“Why did that numbskull at the gate call me oyabun?” JungHo said, once they’d finished trading their usual greetings. “This isn’t the yakuza.” He frowned.
“Sorry, Chief, he really is stupid,” YoungGu said, leading the way to a back storage where he kept the most precious goods for his friends.
“But you’ll be happy to see what I set aside for you. One sack each of barley and potatoes, two heads of cabbage, and a bag of little, dried anchovies. You couldn’t buy these nowadays even with money stacked from floor to ceiling . . . No, stop, put that away,” he said, shaking his head firmly and deflecting JungHo’s hand.
JungHo frowned, although not out of displeasure this time. “I can’t just take this—even if we’re old friends. When I went to see Loach for rice a fortnight ago, he did end up accepting some silver from me.”
The fact was that when JungHo offered some of MyungBo’s silver to his closest friend, he had expected it would be refused. Instead, Loach took it, recorded the transaction in his book, and then turned to talking about some other unrelated subject without any embarrassment. They both knew that Loach was hardly struggling—he was getting as many valuables and deeds as he could ever want in a lifetime. JungHo had acted as if nothing was wrong and left with a friendly handshake, but inside he’d made up his mind to never see Loach again.
YoungGu snorted. “Of course Loach took it, that selfish bastard. But remember how many times when we each had nothing but a pair of balls, you gave us your food? Remember how many times you gave me a little bit more from your bowl so I could share with my dog?” YoungGu kept smiling widely but his eyes were rather moist. “I will never forget that.”
JungHo was relieved to see that his friend’s generosity was real. He wrapped his arm around YoungGu’s shoulder and slapped it heartily a few times. “Yes, thank you. Of course I remember, I remember,” he said, regretting his earlier thought about the worthlessness of most people. It was not in his nature to stay coldhearted for a long time, even in a war.
“I’ll walk you out, Chief,” YoungGu said as they went back through the bustling courtyard. “It’s so hot already, and summer has only just begun . . . Why, what’s the matter?”
JungHo had stopped walking. In the middle of the queue, his eyes had found a man he knew better than he would care to admit. With his factory worker’s shirt and pants, and somewhat more filled-out shape, HanChol had no trace left of the raw intensity of a penniless graduate. Even in the midst of war, he had the strapping look of a man ideally poised between youth and maturity, past accomplishments and future ambition. JungHo had heard that he had opened up an auto repair shop and was skillfully expanding the business even as the whole country fared like a paper boat in a hurricane. Nonetheless, he wasn’t so successful that he could avoid coming to beg for food from YoungGu—JungHo thought with some satisfaction. He realized that this was his moment of revenge, a chance vindication that happens only once in people’s lives. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon, an in-between time of day, and dead leaves were rustling on the sand where the dog used to lie in the sun. JungHo unconsciously took in these details so that he could recollect later the precise moment at which he felt the happiness of humiliating someone who had deeply humiliated him in the past. His ears drummed with blood and all of his veins were humming, from fingertips to toes. It was one of the most pleasant sensations he’d ever experienced.
“Do you know that guy?” YoungGu asked.
“It’s a long story but he’s a real”—JungHo searched for the right word—“coward. Yes, that’s what he is,” he said, satisfied that even MyungBo couldn’t say he wasn’t being fair.
“I’ll make him leave right now. Or beat him to death, whatever you prefer.” As the words left YoungGu’s lips, five or six of his underlings filed behind them automatically, clenching their knuckles and cracking their necks.
“No, I’ll take care of him myself,” JungHo said, walking up to the queue with balled-up fists. The crowd instinctively quieted down and lassoed their attention on the two men. JungHo’s recognition wasn’t returned; in a gesture of mild suspicion, HanChol narrowed his dumb eyes that women inexplicably liked so much.
“You’re Mr. Kim HanChol?” JungHo asked, without bowing or offering his hand. “I’m Nam JungHo. You may not know me, but we both know Jade Ahn.”