KNEEL Ch 4

‘What is this. What am I supposed to do about this. Don’t act all cool. You should be more curious about the whereabouts of my taxes scattered under the guise of being a cultured dictator.’

Mi Hansol seems surprisingly interested in social issues. His coat and inner layers are all monochromatic, but on his wrist, he wears a bright red donation bracelet for supporting African children. Neil chuckles to himself. He thinks about following Mi Hansol’s lead and taking a nap. What a cute person. Just as the thought crosses his mind, the bus departs.

∞ ∞ ∞

The birth of a bell must go through a process of at least eighteen stages. It possesses a charm somewhat similar to that “species” of Darwin’s. It is completed only when one pours in crude inspiration that is simultaneously exquisite and meticulous, yet beyond the scope of understanding. It is a piece of metal that requires truly mysterious labor.

Perhaps that is why master bell-makers are closer to Taoist hermits than technicians. Just when you think they are vague and easygoing, they suddenly become eccentric. In Mi Hansol’s words, they are “fucking annoying.” Even apprentices who knead worthless junk like earthenware have their noses in the clouds, so to think I’m in a position where I have to interrogate the Iron Casting Master Lee Gwi. Mi Hansol’s brow is furrowed, wondering what kind of hardcore workplace this is. Even after arriving in Jecheon, the two rode in a taxi for a long while. Reaching the workshop, Neil marvels.

“Wow. It really is different. I can feel a special energy.”

“That’s the house. This is the workshop.”

“Oh, right. Then shall we go in first.”

Neil pushes open the plank gate with a refreshing motion. Mi Hansol looks like nothing more and nothing less than a man headed to his death. He listlessly hums a children’s song. On the birthday of the Tiger, the hero of the mountains. An elderly man with a wonderful atmosphere, wearing a deep blue knit and cotton pants, is holding the surface of a bell while turning a rotating plate. Gathered in the diverse animal park, a ball was held. Lee Gwi stops his movements and looks at the uninvited chatterbox and the fox. Neil shouts.

“Hello, Mister! Why did you forge the Seated Buddha Statu—urgh.”

Let it be known that the final scream was not Neil’s intention. When a person who was a star striker for a youth men’s soccer team kicks your shin, such a sound comes out naturally.

∞ ∞ ∞

Lee Gwi is a young man of seventy. He is far too urban to be an old man who staked his life on traditional Buddhist temple bells. Even the beard covering his jaw is thick with white hair, but the veins protruding on the back of his hands and arms remain the same, and the sharp edge nestled in his eyes is like that of a hungry lynx.

He scans Neil once, and then Mi Hansol once. Regardless of beauty or ugliness, Mi Hansol enjoys all works that provide him with intellectual stimulation. The appearance of Lee Gwi, whom he had only heard of through rumors, is somehow like a grotesque standing statue. The only humanity to be found in him is the fact that he has “aged.” He’s exactly like… a stuffed animal.

“Is there something I can help with?”

Lee Gwi asks. Mi Hansol quickly organizes his thoughts. If we present a business as worthless as a beggar’s foot-wraps,

1. It offends Lee Gwi.
2. The moment Lee Gwi expresses regret to the association or the gallery, I am officially a certified unemployed person.
3. Whether I like her or not, the probability of our Director Kim being disciplined and ending up on the street cannot be ignored.
4. While the two of us are sucking our thumbs, this guy Neil can just go back to his home country, and
5. In the end, only I will be the one getting royally screwed.

He reaches a very sad conclusion. Hansol takes a small step. From behind, he firmly grips Neil’s wrist. Hoping he understood this noble non-verbal expression that means “I’ll handle it, so please, for the love of god, stay quiet.”

“I am Mi Hansol. This is a colleague I work with. We are from the Gallery Association.”

“I suppose these days you collect annual fees by putting in the legwork.”

“Do you live hearing the news from Seoul well?”

“I receive a letter every now and then.”

“An auction was held for the purpose of returning the unpaid fines of former President Chun Jaeman. One of the works that came out there was swapped.”

“A bell?”

“No. It is a part of a Buddha statue. The fake was made using a secret method known to be the absolute best in the country.”

“…”

“But strangely enough, it is that very method that no one would even dare to attempt if it weren’t for you, Elder.”

“…”

“I will give you one day. Please prepare your position.”

Mi Hansol sets his luggage down at his feet. He brushes back his fine hair.

“And I am sorry, but are there no vacant rooms here.”

Lee Gwi and Neil look at Mi Hansol at the same time. Hansol delivers the final blow.

