Prologue
Thirty-five.
Not a young age. Not by any measure.
This was the season when my friends were finding their places in the world one by one, and yet—damn it—I was working a part-time shift in a high school cafeteria.
"Huff. Haaah."
Maybe it was the heat. The hill I climbed every day felt viciously steep. What else was there to do? When it got to be too much, resting along the way was the only choice. I wiped the sweat beading on my chin and lifted my head.
Still a long way off.
Trudge, trudge.
People who cursed me for scraping by on part-time work long after thirty? More than I could count. A few of them would tilt their heads and ask.
"A man who's studied as much as you have—what's he doing in a cafeteria?"
"Why not teach kids at a university instead? You went all the way through graduate school..."
I had debuted through the JoongAng Ilbo New Spring Literary Contest, and I had taken the Young Writers' Award, the Dong-in Literary Award, and the Lee Hyoseok Literary Award like clockwork, every other year. So it wasn't wrong to say I'd collected my share of prizes. I'd scraped through graduate school, too, one way or another.
And what good did any of it do?
Writers who made a living on literature alone? Thirty of them, if you were generous. Most of the ones who never made that number only sat down at a laptop after their real jobs were done. I was no different.
The cafeteria. The work was grueling, but at least I could get off early. So there was that.
"Nngh."
I had just forced my way through the heat shimmer rising off the concrete and reached the cafeteria when it happened.
Bzzzt! Bzzzt!
A vibration hammered at my waistband. I pulled out my phone, and the screen showed a number starting with 02—a Seoul landline. I didn't usually answer unknown numbers.
Hey. It might be a request for a manuscript.
On the off chance, I pressed the call button at once.
"Hello. This is XX Hospital."
A hospital? Not a publisher? The excitement went out of me at once, and I stuck my lip out in a pout.
"You had a blood test a few days ago, didn't you?"
Ah. Maybe because I was old enough now. The government had given me a free checkup. I'd had a miserable time the day before, prepping for the endoscopy.
"What's this about?"
"It's about the results. We'll need you to come in."
"What kind of blood test makes you call someone in? If this is about my liver numbers..."
"No."
The answer was firmer than I'd expected.
"Your white blood cell count is far too low."
All I'd heard were the words white blood cells, and yet it felt as if every drop of blood in my body had gone solid.
"It... it isn't cancer or anything, right?"
"For the details, I think you'll need a more thorough examination."
The voice was trying so hard to be comforting.
"......"
I stared blankly at the shabby cafeteria. I wanted a cigarette. And I'd worked so hard to quit.
If I'd gotten the call before work, the unease alone would have sent me to the hospital. But I was already at the school. I had already dragged myself up that miserable hill. That was the point. I dug through my pants pockets for a cigarette that wasn't there.
It'll be nothing.
Right. I was only thirty-five. I wasn't even drinking these days. I walked to work and back, telling myself it counted as exercise. Wasn't that pretty damn good?
Don't worry.
I was trying to make myself believe it.
"......"
Strange, though. One phone call, and the world looked different. An empty schoolyard had always put me at ease, but today it looked like a lonely island—an uninhabited scrap of land where no footsteps came anymore. I was staring into the distance with unfocused eyes when a voice found me.
"Hyung, what are you doing out here? Come in."
It was the kid I worked with. He'd graduated high school this year and was working the job until he enlisted.
"The aunties are waiting. Hurry up."
"Ah, yeah."
"Hyung, you know that thing I told you before?"
"......?"
"MapleStory. I told you to try it. It's fun."
"Ha!"
"You still haven't?"
"......"
"I went out of my way to tell you. Just give it a shot."
"I've been busy."
"Busy is always an excuse. I hunt while I'm rubbing the sleep out of my eyes..."
If it wasn't cancer, I almost wanted to try it once now.
I went into the staff break room and changed first thing: a faded smock, elastic-waist pants, and a pair of blue rubber boots. Then I headed out to sort the trays.
