A few days later, when I come home from work, Paulie is rolling a dead cat around like a ball, and when he sees me staring at him, a hand to my mouth, he plops down on top of it. As if to say, I’ve always liked smelly, squishy things. When I manage to pull Paulie away and stick him in the tub, he latches onto my neck. It’s not really a bite—he puts pressure on my neck with his muzzle the way he does when he pushes my knee, but we aren’t playing catch or wrestling like the other times. I feel a sudden terror. Dogs show their unhappiness with their mouths. If they’re pushed into a corner, they bite, even if it happens to be their owner. Paulie is agitated. I need to be calm. I have to be more attentive to his needs. Even though I’ve already turned on the water, I put the showerhead down on the floor as if to show him that I mean no harm. Whether you’re a dog or a human, if your needs are unfulfilled, you will feel like attacking. Is this what I’m really afraid of?
Paulie is still baring his teeth, revealing his beastly side. I turn off the water and slide down to the floor. We sit in a puddle, our bottom halves wet, staring at each other. You can’t do this, Paulie. I grab the scruff of his neck and raise him up, glaring into his eyes. A bite to the neck is a challenge to hierarchy. I sharply slap his skinny nose. If he continues to misbehave, the only thing left to do is stop feeding him. No. I lose my resolve and drop my hand. I shake my head. I have to think about what’s best for this old dog. What would be the best for Paulie? As if waiting for a new challenge, Paulie breathes hard, looking seriously into my eyes. I turn away from him in a firm and exaggerated gesture so that he will understand it, even with his failing eyesight. I want to say, Now we’re over.
I need to be firm. I don’t have the right to keep a dog when all I do is just look at him. I have no right to keep Paulie. Paulie is here not because he wants to stay with me but because he doesn’t have a choice. A dog doesn’t stay by his owner’s side in the face of danger out of love or loyalty. He’s merely waiting for what happens next. Humans think it’s because the dog loves his owner, but a dog is only a dog. I grab Paulie in an embrace. Paulie is only a dog. He’s merely his dog. Okay, I’ll bring you back to him, I whisper into Paulie’s ear. So you can stop being like this, Paulie. The perfect place for this dog is the house he, Paulie’s first owner, is living in. This is the last thing I can do for Paulie.
Before I send Paulie to him, to them, I realize something: Even the most well-trained dog will not move the way we want him to, and a dog feels terror, desire, curiosity, anger, satisfaction, hesitation, and loss just like us. A human instinctively wants to cuddle and protect a smaller and weaker being, furry and soft, with big eyes and a round head. And when Paulie is not acting up, he is so beautiful and gentle and loyal. Even though I know she can’t stand dogs, I dial her number, which I still know by heart, in the hopes that she will feel maternal toward him.
MAY
The fourth rule is, to have all ingredients and materials necessary for the preparation of your dishes ready and handy before you commence cooking, so that nothing need be hurriedly done…
CHAPTER 20
IN THE SUBWAY CAR on line three, I see a woman holding a large globe. I am going to work two hours earlier than usual, to meet the delivery of a big, twenty-five-kilogram perch and ten kilograms of blue crab from Wando Island. The woman looks straight ahead, her overstuffed duffel bag leaning on the seat next to her and the colorful globe on her lap, perhaps on her way to somewhere far. It’s unexpected to see a globe in an uncrowded subway car, and I stare at it as if I’ve never seen such a thing. When you spin a globe it feels like you can go anywhere in the world—the world is as small as your kitchen. But just as you can never see the Southern Cross from the North Pole, you can never see the other side of the world. You can leave whenever you want, but a time may come when staying here is beyond your willpower. The plastic globe sways on its axis with every shake of the subway car.
I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. My stop is announced. I open my eyes. The woman is no longer across from me. Neither is the globe, which looked heavy for its size. I manage to slip out just before the doors close. I pause momentarily while climbing the stairs. I can’t recall whether the woman was holding a globe, or a newborn baby swaddled in a colorful blanket, or a lapdog. Was I dozing in the early-morning subway? I keep walking, thinking it would have been better to see someone holding a big, slightly cracked melon instead. At least you can eat a melon. I haven’t been able to fall into deep slumber all spring. When reading a book or drinking herbal tea doesn’t help, I go into the yard and pace, barefoot, watching the sunrise. Now even Paulie isn’t there, Paulie, whose warm tongue used to lick my face.
The gigantic fish is splayed across the butcher block, dripping water. It’s so fresh that I think its eyes will fly open, tail flopping. A century ago the perch wouldn’t have arrived in an ice-filled Styrofoam box but in a clay jar of honey. Tension flits in the air among the six cooks who gather around the fish with their knives. Last month, I decided not to handle fish for a while. I feel warmer than usual and my palms sweat—the worst hands with which to touch fish. I’ve never been this hot before. I don’t know why this is happening. I gaze down at my palms. Is it because I’m completely alone? I shake my head. These thoughts only make my palms warmer. It’ll get better when the seasons change.
It feels like warm—and cold—liquid is seeping out of my body, like juice from cutting a ripe peach. I can’t do anything but wait for time to pass. If you want to pursue something, it means you have desire. There’s something I want to grab firmly with these two hands. I stand in front of the large oven that reflects my face and whisper: The hours I wait with desire will certainly be mysterious.
It’s disappointing that I can’t handle the perch—the tiger of the sea—but I step back. A fish this size has a lot of flesh and allows you to bring out all kinds of flavors. One hand supporting my chin, I glance at Chef, wondering how this one will be prepared. I think of Chef every time I look at a perch, just as I’m reminded of a cow or yellow paprika whenever I see Munju. What do people think when they look at me? Do they associate me with a vegetable or a fish? Chef picks up a knife, slides it along the dorsal fin, and slits the body open. Everyone, even Manager Park, gathers around the fish, curiosity gleaming in their eyes. Chef will carefully divide the body, cheeks, collar, stomach, liver, small intestines, and gills and distribute them to the staff. Then he will tell them to make a dish out of it—homework. This is how Chef uses a perch, as expensive as a whole calf. Another reason you don’t leave Nove once you start cooking here. A few years ago I parboiled the liver of a perch in salted water before stewing it in garlic sauce. Chef’s opinion was that my concoction was fine, but that it didn’t show enough imagination and tasted one-dimensional.