Untold Night and Day Read online

  Bae Suah

  * * *

  UNTOLD NIGHT AND DAY

  Translated from the Korean by Deborah Smith

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  Translator’s Note

  About the Authors

  Bae Suah (Author)

  Bae Suah was born in Seoul in 1965. She studied chemistry at university and wrote her first short story as a way of practising her typing on a new word program. Since 1993 she has published fourteen story collections and six novels. Untold Night and Day is her first book to be published in the UK.

  Deborah Smith (Translator)

  Deborah Smith (@londonkoreanist) was born in Doncaster in 1987. She studied English and then Korean literature in the UK, and has translated several books by Bae Suah and Han Kang. She publishes Asian literatures in translation through Tilted Axis Press, which she founded in 2015.

  Also by Bae Suah

  Nowhere to Be Found

  A Greater Music

  North Station

  Recitation

  1

  The former actress Ayami was sitting on the second flight of stairs in the audio theatre, with the guestbook in her hand.

  She was alone. At that point, nothing else had been made known.

  With the lights off, the interior of the auditorium seemed as though submerged in murky water. Objects, matter itself, were softly disintegrating. All identity became ambiguous, semi-opaque. Not only light and form, but sound, too. The auditorium held only five two-seater sofas; other than that, the irregular flights of stairs served as a public gallery.

  Sitting in this same spot with the guestbook open in front of her, after the day’s performance was over and she had closed the theatre doors; this time was precious to Ayami. Not that the audience members usually wrote down anything special. Now and then, a blind visitor might record something using Braille, but Ayami could not decipher such language. Still, she didn’t sit with the book in her hand in order to read but to listen, quietly, to a voice that faded in and out.

  Don’t go far away, even for just one day, because

  Because … a day is long, and

  I will wait for you.fn1

  Ayami was sitting alone in the auditorium because always, at this time of day, an old radio hidden somewhere among the sound equipment turned itself on. Since Ayami was afraid of the static electricity that sparks in machines, cables, microphones and speakers, and believed the disturbance caused by sound waves was able to inflict physical damage, she couldn’t conceive of touching or even peering at the backs of the bulky machines to look for a radio, deliberately concealed among them or just left there by mistake. Though she worked at the audio theatre, her familiarity with the sound equipment only extended to putting the CD of a given performance into the stereo and pressing ‘play’. Now and then, a sound engineer from the foundation would come to check that everything was in working order, but Ayami had never spoken with him.

  The engineer wore a baseball cap jammed right down on his head, obscuring his face and making him look like a shadow of himself. He always came on the shuttle bus, even though he never brought any heavy equipment, and there was never anyone else with him. The bus was white, and emblazoned with the foundation’s logo. The theatre director was informed in advance of the precise time of the engineer’s visit, so that any issues could be discussed in person. The director came out to greet the engineer when he arrived, and saw the bus off when he left.

  One time, Ayami had wanted to tell the director about the radio, how it switched itself on and off again. It hadn’t yet happened during a performance, but there would be a problem if it did, and Ayami felt the director ought to be informed, given that he was her only colleague and superior.

  Pausing outside the open door to the director’s office, as though the thought had only just occurred to her, Ayami turned and said, ‘There’s probably some kind of issue with one of the wires. Maybe a cable for the speakers got connected to this radio by mistake.’

  The director looked up from his desk.

  ‘There’s no radio there that I know of. And it’s strange; I’ve never heard this sound you’re talking about. Then again, I can’t claim to be blessed with especially acute hearing.’

  ‘Well, I’m not completely sure it’s coming from a radio.’ Ayami wavered, but she’d started now and felt compelled to carry on. ‘I’m just guessing. In any case, now and then, when the theatre’s very quiet, you can hear something – well, no, I suppose all I can say for a fact is that it feels like you can hear something.’

  ‘What are we talking about, specifically? Music?’

  ‘No, not that. It sounds like someone reading a book out loud, very slowly; like distant muttering, yes, like someone talking to themselves … a monotonous voice, like the one that reads the shipping forecast, purposefully speaking slowly so that the fishermen have time to make a note of the predictions. South-easterly waves 2.5 metres, south-westerly, slight cloud, rainbow to the south, rain shower, hail, north-easterly, 2, 35, 7, 81 … at least, that’s how it seems to me.’

  ‘And you usually hear this sound in the evenings, after the performance is over and the sound equipment’s been switched off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case, mightn’t it be a sound shadow, left behind after the performance?’

  ‘A sound shadow?’

  ‘Like an unknown voice.’

  Ayami stared hard at the director, but couldn’t tell whether he was joking or being sincere. Thinking how little she knew about machines, she was still wondering how she ought to respond when he saved her the trouble.

  ‘When the engineer comes the day after tomorrow, I’ll tell him to take a look at it, see what’s going on, OK?’

