PAHO 1

Vrooom, a black wagon sped away with a smooth engine hum. Jo Yongsik, who had been bowing deeply in farewell, promptly stomped on the business card in his hand as soon as he confirmed the red taillights had completely disappeared beyond the unpaved road.

“Ugh, these d**n b**t**ds aren’t even worth dog s**t.”

Muttering the curse in a small voice, just in case they made a U-turn and came back, Jo Yongsik spit noisily—ptui, ptui—on the business card he had thrown onto the road. It was a substitute for salt, which was too precious to waste on the ground.

The smell of melted asphalt hung heavy in the street, where heat had layered up from the continuous scorching weather. Jo Yongsik hopped over the tires stacked up in place of a fence and sighed at the sight of repair tools scattered all over the auto shop.

Just as he was about to take his first bite of the free black bean noodles he had ordered with painstakingly collected coupons, two men had abruptly entered the auto shop. They were dressed in suits so tight they accentuated their builds, and had shaved heads. At a glance, they had the appearance of gangster thugs who had come to collect a debt, but what other reason could there be for visiting an auto shop? Figuring they were obviously customers who had come to get their car repaired, Jo Yongsik set aside his noodles and greeted them warmly. This month’s rent for the shop was due any day now, and as someone supporting an elderly mother with dementia, every single customer was precious.

The man ignored the orange juice offered for guests and abruptly held out a business card. The security team leader began his business with a long-winded introduction, saying he was from the S-One Recycling Green Center on an inquiry, then suddenly demanded Jo Yongsik’s security camera footage. The reason—that they were searching for evidence to hand over to the police for an investigation into recent thefts on private property—sounded like utter nonsense.

Jo Yongsik had already heard a rumor from the Chinese restaurant deliveryman who had just been by. Apparently, some punk-like guys claiming to be from a large corporation’s security team had been visiting the area recently. He also heard that just last Friday, Mr. Choi, the fruit and vegetable seller, had been seen groveling and apologizing after picking a fight with them, telling them to move their car.

To avoid a headache, Jo Yongsik refused the security team leader’s request. No, rather than a refusal, the security camera installed in front of the auto shop was, in truth, merely a decoration, so there was no such thing as black box footage to begin with.

Threatened with a civil complaint to the county office, Jo Yongsik had to grovel just like Mr. Choi the fruit seller, saying he truly didn’t know. Only after he threw in some high-grade engine oil and filled up their tires did they finally clear their throats and leave, acting no different from common thugs.

Jo Yongsik tore off his work gloves and threw them aside, then plopped down onto the sofa in the corner and picked up the half-eaten bowl of black bean noodles. The noodles, which had looked deliciously glossy just an hour ago, were now swollen and soggy.

“D**n it all.”

Just as Jo Yongsik, who had been lifting and dropping the lumpy noodles, threw down his chopsticks, a cheer erupted from the broadcast on the small television. After the batter from the opposing team who hit a grand slam walked triumphantly, holding the brim of his cap, the camera caught the face of the dejected outfielder. It made his own stomach churn in turn.

Thinking it over, it seemed to be one of those incredibly unlucky days. The client he’d even broken into his non-existent savings to gift golf clubs to had canceled the entire verbal order, claiming there was a problem with distribution; and the air conditioner was leaking water because the outdoor unit had broken down. Having to deal with thugs who were, at the end of the day, just employees of a private company, even if it was a large corporation, acting like police officers made the day feel like an eternity.

Mangmae County, South Jeolla Province, located southwest of Jirisan Mountain and nestled between the Hwacheon River, was a place famous since ancient times for its auspicious feng shui due to its beautiful mountain terrain. Its name, Mangmae (茫昧), meant as deep as the distant dawn, but in the modern era, it was nothing more than one of many rural towns. Then, ten years ago, capital from a large corporation came in under the pretext of regional development, and all the rice paddies and fields that used to grow melons and watermelons were plowed over into factory grounds. For a small county with at most a thousand households, it was a massive transformation.

