He Does Not Know Hamlet

When I got to school, the questions about the drama shoot came pouring in. Apparently everyone had been dying of curiosity. The production company had handed over a decent stack of posters, so I told anyone who wanted one to grab it — and nearly every single student did.

The closest thing I had to a friend in my class was a guy named Ki I-an, who — despite a name that promised otherwise — was thoroughly normal and blessed with actual social skills. I'd also grown reasonably close to a girl called Jang Chaerin, since we ended up paired on assignments a lot. To be honest, neither of them counted as a real friend. Still, before the regression I hadn't had a single friend. This time, I had one. That alone made me grateful to Woo Woongbae.

Anyway, both of them were strong candidates for good roles in the regular performance, which was probably why they had even more questions for me than the rest. After a full day of being interrogated, I sat through the teacher's explanation of the five scripts up for consideration.

Since most of the students had no stage experience, this would be the first time in their lives they put up an entire play from top to bottom — which meant the students' own preferences carried real weight. From the five works the teacher had chosen, we were to select three.

The second-years ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would then be split into three teams. Those three teams would compete, and only one of them would get to mount the official regular-performance stage. In other words, the regular performance was a survival contest. A strange, unprecedented experiment, this being its first year.

Meanwhile, the musical department — whose performance came a week before ours — had apparently already chosen their piece. Suddenly I felt the pressure too.

The teacher's shortlist mixed original works with the classics.

Huh? What was the last one again?

I'd paid close attention to the first four — and missed the last one entirely. I only snapped back to attention after the teacher had finished explaining the fifth play. I think I'd actually fallen asleep for a moment. The drama promotion had me filming this and that nonstop lately, so I was running short on sleep. That must have been it.

As if I weren't exhausted enough already, students kept coming up to grill me about the set and the shoot. Do Jaeyeon had worried I was getting frozen out for joining some mega-production, but it turned out to be pointless worrying on her part.

So it was that I drifted through the regular-performance briefing, made small talk with my classmates, and then headed back to Wooheonjeong.

While I'd been shooting Garden of Manyusa, Woo Woongbae had been running all over the set working as crew. I found him sprawled across the living room and said what I saw.

"Did you spend the day making a film, or doing manual labor?"

"Synonyms."

His forearms — already enormous on his huge frame — had somehow gotten bigger. It was getting genuinely hard to tell whether he was an aspiring film director or headed for mixed martial arts.

We ordered delivery and threw on a movie. This was what I liked about us: meeting again after so long changed absolutely nothing. We'd probably be like this next year, and ten years from now too. Knowing Woongbae, he might even pull up my photos once in a while after I was gone. If they happened to suit his taste. But I'd planned to leave him something better than pictures on a phone — I was going to live on in his directorial debut — so I'd never bothered to take any.

I suppose it's odd, preparing for your death while the date's still far off. It was all because of that death scene. Shin Jiwon had cried so hard it left a bit of an aftereffect. What if someone I knew shed a single tear for me? No one would sob the way Shin Jiwon did, surely. But there might be someone a little sad. Park Seonyoung, with her bottomless affection, would live to a hundred at the least — and if I died before her, it would grieve her. That did worry me a little. Should I start distancing myself now, ahead of time?

I filed the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠future away for later and began to read. Then I set the last book down in front of me.

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one play whose explanation I'd slept through, almost from the very first word.

Hamlet.

Strangely, drowsiness washed over me again the instant I looked at it, and I had to drag my eyes open by force, rubbing them with my hand. Watching me stare at the cover, Woongbae spoke up.

"You've got that one memorized, right?"

"This one?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah……."

Me?

This? I'm seeing it for the first time?

I tilted my head.

"What does 'Hamlet' mean?"

At this fundamental question over the very title, Woongbae turned to look at me with the most alert, sober expression I'd ever seen on him.

"'What does Hamlet mean'? What does that mean?"