  ‘Yes, I understand. But I …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just, I felt it was my duty to inform you … I just thought I ought to let you know about it.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘To be honest, whether the sound’s coming from a radio, or some kind of shadow like you say, it’s not actually that loud. Even if it were to switch itself on during a performance, the sound effects would probably cover it up.’

  The director’s lips seemed to twitch into the merest hint of a smile, though perhaps it was only a muscle spasm.

  ‘So you wanted to let me know that you’ve been hearing some mysterious radio broadcast, but that it’s not disturbing you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Before the director could say anything else, Ayami had hurried back to her usual spot in the library.

  Late afternoon, with the sun bowing low in sky, the heavy orange radiance of the last light flooded horizontally into the building, but the world of the interior, where the lights were off, was already half sunk in darkness. The day’s performance had been attended by five high school boys, a man who looked to be their form teacher, and a girl with a severe visual impairment, her eyes visible only as slender slits. The pupils kept fidgeting throughout the performance, and sprang up from their seats before it had properly finished. They practically flew out of the auditorium, yelling and shoving as they went through the glass door. The door swung back so suddenly it severed them from their shadows, which were left behind like dark ghosts.

  The visually impaired girl was the last of the visitors to leave the auditorium. When she said goodbye, her middle finger brushed the back of Ayami’s hand and then continued round to find a certain spot on the inside of her wrist. A brief gentle pressure, as though wanting to take Ayami’s pulse. In that moment, Ayami was struck by the thought that the girl was inviting her along, in her own particular way.

  The girl was oddly dressed, in a plain coarse-te
xtured white cotton hanbok, which gave off the strong scent of starch. Her thick black hair was secured in a low ponytail, and rough hemp sandals poked out from beneath the hem of her skirt.

  Ayami wasn’t the only former actress who’d found herself in the role of office worker-cum-librarian-cum-ticket seller at the audio theatre managed by the foundation.

  Before her, the position of office clerk had been filled by a string of other women who also had connections with the theatre industry, mainly as actors. The one who’d stuck it out the longest had stayed for three months; one woman had only managed three hours. No one had come even close to Ayami’s two-year tenure. Frankly speaking, the job was tedious. Especially, that is, for young women more used to the excitement of acting. Here, the only people they ever saw were the few who came along to the audio performances, almost all high school pupils, university students or blind people. Her predecessors had all quit before their contract was up; perhaps due mainly to the fact that opportunities to meet men were so rare as to be practically non-existent. Not just any men, but the kind of men considered eligible by women whose youth and ambition sadly outstripped their limited means.

  Ayami didn’t know much about her predecessors. She’d never seen their faces, and didn’t even know their names. All they’d left behind were a few ballpoint pens rolling about in a drawer, and a couple of sheets of notepaper bearing scribbled curses directed at no one in particular. She was equally in the dark when it came to the foundation that managed the audio theatre and paid her salary. Contrary to general assumption, she had no personal contacts there – that wasn’t how she’d secured the job. Acting roles had become few and far between for her, to the point where she was even struggling to get parts at her repertory company; eventually, when the company itself had become embroiled in management difficulties, one of her fellow actors had introduced her to this place.

  No one had come to meet her on her first visit to the audio theatre, and she hadn’t received any guidance about where she was supposed to go. She’d entered the deserted auditorium and waited until someone appeared – the director. She’d been sitting facing the entrance, but still hadn’t noticed him come in. He seemed to have materialised through a door made of light, which hovered amid the floating dust motes and shafts of sun. The director sat with Ayami on the auditorium’s second flight of stairs, conducted a brief interview, and announced that she was hired.

  The auditorium had neither a stage nor a screen. Instead, each ‘performance’ consisted of a pre-recorded script being played to the audience, using the sound equipment. This audience, never very large, sat on the sofas and stairs that had been installed around the auditorium. Accordingly, there were no actors, a title Ayami had relinquished now she was merely a run-of-the-mill office worker, occupied mainly with admin. Besides the auditorium, the theatre building contained a long lobby, a tiny library and, to the rear of the library, the director’s office. Ayami spent most of her time in a corner of the library. Once a day, leading up to the evening performance, she sold tickets at the main entrance – these were extremely cheap, cheaper than a cup of coffee – and just before the start of the performance, she went into the auditorium and briefly introduced the play. The last thing she said was, ‘OK, the play will begin now.’ Very occasionally, someone would find their way to the library and ask to borrow a script or pamphlet of a recording, a collection of plays, an actor’s autobiography, or even the recordings themselves, which were stored on CDs.

  Ayami had tidied up all the loose ends of the various tasks assigned to her. She’d added up the ticket sales – not a job that took a great deal of time – checked the library’s stock against the database, and posted the necessary documents to the foundation. All that was left was to lock the theatre door and put the key in the lower postbox. Her wages would be paid for that month, and then no more.

