the streets. Or fly up like a bird and get the hawk’s-eye view. She shook her head, realizing Kyungmin would have found him by now. She knew whom to ask—the shop clerks and street vendors who kept track of such things as instinctively as they did the weather. The car was useless.

  Ko dropped them back in front of her gate.

  “Giving up?” Jisun said. She had been quiet in the car, obediently looking for the sewage tank Namin described but otherwise saying nothing.

  “Of course not.”

  Having Jisun there made her more determined to get the task done before her parents returned for the evening. It was one thing for her sister to call her a princess and imply she shirked the dirty work, but she couldn’t have Jisun knowing she felt squeamish about her own toilet.

  “Doesn’t Kyungmin usually do this?” Jisun asked.

  “She’s busy.”

  “Shouldn’t we split up? We’ll cover more ground that way.”

  Times like this, Namin wondered if she was the terrible one, bitter and proud. If the situation were reversed, if she were the daughter of a chaebol leader and Jisun were the one in Miari with the overflowing latrine and the sister who might be off where she shouldn’t be—would she have made the same offer to wander around looking for the poop man? The question barely had to be asked.

  When Jisun repeated the question, Namin pretended she hadn’t heard. She headed for the corner store, where the owner, a mother of triplets whose husband had a sporadic definition of responsibility, knew things: when to expect rain even when it wasn’t cloudy; which brand of cigarettes a new customer would want before he asked. She would know where to find Mr. Hong.

  The ajumma was rolling a large brown egg on her forearm. She showed Namin a small semicircle of teeth marks halfway between her elbow and her wrist. Around it the skin was broken and swollen. The bruise, a huge spread of blue and purple, was as wide as her open palm. “Now the little devils are biting,” she said, scowling. “Hand me a fresh egg.”

  Namin went to the cooler and removed another egg. She knew the ajumma would sell these eggs, even though she was using them to massage her bruise. The smooth, cold surface was better than any poultice. It would reduce the spread of the bruise and make it heal faster. Namin had always thought there must be some kind of magic to the treatment, but now she knew the cold massage probably took down the inflammation and improved circulation. Maybe there was some mineral in the eggshell that also helped.

  “Are these eggs still good to sell?” she asked innocently.

  “The yolk doesn’t break, however you try,” ajumma said. “I tried shaking it as hard as I could. Open it up and it’s still a perfect round thing.”

  Nodding, Namin put the used egg back in place in the cooler. She noted the spot so she wouldn’t inadvertently buy it later. “Have yo
u seen Mr. Hong…?”

  “Hong? Haven’t seen him yet. His wife’s got the morning sickness.” She said “morning sickness” with the same tone she’d said “biting” earlier.

  Namin tried not to think about what it would be like to share a bed with a man who scooped other people’s latrines for a living. And if the woman woke up nauseated, how could he possibly help? She supposed their bathroom was pristine. Or what was that about the cobbler’s children going barefoot?

  A group of teenage boys, six of them, rushed in, crowding the tiny store. The spiky smell of oily scalps and pubescent undershirts filled the air. The boys were picking up candy bars, putting them down, opening the freezer to examine the Popsicles, slamming it shut. Tiny bouncing balls jumped from one hand to another.

  Namin spoke loudly over them. “When does Mr. Hong usually pass my street? Do you think—”

  “Just listen for the bell,” ajumma said. “I’m sure he’ll be by anytime now.”

  Of course. The bell. Every traveling vendor had his trademark signal, and that was his—a copper bell. Namin thanked her and quickly got out of the way. If the store ajumma said he would be on his way, then he would be here. Today, she would get it done.

  She and Jisun walked the short block back to the house, the black car trailing them like an unwanted younger sibling.

  Jisun said finally, her voice low with hurt, “Don’t you want to hear what happened?”

  Namin shook her head. “We probably shouldn’t even talk about it, it’ll only make us fight again.”

  “What if it’s important—you still don’t want to know?”

  Namin said, “Whatever happened, you’re here now. So.”

