Underpainting Chapter 9.3 - Pentimento (3)

At the news that there would be fewer customers for a while, the woman seemed pleased. The restaurant was peaceful and quiet without customers. Even after preparing ingredients and making a large batch of side dishes, it was only early afternoon.

Hyungnim, humming happily about having free time, seemed to get bored within a few hours. He wheedled and coaxed the woman for a while, then took out three or four bottles of alcohol from the cupboard.

“Alcohol tastes best at times like these. Drinking while relaxing is a good thing.”

Seeing Dawon’s wide eyes, he added defensively, as if slightly embarrassed about day drinking. Then he changed his expression and asked condescendingly,

“You can’t drink, can you?”

The question instantly brought back memories of his outing with Taehan. That day, Dawon had recklessly claimed he could hold his liquor in response to a similar question. He’d sipped the sweet, unfamiliar alcohol without realizing he was getting drunk and returned home half-tipsy.

‘I must have looked like a fool.’

Unlike before, when he’d forced himself to suppress any thoughts of Taehan, now, Dawon allowed himself to dwell on the memories, even if they were painful. He felt like crying, but he feigned indifference and nodded.

“Yeah. I can’t drink.”

He felt like he might do something foolish again if he drank. Besides, even though the alcohol smelled sweet, he didn’t feel like drinking it.

The woman took out special ingredients from the kitchen and quickly prepared a delicious meal. They sat around the beautifully set table, the woman and hyungnim exchanging drinks, while Dawon sipped tea and ate.

The woman and hyungnim, both heavy drinkers, emptied several bottles as they talked. The talkative hyungnim, like a fish in water, chattered away in a mix of Chinese and Korean.

He recounted at length his exploits during a recent brawl with a rival gang on a nearby rooftop, followed by old love stories, and then endless self-praise.

Even the usually taciturn woman became more talkative under the influence of alcohol, but Dawon just listened or read the translated words on his phone, sitting quietly.

He wasn’t usually talkative, but more than half of his attention was on the smell of paint drifting in from outside. The scent, which had been gradually approaching the restaurant, stopped moving around sunset. The workers must have left for the day.

‘Did they finish painting? No way. They’ll probably come back tomorrow.’

Dawon thought of the view of the alley from the second floor. Imagining the drab, gray walls coming to life with color made his fingers twitch involuntarily.

‘It’s been a while since I last painted. There’s no reason to paint again, but…’

He tried to dismiss the thought, but his heart wasn’t light or relieved. It was a similar feeling to when he thought of Taehan. The more he tried to forget, to convince himself that Taehan and painting were no longer relevant to his life, the more they stubbornly entrenched themselves in his heart.

What was he supposed to do? Just as Dawon frowned in frustration, hyungnim suddenly stood up. Or rather, he tried to stand up, then stumbled and collapsed back into his seat.

He was already quite drunk, but he reached for the cupboard where the alcohol was kept, then slumped onto the table. Dawon, momentarily forgetting his gloomy mood, chuckled at the comical sight.

The woman, who had gotten hyungnim drunk, also seemed slightly tipsy. Her cheeks flushed, she smiled faintly at Dawon, then suddenly looked like she was about to cry when Dawon asked if she was alright.

‘Is she drunk?’

As Dawon typed “Stop drinking” on her phone, the woman stood up. Unlike hyungnim, who had collapsed, she went to the safe behind the counter, took something out, and showed it to Dawon.

It was a photo of a boy, who looked about seventeen, smiling as he sat in a flower bed filled with marigolds and portulacas. The boy, with his chubby cheeks, looked a bit like the woman.

Dawon deleted what he’d been typing and wrote “Is that your son?” on her phone. The woman nodded silently, a sorrowful expression on her face.

It wasn’t that she had nothing to say, but rather that she had so much to say that she couldn’t say anything at all. Thinking about what she must want to say the most, Dawon carefully typed,

[Do you miss him?]

And at that moment, something strange happened. The moment the words “Do you miss him?” appeared on the screen, they seemed to pierce Dawon’s heart like shards of glass.

‘What’s happening? I’m not even drunk.’

Something welled up from his chest, and after staring at the words on the screen for a while, he showed them to the woman. She nodded, then looked at him intently for a moment and typed a question on her phone,

[Do you miss someone too?]

Her question made Dawon uneasy. As he hesitated, unable to answer, she asked again, “Who? Your mother?”

Dawon nodded vaguely. He did think of his mother whenever he saw the woman, so it wasn’t entirely a lie. However, his wavering eyes betrayed the fact that there was more to it.

At that moment, Dawon realized he missed Taehan. The constant, agonizing memories, the way his heart pounded at the mere smell of Taehan’s cigarettes, it was all because of this.

He’d thought the memories of Taehan were chasing after him, but it seemed he, too, had been wandering, following the traces of those memories. Like children playing hide-and-seek, going around in circles.

[Someone else too? Another person? Who?]

The woman seemed to have seen right through him. Faced with the unavoidable question, Dawon stubbornly pressed his lips together and took the phone from her.

