Korean Literature Today, Fall 1997 Volume 2, Number 3, pp. 99-138

WWhhiittee SShhiipp 윤후명의「하얀 배」

By Yun Hu-myeong

Translated by David E. Shaffer

Kazakhstan – Alma-Ata. Uzbekistan – Tashkent. Kyrgyzstan – Bishkek. Tajikistan

– Dushanbe.

Kyrgyzstan – Bishkek. Tajikistan – Dushanbe.

As I sat under a cypress tree, straddling a rusty iron chair, I had flashbacks of

myself in a middle school geography class, repeating over and over again the names of

strange countries and their capitals as if memorizing some secret code. Four countries of

Central Asia and their capitals. Of course, among these Kazakhstan – Alma-Ata and

Uzbekistan – Tashkent are said to have already become names that are not so difficult

for people who need to know them, but Kyrgyzstan – Bishkek or Tajikistan –

Dushanbe are still nothing but totally unfamiliar names. Bishkek? Dushanbe?

And the personal name “Luda.” Going to look for that Luda with a “girl’s name”

is something I cannot forget. Over a few days in early autumn, our ethnic brethren of

that place were claiming that it was a “girl’s name.”

Let me see. Where should I begin the story?

Right. There is this tree.

Some time ago, after moving to a new place by Segomjong, there was this needle-

leaf tree growing rather hardily in the ground at the foot of the stone embankment

forming the property line with a neighbor, and under it there was, among other things, a

used iron chair that someone had left behind. From that time I had been able to spend

my hours sitting there alone with pleasure. And I thought about this and that concerning

those countries and the people I had met there.

It was sometime afterward that I found out that this tree was a cypress. As a result

of asking the gardener who comes to do work next door, I discovered that though it was

a kind of juniper, it differed from the juniper commonly called the “prickler,” and that it

was closer to the white cedars and was popularly called a cypress. He also kindly told

me that, unlike in the past, the “prickler” was now worth almost nothing, but that this

tree was still comparatively valuable.

“Ah, a cypress!”

I looked upon the tree anew. I had known the name from before the time I knew it

was that tree. Not only that, it came back to me that it was called cypres in French. It

was also the tree that foreign artists often featured in their paintings.

No, it is not the cypress, or cypres, appearing in foreign artists’ paintings. I recall

that one day last fall I was in a far-off land and the object that I approached was also one

of these trees. I neared the tree as if it held some special meaning for me. This was

probably all the more so because the place was the steppe region of the Central Asian

Uplands where there are not so many trees. Calling that place a steppe region is using

geographical terminology; nevertheless, one should not imagine that there was lush

grass everywhere. A prickly, dry grass called camel grass was swaying to and fro in the

wind – it was a plain, more like a desert, that went on and on. Such plains in Kazakhstan,

appearing to be strewn with grains of snow, were actually covered with salt.

The reason I went to this place was because of the piece of writing I am about to

present next. As you know, with the breakup of the Soviet Union, the actual

circumstances of our brethren living in Central Asia have become known; even the

opening of the road that now runs between us was unimaginable in the past. It was on

one such day that I received a piece of writing through the Korean Education Center in

Kazakhstan’s capital of Alma-Ata. I was told that as soon as the Soviet Union broke up,

the Korean Education Center went in and has since been teaching our brethren there

everything from the language and writing of their motherland to its history and culture.

The person who called himself the “person in charge” frankly stated that he had touched

it up a little and asked for my comments on it. He also said that, if possible, he hoped

that it could be carried by a Korean publishing institution. I now present that writing.

A Child Learning a Language – Written by Mun Luda

The child is a boy. He cannot speak the Korean language. Well, the

Korean language is what it is now called; in the past it was not called the

Korean language. Not the Korean language, but the Koryo language. Some

people also called it the Choson language. But now, instead of Koryo or

Choson, he hears the new name, Korean.

Whether Koryo, Choson or Korea, he said they were all the same place.

The place of this grandfather’s home – it was that country that he called Korea.

Therefore, the boy too called himself a Korean. In the past they were called

people of Koryo, but they are all the same country.

“I worry at your using less and less of the Koryo language.”

Always worrying, the boy’s father tried to help the boy learn the

language.

“Try saying ‘How are you?’”

Then the boy struggles to follow.

“How......are......you......?”Though it was quite difficult, he managed to

follow.

“Try ‘morning, evening, night.’”

“Mor......ning......”

“Evening.”

“Eve......ning......”

“Night.”

“Night......”

Because he had heard old adults using the Koryo, no, the Korean,

language, it was not unfamiliar to him.

But a few days before, when he and his father met a man who had come

from Korea, the Korean that he had learned from his father froze up in his

mouth so hard that it wouldn’t come out. Even though his father first said,

“You have to say ‘How are you?’” he merely hung his head to bow. The adults

who had seen this boy, even while giving a hardy laugh, in a way, seemed sorry.

“He understands, but that’s how he is,” the father said.

Following this the adults pour glasses of vodka and talk about this and

that of how they live. Such talk of how they live is more than a little boring.

They say that in Tajikistan a war had broken out, killing and wounding many

people, and that many Koreans had fled to a safer neighboring country. They

also said that in Uzbekistan too, a number of Koreans were looking for new

grounds and were preparing to leave.

“So I don’t know what will happen here in Kazakhstan.”

“Even so, unlike elsewhere, we have no place to go.”

Listening to the talk of the adults makes the heart heavy. The boy’s

grandfather had said that he left the Korean soil early, spent some time in

Sakhalin and in Vladivostok, and was brought to Central Asian soil by force.

“You must go see your homeland. There it’s different from here. Right in

front of the village a stream flows, there are hills behind, and it’s so beautiful

everywhere.”

This is what the grandfather had said; he passed away last year. It was at

the time when the road with Korea was opening and people were beginning to

go back and forth.

Below the Tien Shan mountains of Central Asia are the four countries of

Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. On the high peaks of the

Tien Shans, snow lies white even in the middle of summer. People say that the

sight is so beautiful. But my grandfather said that the homeland is different

from here. Since he said it is so beautiful, I wonder what kind of place it can be.

As soon as I got home from school one day, I went outside the city with

the adults. Once you left the city, an endless plain began. The group walked,

gazing at the wild poppy flowers spread out like a Persian carpet. Beyond the

plain of wild poppy flowers in full bloom, there is again a desert-like plain of

camel grass that goes on endlessly. If you go in that direction, they said the

land is called Siberia. To be sure, rather than beautiful, the Central Asian lands

must be called fearful.

But what did we go to this place for, you ask? It was to dig up potatoes.

Because there was a wide field next to the plain and after being dug up by the

“turactoru” (tractor), there were still quite a lot of potatoes remaining in the

ground.

The people dug up a half bagful or more of potatoes each, and though

they complained of them being heavy, they carried pleasant expressions. “This

world is so threatening; what are we to do if our food also runs out?” they

asked.

“If you go that way, you come to Siberia; if you go on further from there,

the Far East; if you go that far, you’ve gone all the way to your homeland...”

One woman sighed a deep sigh.

“Talk is easy. It’s so far.”

“Still, it should be easy for those kids to get there,” the boy’s mother said

as she pointed to him. The boy too somehow wanted to believe that.

“If you want to do that, you have to know the Goryeo language well.”

The boy’s mother looked at him. As his father had already told him this a

number of times, he was well aware of what she meant. Even to the boy, this

seemed to be so true. If one goes to his homeland and can’t even speak the

language, how can he call it his home?

So, while the adults are talking about something else, the boy turns his

head to the plains and opens his mouth as if whispering.

“How......are you......?”

The other people, of course, can’t hear this. However, he was probably

heard by the nearby blades of grass and insects. The boy believes this. Even

though the people behind him may not have heard him, the things in the plain

in front of him surely have.

The wild poppy flowers blooming full and red must have heard him. The

fresh, green camel grass must have heard him. The saksaul trees used when

roasting mutton, must have heard him. The desert rats under the trees must

have heard him. Even the huge magpies must have heard him.

“How......are you......?”

Strangely, the boy felt his courage rise up. It seems as if he sees before

his eyes his true homeland of unbounded beauty.

The next day the boy went to Gorki Park that had a zoo and playground.

There he met a number of women cutting roses. The women were carefully

cutting the park roses and taking them to the market to sell. So the once-

beautiful park was quickly losing its attractiveness.

The father said, “If all the flower beds in this world are spoiled, we’ll

have to leave here. Some people tramp on the flowerbeds and next, others want

to tramp on them.

The adults looked at each other as if thinking about where to leave for.

But they could not seem to reach a good solution. The word “peoples” came

out of the adults lips numerous times. And the name “Soviet Union,” and the

names “Lenin” and “Stalin” came out from lips. And again, the names “Russia,”

“Vladivostok” and “Sakhalin.” But they said that anywhere would now

be difficult.

“So the only thing to do now is for us to learn to speak our peoples’

language well. There’s nothing else do,” the father said in conclusion.

To the boy, these words seemed to aim at the heart like the Uzbeks’

swords.

As soon as school was out, the boy made hurried steps toward the

outskirts of the city. A loaf of bread was packed firmly in his schoolbag.

Reaching the place where the icy waters running down from the Tien

Shans formed a river flowing toward the desert lake, the boy turned his head to

the east and stood. Further down that road was a freshly dug grave because his

grandfather had requested that he be buried to the east in order to be as close as

possible to his homeland. But unlike before, there was a field of wild poppies,

spread out like a

Persian carpet. In the thickly wooded forest of large firs instead of

saksaul trees, magpies as always were walking around nervously. There too

wild cats were said to be running about.

The boy looked toward the distant plains of Central Asia absorbed in

deep thought. And then toward those eastern plains he shouted.

