A crowd of local teenagers unfolded music stands in the alley and began to perform. Now the only people outside were Yona and her group. Violin, guitar, drum—the performers played a pleasant melody, the noises cacophonously jumbling together on the street. The whole act charmed Yona: the smiles that showed these teenagers were happy to have listeners, smiles that showed they were bursting with happiness as they performed here, their giggles and then moments of seriousness. Even the teacher’s daughter, always distracted, was now a serious listener.
After the performance ended, the teacher walked up to the front and asked the musicians a question.
‘What’s the name of your band?’
‘Thank you teacher,’ the teens replied.
It wasn’t clear if that was the name of the band or an expression of gratefulness, but anyhow, it was refreshing to see joy among the ruins of Mui. After Thank You Teacher finished their songs, an elderly man dragged his body to the front of the small crowd and began to play the accordion. His legs curled backwards like a merman, and his hat sat open on his knees. Yona found it exciting to watch the accordion expand, making space as it produced sound. According to the guide, this man had been one of the youngest people on Mui during the head-hunting incident, and now he was one of the oldest survivors to remember such events. During the long decades since the massacre, the man’s body still hadn’t recovered. The old performer who’d lost the use of his legs played his instrument so resonantly that it made the six onlookers reflect once more on why they were there. Yona couldn’t point her camera at him. She just stood and listened to the melody as the accordion expanded and contracted.
Someone, probably a local, offered to take a picture of Yona’s group. Yona’s camera had now recorded the final items on this trip’s itinerary: today’s activities. She pressed the replay button on her camera and looked at the last picture she’d taken. The camera had a total of six hundred photos, and Yona began to peruse them one by one. But as soon as she saw the Unda child riding on a plastic washbasin, she immediately pressed the delete button.
3
THE CUT-OFF TRAIN CAR
THE DAY AFTER CHEERING HERSELF UP with alcohol, Yona overslept. She missed breakfast for the first time since arriving in Mui. The group had agreed to meet in the lobby at 10 a.m., and it was already 9.40. Yona felt like throwing up. The ominousness of last night’s dream lingered, even if she’d forgotten the plot while washing her face. Maybe she’d dreamed about returning to Seoul. It was the sixth morning of the trip, and today they were heading back. Just like on their way here, the travellers would be going through the airport in Vietnam. According to the schedule, they’d be boarding in the late afternoon, and in the evening they’d touch down at Incheon Airport.
At 9.50, Yona called the front desk and asked for assistance with her luggage. Five minutes later, an employee wearing a loose-fitting uniform drove up in a golf cart. The slim but sturdy man loaded Yona’s suitcase and small bag on to his vehicle. It was just like the day she’d arrived. During her stay here, every time Yona requested something from the front desk, this man appeared. Only when it was time to leave did she read his name. A gleaming tag with the name ‘Luck’ written on it was pinned to his chest.
‘Was it a good trip?’ Luck asked.
‘Yeah, I learned a lot,’ Yona replied.
‘Well, have a safe trip back.’
All Yona had in her wallet was a few hundred-dollar bills. She noticed that she was carrying a single two-dollar note as well, but that wasn’t money she’d intended to use. It was a lucky two-dollar bill someone had given her long ago as a present. Finally Yona pulled it out of her wallet.
‘Luck, these two dollars are lucky,’ she said. ‘If you carry this bill around with you, you’ll have good fortune.’
Luck smiled when he saw the money.
The travellers left Mui. Their return route was a little different from the one they’d taken to get here. Now they were going by train rather than by bus. The train from the coast headed towards Ho Chi Minh City’s airport; this time, the journey was slightly faster. Everyone in the group sank into their seats and slept or sat quietly. They wouldn’t arrive for two more hours, but Yona couldn’t stand how uncomfortable her insides felt. She’d drunk too much last night. She felt nauseous, and her stomach gurgled. She walked to the bathroom at the end of the corridor, but even after twenty minutes of waiting, it was still in use. When she knocked on the door, she could clearly hear a tapping noise coming from inside. Finally she decided to find a bathroom in another car. Placing one hand on her chest and another on the tops of the seats, she tottered forward.
There wasn’t a toilet in every train car, so she had to walk for a while before she came across an empty bathroom. Had she ever appreciated a toilet this much? Yona flopped to the ground and almost hugged the porcelain. It had taken her thirty minutes to find and use the facilities. Everything changed in those thirty minutes. Eventually Yona began to walk back in the direction she’d come from. The train wobbled from side to side as always, but something seemed different. The train was now shorter than the distance Yona had walked to reach the bathroom.
At some point in the past thirty minutes, the train had divided into two parts, like those flatworms that could regenerate after being cut in half. Yona realised that now there were only five cars. The bathroom had been in car two, and her original seat in car seven. When she opened the door at the end of the fifth car, she saw only empty tracks following the train like a long tail.
Yona’s seat must have been in the part of the train that was cut off. She vaguely remembered an announcement that the train was splitting into two different routes. The problem was that Yona was now on one of the routes, and her bags and fellow travellers were on the other. The two halves of the train were long separated. It had originally been an express train, but now Yona’s half was making local stops. Yona needed to know what direction this half was going, but she had no way to find out. Someone who looked like a train employee came up to Yona and asked for a ticket. After looking at Yona’s, she shook her head.
‘Can’t I stay on the train?’ Yona asked. ‘I need to go to the airport! My luggage and group are all in the other cars—what should I do?’
Yona said it once in Korean and twice in English, but the employee didn’t understand. Even so, she comprehended the situation and explained something energetically in the local language.
‘Two stops ago, the car you were supposed to be on shifted on to different tracks. That train’s an express. You won’t reach your destination on this local track. There are no more trains heading in your direction today. If you want to get to the airport, you’ll need to look into other forms of transportation. This seat’s not available any more.’
Yona couldn’t understand the words, but she managed to catch a few things from the woman’s gestures and the atmosphere. Your seat’s not here; please get off.
The train soon reached the next station, and when the doors opened, Yona was the only person to step out.
She was incredibly lucky to at least have her handbag on her. Yona took out her mobile phone and dialled the guide’s number. As soon as the call connected, Lou burst into a fit of anger.