bright, tired smile. “We should be going to bed.”
Gilho patted the boy on the head. He almost patted the goose before he remembered that it was just a goose. He said something about his best bottle of Bordeaux. “I expect we’ll drink to the morning.”
Snow flurries fell against the glass. Gilho returned to the kitchen and clumsily chopped at a chunk of dried squid with a steak knife. Wuseong pressed his face against the glass. On the other side, Taeyeong rubbed his eyes and breathed heavily from the sofa. All of them, strangers in their lives, watched the wintering landscape.
A shriek shattered the silence. By the time Gilho bolted back to the living room, Taeyeong, his voice dancing with fear, was gripping his bleeding hand.
Wuseong hopped nervously from left leg to right.
“Your friend kept trying to pluck her,” he said. “I tried to stop him, I did.”
Taeyeong moaned. “One feather—I just wanted one. To see if you can really write with one of ’em.”
Gilho headed straight for the balcony. Alcohol heightened his notion that a man should protect his friends; he was ready for a confrontation. As if it sensed his animosity, the goose trumpeted and hissed with its bill wide open; it charged, its wing billowing in the air like a stiff petticoat. Gilho grasped at the beating goodwing, and felt the webbed feet on his foot. His hand seemed to reach through nothing, as if there were no body underneath the feathers. Its black pupils locked with his.
He gripped the goose’s tubelike neck as best he could with both hands. It startled him to sense this immense power that one could have over life. In the haze of alcohol, he felt convinced that if this bulbous creature was extinguished with one twist, somehow his life would be simplified.
An unfamiliar shadow passed over Wuseong’s face. It flickered, disappeared. He looked at Gilho as if he saw right through him, and forgave him for his cowardice.
Gilho released the goose and staggered back inside.
He said, “Why do you look at me like that?”
Taeyeong stared, his hand forgotten.
“Ajeoshi,” Wuseong said wistfully, “the world’s full of mystery—it’s our duty to accept it.”
Wuseong dashed to Taeyeong’s side and inspected his hand. Gilho heard him humming as if he weren’t completely alone in the world; as if he weren’t living with an older man cracking up with love; as if a bleak future were not awaiting him. He hummed as if hope were enough to sustain him.
An hour into sleep Gilho woke up to the first full moon of the new year. He went to the kitchen for water, then standing with the empty glass he watched car beams flashing on the nearby riverside highway, alone with the lie that he was. He no longer wanted to be different from other men. As he turned to go he heard a muffled whisper from the living room. One figure, then two, movedon the balcony. There was a woman. She was around Gilho’s age with hair as black as a coffin, a body thin and frail on top, with rotund legs. She rested her head against Wuseong’s shoulder. Her face was weathered with dirt and death, but her eyes were generous and untroubled, her lips were a seamless line of perseverance. The cool moonlight brightened the balcony. As the boy’s hand gathered around the woman’s head, her face brightened. Gilho saw her attenuated fingers, her delicate, blue-tinted feet. He saw what he had been resisting all this time: the world through Wuseong’s eyes.
Gilho took a step toward the balcony, then another. When he slid open the door, Wuseong looked up, unsurprised. He slipped his hand into Gilho’s.
“Isn’t my mother beautiful?” Wuseong said.
Gilho nodded, afraid to say anything. He breathed in shallow bursts.
“Ajeoshi, are you all right?”
Gilho rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
He did not care that Taeyeong might stumble out of the guest room, looking for the bathroom. It was the first full moon of the new year, Daeboreum, the day hundreds
Gilho patted the boy on the head. He almost patted the goose before he remembered that it was just a goose. He said something about his best bottle of Bordeaux. “I expect we’ll drink to the morning.”
Snow flurries fell against the glass. Gilho returned to the kitchen and clumsily chopped at a chunk of dried squid with a steak knife. Wuseong pressed his face against the glass. On the other side, Taeyeong rubbed his eyes and breathed heavily from the sofa. All of them, strangers in their lives, watched the wintering landscape.
A shriek shattered the silence. By the time Gilho bolted back to the living room, Taeyeong, his voice dancing with fear, was gripping his bleeding hand.
Wuseong hopped nervously from left leg to right.
“Your friend kept trying to pluck her,” he said. “I tried to stop him, I did.”
Taeyeong moaned. “One feather—I just wanted one. To see if you can really write with one of ’em.”
Gilho headed straight for the balcony. Alcohol heightened his notion that a man should protect his friends; he was ready for a confrontation. As if it sensed his animosity, the goose trumpeted and hissed with its bill wide open; it charged, its wing billowing in the air like a stiff petticoat. Gilho grasped at the beating goodwing, and felt the webbed feet on his foot. His hand seemed to reach through nothing, as if there were no body underneath the feathers. Its black pupils locked with his.
He gripped the goose’s tubelike neck as best he could with both hands. It startled him to sense this immense power that one could have over life. In the haze of alcohol, he felt convinced that if this bulbous creature was extinguished with one twist, somehow his life would be simplified.
An unfamiliar shadow passed over Wuseong’s face. It flickered, disappeared. He looked at Gilho as if he saw right through him, and forgave him for his cowardice.
Gilho released the goose and staggered back inside.
He said, “Why do you look at me like that?”
Taeyeong stared, his hand forgotten.
“Ajeoshi,” Wuseong said wistfully, “the world’s full of mystery—it’s our duty to accept it.”
Wuseong dashed to Taeyeong’s side and inspected his hand. Gilho heard him humming as if he weren’t completely alone in the world; as if he weren’t living with an older man cracking up with love; as if a bleak future were not awaiting him. He hummed as if hope were enough to sustain him.
An hour into sleep Gilho woke up to the first full moon of the new year. He went to the kitchen for water, then standing with the empty glass he watched car beams flashing on the nearby riverside highway, alone with the lie that he was. He no longer wanted to be different from other men. As he turned to go he heard a muffled whisper from the living room. One figure, then two, movedon the balcony. There was a woman. She was around Gilho’s age with hair as black as a coffin, a body thin and frail on top, with rotund legs. She rested her head against Wuseong’s shoulder. Her face was weathered with dirt and death, but her eyes were generous and untroubled, her lips were a seamless line of perseverance. The cool moonlight brightened the balcony. As the boy’s hand gathered around the woman’s head, her face brightened. Gilho saw her attenuated fingers, her delicate, blue-tinted feet. He saw what he had been resisting all this time: the world through Wuseong’s eyes.
Gilho took a step toward the balcony, then another. When he slid open the door, Wuseong looked up, unsurprised. He slipped his hand into Gilho’s.
“Isn’t my mother beautiful?” Wuseong said.
Gilho nodded, afraid to say anything. He breathed in shallow bursts.
“Ajeoshi, are you all right?”
Gilho rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
He did not care that Taeyeong might stumble out of the guest room, looking for the bathroom. It was the first full moon of the new year, Daeboreum, the day hundreds
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