“How are you! This is the language of our people!”

At this, the field of wild poppies first began to stir. The wild cats of the

forest perked their ears and looked up. Pushing off the fir tree branches, the

huge magpies flew. Over toward the plains, the desert rats ran this way and that.

A strong wind rose, heading for the desert covered white with rock salt. From

the Tien Shans the rumbling of crumbling glaciers could be heard.

Once again the boy’s words rang loudly.

“How are you! This is the language of our people!”

The citation is rather long, but there seemed to be no other way to tell the story of

the journey to the cypress tree. As mentioned above, I made it explicit that it was

because of this piece of writing that I went to Central Asia. But, to provide a few more

details, at that time I was already planning a trip to Russia to gather information for a

project of sorts, and after considering that it would be all right to take a side trip to

Central Asia, that is what happened. I thought that it would be good to meet the boy

featured in the writing. I was also curious as to what the relationship was between the

boy and the writer Luda. While realizing that I didn’t know whether this was something

that had actually happened or just something that someone wished would happen, I still

wondered. The thought that perhaps the author Luda was the main character also

remained prominent.

For this reason, I left. However, being able to meet Luda soon after my arrival

there was not to be. That is why I am now gazing at this single tree telling you this story.

Before telling the main story, I ask first for your understanding in making a brief

point in passing about using the simple expression “I left,” as the procedure leading up

to boarding the airplane was so involved.

Since until not so long ago flights to other destinations had to go through Moscow,

it was rather fortunate that a direct flight once a week had come into being. This was

another reason for adding on Central Asia to my trip. I heard that a private individual

had somehow rented a plane and was making the runs. For this reason, there was

something not quite normal in the procedures for issuing visas and purchasing tickets.

“You are now making plans to take a secret route” – that look seemed to be hiding

somewhere in these transactions.

Yes. There is the term, the so-called “open secret,” but even though it may have

applied here, it actually seemed like it would be a good route to take. Consequently,

there is not even an official airline company handling passenger tickets. Having to ask

and ask to find out where to buy a ticket is no easy task. And even though you are told

that you will get a receipt when the payment is made, no form of official documentation

such as passenger coupons is placed in your hand even at the end. All that really matters

is whether you are able to board the plane. Regardless, that huge airliner departs only

once a week. There was a simple reason, I found out. It was due to those bundle dealers

that the airline was able to make ends meet.

What was more baffling than anything else, however, was that on the evening of

the day before the departure date, I unexpectedly received a telephone call informing me

that because the incoming plane had not arrived, it would not leave the next day. On

asking what to do next, the voice on the phone answered that there was nothing that

could be done except to wait to hear from the other end.

It would likely take a good half day to enumerate the complications that arose

after this, but in the end a whole week was skipped and I was still barely able to depart.

Because it took a week for the airplane to arrive, I hardly need to mention all the

commotion raised by the bundle dealers. At Kimpo Airport, Russians, Kazakhs and

Koreans alike lifted and pushed bundles, yelled out shouts, and went at each other with

poles, creating a scene of utter chaos. They are called bundle dealers but their bundles

cannot rightly be called bundles – they were huge items of freight. So, while the

airplane was actually a passenger plane, almost half of the seats were shamefully filled

with piles of cargo. And on top of nearly all being chain smokers, the bodies of those

middle-aged Russian women rolled in fat. Someone even said that a good topic for

study would be: what in the world do Russian women eat that when they are young that

they are so slender but after they marry and get older they put on so much flesh? Indeed,

covering the seats with their bottoms and squeezing them in to sit down is even difficult

– those impossible Katyushas, those impossible Natashas, those impossible Lalas.

Though this is what the plane was like, the route the plane flew made me realize that it

was truly a new age. In former times, these were impassable skies, that is, the Chinese

airspace and the Mongolian airspace we passed through. With not a speck of anything

resembling the green of vegetation in the solid grayish-brown of the vast and rugged

Gobi Desert, it was quite some time before one could look down and find a small oasis

in the far-off distance twinkling like a discarded potshard. Five hours out of Seoul, with

the yellow waters of the Selenga River nearing, the wheels of our rattling plane touched

down at Ulan-Ude in Russia’s Buryst Autonomous Republic. There we took on fuel and

again had three hours and thirty minutes to fly. Our estimated time of arrival was the

middle of the night.

What I at first intended to describe as just “I left” ended up being stretched out to

this extent. Therefore, I must begin my story from the time I arrived at Alma-Ata. But as

soon as I set foot on the Alma-Ata runway, I was suddenly overcome with the helpless

feeling of “why did I come here?” and with this, my story is interrupted. It was, of

course, my intention to find out about Luda as soon as I arrived. But that was always

nothing but a secondary concern. At any rate, since my job was to gather information, I

thought that if I did a little digging, I could come up with an unexpected amount of

material for stories.

This was all the more so because Central Asia was in the Islamic world. Even so, I

was somehow not quite sure of anything.

Why I suddenly felt this way, I don’t know. Everyone was busy trying to make a

living, traveling back and forth on this difficult plane, and in the midst of these

circumstances with bundles being lugged around, a man like me . . . with a sense of

emptiness, I just sank down into my seat. If I really think about it, how much has that

“man like me” been harassed to this day by the storms of life and how ardently has he

struggled to survive? Didn’t I once want to experience for myself the saying that all

legitimate trades are equally honorable; wasn’t a job, no matter how unfavorable, to be

regarded as an object of envy? With no place to lay this frail body of mine without

coming under suspicion because it had been my fate to be hounded from place to place

by the authorities, I had actually dreamed of being a sailor lying in the lower deck of a

ship; I had dreamed of becoming a night watchman and lying down in the back room of

a guardhouse; I had dreamed of becoming a waiter’s assistant and lying down on the

barroom chairs; I had dreamed of being a garbage scavenger and lying down in their

common housing; I had even dreamed of becoming a grave keeper and lying down

beside a grave. While a man’s dreams may be limitlessly lofty, they may also be

limitlessly humble.

It was this person who found himself deposited in a strange city in Central Asia.

But time passes and now, quite a long time after avoiding my fate, I was for some

reason asking myself if this were truly a place where I could lie down without coming

under suspicion. Being as alone in the city as the city was strange, I would say that it

was indeed natural for me to ask such a question. The problem, however, was that the

question was being directed toward the “me” of Seoul. I didn’t understand it. My heart

shuddered at the realization that I was asking myself such a question. My period of such

distress had clearly passed and I now had a room of my own, a perfect space of my own.

That question and the sense of bewilderment that accompanied it stayed with me

all the time I was riding in the car into town with the Korean Education Center staffer

who had come out to meet me. Because the “person in charge” whom I had called and

asked to meet me could not come in person due to some pressing business, the staffer

who had come out was doing his best to acquaint me with a variety of things concerning

the present-day situation in Central Asia that was facing me. As he was imparting this

information, we darted toward the hotel through streets lined thick with trees arousing

more fear than expected. Most of what he was telling me I had already heard from the

two Koreans sitting next to me coming in on the plane. That the financial situation was

more than a little troubled and that as nationalism was gradually becoming stronger, the

land that our brethren were based on was gradually becoming smaller were things I had

also seen a number of times in the newspaper. A plan was being made to move the

Kazakh capital of Alma-Ata to another location; of the ninety ethnic groups living in

Central Asia, the only one to have no beggars was that of our brethren; there were now

about seventy Korean Christian missionaries in Alma-Ata and the evangelistic rivalry

between each of them was becoming a problem – these were all things that I had heard

on the plane.

But there was one thing that I had not known. Unlike when I was on the plane

coming from Seoul absent-mindedly listening to what others were saying, I now

realized for the first time that it was not until now that I really had my own room, my

own space. I had earlier jokingly asked the “person in charge” to reserve me a cheap inn

or some such place because the only thing that mattered was that I had a place where I

could lay my body down.

“They say that when Jews move to a new place to live, the first thing that they do

is build a synagogue; our people build a school.”

After talking about so many different things, he now talked like a staffer from an

educational institution. He added that even though our people had been driven there in

the face of death under Stalin’s forced relocation policy, unlike other peoples in the

same situation, our people lived comparatively well because of that very passion for

education. I learned from him that not only our people but the Germans, the Jews, the

Kurds, the Chechens, and others had been forcibly relocated at different times prior to

and after 1937. Though the time period was slightly different, a movie I had recently

seen, “Fiddler on the Roof,” did a good job of depicting the forced relocation of the

Jews from Russia.

But now there is probably no one who feels shocked by such a historical fact.

Since the people who went there cried “Oh, 1937!” in a singular voice, many years have

already passed and we have turned our eyes away. The year 1937 was indeed a

calamitous one for our people on Russian soil. It was the year that our people who had

moved into the Far East region centering around Vladivostok and who had been living

under gradually worsening conditions were abruptly ordered to be relocated in Central

Asia and were hauled there by train. However, the gruesome history of migration had

become known as much as it ever would and was now nothing more than timeworn

story. Granted, I had become aware of the fact, for example, that in a house on one of

the streets of Khabarovsk in Amurski where the ethnic Korean revolutionary Kim

Stankevich once lived, her beautiful figure still hung engraved on a bronze plate.

Moreover, the practice of commenting this way or that on the huge cartwheel of history,

the so-called big talk, was not for me to do.

I was hoping to find its meaning, no matter how small or negligible it was. This

was not because I believed that “It is the small things that are beautiful.” Far from it –

according to the teachings of philosophy, these words were a fallacy. This was because

all things were not beautiful because they were small; nor were they beautiful because

they were large. This was also true of people. Things were beautiful because they were

beautiful. Beauty was something for which there was no suitable absolute criterion for

verification. After finishing school I became more conformist, and when asked which

side I was on, I said such things as “From one lily I can see the glory of God” or “From

one lotus I can see the providence of the universe.” Just as the saying that small things

were beautiful was a fallacy, the thought that large things were good was likewise

fallacious. A saying is only a saying because it has been said.

