Debut in the Literary World (2)
On the dawn of January 1, the first morning of the new year, Mok Pilhyun was trimming the branches of the bonsai tree in the living room.
He had never done anything like this in his life, so his hands were clumsy.
In the past, Hong Seon-woong had tended the tree from time to time, but now that he had been thoroughly driven out, there was no one left to do it. Well, in truth, he could simply hire someone.
He could have asked the housekeeper, too.
And yet, for some reason, he wanted to do it himself. He had felt the same way when he wrote My Shame. That he had never properly cared for anything in his entire life.
And that his family had been the greatest victim of that failure.
While writing My Shame, how bitterly had he mourned that fact? Snip, snip, rustle. No one would ever praise this melancholy little gesture of his.
Even so, simply holding the scissors clumsily in his hand felt like a small act of atonement. There was only one thing troubling him. Until now, he had believed his son had been ignoring his attempts to contact him.
But that had all been Hong Seon-woong’s meddling. When he saw Mok Hyunsun at the book concert, he had almost felt the urge to pull him into a tight embrace.
I’m glad you’ve been living well without me. And I’m truly ashamed.
But his son had left the venue, and he had not bothered to follow. Instead, he had decided to approach him another way.
After much deliberation, he had delivered My Shame to Gyeongseong Publishing. Snip, snip, rustle. He had hoped his son might read between the lines and understand all the things he had never been able to say aloud.
But his son had not responded.
Even though My Shame had been featured in the winter issue of Gyeongseong Geul, even though his son worked in the quarterly publications department and could hardly have failed to see it.
By the time the new year came, there had still been no reply. …Don’t be disappointed. If I was going to be hurt by this, I shouldn’t have sent it in the first place. He soothed himself with that thought.
And yet, perhaps because he was alone in this vast house on a day like today, it was hard to shake thoughts of his son.
There was one more thing. This year, I really should put everything down. He wanted to step away from his positions in the literary business and the various associations.
He wanted to give up the posts that kept him connected to the foreign literary world as well. Some people would drool over those seats, but he had no interest in them.
He had only taken them in the first place because the Minister of Education, the Minister of Culture, and a whole parade of busybodies had begged him to.
In any case, this year he wanted to feel lighter. Ding-dong.
“Hm? Who is it?”
Ding-dong.
Who on earth would be ringing the bell of a mansion at dawn on January 1? Mok Pilhyun frowned in confusion. Surely not a thief who’d brazenly press the bell.
Ding-dong.
The bell rang again, impatient, insistent, as if it meant to wake the dead if need be. “What in the—”
At last, Mok Pilhyun threw a thick robe over his pajamas and went outside.
The bare floor bit cold at his feet, but he only meant to see who it was and come back in. Crossing the lawn, he opened the door, and then—
“…? What are you doing here…?”
Im Myeong-eul was standing there all of a sudden.
They had met now and then at gatherings with senior figures in the literary world, but the two of them were famously different in temperament in entirely different ways.
The last time they had properly spoken was more than twenty years ago.
And back then… he had grabbed him by the collar.
“Happy New Year to you.”
“…Is that why you came? At this hour?”
Im Myeong-eul shrugged, wearing the expression of a man who seemed to be saying, As if I’d come all this way for that, my friend.
“I’ve just come from the Gyeongseong Publishing building. I had a glass of wine with the editors and the representative.”
Was he here to brag?
To say he had people to party with on a day like this? Mok Pilhyun looked at him with a strangely twisted feeling in his chest.
“Then you should go home. Why come here? Are you drunk?”
“No. I brought you something.”
Im Myeong-eul held out a newspaper.
It was the January 1 edition of Dongwol Daily.
“We slipped this out before distribution. Received it at the office building.”
“Why would you…?”
“Read the culture page.”
The culture page of a January 1 newspaper? Obvious enough.
It would be the Shinchun Moonye results.
But to a veteran like Mok Pilhyun, the contest was nothing more than an annual event that had lost any real thrill years ago.
