The Great Storyteller

Chapter 65 - A White Piece of Paper from the Sky (1)

Chapter 65: Chapter 65 – A White Piece of Paper from the Sky (1)

Translated by: ShawnSuh

Edited by: SootyOwl

“If that’s what the brother’s thinking, then that’s gotta be it.”

“Still no answer, huh? I can’t say I didn’t expect that,” Sang Young said. “He’s a charming person, that one. If anybody, I really want to be intentional about picking the right person for that role.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

“You too?!? It’s already nerve-racking as is!”

“C’mon, where’s your confidence?”

“A person’s heart tends to be fickle like that. What’s important is that you keep going.”

Sang Young was not going to let anything hold him back. The expectations were through the roof, and the fans of the original would be judging his movie with strict standards. It would be natural for anyone to be anxious. Still, he had to make it happen.

“You’ll do great. It’s time for you to spread your wings, Mr. Joo.”

“You’re dang right about that. It’s about time. After all, what is there to be afraid of when I’ve convinced an author like you?” he said drily.

“I didn’t mean for you to shift the burdens onto my shoulders.”

“Burdens are supposed to be shared. I haven’t said a word to the reporters, so think of it as compensation,” he said as he picked up the pieces of meat on the verge of burning and put them on top of Juho’s rice. Juho ate without saying much. It was uncertain when the movie was going to come out, but he had something to look forward to.

“Thank you for dinner.”

“Of course.”

Juho thanked Sang Young while he stood in front of the register to pay for their meal.

It was already dark by the time they walked out. They had lost track of time eating and talking to each other. Juho stepped out of the restaurant first.

“Sigh,” he let out. He had been having some trouble with his next book. The overall storyline had already been defined and he had been happy with the characters and the developments throughout the story. Only, there was one thing lacking. There was nothing driving the protagonist.

‘What would be the best thing to bring her to regret?’ he thought. Although he had had some ideas, none of them had been what he was looking for. He wanted an image that represented something bigger.

The mother in the story shared many similarities with the older brother in ‘The Trace of a Bird.’ She was destructive and twisted. This time, however, Juho didn’t want to avoid the challenge. He wanted to bring this dark, disturbing character to life in his next book. After all, he was different from his old self and he wanted to prove that to himself.

‘After having gotten pregnant, the lady gave birth to a son. Then, she regretted the decisions she’d made.’ The more Juho wrote and gave the character a shape, the more he realized that something crucial was missing.

“Do you mind if we hang around for a few minutes? I want a smoke,” Sang Young asked after paying for their dinner.

“Sure,” Juho replied as he snapped out of his thoughts.

There was a small smoking area next to a store nearby, so Sang Young took cigarette from his pocket. As Juho watched him lighting it, Sang Young said, “This stuff isn’t good for ya. Don’t ever pick up smoking.”

“Haha,” Juho laughed. He had already had experience with smoking. In fact, he had been a heavy smoker in the past and done just about anything that was harmful to his health. Even if he hadn’t drowned in the river, he would have eventually ended up in the hospital.

“Then, what’s your reason for smoking when you know it’s bad for you?”

“Good question.”

“I value my lungs, so I’ll keep my distance for now,” he said as he turned around and heard Sang Young grumbling behind him.

Just as he was about to walk away, he smelled a faint whiff of burning cigarette. It had been a smell that accompanied a grey, murky smoke. He stopped in place as he saw the smoke from Sang Young’s cigarette lingering around the corner his eye. At the sight of the smoke slowly drifting away, he had felt a tingling sensation in his hand.

“What’s the matter?” Sang Young asked, and Juho turned around.

‘That’s it!’ Inspiration had struck him at the least expected moment. He looked at the cigarette in Sang Young’s hand that was burning ember. It was a fleeting spark.

“Huh? What is it?” Sang Young asked as he realized Juho was looking at him. Juho approached him with a serious expression, and Sang Young blinked, looking confused.

“So...”

“Yeah, what is it? Do you have an upset stomach?” he asked as the cigarette in his hand burned away, slowly being reduced to white ash.

“I think I need to go.”

“Huh?” Sang Young asked as he looked at Juho. His cigarette kept burning in his hand. Their eyes met. No, to be precise, Juho studied the way Sang Young looked at his cigarette.

“If you’ll excuse me.”

“Did you remember something urgent?”

“I need to write!”

“What?”

‘What did this kid just say?’ he asked himself dumbfoundedly. As if not seeing the confusion in Sang Young’s face, Juho bowed and started running. Sang Young stared at him in the distance.

‘He’s fast.’

He took a drag of his cigarette, and a thick cloud of smoke came out of his mouth and nose. He thought about what he had just seen in Juho’s eyes. Dry. Calm. Longing for something.

“What was that about?” Those eyes had lacked something. He had been thirsting for something. ‘Why would he have such look on his face when he’s already a bestselling author in his teens?’ he asked himself with his cigarette in his hand still. At that moment, he remembered. Those had been Yun’s eyes – a character who hid himself in the darkness and held his breath in fear, yet, longed for light.

Sang Young put his cigarette out in his portable ashtray. Its gray ash scattered about.

‘That’s it!’ He had thought of a way to maximize Yun’s character, Juho’s eyes, his dry, desolate, yet desperate eyes. Sang Young started running with his curly, untidy hair waving in the wind.