Since a big company had gotten involved, wouldn’t it be good for everyone if the region developed along with it? The county residents had hoped for the revitalization of the local economy with one heart and mind, but it took less than a few years for them to realize they had been deceived.

Large cargo trucks noisily cutting through the country roads every Monday at dawn, the ceaseless roar and exhaust fumes around the factory. On the news, they dressed up the Mangmae County factory site with fancy words like industrial resource recycling and carbon neutrality, but in reality, it was nothing more than an industrial waste disposal site.

For the past several years, residents had filed all sorts of civil complaints about the waste disposal site, citing infringement on their living environment, but neither the county office nor the factory budged from their stance that there was no problem. The dissatisfaction of the residents, who had lost their farmland for a pittance, grew steadily. It was around then that a rumor started to spread. That you could get a decent price for things like scrap metal mixed in with the large waste items from the big cities. The half-believing residents soon began, one by one, to collect and resell usable junk. That sort of not-quite-symbiotic relationship had already been going on for several years, so now all this talk of trespassing on private property and industrial espionage was ridiculous.

With police cars constantly patrolling a town that already had little foot traffic, residents didn’t even dare to venture outside for fear of being stopped and questioned. If they were unlucky, they might even get called out for not being registered residents.

A series of runs were scored, and the score was reversed. And they called that baseball. Feeling inexplicably irritated and angry, Jo Yongsik frantically flipped through the channels with the remote. On the local news channel, a professor invited as an economic expert was chattering nonstop about Samwon Biotech’s acquisition and merger of a French pharmaceutical company. Something about a leap to becoming one of Asia’s leading conglomerates beyond just Korea, and the puzzle finally being completed thanks to the outstanding leadership of the Samwon Group’s eldest son and current division head.

“It’s been ages since North Korea fell, so why are they sitting there praising him like he’s the supreme leader? That guy’s a**hole is going to be worn raw, I tell you.”

Just as he snorted at the words, which sounded more like something a religious fanatic would say than an expert, the sound of a motorcycle engine caught his ear. Did they come back for the bowl already? Jo Yongsik turned his head and glanced toward the half-shuttered door, just as a motorcycle stopped in front of the standing sign.

The number of people who rode motorcycles around here could be counted on one hand. The Chinese restaurant owner’s nephew, the lowest-ranking policeman at the substation, and a regular customer. Among them, only one person rode a military-style cruiser painted black.

Even in the middle of summer, when the temperature soared to 40 degrees Celsius during the day, the man wore not only a helmet but also gloves, knee pads, and even a safety jacket thickly padded with synthetic leather on the elbows and shoulders. Although the attire might seem somewhat stuffy, perhaps due to his tall stature, he looked as if he had stepped right out of a handsome pictorial.

Presently, the man who had propped the motorcycle up on the repair lift took off his helmet. As expected, it was a face Jo Yongsik knew. No, it was more than just knowing him; they were quite familiar.

“Well, look who it is. Isn’t it Nam Gyeonhwa?”

Jo Yongsik approached readily and greeted him by patting his shoulder lightly so it wouldn’t hurt. Nam Gyeonhwa, who was smoothing back the hair stuck to his forehead, gave an awkward smile.

“Have you been well, Mr. Jo?”

“Forget about being well. Why is it so hard to see your face? You were gone for so long, I thought you’d skipped town.”

“I’ve been… a bit busy with one thing and another.”

Nam Gyeonhwa gave a suitably friendly response and then picked up a wrench from the toolbox on the workbench, giving it a little shake. It was a silent gesture asking to borrow it, to which Jo Yongsik didn’t even nod. Their attitudes were familiar with each other, as if this had happened countless times before.