Supposing that this cartwheel is huge, where is there a cartwheel as huge as the

solar system? Where is there a cartwheel as huge as the galaxy; or to go one step further,

where is there a cartwheel as huge as the universe? I had become a person who refuted

things in this manner.

Meaning “river of seven forks” and in Kazakh called the Djetisu Hotel, this was a

place which charged fifty dollars or more for one night. Regardless of whether I knew

what the place was like, I thought it was expensive. It turned out that there was no

choice for me but to pay the fifty dollars “or more.” The staffer said as if murmuring to

himself that there was a thirty-dollar hotel just up from the education center which

seemed to be a medium-priced hotel in Alma-Ata. But he had not mentioned the thirty-

dollar place until after we had finally managed to get a room and I was about to pull my

money out of my pocket. The “person in charge” seemed to have taken the “place to lay

my body down” or the “inn” that I had mentioned as empty words.

“Because your flight arrived so late and the restaurants are all closed for the night,

I brought you a few bread rolls. Try to make it on this until tomorrow morning. And bolt

the door securely and lock it, and don’t open it for anyone. It’s dangerous.”

The man from the education center said a few more words to emphasize the

danger, left behind some others about getting in touch with me the next day, and

departed. According to what he said, it was not as bad as Russia, but the security was

terrible. To make matters worse, from the continuing civil war in the neighboring

country of Tajikistan, refugees were flooding in and the turmoil was becoming serious.

The situation was one in which the newspapers were full of reports of people

throwing themselves out of apartment buildings because they had nothing to eat; such

things as this were to be expected.

Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the region’s dangerous security state

had become widely known through the newspapers and television. Because I was left

there alone, my body, for some reason, felt as if it were shrinking.

As soon as the staffer departed, I was left alone in my own room. It was the first

time in a long while that I had been able to cut all ties with the outside and be alone. In

this sense, the warning not to open the door for anyone was rather welcome. After

thinking about it, it occurred to me that more than for any other purpose I had ventured

there solely to be alone in that room. It occurred to me that for this I had crossed the

Chinese mainland, crossed the Mongolian plateau and crossed Lake Baykal, leaving

behind far-off Seoul. Unbeknownst to anyone, there was hidden happiness in that room.

Only a short time had passed before I realized that I had not asked him anything

that I had wanted to. I had hesitated, thinking, “what if he is the ‘person in charge’?”

and that is how things ended up. I had questions about Luda. I had hesitated to ask

where this Luda, whose writing had been shown to me not so long before, now was, and

with that, the opportunity slipped by. I was not able to give the requested comments nor

was I able to make the requested presentation. And these were requests that had been

made several months before. Therefore, I considered letting the matter pass without

mentioning it. And that too would have been all right.

With the passage of time, however, I leaned heavily toward thinking that I

definitely should have asked.

The boy learning his mother tongue – that image hung vaguely before my eyes. I

visualized the image of the boy along with the steppe of wild poppies in full bloom that

I had associated with it the first time I read the piece. I also remembered I had thought

that “wild poppies” should have been “field poppies” to be a more proper expression,

regardless of whether the “person in charge” had touched it up, or whatever.

That steppe too I had wanted to see. As fall had already set in, I would not be able

to view the plain of “field poppies” at their best.

Lying on the bed on my back, I recalled the newspaper article on Uzbekistan and

its situation that was carried at the time President Kim Young Sam visited that country

last summer on his return from Russia.

With independence there, the Uzbeks insisted on using their people’s language

instead of Russian, which they had been using until then. And for our people, who had

not anticipated that language would ever in their lifetime be used and who, therefore,

saw no need in learning it, there was no choice but for them to be helplessly removed

from their jobs. Under the banner of Soviet socialism following Lenin’s revolution,

language and script had been unified into one in the Russian mold, and now caught

under this unexpected turn of the cartwheel of history were our people. I was filled with

the strange feeling that once when we had no choice but to learn Japanese in the

motherland, they at the same time had to learn Russian. The more I thought about it, the

more vivid the image of the boy learning his mother tongue became. I just had to meet

Luda.

As I have stated above, it is not too much to say that Central Asia was no more

than a side trip on my travel plans for Russia. But I had to see the museums and other

places of special interest. While abandoned there, I wanted to see an Islamic gravesite

memorial service. India erected the most beautiful architectural structure in the world

during the period of the Mogul Empire – the Taj Mahal, a white marble mausoleum

built by the emperor as the resting place for his departed empress. Outrageous as it was,

the phrase “To the last drop of blood for Allah” written on the front of the sepulcher of

Iran’s revolutionary Ayatollah Khomeini also came to mind. However, a tomb with

notoriety of this type could not become the focus of my interest. I wanted to see a public

cemetery more than anything else.

I had wanted to meet Luda, but there was no chance for those words to leave my

lips the next morning.

An unexpected phone call came from the education center telling me that as

transportation had fortunately just become available, they were sending it to the hotel

and all but insisted that I take a trip to Ushtobe. The word “insisted” is misleading. After

apologizing as he had done before for being too busy, the “person in charge” explained

that he had made inquiries a few days earlier about arranging transportation because he

thought that this was something I just had to see. The person going in the car was a

teacher at the Ushtobe Korean School and he would take me to a restaurant.

Ushtobe is the place where our people first arrived in that year 1937 when they

were forcibly moved to Central Asia. The Korean School there was being operated

under the sponsorship of people in Kwangju. It was surprising that Central Asia and

Korea were building relations to such an extent so quickly. But I did not have the

slightest desire to see all the places there of such a nature. It would not have mattered to

me if we had somehow just passed it by. I was not prepared to see and deal with such

historical vestiges. I say again that I was intending to just pass briefly through Central

Asia. But it would be less than truthful to say that my curiosity was not aroused by the

fact that there was a Korean School there. Most importantly, I could not help but do as

they suggested because of the restaurant. When the telephone rang, I had been biting off

unaccompanied mouthfuls of the dry bread the education center staffer had left with me

the night before.

As I have said, at the very beginning I did not feel that it was imperative that I

meet Luda. That writing being sent to me, too, was a unilateral action. But the night

before when I was so strongly gripped by the feeling that I was alone in my own space,

I promised myself to realize the meeting. I had to meet this person, I promised to myself.

Without meeting the boy who had gone out alone on the plains of Central Asia, who

faced the field poppies and the desert rats and shouted “How are you!” in our language,

then who was there to meet? I must belatedly confess that the night before when sleep

was about to set in, I had felt the outrageous thought that that boy could possibly be me,

or that he most likely was me, passing through my head as if it were a dream in a light

sleep. I then fell into a very deep sleep.

“People seeing the Russian script for the first time, often read that as ‘peck-toe-

pah.’ They say that there is actually an association by that name in Japan. It’s

supposedly an association of people who had come when traveling to Russia was

difficult.”

The Korean teacher, for whom more than one year had so quickly passed since he

had come with support from Kwangju, pointed to the letters “PecTopaH” in front of a

restaurant. That was the Russian for “restaurant.” Since the Russian script is different

from other Western scripts, it is naturally difficult to read. But that difference can easily

be learned by making a few simple modifications in reading. Later, however, when the

opportunity arose and I went to the Lermontov Theater, I couldn’t help but cock my

head when I heard “Hamlet” as “Gamlet.” This was just one of many examples of how

the first letter with an “h” sound in the West took on a “g” sound. For instance,

humanism = gumanism, heroine = geroine, Himalaya = Gimalay, Hitler = Gitler,

Hermann Hesse = Germann Gesse, hamburger = gambulugi, and so on and so forth.

After finishing a meal of the Russian-style won ton soup, pelmeni, ham and bread,

tomatoes and vegetable juice, we – the Korean School teacher, our driver, and myself –

bought a bottle of German-made Nicholas II vodka and headed the car in the direction

of the vast plain before us covered with snow-powder-like salt that momentarily seemed

to shine.

Though I had been told it would take a full day to get there and back even rushing

as we were, I had not hesitated the least bit at any time prior to escaping from the city.

But that was only after being reluctantly treated to a meal. I had no alternative but to put

off the meeting with Luda till later.

There is no way for me to explain hearing about Luda only a short while after

setting off for Ushtobe except to say that it was actually quite coincidental. It was

natural for me not to have given a thought to asking the Korean School teacher about

Luda. There were more than a hundred thousand ethnic Koreans living in Kazakhstan

alone. But it would be less than the truth to say that I was going all the way to Ushtobe

that morning without thinking that I could somehow learn something about Luda. As it

turned out, the Korean teacher knew of Luda.

As soon as we had put the city behind us and faced the distant plains, the reason

for drawing field poppies in my head could have been nothing other than because of that

writing of Luda’s. Where could the place be where those flowers could bloom like a

Persian carpet? Turning my head in all directions, I saw nothing but parched earth.

“Field poppies...I mean wild poppies. Where do a lot of them bloom?” I could not

help but ask.

“I don’t know what kind of poppies they are, but from spring through summer the

flowers bloom over the entire plain. The petals are wide like small hollyhocks. You

should see them.”

The Korean teacher pointed outside with his hand but to nowhere in particular.

However, the only thing to be seen in the landscape outside was a bare autumn plain.

My eyes, nevertheless, seemed to see the image of a boy come out onto that plain and

shout “How are you!” It was not simply to look at the distinct scenery that I repeatedly

turned my head to examine different parts of the plain. It was at one such interval that I

muttered something to the teacher about Luda, about Luda’s writing, as if in passing.

