journal, which drew many complimentary remarks. On both occasions, needless to say, I owed much to discussions with Hyŏn.
In the previous year he had accepted an exchange scholarship from M State University in the United States. Occasionally when I was feeling lonely, I thought of him or rather, the thought of him made me feel lonely.
All through the time we had known him it had been rare for either of us to see him alone as if there had been an unspoken rule between us. Then a week before his departure to the States, I happened to bump into him in Myŏngdong. I was alone. It was a dusky evening in early autumn. The leaves on the trees were beginning to fall and drift about. He asked me to join him for dinner at a restaurant that we were just passing. He had finally got the visa that very afternoon. The whole procedure had been so complicated and tediously prolonged that now it was all complete, he felt as if he was going to be ill.
I don’t remember how it happened, but after dinner I found myself walking beside him up the slope that led to the Namsan Mountain. I had noticed earlier that evening that his face was thinner and wan. Now he looked completely forlorn. I had never known him to be like this.
‘You look very odd today.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know what it is, but you look sort of sad and lonely’
He looked down at me with one of his gentle smiles.
‘The season’s to blame, I suppose. It’s a sad and lonely time, isn’t it.’
We walked on along the parapet until we came to a point from which we could see a large part of Seoul sprawled out below. Through the blanket of mist, lights and rooftops of all sizes and shapes stood out like hundreds of flowers in a flowerbed. Around us the darkness grew stronger every minute and it looked as if an intoxicating scent was rising from it. We stood in silence. I thought I ought to say something to restore the cheerful atmosphere to which we were accustomed. There seemed to be a lot to talk about yet nothing important enough to break the silence.
To my relief he started humming the tune of a film that had been very popular, ‘Love is a many splendoured thing.’ I knew the lyrics in Korean translation but not in English. Soon I learned them from him and we walked down the hill quietly singing it in English. When we were at the foot of the hill that verged on the main road, I foolishly put a blunt question to him, ‘I wonder why you don’t get married.’
He wasn’t particularly impressed with it but I took one step further and asked what sort of woman would be regarded as ideal. In fact, these were questions that now and again had occurred to Miae and me. To my surprise he answered it with sincerity.
‘Firstly,’ he said, ‘a girl with a normal family background, not necessarily rich, but brought up under both parents among sisters and brothers. I think such a girl would have a natural and balanced character. I am scared of neurotic women riddled with complexes.’ ‘Secondly,’ he went on, ‘a girl of above average looks, and thirdly – I am being exceedingly greedy – an educated woman who can take an interest in my studies and read English texts with me.’
The effect of these plainly spoken statements was such that I felt faint, as if a dagger of ice had pierced my heart. I was so embarrassed at this unexpected reaction on my side that the next moment I blushed deeply, thanking the darkness that hid it from him. What hurt me most was ‘normal family background...with both parents.’
My mother died when I was five. I was brought up by my father and grandmother until my father remarried when I was eleven. My family was full of complexity and going through a particularly difficult phase at that time. It was obvious that I belonged to a different class from such girls as he desired. As for my looks, assuming myself a born scholar, I paid little attention to them and never once thought of myself as beautiful. Unreasonably, I was upset with him for not having given the answer that I wanted to hear. Why couldn’t he have said, ‘I would like someone with a good brain, nice personality, well educated and with average good looks?’
He offered to see me off at the bus stop, but I politely declined and walked away. Not only did I not tell Miae about it but I carefully avoided even talking about him. On the day of his departure, I excused myself from going to see him off at the airport. When Miae, after going to the airport alone, told me that he had asked after me, I quickly turned my head blinking away my tears. That had been three months ago.
I was comparing the blissful silence I had shared with Mr Hyŏn at Namsan that evening to the awkward one of this moment with Mr Kwŏn.
Shortly he took his leave, saying, as if he had suddenly remembered, that his father was sending his car to take him to Seoul in the morning. If we’d like a lift we were welcome, he said. I slammed the door behind him as I stuck out my tongue as a gesture of contempt.
‘What an idiot!’
‘He’s like a zombie,’ said Miae. We rolled with laughter.
‘He must be a prince in disguise. Chauffer-driven car indeed!’ Private cars were indeed a rarity in these times, in the restoration period of our war-torn country. We wondered whether we should accept the offer of a lift. In a way it was tempting. Just to think that we could sing all the way to Seoul while being driven through the beautiful, snow-covered scenery. But in the end, before we went to bed, we decided against it to show him that we were not such flighty girls to accept an offer like this from a man who we had only met briefly.
No sooner had we called the maid and ordered two first class train tickets in the morning than was there a knock on the door. It was Mr Kwŏn in a smart suit of dark grey. He looked even more subdued than the night before.
‘Good morning Mr Kwŏn. You’ve been out early – we saw you,’ we greeted him cheerfully.
‘The snow is so beautiful. I went for a little walk.’ Then he added, ‘I’m afraid I have an apology to make.’
‘What about?’
‘My father phoned me early this morning. He needs his car for the next two days, so it would be Wednesday before he could send it.’ He looked troubled.
‘Oh, please don’t worry on account of us. We have already got our tickets anyway.’ We were pleased with ourselves. We set off in good time for the station, and had a cup of coffee in a tea-room. A few minutes before the train was due, we saw him walking into the station with a suitcase, but we had completely lost interest in him.
‘I just remembered I have a meeting tonight. So here we are, together again.’ But we did not look on him as our companion. Besides, his seat was far away from ours, so that we never spoke to him all the way. Outside the train, the world lay in total submission to the reign of snow, deep under its cover. The sky was grey and heavy, and snow continued to fall.
Quite unexpectedly, Mr Han was waiting for us at the station in Seoul. Miae looked very pleased. As she handed her bag over to him she gently brushed the snow off his shoulder, and said, ‘I wonder how you knew we were coming back today. Are you well?’
I walked a few steps behind them. He was a law student, a year behind Miae at her college. I knew him as an admirer of her, but more as a younger brother than a boy-friend. He had been strongly opposing her plan to enter the convent.
After a week’s leave, I went back to work. It was now early February. The last of the severe weather still hung on, day after day. Miae’s calls at my office became scarce. At one time she had popped in almost daily, but now she made her appearance once every three or four days,
