Hippufu
Sad Story
Author: Kim You-jeong
Source: Yeoseong (Women) December Issue (1936)
No matter how much he beat her, if he were to come at me saying, "I hit my own wife, so what's it to you?" I would truly have nothing to say. However, no matter if she is his own wife, making her scream like a dog being slaughtered from time to time, making even the next-door neighbors anxious, is something I have more than enough right to scold him for. If, for instance, I had a wife myself and could bicker with her just like him, then maybe I wouldn't know any better. Even though I am well past the age where I should have been married and could have embraced a wife as much as I wanted, I am inevitably living alone, idling away in a monthly rented room; having a guy like me in the next room while they bicker as a couple and she goes "eek, eek" is a very wrong thing to do. During a lonely autumn season like nowadays, for some reason I keep getting sadder and lonelier, so it is absolutely not my fault that I cannot get a good night's sleep.
It must be well past midnight, nearing two o'clock, and after struggling and struggling, my eyelids were finally just about to close when suddenly with a "thud," the room shook, and I completely lost my sleep. Without a doubt, this is the sound of a heavy body being recklessly smashed against and bouncing off the wall—a wall that, in this tiny rented house, serves to separate the opposite room from the room I rent, but which would rather be better described as a mere fence.
Being smashed against the wall and bouncing off like this is routinely the wife's role, so it is highly unlikely to be any different this time. Therefore, when the husband mutters in a low, barely audible yet viciously snapping voice as if he's about to eat her alive, and then there's a "thwack"—that's a kick landing on her waist. Then the wife groans, "Ugh," which startles the three-year-old son sleeping next to them, making him cry out "Waa," and wake up, making the whole situation very unsettling. Thinking, "Hah, this bastard is at it again," I couldn't help but get angry, so I sprang up and glared fiercely as if I was going to cause a huge scene, but there's no way I wouldn't know that scolding them through the wall would damage my dignity as a respectable gentleman. Since sleeping is a completely lost cause at this point, I lit a cigarette, but no matter how I thought about it, the guy's behavior was so despicable that I couldn't just sit still. So I cleared my throat loudly, "Ahem," and unnecessarily opened the chamber pot lid and slammed it down haphazardly just short of breaking it to show my temper. But having experienced it several times before, I knew there was no use, as he wasn't the type to flinch at something like this.
As I sat there groaning to myself, frowning in displeasure, it seemed the child's voice was getting hoarse, and the situation escalated until finally, the wife seemed to hit her head against a clothes chest or the corner of a desk. The sorrow that could have made her cry endlessly was suppressed for fear of others noticing, leaving her to only let out stifled "gulp, gulp" sounds just below her uvula. Thinking, "Is this bastard going to kill someone?" I couldn't bear to just sit there. I abruptly raised my agitated body and moved toward where the wall and the pillar met. The old wallpaper was torn and frayed, leaving a pathetic little hole. Peeping into the couple's fight through this hole might be a bit of a lapse in manners on my part, but he had already completely lost all decency for me to care about manners or whatever with him. Besides, he had woken someone up from their sleep, so who could blame me for taking a look? Lifting the frayed wallpaper slightly and peeking in, I saw the guy, who looked exactly like a prickly chestnut burr, squatting there still wearing his electric company suit and without even taking his hat off. His wife was much larger and plumper than him, yet somehow he had managed to wedge her head so weirdly under the narrow desk that only her buttocks were sticking up in the air. Targeting this, he struck her sharply with a hard fist he had ready, muttered, "You bitch, how dare you..." and then struck her again. As for the wife, if she had wanted to cry, she could have cried plenty by now, but perhaps because she was a woman raised modestly in the countryside, she left herself to her husband's whims from the start in an attempt not to break the strict virtue of a wife's obedience to her husband, only letting out an occasional little "eek, eek." Meanwhile, the young son, sitting there huddled in fear, cried out shrilly every time he struck her, thinking his father was going to kill his mother.
Then, the guy, fearing that others might wake up from that pitiful noise, would turn his terrified eyes this way, shoot a fierce glare at his son, and threaten him in his own way, saying, "You brat, if you cry, I'll kill you." But when there was another "eek" shortly after, he had no choice but to cover the kid's mouth and slap him across the face. This only created an even bigger mess, and as if he found it absurd himself, he stared blankly and scratched the back of his head.