Nine out of ten writers chosen that way vanished after a few years anyway.
Mok Pilhyun flipped the paper with a rustle. “Novels... Jeong So-un. Poetry... Kim In-san. Children’s literature... Bae Da-ri. Criticism...”
“!”
His eyes widened.
[Criticism Category Winner: Mok Hyunsun]
He had never expected to see his son’s name here.
And the title of the criticism was On the Powerlessness of Fiction and the Reason It Exists — On Mok Pilhyun’s My Shame.
Mok Pilhyun’s hand trembled faintly.
His awareness of the cold biting at his feet, of Im Myeong-eul standing in front of him, vanished in an instant.
His son had answered him.
Concerning his regret.
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
His heart pounded.
“The piece is printed here as well, so read it.”
Even without being told, Mok Pilhyun’s gaze had already drifted to the side.
The page where the winning works were crammed together.
There, he found the criticism and began to read.
With trembling eyes.
As he read on, his gaze suddenly stopped.
[(…)The heart may be nothing more than an immaterial romantic imagination—something that cannot be seen or touched.]
…It hurt.
An immaterial romantic imagination.
It felt as though the line were telling him exactly how meaningless his apology had been.
But then—
[(…)In that sense, I would like to regard My Shame as the most novel-like of novels. It speaks to how powerless the heart can be. And yet, by saying so, it proves that the heart exists and leaves it behind as a kind of beauty.]
When Mok Pilhyun read that passage, he felt an immense relief.
This was not only recognition of his father’s novel, but recognition of the sincerity within it.
So, at the very least, Mok Hyunsun was proving through criticism that that feeling was not a lie.
To think he could shake a person’s heart like this.
Mok Pilhyun was now afraid to read even a single line too quickly.
Carefully, cautiously, he continued reading.
And then his eyes stopped again in the final paragraph.
Personally, I felt that My Shame was a work of mourning for the dead. I know that saying “I felt” is not really suited to criticism, which ought to remain objective. And yet I was, at the very least, saddened that the bird had died. Also, when I finished this novel, I felt a strange comfort. I believe many readers must have found solace in thinking of their own birds. For these reasons, I, too, sincerely respect the author’s sincerity in writing My Shame.
Mok Hyunsun seemed to have understood brilliantly.
That the “bird” symbolized his mother.
And that My Shame had begun in guilt and grief toward her.
“…Sincerely respect sincerity.”
Mok Pilhyun murmured the words under his breath.
Sincerity and sincerity. He could not look away from that repeated phrase. It was so rational, so emotional, and in the end so warm—a criticism, no, an answer.
Mok Pilhyun thought that if Im Myeong-eul had not been standing in front of him, he would have cried.
And he was grateful to him.
To the colleague who had come in the dead of morning to bring him the news.
But then Im Myeong-eul said something that snapped him fully awake.
“Your son has debuted through seven different newspapers.”
“What?!”
Mok Pilhyun’s startled voice echoed through the alleys of the affluent neighborhood.
Seven places? Was that even possible? “I didn’t believe it myself until I checked with my own eyes. I recommend looking through the papers when morning comes.”
“That’s impossible… impossible.”
“I’m telling you, it happened. Then I’ll be going.”
Believing his duty done, he turned sharply on his heel.
Mok Pilhyun quickly stopped him. “Why?”
“Ah… I know you probably won’t believe it. In fact, I know you won’t believe it at all, but if you said it, then it must be true. You’re an excellent critic, after all.”
“Ha ha.” Im Myeong-eul laughed. “To think I’d live long enough to hear praise from you.”
“Say, I have a question.”
“What is it?”
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“What do you mean?”
“What should I do about Hyunsun?”
“Ah.” Mok Pilhyun swallowed hard. “He debuted so splendidly without any help from me. Is it even proper for me to praise him now? Or should I give him his inheritance in advance as a congratulatory gift? You know how weak I am when it comes to this sort of thing.”
