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Chapter 30: A Sense of Mission
TL: Enuma ID
Park Sang-hoon regretted it.
The scenery flew past outside the KTX window.
Two and a half hours from Seoul to Busan.
That part was fine.
En̊ ūm̄ а́
The trouble started after he reached Busan.
He rented a car. He entered the address he'd been given into the GPS.
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The estimated time that came up on the screen. One hour and forty minutes.
"What?!"
Seoul to Busan is two and a half hours.
An hour and forty minutes out from Busan Station meant this was no longer Busan at all.
W̄ӗ b̌ n о vе_l̆_ Е̄ṅ ū m̃å
For now, he drove.
He goes where the GPS directs. He left the city center.
Expressway. National road. Coastal road.
The buildings thinned out. The apartment blocks disappeared. Rice paddies appeared.
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The paddies disappeared too. Mountains appeared. A narrow road wound on between them.
Park Sang-hoon drummed the wheel, fuming.
Е ň um̀ а ..і d̀
"Kim Yo-han, that bastard! He said Busan, he said Busan! How is this Busan?"
The GPS guided him onto a narrow coastal road.
Mountains on the left. Sea on the right.
Beyond the guardrail, he could see the waves.
The road was barely wide enough for a single car. If one came the other way, one of the two would have to pull aside.
A neighborhood too small to call a village, fewer than ten houses.
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There was a harbor. A small harbor.
A few boats were moored. Battered old fishing boats.
"People actually live out here?"
As if in answer, the GPS announced: 'You are near your destination'.
By the roadside next to the harbor stood a single shabby building.
A two-story building.
Е̄n̈ ǔmа . і̌ d̆
The first floor a shop, the second the living quarters.
A sign hung there.
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'Haemaji Sashimi Restaurant.'
The lettering on the sign had faded. It was an old building.
Through the car window, he could make out something inside the restaurant.
A frame.
Е n_ū m̂ а
A picture hung on the restaurant wall.
Park Sang-hoon pressed his face to the car window and peered inside the shop.
A swirling night sky.
It was a crayon version of The Starry Night.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Something drawn in a sketchbook, framed and hung up.
Beside it, one more.
E n̂ ǔm̀ а
A fish in a blue aquarium. Watercolor.
Sketchbook paper again. Framed and hung on the wall.
The Starry Night and Aquarium.
These were the pictures from the photos he'd seen on the tablet.
The ones Lee Jun was said to have drawn at three and four years old.
It was now certain: this was Lee Jun's home.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"Haah."
He parked on a patch of empty ground that couldn't even be called a lot.
As he got out of the car, a sea wind blew.
It was already December. The wind was biting.
Park Sang-hoon turned up his coat collar and looked at the restaurant.
So this was where Lee Jun had been born and raised.
Е ńùṁ а̌ . ī ḋ
The place where Lee Jun had been drawing since he was three.
Countryside, and absurdly remote countryside at that.
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"Haah."
The sighs came one after another.
It had taken over four hours to get here from Seoul.
All of this was Kim Yo-han's fault.
W е̃b̄ n̂ о v́е̄ľ Е nu̇m̀а̄.
"Getting mixed up with that man is my own fault. It's all my fault."
Muttering, he opened the restaurant door.
Jingle.
The bell on the door rang.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Inside it was warm.
A small place. And yet it was packed with people.
Е̃.n û mа̊.î d̀
Early evening. Somehow word had spread, and the place was bustling with customers.
Tourists in family groups. Ordering sashimi, pouring soju, laughing and chattering.
So there are people who come all the way out to a backwater like this for sashimi. Park Sang-hoon was quietly surprised.
At the back of the shop, a young woman was moving without a moment to spare.
Early thirties, maybe. The proprietress, in an apron, carrying plates.
"Welcome! Just a moment!"
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Catching sight of Park Sang-hoon, she greets him on reflex.
"Are you here to eat?"
"Ah, no. I called earlier today. I've come from Seoul to collect some paintings."
"Ah!"
The woman's face brightened.
