Chapters 22.23: On the Proofs

22
Mrs. Euiseong Kim Recognizes Tschai, 1969

When I was married to Tschai in December, 1969, all things about me were in disarray. My parents had moved to Daejon City early that year, a much far greater place than Jumgock. My parents had come to the wedding which had been served at Andong Wedding Hall after all, in which my fifth- grade students of Kilan Elementary School and colleague teachers had been invited as major guests. My senior friend Gapp of Euiseong had come to the gala occasion, too.

It was a complicating cause that the Don and Boolim couple had moved to Daejon, by which Dano had subsequently been farther apart from his parents. Joongang University's commitment and Dano's trust in it had been a major cause for the Dons' transfer to Daejon City.

I had earlier staged a negotiation battle by correspondence with the Joongang University Administration in which I had expounded my future aspirations and a sincere hope for full scholarship benefits for the full semesters from the academy. Initially the school's scholarship administration had said yes. But the school had said sorry the following spring: "We have failed to register you as a sophomore student of the Law College." Another default.

Touched by the letter of the earlier commitment from a higher learning institution to guarantee his son a full financial support for the rest of the semesters and convinced by his son's determination to pass the judicial examination before the graduation, my family had decided to make a "daredevil" move to Seoul, disposing of all the properties including a well-built new house and a newly developed peach farm.

My father's dream, however short and mirage-like, of leaving the toils of the farm and making a decent life, was shattered at the last moment by “a person of default,” or an eternal loser who turned out to be none other than his son. So the meager amount of cash money made by the sale of a modicum of a real estate, if that were to be designated as such, had not been enough for the family to settle in the capital city of the nation. That's why my parents had decided to move to Daejon City where several relatives of the family clan had been living whereas their oldest son had to remain at Kilan with his wife Tschai, with Dano retaining his job as elementary school teacher.

Bin and his wife, my senior father and mother, or the oldest uncle and aunt, had held a reception party for me and my wife Tschai. That was good of us. But it was too bad that my grandmother, Mrs. Euiseong Kim was still kept in solitary confinement.

Although she had been uttering incoherent mumbling about identities of her offspring and grandchildren, when Tschai got to "the cage", touching and holding her hand, and called halmonim, my dear grandmother, with a choking voice, there erupted a shining moment of her sanity from across the confinement hole, with Mrs. Euiseong Kim saying with a clear yet subdued voice, "You must be Dano's wife." Which pleased and startled the pair at the same time. There were no others about. Hardly had the sympathetic pair tried to utter some more comforting words toward her when her expression suddenly darkened and she got her lips tightened up for ever, as if the gate to her consciousness was banged shut.

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The trip to Daejon City, the purpose of which was to make a post-honeymoon appearance, was a traumatic reminder of repentance and pity. Dano was so remorseful of his own past stupidities and so pitiful of his parents' plights that he was shedding heartful tears so profusely that he often glanced as if they might have been discovered.

Wife was silent all through the train travel to one of the four big cities in the republic where my parents, who might have been financially troubled and physically toilsome, must have been roughing it up. Guessing was loud all along the way but the situation on the spot was much more poignant.

A taxi of Daejon Station snaked its way to a poor-looking district to drop the young pair at a back alley, where shacks were put together like beehives. My parents were happy and embarrassed at the same time. "Why don't you send a telegram?" they wondered aloud. It was a little commotional with Mother, like Keystone Cops, getting in and out of the room, disposing of the mess and making a decent mat on which the senior couple should get seated to be presented with big bows from their first son and daughter-in-law couple.

After special foods, of which some of them had been delivered from a near Korean cafeteria, were partaken of, there occurred inquisitive conversations of abnormal type, which were hesitatingly put forward and reluctantly answered. There was not a black and white television set but a second-hand transistor radio in the room, which filled the awkward vacuum between the two couples with soap operas and situation comedies.