In Mangmae, where the people who came and went were always the same, Nam Gyeonhwa was a rare sight. It was partly because there were few young people due to the town’s characteristic of having a mostly elderly population, but even beyond his youth and handsome appearance, there were more than a few unusual things about him.

Was it around this time five years ago? The moment Nam Gyeonhwa suddenly appeared at the real estate office, which was being used like a gambling den, was still vivid. Thinking he was a plainclothes police officer, all h**l had broken loose. When he said he was just looking for a room to rent, Mr. Kim at the real estate office had been the one to react with bewilderment. In a situation where even the elderly were leaving for the metropolitan area to find a way to make a living, it was bound to be strange that a young man who looked like he was from a big city was trying to settle down in the countryside.

For a while, the townspeople made all sorts of conjectures about Nam Gyeonhwa. That he was a spy plotting to restore the North Korean regime, or that he had taken out a private loan and hidden away in a quiet rural corner. It wasn’t long before the fact that he had deliberately left Seoul because of a youth relocation policy was revealed, but he still remained a unique figure among the residents.

“Don’t mind me, please finish your meal.”

Nam Gyeonhwa, focused on tightening a loose part, said without even lifting his head. At first listen, his tone was gruff, but he must have said it out of consideration. Jo Yongsik sighed and shook his head.

“Those black bean noodles… I can’t eat them now.”

“Why can’t you?”

“How can I eat them when they’re all soggy and swollen?”

“Were you busy with something today?”

“Well now, should I call this being busy…”

Jo Yongsik, a bitter taste in his mouth, leaned in.

“Gyeonhwa, you didn’t see a black car on your way here, did you?”

“A black car? I don’t think so… Did something happen?”

“Well, the thing is, you know S-One in Hwapyeong-ri. Some guys from there came by today.”

Nam Gyeonhwa, who had been focused only on the motorcycle, finally looked up. His expression was utterly displeased.

“S-One, you mean the Recycling Green Center.”

“Yeah, that place. I wondered what business they had at an auto shop, but well, they’ve been making a fuss lately about people trespassing in their junkyard, and it seems like this time they’re planning to get the police involved in the investigation. Come to think of it, I got a business card from the guy who was the security team leader or whatever.”

He hurried outside to look for the business card, but it seemed to have blown away in the wind and was nowhere to be seen. Jo Yongsik returned, scratching the back of his head and clicking his tongue.

“If I’d known you were coming, I would have kept the card.”

“Were they looking for me?”

“Not exactly, but since you’ve been going over there often too, I thought I should let you know just in case. The delivery guy earlier said it looks like they’ve already caught a few of the main culprits who were going in and out of there. He said they even made them sign some kind of written pledge.”

“Well, they must have something to hide.”

“Why are they taking out their own dirty laundry on other people? Anyway, I’ve hated that junkyard, or disposal site, or whatever it is, ever since it was built. If the scrap metal is so precious, they should just keep it in Seoul. Why haul it all the way out here to dump it?”

Instead of agreeing with the complaint, Nam Gyeonhwa stood up from his crouched position and lightly kicked the lower part of the motorcycle with his foot. The creaky accelerator now moved smoothly, visible even to the n**ed eye.

“What, you fixed it already?”

“It wasn’t a major issue.”

He said it as if it were nothing, but considering that the motorcycle had originally been a hunk of scrap metal abandoned at the waste disposal site, it was practically the same as building a new one.

Among all the people Jo Yongsik knew, Nam Gyeonhwa was the most skilled with his hands and the sharpest. But for some reason, he was in a situation where he couldn’t even open a domestic bank account in his own name because he wasn’t a registered citizen.

Whenever Jo Yongsik saw him acting as if he’d been through all sorts of trials and tribulations at the tender age of thirty-two at most, he felt a sense of pity for him, and at the same time, a sense of curiosity about where on earth he came from and what he did before. But he had never once asked. He figured that if Nam Gyeonhwa hadn’t said anything after all the years they had known each other, there must be a good reason for it.