He Lived Well
Two days later, on the company rooftop, Kwak Young-ho, Shin Jeong-ah, and Kang Hyeong-seok were taking a break over cigarettes and coffee. Peaceful it was, but harmonious it was not.
"Manager Kang, you're, uh... not dwelling on it, are you?"
That was because of Kwak Young-ho, who kept nervously gauging Kang Hyeong-seok's mood.
"Not at all, sir. It isn't weighing on me."
"You've done too well for too long, that's your problem. You know how it is—sales was always going to be the hardest game in town."
He had gone out to land a contract with Samgol Farm, and Kang Hyeong-seok had come back empty-handed—because of the mood in the room. The moment the ssitgimgut, the soul-washing ritual, ended, the old man's condition had deteriorated as if it had been waiting for its cue, and there had been no way he could breathe a word about contracts.
"Just look at Manager Shin right now. Striking out over and over, back to back."
"Excuse me? Why are you suddenly hanging this on me?"
"That's how hard it is! Hard enough that even a veteran like Manager Shin struggles."
As Shin Jeong-ah's eyes went wide with incredulity, Kwak Young-ho floundered on, and watching the two of them, Kang Hyeong-seok gave a wry smile. Scenes like this made it plain to his skin that he was back in the everyday world.
"Given the circumstances, there wasn't much I could do. But I don't think it's over. Not entirely."
He remembered how the son had seen him and the other shamans off—flustered, yet unmistakably grateful. The old man's condition had turned critical, but he would now be able to pass on in peace. The ssitgim had seen to that, and the son knew full well how hard the shamans and Kang Hyeong-seok had labored for it.
A heavy hand settled on his shoulder. Kwak Young-ho shook his head, his face grave.
"Manager Kang, I'll grant you the passion. But you've got to shake off the regret."
Not knowing what had really happened, Kwak Young-ho took it as simple disappointment over a lost deal.
"Anyway! We're done thinking about Samgol, all right? Got it?"
"...Understood."
That was the answer Kang Hyeong-seok gave, unable to bring himself to insist otherwise. And then—
"Besides, we're number one among the sales teams right now. Number one! Who's going to say a word? Nobody can touch us. Right, Manager Shin?"
"That's right. Manager Kang has carried us this far, hasn't he?"
"Exactly, exactly!"
Kwak Young-ho clapped his hands together with theatrical flourish, then turned to Kang Hyeong-seok.
"So—what's your schedule this afternoon?"
"Nothing in particular. Is there something you need me to do?"
"Need you to do? Come on. You forget? The team dinner for Assistant Manager Lee Jin-pyeong getting out of the hospital."
Come to think of it, that had been mentioned.
"I remember. So tonight, then?"
"That's the plan. You're fine with it too, Manager Shin?"
"I'm fine any day. Want me to look for a place?"
"The pancake place was nice last time, sure, but this time let's go somewhere a little pricier. How about beef?"
Just then—
Bzzz. The sudden buzz of Kang Hyeong-seok's phone swallowed everyone's attention. Kwak Young-ho, hope flickering across his face, motioned for him to check it at once, and Kang Hyeong-seok drew out his phone. Then, after reading the message, he turned to Kwak Young-ho.
"It looks like dinner might be difficult."
"Wh-why?"
"A text from the person who introduced us to Samgol Farm. He says the farm owner's father just passed away."
"Oh dear, oh dear!"
Sales was a business of people. That was how he knew: a funeral was one occasion you showed your face at, no matter how badly a deal had fallen through.
"You said your afternoon was clear, right? Go. Quickly."
"Yes, sir. Understood."
"Pay your respects properly to the deceased!"
You might miss a happy occasion, but you never skip a funeral. Kwak Young-ho wore a sorrowful face, yet the hope he couldn't quite let show had grown even larger than before. Someone who comes to pay condolences is remembered a long, long time.
"Then I'll head out right away."
"Now, hold on. Manager Shin, how many paper cups do we have left in the pantry?"
"I'll just call General Affairs and have a few boxes ready."
"Yes! That's better."
Shin Jeong-ah promptly dialed General Affairs and asked them to prepare disposable supplies that could serve at the funeral hall as well—paper cups, disposable bowls, wooden chopsticks. When it came to loading everything into the car, everyone on Sales Team 1 lent a hand.
"Safe travels! Call if anything comes up!"
"Understood."
Kang Hyeong-seok showed Kwak Young-ho a smiling face and started the engine.
Kang Hyeong-seok picked up Lee Geum-kyeong on the way. The atmosphere inside the car was lighter than he had expected. Her friend had left this world—and yet she seemed perfectly serene, whether because she had foreseen this day coming, or because the ssitgim had been carried through to its end. She even told him there was nothing he needed to fret over.
With a screech of brakes, Kang Hyeong-seok brought the car to a stop in front of a hospital funeral home about ten kilometers from Samgol Farm.
Carrying just one box of paper cups for the moment, he went up to the hall with Lee Geum-kyeong and followed the proper steps.
"I humbly pray for the repose of the departed."
"Thank you for coming."
He exchanged courteous greetings with the Samgol farm owner, now the chief mourner, bowed twice before the altar decked in white chrysanthemums, and once more to the chief mourner himself.
"You haven't eaten yet, have you?"
Probably because there were hardly any visitors yet. The son led Kang Hyeong-seok and Lee Geum-kyeong personally to a room where they could eat.