The guy is so far from being bold that during the day, in front of many people, he wouldn't dare strike his wife. In fact, whenever he came in from outside, he would make nauseatingly sweet remarks as if they had the deepest affection, saying things like, "Baby's mother, have you had dinner?" Yet, after everyone had fallen asleep and it was quiet around this time, he would return from his night shift and, as if holding a grudge against a mortal enemy, threaten her beforehand so she couldn't cry, and then sneakily hit her, kick her, and so on. That kind of bastard. Then again, he's killing his own wife, so it's not something for me to comment on. However, no matter how much he sharply pounded his fists against his wife's plump, fleshy buttocks, it didn't seem to hurt her much. So this time, he curled two fingers like tongs and started pinching her waist. She might have endured the pain, but to be undignifiedly pinched and torn at like this, even Chunhyang herself wouldn't be able to resist being ticklish. Seeing her large, bent body jerk violently every time his fingers dug in, causing the small desk—which was practically resting on her head—to rattle, it was clear that the torment she was going through was no small matter. Tsk, tsk. Even if one were to hit their wife, it would be better to just land a clean, resounding slap on the cheek. I thought to myself that I could never truly do such a thing, and feeling like it wasn't just someone else's business, my anger was about to burst out, thinking, "Ah... you bad bastard."
More than that, no matter if he's the husband, if it comes to this, she could just see about it tomorrow, seeing as she manages a sturdy household and has good strength; she could just lift him up, drag him out, shove him into an outhouse, and beat him up however she wants, and the husband would be so terrified he wouldn't dare make a peep. Yet she couldn't even do that. Tsk, tsk. Ah, it makes me so angry. Well, even if deep-rooted affection between husband and wife stops her from doing that, if she just hoisted her massive buttocks upward right now, it would easily smack his jaw and send him flying onto his back—a sight that wouldn't be too bad. Goodness, what is she thinking? But sensing that if he provoked her a bit more, she just might do it, I watched his pathetic behavior, secretly rubbing my hands in anticipation, wondering, "Now? Maybe now?" However, it quickly ended with her just taking the beating. Thinking "Tsk, tsk," my fist clenched without me realizing it, and only when the guy lifted his wide, startled eyes and looked this way did I realize my fist had struck the wall, and I was taken aback. As I hurriedly brought my scraped fist to my mouth and stood there awkwardly blowing on it, the mean-spirited landlady, who seemed to be coming back from the outhouse, asked, "What are you doing standing there not sleeping?" She looked at me with an unconcerned gaze, slowly approached the front of my room, squinted her eyes, and said half-mockingly, "Why do you keep peeking at another man's wife? If you get unnecessarily riled up, you won't even be able to sleep, you know." Because I am a grown man living alone, and the woman over there is mistreated by her husband, the old woman arbitrarily concluded that in such situations, secretive affairs are inevitable. Lately, she had developed a habit of paying unusual attention to my every move, even trivial things like coming back from using the outhouse. Not even fearing my terrifying glares, she would sometimes even say, "That guy is tormenting her right now to throw her away. If they get divorced, you should just snatch her up without a second thought. Wouldn't that be great?" I didn't think it would be great at all, but she would cackle loudly as if it were a wonderful idea.
Listening to this old woman's words, the guy had been a streetcar driver for 13 years and only just became a supervisor in the autumn. Strutting around the neighborhood acting arrogant as if he had become some high-ranking state minister was something one could perhaps overlook. But suddenly, as if struck by some crazy disease, he decided he wanted to marry a female student. He supposedly harassed his wife relentlessly, saying, "If I live with a country bumpkin like you, I lose face. Hurry up and go back to your parents' home." This is truly despicable. When he first came up from the countryside and became a streetcar driver, it was widely rumored in the neighborhood that he had saved a fair amount of money because he was so steady. When he started saving that 800 won or however much it was, if you think about it, it was partly because when he returned late from the night shift feeling hungry, while his other colleagues ate cold noodles or ox bone soup, he would come home alone, get into bed, and unfailingly sustain himself on exactly two jujubes before sleeping night after night. But more than that, how could those seven or eight hundred won have fallen from the sky without the blood and sweat of his wife, who, without a scarf or gloves in the dead of winter, shivered in her lined jacket while taking turns morning and night to deliver his bento box? Oblivious to such contributions, he's throwing his wife out now that he has shaken off all his dirt, but the old woman muttered, twisting her mouth, that if he did that, his own life would be over. "Anyway, if they divorce, I'll step in and act as a matchmaker, so why don't you try living with her?" Counting the wife's virtues of how faithful she could be to a husband, her thin fingers endlessly folded and unfolded in a flurry. This place called Sindang-ri is inherently a place where only miserable misfits are huddled together. The majority are arrogant fools who have never done a decent thing in their lives, so it is not strange that he, having become a supervisor, demands his first wife step aside so he can try marrying a female student. On the other hand, since they are gossips who would roam the neighborhood spreading tales even if horse dung rolled down the street, I shouldn't be angry that they say I stand mesmerized every night with my eye to the crack in the wall because I'm thirsty for another man's wife. But still, it seems a bit too much.
