Taesung
I blink.
Peeking out at me from the dark, narrow crack of the half-open door is my father's face, hidden in the shadow of his shabby little house. Even so, I can see his tired, gaunt face and the circles under his eyes. I should have come at another time.
„I... I'm Jo Taesung," I say, introducing myself. I bow and wait for his reaction. I know it's him, he has the same dark eyes and deep, thoughtful gaze, as me. I can see how desperate and exhausted he looks, though. He opens the door little more, revealing the rest of his thin body in pulled clothes that hang on him as if he had lost at least thirty kilos in a week. Honestly, I had imagined him differently. I had imagined the whole meeting differently.
„Taesung?" He repeats my name as a question, his voice cracking. I slightly and carefully bring my eyebrows closer together and nod in agreement. Suddenly, he seems relieved for a moment, as if he had been expecting someone else, and a weight has been lifted from his heart, because I am not, who he expected. He puts on a forced smile, making me feel as though he is forcing himself to smile. Maybe he's tired? I consider rescheduling our meeting, but my father steps aside and invites me into the dark hallway of his old house, with a hesitant, shaky gesture of his hand.
I bite my lip and glance down the street to my left, instinctively, and feel an unpleasant, chilling sensation run down my spine. It's as, if someone is watching me. This neighbourhood is really scary, not to mention all the street cults trying to lure people into. I take a step forward and cross the threshold of my father's door.
While on the plane to Korea, I looked up some important information about how things work here. What are the cultural customs, and what should I watch out for to avoid accidentally offending anyone? That's why I bowed to my father — he's an older man, and he's still got my blood in him.
I took off my shoes in the hallway and put on some borrowed, worn-out slippers. I followed my father into the living room — if you could call it that — as it was completely devoid of signs of life except for a smelly ashtray full of cigarette ends on a small table. I don't want to seem superficial, but I refused to sit on the dirty sofa.
I turn to my father to ask for a glass of water, but stop in my tracks, unsure whether to address him formally or informally. In the end, I decide not to address him at all.
„Could I have a glass of water?" I ask. My father nods several times and disappears into the back of the house. I decide to follow him. In the hallway, I notice a family photo. It's of my father, his wife and daughter. I'm not surprised that he has a new family, my mother has also moved on with her life.
The whole situation makes me feel uneasy and anxious. When I spoke to my father on the phone, he seemed much more determined to get to know me. Now, however, he seems afraid of me. I wait in the small kitchen while he fills a glass with water for me and look around. Everything here is old and worn out, most of the furniture has seen better days.
My father puts my glass on the wobbly dining table and motions for me to sit down. I pull out a chair and take a seat. I don't know what to say. I'm still a bit shocked. I look at my father, who is looking me over. He glances at the clock on the wall and frowns.
„So, what would you like to know?" His question catches me off guard. I'm surprised by how well he speaks English, which I noticed during our phone conversation. I was worried, that I would need a dictionary to communicate with him.
„Let's start from the beginning. Why did you and Mom get divorced?"
... ༺༻ ...
Throughout the visit, my father seemed restless and distracted. Even in the dim light, I could see that he looked bruised, as if he had been in a fight. I haven't touched the water at all. After almost two tense hours of talking, I finally decide, that that's enough for today.
„You know, I should probably go. It's late," I say quietly. I stand up and start heading back to the front of the house.
„No!" my father suddenly blurts out. I stop, taken aback by his outburst. „I mean, don't go yet. We have a lot to catch up on." I glance at him, he's twisting his faded T-shirt. Why is he so nervous? Is it because of me?
„Yes, but tomorrow is another day. It's really late." I said goodbye to him and headed for the front door. I return the borrowed slippers to the shoe rack and put my trainers back on. My father scurries after me.
„I'm glad... I'm glad I met you, son," he stammers. I'm glad I met him, too — even though our meeting was rather strange. I reach for the door handle.
„See you tomorrow," I say, bidding him farewell. I don't call him 'Father'. For now, he is a stranger to me, who just so happens to be related to me by blood. One two-hour evening really isn't enough time to get to know each other.
I open the door to my father's house, ready to step over the threshold into the dark night, but then I stop. Three men are standing in front of the door. Judging by the tall man in the middle, with shiny hair reaching halfway down his back, tied in a bun on top of his head, I conclude that he must be an important boss. The two burly men behind him must be his bodyguards.