Onto a low floor table spread with vinyl came pyeonyuk pressed beef, yukgaejang spicy beef soup, jeon pancakes, and rice cakes, and the son twisted the cap off a bottle of soju and offered a glass to Lee Geum-kyeong.
"Did you bring tea with you, ma'am?"
"I did. Alcohol wouldn't be quite right."
"I see."
With a face full of regret, the son set the soju down and rested his hands on his knees. Silence settled for a while, until Lee Geum-kyeong spoke first.
"This young fellow's car is loaded down with things."
"Things, ma'am?"
"Looks like his company packed up this and that. Just give me a pair of hands and I'd have brought it all in myself."
"No, no, ma'am, I'll—"
Lee Geum-kyeong shook her head. The intent was plain on her face: the son seemed to have something he wanted to say, so she would step aside.
When Kang Hyeong-seok reluctantly handed over the car keys, she picked up a coffee and rose to her feet.
"Aigoo, these old bones."
Lee Geum-kyeong ambled unhurriedly toward the door, and the son hurriedly assigned a few of his staff to assist her.
And so, with her gone, only the two of them remained at the table.
"...Just now—you said your company sent things over."
"Ah, yes. The company I work for put together some supplies to be used here."
"Ah—! Yes, yes. Thank you."
The son's eyes went round as he looked at Kang Hyeong-seok. He had naturally assumed the man was a shaman of some kind.
A brief, awkward silence passed. The son's lips wavered, then parted.
"Thank you. I'm deeply in your debt."
"In your debt? No. It was simply what had to be done."
"No, no. A man can tell these things."
The son looked to be around Kwak Young-ho's age. When you've lived that many years, you learn to read a great deal from the smallest of clues.
"Our father—during the ssitgim, you recited the sacred scripture for him. You even went out and found the jar yourself."
"Yes. I did do that."
The son pressed his lips together hard, then let out a long, shuddering breath—"Heuu!"—and bowed his head low.
"Thank you. For taking such pains for our father."
Kang Hyeong-seok smiled sheepishly and glanced once at the altar where the other family members stood.
"What kind of man was your father?"
For an instant the son's face went rigid—then eased again.
"Why do you ask...?"
"He seemed like a man even the shamans held in respect. And ma'am spoke very highly of him as well."
The son smiled awkwardly and shook his head.
"He was a busy man."
Under Kang Hyeong-seok's gaze, the son fiddled with his paper soju cup.
"He was always busy. He was never home to speak of, and when he did come back, a day or two later he'd vanish again, off somewhere far."
Loneliness showed in the son's face. It seemed that when the boy had most wanted to be loved, most wanted someone to lean on, his father had chosen the life of a shaman over being a father.
"In school, the other kids used to tease me. Said my clothes smelled of incense. I got asked plenty of times whether I could see ghosts."
"I think I understand."
Kang Hyeong-seok, who had suffered his own trials because of his Yeongan—his spiritual eye—could sympathize more than a little.
A brief smile flitted across both their faces. Then—
"It isn't that I hated my father for being a shaman."
Lest there be any misunderstanding, the son added this while worrying at his paper soju cup—already crumpled well beyond its original shape.
"I was simply hurt, I suppose. My one regret is that I never got to ask him what on earth could have mattered more than his family."
Kang Hyeong-seok nodded heavily. They were words he could understand completely. And words that could never have been spoken in front of Lee Geum-kyeong. How could anyone ask, "What is a shaman, that it's worth turning your back even on your own family?"
"I hardly think I'm in any position to speak about your father."
Meeting the gaze the son had turned on him, Kang Hyeong-seok continued evenly.
"But this much, I believe I can say."
He went on, looking at the son's father lying silent and tight-lipped among the white chrysanthemums.
"They say you can tell how a person lived just by watching their funeral hall."
The son's mouth closed.
He himself, only moments ago, had been pouring out his regrets about his father. They say a hundred graves hold a hundred stories—and a funeral hall is where all those different stories come to their end.
"A man who lived his life rough and hard—even his bier looks lonely. A man who lived steeped in greed—the hall fills with people exactly like him."
"..."
The son's eyes seemed to ask: In your eyes, what kind of life did my father live?
"A funeral runs three days, so that even those coming from far away can find their way here."
As if to comfort him, a faint smile touching his lips, Kang Hyeong-seok went on.
"Today is only the first day. It's about to get very busy."
"What do you—"
"You'll see soon enough."
Kang Hyeong-seok checked his wristwatch. It was just past the end of the workday. If the son had spread word of the death through the contacts saved in his father's phone, then what he anticipated would happen before long.
Ding! From somewhere down the corridor came the chime of an elevator arriving. A moment later, a crowd of people came spilling out and poured into the hall.
The son sprang up reflexively—the chief mourner's instinct—and Kang Hyeong-seok only gestured for him to hurry over. He received the first arrivals with a face lost between panic and confusion, and soon another wave came riding up the elevator.
Wave after wave. Watching the mourners swell by the minute, Kang Hyeong-seok picked up his soup spoon.
You'll see soon enough.
He was too swamped to notice anything just yet. But he would notice.
"Aigoo! Aigooo!"
"Master, how could you leave us like this!"
He would come to know that people capable of grieving this sincerely had come all this way for his father. People were simply made that way—not strong, so weak, in fact, that mankind had needed to believe in gods just to hold itself together as a society.
The departed shaman had spent his whole life tending to exactly such people.
He had lived well. Truly, he had lived well.
Watching the son bowing in return to one mourner after another, Kang Hyeong-seok lifted his bowl of yukgaejang.