An Unfamiliar Song

In the office of the Cheongsan Brick Factory, a wood stove kept the air gently warm, and within that warmth Kijo and Seong Dae-ik were each bent to his own work. Dae-ik was drawing up the ledgers. Kijo sat at the desk, turning over the question of how to drive a wedge into the brick market.

As of January, the trade was deep in its winter sleep. Brick was not made the year round. In winter the ground froze and clay would not take a kneading; in summer the wind and rain drove in, and the kilns went quiet. Seven months of firing, five months of stillness — that was the way of it. The brickmakers had entered their dead season, but they were waiting on the great boom that was sure to come. The hunger of postwar reconstruction lay in plain sight. There was no chance they had failed to see it. The more industrious dealers in building materials were already picking through collapsed buildings, grading the ruined brick, and stacking it away in warehouses. When the thaw came, even that reclaimed brick would reach the market and sell as if it had sprouted wings.

Cheongsan was a latecomer. While every brickmaker in the country slept and dreamed of a windfall, it would have to be up and busy, preparing to leap into the market.

The brick trade is a fight over who can put more brick on the market, faster and cheaper than anyone else.

On output, his factory would have nothing to fear. The enormous Hoffmann kiln Professor Kim Moon-hwan was raising ran at a high thermal efficiency and was built for volume, and the great store of coal they had just secured burned far cheaper than what the other firms were using. Set beside its rivals in the cost of materials, wages, and fuel, Cheongsan brick was every bit their equal — and in places their better.

"The problem is freight."

That was Kijo's conclusion.

Inside Seoul stood large brickworks that had sunk their roots there under Japanese rule, the so-called Big Five: Joseon Ceramics, Gyeongseong Ceramics, Samjeon Brickworks, Mokchon Ok Brickworks, and Yongsan Yeonwa. They had outlasted liberation and were still drawing breath. The war had broken their plants, and they could no longer produce what they once had, but a major house was still a major house. Men who had not scrupled to fix the price of brick among ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠themselves, merely to keep anyone from dumping, would just as surely slash those prices the moment Kijo entered the trade and dare him into a game of chicken.

If Cheongsan brick meant to stand against them, the cost of hauling would have to be cut to the bone.

"And for that, we'll need a fleet of our own..."

It was fifty kilometers from the Cheongsan factory to Dongdaemun. To close a distance like that, Cheongsan had to run its own trucks. Rely on hired ones and the freight ate the margin until there was no hope of beating the competition.

Seong Dae-ik came over to where Kijo sat sunk in the problem.

"Boss. Rest a moment, then go back to it."

"Maybe I will."

It touched him, how carefully the twenty-year-old looked after him. That was what age did to a man. A youngster had only to greet you properly, only to smile and be kind, and he started to look precious. Kijo stepped out of the office with Dae-ik and let the cold air scour the heat from his head.

"Dae-ik. It's a shame Cheongsan isn't closer to Seoul."

He let out what had been sitting in him. Squeeze Yeoncheon for all it was worth, and still the raw distance to Seoul would not be overcome. Had it been possible, he would have taken land even a little nearer the city. But coming back into 1953 without a coin in his pocket, the only earth he could claim was ownerless ground in Yeoncheon.

"You need trucks to haul the brick into Seoul, don't you?"

"How did you know?"

"A little while ago I heard you, Boss. Truck, truck."

"Did you? I said it out loud?"

He had been thinking so hard he had not noticed himself muttering.

"Didn't you say one truck was coming in May?"

"That's right."

When the plan had been to turn out fine brick, let the company name seep out little by little, and grow at a walk, a single truck would have done. Not anymore. The board was bigger now.

"If we make the finest brick in all Joseon, won't they come in their own trucks to buy it?"

Dae-ik smiled, bright as weather.

Was this what the optimism of youth looked like? Kijo liked the clear air the boy carried with him.

A day like that will come. But when it does, how many of the people in this factory will still be here?

