Authors: Kyung-Ran Jo
Tongue (8 page)
It took about two years for Mun-ju to transform her physique
into a pleasantly plump one. Now, even if there’s food in front of her, Mun-ju doesn’t attack it quickly like a starving person, but has become a woman who knows how to eat a meal leisurely—but with gusto. When she goes on dates, she doesn’t go out again with the men who rush into their food as soon as the first course is placed in front of them, and she even makes me laugh, mimicking them. She was able to get rid of a lot, but Mun-ju hasn’t been able to rid herself of the fear that she might become fat again—not just yet.
I don’t shrink from the fear of gaining weight. For me, the pleasure I get from eating trumps that fear. The taste bud is like a diamond, getting shinier and sparklier the more you polish it. The person with a good appetite is one who wants to live; in the same way, the sense of taste is the first to go when a person loses the will to live. Some people feel alive when they play music, and others feel invigorated when they write or when they shop. These days I’m energized when I eat. I’m ready to eat anywhere, at any time. And there’s something in particular I want to eat—an all-consuming desire. When you can’t have something, the desire for it becomes more powerful and intense.
I’m staring at the biggest and deepest hole in his face. His tongue moves around, supple, like the tongue of a fish, like a bird’s tongue wrapped in soft cartilage, moving carefully, with concentration, like it does when it’s eating the tastiest thing—
The. Person. I. Love. Now. Is. Se-yeon
, the dark hole says. Like the bumpy, scaly tongue of a four-legged animal, it’s stiff, rough, reddish black. I stare at his red tongue, I want to suck on it one last time. Like a truffle, a tongue renders a woman and a man in a gentler state and is easy to chew on, light and soft. I take a step toward it.
You told me with that mouth that you loved me
. I’m close enough to swallow it whole.
Hold me just one last time
, I beg.
Don’t
, he says, and pushes me away forcefully. I’m hot, like boiling oil.
Like a starving person, I crave his tongue. My throat is already lengthening and opening wide, like that of an always-accommodating goose. He pushes my puckered lips away with his hand and backs up.
I’m going to wait for you
, I warn him gently. He licks his lips with his dry tongue, his tongue that looks parched as if all the juices have drained out of it, and says,
That’s never going to happen
. At one point it was a familiar and beautiful tongue, filled with admiration and praise for my body as it understood and explored me. I grab and swallow the whole thing down. His tongue resists in my mouth, like a flopping fresh fish. I grip my mouth closed to stop it from escaping. My teeth grab it swiftly and mash it. My muscular tongue wets it with flowing saliva, works it, flips it, moves it deep into my throat. My tongue bends back to push it in deeper, to shove it down completely. Nothing, not one piece, not one drop, escapes from my mouth. It slides perfectly into my stomach. All the nerves in my body vibrate faintly like the end of a needle, and finally I heave a breath out. My tongue, remembering the dish I’ve just tasted, licks my lips.
The food I eat in my imagination is more powerful and particular than what I consume in reality, just as a dream feels very real seconds after you awake from it, just as a person thinking about killing someone first tries it out in his dreams. You go over it again and again in the imaginary world because you’re deprived of whatever it is you want, because there’s something in you that misses it—an unfinished piece of art. Human beings sprint toward pleasure. Unfortunately they feel pain, a joining of sensations, more easily than pleasure.
I’M LEFT BEHIND with the silent old dog, just the two of us. When a dog realizes his noises are no longer being understood as language he stops barking and whining. Language exists between people and also between a person and a dog. Paulie’s the one who taught me that, and his silence now signifies my own. If I thought I would return to Nove after we split up, I might not have taken Paulie. It’s not that I’m not fond of him, but I would have known I wouldn’t be able to take care of a dog. Paulie no longer approaches me happily or wags his tail or whimpers. But he hasn’t turned aggressive or mean like dogs left to fend for themselves. He seems confused about the changes in his life and needs time to accept them. As a dog grows old, the smallest change in his routine becomes the source of great confusion. I gently stroke Paulie’s neck as he lies on the floor like a pile of dirty brown rags. Nervousness and unease unite us now. It’s invisible but we feel the same thing. For the first time in a very long while, Paulie’s rough tongue licks my palm and his slightly averted black eyes study my face
as if to say, I haven’t forgotten all of this yet. As if he understands whatever I have to say. But it will be almost impossible to get Paulie to comprehend that he’s gone. For Paulie this concept is more difficult than understanding when he’s allowed to jump up and when he isn’t.
