Diary of a Murderer Read online

  Experts only look like experts to me when they talk about things I know nothing about.

  ·

  Eunhui keeps coming home late these days. I don’t remember when I first heard about it, but Eunhui’s research center is working on ways to grow tropical fruits and vegetables on Korean soil. They grow tropical fruits like papayas and mangoes in a greenhouse. There are many Filipino wives in every village who miss fruits they used to eat back home, so they sometimes stop by the center and gaze at the crops, and even pick the fruit.

  Eunhui has never really gotten on well with people, and instead gives all her affection to the silent plants.

  She once told me, “The plants give each other signals. When they feel threatened, they release a chemical odor to warn the others of danger.”

  “So they’re emitting poison?”

  “No matter how small a creature is, they all have a way of staying alive.”

  ·

  The dog next door keeps wandering onto our property. He shits and pisses in the yard. When he sees me, he barks. This is my house, you filthy mongrel.

  The dog doesn’t even run away when you throw a rock at him, but just hovers. When Eunhui returns from work, she says that the dog is ours. She’s lying. Why would Eunhui lie to me?

  ·

  I killed people for thirty years straight. I was very diligent back then. Now that the statute of limitations has passed, I could even go blab about what I’d done. If this were America, I could probably publish a memoir. People would attack me. Let them, if they want. It’s not like I have many days left. I’m a tough one, when I think about it. After all those killings, I went cold turkey. I felt, well, like a boatman who’d just sold his boat, or a mercenary who’d just retired. I can’t say for sure, but there must have been guys in the Korean or Vietnam War who killed more people than I did. Do you think they’re all losing sleep over it? I don’t think so. Guilt is fundamentally a weak emotion. Fear, anger, and jealousy are much stronger. Gripped by fear or anger, you won’t be able to sleep. I laugh when I watch a movie or TV show with a character who loses sleep out of guilt. What are these writers trying to sell? They know nothing about life.

  I quit killing and took up bowling. A bowling ball is round and firm and heavy. I like touching it. I bowled alone from morning to night until I could barely walk. The owner would signal my last game when he turned out all the lights except in my lane. Bowling is addictive. With each game, I feel I can somehow do a little better than the last time. I feel I can get the spare that I just missed, or raise my score. But I always end up with my usual score.

  ·

  One of my walls is covered with notes. The multicolored notes stay where you stick them, and though I don’t know where they came from, they’re all over the house. Maybe Eunhui bought them to help my memory. These notes have a special name, but I can’t remember it right now. The north wall is covered with them, and now the wall facing west is plastered with them, too, but they don’t help much. They’re mostly notes I don’t understand, notes I don’t remember sticking on the wall in the first place. Like the one saying, “Things you must tell Eunhui.” What was it I meant to tell her? Each of the notes feels like a distant star in the universe. Nothing seems to connect them to each other. There’s also one that the doctor wrote for me:

  “Imagine it like a freight car hurtling along without knowing the rails are cut off ahead. What do you think will happen? Won’t the train and the freight pile up where the tracks stop? And it will end in total chaos, won’t it? Sir, this is exactly what’s happening inside your head right now.”

  ·

  I remember an old lady I met in the poetry class. She told me that in the past—she emphasized this part—she’d had numerous love affairs: “I don’t regret it. When you get old, you have all these memories. Whenever I’m bored I think about each of the men I slept with.”

  My life these days is just like that old lady’s. I recall each person who died at my hands. There was also a movie about that: Memories of Murder.

  ·

  I believe in zombies. There’s no reason why something you can’t see doesn’t exist. I often watch zombie movies. I once kept an ax in my bedroom. When Eunhui asked why I kept an ax there, I said it was because of zombies. Axes work best on dead people.

  ·

  The worst thing in the world is to be murdered. I can’t let such a thing happen to me.

