His mood stayed bright as he reached his office and settled into his work. First, his secretary, a young man from the country, eager to prove himself but with an oily brown face and mannerisms that were too rustic to make him a man of letters, brought a stack of the morning’s newspapers and deferentially laid them across his desk. SungSoo skimmed them, starting with the important news in order to feel that he did the right thing, but losing interest and moving on before reaching the conclusion. There was an editorial piece on the second page about the riot that had broken out due to the skyrocketing price of rice, which had gone from fifteen won per eighty kilograms in January of the previous year to thirty-eight won this August. It was said that never before in Korea’s five-thousand-year history had rice been so expensive, and the peasants and the laborers were starving en masse. On the day of the riot, a thousand men and women, young and old, had thrown mud and stones at the police armed with swords and rifles, right in the heart of Jongno, where SungSoo had just had such a nice walk in the morning. Finally, the military troops were deployed to disperse the crowd, and hundreds were arrested—and now the editorial was pleading for the release of these rioters.
After dutifully gathering the main points from the editorial, SungSoo moved on to a novel that was being serialized and read it with a great deal more interest. The protagonist of the story was an upper-class, modern-educated man in his thirties, just like SungSoo and the author himself. At this point, the protagonist was in the middle of falling in love with his late best friend’s widow, despite numerous complications owing to their other loyalties. Though SungSoo laid down the newspaper muttering, “What garbage! Disgusting rubbish!” he secretly was engrossed in the story, could not help anticipating the next installment, and longed to write something in a similar style.
Over the next few hours, he worked on editing a manuscript for his quarterly literary journal, for which he was the editor in chief. There was a short meeting with his publisher, who had some troubling news about the printing press in the basement floor of the office, where they produced their own magazine as well as other publishers’ works and even brochures. Kim SungSoo had only barely sent out the publisher when his secretary knocked on his door and let in his friend Lee MyungBo.
“How long has it been? How long?” The two friends clasped their hands and kept loudly exclaiming over one another. When they were done, SungSoo shouted at his secretary to bring in coffee immediately, and then they both sat down with glowing faces.
“Why haven’t you let me know you were in Seoul? I thought you were still in Shanghai,” SungSoo said reproachfully.
“I’ve only just arrived. And I will be going back in a month or two,” MyungBo replied, smiling.
“Well, you look great. That country suits you!” SungSoo laughed good-naturedly. But in fact, as his eyes adjusted to the difference between his memory and the figure before him, he was beginning to see that MyungBo had aged faster than himself, that his cheeks and chin looked dark even though it wasn’t yet evening, and that his coat hung loosely on his shoulders. And this made SungSoo feel truly sorry for his friend, which then had the bizarre effect of brightening his mood, and making him feel healthier and stronger than ever.
The secretary hurriedly brought in two cups of coffee on saucers, and they took a minute to settle themselves over the drinks.
“You shouldn’t flatter me like that. You’re the one who looks so hale and hearty. I guess that’s the thing when one is married to a good woman. How is my sister-in-law, by the way?” MyungBo asked, and SungSoo smiled at his using the friendly term “sister-in-law” to describe his wife, whom MyungBo had never even met.
“She is good, she’s never not good,” SungSoo said.
“And the children? How old are they now?”
“The boy is fifteen, and the girl just turned one.”
And in this way, they spent the next half hour catching up with all the details of their lives, each other’s families, mutual friends and acquaintances, SungSoo’s publishing house, and a side venture he’d just begun.
“A bicycle shop!” MyungBo exclaimed. “How ever did you come up with that?”
“I always loved riding it, it’s a favorite hobby of mine,” SungSoo said. “But enough about me. What brings you here? No, let’s discuss that over lunch. Aren’t you hungry? I’ll take you to a new restaurant that’s just opened, called MyungWol. They do palace-style cuisine, seven or nine courses; it’s very splendid.”