A Turbulent Life
I felt unusually sentimental that day, and meeting people in that state of mind only seemed to sink me deeper into melancholy. Even so, I could sense that my words were piercing further into their hearts than usual, and I drove myself into those hearts with all the force I could muster. Their focus was sharper than on an ordinary day, and my story carried a power it had never quite possessed before.
Their hearts were stirring. I could take hold of that movement at its very tip and dye it with the color of my own dejection. It did not end with simply handing them my sorrow. From behind those dark, heavy clouds I also showed them the bright sun that would soon break through. I wanted to show their hearts the light I desired. Or rather — I wanted to see it myself.
When I finished my impassioned sermon, I looked out over the congregation with a swelling sense of satisfaction. Roughly half of them were in tears. One woman was openly sobbing. As I stepped down from the platform, the Jiseonnyeo and the Cheongisa followed me. On the way to Byeolchae, Yunchae spoke in a voice thick with emotion.
"Today was an especially moving service."
I turned and smiled at her. While I was resting for a moment after we entered Byeolchae, Myeong-suk came in and approached me. With a peculiar expression she drew close and murmured into my ear.
"I know you're tired, but would you meet someone for a little while?"
I was tired — that much was true — yet something in her tone told me this was not a request I could refuse. I looked at her and nodded.
"Who is it you want me to meet?"
Myeong-suk's face remained unreadable.
"Just meet her first. And you must take complete hold of her heart, Jisin."
Before I could say anything further she took my hand and rose. Seeing her about to dress again, I quickly draped one of the robes kept in Byeolchae around her. She glanced at me with a flicker of surprise, but said nothing more.
Wrapped in the robe, Myeong-suk and I made our way into Simanjeong. Most of the Sindo had already gone home, yet a fair number of people still remained inside. Some were finishing the free meal we provided before leaving; others stood talking in little clusters along the corridor. In one of the meeting rooms, no doubt, a small group was already in session. Miryeong was probably leading a gathering in some room even now. People who passed me bowed deeply in greeting. Behind us, as always, Gwangsu followed.
Myeong-suk led me to the room on the third floor of Simanjeong that had once been my quarters. I had scarcely set foot there since Byeolchae was built, but the place was spotless — clearly still cleaned and kept in order. She told me to wait a moment and stepped out. About five minutes later came a knock. When I answered, the door opened and a person entered. A woman — and naked, as expected.
She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with an unremarkable figure and ordinary features. She entered with her head lowered, though there was nothing shy in her manner. The problem was her body. As she turned to close the door, I saw an enormous tattoo sprawled across her back. The first thought that crossed my mind was how, ever since founding this sect, I seemed to keep running into women with tattoos. Myeong-suk, Jeongmi… and now this one. She turned, hurried over on quick little steps, and sat in the chair before me.
She lifted her face and smiled. It was not a pretty face, exactly, but it had a certain charm of its own. Still, I could not shake a thick, cheap quality that clung to her. Had I been spending too much time among refined people? The thought made me feel foolish. What did "refined" or "vulgar" even mean when it came to human beings? Among those who sought out Cheonsiman-gyo there would be people living in crushing poverty, and others who fully enjoyed the fruits of capitalism. Society already sorted them enough. In this place, where their hearts needed healing and comfort, there could be no such discrimination. A gentle smile rose to my face without my willing it.
When I smiled, the last trace of tension left her expression — and with it, that cheap air about her only grew stronger.
"Hello. It's an honor, Jisin."
I offered her a benevolent smile.
"I cried so hard today. Your words went deep, deep into my heart."
I nodded. Suddenly I wondered why Myeong-suk had arranged this private audience. Knowing her as I did, she was not the sort to set something up without reason. I decided it would be unwise to speak carelessly. The woman's expression darkened a little. Hers was the kind of face that shifted with every flicker of feeling, and every feeling showed plainly.
"I've lived a short life, but I've been through more than most people could even imagine. I used to think of it as having fought my way through the world. For years now, though, I've felt worn out — body and soul — more than anyone else. Listening to you today, I looked back on my past. And I found myself wanting so badly to tell you my story that I asked the Master for this meeting."
She hardly needed to say it; her past was plain enough already. She twisted her upper body slightly to show me her back.
"You saw the tattoo, right? In my early twenties I lived in Hong Kong for a few years. You know the Triads? I was the woman of a mid-level boss in one of them. The bastard had four or five girls, and he made all of us get the same tattoo."
My pulse jumped. She had lived as the woman of a gangster straight out of the Hong Kong movies I had loved as a boy? In the middle of flying bullets… Watching my expression grow complicated, she went on.
"It was a better time than people might think. I was young, and I could do whatever I wanted — in a foreign country, no less. I spent money without a second thought, went to parties every night, and there were always men around to protect me. I thought it was heaven."
That, too, sounded like a scene from some film — a boss's woman shopping at luxury stores in Hong Kong under the escort of underlings. While my mind half drifted, her expression changed again and the story continued.
"Then one day the man died. Someone inside the organization framed him. Whether it was a frame-up or whether he really had been planning something — who knows. Either way, he was killed for it. The boss came to me and told me to choose: go back to Korea, or become his woman. I was so young, and I was terrified. I thought the boss was a good man, sure — but I also thought that one day something might happen to him the same way, out of nowhere."
Ah… that story, too, showed up in noir films all the time. The boss's face in her tale kept overlapping with Chow Yun-fat's. A wry laugh almost escaped me. At the same time I wondered whether any of this was true, or whether she was inventing it. And if she was inventing it — why come all the way here to tell me?
"I came back to Korea. The boss sent me off with a fair amount of money, and I used it to open a bar. It was the only thing I knew how to do, and honestly, it was the kind of work I wanted. As soon as I opened, the local fists who ran the neighborhood came calling. Bastards like that exist wherever you go. I had no choice but to agree to pay them. But those sons of bitches were even worse than I expected. Every month they raised the protection money. Business was just getting by, and the amount I had to hand over kept growing."
I had never expected refined speech from her, but rougher language was starting to slip in. Then again, stories from that world probably needed a rough edge. Still — did bars and restaurants still pay protection money? I had thought that belonged to the seventies. Bribes to corrupt officials, maybe; but I had assumed the street fists were gone.
"Around that time there was a regular who used to come into my place. Honestly, given the kind of scene I ran in, I could tell right away that he wasn't exactly doing clean work either — but I let it slide. We talked more and more, and one night when I was drunk I told him about the protection money and how it was eating me alive."