Fearing that this old woman would drag down a perfectly fine man, I yelled out, "Why don't you marry him yourself, grandma!" But the truth was, I felt sorry for the wife who was suffering day and night under her husband. I wondered if it wouldn't be better for them to just split up if things were going to be like this, but the affection between a married couple—that tough affection forged over a period that wasn't exactly short—didn't seem like something that could be severed overnight, so they stayed like that. Lately, rumor had it that she was being beaten even more because of her younger brother.
On one hand, to a guy dreaming of a modern family with a female student, his original wife was as hateful as a thorn in his eye. Moreover, about ten days ago, his brother-in-law came up from the countryside claiming he couldn't farm anymore and asking to be put in a salaried position. When a huge, lump-like figure stakes out a large space and idles away lazily in a rented room that is already cramped enough for three people, it's understandable he'd be somewhat angry. But for him, it wasn't just that; he was bound to be terrified by the rice disappearing at a rate of three bowls a day. Even so, the guy had just enough sense not to kick his brother-in-law out to his face, telling him to go wherever because he grudged the rice. This could undoubtedly be called the guy's misfortune. At the dining table, he would keep up appearances, saying, "Ah, my friend, are you done eating? Put some water in your rice and take your time, eat some more." But upon returning at night, firmly believing "If I do this, even he will take the hint," he would beat his wife on fabricated pretenses, only to end up exhausted by his own meager strength. Then, the brother-in-law, though pitying his beaten sister, could not do anything about it, so he would awkwardly slip out of the house.
The wife's situation, getting beaten whether for this reason or that, was truly pitiful. I thought that just standing by and watching this continue would be a violation of human morality. So, going over there in a hurry the next day to scold the guy would not be such an inappropriate thing to do. Standing at the gate, I told the child of the house to tell the short supervisor renting the opposite room to come out. I gave my name, saying that although I had lived in the adjacent room all this time and had long heard the reputation of his greatness, I was inadequate, hence the late greeting. With a smug face, he cheerfully responded that we were both busy, and the way he smiled awkwardly made it seem like he thought I came to ask a favor of him. Feeling displeased, I cleared the misunderstanding by saying I wouldn't work at an electric company even if they asked me to. Looking intently at his face, I said, "Oh, so you're the guy who saved 800 won on two jujubes every night?" I couldn't help but marvel once again at his extreme dedication. Even though his face was shriveled up, his nose, eyes, and mouth unpleasantly misaligned and stuck on haphazardly like goods in a rag shop, his clear eyes showed quite a bit of intelligence, and his brisk, ringing voice made me nod, thinking, "Aha, money ultimately ends up with people like this." But when he asked, "Then what brings you here?" I finally realized once again the purpose of my visit. However, I couldn't just tell him outright not to hit his wife, so I said, "By the way, it seems becoming a supervisor at the electric company is very difficult," and flattered him for a while, asking how he managed to achieve such an honor so easily. He swaggered proudly, saying, "Well, it can be done if you try." Thinking this was the right moment, I said, "But for a supervisor of your standing to sharply rap your wife with your knuckles is a bit of an undignified thought, so please refrain from doing so." Instead of taking a stranger's advice, he immediately turned red and shouted angrily, "Who do you think you are to lecture me?" After glaring at me for a while, he said, "Why are you meddling in other people's domestic affairs?" Leaving me so dumbfounded that I just stood there blankly.