"You're the teacher looking after our Jun! Oh my, and you've come all this way! Jun's dad! There's a guest here from Seoul! The teacher who's been looking after Jun!"
Еn̆ǔ m а
From the kitchen at the back, a man poked his head out.
Mid-thirties. A well-built man.
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Lee Jun's father, Lee Jeong-su.
"Welcome."
A low, steady voice.
"Thank you for coming all this way."
We b̄ ṅо̌ v̌ е l En ů mа̊
Lee Jun's mother, Han Su-jin, looked around the room. She searched for an open seat.
There was one in the corner. By the window.
"Sit here for a second! I'm sorry, we're swamped right now, but please, eat something first!"
"Ah, I'm fine, really. I'll just take the paintings and head straight back—"
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"You can't! You've come all the way from Seoul, how could we let you go without a meal!"
Su-jin called out toward the kitchen.
Ẇе̊ b̈ n öv̇е l Еn̈ū mа
"Honey! Cut him some sashimi from the very best of what came in today!"
"Ah, I'm really fine—"
"Sit down!"
A cheerful but unbending voice.
Faced with Busan-style stubbornness, Park Sang-hoon had no choice but to sit.
A seat by the window, with a view of the sea. Outside, the winter sea was darkening.
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Su-jin went off to wait on the customers at another table.
A shop without a single part-timer. The owner had no choice but to keep moving.
Taking orders, carrying plates, clearing the empties. She moved without a moment's rest.
About ten minutes later.
Jun's father, Lee Jeong-su, came out carrying a tray himself.
A mountain of sashimi.
Е̂ṅü m å
Flatfish, rockfish, flounder.
The flesh shone, translucent. It was fresh.
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"Th-this is far too much—"
Without a word, Jeong-su set the tray down.
Then, with a single nod, he went back to the kitchen.
Park Sang-hoon looked down at the spread.
Е n̊um̈ а̌
The sashimi was glowing.
This was, well, beyond the level of a Gangnam sashimi place in Seoul.
The cuts were uniform in thickness. The flesh was translucent.
Somehow even the sashimi had a sense of artistry to it.
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He picked up a slice and ate it.
The sashimi melted on his tongue.
Е̃n u mа
"......This is good."
He meant it.
Five hours of grumbling melted away in a single slice.
He checked the price list on the wall.
Compared to a specialist sashimi restaurant in Seoul, it wasn't even half the price.
So this must be why customers come all the way out to a backwater like this.
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As she moved among the customers, Su-jin glanced over at Park Sang-hoon.
She looked relieved to see him eating.
Park Sang-hoon ate in silence.
While he worked through the sashimi, the next dish arrived, though he hadn't ordered it.
A spicy fish stew, steam curling off it.
Grilled fish, plus sea cucumber, sea squirt, spoon worm.
W̄e b̄n.о̊v е̌ l̆ Е n̈um̃ӓ
He ate the sashimi, spooned up the stew, and even stirred rice into it.
Little by little, the shop emptied out.
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The customers began to leave, one by one. Paying, saying goodbye.
Around eight, the last customer left.
In Seoul, this would be the hour the night trade was just getting going.
But maybe because it was so far out in the country, people cleared out early.
Е̇n ŭ m а̊ . і̇ d
Lee Jun's mother, Han Su-jin, took off her apron and sat down across from Park Sang-hoon.
She had the look of someone finally catching her breath.
"Did you enjoy it?"
"Yes. It was truly delicious. There's no comparing it to what I eat in Seoul."
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
Su-jin smiled. It was a smile with pride in it.
"Then please, tell us about Jun now. Our Jun's doing well, isn't he?"
Еńǔ m à.і̄ d̄
Su-jin asked.
She was smiling, but her eyes were uneasy.
She was a young mother. In Seoul, she was at an age where it would seem perfectly natural for her still to be single.
But her hands were rough. Hands hardened by the work of the restaurant.
Her nails were clipped short. There was no nail polish, nothing like that.
Out here in the country, a young couple runs a food business without even hiring help.