Their Boss blows cigarette smoke in my face, tosses his head back so that a strand of his fringe falls into his eyes, and enters the house without being invited. He pushes me aside, disregarding all etiquette, and enters the house with his shoes on.
Despite the fact, that the beauty of their boss has overwhelmed me and almost brought me to my knees — if I hadn't been holding onto the door handle — I stare at him with my mouth open and start to frown.
„Jo ssi, jogeum neuj-eoss-eoyo." His deep, resonant voice vibrates my eardrums and sends a strange feeling through my body, almost forcing me to kneel before him in obedience, even though I don't understand a word he's saying. His accent is sharp. My heart pounds wildly. I don't have a good feeling about them, especially the long-haired princess, who has such amazing hair.
The boss heads towards my father, which somehow prompts me to move. I step in his way, holding out my hand.
„Hello, I'm Jo Taesung. Mr. Jo's son." I introduce myself in English, hoping he will understand. I stand in front of him with my hand outstretched, waiting for him to accept it. He doesn't. Instead, he looks me up and down, raising one eyebrow. He pulls his mouth into a dark, deep laugh.
There are a lot of thoughts swirling around in my head, and they're not exactly good ones. Don't get me wrong, but I'd bet anything, that this is exactly what a mobster and his gang of bodyguards look like.
My knees are shaking. I want to get out of here as soon as possible and disappear, but I don't want to leave my father alone. What if they hurt him? Then it all clicks into place, and I realise why my father looked so beaten up. Did they hurt him? If so, why?
I want to ask what's going on, but I don't get the chance. A mobster approaches me, a broad, mischievous smile spreading across his face.
„You're so young and naive, Taei. You have no idea what you've been signed up for," he whispers in my language, in that deep voice, which sends shivers down my spine. I ignore the fact, that he has addressed me by my nickname. I look back at my father, who has his head down and is staring at the ground. He doesn't even look at me.
„What on earth is going on here?" I ask sharply, but neither of them answers. The mobster towers over me — he must be at least six feet tall. He reaches out and grabs my jaw, his grip is so firm, that I can't move my head. His eyes are dark and expressionless.
„Jo ssi, bij-eun gap-eun geollo saeng-gaghabnida," he speaks to my father in Korean, but his dark, green gaze is fixed on my eyes.
I look back at my father as much as the mobster's firm grip allows. Since I arrived, it's the first time I've seen a look of relief on his face. He's no longer nervous — all his nervousness has suddenly disappeared. What the fuck is going on?
„Taei, we have work to do." That's all the asshole says to me. He uses my nickname again without asking if he can.
He suddenly throws me into the clutches of one of his henchmen, who grips my neck firmly and slowly leads me out of my father's house. I refuse to look at my father. What did I expect? A warm welcome? I was an idiot to come here in the first place.
We head towards the black cars parked on the dark street. On the way, I notice a few onlookers, who have stopped in the street to stare at us. Nobody's bats an eyelid, which only confirms my suspicion that my father isn't the only person this mobster visits.
I seize the opportunity to slip out of the gorilla's grip. I took taekwondo classes and earned my black belt precisely for cases like this. Using a few of the moves I learnt, I land a few blows on the bodyguard, knocking him to his knees — quite an achievement, considering he's twice my size.
I take off running and notice the surprised expression on the Mafioso's face, the corners of his mouth are turned up. I run down the street, but I don't get very far. One of the onlookers, who hadn't lifted a finger to help me before, surprises me by suddenly trying to stop me. He puts his foot out and I trip, falling flat on the road. My face slides across the asphalt. Damn, that fucking hurts!
When I stand up, I see that the big guy I embarrassed in front of his boss is standing right next to me. Fucking hell, I curse silently. What on earth has my father done to lure me here from America, only to sell me? Yes, I realised it the moment I saw his fucking face. I should never have come here, I've sealed my fate.
The big guy pulls me to my feet sharply, wraps my long black hair around his hand and drags me back to the car. I struggle to break free, but it's no use. My trainers are scraped on the asphalt as I push against to him. They force me into the back seat. The mobster sits down next to me, slams the door and the car drives off.
... ༺༻ ...
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*Jo ssi, jogeum neuj-eoss-eoyo - We're a little late, Mr. Jo.
*Jo ssi, bij-eun gap-eun geollo saeng-gaghabnida - I consider your debt paid, Mr. Jo.
BLOOD DEBT (피의 빚)