Photographic Memory (1)
“? What is this?”
“The reason you got the chance to show me your proposal.” …Was he saying he’d never intended to read it in the first place?
Come to think of it, it had felt as if he’d only agreed because he’d been nudged into it. I took the documents and started looking through them. “Huh? These people are…?” There was a string of names, including Jang Hee-soo and the editors of several independent magazines. “If Gyeongseong Publishing launches a quarterly criticism journal, it’s basically a notice to the independent magazines that they can open up their own work to us as well. Put crudely, it means they won’t complain if we start reviewing their writing.” …Really?
Even with my relationship with Jang Hee-soo improving,
I had thought the independent magazines still kept their distance from the literary establishment. I read the statement carefully. [(…)Our editors, too, are prepared to cooperate actively (…) We regard this as a valuable opportunity to break down the long-standing divide between the literary establishment and the independent magazine scene. Though our strength may be limited, we will do our part to help bring the readership of independent magazines into Gyeongseong Publishing’s criticism quarterly (…). The proof of that has already been seen in Soop, and we respectfully propose that we open a new market together. — Jang Hee-soo]
Gratitude welled up in me.
I had never imagined they would go this far to support me. Suddenly I remembered what Jang Hee-soo had told me. “I’ll help however I can, whether that means leaning on power or taking advantage of it. I want to put my own strength to use in the right place.” So that was what she’d meant.
I had no idea how she’d talked everyone into it, but it was a truly impressive sales pitch.
Still, it made sense. That was how someone survived in a brutal field like that. In the end, beneath the rough edges, she was a woman with a proper sense of loyalty. “The independent magazine scene’s grown a lot lately, so I’d already been planning to find some way to connect with it and expand our business. I never dreamed it would happen like this, though.”
“…”
“Anyway, I figured if I’d managed to sweet-talk those finicky independent magazine people, I might as well give you your own chance to persuade me. Looks like you’ve lived your life well, Mok. Or should I say you’ve been lucky.” He reached out and thwacked my arm. “In any case, do your best. Don’t let it end in disgrace.” It was a rousing show of support, laced with just enough pressure to make it feel like a burden.
And so Mun Representative granted me his permission once more.
─┼
It was a little undignified, and I was embarrassed too, but that very night I called my father.
When he heard the news, he said, “That’s good. It was something you’d been preparing for a long time.”
“Yes. I just wanted to let you know it worked out that way.”
“To be honest, when I first heard about it, I thought it was all rather pie-in-the-sky.”
“…You told me it was impressive back then.”
“That was face-to-face. I never seem to be able to finish a kind thought, do I?”
I’d worked up the courage to call him, and that was what I got. Fine. What more could I ask for? “Are you eating well?”
“I’m fat enough to be miserable.”
“Sounds like you’re doing well, then. I’ll stop by sometime soon.” I was just about ready to end the call after making one of those half-hearted promises people make to sound polite. Then he said, “You did even better because of that.”
“Pardon?”
“You turned that pie-in-the-sky nonsense into reality. That must have been hard.”
“…”
“You’re my son, but that’s still impressive. Wow, this is a little too moving.”
It hadn’t been that hard, but I had spent a few days in mental strain, that much was true. “No, well. Yes. I’m fine, anyway.” Awkwardness made me blurt out things that didn’t even sound like English.
And apparently he was awkward too. “Right. Come home whenever you want.” With that blunt, impossible-to-judge remark, he hung up. “Hoo… this is hard. So hard.” I flopped back onto the bed. Thump, thump… My heart was racing for no reason.
That was only natural when you were starting something new. Still, it felt good.
I had people cheering me on and worrying about me. But… the office was going to get a lot noisier from here on out.
─┼
As I expected, the office erupted the moment the official notice came down.
“A quarterly criticism journal? Suddenly?”
“Is Mok Hyunsun doing it alone?”
“That’s what they’re saying for now?”
