Having been informed that the director was already inside, Ayami entered the restaurant. As soon as the door was opened for her, pitch-black darkness smothered her vision as though Indian ink was poured over her eyes. The darkness had an almost tangible density, crowding in around her and pressing itself against her eyes. She had to push her way through that absolute darkness, using her own mass to physically displace it, which made it a thousand times more difficult to move around. The constant hum of the air conditioning, low bursts of laughter and murmured conversation, the clink of tableware – all the usual sounds associated with a restaurant were present, but lacking their visual counterparts. The darkness was absolute. Not the darkness of a cinema after a film has started, and which is bound to be mitigated by light belched from the screen, or by cat’s eyes guiding you down the aisle. Here there was only utter darkness, darker than the inside of one’s eyelids, a colossal coalface rearing up in front of Ayami, which she had to crawl up with the aid of a ladder.
‘Ms Kim Ayami?’ The voice was that of a female guide, still just a girl from the sound of it.
‘Yes,’ Ayami replied. ‘That’s me.’
She felt the guide’s strong fingers clasp her wrist and her hand brush the back of Ayami’s, her middle finger touching the inside of Ayami’s wrist. A brief gentle pressure, as though wanting to take Ayami’s pulse. The girl gave off the scent of harshly starched cotton. The guides and waiters who worked at the restaurant were all blind, or at least had a severe visual impairment. To them, the interior of the restaurant was fundamentally no different from the exterior world. Ayami let the guide lead her to her table and sat down.
‘Today’s performance was The Blind Owl.’ This was the first thing out of Ayami’s mouth.
‘I know,’ the director’s voice answered. ‘It’s been the same all week.’ That voice was dry and slightly cracked, with an uneven intonation. Not, at any rate, the voice of an actor.
‘Some high school students came with their form teacher,’ Ayami said. ‘Apparently they have to write a piece on their impressions by next week.’ In the darkness, Ayami’s voice insisted overwhelmingly on its own identity. It was a corporeal voice. Just as, in the light of day, people can’t help their gaze going to a beautiful woman, in the darkness they pay more attention to the voice. They accept the mystery of seeming to feel the other’s gaze on their skin. Their guide brought soup and a basket of warm bread, its smell unmistakable. Though it wasn’t their first time here, the waitress still followed procedure and explained the table settings to them.
‘Each guest has their plate directly in front of them. The fork is to the left, the napkin and knife to the right. There are two glasses at one o’clock, and the basket of bread is at eleven. The glass for water has a wave pattern etched into the surface, and the one for alcohol is smooth. The spoon has been placed at exactly twelve o’clock.’
‘In the dark I always end up gripping the spoon harder than I need to, it’s a difficult habit to kick.’ The director’s voice said this as soon as the girl had left. It laughed, then asked, ‘How was closing?’
‘All fine.’
‘Ah, that’s good. Nothing out of the ordinary?’
Ayami recalled the man who’d been causing a disturbance, but decided it wasn’t so important and that she might as well keep it to herself.
‘I don’t grip the spoon too hard, but … I find it difficult not to be able to read your lips.’
‘You mean you generally lip-read first, before listening?’
‘Well, there are times when I can read someone’s lips without actually being able to see them. Though I can’t understand how it happens.’
‘Some kind of sensory illusion, is it?’ The director’s voice was warm and friendly. ‘How will you get on in the future, Ayami? Do you have any plans?’
‘Nothing concrete yet. I’ve tried various places, but I haven’t heard anything positive back.’
‘Did you write a letter to the foundation, like I suggested?’ the voice asked.
‘No.’ Ayami shook her head, but stopped as soon as she realised the pointlessness of such a gesture.
‘Do it before it’s too late, it’ll be a help. I’m serious. You’re a talented young actress and you’ve done great work at the theatre, so if a new position comes up with the foundation’s cultural arts team there’ll definitely be an opportunity for you.’
‘I haven’t been an actor for two years,’ Ayami responded with a light laugh. ‘And my work at the theatre hasn’t been connected with performing arts, it was just simple work that anyone could do – you know that better than anyone!’
‘Once an actor, always an actor, right? Even if you can’t get an acting job and have to support yourself through other work, nothing will change that fact. The way I look at it, it’s a vocation, isn’t it? Rather than just an ordinary job?’
‘Vocation only applies to work that nourishes the soul.’
‘And everybody has a soul, no?’
‘Well, what is a soul, exactly? What kind of soul?’
The starters arrived. Ayami guessed that she was eating pickled red pepper, dried clams and fresh paprika. They devoted themselves to chewing slowly, in silence.
After a while Ayami opened her mouth to speak: ‘I’m thinking of looking for a temporary position.’
‘Temporary? You mean like something part-time, that pays by the hour?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You aren’t thinking of working at a restaurant again?’ the director asked doubtfully.
‘I might, but not right away. Last week I had an interview for a short-term administrative position at a university; I haven’t heard anything back yet, which means that’s a no. Before I came out this evening, the German-language teacher asked me to do her a favour: I might be interpretreting for a poet visiting Korea, and doing some secretarial work for him. But it’s not confirmed. The poet’s going to make up his mind when he gets here.’
‘Ah yes, I remember hearing something about that.’
‘But I … I didn’t think I’d be able to interpret so I turned it down, but she said it’s not conference interpreting so it should be fine. I told her I didn’t mind finding him somewhere to stay, helping him choose a place, et cetera.’
‘What’s he coming here for?’
‘To write, apparently.’
‘But why Korea?’
‘I wondered about that, but all I got was that he “just happened” to choose Korea. There’s no official event for him to attend – in fact, nobody else even knows he’s coming.’
‘Maybe he’s coming to see Yeoni. A personal visit, I mean.’
‘I thought that, too. But then why would she want me tagging along all the time?’
‘She’ll probably be starting chemotherapy soon.’
‘She told me she’s just taking pills!’
‘Pills will only do so much.’
‘She said she was trialling some new wonder drug she was so lucky to be taking!’
‘Did she say anything specific about this new medicine?’