He’d originally intended to write “Someone I hate.” Someone he hated so much that he didn’t even realize he was longing for him. However, his hand, clutching the phone, trembled, unable to form the sentence.

He definitely resented Taehan. He thought the immense hatred and resentment had consumed his entire being. But he couldn’t reduce him to just “someone I hate.” If it was just hate, there would be no reason for this lingering attachment. If it was just resentment, it wouldn’t be this agonizing.

Something deeper and stronger than the fiery hatred had taken root in Dawon’s heart.

The emotion he’d been suppressing, unable to swallow or spit out, just burying it inside and suffering.

“I don’t know.”

Unable to stop his hand from trembling, Dawon whispered softly in a language she wouldn’t understand. Once he started speaking, he was overwhelmed with emotion and couldn’t stop repeating the words.

“I don’t know. I just…”

Dawon wanted to say he missed him. He wanted to cry and say he longed for him. But he forced back the tears. He’d made the choice to leave Taehan. Crying now would be too pathetic.

Or perhaps it was because his heart ached so much that the tears wouldn’t come. A pain similar to, or perhaps even greater than, what he’d felt when he decided to leave Taehan crushed his chest again.

As he let out a bitter sigh instead of tears, the woman’s large, warm hand patted his shoulder. Now he noticed the deep-seated sorrow and longing in her eyes. After looking more closely at the photo of her son, Dawon typed on the phone,

[It’s a beautiful picture.]

At his words, she smiled brightly. Her smile, the first time he’d seen it, looked even sadder than when she was crying. He felt her longing acutely.

How could emotions, without sound or form, without volume or texture, leave such vivid marks on one’s life? Dawon, who had just begun to experience the world, couldn’t find any answers.

Night had fallen. Dawon, who had retreated to his room early after leaving the first floor, tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep.

His feelings for Taehan, feelings he couldn’t even name, kept swelling inside him, and the woman’s sad smile haunted him. After struggling for a while, Dawon finally sat up and looked out the window.

The dark, narrow alley. The gray walls stretching out. Clenching his fists, his fingers twitching involuntarily, Dawon finally got out of bed. While the woman was in her room, he tiptoed down the stairs.

‘I can’t take it anymore.’

Seized by an irresistible urge, Dawon opened the restaurant door and stepped outside. The faint smell of paint and turpentine became stronger. It was a painfully familiar scent, and for that reason, somewhat comforting.

Dawon followed the scent. Although it was an unfamiliar path, he walked without hesitation, as if following a signpost. His destination wasn’t far from the woman’s restaurant.

One of the walls there was covered in a colorful, completed mural, while the other had a half-finished mural, with only the underdrawing and base colors laid down.

And on the ground beneath the wall were paints, turpentine, brushes, and various other tools. The workers must have left them there when they went home.

After a moment of contemplation, Dawon examined the paints and turpentine. They weren’t tools he often used, but he could paint with anything. He gathered a few necessary tools and returned to the front of the restaurant building.

“Haah.”

He let out a sigh, and his head felt lighter. The moment he held the palette knife and brushes, a tingling sensation ran through his fingertips. An unusual light flickered in his eyes.

Dawon scooped up generous amounts of a couple of paints with the palette knife and mixed them. It was too dark to see the mixed colors clearly, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to visually confirm the result; he knew exactly which colors to mix to achieve the desired shade.

As he touched the gray wall with the brush loaded with reddish paint, the blob of color instantly transformed into delicate petals. With each dab of his brush, portulacas and marigolds bloomed on the wall.

Their sun-like hues would be the color of longing for the woman. Dawon briefly considered painting the boy’s face he’d seen in the photo, but he decided to fill the wall with flowers, horizon, and sky.

Just by looking at the tiny petals, the woman would be able to vividly picture the face she longed for. Just like Dawon could always picture Taehan’s face.

Only when the faint light of dawn began to emerge from the edge of the dark night did Dawon finally stop painting. The low gray wall was now awash in a wave of vermilion. It was a painting that seemed to capture the sunlight, the reflection of the sun on the petals, and the scent carried by the wind.

‘Done.’

Had finishing a painting ever felt so fulfilling and yet so sorrowful? Dawon gazed at the flower bed he’d created, then returned the art supplies to their original place and went back to his room. His heart was still restless, but thanks to exhaustion, he soon fell fast asleep.

How long did he sleep? Dawon was awakened by a commotion downstairs. He rubbed his eyes and looked around; it was already midday, the room bright and sunny.

The woman must have brought breakfast and then taken it away when he didn’t wake up, as the table where his breakfast was usually placed was empty, only a faint smell of food lingering in the room.

Although he was slightly hungry, he felt surprisingly good, considering he’d only fallen asleep at dawn. Dawon stretched and went downstairs.

The commotion on the first floor, as usual, was caused by hyungnim. He was excitedly explaining something to the woman, gesturing wildly.

When the woman responded curtly, as if it wasn’t a big deal, he pounded his chest in frustration. Then, noticing Dawon, he approached him as if greeting a savior.