While everyone was chattering like question-mark murderers, Senior Yoon suddenly realized something and fired off the last question. “So Mok’s becoming an editor-in-chief now?” After that, there was no need to say that the arrows all came flying at me.
Why hadn’t I said anything?
Was I moving to a completely different office?
That was hurtful. How could I keep something like this from them?
Even Team Leader Lee, who hadn’t known about it at all, panicked on instinct. “It’s all fine, but don’t even think about poaching our staff, okay? Even losing you would be a huge blow.” I did my best to explain the situation, buying everyone a round of drinks like a civilized adult. “What empty office are we supposed to go to? We’ve got that conference room no one ever uses. We’re going to use that. And why would I go around dragging people over here? Just assign me an intern or two.” At least for this issue, I was going to write everything myself. “And as for editor-in-chief? How am I supposed to wear a title like that when there’s nobody under me? Besides, if I did, would you all suddenly start speaking to me formally?”
“That we can’t do. Still, we are a little hurt.”
“Same thing with Soop. How could you keep it from us?”
“You said you were going to quit if they didn’t launch the quarterly, and you didn’t even consult us? How could you do that? So cold.”
Hmm. My seniors had no idea how much I’d been hiding all this time.
Still, I poured them drinks politely and said, “I’m disappointed too. Truly. The youngest seat was comfortable, and now I’ve opened the door to a life of hardship. But since it is, in name at least, a quarterly journal, please send review requests my way later.”
“…Reviews?” Reviews were an editor’s performance record.
The seniors who had been complaining about sentimentality instantly turned into hard-eyed realists.
They cleared their throats and exchanged glances, and then their attitudes changed on the spot. “…Well, can’t be helped. We’ll support you, Mok.”
“Fine. All right, I’ll be generous. I’ve got an intern I’d been keeping my eye on. Take him.”
“Which intern?”
“A guy named Yoo Kyeong-min. He’s good. Even trades, really. He came in after graduating early from undergrad and finishing a master’s degree, and during grad school he was apparently a top-tier assistant.” A top-tier assistant.
In other words, a professional errand runner.
But one with loyalty and ink mixed in. “How about it? Want him?”
“Absolutely.” He was exactly what I needed. A loyal errand runner. And a few days later, “Please take care of me!” Yoo Kyeong-min, the intern I’d occasionally passed in the office, bowed deeply.
Just as the seniors had said, Yoo Kyeong-min was extremely quick on his feet.
By the time I came back from lunch, my desk had already been neatly moved into the conference room. I felt so guilty I gave him my card and told him to buy dinner. After that, the Gyeongseong Publishing SNS account posted the news of the quarterly’s launch,
along with an official notice explaining that anyone who submitted manuscripts would be reviewed and, if appropriate, receive criticism or commentary. Since it was the first issue, after all,
it was safer to start by accepting manuscripts from people who actually wanted my opinion. Once I’d gone through the whole messy process, today finally arrived. Sshk—The conference room door slid open softly.
Inside, manuscripts and books sorted by Yoo Kyeong-min were piled everywhere.
I was a little stunned.
Just the books and magazines alone looked like well over a hundred volumes at a glance. …There’s more than I expected. Yoo Kyeong-min, who had approached without me noticing, said, “I’ve sorted the literary establishment fiction to the left and the independent magazines to the right. I put anything that was difficult to categorize in the middle.”
“These are only the new works, right?”
“Of course. But isn’t there too much? Should I make a list to make it easier to choose?”
“No. This is enough, so go get some rest.” It would take time, sure, but if there was a lot to read, then I’d just read more.
And if this many people wanted my criticism, that was a good thing too.
I sat down. “…This feels strangely different from what I expected.” I had thought the work itself wouldn’t change much.
After all, reading and writing were still reading and writing,
just with a wider desk. But now that the moment had come, it felt different.
It wasn’t so much the pressure of the mountain of manuscripts as… yes. It was responsibility. Mun Representative’s words landed with more weight now. Don’t let it end in disgrace. But I wasn’t going to get cold feet already.