“They say that there was a boy who came out into a field like that and shouted in

Korean when the field poppies were in bloom. He shouted ‘How are you?’ I’ll have to

shout once when the field poppies bloom.”

What I had said could have been just a bunch of fiction. It was, therefore,

anything but important to me.

More significantly, in my mind I was drawing flowers in full bloom on that

desolate wilderness. The only reason I said what I had was because of the scene that I

had drawn. At this, the teacher quickly turned his head toward me.

“Oh, a girl named Luda wrote something like that and won a prize for it here. It

was in the Koryo Daily. Her hometown is Ushtobe, too. Did you read it?”

I was surprised at what he said. Whether the piece had been carried in the local

Korean newspaper, the Koryo Daily, or whether the fact that she had won an award was

carried in the paper was not clear, but in any case, that he knew about Luda was

pleasantly surprising to me. I let out a short exclamation,

“Ah!”

In this way, I came a step closer to Luda. What I must admit here, however, is that

at the time I was listening to the teacher speak, I discovered the fact that Luda was not a

male but a female. I was more surprised at this fact than that he knew about Luda. The

exclamation that I had let out was, therefore, all the greater. Since the main character in

the writing was a boy, I had naturally thought of Luda as also being male. I had

belatedly discovered that this was a misconception due to nothing other than my pitiful

stupidity. Simply put, Luda was short for Ludmila, and Ludmila is used only as a

feminine name.

One may be able to come up with all kinds of excuses, but in this so-called age of

internationalization, or globalization, such a thing can be nothing less than a face-

reddening shame. To give a few examples of “belatedly discovered” familiar names,

there is Agasha for Agafya, Borya for Boris, Lala for Klara, Nadya for Nadejda,

Katyusha for Yekaterina, Sveta for Svetlana, and so on. Indeed, I have to admit that in

my youth when I first read the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke I had thought that he was a

female. But what concern is it of mine whether Luda was a male or a female? I was to

find out later that it was by a mistake on her end that her familiar name had somehow

been attached to her writing.

Be that as it may, Luda was a female. According to a friend of her older brother

who lived in Ushtobe, he was not sure if it was to Kyrgyzstan or to Tajikistan but he

said the word was that she had gone with her brother to somewhere in that direction.

If you continued driving on the road that went to Ushtobe, it would take you all

the way to Sakhalin. I was also being told that over the ridge of the well-known Tien

Shan Mountains jutting out into the distant plain on the right was China. The Tien

Shan’s greatness was not due only to their majestic appearance seen in the distance over

the boundless steppes. On their large and small peaks, snow and ice accumulate and

slowly melt, forming streams that form rivers that flow to the plain below. It was this

waterline that fed it life; in it were the life-giving forces of nature and concordance.

That is why the water of the desert and steppe below is clear, cool and sweet. The

teacher said that here lay the reason why Alma-Ata had become the republic’s capital,

though it was just one city located in a corner of Kazakhstan, which comprised one-

eighth of the land area of the expansive territory of the former Soviet Union.

As the sun rose to its zenith, over the great plains, a lake unexpectedly appeared

between the dark red hills of the earth. This was Lake Kapchagay, which means “white

sands.” The waters of the tributaries of the Ili River flowing from the north wind around

through the precipitous ravines of the Tien Shan range, gather here, and then flow into

the huge Lake Balkhash. In the early fall, the icy waters are warmed by the morning

sunbeams to burn off the thick fog. Rather than “beautiful,” “divine” came to mind at

the bank of the lake with its strong winds blowing. The teacher assured me that the city

was on the other side of the water.

We pass another stream and a small town on our way to Ushtobe. At the market

set up along the roadside, beef, mutton and vegetables are sold. After buying a bag of

sunflower and pumpkin seeds next to the thick smoke and strong smell of the roasting

mutton skewers, we again set out into the desert of only sparse camel grass. The masters

of this vast desert plain since long ago were nomads. When the Mongols invaded the

area, these nomads asked the Russian emperor for help, and from that time on until

quite recently the land belonged to Russia. But the names of Genghis Khan and

Tamerlane are still prominent in the history of this land. Historical remains from

Genghis Khan in the plateau region, however, are limited to a few earthen monuments –

the present masters, as in days of old, are none other than the nomads. There is the

nomad man sitting high on his horse driving a herd of hundreds of sheep; and there is

the nomad boy, with his dog at the head, driving a herd of cattle and blocking the

asphalt highway. And in the plains where there is not a single human shadow, a nomad

cemetery occasionally appears like a village of humanity. Here too, small domes shaped

like Islamic mosques stand at the tombs of the wealthy.

Ushtobe, along with Tashkent, Kzyl-Orda and a few other areas, was where the

first Koreans migrated to in 1937. Now, after the passing of half a century and though

many have moved to different places, I was told that 8,500 or so have put down their

roots in Ushtobe. The first few people thrown into this land faced an approaching winter.

They hurriedly dug holes in the ground and covered them with reeds and mud to fight

off the bitter cold. Here and there the remains of these holes could still be found.

On the trains that brought them for nearly a month, there was considerable death;

on the barren land that they were thrown out on, there was considerable death; and since

the first generation of migration, a history of four generations has already evolved.

At the old remains that we went to with Han Pyotr and Pak Nikolai, I wanted to

ask how anyone could have possibly lived there, for there solemnly rest the scars of an

unfortunate history. And right there at that spot, in a way different from that of the

nomads, the grave mounds of our people began to occupy space, saying “I am the

master of this land,” and as the new village that was being created was like a village of

the living, for quite some time, while my thoughts on life and death and history were

bound together in my mind, I could not help standing there motionless, as if I had

committed a crime or something of the sort.

As soon as we arrived in Ushtobe, the Korean teacher contacted the friend of

Luda’s brother, and we benefitted by being invited to a restaurant at lunchtime. Her

brother’s friend looked to be in his early thirties and went by the name of Mikhail.

Pointlessly worrying that it may look as though I had sought out this place for the

express purpose of meeting Luda, it seems I dealt with him somewhat more crassly than

I had with other ethnic Koreans. According to him, it had already been a few months or

so since the girl’s family, who lived in Alma-Ata, had gone to Kyrgyzstan.

“‘My brother’s going into business.’ That’s why she said they were leaving.”

Hearing Mikhail’s words, the Korean teacher smiled saying that people here call

standing along the road selling a loaf of bread or a hat “business.”

“Kyrgyzstan...” I was going to bring up the Flying Horse, but did not.

The extent of my knowledge of this country was that it was couched in the Tien

Shan range and that it was known as the home of the Flying Horse of long ago, which

could cover a thousand ri, or about 4,000 kilometers, in a day. That horse ran so fiercely

that it sweat out blood-like sweat, so it was also called the Blood-sweating Horse. But

because that was only something out of the annals of the past, I judged it to not be

appropriate to mention at such a place.

“In Kyrgyzstan, the large lake called Issyk-Kul is well known. It is at the foot of

the Tien Shan peaks which are covered with snow all year round. During the days of the

Soviet Union too, it was well known as a resort area. The people here say that at lake

bottom Issyk-Kul is connected with Lake Baykal. And the fact is, they’re a few

thousand ri apart. I haven’t been able to go see it myself yet.”

Teaching was part of the reason but, as if to substantiate his words, the Korean

teacher said that he had volunteered to come to learn more about Central Asia because

of his interest in the area.

“That’s right. Vitaly also said that he was going into business near the lake there.

Vitaly, that’s Luda’s brother,” Mikhail added.

And we were informed that though Luda had tried hard to find a husband, among

her people, things had not worked out. Without having to pry for specifics, it was

sufficiently conveyed that this was considered to be a very important matter. In addition,

it was said that she once went so far as to try to go to Korea, but that had not worked out

either. For some reason, I felt as if I had done something wrong. The lines that she had

written – “How are you! This is the language of our people!” – suddenly entered my

mind and were imprinted upon it.

I remembered that before coming, I too had looked at a map and my gaze had

dwelled upon that lake. Not only upon that lake, there was also Lake Balkash situated in

about the center of Kazakhstan. But they had been pushed aside by the mighty Baykal,

the lake boasting the deepest water depth in the world, and their existence had soon

dimmed. I thought to myself that someday I must be sure to go there; that is all I

thought about lakes.

From here, however, events began turning down a road other than the one planned.

Upon close examination, I must say that “from here” in fact cannot but be quite vague.

The reason is that for talk of “Kyrgyzstan” to transpire, Luda had to first be there.

However, I cannot but again say “from here.” From that time I had the feeling in my

head that something that had vaguely directed my fancy toward the Central Asia region

was putting order into my life. I suddenly realized that there were tangible words that

were responsible for clearly gathering together my vague perceptions. If this were so,

what on earth were these words that have me talking so pompously as this?

All right. Without any further ado, they were “Flying Horse” and “lakes.”

First, Flying Horse. I remembered that sometime back, when the Silk Road story

was being televised, that land and its people had also been presented. Now the Flying

Horse remains only as a legendary story, but the film of that report ended suggesting

that the manifestations of the legend could be discerned in the horses of that land. Hence,

it would have been of no use to talk about a story such as that to the people beside me;

due to my concern that the conversation would be superficial and become weighty, I

didn’t even mention the subject there. But suddenly the urge arose to go there, if only to

confirm those manifestations with my own eyes. Due to my so-called “spur-of-the-

moment” character, there was a flickering moment even in this where it seemed as if my

miserable life, which had so often been driven into absurd corners, was about to

continue. Me being far removed from riding horses and horseracing, why was I

suddenly having this concern for manifestations of the Flying Horse?

The lakes, however, were different – especially Lake Baykal. Because I had seen

everyone who had been there foaming at the mouth with excitement, when I first made

my travel plans, I racked my brains to find some way or other to work it in, but I could

not find the right key and had to give up on the place.