  ·

  I hid the syringe in the sewing kit near my bed. A lethal dose of pentobarbital sodium. It’s a drug used to put cows and pigs to sleep. I may use it on myself when I get to the point where I’m smearing my shit across the walls. I can’t let it get that far.

  ·

  I’m afraid. Frankly, I’m kind of afraid.

  I’ll read a sutra.

  ·

  I feel so confused. When you start losing your memory, your mind starts to lose its way.

  ·

  A poet named Francis Thompson wrote, “For we are born in other’s pain, / And perish in our own.” To my mother who gave me life, your son will soon die because his brain is riddled with holes. Or maybe I’ve got the human version of mad cow disease? Is the hospital hiding this from me?

  ·

  For the first time in ages, Eunhui and I went downtown to a Chinese restaurant. We ordered lemon chicken and a mixed meat and seafood dish, but I had no idea what it tasted like. Am I losing my sense of taste as well? I asked Eunhui about work, but as always, she merely listened without saying it’s sweet or bitter or anything definite. Eunhui spoke and acted as if nothing in the world had any effect on her. It’s as if she were saying, Yes, I do live there. And just like anywhere, there are people, things happen every day. But none of it has anything to do with me, and it doesn’t really affect me.

  Eunhui and I have little to talk about. I don’t know much about her life, and she doesn’t know who I really am. But these days we do have one subject in common: my Alzheimer’s. Eunhui is afraid of it. Because she’s afraid, she keeps bringing it up. If my Alzheimer’s gets worse but I live for a long time, Eunhui may have to quit work and take care of me. What young woman wants to be stuck deep in the provinces, taking care of her demented old father? Since Alzheimer’s is a degenerative disease, there’s no hope for improvement. So my dying quickly would be good news for everyone. And, my Eunhui, if I die, there’s more good news for you. You become the beneficiary of the life insurance policy I took out. Though you don’t know about that yet.

  I locked it in over ten years ago. The insurance saleswoman, who made a house visit after receiving my call, seemed surprised at the large amount of the policy. She looked in her mid-forties but seemed inexperienced. She was probably a housewife who’d raised her kids and gotten a late start in the insurance industry.

  She asked, “Will your daughter be the sole beneficiary?”

  I responded, “I don’t have any other family. I had a sister, but she died young.”

  “It’s good you’re thinking about your daughter, but you should also prepare for your retirement.”

  “I’m already set for retirement.”

  “People live much longer on average than they used to. You should be prepared for the danger of living too long.”

  The danger of living too long. People these days really do excel at coming up with amusing phrases. I said nothing and just stared at the woman. I knew how to reduce the danger of living too long by a hundred percent. She must have seen something threatening in my eyes, for she shrank back a little.

  “Well, do what you think best. But you should be preparing for retirement . . .”

  She quickly spread out the documents for me to sign. I signed and signed. If I die, the insurance company has to pay out a huge sum to Eunhui. But what if she dies before I do? I can’t stand the thought of Eunhui being dragged away and killed by someone. I know what that’s like better than anyone.

  ·

  I’ve never cursed anyone out. I don’t drink or smoke either, so p
eople always ask me if I’m Christian. There are fools who spend their whole lives putting everyone into categories. It makes things easy, but it’s a little dangerous because they can’t fathom people who don’t fit into their flimsy boxes, like me.

  ·

  In the morning, I opened my eyes. I didn’t know where I was. I bolted up, pulled my pants on, and ran out. An unfamiliar dog barked furiously at me. I rushed around looking for my shoes, then saw Eunhui coming out from the kitchen. It was our house.

  What a relief. I still remember Eunhui.

  ·

  It happened about five years ago. I went to Japan on a hot springs tour with the old folks from the neighborhood. At Kansai International Airport, the immigration officer asked me, “What do you do?”

  I don’t know what I was thinking, but I said, “Killing people.”

