HanChol went to school nine hours a day and studied at home even longer, often until after the night birds fell silent. Sometimes he found himself reading until sunrise. But after running around the city every day for years, simply learning in his seat was something he could do gladly. He caught up on several years’ worth of education in just a year and finally took the university entrance exam.
The results were announced in the newspapers, and when he saw his name near the top out of all the students in the country, he was exhilarated to the point of tears by two things: first, that his life could have gone the path of abyss or that of success, and that it had taken a decisive and irrevocable turn toward the latter; second, that he had done this all on his own.
17
Café Seahorn
1933
WHEN YOUNGGU HAD FINALLY GOTTEN THE COURAGE TO ASK THE RESTAURANT owner for his daughter’s hand in marriage, JungHo had offered to make the match. But YoungGu had refused.
“JungHo, you know I’d trust you with my very life,” he’d said. “But I’m worried you’re going to speak with your fist again. That won’t do for the father of my future bride.”
He’d also ruled out eloping, although stealing a bride was a rather time-honored practice among men who couldn’t pay the dowry. Instead he went to the father, knelt on his floor, and asked for his blessing. He begged for forgiveness for coming into his home and taking advantage of his restaurant, and promised to work to repay the debt.
“You hooligans have ruined my life for years and now you rob me of my daughter too? Is this some kind of a sick joke?” the father shouted. “Fine, if you really can’t live without her, as you say, go out there and kneel in the courtyard. If you get up before I say you can, you won’t lay a finger on my daughter. And trust me, I’ll know if you get up for even a second!”
YoungGu obediently left the room and knelt in the dead center of the busy courtyard, while restaurant workers looked on and gossiped, neighbors peeked over the walls to laugh, the girl cried miserably in her own room, and his loyal dog tied to the chestnut tree barked his heart out, sensing something grave had fallen on his master. The commotion was extraordinary. But YoungGu stayed in his spot, shins digging into the dirt, head bowed in penitence, and did not get up the entire night. The next morning, a servant was trying to convince him to just give up when he collapsed and sprawled out on the spot.
Finally, the father came out of his room, shook him by the shoulders, and said, “If you swear to sever all ties with your gang of hooligans, especially that red commie JungHo, and to work hard like an honest man from this point forward . . .” He couldn’t finish his words, because the idea of giving his most adored daughter to this wretch was still so appalling. Then he remembered the old saying that there is no parent who can win against his own child.
“Thank you, Father,” YoungGu whispered faintly. “I will take good care of her.”
From that point on, YoungGu had ostensibly dropped out of the group. He stopped going to the meetings and doing JungHo’s work and started helping out at the restaurant. Soon, he was managing the place instead of his old father-in-law, who had softened with time and the birth of his beloved granddaughter.
JungHo had every right to be angry at YoungGu’s defection, but he felt it was okay to let his friend go. Loach had also left the organization, saying he couldn’t swear the oath that was required. In reality, the oath was hard for even JungHo. Renouncing his worldly possessions was not insurmountable, since he owned so little to begin with. （MyungBo himself had given up half of his estate to be distributed among the poor and to be used for missions—and that took true fortitude, JungHo believed.） The second part of the oath, being ready to give up his life for independence, was another matter. From observation, JungHo knew that there were two kinds of activists: those who were destined to die young in action, and others who would live on to govern, to negotiate, to write manifestos, and so on. It was obvious that MyungBo was the latter—he was much too essential, and his scholar’s hand was more useful for writing letters and declarations than firing guns. On the other hand, it had already been several years since JungHo （and MyungBo） quietly realized that he would never read or write well. This was a disqualifying weakness, he knew. JungHo let these thoughts roll through his mind in waves—they sometimes roared and clashed, and sometimes quieted down into a narrative that made sense. When he felt most calm, he believed that MyungBo would ask him to do something only he could do, at precisely the right moment.