Going to Russia’s Baykal from Central Asia was also quite difficult. Therefore, I

had to settle for quenching my thirst by looking down at the outer edge of one part of

the lake from the airplane. However, the Central Asian lake that is groundlessly said to

have its bottom connected with that of Lake Baykal entered the picture. In any case,

isn’t it true that it actually is located at the foot of the Tien Shans and covered year

round with snow?

“The people here say that sunken at the bottom of the lake, there’s an ancient city

– that’s what they say,” said Mikhail as I was showing interest in the lake.

Mikhail was a rarity. He had already been to Korea at the invitation of the

Education Center for Ethnic Koreans Abroad in Seoul’s Tongsung-dong and was using

Korean in such a precise manner. I could not help but take increased interest in his

speech.

“At the bottom of the lake...”

Taking a sip of the canned beer that came with the soft drinks, I drew that distant

lake in my mind. According to Mikhail, the “Issyk” of “Issyk-Kul” meant “hot” in the

Kirghiz language, “Kul” was “lake.” Also, Issyk-Kul’s water was fresh on top and

saltwater underneath. If compared with Lake Balkash, the two lakes differed from each

other here in that Lake Balkash was freshwater on one side and saltwater on the other.

And he even mentioned the novel “White Ship” written by the Kazakh novelist

Aitmatov. It is a story about a boy who had come to live with his grandfather by the

lakeside when his parents were going through a divorce, and as he watched the white

ship sail away, he dreamed that he turned into a huge fish and followed the ship. While

listening to Mikhail speak, I was also allowing a novel that I had read in high school,

“Immen Lake” written by the German novelist Storm, to come to mind.

“The white ship...” A mysterious and a beautiful spectacle excited my mind.

While this was transpiring, I cautiously asked to neither the Korean teacher nor

Mikhail in particular if it were not possible to go see the place. Nothing that Mikhail

was telling us was in any way lacking in arousing my feelings toward the lake even

more.

But then according to Mikhail, although it was not that far from Alma-Ata to the

lake as the crow flies, it was actually quite a distance because the Tien Shan range

blocked the way and you had to go all the way around to the southwest where a pass cut

through the hills.

“I really wish I could go there... Isn’t there some way?” Glancing back and forth

at the Korean teacher and Mikhail, I practically begged.

After seeming to think over what I had asked for quite a while, Mikhail finally

suggested that the two of us go together, taking advantage of this opportunity to also

look up Vitaly. He said we could look for a way to get there once we got back to Alma-

Ata. It was like this, without really intending for it to be so, that my venture toward the

lake began.

What I gained from the trip to Ushtobe was more than just a little. Regardless of

the importance of other things, I had seen the tombs of our brethren, and I had seen the

remains of those reed dugouts sunk into the desert plains on which they had been cast in

that year of 1937 to put down the horrid roots of their new lives. I also saw the Korean

school that recently opened there. But what made my heart leap more than anything else

was the anticipation of a whole new world – being able to go to the lake deep in the

mountains.

According to Mikhail who had said he would inquire about finding a way to get

there, by asking about his friend Stanislav’s car, it had not been the least bit difficult.

Stanislav’s family name was Lee, and while he made a living driving, he wrote poetry in

the side. So the three of us left Alma-Ata at a little past noon, driving his Djiguli Lada,

the most popular passenger car in that region.

Earlier, when I first checked into my fifty-dollar hotel room, I said that I had

tasted the delightful pleasure of having my own space. And now again, when the car

was suddenly speeding through the center of the wide-open steppe – I don’t know the

reason why that same feeling resurfaced. Even though they could be called brethren, the

fact was I was going to an unfamiliar place with people who were in no way connected

with me – in other words, it seemed to be a feeling of relief gained from private travel. I

was rolling around the unseemly word “happiness” inside. The mysterious lands of the

deep mountains of Central Asia had given me a space of my own like a room of my own.

It was as if I was going inside to hide. Once again, even though it is called a good half-

day trip, in it there were so many episodes. First of all, Mikhail had only been to

Bishkek once, on a group tour ten years earlier, and this being Stanislav’s first trip, the

fact that he knew nothing about how to get to the lake was a problem. With only a

simple map and road signs to aid us, we could only drive on. We even bought a copy of

“Caravan” along the road, the major daily newspaper in Kazakhstan, and it seemed as

though we were just like a caravan, only without camels to ride – just like a desert

cavalcade.

It may sound easy, but depending solely on road signs was anything but easy.

Unlike areas such as the Middle East, the Far East or Eastern Europe, Central Asia is a

region beyond imagination in its vastness. With a branch of the Tien Shans to our left,

we merely sped along at an average speed of 100 kilometers per hour in the center of a

steppe covered entirely with short and scanty grasses. As to seasons, even though it was

“Lady Summer” of early fall according to the Koreans there, the steppe was nothing but

yellow grasses. This was the so-called “silk road of the steppes.” At times, herds of

horses, flocks of sheep and herds of camels formed and were seen walking to some

unknown destination down that steppe road.

Just as the name implies, a steppe or grassland, is nothing but a field of grass;

trees hardly grow there. Even though I say “grow,” only on rare occasions could one or

two small mangy shrubs be seen standing. And on a truly rare occasion, a few trees

formed a nice little grove. Among these, most common was the karagach, a kind of elm.

It had deep roots and was said to absorb water quite efficiently. Next, there was the

djuda, similar to the jujube tree. To discover how good a tree it really is, there is

probably no better way than to go to the rare place that it grows. It was truly a rare tree.

For this reason, instead of describing everything about that “good half day” car trip in

excessive detail, I will mention specifically a few places where there were trees.

Befitting one who writes poetry, Stanislav knew many different things about trees

which helped me in many ways. When we were on the vast, bare steppe and it would

have been awkward to expose ourselves to take a leak, it was just in the nick of time

that we spotted a few trees, stopped the car, and attended our business. It was then that

he said “Haven’t you got any of these trees in Korea?” and became my tree teacher by

telling me about the deep red fruit of the djuda trees that could be picked and eaten.

Because the city of Alma-Ata is virtually an oasis itself with the melting waters

from the perpetually snow-covered Tien Shans, the trees lining its streets are more

luxuriantly verdant than those of any city in Korea. But once you leave the city, the

landscape becomes completely different. The places with cultivated trees standing in

rows along the road are also temporary; both sides are just flat plains. Causing me to

sometimes wonder if they had been hauled in from somewhere, the rough, disfigured

saksaul trees, used for skewers when roasting mutton, were fascinating – even when

their old stumps were seen loaded on a passing truck. Saksaul is a tree especially well

suited to Central Asia’s salty soil and desert lands.

About an hour and a half out of Alma-Ata, the road curves to the left and runs on.

It is not too much later, while crossing over Kuridai Pass, that you unexpectedly come

across poplars shaped just like the ones in Korea. Here and there the poplar trees sour

straight up to the sky. But besides these, there are only a few short scrub trees and

swaying eulalias, which quickly pass out of sight. Soon even the grass of the plateau of

Central Asia gives way to barren land. Crossing over Kuridai Pass meant passing over a

branching ridge of the Tien Shans. It is composed entirely of an assorted heap of

pointed, broken rock.

I could not help recollecting the days when I had listened to Borodin’s “In the

Steppes of Central Asia.” A number of years before that, when Park Chung Hee’s May

16th revolution took place, my father’s being a feared “revolution prosecutor” seemed

to verify anew the old saying that “what goes around, comes around” by my father

himself being put in prison. It was right after my first love had fallen to pieces. Though

the music’s Eastern rhythm was sad, it contained a bit of sweetness, which consoled my

double pain. At that juncture, I quit school and everything else, determined to be on my

own. Harboring great ambitions indeed, I had gone around looking for a room.

Ambitious dreams are childish dreams. Whether it was because of that girl or not, I am

not sure, but in the autumn that she left me it had been unusually difficult to breathe.

And after that, no matter how much older I became, just when that time of year rolled

around, it had become difficult to breathe for no apparent reason.

While crossing over Kuridai Pass, it suddenly came to me that it was that

confounded season again and before I knew it my face had lost its color. Though it was

not such a high pass, I began feeling difficulty in breathing. The thought ran through my

mind that on the last day of one’s life, it must be due to something being wrong with

one’s body that breathing becomes difficult.

I hope you will not fault me as being too foolish for cocking my ear while

carrying that thought because it seemed as though I would be able to hear Borodin’s

tune or the like coming from somewhere. What I did hear coming from that place was

only the bleak sound of the wind. But I knew that sound of the wind could have also

been the very rhythm of “In the Steppes of Central Asia.” A few karagach trees stood on

the plateau where the horse hoofs of the cavalries of many peoples ─ the Mongols, the

Tatars, the Turks and of others – had galloped and, strangely, wearily retreated. Borodin,

who is said to have had some Tatar blood, had probably also heard the sound of the

wind brushing by the karagach trees. Even after crossing over the pass, the border was

far off. The best information that we had was to travel in the direction opposite that

leading to the capital of Bishkek once we entered Kyrgyz territory. Neither Mikhail nor

Stanislav knew what Bishkek meant. The capital had recently reverted back to its old

name with the breakup of the Soviet Union at which time it had gone by Frunze, the

name of one of Lenin’s cabinet generals.

Four hours or so had passed. We passed the last Kazakh village of Georgievka and

before long entered into Kyrgyz territory. As we had been told, at the turnoff to Bishkek

we turned left. To check our directions, we bought two watermelons from a roadside

fruitseller for fifty tenge and put them in the car. The shift in currency from the ruble to

the tenge spoke of changes in the world.