It’ll be okay, Paulie.
Paulie lets out a moan, the sound being dragged up from the bottom of his stomach. I hug him and he glues himself to my body. If only someone were next to me, someone who can understand everything I say. I’m glad I’m not alone but somehow I get the feeling that I will be left by myself soon.
We fall into a comfortable rhythm. When I come home from work I take Paulie out for a walk no matter how tired I am. We usually head to the playing field at the neighborhood elementary school. I didn’t know that so many people exercised in the field that late, approaching midnight. Before, we walked Paulie in the afternoon and almost never went anywhere at night. The evenings dashed by as we cooked and ate and listened to music and played fetch with Paulie in the yard and drank tea. On one of those nights, I watched him play with Paulie in the yard as I cradled a cup of tea and realized that this evening enveloping me was the pinnacle of my life, a solid and brilliant crystal. Everything was in its place and I had everything I had ever wanted and we were still so young. One final sentence was left in the story: They lived happily ever after. His whistle still rings clearly in my ears and I still see Paulie energetically leaping after the ball. And all I have left from that evening is the old dog and the ball nestled in my palm.
Was our love real? I gaze at the ball in my hand. Paulie barks. I wind up and throw it and Paulie jumps up into the sky, showing off, and catches it in his mouth. Then, his head raised high with pride, he drops the ball at my feet. I throw it again, far. His brown hair flying, Paulie darts after it. When Paulie runs
he is more beautiful and more alive than when he pads along slowly, reluctantly. Paulie doesn’t tire of chasing after the ball. I want to go home. I want to know if our love was real.
I mime throwing the ball. Paulie leaps up and wags his tail and rubs against my legs and sends me signals—Throw it, throw the ball already.
I’m tired. Let’s go home, Paulie!
Paulie focuses intently on my hand that holds the ball. He’s more excited now than he had been during the actual game of fetch. I raise the ball high above my head and start running backward. Paulie springs up into the air ever more powerfully, over and over again. Not being allowed to touch the ball works him into a frenzy. Is the game of fetch not about sharing the ball but about heightening pleasure by drawing out the anticipation? I may have just discovered something new. I slowly squeeze the ball, solid and responsive to the touch.
When I first started offering cooking classes, Mun-ju guaranteed she would take care of everything, especially attracting students. Since she worked in publishing from the moment she entered college, she was the one in our group with the heftiest address book. But it turned out there was a steady demand of women who wanted to learn how to cook. Not as a hobby, but to satisfy a growing interest in eating better. These days, being a good cook is just as admirable as speaking a foreign language or playing an instrument. And after a while the number of male students multiplied, probably because women are attracted to men who know how to cook. Although it was sweet to see couples signing up for classes together, I preferred living with someone who didn’t know how to make a thing. I need to be with someone who waits for my food, who eats my creations.
One day Mun-ju brought a new student to class, a woman wearing a minidress in a large floral print, her hair tied with a retro silk scarf and holding a brown tote, so tall she stood out wherever she went. Every part of her appeared to be made with
care. Her name was Lee Se-yeon. Mun-ju introduced us, explaining that she had met the former model while working for the now-defunct
Fashioniste
. I remembered seeing her when I worked at Nove. She was a VIP and sometimes rented out the place for a gathering or to throw a party. At first she came once a week to the Bread and Cooking class, and after about a month she registered for Italian Cooking, appearing in my kitchen twice a week. She walked into our house looking like a well-dressed mannequin in a show window, legs as long as a flamingo’s. Though she had retired from modeling she remained attuned to trends and enjoyed standing out in a crowd. She was the kind of woman who couldn’t stand not to be noticed. She was slender, as if she was terrified of eating and only lapped up the juices seeping out of fruit. It was hard to believe that someone like her wanted to learn how to cook. Deceptively, she ate more than her physique suggested and enjoyed it. When I discovered that she made a beeline for the kitchen when entering her house like the rest of us, my trepidation melted away. She appeared even more luminous—raindrops thrown into the spotlight. If I were a man I would want to take her to an isolated island and have her to myself. And she would have to spend the rest of her life there.