"It means exactly what I said. What does the word mean?"

"'What does Hamlet mean'…… huh?"

Woongbae shifted out of his comfortable sprawl entirely to peer at me.

"You don't know Hamlet? Hamlet is…… hey. What are you doing?"

"What do you mean, what am I doing? Is it famous or something?"

"Oh, for crying out loud — if you're going to expand the worldview, at least give us the lore update first. What is this even a bit for?"

Since Woongbae was going on about bits, I could only assume I was spouting nonsense again.

So Hamlet the play was extremely famous, apparently. Chasing off the sleep that kept pouring down on me, I slapped my own cheeks with my palms and asked Woongbae again.

"Who wrote it? Who's the author?"

"Oh, you absolute lunatic. Who do you think?"

"Just say it, damn it."

"The author you've read the most!"

"Shakespeare, though."

"Exactly."

What the hell is this nonsense?

"……Shakespeare wrote it? And I've never heard of it? How? Is it a new release? Did he come back from the dead or something?"

Well, if it was Shakespeare, resurrection wasn't out of the question. He was a god, after all. Would the other religions file a plagiarism suit? No — that's not the point. If he'd really come back, there was no way I wouldn't have heard the news……

I swallowed the strangeness and stayed quiet, and Woongbae got up and headed for the late actor Gam Ihyeon's study.

He came back with three copies in short order. Different covers, different publication years. One of them was even in English. All three were falling apart at the seams — testimony to how many times they'd been read.

"This is Hamlet."

Every single one said so on the cover.

By Shakespeare.

By Shakespeare.

By Shakespeare.

"Translated and printed and staged more times than anyone can count," Woongbae went on.

"……."

"Probably the most-performed of all Shakespeare's tragedies."

"……."

"And right here is a line even more famous than the play itself."

"Which line?"

To be, or not to be, that is the question:

Woongbae recited the sentence — one I had never once heard in my life — in clear, crisp diction.

I pressed a hand to my forehead. Then the food I'd eaten came back up, and I bolted for the bathroom.

Only after I'd thrown up everything in my stomach, and taken a bath on top of it trying to shake off the exhaustion, could I walk back into the living room. And there I spread open that accursed script. Shakespeare's tragedy, the first page of it I had ever seen in my life.

"Are you out of your mind? They practically begged you to take it and you still said no? It's a Choi Yujin script!"

At the question, Han Jeonghyeon, sprawled in the middle of the small theater's stage, pulled an earbud out of one ear.

"What was that?"

"I said, why ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠won't you do the Choi Yujin drama?"

"Ah."

Jeonghyeon sat up and shrugged at the stage.

"Because I can't. I already committed to this one first. You're the one who asked me to."

"Hey, this thing pays nothing — it's a tiny theater production. That one's a Netflix drama. Ditching that for this, does that make any sense?"

"Why do you spend your whole life worrying about my career? I'm rich."

That signature sly, smug expression and voice of his.

Nam Kihoon, the acting major five years his senior who had been the one to propose this production to Han Jeonghyeon, made a wounded face.

"You punk, who doesn't know you're rich? It's still a waste."

"If you leave the theater scene, it's hard to come back. You do it while you can — as much as you can."

"Haah…… fine, fine. If you can't make it big, who the hell can? Great face, great backing."

And on top of everything, Han Jeonghyeon had just cleared the mid-180s in height not long ago. The moment he rose from his spot, the difference hit you at eye level.

Jeonghyeon put his earbud back in and said, hands back in his pockets:

"Hyung, if you ever want to do that drama, say the word. I can get you a small part."

"Quit talking shit, you little bastard."

Jeonghyeon rapped his knuckles against the earbud.

"Can't hear you."

"God, this punk hears exactly what he wants to hear."

Han Jeonghyeon waved and walked off down the theater corridor. The recording looping in his earphones was of the script itself — Voyage of Evil, the play they would be staging on this small theater's boards.