  “So it must not be important, you mean?”

  “So you must be okay.”

  “That’s how it works now? If I’m dead in a ditch somewhere, then you want to know. Otherwise I’m fine and we talk like strangers?”

  “Look. We’re fighting already. See what happens? You’ll tell me and then we’ll fight some more.”

  Jisun stopped walking and stood in the road, eyes flashing. Her cheeks were ablaze and her hands were balled into fists. Namin wondered what would happen if Jisun actually swung at her. Would she hit back? Would they actually do this in the middle of the road? The thought perversely appealed to her, the possibility that they would drop all the words they had thrown at each other all these years and just batter each other like rams.

  “Go ahead,” she said to Jisun. She wasn’t sure if she was goading her to tell or fight.

  “You are so heartless,” Jisun said. “All this time I thought it was just an act to seem tough, but this is you, isn’t it?” Her voice was steady, as if she had landed in a moment of perfect understanding and composure. But just as quickly her expression switched to fury. “Or you must think I am. You must think I have no heart at all.”

  “Why does it have to be either of us?” Namin said. “Neither of us is heartless, neither of us has to be.”

  “But you are,” Jisun said. “All you care about is yourself. That’s all you’ve ever cared about.”

  They knew each other better than anyone else in the world, yet it seemed they barely knew the first thing.

  Namin wished they had just hit each other. She wished she had never opened the door in the first place, letting that anvil knock and knock until the iron ground down to dust.

  “Because I don’t care about every detail of your life, I don’t care about anyone? If it’s not you, then it’s no one—Jisun, are you the whole world? And you think I’m the selfish one?”

  “You win, Namin.” Jisun was already walking away, but she turned back to say, “But you know what? I hope you never need a friend. Because I would hate for you to feel how I’m feeling right now.”

  Then she walked the few steps to the waiting car, where Namin realized Ko had been watching their exchange with unconcealed interest.

  It was difficult to feel sorry when Jisun’s dramatic exit involved speeding off in a shiny black car while she had to go back to her own shit-stinking house. But closing the heavy gate behind her, Namin couldn’t shake Jisun’s final words and the hard knot of guilt tightening in her gut. Jisun was right. She had won—but she’d gone too far. She sighed. There would have to be another buried apology, another chilly restoration period. How many times could they circle the same track before one of them stopped running?

  The copper bell was long, like a pipe. Mr. Hong struck it with a syncopated staccato: Tak! tak-Tak-tak! A sonorous, jaunty march. With a beat like that, you expected a candy seller or a prelude to a festival.

  In the silence after Jisun left, Namin listened as if feeling for vibrations, as if the room around her had turned liquid and would swallow any normal noises if she did not focus hard.

  Tak! tak-Tak-tak!

  Tak! tak-Tak-tak!

  Barefoot, she rushed to the door and flung it open. There he was. Broad and straight, with a surprisingly placid face that she had never really taken the time to notice. He was no older than thirty, clean shaven, with prominent ears and the kind of lobes that curled forward slightly and showed a halo of down in full light.

  “I was wondering what was happening with your house. It’s been a long time,” he said easily. He was wearing a thick rubber apron, black rubber boots. Behind him was the sewage tank, an enormous drum labeled WASTE. The letters, painted white, were badly chipped. “Usually the unni comes to find me, but it’s been a while.” He used the word unni, older sister, as if Kyungmin were his sister, too, and they were all one family. “You must be the brilliant student I’ve heard so much about.” He said this over his shoulder, striding past her toward the bathroom. It occurred to her that he must know the exact location of every latrine in this neighborhood, the toilet habits of every family.

  He pulled out two long plastic sleeves, which he rolled over his shirtsleeves. Namin thought, I don’t even know how much to pay him. Somehow the idea of asking how much the service cost was more than she could bear. He stepped into the bathroom, ducking around the doorway to find the light. His apron was tied smartly behind him, the two sides of the bow perfectly symmetrical. The knot was tight against his back, and he was squatting to examine something. Namin tried to rehearse what she would say when he came out. Would they make small talk? Would she ask how his wife—who was nauseated not by him, but by the new creation of their child—was faring this morning? And this last plagued her worst of all: Should she apologize for the mess? Or was the right answer to pretend there was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing he should feel ashamed of?