Almost all the resources of conversation done, Father told Mother to arrange the bedding for us. "It will be so inconvenient of you two," Mother said, looking apologetically at Tschai. "Not at all, Mother," Tschai held her mother-in-law's hand tightly. There was some room left even after the two couples had lain down for the night's sleep.

Don lay at the far end of the wall and me at the opposite end near the entrance; Mother and her daughter-in-law lay side by side but there was a considerable buffer area formed between the two because each bedding was separately shared with each other's husband. As Father switched off the light with a decent cough of "Good Night", the room turned into a labyrinth of pitched darkness.

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Joongang University Administration's promise to endow a full scholarship for the rest of the remaining six semesters on its freshman dropout was truly exhilarating, but the cancellation of its own commitment by dropping my registration of the pending spring semester as a sophomore student at the law college was a great shock. I damned the school administration for its repudiation. I hated every minute of its breach of faith, which would cause huge inconveniences, affect the routines, and distort my life pattern as well as my family's.

On afterthought, however, I was totally responsible for what the administration hadn't been convinced of my future cast. Or, it might have been God's punishment on my past misdeeds or mistakes or infractions. I should have had to bite the bullet by myself. Any pains or inconveniences should have had to be taken for granted. It's more like I'd incurred the comeuppance.

Granted, my parents' pains and inconveniences were inconceivable. The betrayal from the blind trust of the reckless son's mirage-like promise was just like thunderstruck. Uprooted from their roots of life, deprived of their cherished house and peach farm, they were forced to leave for a strange city. Even today four decades later, I get choked with emotion thinking of my parents' unfathomable pain on which I'd caused them, and their patience of the uncontrollable pain. If it had been me, I'd made a great scene, yelling at my son, stomping the ground, and wielding fists in the air.





23
On the Proofs, 1974~1980

Not since I had taken a job as a proofreader of the Korea Times had I done night shifts so often during those months. Each day was a continuation of night shifts. The problem was that of going back home after the shift work: The streets were totally deserted after midnight. There was no traffic at the time, of course, around two or three o'clock in the morning. The police were on the patrol of the deserted streets to check the enforcement of the curfew.

My night shifts helped, financially and otherwise. The overtime payment, though meager in amount, which was handed downright to Tschai, used to change hands from Tschai to a grocery store. The nocturnal shifts also turned out enlightening, indeed. That is, I used to be provided with lots of beneficial information from media pundits with prestigious academic backgrounds.

I discovered that my night shift works evoked nostalgic and retrospective memories. Less rushed in the amount of the articles to be dealt with, the night job gave me Dano enough breaks for coffees, for homesickness, and the recollections of things past. The young and always polite Tom Banes, my on- and off- night shift partner from across the street residence of the United States Embassy in Seoul, made efforts to keep good company.

The click- clacking noises of the linotype machines were unbearable at first, but as days passed they turned out very rhythmic. The odor of lead was revolting on the verge of disgusting, and the dust in the linotype room on the second floor of the building was terrible. In due course of their career, the linotype people made it a routinous habit to eat pork chops and drink makkoli to cleanse their dusty throats of toxic residues.

The six desk chiefs of the Korea Times took turns playing the role of commanding the night shift teams: politics, society, economy, culture, wire (foreign news), and editing, The night shift team consisted of a desk chief and four or five staff members including one or two proofreaders. The morning editions of the Korea Times were the products of their efforts made on the base of the evening editions which had been delivered previously to the provincial districts.

After the boring procedures done of desk reporters truncating some parts of the previous editions by replacing with the new, hearing the cantankerous typing by the huge linotype machines, I compared notes with the manuscripts, spotting the limping letters, correcting the misspelled words and misplaced lines. All that done, the chief of the night shift team put an O.K. signature on the final sheet around 3 or 4 a.m., with the night shift team hurriedly getting on board the "company limousine" to head for their homes. Me Dano, always left alone, mounted the company bedroom upstairs where I slumbered away the nights.