The Goal (1)
"René Descartes once said, I think, therefore I am. That is a question worth pondering for a lifetime."
"It contains his entire life, the path he walked, and every trace of his contemplation. It would not be an exaggeration to say so."
"Then what does Descartes mean by thought? And what does he mean by existence? What is it that he truly wished to convey? That is today’s assignment. Feel free to search the internet or consult books—your choice."
Our monk hurled questions as though this were not a Buddhist temple but a church, a cathedral, or even China’s Hanlin Academy, spanning East and West, ancient and modern alike. On the first day I gave a half-hearted answer, and from the next day onward I began to apply myself in earnest. Why? Because I was struck for it.
The first question had been something like: What do you think of the Buddhist concept of liberation? So I answered, “Dying, I suppose.” I took a blow for that, followed by something resembling a sermon delivered in a voice so pleasant it nearly put me to sleep. What happened next? Another strike. One for spouting nonsense, another for dozing off. Yet the blows from that first day’s jukbi were different. He avoided vital points—though I instinctively dodged anyway. It hurt all the same. After roughly ten strikes I felt as though I had returned to the training I once received in Cancún. By the end of the week he asked about AI. Artificial Intelligence. He wanted me to consider how artificial intelligence would change our lives; that was when I first heard the term Fourth Industrial Revolution. Just who was this monk, anyway?
While I spent a week training at Donghaksa, Miju came to visit. She asked the monk to step aside for a while. I was grateful. He had good sense. I didn’t mention the beatings; if I had, she would only have grown sad. Instead I told her about the assignments. She said she hadn’t simply coasted through Ewha and recounted what she had learned in ethics class. She liked Jesus’ teachings, especially the idea that love forgives everything. She also shared her own thoughts on the other questions. Watching her, I was reminded of the Mencian belief in the innate goodness of human nature. She saw the world so clearly. The chirping of birds, the sound of flowing water, and Miju’s voice blended together until my worries seemed to dissolve along with the passage of time. Two hours must have slipped by. When she said she had to leave because the sun was setting, her voice grated like static. She had come by public transport this time, so I had no choice but to see her off. I wanted to ask her to stay the night, but doing so inside a temple felt wrong.
After sending Miju away I returned to find the monk seated on the wooden floor. He asked if I had found the answer. I shook my head.
The next morning I practiced chesul, breathed the air of Gyeryongsan, and spent the day contemplating those profound questions that reduced the mind to a blank slate—until I received a message from my senior.
Senior?? I had been on a digital detox lately and only saw the message late in the afternoon. Damn it. I tried contacting him immediately, but no reply came. That evening I told the monk I would be stepping out to Gwangyang for a short while, then departed the next morning.
When I arrived at the given address, I found a forest of containers—roughly a hundred of them. At the entrance guard post I explained that I had come to retrieve a container. The guard asked for the number. I said 87. He told me to wait, went inside, and checked something on the computer. Then he asked what I intended to do. I didn’t understand, so he repeated the question: whether I would take it or continue storing it. Storage cost thirty thousand won per month; if payment was overdue by more than a month, he would notify me and then dispose of the contents. If I paid the outstanding fees first, he would keep storing it. I told him I had left something inside and had come to retrieve it. He went back in, spread out a map, and traced something with a magnifying loupe. Once he found what he was looking for, he marked the spot with a marker, brought the map out, and showed me where container 87 was located.
It was on the second level of the L line, toward the back. I followed the signs from A onward—B, C, D… until I reached the L line. A ladder had been set up. A padlock with a number keypad hung on the door. I entered 0179 and pressed the button. A soft click, and the lock opened. I carefully pulled the container door aside.
Inside, on the left, stood a small desk and chair with a document envelope resting on top. Deeper in sat a safe large enough to occupy nearly half the container. What was this? I shut the door again so no one would see, stepped inside, and switched on my phone’s flashlight. I approached the desk and opened the envelope. It was a letter.
Dear Junior,
I am back in my hometown now. I wanted to finish things here. By the time you read this letter, I will most likely no longer be of this world.
The first deal that brought us together, and the way you learned the work one step at a time, reminded me so much of myself. That purity. That passion. Whether it was your innocence that I liked or the fact that you resembled me, every time I passed on a piece of know-how I felt a strange exhilaration. I wondered if my own senior had felt the same when he taught me.
And then there was Jongsik—ah, you wouldn’t know that name. My friend who betrayed me. It feels like only yesterday that I told him I had found a fresh junior. Now you have become the head of your own organization. The saying “the student surpasses the teacher” was not coined for nothing; I feel it keenly these days.
Money allowed me to live my life, yet because of money I also lost the people who had shared that life with me. I hope you do not make the same mistake. Do not live for money; instead, use it to gain people.
When I first started this work I felt a great deal of guilt. Watching people ruin themselves because of the product I distributed was difficult. I went to prison while running the business, and at the right time I managed to grow the organization. But the longer I lived, the more I realized that life is nothing special; that truth approached me like an enormous wall as time passed. In the end, I suppose one spends one’s final years alone. After the friend I trusted—whom I had spent my entire life with—left like that, only you remained. I once told you there are no eternal friends or enemies; only now, after saying it, do I truly understand it. Still, it feels good to have at least one junior—no, one friend—who will remember me on my final journey. The time we spent in Hawaii still feels like yesterday.
There is one last thing I want to say. Set your goals high—so high they can never be fully achieved. The moment you accomplish that goal, or the moment it becomes trivial and you let it slip away, that is when life ends.
—0179, to an eternal friend
The next page contained instructions for the safe. It required both a password and fingerprint recognition, and my print was already registered. He must have done it back in Hawaii. A sudden wave of emotion threatened to break through. I sniffled.
I returned the letter to the envelope, approached the safe, and entered the password. When the light blinked I placed my right index finger on the scanner as instructed. The safe opened. I felt like a dragon slayer raiding a dragon’s lair, yet what I found inside was modest. The storage space measured roughly two meters on each side; the walls seemed about fifty centimeters thick. I wondered if safes were always built so inefficiently, or if this one was unique. It had three levels. The bottom held bundles of hundred-dollar bills. Above them were bundles of fifty-thousand-won notes. On the top shelf lay about ten diaries alongside gold bars.
If he had this much, why not simply retire and live comfortably? Why die? I could not understand it. I shone the flashlight on the top shelf and opened one of the diaries. Recipes. Damn it. Occupational habits really never fade, even in old age. I still keep the Blue Sunday recipe myself—not because I plan to use it, but because it feels like a record of the path I have walked. I closed the safe, locked the container, took only the diaries, and stepped outside.
Back at the guard post the attendant came out. I told him my schedule had changed and I would need the container a little longer. He gave me an account number and asked me to deposit the fee and let him know. On the spot I transferred 3.6 million won and extended the rental for a year. Seeing the money should have lifted my mood, yet it felt more like handling a keepsake; I did not even want to look at it. It was a dreary day.
On the way back to the temple—home, for now—the senior’s face kept rising in my mind, leaving a bitter taste. I prayed he was still alive despite what he had written, and hoped that one day he would appear with his usual grumbling, laughing as though he had only been venting to his junior.