“We discover that we do not know our role. We look for a mirror. We want to remove our make-up and take off what is false and real. But somewhere, a piece of disguise that we forgot still sticks to us. A trace of exaggeration remains in our eyebrows. We do not notice that the corners of our mouths are bent. And so we walk around, a mockery and a mere half: neither having achieved being nor actors.” – Rainer Maria Rilke –

❆❆❆

1940s (Japanese Occupation of Korea)

Prologue

All light contains a certain amount of deception.

From darkness to brightness, anxiety to relaxation, and atrocity to allurement. Light disguises, and builds a world of finely calculated lies. In that world, the truth is utterly worthless. People simply stare at what the light reveals and ignore what the light hides. Outside the realm of light, the grief and tears that fill the night, and the madness of imperialism never crosses the threshold of this world.

Self-deception.

It is the only absolute rule governing this world.

❆❆❆

Myung, who stopped walking at the end of the lobby, raised her calm eyes and gazed into the chandelier. A huge swarm of light produced by the scattered crystals gathered together. Myung took a deep breath after feeling a faint sense of dizziness. As her eyes gradually lost focus, the dazzling chandeliers reflected upon her cloudy eyes turned into a tomb of light.

Mahler’s Symphony. Faust. A hat that is currently popular in Tokyo.

Myung leisurely walked through a group of lavishly-dressed women exchanging conversations in low voices. The atmosphere of the banquet reached its climax. The facades of people who chatted in groups were as bright and peaceful as the lights that dominated this hotel.

A woman in a flashy kimono and a man in a tailcoat. A young woman walking past the two in a long European dress. Myung calmly looked around the crowd.

Familiar faces were recognized. Faces that were seen dozens of times in photographs or from afar. Women fanned their fans with bored expressions next to the middle-aged men smoking on a wide leather sofa. They all peered, with an anticipatory gaze, towards the end of the hall where a group of musicians sat with flashing instruments.

And, he was there.

He was in a group of men around his age. At first glance, they seemed to have a hospitable relationship with one another, but none of their faces had a gleam of intimacy. A plausible smile. A moderate relaxation. But a keen alertness. Their performance, full of lies and deceit, was close to perfection. All except for one person. Ichikawa Ryuta.

He was unperturbed when everyone burst into an amiable laughter. The occasional movement of his fingertips touching the edge of the wine glass was all he did. With that stubborn coldness of his, he was still the mainstay of the group. Although they tried not to be conscious, they were forced to be conscious of him, be aware of his expressions, and feel a sense of defeat. Ryuta Ichikawa’s unwavering attitude during the group’s silly fight of pride was an absolute, perfect victory.

She saw him.

Unlike any other ladies who shyly glanced at him with curiosity and excitement, Myung directly stared at the man somewhat provocatively. Shortly after, he slowly raised his gaze and found Myung immediately. The safe distance Myung deliberately secured was overshadowed for a moment. An intense look without pretense nor courtesy. The eyes seen over the frame of the golden glasses reflecting the light were frighteningly serene. Myung did not back down or avoid eye contact. Instead, she pulled her chin up and raised the corners of her eyes. It was a kind of reflex mastered by countless practices. The kind where the body remembered even when the mind was in disarray.

Myung stopped her steps in surprise. Simultaneously, the man also stopped walking. The corners of the man’s lips, which had been tightly closed the entire time, now twisted strangely. His lips, moist with alcohol, were unusually red for a man. Myung loudly swallowed as she looked into his eyes. The man’s sharp eyes were even more noticeable because of his neatly combined pomade hair. In order to suppress the urge to turn around and run away, Myung clenched her fist. Her hand, wrapped in transparent lace gloves, grew cold.

Like unraveling a tangled thread, Myung desperately attempted to clear her head.

How to cast a seductive glance. Steps of a waltz. First words of greeting to him.

In the meantime, the orchestra began to play. The music changed the atmosphere of the banquet. Women in colorful dresses displayed cautious expectations with fans that hid their joy, whereas men tried their best to show off their dignity by asking the ladies to a dance.

Ryuta intervened between them and approached Myung. The unhurried gait harmonized strangely with the beat of the music. When he reached out his hand to ask for a dance, Myung slightly tilted her head to express doubt. The decorations that embellished her hat shook. Instead of answering her, Ryuta escorted Myung to the banquet hall. His hand that wrapped around her waist was cold. Perhaps even colder than Myung’s hands.

The waltz began with a cordial bow.

