“Don’t be nervous,” Loach whispered as they waited for MyungBo in the library.
“I’m fine,” JungHo said, reflexively clenching his fists. “Why would I be nervous? He may be rich, but he’s just a human being who eats and shits, same as you or me.” As always, his words came out far rougher than his thoughts. He couldn’t speak gently, just as he didn’t know how to punch softly.
There was a rustling sound outside the door, followed by a clearing of the throat. “May I come in?” MyungBo asked, just before he slid the door open and entered the library, smiling calmly.
“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. I was in my chamber meeting some of our comrades. And I’ve brought tea and some fruit, since my wife is not feeling well,” he said, setting a tray on a little table. “We do still have maids and a housekeeper, though I try to let them rest when it’s late like this.” Once he set down the tray with its teacups and a plate of persimmons, he gave a bow to JungHo. “My name is Lee MyungBo, but please, call me Comrade Lee,” he said. JungHo was caught off guard, for no gentleman had ever looked at him straight in the eyes, let alone offered such a courteous greeting, as if he were an equal. As JungHo awkwardly returned the bow, MyungBo greeted Loach with a warm handshake and said, “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Loach.”
Before the meeting, Loach had explained to JungHo how he made MyungBo’s acquaintance. One day Loach and some of the others were making the rounds of their establishments, and went inside a little noodle shop where MyungBo happened to be having lunch. When Loach was demanding the protection fee from the shopkeeper, MyungBo came up to them and said he would pay whatever Loach was asking, and also buy the group’s lunch if they would sit with him.
By this point, Loach and the rest of JungHo’s followers were used to beating up anyone who resisted their “tax collection” or tried to admonish them. But something about MyungBo’s calm smile and modest yet dignified bearing kept even the rudest of them from lashing out. They sat down to eat, and MyungBo asked them whether their parents were living and where their hometowns were. He coaxed stories out of the most brutish of them. By the time they were finished with their noodle soup, MyungBo was telling them about a society that would take care of its orphans and the poor, and never let anyone starve.
“It’s hunger that is evil, never the person,” MyungBo had said, looking around at them with such pure and good-hearted eyes that they all fell into an unaccustomed silence. Afterward, Loach had come to a few meetings at MyungBo’s house, where a dozen or so men and even some women sat together and talked about this thing called communism.
On this night, MyungBo again started by asking about JungHo’s hometown and whether his parents were still living. JungHo itched to resist answering this gentleman’s questions, but found that he couldn’t—MyungBo was simply too genuine and kind to rebuff so rudely.
“How old are you, Mr. JungHo?” MyungBo asked.
“I’m nineteen,” JungHo replied, blushing under his tan. He was aware how young and green he appeared to MyungBo, who wouldn’t have asked that question otherwise.
“I remember that age well. It feels like yesterday . . .” MyungBo closed his eyes and sighed. There was a tinge of sadness in his smile, JungHo thought. “Young men must have dreams, Mr. JungHo. What is it that you want in life?”
“I want . . .” JungHo faltered. What he immediately thought of was Jade, how she looked that day on the hill while recounting the story of the pebble. But he wasn’t going to share his secret weakness with this stranger, especially not in front of Loach. Instead he said, “I want to become rich.”
The moment the words were spoken, JungHo realized he’d said the wrong thing. MyungBo’s sweet and trusting face turned melancholy, and to hide it he raised his cup of chrysanthemum tea to his lips. The thin and scarred hand was shaking as if it belonged to a much older man. After a few moments of silence, MyungBo resumed.
“Mr. JungHo, what did your father do?”
“He was a soldier in the Imperial Army, before it was disbanded. After that, he was a tenant farmer . . . And when we could no longer pay the rent on the farm, he went hunting.” JungHo hadn’t thought of his father for a very long time. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and discreetly felt for the pouch with the cigarette case and the ring, as was his habit when he wished to feel comforted.
“Your father had the most noble profession in the world. Whether it’s farming or hunting, he lived off the land through honest, hard work.” MyungBo already looked less melancholy. “And that’s the same with these restaurant owners and shopkeepers too. What would your father say if he knew you were threatening and stealing money from these simple people, who are themselves only trying to scrape by? Forgive me if I sound presumptuous, but I too am old enough to be your father.”