Stepping outside the theater, he found it snowing. He drew a hand from his pocket and snatched at the falling flakes. His palm came up empty, and as he slid his hand back into his pocket, a voice spoke.

"Keep running your mouth and I'll kill Lee Heeyoon. That'd void the contract — so you wouldn't get to collect a single day of my lifespan, would you?"

Han Jeonghyeon left the theater.

It was a street clustered with studios large and small. And as luck would have it, the enormous billboard directly across the road was running an OTT ad featuring Lee Heeyoon.

He'd come back to a minor's body, so he'd meant to hold off for a while — but he simply could not quit the cigarettes. He couldn't afford to leave photographs behind, either, so he kept himself from smoking outdoors — but right now, he couldn't stand it.

[Abbot: You've probably guessed already — by the world's standards, we are indeed a cult. But if there's one difference…… it's that we truly hold the powers granted to us by God. So then, tell me — which side is the counterfeit?]

The story of a cult built by people with superhuman abilities, and torn down by those same hands.

Garden of Manyusa.

The footage was so mysterious, so beautiful, that it froze the footsteps of every passerby. Han Jeonghyeon finally gave in — and locked the theater doors so that no one inside could come out. Then he stood in front of the billboard, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it.

Deep winter. Through the smoke curling with his breath, Lee Heeyoon's face stared back at him.

That face, met more times than he could count.

Han Jeonghyeon murmured:

"Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent: when he is drunk asleep, or in his rage, or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed; at gaming, swearing, or about some act that has no relish of salvation in't. Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven — and that his soul may be as cursed and black as hell, whereto it goes."

The first time he'd ever acted alongside Lee Heeyoon was Hamlet. And the last time, too. They had put Hamlet on the stage twice.

When they first rehearsed it, the two of them had taken turns with the roles. Han Jeonghyeon as Hamlet, prince of Denmark, and Lee Heeyoon as Claudius, the incestuous king of Denmark. Or the reverse — Lee Heeyoon as Hamlet, and Han Jeonghyeon as Claudius.

When they first performed Hamlet together, the reverberations had been, truth be told, enormous.

And thanks to that play, the two of them were cast in a colossal, big-budget series adapted from a comic.

Hamlet had belonged to the two of them.

Which meant that, of everything in the world, the thing most thoroughly erased from Lee Heeyoon's memory was probably Hamlet itself.

Han Jeonghyeon kept watching the billboard long after the ad had ended — until the cigarette he'd smoked slowly down to the end burned out.

He thought back to the last time he'd shared a stage with Lee Heeyoon. To put the two of them on it together, the producers of Hamlet had simply waited, indefinitely, for any day their schedules happened to align.

When they finally met again like that, Lee Heeyoon had said:

'Han Jeonghyeon. This time, you take Hamlet.'

'Why?'

Recalling the answer he'd gotten, Han Jeonghyeon let out a genuine snort of laughter.

'You don't understand Claudius. Not completely.'

"The real demon is that bastard, isn't he? Saying that — after we performed together more times than I can count."

At his mutter, the demon replied.

"Ah. Right."

Han Jeonghyeon turned around. Nam Kihoon was hammering on the locked door.

"Seriously, what the hell? Why is this locked?! Han Jeonghyeon! You out there?!"

Jeonghyeon ground out the cigarette, doused the smell with cologne — and then, instead of opening the door, simply stood there watching as a good stretch of time passed.

Then he said:

"Hyung. Recite any Hamlet line you like."

"Are you insane?"

"Do it, and I'll open it."

"What is this, some new strain of bullshit?"

But he recited the soliloquy anyway.

Hearing it, Han Jeonghyeon clicked his tongue in contempt.

Even now, there was no one in the world who could play Hamlet as well as himself and Lee Heeyoon.

He wanted to feel it again — that intoxication of the stage.

With acting so flawless that even Lee Heeyoon could never find fault in it.