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Even without being told, he had the sense there was a long story behind it.
"Jun is doing well."
Park Sang-hoon said.
The words that came out were unexpectedly gentle. It surprised even him.
"He paints every day. Professor Kim Yo-han teaches him every week.
Ah, and the professor is a remarkable man besides. If you trust your son to him, there's no doubt about it.
And Jun's skill is improving by the day. Sometimes even I'm startled when I see it."
Under Park Sang-hoon's shower of praise, Su-jin's expression eased.
W̄ е̊bn̄.о̌v ёl̂ Ёn u m̈а
There's no parent who wouldn't be glad to hear their child is doing well.
Park Sang-hoon looked out the window. The pitch-black sea. The narrow village tucked between the mountains.
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A place with fewer than ten houses. A place where there could be no children his own age.
Had Lee Jun grown up here all alone?
"......And."
Park Sang-hoon adjusted his glasses as he spoke.
W̌е̂bn̈ òv̀еl Е̇ ňû m̌á
"To be honest with you, Jun is not an ordinary child."
Su-jin tilted her head.
"As his parents, you might think of it as, 'I suppose our boy has a talent for drawing'."
Park Sang-hoon chose his words.
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"I've worked in the art world for over twenty years. I've seen no end of so-called talented artists, talented children.
But I've never seen a child like Jun."
Su-jin's eyes widened.
Е n̆.umа̂ . i ḋ
"R-really?"
Inside, her husband Jeong-su, who had been tidying the kitchen, stood at its entrance, listening too.
"A five-year-old is painting in oils. And no one even taught him.
The tool ordinary art students don't pick up until they get to university, this child uses as if it's the most natural thing in the world. And at a level that astonishes the experts."
"Um, what's oil painting?"
Su-jin asked. It was only natural she wouldn't know.
"Well, it's, um...... a painting made with a special kind of paint.
The pictures that hang in museums. The works by famous painters like Van Gogh and Monet, those are oil paintings."
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"Ah......."
"Right now Jun is working on a painting to submit to the National Children's Art Competition. I've put my name down as a recommender, and Professor Kim Yo-han is on as a recommender as well. If luck is with us, there may be good news from the competition too."
Su-jin looked at her husband. Jeong-su nodded.
An expression that said he didn't quite grasp what any of it meant, but that it seemed to be something impressive.
"So please don't worry. Jun is doing well. I guarantee it."
As he said this, Park Sang-hoon thought to himself.
Е ǹ u̇m̀ а̌. і d̈
'Why am I speaking so carefully about all this?'
When he set out from Seoul, he'd definitely been grumbling.
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A tiresome work trip dumped on him by Kim Yo-han.
Grunt work that went by the name of collecting studies.
And yet, after sitting a little while in this restaurant, the grumbling began to shame him.
"Thank you, sir."
Е́nû m а̊.і̌ d
Su-jin bowed deeply.
"For coming all this way, and for telling us such kind things."
"Ah, not at all. It's my job, after all."
Park Sang-hoon waved his hand awkwardly.
Dilarang mengopy novel dari Enuma.id.
"By the way, where are the paintings? The ones Jun drew when he was little."
He eased into the main matter at last.
Ë nů m а
He had to accomplish what he'd come all the way to Busan for.
"Ah, upstairs. I'll show you."
The building's second floor was the living space.
Old vinyl flooring. The wallpaper lifting here and there.
"This is Jun's room."
Su-jin opened a small door.
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A child's bed. A low chest of drawers. That was all the room held.
There were crayon marks on the wall. Traces someone had scrubbed at to remove, but couldn't.
"He used to draw in here. On the walls, too. At first it was an absolute disaster."
Su-jin gave a wry smile.
"And over here."
Su-jin opened the chest of drawers.
En u mа
It was full of paper.
The backs of flyers. Supermarket flyers, real estate flyers, fried chicken flyers.
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Calendar pages. Torn off and flipped over.
Delivery slips. The slips for the seafood that came into the restaurant.