  He glanced at me and asked, “Are you a doctor?” He had misheard “killing” for “healing.” I nodded without saying anything, since a veterinarian is also a doctor. He said, “Welcome to Japan,” and stamped my passport with a thump.

  ·

  The only comfort is knowing I can die without pain. I’ll be a drooling idiot before I die and won’t even know who I am.

  ·

  I’ve got a neighbor who blacks out after a night out drinking. Maybe death is a stiff drink that helps you forget the boring night out that is your life.

  ·

  I happened to see a text message Eunhui sent her friend: “I’m going crazy. Each day is just too much to take.”

  Whether her friend was comforting her or being sarcastic, she texted back: “What a loyal daughter. Seriously, you’re incredible.”

  “What’s more terrifying is what might happen later. With Alzheimer’s, they say your personality changes. I think it’s already started.”

  “Send him to a nursing home. You said he’s not even your real father, so why are you taking on the entire burden alone?”

  The friend’s texts continued. “Don’t feel guilty. He won’t remember anyway.”

  Eunhui’s reply went like this: “They say Alzheimer’s patients still have feelings.”

  I still have feelings. I still have feelings. I still have feelings. I brood over this phrase all day.

  ·

  My life can be divided into thirds: my childhood before I killed my father; my youth and my adult life as a murderer; then my peaceful life after I stopped murdering. Eunhui symbolizes the last third of my life. Maybe the best way to put it is that she’s a kind of amulet for me. As long as I can see Eunhui when I wake up, I won’t return to the past where I wandered around looking for victims.

  On TV I saw that there was a tiger in a Thailand zoo who’d become deeply depressed after losing her cubs. She didn’t eat or move. The zookeeper, unable to stand it any longer, tried to find a way to rouse the tiger. He put a baby pig in the tiger’s cage. The tiger took the baby pig for its own and nursed and raised it. Maybe that describes my relationship with Eunhui.

  ·

  I’ve lost all appetite. If I eat, I throw up. I want to eat something, but I don’t know what. I don’t want to do anything. I never drank or smoked my whole life, but I feel the urge now. Still, I don’t think I’ll ever start.

  ·

  “I’m seeing someone,” Eunhui told me.

  According to what I remember—though of course that’s become hard to trust—it’s the first time Eunhui has brought up a man. I suddenly realized that I wasn’t the least bit prepared to accept him. I’d never imagined Eunhui living with another man. I can’t imagine it even now. Could I have actually assumed that she would always live with me?

  When Eunhui was in middle school, some guys interested in her used to hang around near the house. They were young and I was already old by then, but there wasn’t a single guy who didn’t run when he saw me. I didn’t try to scare them; all I did was quietly say a few words, but for some reason every one of them became scared and fled. No matter how fierce a dog is, it always surprises its owner when, at the vet’s, it tucks its tail between its legs and whimpers. Teenage boys are no different from dogs. From the first confrontation, the look in your eyes determines the relationship.

  “So?” I said.

  “I’d like you to meet him.” Her cheeks flushed.

  “So you’re going to bring him home?”

  “Yes.”

  “What for?”

  “Because you should meet him.”

  “What for?”

  “He wants to marry me.”

  “Then marry him.”

  “Please don’t be like this.”

  “Everyone is alone in the end.”

  “Why bother living if we’re going to die anyway?” Her low voice was frosty with anger.

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “Do you want me to stay unmarried and live with you my entire life, Dad?”

  Was that what I wanted? I couldn’t say for sure. Because I didn’t know, I just wanted to avoid the subject.

  “Anyhow, I don’t want to meet him,” I said. “If you want to marry him, get on with it without me.”

  “Let’s talk about this later.”

  Eunhui left the room. For some reason I felt ashamed, and angry, too. But I didn’t know why. I felt hungry, so I made some noodles. After a few bites, I realized that they tasted weird. Too late it came to me: I left out the soy sauce. I looked everywhere but couldn’t find it. I made a note to buy another one. Maybe they’ll find dozens of open soy sauce bottles around the house after I die.