He was sure of one thing: he would not let the hands go hungry. Behind him stood Eundae-ri, a sturdy citadel that grew rice. A man might say a hill to lean on was no small mercy, yet few souls were content with nothing but a full bowl. The reinforcements that would break this stifling bind were, as ever, a letter from America. Sell the land at Jeongok-ri to an American university, and he could fill out the fleet.

He was brooding on those reinforcements like a castle lord under siege when he caught sight of Ma-ryang, far off, racing toward them on a bicycle.

Too fast... One of Ma-ryang's chores these days was to set Soon-young on the bicycle after she brought lunch and see her home. For a man on the way back from that, he was in far too great a hurry. He looked like a courier coming in at a gallop.

The brakes shrieked.

Ma-ryang stopped in front of Kijo and spoke without so much as pausing to pant.

"Brother. Get on."

"What's happened?"

"You'd best get to Jeongok Station."

"Jeongok Station?"

"That man's come."

That man? Surely not... Kijo swung up onto the rear rack at once, and Ma-ryang drove the pedals hard for Jeongok Station.

They were there in minutes. Before the station stood a large U.S. Army truck and a familiar sedan. The man who stepped forward to greet Kijo as he climbed down was Kim Doo-han.

"Mr. Lee! It's been too long! Ha ha ha!"

They were bound to meet; that much was true. But it was early for it. And the truck, already?

"I've brought the truck I pledged. You're ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hardly a man to break his word, Mr. Lee, and I thought if I was sending it at all, better sooner than later."

It was the truck he had dreamed of, and yet set down suddenly before his eyes it refused to seem real.

"How did you know to come all the way out here?"

"I combed my way down from Yangju, looking for you. The Deokjeong Station Master said if I went to Jeongok Station, I'd learn where you were. So here I am."

So that was how. Kijo took Kim Doo-han's hand.

"Keeping well, Ma-ryang?"

Kim Doo-han grinned, sly, and flicked a look at him.

"Been well enough. And you, sir — you been at peace?"

Blunt, Ma-ryang. Perhaps that very heaviness looked like something a man could trust, for Kim Doo-han's eyes filled with the shine of someone who had spotted talent and wanted it.

"Have a look at the truck. We pulled parts out of a U.S. Army unit and assembled it."

Resourceful, that. Kijo and Ma-ryang walked a slow circuit of the truck and took its measure. Down to the tires, it was perfect. The only thing wrong was the coat of glaring blue someone had slapped over every inch of it, trying to dull the look of goods lifted from an American unit.

"Mr. Lee, shall we sit somewhere and talk?"

"Let's."

Kijo led him to the gukbap house in front of the station, a rice-soup shop run by the people of Eundae-ri.

"Hyeok's mother — bring us drink. An honored guest has come, so see to something to eat with it."

"Yes, Village Head."

The moment Kijo, Kim Doo-han, and Jang Ma-ryang stepped inside, the little shop ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seemed to fill to the walls. Hyeok's mother understood at a glance that no ordinary guest had walked in, and her hands flew. When sliced boiled pheasant came out with jars of milky makgeolli, the three of them drank.

"Ahh... nothing for a man of Joseon like makgeolli."

Kim Doo-han, first to empty his bowl, wiped his mouth and poured for Kijo and Ma-ryang. He cast a slow look around the shop.

"I hear all of Yeoncheon is your land, Mr. Lee."

"You do me too much credit. I hold a little ground, nothing more."

"No call for modesty. I was curious about you, so I asked in Jongno until there was nothing left to ask. Ha ha ha!"

A gangster's swagger always rode along in what Kim Doo-han said. Had he truly learned all there was to learn, he would have driven that truck to the door of the house. That he had left it standing in front of Jeongok Station was surely the merchants' doing. Every one of them was from Eundae-ri. A suspicious man asking after Kijo, and they would have pinned his feet where he stood and sent a runner to the village. Ma-ryang had happened to be there, seeing Soon-young home; the moment word reached him, he had come at a run. Kijo could see the whole chain of it.

With a soft rustle, Kim Doo-han drew a letter from the inside pocket of his suit.