  The library phone rang. Ayami took a moment to register that it really was the phone ringing, and not the mysterious radio, before she went over to the desk and answered the call. It was the usual enquiry, about the performance schedule for the coming week.

  ‘There are no performances next week,’ Ayami said. ‘Today’s was the last one; the audio theatre will be closed permanently from tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re closing?’ They sounded genuinely shocked. ‘Why hasn’t this been reported in the papers?’

  Perhaps it had. But all that would have been dealt with by the foundation’s PR team, and Ayami hadn’t been informed of any such notice being printed. Considering its low audience numbers, the theatre’s closure was hardly as momentous an event as the person who’d telephoned seemed to think. At least, not so momentous as to warrant a mention in the paper.

  The audio theatre is closing today, which means that from tomorrow Ayami will be unemployed. Of course, the foundation had made the decision several months ago, so she’d had plenty of time to find a new job. She’d been out of the business too long to get back into acting; in fact, that period in her life now seemed less and less real, especially once she’d recognised that she’d never been much in demand anyway. And then there was the unfortunate fact, only recently made clear to her, that her experience working at the audio theatre would be of absolutely no help in finding another job. This audio theatre, managed by the foundation, was the only one of its kind in Seoul. In other words, there was no job even remotely similar to hers; this was probably the case the world over, never mind just in Seoul. Ayami didn’t have a single qualification to her name, anything that might have impressed a prospective employer. Nothing formally confirming her administrative skills or qualifying her to teach – nothing, in fact, that could even be considered an official document. Yes, she’d gone to law school, but had dropped out before the first term was up, meaning the hoped-for diploma never became a reality. She didn’t even have a driver’s licence.

  In the downtime between acting gigs, Ayami had waited tables; unfortunately, this side job had been as much of a flop as her main career. The issue with waitressing was that she looked too tall. On top of that, whenever she took an order her face would wear the kind of expressionless mask more often seen in the theatre, and her movements, gestures, footsteps, all gave the impression of being unusually measured, done for dramatic effect. This apparent awkwardness rubbed off on the customers, and their discomfort was plain whenever Ayami approached their table. Most tried to disguise it by asking how tall she was, and her answer would invariably be met by an exaggerated raising of eyebrows and an insistence on examining the heels of her shoes. She always wore flats, without even the tiny sliver of a heel that most shoe manufacturers choose to add. Ayami’s height was, on paper, nothing unusual, yet she appeared taller than she really was, as though she floated a few inches above the ground, a kind of optical illusion exaggerated during her shifts as a waitress, when the customers were almost always sitting down.

  As she herself was keenly aware, Ayami’s body was more suited to physical work than to the kind of customer-facing roles that rely on strong communication skills. Acting onstage, she believed, was a kind of physical work.

  Knowing of Ayami’s difficulties in finding a job, the director of the audio theatre had advised her to write a letter to the foundation. Given that her contract was with the theatre itself, a separate establishment, she’d had neither the need nor the opportunity to visit the foundation or meet anyone who worked there. All communication with the foundation went through the director. The only exception had been a couple of brief, dry telephone conversations between Ayami and someone from their art department – and those had only happened in cases of extreme urgency. The director thought Ayami ought to send her CV and a cover letter to the foundation’s HR department. A suitable position might come up within the foundation itself, not right then, of course, but at some point, or else, though this was extremely unlikely, they might choose to invest in another non-profit cultural enterprise, or even end up reopening the audio theatre.

  ‘You could do worse than get in touc
h with them,’ the director told her. ‘After all, you know they never advertise for new staff – it’s all done through personal recommendations.’

  But Ayami didn’t take his advice. It wasn’t that she didn’t need a job, or that she didn’t like the idea of working at the foundation. Though the director hadn’t told her this in as many words, Ayami was aware that he himself had not been able to secure another job; at least, not one with the appropriate salary and status. If it had truly been the case that the foundation felt benevolent towards them, or that such feelings might be elicited by a mere letter, then the director would hardly have been experiencing such difficulties. And if the foundation wasn’t willing to help him, then there wasn’t much hope for Ayami. The director had received a top-class education, held a degree from a foreign university, and Ayami could see he had intelligence to spare. The only black mark on his CV, if there was one, seemed to be his time at the audio theatre, a non-profit enterprise where he’d commanded a staff of one.

  Untroubled by clouds, the bright expanse of the evening sky spread out across the city. The entrance to the theatre building was a door at street level made entirely of glass. Hanging up the phone, Ayami gazed out at the gathering dusk, the red flare of the day’s last light. Directly across the alley, a shabbily dressed middle-aged couple were looking over at the theatre. Every time a car drove down the narrow alley, the woman took a step back, onto the low paving slabs, where she balanced precariously until the vehicle had passed. Neither she nor the man seemed able to tear their gazes from what had caught their interest – the noticeboard by the entrance, where details of performances were posted.