  Namin took a book and waited outside, leaning against the outer wall of her house. She pretended to read, even turning the pages at proper intervals, but the text was just lines on a page, nothing she could form into meaningful words. When a neighbor came by and asked what she was doing, she avoided answering but managed to ask how much she should pay Mr. Hong.

  “You mean you really don’t know? I guess even a college student like you has to have something to learn.”

  It was irritating to have her flaws pointed out so baldly, but Namin understood the neighbor meant this in a friendly way. This was the way of Miari—opinions were free and abundant. Namin would always be measured against her status as a Seoul University student, an ongoing honor that still earned her a measure of local celebrity. But the attention cut both ways, as even the most casual acquaintances felt free to dissect her shortcomings as if she were a member of their extended family.

  Namin sighed. “It’s just that usually my sister takes care of—”

  “I understand, dear. We all have our jobs.”

  The cleaning took less time than she thought. In her mind it was a drawn-out process that required hours of waiting, as if Mr. Hong were a surgeon performing a difficult operation. But he was out just as she was thanking the helpful neighbor for the information. She paid Hong as if she had done it a thousand times.

  Mr. Hong’s fingers brushed her palm as he handed back he
r change. “See you in a couple of weeks, then.” His hands were rough but dry, the leather of frequently scrubbed skin.

  In her room, she stacked the coins on her desk and lay down on the floor. She closed her eyes. Inhaled a long deep breath: letting air shoot directly up her nostrils, straight to the brain.

  Nothing. She smelled absolutely, blissfully, nothing.

  —

  AT ELEVEN THIRTY, Namin’s parents staggered through the gate, smelling of grease and boiled pork, the day’s cooking from their pojangmacha, the food cart they operated from dawn to curfew. Kyungmin was late again. The last bus that stopped at their neighborhood had passed and she had not been on it.

  “What happened—Kyungmin didn’t say anything?” Her mother sat on the lip of the courtyard and pummeled her swollen calves with her fist. She’d recently dyed her hair, and the black pigment—reddish gray now—still shadowed her hairline. Namin thought how her customers must have noticed it all day, wondering why no one at home had cared enough to tell her. Her father was already inside, reading the last of the paper. He prided himself on being the sort of man who never skipped a word, not even the advertisements crowding the margins. Long ago, Namin had realized he busied himself with these abstract goals to save himself the trouble of becoming too involved in the concrete complexities of his own family and business. Tonight she was grateful for his vacancy. It saved her from lying to him, too.

  “She told me this morning. She’s staying in the dorms,” Namin said quickly. It felt necessary to continue the charade, even if she did not expect her mother to believe it. Kyungmin had never bothered to ask Namin to make any excuses for her, but with minutes left before curfew, it was clear she would not make it back tonight. Lying was a reflex, like putting out her hands to stop a blow. Even now, it wasn’t clear whom she was trying to protect, Kyungmin or her mother. Perhaps she was only protecting herself.

  Her mother stopped pounding and looked at her sharply. Kyungmin never stayed overnight at the factory. Even if she wanted to, the dorm mothers patrolled the place as if they were running a fancy hotel, not a basement labyrinth. Besides that, her sister hated to associate herself with the dorm girls, who had rough rural accents and never spent a penny on decent clothes or a night out, sending everything home to their families in the country. The city girls might work the same job, but they considered themselves a different class. Kyungmin and her friends never wore their factory uniforms outside of work. Instead they changed into street clothes just to ride the bus home. To try to pass as college students, they carried backpacks and read important-looking books in public. Namin had even heard them refer to the dorm girls as gongsooni, “factory girlies,” using the belittling term as if it didn’t apply equally to them.