*

Juho had been running while writing in his notepad. He hadn’t been doing a good job with either writing or running. Yet, he kept scribbling on his notepad as he ran. He didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want to lose what had finally come to him after desperately longing for it.

To some, he might have looked ridiculous, but he kept running. He couldn’t afford to think about how others were looking at him.

“Damn it! Hills!?” He started to run out of breath as he ran uphill. Though he had been running for some time, there was still a long way to go.

Many scenes were coming in and out of his mind, and he didn’t want to miss a single one. He felt like they would evaporate if he didn’t take hold of them. Fighting for his breath, he kept running.

A cigarette, there had been a cigarette burning in Sang Young’s hand. There was no turning back the moment it was lit. There was nothing that could be done other than it being reduced to mere ashes. That was just the image Juho had been looking for.

“Hey, you’re home.”

“Hi!” he answered loudly.

After greeting his mother in a hurry, he rushed into his room and picked up his pen. ‘Cigarette, baby, mom, the protagonist, perspective, development, story, pregnancy. Carrying a new life. A state of bearing a child or a baby. A sign of birth. All covered in gray ash.’

The story quickly moved forward in his head, so he had to write down the scenes that were playing in his head like a movie. The screen came on as he turned on his computer, and he took a deep breath. ‘Let’s calm down. I have to write pragmatically. I can’t be too excited and let go of this stream of consciousness. If I’m led by what I write, it won’t come out right.”

By the time he couldn’t hear his breathing anymore, a scene revealed itself to him.

There was a woman lying on the bed. Her face was buried in the blanket, and she never looked up. Juho quietly approached her. The fabric rustled as he sat on the bed beside her. Despite his presence, the woman didn’t bother to look up.

He quietly reached over to her and brushed her long hair to the side. Her thin, white neck became visible. With his eyes closed, he put his face against it and inhaled. She smelled like flesh. It was her somewhat suffocating scent. He felt like his lungs would rot from deep within. Her body had been bearing that stench.

He slowly opened his eyes. Everything was fuzzy. He was blinded by a white cloud of smoke. Yet, they didn’t call for one another. They communicated with one another in silence.

He saw her silhouette moving in the smoke, and she looked in his direction. He tried to get a better look at her, but he couldn’t see her eyes through the smoke. Still, it had been apparent, she was filled with regret. She was sinking to the depths of it.

He closed his eyes again.

Now, there was a puddle of water reflecting various emotions, words, objects, and stories. As he dipped his hand into it, he felt its coldness traveling up from the tip of his fingers. Suddenly, he came to his senses.

‘Not bad. Now is the time.’

He had set aside anything that disrupted his mind. He had put down any concerns or obsessions for change and future.

Juho focused his attention to his fingertips as he remembered the sensation of his hand dipping into the cold puddle, and the screen filled up with words as his hands moved.

He saw a river flowing peacefully.

“Yawn,” he loosened as he looked at the water.

He had been writing late into night for the past two days. His new book had been flowing toward its finale like the river, and it had been a very smooth process. He wrote whenever he had a chance. At his mother’s urges, he had decided to go out for a walk by the river. His mind had been quite tired from writing all day, so he didn’t try to object.

He sat under a bridge, not finding it repulsive to sit on the ground, and stared quietly at the water. The more he saw the wavelets break, the more he wanted to get near them. As impulsive as he tended to be, it would’ve been dangerous to be closer to the water.

The color of the water was closer to black than blue. It hadn’t been all that pretty. It had been deep and dark and seemingly dangerous, even at a glance. Maybe his experience with the river had something to do with it.

He reminisced to the day when he drowned in the water. Water that flowed in from various sources mixed into one river. There was no ‘individual’ in there. He reminisced to his experience while he had been in the water. He hadn’t been able to make anything out. He hadn’t been able to hear his own breathing. Everything had been dark. Everything had been white, so perhaps, he had been blind. It had been kind of quiet but noisy at the same time.

In the end, nothing was accurate.

A memory tended to fade over time. Juho knew that he would forget all of those memories within a year. He wouldn’t be able to remember them even if he tried. He would probably try to find bits and pieces of his memories and move them around until they fit.

He took out a pen and a small notebook. That was why he needed them.

Letters, if he were to leave records of his memories, he would be able to hold onto them a little longer.

He thought about his next book. He had come out to take a break, but his mind was already back at it before he realized. It kept itself busy even when he wanted to clear his head. He didn’t resist.

He had written his next book in Yun Woo’s style. It was his next book, so it would have been natural to do so. For an author, his style was a direct translation of his personality. Like fingerprint, it was something that defined him as that author. One would truly become an author only when they had a style of their own. Now, Juho had two – his flashy, yet controlled style in ‘The Trace of a Bird,’ and another style that’d been shaped by thirty years of experience as an author.

That had been the proof. It had been the proof of time and the fact that he had gone back to the past. A boy who was once pure had become arrogant and, eventually, met his downfall. As he was about to soar into the sky once again after having fallen into the icy river, his wings were soaked. He couldn’t do anything but to look up at the sky.

So, he looked up at the blue sky. It was high. There was no wind or cloud. In the midst of the peaceful sky, he saw something white falling.

“What’s this?”

The object moved busily in the air and, soon, fell onto the ground. He reached over and read it.

“It’s a manuscript.”

There were even letters. Two quotation marks, somebody was talking.

‘Rustle.’

Another sheet of paper fell from the sky, and then another. He looked up.

“Whoa!”

Dozens of pages were flying in the sky.