It truly was a case of living long enough to see everything.
That Mok Pilhyun saying something so feeble.
And Im Myeong-eul thought he knew the answer.
“Shall I be blunt?”
“By all means.”
“I’m against praise. You’re not the type to say warm things well. Maybe on paper, but if you try forcing it, the two of you might end up even more awkward. And money? Not a bad option, but it’s still not enough. You can give him something better.”
“Something better?”
“Don’t let go of your power.”
“!”
“He’s just debuted. At the age of twenty-seven, no less, and with the best record in the entire history of the debut contests. How do you think the literary world will look at Mok Hyunsun now?”
Mok Pilhyun already knew the answer. “…They’ll pay attention. For good reasons or bad. A lot of people will try to keep him in check.”
“Then wouldn’t it be time to use the power you’ve never really used properly until now? In other words,”
“….”
“It means you should lend him your strength. To your genius son, and to our next generation.”
As he said it, Im Myeong-eul’s expression held a strange mixture of tension, excitement, and expectation.
A genius son, and the next generation.
At those two words, Mok Pilhyun felt his own pulse quicken.
As a father, and as an elder writer.
And then he said something he had never once said to Im Myeong-eul in his entire life.
“I understand. Thank you.”
After Im Myeong-eul left, Mok Pilhyun returned to the mansion.
His feet were frozen numb, but none of that mattered anymore. As for the role of a father, he had only just learned one thing about it.
It took exactly two hours for me to accept reality.
After reporter Min A-yeon came by, I had no choice but to get my act together.
Otherwise, how was I supposed to do the interview?
I barely managed to finish it in a small conference room. When I went to the main meeting room, there were still people left behind writing congratulatory messages.
“….”
What lingered in the way they looked at me was reverence. It was hard to handle.
Hard to handle, and yet I couldn’t really say anything about it.
Because I understood.
If I were the one being newly debuted in their place, I’d probably be wearing exactly the same expression.
“Mok. So, are you going to write your acceptance speech and head out?”
“We’re going to go write congratulatory messages.”
“Wanna come up with us?”
Only the three senior editors treated me as if I were still, more or less, the same old Mok Hyunsun.
For all my gratitude, I wanted to clear my head for a bit.
“I’m heading out for today. I’ll prepare the acceptance speech tomorrow, I guess.”
After they went back upstairs to the office, I quietly stole a can of beer and took the elevator.
The place I ended up was the top floor. Creak.
When I opened the rooftop door, a cold wind rushed over me.
But maybe because the meeting room had been so hot with excitement, it felt less like cold and more like refreshment.
Leaning against the railing, I looked out over the landscape of Paju Book City.
“….”
I stared for a while.
“…Pfft.”
Then laughter burst out of me.
This was insane.
All seven of them debuted.
Are you kidding me?
Only now did my heart start hammering.
I’d done it. I had become a critic.
As a literature nerd, I had climbed the coolest mountain there was.
Chk—pop!
I cracked open the beer with all my strength.
Glug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug!
“Ahh!!!”
A sound of refreshment, more satisfying than anything else I had ever known, burst out of me.
Once I was fully awake, laughter kept spilling out.
“Ha ha… amazing. Absolutely amazing, Mok Hyunsun.”
And then, all at once, I thought of my father.
This response to My Shame would reach him, too.
…Was that really all right?
Was I scratching at a healing wound and making everything worse?
“No idea. You can’t read that old man’s mind.”
Buzz.
A text message came in. Not a KakaoTalk message—just a plain text.
From my father’s number, a number I still hadn’t forgotten.
You did well. If there is anything you want to do from here on, say the word. Anything.
So he had seen it. My criticism.
My eyes stopped on one word in that message.
“…Anything.”
My father could never have known.
The lack that had formed in me because of him.
How much of that lack had just been filled in that instant.
Anything.
Now I had a father who was willing to do anything for me, too.
That was the debut gift the world had given me.
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