"Mr. Lee. A letter has come from America."

Already? Even by U.S. Army military post, a letter took a month or two when it lagged, and several weeks at the very least. Kijo took it and looked closer. It was no ordinary letter. It was a telegram. Someone had fired a cable in haste to the post box at the American unit. If he had to name one place, it was Harvard, where Professor Mobius sat. And so it was. He turned the envelope over, and the sender was Harvard University. He tore it open and read what was inside.

A thin smile spread over Kijo's face.

"Good news?"

"Of course. You've brought the truck and the letter yourself. Thank you."

"Ha ha — and you thank me for that? Mr. Lee. Didn't we say in Myeongdong that we would be one family?"

Kim Doo-han looked from Kijo to Ma-ryang and laughed, a great rolling laugh.

"Trucks these days, I tell you. They say the price of one is dozens of brick houses in Seoul. And that's for a U.S. Army truck smashed flat in the war, scavenged, and hammered back together."

Bluster and stretch, the usual. But the claim that trucks were dear was no lie. Kim Doo-han pointed through the shop's clouded window at the truck beyond the glass.

"But that one is different. That truck is crammed full of sound parts. That's the truth of it! Ha ha ha!"

He had earned the boast. The truck standing in front of Jeongok Station was grade A. Add only a little lie, and it was as sound as if they had rubbed out the white star on a U.S. Army truck and driven the thing away whole.

"When will you come up to Seoul?"

Now he came to the point. The truck had been given; with it came the pressure to come quickly in return. Polling day was May 20. From the opening of a campaign to the vote itself, a single month was enough. Kijo had already sketched how he would help a man who would win the seat whether he was helped or not — a method that spent little strength and returned everything.

"I'll join the camp from April 20."

"Camp?"

Of course. This was 1954. Kim Doo-han had never heard the words election camp.

"I mean your election office, Assemblyman. It's a term they use in America."

Pleased, perhaps, to hear himself called assemblyman before he was even elected, Kim Doo-han colored faintly across the cheeks.

"Just what I'd expect of you, Mr. Lee, a man who keeps company with American universities. I'll have 'Kim Doo-han Election Camp' slapped across the office in Jongno, big as the front gate itself. Ha ha ha!"

Kim Doo-han was pleased by whatever Kijo said. He was pleased, too, by Jang Ma-ryang, who said nothing at all. After three or four hours of drinking together, he insisted they go on to a cabaret in Myeongdong for a second round. When Kijo shook him off, he climbed into the car looking sorry to leave. He lowered the window of the sedan and spoke to Ma-ryang.

"I'm trusting you, and you alone. Ma-ryang."

Ma-ryang gave no answer. He only bowed his head.

"Your brother looks thoroughly drunk. See him home properly."

With that, Kim Doo-han was gone.

Ma-ryang set Kijo, whose feet kept writing zigzags, on the rear rack of the bicycle. One hand on the handlebar and the other braced around him, he walked it all the way to Eundae-ri. Drunk and in high spirits — merry over the truck, or merry over the letter from America, it was hard to say which — Kijo sang. The melody was one Ma-ryang had never heard, and the words were stranger still. There was a coy, curling line, Oh my, oh my, please don't do that, and something else about crossing a sea, over and over, and coming at a run the moment you called.

Kijo kept on singing until they reached the mouth of Eundae-ri.

"Say, Ma-ryang. How was that song I sang?"

"First time I've heard it. Couldn't tell you."

"Oh, come now... Even the first time, it sticks in the ear, doesn't it? That's what they call a hook song. A gift for Kim Doo-han. Call it my thanks for the truck. Ha ha ha!"

A strange song, as a gift for Kim Doo-han? Ma-ryang could make little sense of what the man was saying. He saw the drunken Kijo home, then turned back to the house where Soon-young was waiting. But the odd tune would not leave him.

The song Brother sang keeps circling in my head...

It rose and fell, and rose again, and Ma-ryang suffered with it until sleep finally ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠took him.