Even after the man was gone Ayami stood in the same spot for a while.
The phone in the library rang.
It was the German-language teacher, who asked how Ayami was before saying, ‘I’m taking medication, quite a lot, actually. But I don’t need to worry about the cost; it’s a new wonder drug, and I’ve been chosen as a test subject for the trials, luckily. So far I’ve had no side effects, apart from the fact that I’m sleeping a lot these days.’
For those few moments, while the teacher was speaking, Ayami thought she might actually be able to read the lips of someone she couldn’t see, on the other end of a phone line. But then she remembered the crazy man, and the thought vanished.
‘He came here,’ Ayami said.
‘He? Who?’
‘That man, the salesman who used to go to your house from time to time.’
‘He must like you – didn’t I say so? But he isn’t a salesman, Blind Owl.’ The German-language teacher generally chose a name for Ayami culled from whichever novel they were reading. She found Ayami’s real name much too strange, and not at all to her liking. She’d told Ayami that her real name made her uncomfortable and that, where possible, she wanted to avoid having to pronounce it. She had also asked not to hear it pronounced: ‘Whatever you do,’ she said, ‘just don’t say “Ayami”. And the same goes for calling me “Yeoni”.’
‘You’re a young woman, Blind Owl, and a beautiful one. If he went to see you … well, it’s not unusual for one person to yearn for another. Did he buy you flowers?’
‘It wasn’t that kind of visit – the opposite, if anything. He threatened to kill me … no, to kill us.’
‘You must have misheard. Or else it was a joke, and you misunderstood.’ The German-language teacher’s voice was gentle, dismissive. Ayami tightened her grip on the phone.
‘I didn’t mishear. He was right there on the other side of the glass door. I didn’t open it, of course. What kind of person jokes about killing someone?’
‘He’s just a bit different … but he’s not violent. He certainly wouldn’t harm someone for no reason. And if you didn’t open the door, how could you have understood everything he said?’
‘I just – I just did. I could see him saying it, I mean. And I heard it, too, very clearly.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s possible.’
‘My thoughts are all over the place right now, so it’s difficult to remember. The thing is, though, I’ve studied lip-reading, so I could make a good guess at what he was saying. Might he be angry because we didn’t let him join our German lessons?’
‘I’ve just remembered something he told me: that you and he have known each other for a long time. A very long time.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘But that’s what I heard … at least, that’s what I remember. And not that you were simply acquainted … something more intimate than that. An unusual intimacy, that has existed for an unusually long time … I could be misremembering, though – perhaps a side effect from the pills.’ A brief sigh followed in place of any further explanation.
Reading the lips of someone you can’t see, someone on the other end of a phone line – perhaps it was an illusion, after all.
‘Anyhow,’ the German-language teacher said, returning to her original reason for calling, ‘I guessed you would still be at work, and I have a favour to ask.’
Ayami said she would be happy to help, as long as it was within her power.
‘Do you think you might have some spare time tomorrow morning?’
Ayami asked what was the matter.
‘Someone I know will be arriving at the airport very early in the morning. Could you go and meet them? It’s their first time in Korea.’ The German-language teacher paused, then, with a sudden earnest intensity, said, ‘There’s no one else I can ask, Blind Owl.’
The messages in the guestbook were nothing out of the ordinary, but someone had skipped to the very last page and drawn a picture there. It was a simple sketch, clean pencil lines delineating the form of a boat – small, low, long and nimble-looking. There was also a boatman, standing very upright. The whole thing appeared to be more a symbol or glyph than an attempt at naturalistic representation, but it also demonstrated a certain dignity and proficient draughtsmanship. The boatman could have been either a man or a woman with long hair and a slight figure. And the fact that s/he happened to be standing in a boat didn’t necessarily make her/him a boatman. After all, it wasn’t an oar they were holding in their hand, but a bird.
The bright liquid darkness of a midsummer evening was seeping between the blinds and slowly collecting inside the auditorium.
Ayami stood up and walked across the stage, moving just as she had when she first learned to swim: both arms spread and each hand with its fingers pressed together, swaying in a manner both careful and hurried, a cross between a fish’s lateral propulsion and the way seaweed dances in the current. The ‘stage’ didn’t exactly warrant the name, marked as it was by nothing other than a small table placed in front of the audio equipment, used only when a guest speaker came to give a talk on audio drama. Standing to attention at the theatre’s entrance, Ayami would introduce the title and author of the play, concluding with: ‘OK, the play will begin now.’
On the stage (the small space immediately in front of the table) Ayami lies supine with both arms outstretched, her palms facing upwards. The empty seats regard her in silence. Ayami is completely still. Her eyelids cover her pupils, her hair covers her face. Is she dead? Once more, that whispering voice trickles from the hidden radio.
Weather forecast. For. Sailors. At sea. A south-easterly. Waves. 2.5 metres. Further out at sea. A south-westerly. Some. Cloud. To the south. A faint. Rainbow. Localised. Rain showers. Hailstorm. North-easterly. 2. 35. 7. 81 …
Ayami has an appointment for 8 p.m. at a nearby restaurant. Recalling this, she wakes from her false death.
Ayami arrives at the ‘blackout restaurant’ at exactly 8 p.m. The sun has set, but it is not yet completely dark: that shadowy border region between day and night. The dazzling lights from the shops brashly crowd the streets, like mobsters in garish suits. After the chill confines of the air-conditioned subway car, Ayami is flushed with feverish heat. Slow-forming clouds clot the sky like lumps of ash. As she enters the long, narrow alleyway where the restaurant is located Ayami is met with a dense wall of hot air.
When you step inside the restaurant you find yourself in a bright, open waiting room. The low hum of music drifts in from an adjoining bar. First, you must confirm your reservation, and then the staff at the counter will take your order. You can have a drink at the bar before your meal, and there’s a closet for bags and bulky outer clothes, which would get in the way once inside the restaurant itself. The wooden door leading into the dining room remains closed but you can go through once you’ve ordered your meal. They hate to admit it, but most people feel themselves tense up when they stand in front of that door. Some are frightened, some even cry. After all, this is the door to another world, to another form of sensory experience.
There are two rules to bear in mind: the first is that the use of any kind of luminous device is forbidden. This includes torches or anything with an LCD screen or smoking paraphernalia such as lighters or matches, and even cigarettes with their potential to be lit. Incense sticks, by the same logic, are also taboo. The second rule is that, once inside, you mustn’t get up and wander about. If you did, you’d end up bumping into the other guests and getting in the way of the waiters. If you have to use the bathroom, or want to go out for a cigarette, the proper procedure is to call for the guide, who will be waiting nearby. It’s their job to lead the guests around.