Fish wrapping paper. The paper they lined the coolers with. The faint smell of fish still clung to it.
On top of all of it, pictures had been drawn.
W̌e b nо vе̄ l̀ Е n̆ûmа
Crayon. Colored pencil. Ballpoint pen. Whatever came to hand.
Park Sang-hoon picked up one of the sheets.
The back of a flyer. Crayon.
A swirl had been drawn on it. The yellow and blue were vivid.
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This was the one he'd seen on Kim Yo-han's tablet.
The real thing felt different.
Е n̄um̆ а̂
The waxiness of the crayon was pressed into the paper. He could feel the force in it.
Lines a three-year-old's hand had pressed down hard to draw. They had direction. From the center, outward.
Something welled up in him.
Park Sang-hoon picked up the next sheet.
The back of a sheet of fish wrapping paper. Colored pencil.
A fish inside an aquarium. Bright at the top, dark at the bottom.
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The paper smelled of fish.
"There are some here, too."
She opened a ramyeon box that sat in the corner of the room.
The pictures in the box looked like more than a hundred as well.
"Is this all of it?"
"It's all we've found. There might be more he's hidden away in some corner somewhere."
Еn̆ú ḿ а.. іd
Park Sang-hoon looked down at the pile of paper.
Flyers. Wrapping paper. Slips. Calendars.
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There was hardly a proper sketchbook among them.
This child had no paper.
He had no paper to draw on, so he drew on the back of any scrap he could find.
"......."
Е̄n̄ ū m̃а
A child this talented.
Out here in the countryside.
Drawing, with no one knowing.
It was a talent that might well have vanished that same way, with no one ever knowing.
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Park Sang-hoon took off his glasses and wiped them. It was a habit.
As he wiped them, he felt his eyes grow hot.
Е n̂ um̄ а̃_. і̄ ď
He put the glasses back on.
"I'll take all of it."
All of this had to be properly preserved.
A precious record that might otherwise have been lost forever.
In that moment, Park Sang-hoon resolved in earnest that preserving these was the mission he had been given.
*
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The same hour. Seoul.
Lee Jun stood before the easel.
He finished the last brushstroke and stepped back.
The canvas was glowing.
The blue, familiar to him now.
A blue with no clouds, no grass, no silhouette.
Ӗ ňùm а
But it was different from the blue at the start.
The blue, built up in dozens of layers, was giving off light from within.
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The surface was clear. And yet, from beneath it, light rose up.
Light trapped between layer and layer seeped softly upward.
The top was deep.
The layers mixed with Prussian Blue had settled like a night sky.
Ĕ n̂ ǔm̊ a. і́ d
The bottom was bright.
Pure Ultramarine glowed like the sky near the horizon.
There was no visible boundary. The color, changed little by little each day, flowed together naturally.
The sky.
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There were still no clouds, no grass, no silhouette.
But the sky was already there.
W̌е̄b n о̇v̈ е̇_l̇ Е ñ umа
A deep, clear, glowing sky.
[......It came out well.]
The Shadow said quietly.
[This is enough. The sky is finished.]
Lee Jun knew it too.
Layering on more might make it deeper still.
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But right now was just right. This was exactly the sky Lee Jun wanted to express.
Now all that's left is to lay other things on top of this.
Van Gogh's force upon Rothko's depth.
Upon a sky that glows from within, clouds that glow from without.
[Clouds are next.]
The Shadow said.
Е_nǔ m̆а̀. ǐd̃
[Thick. Bold. Don't spare the paint.]
Lee Jun nodded.
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At last, the next stage.
[Once this dries, let's start right away.]
Lee Jun sat down on the floor in front of the canvas.
He looked up at the blue canvas.
W e b̊ ṅov̈ е́ l̊ E_n̊um̈а́
Evening light was coming in through the window.
The light touched the surface of the canvas.
Dozens of layers of blue breathed as they caught the evening light.
For a long while, Lee Jun couldn't tear his eyes away from it.
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*****
W e b̂n о̆v̊е̇l̀ Е̃n̂ǔm a.
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