“Because our expenses are quite lacking.”

Neil is practically sobbing from trying to hold back his laughter. A business that is perfectly like a beggar’s foot-wraps. Let’s look again even at a fire that has gone out. And let’s not trust a Mi Hansol who says he will handle it himself.

Lee Gwi did not continue the conversation further. However, Neil and Mi Hansol decide to feel relieved for now in the sense that, for some reason, he showed the mercy of having an apprentice provide a place to stay. Their room-sharing—though someone might get angry and tell them not to talk nonsense—has been achieved regardless. Lee Gwi’s workshop was built in a spacious Hanok thatched-roof style. Neil lets out a string of exclamations. He says it’s his first time sleeping in a room with an ondol floor. Mi Hansol tuts. Finding all sorts of things fascinating. Of course it’s your first time; did you expect to sleep while warming the floor in Paris, you?

As everyone guessed, Mi Hansol is extremely sensitive. After setting up earplugs, an eye mask, a portable mini-humidifier by his bedside, and even his most cherished pajamas and rabbit slippers, he sprays aromatic oil for deep sleep on his pillow and tucks himself into the mattress. Neil, who seemed to be lying face down reading something intently, keeps striking up conversation just when Hansol is about to fall asleep, making a mess of things. Mi Hansol calmly plans an alibi. If I beat him up with a slipper, there won’t be any bruises, so wouldn’t it be fine?

“Sol. Are you sleeping?”

“Yes. I’m sleeping.”

“What kind of person is Lee Gwi?”

“I told you I’m sleeping.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“So you’ve been thinking. Yes. Go to sleep now.”

“I mean Mr. Lee. It seems…”

Mi Hansol abruptly sits up. A bright voice greets Mi Hansol.

“Oh. You’re going to talk to me?”

“Ah, what the hell is wrong with this guy.”

Mi Hansol looks up at the heavens and swears a blue streak. Our lives are like this. To gain one thing, you must give up another. It is the logic and providence of life that to gain deep sleep, you must play with the puppy. Right. That’s correct. It’s easier if you give up.

“I’ll tell you as much as I know, so stop pestering me.”

“Understood.”

“In our country, the only one who wears the title of ‘National Intangible Cultural Property’ for bells is the Iron Casting Master4) Lee Gwi. The rest of the master casters remained at the level of provincial intangible cultural properties. People often gossip that the good days are over, but even a rotten mackeral is still a mackeral; Lee Gwi is the only one designated as an Important Intangible Cultural Property5) by the state.”

Whether you call it a factional war or a power struggle, not long ago the master casters gathered and submitted a petition, so he went through quite a bit of trouble. A request for an investigation into the truth. They say only Lee Gwi knows the remaining Silla-style traditional bell-making method, but according to the master casters, that’s a complete scam. All the master casters and Lee Gwi studied under one teacher. That teacher died suddenly. Rumor has it that when the teacher was dying, he uttered a secret technique, and Lee Gwi, who happened to be the only one left, was the only one who heard it.

The young Lee Gwi did not share the will for the purpose of monopolizing wealth and fame, and therefore he is nothing more than a merchant. Because of Lee Gwi, the lineage of Korean temple bell production is about to be cut off. That is the position of the master casters. But Lee Gwi’s stance in his lectures and books was like, ‘I discovered this method myself, so only I know it.’ The master casters say that if he just releases that secret technique, they too can sufficiently demonstrate it. The point is, Lee Gwi’s mood lately must be as ruined as it can be. About that much?

The moon must have a large halo, as the window paper is hazy. Mi Hansol prepares to sleep in earnest. Neil snaps his fingers refreshingly. Ah, so that’s why he didn’t deny it immediately.

“It’s a ‘God’s dilemma,’ then.”

Mi Hansol covers himself with the blanket and just turns his head to look at Neil. Neil is carefully touching the area around his nose. It will take a long time to heal without a splint. Ouch, he furrows his brow.

According to Max Cruz, let’s say there is an omnipotent God. Can He create a rock so heavy that even He cannot lift it? If He cannot lift the rock, He is not omnipotent; furthermore, if He cannot create the rock, is He not also not omnipotent?

If he says he didn’t make the forgery, the title of it being Lee Gwi’s unique method will be ruined, and if he says he did? A trip to prison is the basic. A person who is a namesake Intangible Cultural Property has tarnished the national prestige, so sponsorships and everything else will go up in smoke.

“Even if you give him three days, Lee Gwi will probably remain silent.”

“…”