Still, it felt infuriating to be shouted down by the guy, so I yelled back slightly louder than him, "Then is it right for you to beat your wife and make her squeal like a dog being slaughtered, keeping the neighbors awake?" At that, the guy stared at me blankly, then—whatever this was supposed to mean—he silently spat to the side. Immediately after, perhaps assuming these were his wife's shoes, he dragged a pair of large rubber shoes and went inside. Because I couldn't tell whether he was insulting me or avoiding me out of fear, I ordered the child who was standing nearby watching to call the supervisor out once more. But the child only returned with the message, "He says he won't come out now." What could I do? Muttering under my breath, "Damn bastard, he's a total coward," I regretted not scolding his behavior more properly. I returned home helplessly. Late into the night, hearing the couple whispering to each other through the wall in my sleep, I thought, "Aha, my scolding had quite an impact after all," and felt inwardly satisfied. But what was this? Gradually, the tone of his voice grew harsher, and eventually, along with the threat "You bitch!" there was a loud crashing sound, as if a kimchi jar had been smashed. Wondering what kind of madness had taken over him this time, I annoyedly rubbed my eyes, got up, and investigated through the crack in the wall. The guy had forced his wife face down on the floor and had hopped up to sit astride her waist. Saying, "Speak, you bitch, tell the truth, you bitch," he was using a technique of twisting one of her arms up behind her back. But her wrist, which was perhaps thicker than his own leg, was not something that would bend easily. He then got worked up and sharply pounded the back of her head with a wooden pillow, but even that was beyond his strength. Eventually, even if he resorted to pinching her sides with both hands, the wife wouldn't normally flinch at such a thing. Yet today, it seemed there was a uniquely overwhelming sorrow that allowed her to wail out loud.
It was despicable that this bastard was throwing such a pitiful fit again even after I had reasoned with him enough for him to listen. On the other hand, demanding her to confess something while she cried made it seem like an unusual affair. Troubled by these unpleasant thoughts, I didn't fall asleep until four in the morning. When I woke up around midday, feeling dizzy as if I had been beaten, I was absentmindedly washing my face when the old landlady hurried over, put her mouth to my ear, and said, "My word, what possessed you to get someone beaten?" I turned my head and asked, "What do you mean, get someone beaten?" She replied, "Didn't you say something to the supervisor yesterday? Well, he figured that since you took his wife's side, there must surely be some relationship between you two, so last night he beat her to make her quickly confess to her unfaithfulness. The brother-in-law came by this morning and pleaded several times that if you went over and did things like that, you would completely ruin his sister's life, so he asked you to please refrain from such actions in the future. Goodness, even if you fell for her, you should keep it to yourself; where is there a law that lets you tell a husband not to beat his wife?" She furrowed her brows as if finding it very pathetic. Realizing that my sympathizing with his wife had actually set her up perfectly to be beaten made me feel apologetic, but at the same time, I couldn't help but feel righteous indignation at the actions of the guy who meticulously shifted the blame entirely onto his wife. Forgetting even to wipe my face with a towel, I clenched both fists and just ran outside. Determined to have a final showdown with this bastard, one way or another, I stood at the gate and loudly called out "Supervisor Park!" three or four times. But the guy didn't come out. Instead, a country fellow of about thirty, with a broad chest and a sturdy build, who must certainly be the brother-in-law, came out and stared at me. Finally, as if accurately grasping the situation, he spoke in an awkward tone, making a frustrated face: "Ah, well, why are you acting like this?" Then he gently pleaded with me, "If you do this, you will completely ruin my sister's future." Asking me to please change my mind, he spread his broad hands—with a skill too adept for a country bumpkin—and slowly pushed my shoulders, though I planted my feet refusing to go, murmuring, "Why are you doing this?" as he nudged me out of the alley gate. As I was pushed back hesitatingly, I quietly thought about it, and it was truly such a sad thing that I was being treated like a child even by this fellow with whom I hadn't even had a proper first meeting. Eventually, I got incredibly angry and shook off his hands with my shoulder, spinning around quickly, which felt pretty good. But noticing his dark face and broadly built frame, I realized this wasn't a fight I could win. I felt deeply bitter at myself for inevitably having to turn away. Thinking it would be better to walk on my own two feet rather than being pushed away like this, I headed back toward my house.