While we waited for the food to finish cooking in the oven, we usually gathered to drink tea or make a snack. If he was upstairs in his office, he came into the kitchen to grab a bite. The more that time passes, the more I think of the first time she saw him: She raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes just for a moment, then she slightly turned her face away, pretending to look elsewhere. Then she glanced back at him gently and smiled, her eyes open wide. It was an audacious and gorgeous smile. That brief second lingered for a long time; the air stopped moving. Her smile was so frank and confident that I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. He looked at me while she looked at him and I at her. She passed by and I smelled marjoram. A hint
of marjoram remained in my kitchen the next day. It was early last fall.
I feel relief when I touch something firm. I grip the ball. If nobody wants what you have you might feel it’s nothing much.
So the only thing left to do is to bring the ball back, Paulie. You feel it too, right? Sorrow barreling in from the left and rage rushing in from the right
. I wind up and toss the ball as hard as I can. Paulie leaps into the night sky. Even though he’s tame, he’s an animal with knifelike weapons adorning his mouth—like humans.
YOU’RE IN CHARGE of the private party tonight.”
I’m shocked into silence.
Chef stares at me, his hands in his pockets. It’s his way of putting his trust in me, scrutinizing my creativity and skills. This is the first time since I restarted at Nove. There must be a VIP coming in today. My excitement billows, like the first time I held a knife in Grandmother’s kitchen.
“What are the mains?”
“You decide.”
I’m surprised.
“The person who reserved wanted you to put together a menu.”
This is rare. If customers are this familiar with the restaurant, they reserve through the desired cook.
“Who is it?”
“The bass is fresh and the duck is nice, so do what you want.”
I don’t say a thing.
“You’re a cook.”
“If you don’t tell me who it is, I’m not doing it.”
I hear the tap-tap-tap of rain. For a gloomy day like this, duck is better than sea bass, and a hearty cut of steak served after thick, steamy pumpkin soup is best. My mind is already whirring but I don’t back off. I have to know who it is. Chef and I stand facing each other, hands in our pockets. We keep our hands deep in our pockets, worried that they smell. A knife is an extension of our fingers, so unless it’s a special occasion our hands are safer inside a pocket.
“It’s Lee Se-yeon.”
I’m stunned.
Whenever Se-yeon rented out the restaurant to throw a party, I thought she must be a gourmet. Anyone who easily brings people together is surely a gourmet. But she isn’t a born gourmet. A natural gourmet appreciates beauty but doesn’t steal something that belongs to someone else. It’s not surprising that she’s coming to Nove for a meal. But who is she coming with?
I can’t help but ask.
“What does that have to do with you in the kitchen?”
“If I’m to make the food it has to do with me.”
“With Han Seok-ju. They’re going to have dinner with their parents.” Chef says it quickly as if it’s an annoyance, his brow furrowing.
Han Seok-ju. I almost ask, Who is that? “So …”
“Yeah, she asked that you take care of their table.”
I don’t say anything.
On rainy days I want to eat a bowl of something warm, not too much and not too little, and lie in my bed. If he is next to me, I want us to slide into making love, feeling each other’s wet tentacles like snails in the rain. What I don’t want is to go into the kitchen to be smothered by smells. I really don’t want to cook for the woman my man fell in love with. If I pushed my face into the rain nobody would hear my laughter. Not even Chef, who
stares into my eyes, reading me like a book. It feels like blood is pooled at my temples, stretched taut.
“I’m going home,” I announce.
“Get into the kitchen.”
“Let me go home.”
“Hurry up and make the menu.”
“Chef!” I glare at him as if he’s Seok-ju.
Are you going to back down?
He glares back.
Don’t be stupid
.