CHAPTER 3

Tokyo, 2014

“Will you go to the museum today too?” was the first thing Kiko asked in the morning. She closed the door of the bathroom behind her and walked past the corridor to the still dark living room. No one answered back. At one side of the couch a bunch of messy hair could be seen, sticking out. And if she stood just silent enough, she could listen to Jiyong’s even sleepy breathing raising over the rest of the morning sounds.

With one hand she shook away the wet hair that fell in crazy rolls over her forehead. Some of the water drops found their way down her neck, wetting the fabric of her t-shirt. She let out a sigh once she spotted the small bundle of sheets and pillows over the couch, and tugged open the curtains of the living room with exasperation. A groan raised as only answer from the couch, muffled by the pillow, the moment daylight rushed into the previously dark room interrupting Jiyong’s sleep. Leaning on the window frame, Kiko chuckled, unimpressed by Jiyong squirming and grunting. With one arm Jiyong covered his eyes from the light and groaned again, this time louder. A twisted smiled appeared over Kiko’s face and she let herself fall over the couch next to Jiyong, doing what she knew best: convince Jiyong to live one day more.

“Wake up sleepyhead. It’s almost nine,”

Jiyong opened one eye and then the next one lazily and turned to face Kiko with his eyebrows pulled together and a tortured expression on his face. When their eyes met, Kiko raised an eyebrow. Maybe, Jiyong thought, challenging him to even dare to complain. He let his head fall back over the pillow with a puff, defeated. He knew by now when he didn’t stand a chance against her.

“I will not be back tonight,” she said. And that was Jiyong’s cue to straighten his body up on the couch and sit. One of his hands ran over his face, while the other one stood firmly at one side, holding up his weight. “I have recordings till late at night,” Kiko continued, in a way, sounding apologetic.

At the table was, as every morning, a cup of recently brewed coffee. One that Kiko, most probably, had placed there before taking her shower. He leaned forward and took it; but it seemed he was still not awake enough for the handle slipped from his fingers and the cup tipped dangerously. The hot liquid spilled from the cup and fell over his hand; a burning sensation spread through the skin of his fingers. He hissed and tried to maneuver clumsily with the mug all whilst in pain. And as sudden as everything had happened, he found Kiko kneeling beside him, her hands taking the mug from his and placing it back on the table. Her lips tightened, and she looked at him in a way that could only be interpreted as concern.

“What am I going to do with you?” Kiko sighed and took Jiyong’s hand between hers and examined the damage. She turned his palm up and down and traced the reddened lines over his skin with the tip of her soft fingers. Jiyong murmured a “Thank you. I’m fine” and retrieved his hand, keeping it close to his lap. But he knew she didn’t believe him. She never did. It was all there in her posture; in the way she only answered with a slight nod of her head but said nothing else.

Kiko raised her body up from the floor and took the blameworthy mug with her, back to the kitchen.

“If you say so,” she whispered and ran a hand through Jiyong’s hair, pulling it playfully, just a gentle tug of the hair on the nape of his neck. “Anyway, you’ll have to cook dinner today for yourself. I won’t be back until tomorrow,” she continued talking.

And Jiyong followed her inside the kitchen and took the bowl of cereal she offered him.

“You have to promise me you will survive. Cause sincerely Jiyong, I doubt you can survive even for one night by your own,” she exclaimed, crossing her arms and stared fiercely at Jiyong. Who, at that very instant, was yawning with evident pleasure. Kiko’s mouth twitched in frustration; shaking her head, she turned her back to him and continued her daily routine. It appeared to him she just had given up in her attempts to engage with Jiyong in a normal conversation for the morning.

“I will, you know I will,” Jiyong murmured at last, and approached to where she was fixing silently the cabinets of the kitchen. This was Kiko, the same old Kiko and his grumpy companion. One of his hands fell over her shoulders. She tensed if only for an instant and then melted to the touch. The familiar smile she gave him back was enough for Jiyong to acknowledge that Kiko was, probably, the best thing he still had with him. He pulled her into a friendly hug. “I promise you I will, is that ok for you?”

Kiko hummed softly and leaned back, resting her head over his right collarbone. “That’s enough,”

They went out together and walked the daily two blocks to the closest train station. The scarf around Kiko’s neck fluttered with the cold winter of the morning, and she tried desperately to keep her hair on its place with her hands. Besides her, Jiyong laughed at her, which make her curse in whispers and send annoyed side glances towards him. And he would only laugh louder.

