The Prisoner: A Memoir by Hwang Sok-Yong

Author:Hwang Sok-Yong [Sok-Yong, Hwang]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781839760839
Google: Vus2EAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Verso Books
Published: 2021-11-15T23:26:16.324109+00:00

Tae-gyun was a boy who lived across from the cabbage patch, to the left of our house, in a hanok that shared a wall with the Twin Star Pagoda. The hanok roof was tiled like ours, but the main gate was topped with beautifully curved eaves made of galvanized iron. His grandfather’s workshop was right next to the gate. His father had gone missing during the war; I don’t recall if he was conscripted by the Japanese or kidnapped by the North Koreans. Tae-gyun’s mother was an extraordinary woman, much admired by my mother, who remarked on her demureness and dignity—so different from the Southern women who didn’t hesitate to remarry when they lost their husbands. Her hair was always combed back and secured with a long hairpin. She wore an apron over her black skirt and white top, cooked three meals a day for her widowed father-in-law, and grew her own vegetables to save money. The immature children that we were would complain about her whenever we fell into the pits where she’d buried the compost. Tae-gyun’s grandfather wore his hair in a traditional topknot and horsehair headband, and he carved water buffalo horns. I had been inside his workshop a few times and admired the strange, beautiful crafts on display.

Tae-gyun was a couple of years older than me, so I called him hyeong, “older brother.” Normally I never dared to question him or pick a fight, but he was the rough type and teased and bullied the younger children when he was with the neighborhood captain’s son, a boy about his age. Once, I was so angry at his teasing, I threw a stone and it hit him bang on the forehead. He came running after me with one hand on his bleeding forehead. I’d just managed to reach the house when I happened to slam into my father who was coming out. “Watch where you’re going, you rascal,” he said, giving me a light rap on the head, and that’s when I saw something odd. Tae-gyun stopped in his tracks, looked up at my father, and his mouth began to tremble. My father gave him a nonchalant glance and went on his way. Tae-gyun started to cry and went back to his own house. At that time, the rules of engagement were that whoever gets a nosebleed or cries first loses, so while I was perplexed by this development, I felt proud of myself, too.

That afternoon, my mother summoned me outside. I saw Tae-gyun, his eyes swollen and his forehead bandaged, standing in front of our house with his mother. This was unexpected. He was a little too old to be escorted by his mother over something like this. Mother told me to apologize, and I awkwardly said I was sorry. A few years later, my own father passed away when I had just entered middle school, and I began to comprehend why Tae-gyun had burst into tears.

What I remember best about Tae-gyun was what a passionate cinema nut he was, like the main character from Cinema Paradiso, and I followed in his footsteps.

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