I shook out my shoulders a little and stretched.
Then I picked up the literary establishment fiction first and placed it on my desk. “All right, let’s see what we’ve got.” I sincerely hoped I’d find something good enough to make my eyes widen.
But reality was not so forgiving. Rustle, rustle, rustle… “Not it.” Rustle, rustle, rustle… “Not this one either.” Rustle, rustle, rustle… “This one too… sigh….” No matter how long I searched, I couldn’t find a truly decent work.
If I were asked to write criticism, I could do it for all of them, of course.
But this was the first volume of a quarterly that would carry my name.
I wasn’t planning to patch things together carelessly.
Perhaps that wish reached somewhere, because… “Oh.” I finally found one.
I set apart novelist Yoo Yong-mi’s full-length work, The Bubbles of Carbonated Water.
This piece charmingly captured the freshness of first love, and that “charming” quality was a huge strength. In the literary establishment, a “cute novel” was about as rare as a clean sweep with your eyes shut.
Korean literature was, by temperament, usually melancholy, serious, or at the very least tinged with satire even when it tried to be light.
A cute work like this? Precious.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much worth salvaging from the independent magazines.
There were a few pieces with brilliant ideas, though,
and those seemed better suited to reviews than to criticism. And finally, the last pile.
The “difficult to categorize” works Yoo Kyeong-min had mentioned. “So, genre fiction.” Fantasy, thriller, mystery, detective fiction, horror, and so on.
That was different from “a novel with thriller elements” or “a novel that happens to have a mystery.”
If something came out already labeled as genre fiction,
that meant the density was unusually thick. I picked up the quarterly genre-fiction magazine, Smitchu.
Smitchu was short for thriller, mystery, and detective fiction. Rustle, rustle, rustle, rustle—my hand turning the pages hesitated. “Oh?” The first piece was already pretty good?
And the genre of this work was… detective fiction, of all things. The narrowest field even within Smitchu!
People love detective fiction?
I wasn’t saying that because there wasn’t demand for it.
Think about what detective-fiction readers usually pick up.
Mostly Western works, or Japanese ones. Readers think a familiar Korean setting doesn’t fit the genre.
Whether that’s true or not,
public stereotypes are terrifyingly powerful. And yet, even so.
This work, Photographic Memory, was quite excellent. It featured a detective with photographic memory—someone who remembered everything he saw.
He is attacked by an assailant in the front yard of his home and suffers a head injury.
As a result of the trauma, he loses parts of his memory cleanly and completely. The problem is that the assailant also killed his wife and daughter that day.
Together with his assistant, the detective begins to identify the culprit by piecing together his damaged photographic memory. The certainty of a photographic memory.
And the memory that has been washed white.
Between those two extremes, the detective gradually narrows the investigation through inference, analogy, calculation, and deduction. What surprised me was how solid the process was.
Even though I never forgot anything I read,
the pieces fit together without a single trivial error.
It quietly laid out its clues where readers wouldn’t notice them,
and it also had the sense to reveal them at exactly the right time. But the most outstanding point of all was the narration, which seemed to follow the detective’s mind itself. [When he closed his eyes, he could see it like a photograph. The child’s pencils and colored pencils, green, yellow, purple…. A wooden chair for a five-year-old. A V-shaped doodle scratched into the chair with a colored pencil. The child is gone. He goes into the living room… damn. The memory’s gone white. He enters the bedroom. Is it a blessing or a curse that the bedroom still lives in memory? Ah… the blood that flowed from my wife’s corpse has gone dark and stiff. The shape of that blood is….] That was when I let out a snort of laughter.
Not because of the corpse description, obviously.
It was the concentration—the way the detective shut his eyes and immersed himself in his own mind.
The clarity of the landscape inside his head… those things made me think, “…There’s something of me in this.”
I had a feeling I could write the criticism for this work very well.