She left first. Her train always left first. And he would be left alone, sitting at one of the benches to wait for his own train. During those minutes, sometimes he would sleep the couple of minutes stolen by Kiko every morning. Other days he would look around at the passengers and their faces. This time though, he was drawn by a group of old people standing at one of the corners of the station. They looked like outsiders, carrying torn suitcases and pouches; all of them were wearing broad clothes made of fabrics that were made to resist worse terrains and weathers than those ones found in the city. He wondered where would they come from. And for a minute he thought about Nikko and his father. It would be five moths since he had last visited him. And yet he didn’t feel any desire to go, which only made him feel guiltier. One of the ladies from the group met his eyes for a couple of seconds and she smiled to him with an outsider smile, one that wasn’t worn out yet by the city.

The same policeman as the night before was there when he arrived to the museum. Legs propelled up over the table of his small cabin. What would be considered as an unhealthy breakfast laid at one side of his improvised table and his music player at the other side, volume at its highest. He smiled once he recognized Jiyong and straightened up.

“Nice to see you again around here, man. I had my doubts I’ll see you again,” he said when he took Jiyong’s permit and wrote some of the personal data on his record notebook. Jiyong frowned.

“Why wouldn’t I?’”

“Don’t know. You seemed to me as someone who ends things rather abruptly,” the man said, shrugging, “Guess I was wrong,” he said, lifting his eyes and smiled again.

Jiyong didn’t answer back. He took the permit back and saved it on his pocket. The policeman walked with him to the exhibition room, tinkling the keys on his right hand and mumbling the same exact song of the day before. Though when they got to the room’s door he stopped his singing and looked at Jiyong with curious eyes.

“You don’t speak much, huh?” he pointed the obvious, “What’s exactly what you do inside here all day, if I may know?”

Jiyong frowned again at the guy’s directness, and shifted his weight looking at the door in front of them. “I am a music writer,” when the confused face of the man in front of him didn’t change a bit, he added not so willingly, “I’m in charge of composing and producing the music for the documentary that will be shown at the inauguration of this exhibition,” he explained pointing at the sign next to the door and shifted again his weight. His eyes darted to the door longingly.

The guy nodded still with a puzzled face, “And what does that had to do with me locking you inside this room for the whole day?” the man asked, lifting one of his eyebrows. When he got no answer from Jiyong, he moved a few steps to where the sign was and read out loud the name of the painter, “Is he any good?” he asked, and tapped with his finger the sign.

“I studied music, not art or painting. I have no basis or background to be able to judge someone’s paintings,”

The man chuckled, “Yeah. Sure. As if that even matters,” he said and looked through the glass doors, trying to get a glimpse of the paintings at the other side of the door. After a prolonged silence the man looked back at Jiyong, who looked as uncomfortable as a person could ever look.

“Don’t look at me like that now. I just want to know why must I lock a man inside this room every single day. I feel bad… you know? It must be damn boring,” the policeman said and looked at the glass door with a pained expression.

“I am getting inspiration,” Jiyong breathed out finally and shrugged. His eyes looked at the ground, his hands clenched at each side of his body. With a nod the man read out loud the description written below the painter’s name at the sign next to the door.

“South Korean rural landscapes?” he asked intrigued and his eyes studied Jiyong’s profile for a moment, seemingly judging his choice of clothes. “I don’t want you to feel insulted, but what does a city boy like you knows about rural landscapes?”

Jiyong greeted his teeth at that. “Nothing,” he growled, “Exactly the reason why I must come here to get inspiration. Now will you let me in or not?”

The smile in the man’s face fell and he hurried to open the room. “I am sorry,” he whispered when Jiyong walked by his side and enter into the room hastily, “But you know. I come from Tokushima prefecture, from one small town called Sanagochi. Famous for his big caves and strawberry fields,” the man said and Jiyong stopped halfway and looked back, “… if you ever want I can tell you how it is, you know, the air there, how the sky and the clouds look bigger than ever. It might not be South Korea but to know what rural is… paintings won’t ever be enough.”

Jiyong’s eyes beamed with longing. And both stared at each other in silence. At the end Jiyong coughed and averted his eyes. “I guess I would like that. Maybe one of these days you can tell me about it,”

The man smiled and bowed before leaving, “Sure. I am Youngbae by the way… I know your name already, so it’s only fair,” he said with kindness, scratching the back of his head and closed the door behind him.

Jiyong stared at the closed door for a long time after the policeman –Youngbae- was gone. And then returned his attention to the displayed paintings around him. This time he looked at the one at the leftmost corner, one of a river. Sitting at the usual bench he let himself go, once again.

Gwanju, 2007

After that day at the Magnolia’s garden Seungri kept returning every single afternoon. Sometimes he would stare in silence at Jiyong working. Other days –the less- he would too do homework until the first piano notes rose through the wind. Then both kids would listen to the music, one with eyes closed, the other one focused on the boy at his side. And whilst one w