Every Christmas Eve, we’d eat out to celebrate my birthday. That year, on Christmas Eve, we were getting ready to go out, as usual. It was freezing and damp. The sky was cloudy, and the heavy, moist air seeped into my skin. Why go through all the hassle, it’s just a birthday, I thought to myself, buttoning up my coat. And I really meant it. We shouldn’t have gone out that day.
17
The city was full of crowds. The only difference from other Christmas Eves was that it began to snow right after we got on the bus. There was an endless traffic jam as a radio broadcaster reported that the heavy snowfall would continue the next day, marking the first white Christmas in a decade. As long as I could remember, I’d never had snow on my birthday until that year.
The snow piled up fearfully fast as if it meant to devour the whole city. The once gray city now looked much softer. Maybe because of the view, people on the bus didn’t seem too annoyed by the traffic. Mesmerized, they stared out the window and took pictures with their cell phones.
“I want naengmyeon,” said Granny.
“And hot pork mandu,” Mom followed, smacking her lips.
“And hot soup,” I chimed in. They looked at each other and giggled. It must’ve reminded them of the other day when I had asked why people rarely ate naengmyeon in winter. They probably thought I craved it.
After dozing off on the bus, we got off and walked along Cheonggyecheon stream endlessly. It was a white world. I looked up to see snowflakes rushing down. Mom yelled and stuck her tongue out to taste the snow like a child.
It turned out that the restaurant with a long tradition where Granny had been was no longer there in the corner of the alleyway. By the time the moisture that soaked the hems of our pants crept up and felt cold against our calves, we had finally found another store that Mom had just looked up on her cell phone. It was a franchise restaurant surrounded by rows of coffee shops.
The words “Pyongyang-style Naengmyeon” were on the wall in big letters, and as if to prove it, the cold noodles were so soggy that they broke into pieces as soon as they touched my teeth, and that was not even the worst part. The soup was stale, the big mandus were burned, and the naengmyeon broth tasted like Sprite. Even someone who had naengmyeon for the first time would know it was bad and sloppy. Despite that, Mom and Granny devoured and emptied their dishes. I guess sometimes ambiance can give you appetite more than the actual taste does. That day it was the snow, of course. Granny and Mom were all smiles that day. I put a huge ice cube inside my mouth and rolled it around with my tongue.
“Happy birthday,” Granny said. “Thank you for being my son,” Mom added, squeezing my hand. Happy birthday. Thank you for being my son. Somewhat clichéd. But there are days when you are supposed to say those things.
We stood up to leave without deciding where to go next. While Granny and Mom were paying, I spotted a plum-flavored candy in a basket on the counter. It was actually an empty candy wrapper someone had left there. A waiter saw me fidgeting with it, smiled, and told me to wait and he would get some more.
Granny and Mom went outside first. The snow was still falling hard, and Mom looked so happy, jumping up and down, trying to catch snowflakes. Granny shook with laughter at the sight of her daughter and turned, beaming, to look at me from the other side of the window. The waiter came back with a large, new candy bag. He tore the seal and out came the candy, filling up the basket like tiny presents.
“I can take this many, right? It’s Christmas Eve,” I asked, grabbing two fistfuls of candy. The waiter hesitated a little but nodded with a smile.
Outside the window, Mom and Granny were still all smiles. Parading by the two was the long procession of a mixed choir. They wore red Santa hats and red capes and were singing carols. Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel. Born is the King of Israel. I stuck my hands in my pockets and felt the prickly edges of the candy wrappers as I walked to the exit.
Just then, several people shouted at once. The singing stopped. The shouts turned into screams. The choir parade was in chaos. People covered their mouths and hurried away.
Out the window, a man was swinging something against the sky. It was a man in a suit that we had seen lurking about before we entered the restaurant. In sharp contrast to his outfit, he held a knife in one hand and a hammer in the other. He wielded both with such force as if he meant to stab every snowflake falling down on him. I saw him approaching the choir as some people hastily took out their cell phones.
The man turned, and his eyes fell on Granny and Mom. He changed course. Granny tried to pull Mom away. But at the next moment, something unbelievable happened before my eyes. He swung his hammer down on Mom’s head. One, two, three, four times.