I say this only because the subject of money has come up, but it had not been very

long since each republic had begun making its own money, we had to deal with some

completely unexpected difficulties. The reason we could buy watermelons with tenge

was because the place was near the border. At the service station we had spotted and

stopped at a little further down the road, we found out that we could not get any fuel

with tenge. It was just another country’s useless money. Kyrgyzstan’s monetary unit was

called the som. Whether tenge or som, to me they were both strange-sounding names.

“That’s some other country’s. Some other country’s.’ He says, ‘Bring me som,”

Mikhail said a bit bitterly. He said that during the Soviet era, sister republics could not

ignore one another, and that he did not know how things could have changed so quickly.

That too, he thought, was surprising.

Since we could not use tenge, I wondered if we might not be able to use dollars,

but, being that we were in a remote corner of the countryside, that was also difficult.

Even though we still had fuel, we felt fortunate to have spotted the service station before

it was too late. We were a hare’s breath away from not being able to move at all.

Without any other choice, we decided to try to make it to the next service station and

moved the car forward with troubled hearts.

Didn’t I say, however, that I would talk about the trip mainly by talking about

trees? Regardless of how the fuel problem turned out, if you turned your gaze to outside

the window, the land of Kyrgyzstan, unlike that of Kazakhstan, had a deep green hue.

Palisades stood to either side, the Kunkei Ala Tau mountain range to the north and the

Tersuski Ala Tau range to the south, cozily enclosing the great plain like a folding

screen. This area was indeed a true steppe. Compared with the desolate landscape up

until then, it would not be too strong of an expression to call it a paradise. Unlike the

mountains without a single tree, the forests with poplars and willows grew quite thick

and even the grasses were fresh-looking. Put in other words, the entire plain was an

oasis. On closer inspection, there was also a stream of clear water running right beside

the road.

“It’s the ‘Gangt’ River.”

Looking at the sign that Mikhail was pointing to with his finger, I could see the

letters “KaHT” Because he had pronounced it “gangt,” I felt very strangely about Kant’s

name. Kant... It was at the time I was reading that German philosopher that I met a girl

preparing to retake the college entrance exam, and our eyes became interested in the

attractions of the body. My father had been released from jail and, to pass his ten-year

suspension of rights, was raising hogs in Bongcheon-dong.

The philosopher had been so strictly disciplined that to tell the time, it was more

exact to watch for him to come out for his stroll than to look at a clock. I remember that

in “The Critique of Pure Reason” Kant says that man is endowed with reason from birth,

but I am not positive my memory serves me right. “Acumen” and “innate,” even

difficult terms like these employed by the Japanese, I learned at that time. In my

subconscious was the desire to change “The Critique of Pure Reason” to “The Critique

of Pure Passion” (homonymic in Korean). Could it have been due to meeting that girl

with whom I would go up the dark hill behind the school and spend hours of mutual

sucking and feeling? At times I had even ludicrous thoughts.

Whether “Kant” or “Gangt,” it was this little river that formed the lifeline of the

entire plain and spread green over the steppe. Among the willows, Stanislav pointed to

the weeping willows (literally “hanging willows” in Korean) and told me that

figuratively they were also referred to as “tear-shedding willows.” The long, drooping

branches were the tears. As an exaggeration it was a somewhat distinctive one. In a

village of humanity, emerging after such a long absence from behind those weeping

willows, construction was well underway in erecting a house of worship, striking in that

it was a characteristic Islamic mosque. This was also one of the things that fell into the

category of representative changes that were recently occurring in Central Asia. It was

the revival of religion.

What I most attentively watched after entering Kyrgyzstan were the horses

passing by the side of the road. Though I make no attempt now to ascertain it, it would

seem more accurate to say that I was observing the legacy of the Flying Horse. Many

people passed on horseback. Riding horses and driving herds of horses or flocks of

sheep, riding horses and traveling in groups, or riding a horse alone and going to the

foot of the mountains – in any case, the sight of horses being ridden was quite common.

And even from a quick glance, it is not an overstatement to say that those horses were

tall, sharp and fleet steeds. Though it is said that the Flying Horse has vanished, I was

overcome by the thought that I was beholding the Flying Horse.

The further the car drove on, the smaller the vast plain gradually became, with the

mountain ranges on either side eventually running into each other to form a narrow

ravine. At the service station that we barely managed to spot at the entrance of the

ravine, we could get no fuel – we were only able to find out that if we went forty

kilometers further, we would arrive at our destination.

We had no choice other than to drive our car into the ravine. Now there was

almost no talk between us. It can be said that until then, facing only a monotonous

landscape outside, we had been speaking to each other almost without stopping for

anything. With hills continuing uninterruptedly and a few karagach and djuda trees as

the center of attraction, our trip had been quite lackluster. We had talked about the

peoples of the Soviet Union, about the government of each republic, about President

Nazarbayev of Kazakhstan, about the first-ever National Foundation Day ceremony

sponsored by the Korean Embassy that had recently been held, about the singer of

Korean decent, Viktor Choi, who had died so young...we had shared our thoughts as

they had come to us. It was Stanislav, however, who had done the greater part of the

talking.

Once this friend was going around with this Tatar girl, you see. Well, we were

really surprised. The reason why, you see, was because Tatar women beat their husbands,

you see..... There’s this ethnic group called the Chukchas. This wife sleeps with the

Russian next door at night and returns home, you see. Well, the Chukcha husband was

asked who the biggest fool in the world was, you see. To this the Chukcha man replied,

“The Russian next door.” Ha, ha, ha, ha..... Think about why he said this..... When

company comes, the Kyrgyz boil a sheep’s head and serve it. Then the guest first cuts

off the ears and gives them to the host. There’s almost nothing on them to eat, you see.....

The ha-ha-ha talk that we had shared like this had disappeared, and as I have said,

our lips were now shut tight. The mountains on either side steepened and the ravine

narrowed, so much so that once you entered it was considered difficult to come out

again. On the left, the gorge dug in deeper. Down there the upper waters of the Chu

River were said to flow, but down where the river water is supposed to flow was beyond

my range of vision. The mountain was formed of soil and crumbly stone, and while it

seemed that falling rocks would rain down on us at any moment, our car traveled alone

up the road through the pass darkening in the dusk. The saying “The remains of the

roads (of the ancient Chinese warring nation) of Ch’ok” came to mind; “A scene from

(the ancient Chinese fanciful novel) ‘Soyugi’” also came to mind. Every now and then

the placing of a carved deer or eagle figure along the ravine road looked rather like a

road marker directing one to some haunted place.

Our foremost worry was what would happen if our fuel were to run out, stranding

us in the middle of the Tien Shans, not being able to come or go. No one had to ask to

know that we were running on “empty.” In addition, all that we had had in the line of

food was a few cans of beer and some peanut snacks. It had become clear that the fine

dinner we had planned to eat by the lakeside after four or five hours of steady driving

was now only wishful thinking. We were getting hungry. Instead of that fine dinner, all

we had at the moment to eat were two watermelons. On top of that, the temperature was

becoming unseasonably chilly for autumn. From just a feeling, one could sense that we

were at a fairly high altitude. I had pointlessly gotten caught up in the senseless fantasy

of lakes and white boats and whatnot and suddenly hated myself for it.

I wonder how much time passed.

At sometime or other, the uphill road had turned into flat country; in the darkness

the outline of trees stirred vaguely. Even so, there was a faint light in the sky, maybe it

was starlight or something, in the background. And soon the glimmer of an electric light

was shining from between the trees.

“A3C” [ah-jeh-ess], Stanislav said in a low voice as if to emphasize something,

but he said it with force. It was there that I first found out that “A3C” was a service

station. The curtains were pulled on a window of the building, but through the wire

mesh that also covered it, it appeared as though someone was still there. I remained

sitting in the car; the other two went up to the window. Though I was watching from

somewhat of a distance, it did not seem as if things were going well. The woman

holding up the corner of the curtain and looking out was continually shaking her head.

As we were to find out later, the reason she would not take dollars was because she did

not have a device to sort out counterfeit bills. Suddenly we were being taken for

counterfeiters hiding out in the backcountry of Central Asia. At this we could produce

only hollow laughter. But we did learn that the lake was now not so far away, that there

was no place to sleep right beside the lake, and that consequently we would have to stay

the night in the nearby village of Palukcha. I still wonder what thoughts I had had that

made me shout to myself that here was a village of humanity, as I looked at the vague

stir of the trees in the darkness.

What we heard at the service station in the end had the effect of helping us

achieve our objective. When we were exhausted and momentarily at a loss as to what to

do, another Djiguli, as its name suggests, came djiguling up beside us and stopped.

While “rumble” is in the dictionary, it is not as though I do not know that “djigul” is not.

I just wanted to use this expression and couldn’t help myself. We thought that the car

was in the same situation as we were. But the man in the driver’s seat came up to us and

asked if we needed any fuel. It is not necessary to say how delighted we were to follow

him. After turning the corner on the other side of the road, we were able to put in one

can of fuel for ten dollars.

Palukcha was the Kirgiz name of the village; its Russian name was Lubachia.

From the way Mikhail, who had made sure of the village’s name from the fuel seller,

proclaimed “Ah, here. Lubachia, it’s here” as if it were some great discovery, I got the

feeling that this village had some connection with Luda and her family. Though quite a

lot of talk was exchanged during the time the car was driving in to the village, I was

surprised that for some reason there was no talk of Luda or her brother. Though my

connection may have been minimal, the other two were both Luda’s brother’s friends.

For the ethnic Korean of Central Asia to leave the place he had lived in and

become attached to was nothing out of the ordinary. Here, leaving should not be thought

of as being comparable to our moving from one rented room to another. Leaving is

often to a distant place, perhaps so far away that the person will never be seen again.