“You came at the right time. Didn’t you hear anything last night?”

“A sound?”

“Footsteps. Someone painted a mural on the restaurant wall!”

Hyungnim pointed towards the wall outside the restaurant, his voice filled with exaggerated excitement, as if he’d seen a monster.

“It wasn’t there yesterday! It wasn’t the city hall people. They said they didn’t know. It wasn’t there when they left.”

“Ah.”

“When did it appear? In the middle of the night? Did someone come and paint it while I was drinking yesterday? I didn’t see anything. Did you see anything?”

He seemed determined to keep talking. Moreover, the woman seemed unaware of the painting. Hoping she would see it soon, Dawon casually said,

“Ahjumma will know right away. Who painted it.”

Hyungnim took her arm and led her outside. The woman, who seemed reluctant to leave the restaurant, gasped the moment she saw the flower bed on the wall. With a stunned expression, she slowly approached the mural and touched the vermilion petals and the blue sky.

After caressing the mural for a while, the woman took Dawon’s hands and spoke rapidly, her words like a waterfall. Although he couldn’t understand exactly what she was saying, it seemed like she liked the painting and was grateful.

Seeing her tears, Dawon’s nose tingled. He’d been painting for an incredibly long time, but this was the first time he’d felt good about it.

“…So who painted it?”

Hyungnim, who had been tilting his head in confusion amidst the emotional atmosphere, casually asked Dawon. At his innocent question, Dawon feigned ignorance and replied,

“I don’t know.”

“Hey! You know, don’t you! Why am I the only one who doesn’t know?!”

Hyungnim flailed his arms, seemingly annoyed, and the woman, as if to separate Dawon from him, put her arm around Dawon’s shoulder and led him back into the restaurant. She seemed to be in a very good mood and promised to make him something especially delicious.

It was a rare moment of peace. Although he barely showed it, Dawon felt a pang of affection for this moment. Was this what a normal, everyday life felt like, without anyone to deceive or kill? But such moments never lasted long in Dawon’s life.

The woman sat Dawon at the largest table in the restaurant and changed the TV channel to a Korean one. He took a sip of warm tea, pretending not to hear hyungnim’s persistent questions about the mural. Just then,

[We now have breaking news regarding the gas explosion incident in XX-dong. Today, five days after the incident, the body of a man in his 40s was recovered from the scene. This brings the total number of bodies found at the scene to eleven. The police authorities…]

Dawon, who usually didn’t pay much attention to the news, looked towards the TV at the familiar place name. XX-dong was where he used to live.

‘A gas explosion incident?’

It sounded ominous. Dawon listened to the news with a sense of foreboding. As the report shifted from the identities of the recovered bodies to the scene of the incident, Dawon’s face turned pale.

Although it was charred black and only the frame remained, there was no way he wouldn’t recognize the house. It was clearly Taehan’s two-story house. The news report mentioning the “excavation of bodies buried at the scene” seemed to imply that the bodies Taehan had buried in the garden had been unearthed.

‘What happened? Why was there an explosion there? Could it be…’

Despite the dizziness and ringing in his ears, Dawon strained to hear the news report. He could hear the sounds, but he couldn’t understand their meaning. Words like “Seo Chang Construction,” “suspicion,” and “warrant” were fragmented and scattered.

[Meanwhile, the police are investigating the body of an alpha male, the only one found inside the building…]

As a blurry photo appeared on the screen, a chill ran down Dawon’s spine, and his heart sank. The photo, which seemed to have been taken during the cleanup of the accident site, showed a long, white sheet. A lump beneath the sheet, as if covering a body.

Next to it were charred objects. Among the seemingly burnt belongings, a single item retained its shape. Dawon narrowed his eyes, trying to see clearly despite the dizziness.

‘No. That can’t be.’

He couldn’t believe his eyes. Although it was blackened and stained, it was clearly a small metal box. The long, swirling pattern engraved on its surface was identical to Taehan’s portable ashtray.

The horrifying phrase “the body of an alpha male” echoed in his head, mixed with the ringing in his ears. And then, through the repulsive, horrifying noise, came the words he’d never wanted to hear.

[The identity of the deceased male has been confirmed as Mr. Ryu, a director of Seo Chang Construction. The prosecution stated that unlike the other victims, who appear to have died before the gas explosion, Mr. Ryu is presumed to have died as a result of the explosion, and the cause of the incident…]

A photo of a man in a suit overlapped the image of the sheet-covered body. Although the face was blurred, it was clearly a photo of Taehan.

No, no. Dawon screamed silently. But no matter how desperately he cried out, the photo on the TV and the anchor’s voice talking about Taehan didn’t disappear.

Something was clearly wrong with the world. The news was reporting something that couldn’t be true, and he couldn’t breathe properly, as if the air had disappeared. Dawon gasped, his lips blue, but it was no use.

In his blurring vision, he saw the woman and hyungnim rushing towards him with alarm. Their faces, and the ringing in his ears, faded away.

Thud.

With a pathetic sound, like a sandcastle collapsing, Dawon’s unconscious body slumped onto the table.