티끌모아 태산 - A Short Story

To film a particular scene in the movie Vanilla Sky the producers had to enlist the help of The New York Police Department to keep Times Square vacant for approximately 1 hour. It was a big deal coordinating solitude in the city that never sleeps. However, you would never have that problem here. This part of town is vacant. So empty, so void of human life, that if I wasn’t used to it, I would be turning on the television just to check, if perhaps the world had ended.

I wake up early; I walk the streets with dogs. Today is gray, the sky so thick with clouds I imagine they pile up all the way to the heavens. It’s gray because of the Rhine, the cars and the concrete.

“Der Himmel ist grau” I say to a stranger, but really he is not a stranger, I have seen him many times and he me. My German is not good. Most people don’t expect me to speak at all on account of me being Asian.

“Es ist nicht grau, es ist Silber.” he replies with a smile and a nod to the heavens.

“The sky is gray.” I repeat, this time more forcefully. He drops his head, his smile leaves his face and his step increases. “And so is the river and the cars.  Silver is the colour of ice, this:” I motion to my surroundings, non-distinct buildings, cold glass, concrete walkways and industrial berms. “this is gray!”

Ashamed by my own anger, and smelling the stink that rots me, I sit on a curb, a clean one, and I watch a building. I’m an enigma here, I have time, I’m in no rush, in fact I’m the clock-master lost inside his own design wondering if ever my creations will notice me again. No big green trees, no houses with flowers in the garden, no driveways, no mailboxes, no telephone lines, no children. People here have somewhere to go and as you pass them in the streets, it’s clear to see they have already gotten there.

Gray is also the colour of dust, I think back to something my father used to say before we left Korea 티끌모아 태산  Gather dust to build a mountain. It was an old Korean proverb and he would say it to dull our disdain for poverty. He still said it when I was older, a teenager living in Canada, riding the subway to school, and getting off three stops beyond my home so as to hide where I lived from my friends. Then when I was drafted to play hockey here in Germany he said; “Now you build a temple of your mountain.”

I scoffed at him. There is only dust, and too much of it to ignore. My father was wrong, you need more than dust, you need something to keep it together.

It’s still very early, there is a horizontal red ribbon in the east, it bleeds like a paper cut in the sky. It’s also cold, November cold, and we all wear black. But the red captivates me, a single thread of colour in a colourless day, a flash that enters a heart of ash.

More gray cars pass me, the dogs get restless. They tangle at my feet as I walk; the smallest one is the trouble maker, running circles around me and the others. I dance on my toes; I’m still athletic in my 50’s. The building is silent, cold, and still. I walk from floor to floor depositing the tenants beasts, making sure their bowls are full of kibble and the toilet seats are up. I have more keys then friends.

From inside an apartment I look out and see him across the road. He runs well. I can’t help but feel proud when I see how long his strides are, and how well he covers ground. I rush to the window, and cover the morning glare with my hands above my eyes. I have seconds remaining before he will disappear, I don’t waste a moment and recite every detail I can to memory.

“Blue jeans, same white sneakers, his hair is covered by a black hat. His jacket looks dirty, but it is blue. He wears colour, my son is wearing blue. I would wash it for him. He runs elastic, so loose and wonderful.”

In the moments that follow I need to sit down, not feeling as athletic as before. I replay the images, I see again the movie of my son. Thanks to his mother he is beautiful; thanks to me he is fast. The dog licks my hand that hangs from my knees as I press my back against the white walls of an apartment so utterly clean it’s disgusting. I lift my heavy head; the dog reaches in and kisses my face.

I have to pat him now, he has been kind, and I have been cruel. He yawns as I do. His hair white around his eyes and on his chin gives him an ancient appearance. I pat him more and this time I notice something I hadn’t before. The short stiff bristles of hair reflect the morning light and it is unquestionably silver that passes in my hands, not gray. I look out the window once more; the bleeding slice in the sky has risen with the dawning of the day. A thin line of blue lies softly behind vanilla white clouds while the sun fires across this empty silver city.