Granted that there are quite a number of people who leave from the Uzbekistan capital

of Tashkent for the Far East Russian cities of Vladivostok, Ussuriysk and other areas,

this is to a far-off land thousands of kilometers away. Therefore, leaving indeed takes on

the meaning of having to find a way to stay alive.

That there are a lot of people leaving is considered as being a reliable indication

that there are just as many other people on the verge of leaving. When it comes to

countries with different peoples, in those countries where nationalism is strong, there is

nothing for the people living there to do but to try even harder. Nobody could be sure

that some misfortune such as that of 1937 would not repeat itself. In actuality, society

was in disorder, and at any time living became even more difficult, it became a life-

threatening situation. This was the reason for my asking if Kyrgyzstan was safer. They

both concurred in saying that the people there were even more headstrong... It seemed

that the reason why my two travel companions did not come out and talk about Luda

and her family has to be understood from this perspective...

“Since it’s getting late, I’ll contact Vitaly tomorrow. The telephone’s another

family’s. We’ve arrived in Lubachia,” Mikhail said looking at his watch.

It was already past eight o’clock. After calling out “Kastinicha, chai?” a few times

to people passing by to ask where a hotel was, we finally arrived at one. It wasn’t just

any old hotel. All the outside lights were on except one; in that light the letters “AKKyy”

could be seem. When I asked what it meant, Mikhail explained that the “ahk” meant

white and the “koo” meant bird. It was written in a book that this white bird flew to the

lake. The white bird? It was the swan.

After parking the car across the street from the hotel, Mikhail and Stanislav told

me to wait there alone for a moment and walked off. It was because the hotel would ask

a lot of money without rhyme or reason if there were a foreigner along. I got out of the

car and, while pacing back and forth, breathed in the smell of the lake water; from the

tip of my nose I breathed in the pungent smell of that water which melts from ice and

flows down from the mountain ravines. Even though it may have been some other smell,

that is what I wanted to believe it was. And a longing for the outside world and its

concrete representation as a white ship were beginning to occupy my thoughts.

Getting two rooms for thirty-three dollars was due entirely to Mikhail and

Stanislav’s efforts. For foreigners the hotel would have asked more than twice that

amount. Under strict orders to keep my lips sealed all the way to the room, I walked

down the dark hallway like a deaf-mute carrying one of the watermelons. The fact that

one country’s language may in some situations be dangerous or even forbidden

strangely impressed itself upon my mind. That one country’s language was Korean. In

the Japanese colonial period, there was also a time when we were forced to use Japanese

instead of Korean... While walking down the pitch-dark hallway with lips sealed, my

whole body seemed to shudder.

In any case, we had secured a room to stay in for the night. Another problem,

however, was awaiting us. That was the fact that at this hour the hotel restaurant was

already closed and there was no place in the area to buy anything to eat. Whether it was

an elegant meal or not did not matter – just getting something to eat was the important

thing. It is true that we had gotten our rooms cheap, but in reality the hotel was

conspicuously empty. There were only a few employees, male and female, gathered in a

corridor room chatting with each other. Except for them, it seemed almost completely

empty.

I was told that during the Soviet era this area had been known throughout the

Soviet Union as a resort area equal to Yalta on the shore of the Black Sea. Consequently,

there must have been a lot of vacationers flocking in at that time. Though I call them

vacationers, they should not be associated with people with time and money. Vacations

were something for people who had systematically been given approval. However,

following the collapse of the Soviet Union and the system, in a time when making a

living was difficult, the vacation business was the wrong line of work to be in. It

therefore seemed that the restaurant was closed not only at this hour, but at any hour. I

could no longer say that my stomach hurt from hunger pangs; it hurt from a burning

pain. I was in a fix. No matter how hard I searched for a solution, it was in vain.

Helplessly, we gathered in one room, blaming ourselves for not having bought even one

loaf of bread from the women standing in a row along the road with a loaf of bread in

each hand doing “business.” There was no choice but to divide up the watermelons to

relieve our hunger.

Though it was already weather that required heating, there was no heating devise

in the room. In the toilet, there was no bathtub. There was this thing about a meter

square and five centimeters deep with an enamel base propped up on bricks, but I do not

know if it was for pouring water over yourself or what. Waiting for the water to come

out warm was also a waste of time. After eating the watermelons in the shivering cold of

a room that was getting colder, the other two went to the other room. I could only feel

sorry for myself and laugh a bitter laugh as I wondered why I had ever come to a place

like this to have an absurd supper of watermelon and restlessly traipse the floor.

If I had intended to run away and hide, this would have been the truly perfect

place to come to. The room was difficult to find, too. Finally, I had come to a place that

no one was aware of. I did not know why, but I was thinking that this place would even

be hard for the Korean law enforcement authorities to find, even if they poured all their

efforts into it. I was now a law-abiding Korean subject. Even if the police with their

cellular phones were to question me, I would have no worry with my authentic citizen’s

registration card.

My time for running away and hiding was the long-past October Reforms period

of the early 1970s. But I was still being hounded by that ghost. While at the same time

experiencing a sense of increased freedom and the futility of having all ties severed, I

laid my body down on the shabby bed with my clothes still on. As I was falling asleep, I

seemed to console myself by thinking that it would be comforting if I could see a white

swan and a white ship.

I met Vitaly the next morning as soon as I woke up. I saw him standing behind

Mikhail while I was rubbing my eyes after being awakened by a knock at the door.

Around dawn, I had gotten up to go to the bathroom and then went back to bed. I must

have fallen straight into a long and deep sleep because the room was now so bright.

Mikhail said that he had gotten in touch with Vitaly as soon as the sun had come up. We

then shook hands.

“I have to get something to eat first. Even seeing the Kumgang Mountains...” In

my distraction I was going to quote the saying “Even seeing the Kumgang Mountains

can wait till after eating.” But it was not so appropriate for them. After going through

the motions of washing up, I followed them out. I wanted to ask what had become of

Luda but thought I may be asking too quickly. Indeed, everything could “wait till after

eating.”

Then, as I casually raised my eyes, I saw it. It was dazzling. In the distance,

different in appearance from the day before, was a majestic and imposing mountain of

dark blue blocking the view, soaring high into the sky. What dazzled my eyes was the

white snow covering the top of the mountain. I was aware that in this area there were

towering mountain peaks covered with snow all year round. But seeing them in person

was something completely different. It was a feeling of cool, white and pure energy

being transmitted into my mind. And I was thankful to the others, who knew that I was

staring at the snow-covered mountain in awe, for waiting for me before getting into the

car.

We had a difficult time finding a restaurant. It seemed that there were

unbelievably few restaurants around for a resort area, and they opened late. It was now

time for what would be considered brunch in Korea and even Vitaly spent quite a bit of

time sticking his head in this place and that searching for a place to eat. Finally, it was

Stanislav who was first to discover a place whose signboard read “cafe.” Sure enough,

in front of the place stood an iron stove with a fire of saksaul firewood being kindled,

signaling that they were preparing to roast shashlik, that is, mutton skewers.

“Skaska, old stories. Or you could say children’s stories,” Mikhail said reading the

sign “CKa3Ka” and explaining it to me. From “children’s stories” I assumed that he was

referring to “folk tales.” We ordered a few skewers of shashlik and went inside. Because

it was a cafe, I thought it might be somewhat different from a restaurant, but in short,

the meal was perfect for me at that time. I still vividly recall the food set on that table.

Yellowish byelashi bread baked with minced mutton in it, thick and savory cabbage and

tomato soup, shashlik that was not tough, clear lemon juice, plain dark bread eaten with

butter spread on it, and the area’s specialty – a rather sour-tasting apple wine.

For some reason, Vitaly seemed guarded toward me, though I did understand well

enough that if you met someone for the first time, even an ethnic brother, in a foreign

land, he could not help but be a foreigner. The three of them were enthusiastic in their

talk on views they held in common. I wondered if the greatest influence that remained

of the seventy years of the nation set up by Lenin and known as the Soviet Union was

not communism but the teaching of the Russian language and its script to the nation’s

fifteen republics and more than 150 ethnic groups. This I thought as I listened to them

speaking in their Russian. Saying da for “yes,” and nyet for “no” – that was the

language. Pronouncing “H” as “n,” “P” as a trilled “r,” “X” as “h” – that was the script.

Though I could not understand their Russian, I could figure out what they were

talking about. In short, it was the problem of how to survive in that society. Now

anywhere in the four nations of Central Asia, advancing in the world of officialdom is

an impossibility without, not Russian, but that particular nation’s traditional language. It

was natural for the leading ethnic group in a nation to give preference to the language of

that nation. Therefore, others could only be squeezed out. What could be done? There

was no alternative.

When the Soviet Union fell apart, ethnic groups were taken into the fold by the

fatherlands of their peoples, by nations like Germany and Israel. But what about that

strange country of the Far East, Koreya? Although half a century has already passed

since the Japanese withdrew and a number of years have passed since the Soviet Union

crumbled, haven’t the northern and southern halves been torn apart and continually

engaged in a senseless war of attrition? Far from being taken in, for the ethnic Korean

wanting to go to the fatherland there was the letter of invitation, the visa and

unparalleled difficulty at every turn.

“You mean ‘Let’s go to Issykol’?”

We finished drinking our tea and left the “Folk Tale” Cafe that Vitaly had led us to.

Everything was working out well. But I was thinking that there was no reason for us to

go without seeing Luda and it was becoming harder to hide the anxiety raising my head.

After seeing the lake, we had nothing to do. I really worried that we might leave without

seeing Luda. From the beginning, the reason for coming this long distance was for me

to see the lake and for Mikhail to see his friend. Luda was only an added attraction. But

even granting that, I could not help feeling anxious at the thought of coming this far and

going back empty. The more I thought this way, the more I wanted to make sure I met

her.