  I was washing the dishes when my heart sank and I was thrown off again. There was a bowl of unfinished noodles in the sink. Two bowls of noodles already for today’s meal.

  ·

  “On my honor, friend,” answered Zarathustra, “there is nothing of this that you speak: there is no devil and no hell. Your soul will be dead even sooner than your body; therefore, fear nothing more!”

  It’s as if Nietzsche had written that for me.

  ·

  One bad thing about living so many years as a murderer: you have no close friends to talk to. But do other people actually have such friends?

  ·

  As soon as thunder and lightning struck outside, the bamboo forest stirred with noise. I didn’t sleep all night, I was so intensely irritated by the sound of rain running down the house’s eaves. But I used to enjoy that sound.

  ·

  Eunhui brought the man she’s seeing to our house. It’s the first time she’s done this, and she acts serious and grave. I’m forced to accept it. My hands are clammy.

  The man came in a four-wheel-drive jeep. I could tell right away it was made for hunting. As if the searchlights installed on the roof weren’t enough, three more fog lights were mounted on the bumper. These kinds of cars are revamped so the trunk can be cleaned with water, with two extra car batteries thrown in. When it’s hunting season, bastards like him gather in the mountains behind the village.

  “I’m Pak Jutae. Pleased to meet you.” The man made a full bow, his knees to the floor.

  I accepted it with a slight bow. At around five foot six, Pak was on the short side, but he had fair skin and a good build. On second glance, though, he had a narrow forehead, small eyes, and a pointy jaw—a typical rat-like face. He had on thick-rimmed glasses, maybe to hide his face. He seemed both familiar and not, but I couldn’t bring it up since I didn’t trust my memory at all these days. After he finished bowing, he sat down on his knees. Eunhui sat between us.

  I said, “No need to kneel.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  I burst out, “I’ve got dementia. Alzheimer’s.”

  Eunhui’s gaze darted up at me. A stare of protest.

  I added, “Did Eunhui tell you about it?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Even if I forget who you are, please don’t take it personally. The doctor says that the most recent memories go first.”

  “I hear there are good medications these days,�
�� Pak said.

  “How good can they be?”

  Eunhui brought out some sliced pears and apples. While we ate the fruit, Pak slipped easily into telling me a bit about himself.

  “I work in real estate,” he said.

  “Real estate.”

  “I buy land, divide it into plots, then resell them.”

  “The work must keep you moving around, looking at land.”

  “I do have to make an effort to go and see for myself. Land is like women—you can’t trust what you hear without seeing for yourself.”

  I asked, “Any chance we’ve met before?”

  “No, we haven’t. Today’s the first time.” He smiled lightly as he looked up at me.

  Eunhui interrupted. “You may have seen Jutae somewhere. He’s often in the area these days.”

  He chimed in, “It’s a small town.”

  I said, “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

  He had a trace of an accent from down south. He nodded in agreement, but his response wasn’t what I’d expected.

  He said, “You’re right. I was born and raised in Seoul.”

  “If you marry Eunhui, will you move to Seoul?”

  He glanced quickly at Eunhui and back to me, then said no. “Eunhui won’t be going anywhere. Why would we leave when you’re based here?”

  Eunhui said, “We’re planning to live downtown.”

  Her hand reached out and brushed against his, but he didn’t take her hand. His hands curled inward like a threatened snail, so Eunhui’s hand returned awkwardly to its owner. It happened in the blink of an eye, but it worried me.

  When he got up, Eunhui followed him. She slid easily into the hunting-style jeep. It was clear that she’d been in it many times. She rolled the window down and, after telling me she’d be downtown for a bit, rolled it up again.

  I went back to the house, closed the door, and started writing about my first meeting with this Pak Jutae before I forgot. Something didn’t feel right. I’d just met the guy, but I already hated him. Why? Had I seen something in him? What was it?