There was no time to say what she had prepared; the man did not ask the name of the woman he invited for a dance and Myung’s lips were stiff. Her body, fortunately, seemed to remember the perfect steps. They approached each other and retreated with repeated rhythms. The deeper their gaze, the lighter and more elegant the dance became.

“Until the body remembers.”

Mrs. Choi had said in a stern voice every time Myung missed a step caused by miscellaneous thoughts. She was right. Memory was part of the body. The disheveled mind followed the traces of memory as if it were being ordered.

Myung finished the waltz with him without being able to say any words. The music changed, and people moved along with the established rule.

A new partner. A new greeting. And the repeated dance.

Myung was finally able to realize the missed opportunity after Ryuta released his grasp. Her mind went blank for a moment. A middle-aged Korean aristocrat with a ridiculous, but clean mustache. She couldn’t remember the name and title of her new partner that she had memorized for days. Myung couldn’t deny that it was because of that man.

While leaving the dance to her body’s memory, she cast her eyes over the shoulder of the small framed man. He was there diagonally from her. That man, too, was looking at Myung. Myung had a hunch that she was locked in his gaze. She knew she wouldn’t be able to avoid that gaze.

The waltz was over after the exchange of two more partners. Before her final greeting, Myung blankly raised her eyes. She stood in the middle of the hall, under the shadow of the chandelier that was hanging on a round ceiling. In the most brilliant light of deception, it pierced her eyes.

Myung looked down as she tried to collect her breath. She saw him over the shoulder of her last partner whose clothes were decorated with gold threads. His gaze was also directed towards Myung. That frozen, glass-like eyes. His eyes, showing no emotion nor any traces of lust, baffled her. Myung eventually turned around as if to run away. His gaze, which made her feel like she was getting stripped naked, was no longer bearable.

Before leaving the banquet hall, Myung found Mrs. Choi through the crowd. With a sorrowful face, the woman smiled. Unable to understand the meaning behind her expression, Myung stopped in a daze. At the same time, an eerily cold hand grabbed her shoulder. In order to suppress the scream that came out instinctively, Myung covered her mouth with both hands. When she could finally recognize her surroundings, she realized she was trapped between the frigid brick wall and a man’s body.

Ichikawa Ryuta.

He roughly pushed Myung into the darkness beyond the light of the gas lamp. There was a faint sense of anger in the hand that was clutching her face.

Myung faced him with a mixture of boldness and fear. His face was finally visible after her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. With eyes narrowed and the corner of his lips curved on one end, he lowered his head. The cold metallic glass frame grazed the tip of Myung’s trembling nose. As she tried to lower her head, he slowly raised her head up.

Her eyes helplessly met his.

He looked at Myung as if to demand an answer from her while Myung refused to answer by silently accepting his gaze. His silent breaths traveled down her cheeks.

He slowly examined her and pulled back after coldly scoffing. His hands clutching her face became more rough.

“…. How amusing.”

His voice was low and dry. Myung couldn’t understand what he meant. She boldly glared at the man as Ryuta let go of her without any hesitation. Mrs. Choi’s voice was suddenly heard not too far away.

“Aki! Aki! Are you here?”

The name that was being called upon shook the darkness.

Aki.

After causally repeating the name over in his head, he turned around without much haste. Myung closed her eyes in the darkness.

“Aki.”

Mrs. Choi called her once again from behind. Although the man was already far ahead, Mrs. Choi did not clear her guard.

“The night is deep. Let’s go back now.”

Mrs. Choi whispered like an affectionate aunt comforting her niece. At her request, Myung became Aki and opened her eyes.

There was a faint sound of the bell informing it was 10 o’clock. Myung put on the shawl Mrs. Choi handed her and walked out of the hotel. As they made their way to the parking lot, Mrs. Choi praised the banquet for its splendor and formality.

“It was a perfect banquet.”

She murmured as she got into the taxi with the escort of an uniformed boy.

“Isn’t that right?”

Mrs. Choi asked towards the silent Myung. Soon after, the rear door closed and the taxi departed. Myung tied the ends of the lace shawl and covered her neckline with a fan. The hotel reflected from the taxi window was still bright.

“Yes. Aunt.”

Myung finally opened her mouth after the taxi passed by Honmachi. Mrs. Choi, who was chatting with the taxi driver, turned her eyes to Myung. The colorful petals embroidered onto her kimono shone in the moonlight.

“It was indeed a perfect banquet.”

Myung whispered in an emotionless voice. Mrs. Choi did not reply back. Instead, the same sorrowful smile Myung saw at the hotel spread across Mrs. Choi’s lips. Myung now knew the meaning behind that expression.

She was satisfied with her.

My dear lovely niece, Aki.