This school had no dining hall of its own. The cafeteria cooked the meals and delivered them to each classroom, and delivery was my job. I'd been sorting trays and serving tools for about an hour when the nutritionist's voice carried over.
"Food's ready!"
Time to start the rounds. I hauled the carts from place to place and began setting out the meals for each class. First- and second-years weren't so bad.
Trudge, trudge.
By the time I reached the senior classrooms, I was fairly worn out.
"Hnnngh."
Moving the stacks of trays was hard enough.
"......"
Lifting a full pot of soup sometimes made my head swim. The one small mercy was that the shaded corridor stayed reasonably cool. How long I kept rushing around after that, I couldn't say. At last I put my back to the wall and caught my breath.
I hadn't noticed while I was busy. Once the sweat began to cool, the things I'd forgotten came back.
Tch. They didn't even say it was bad, and look at me. I'm fine!
"Huuuh."
I stood in the corridor in a daze. Kids often slipped out on the excuse of the bathroom and raided other classes' meals, so I had to stand there like a scarecrow. About ten minutes had passed when the back door of a classroom cracked open and a student stuck his head out. The moment our eyes met, he worked his mouth, sheepish, and then carried on as if nothing had happened.
"What's the side dish today?"
He was talking to me. When I shook my head instead of answering, he asked if he could check for himself.
"You think I'd let you?"
"Ugh, you're just like the teachers."
He gave up and headed for the bathroom. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes in the middle of the corridor was just a bonus.
This school sure runs like a dream.
I took out my phone and checked the time. Class wouldn't be over for a while.
Hmm.
Better that than sinking into a blank worry about my health that had no answer. I opened the notes app and started writing whatever sentences came.
Tap, tap-tap.
Like wringing the last of the toothpaste from an empty tube.
Tap. Tap-tap-tap.
Almost nothing came out for all the force I put in.
"......"
Still, it had to be better than wasting the time outright. I had barely managed three sentences when an unexpected voice drifted through the narrowly opened door.
"Time to read Wings, isn't it?"
Korean class? Curiosity got the better of me, and I looked into the classroom through the window.
A woman stood at the blackboard with chalk in her hand. Neat clothes. Ordinary looks. Late twenties, maybe. Thick book in hand, she began to explain Yi Sang's Wings.
"And the department store in this story is what? A symbol of capital. A department store is a place that has everything, isn't it? Judging by the era the author lived in..."
The students had their faces buried in their books, bored with the lesson. The teacher looked every bit as worn out—maybe because the scene was nothing like the classes she had imagined when she dreamed of teaching.
"If you don't know, just memorize it."
I turned my head, heavy-hearted. I wanted to get away from the scene in front of me. I took out my phone, but I couldn't make myself focus.
A Korean teacher, explaining a work of literature so it would fit the college entrance exam.
Why? You think you'd do any better if you were the one standing up there?
Don't start.
This is the road you chose. What are you envying now? I was muttering at myself like a rebuke when it hit.
Ping!
My vision suddenly went dim. Then the windows began to sway from side to side.
Why? Why is this happening?
Had I sweated too much? The question didn't last.
I staggered. A violent dizziness took me, and—
Thud!
I sat down hard on my rear.
Three days later, I was diagnosed with blood cancer. Acute, no less.
The doctor said he would do everything he could. In the same calm breath, he told me I ought to prepare for the end of my life.
There were still so many books I wanted to read. A mountain of stories I still had to write.
The end of my life? At only thirty-five?
Goddamn it.
For a good ten days I denied it. After that, I had to nod whether I wanted to or not. Everyone comes to an end. I was only leaving a little early. Yi Sang had died at twenty-six, Kim Yu-jeong at twenty-nine. No need to make a fuss all by myself.
Fine. If I was going to die anyway, I would finish one last piece and go.
But that modest dream never came true. Forty days. That was all I got. I turned my back on the world without even finishing a first draft.