When the car began to move, I indirectly had these thoughts passed on by asking

Mikhail in a low voice if Luda were somewhere far away so that Vitaly, sitting in the

front seat, would not hear. How Mikhail conveyed what I had said to Vitaly I do not

know. When Vitaly heard this and turned to look at me, I nodded to him that that was

right. At this he nodded back to me indicating that he understood. We both nodded the

same way, but I could not be sure that we had nodded at the same thing.

The road to the lake seemed to be leading to a single designated spot. After

driving a way down the deserted road lined with trees, the road curved to the left and in

front of us there suddenly appeared an amusement park full of all kinds of rides. The

merry-go-round, the ferris wheel, the miniature train and the other things painted yellow,

red and blue – even when seen from a distance, it appeared from the rust in spots that

they had not been used in quite some time and that they had clearly been neglected.

From its size we could tell that the amusement was not intended for the people of the

village. The renowned resort had certainly been a renowned resort.

At the entrance of the amusement park, two iron gates, hung on columns with tops

like those of a mosque, were tightly secured with a metal lock. There was no other road

nearby leading to the shore of the lake. After we ran around in confusion for a while, a

woman, wearing a scarf on her head tied in the back as is the custom in Central Asia,

walked out of a house off to the side that looked like that of the custodian. She asked us

our business and explained that no one was permitted to open the gate, but after

practically begging, we just barely managed to gain permission to go inside.

We went across the vacant amusement park. I held the absurd notion that I should

be able to hear the sounds of the people who had come and enjoyed themselves in the

not-too-distant past.. But the chain that turned the merry-go-round was off its gear and

lying out on the rotating floor just the way it had snapped. In the vortex of the transition

period, in today’s urgency for survival, I knew that an amusement park was nothing less

than an extravagance. In order to get food to eat, there were people cutting and selling

the roses in the park. And it was not just roses in the park. There had been a former

police official who had stolen a few potatoes from someone’s house and ended up

committing suicide when discovered.

“We’ve come to the lake.”

It is not clear if I looked at the lake on hearing Mikhail or whether he spoke at the

moment I looked at the lake. I looked out over the vast, blue waters. In the distance, a

mountain peak was reflecting upon that blue water. The actual mountain peak and its

reflection fused together forming a single world. Rumors that there was a village

submerged in the lake seemed to be accurate. Though the reflecting of the landscape on

the other side over all the water was a simple principle, I looked at it from a completely

different perspective. I had never before seen the reflecting of such high, snow-covered

mountains upon such an expansive lake. I regret to say, however, that I saw no white

bird and no white ship. Here I present an overdue summary of the lake from an

encyclopedia entry and go on:

This lake, called Rehai in Chinese, has a surface area of 6,200 sq. km., an

average depth of 279 meters, and a maximum depth of 702 meters, with water

surface at an altitude of 1,609 meters. Though it has many entering tributaries, it

has no outlets. Except for at its narrowest parts, the lake does not freeze over

even in the dead of winter. Salt concentration is about 5.8 percent and quantities

of fish such as dace and carp are caught. The lake not only provides arable land

to the surrounding plain as an oasis spreading out over it, except to the south, it

also has an amusement park.

It is truly a vast and a deep lake. I may be making the other side sound near, but

that was only part of the one end. From there it went on and on, so far that the other end

could not be seen. I did not know if there was a white ship floating on its way or not

beyond my view on the other side.

Where the amusement park came to an end, there was a not-particularly-high

stone fence partitioning off the park from the shore of the lake. We jumped over the

stone fence and walked through a dry thicket to the water of the lake. Unlike at the

amusement park, here cool, refreshing air showered the entire body. From where the

yellowish-brown thicket ended, the commencing waters of the lake grew progressively

darker the further they went until they turned into a deep navy blue at the other side.

Even though I said that it is not believed that the water at the bottom of the lake is

connected to that of Lake Baykal thousands of kilometers away, and even though I did

not see any white bird or white ship, the lake’s deep navy blue hue left no doubt that it

was treasuring some profound secret.

A small wave was being pushed in to the lakeshore. I put my hand into its water.

Its name may mean “warm lake,” but its water is quite cold.

“They say that if you throw a coin like this one out into the lake, it will return.”

Mikhail took out some change and held out one of the coins to show to me. I, in

turn, fumbled in my pocket and somehow my hand pulled out a hundred-won coin. We

threw the coins out into the lake. We had finished what we had set out to do. Then we

took turns taking pictures of each other and turned our backs to the lake.

That was it. It would have been nice if we had brought along something to eat, but

we had nothing. For all the world, I did not see how others would be able to understand

why we had rushed so hard to get there and then be ready to go back after standing there

no more than a few minutes. It did not even sound right to say as an excuse that my

purpose was just going there in itself, or something like that. If I had had my own way, I

would have stayed there alone for a few hours and contemplated a number of things. I

needed time to ask myself the reason why I had put so much effort into rushing to this

place, leaving all my problems piled up in Seoul. But still, it was I who made my way

back through the dry thicket ahead of the others.

Besides this, I was preoccupied with the thought that I had not attained the goal I

had gone there and worked so hard for. To be sure, a view of the pass darkening in the

dusk. The saying “The remains of the roads (of the lake such as the one we had was

superb. On the way, hadn’t I seen the horses, lake such as the one we had was superb.

On the way, hadn’t I seen the horses, and at the lake, hadn’t I even dipped my hand into

the water? There was, in fact, no other purpose. Nevertheless, this feeling of

unfulfillment was real. I felt that I could not pry open the secret, whatever it was, of

why the lake had called me to it.

What could it be? As if to check, I turned around and looked back at the lake a

number of times. The lake was located at a place more than 1600 meters above sea level.

It was, I had heard, second only to Lake Titicaca in South America in size and depth.

Because I had set my mind on seeing the lake, I had hurried past the karagach trees and

the djuda trees and the poplars and the willows as if they were mileage markers – and at

last, I saw it. But...

There was no way to shake the “but” that stuck in my head like an albatross. To

detach that bird, I actually shook my head. But...

It was then. Looking at the amusement park’s stone fence, I saw that there was a

towering tree of some sort standing there. I did not know why it had not caught my eye

when I went in. No – if that tree had been standing there alone, I most likely would have

passed right by. So, I had not seen just the tree – I had seen it and a woman standing

beside it. Her youthful and bright face was being concealed by the shade of the tree.

“Luda!” Mikhail shouted.

We crossed over the stone fence and directed our steps to under the tree. After

they had exchanged a few words with each other, I was introduced.

“How are you?

“Two clear eyes looked at me. Momentarily, I could not but be struck by the

distinctiveness of her Korean. It was the first distinctive Korean that I had heard in

Central Asia. And following these words, I could distinctively feel that they were being

accompanied by the inaudible words “This is the language of our people.”

“Ah, how are you?”

He had unconsciously repeated what she had said. With that, I became wrapped up

in indescribable emotions, not understanding why that simple greeting’s deep ring had

caused my entire body to quiver.

The fields of field poppy flowers stirred, the wild cats of the forest perked up their

ears, pushing off the fir tree branches, the huge magpies flew. The desert rats ran this

way and that, and the sight of the strong wind rising up over the desert covered white

with rock salt repeatedly came in and faded out of view. From the Tien Shans, I even

thought I could hear the rumbling of crumbling glaciers.

I looked across the lake at the snow-covered Tien Shans. That unfulfilled feeling

of “but” seemed to disappear just as snow melts away with Luda’s “How are you?” I

had become aware that the Tien Shans across the way were giving new meaning to

“How are you?” for me.

The tree whose shade Luda had been standing in was a “cypuriss” in Russian, that

is, a cypress.

Stanislav explained to me that the cypress did not originally grow in Central Asia

and that you had to go somewhere like Georgia to find many. Possibly in the amusement

park’s prosperous times, the tree could have been planted as some kind of

commemoration.

On the day I met Luda, the time we had to speak to each other could not but be

short. We had to get back to Alma-Ata in a short while, and there was no special reason

for me to spend a lot of time with her.

However, I was more moved then than I had ever been.

There was a young lady under a Kyrgyzstan cypress tree who gave entirely a new

meaning to “How are you?” in the language of our people. Even in the car on the way

back, that picture remained in my mind the whole time. Also, when I had looked at the

lake from under the tree, the perpetually white, snow-capped peaks reflecting on the

water were etched upon my eyes. And then, upon the realization that this was clearly

another manifestation of the white ship, under my breath I slowly repeated,

“How...are...you?”

_________________

The Translator: DAVID E. SHAFFER, Professor of English, Chosun University, Gwangju,

Korea

The Author: YUN HU-MYEONG

Yun Hu-myeong was born in Kangneung in 1946. He studied Philosophy at Yeonsei University and first embarked on a literary career by writing poetry. His poems were awarded

the Kyeonghyang Sinmun Literature prize in 1967. Then in 1979, he was awarded the Hanguk

Ilbo Literature Prize for his short stories. In the 1980s he received several awards for his fiction. He published a collection of his poems, Myongkung (Expert Archer) in 1977. His novels

include Donhwangui Sarang (Don Juan’s Love, 1983), Puhwalhanun Sae (Resurrecting Birds,

1985), and Pyolkkaji Uriga (We to the Stars, 1990). White Ship won Yun Hu-myeong the 1995

Yi Sang Literature Award The characters in his novels are caught in a world which seems to them meaningless.

They attempt to construct meaning by developing dreams and fantasies, until they find

themselves unable to determine what events are real and which only occur in their dreams. His novels are marked by a charm and lightness that express hope of meaning even despite the

meaninglessness.