Elisa Shua Dusapin - Winter in Sokcho

By page five I was gasping with gratitude that this book exists and furious I hadnt read it sooner. Parallel Lives is so incisive about the subtleties of power and intimacy that its basically addictive; I hope to be discussing it with friends for a long time. Jia Tolentino, author of Trick Mirror

A masterpiece. Huffington Post

Narrated in an elegant, enigmatic voice that skilfully summons the tenderness and mutability of an inner life, Winter in Sokcho is a lyrical and atmospheric work of art. Sharlene Teo, author of Ponti

A tender and poetic first novel. Le Monde

Mysterious, beguiling, and glowing with tender intelligence, Winter in Sokcho is a master class in tension and atmospherics, a study of the delicate, murky filaments of emotion that compose a life. Dusapin has a rare and ferocious gift for pinning the quick, slippery, liveness of feeling to the page: her talent is a thrill to behold. Alexandra Kleeman, author of You Too Can Have a Body Like Mine

I havent encountered a voice like this since Duras spellbinding. ELLE (France)

Atmospheric, exquisitely written and highly charged. Olivia Sudjic, author of Sympathy

Remarkable in its formal daring and maturity. Lire

HE ARRIVED muffled up in a woollen coat.

He put his suitcase down at my feet and pulled off his hat. Western face. Dark eyes. Hair combed to one side. He looked straight through me, without seeing me. Somewhat impatiently, he asked me in English if he could stay for a few days while he looked around for something else. I gave him a registration form to fill in. He handed me his passport so I could do it for him. Yan Kerrand, 1968, from Granville. A Frenchman. He seemed younger than in the photo, his cheeks less hollow. I held out my pencil for him to sign and he took a pen from his coat. While I was booking him in, he pulled off his gloves, placed them on the counter, inspected the dust, the cat figurine on the wall above the computer. I felt compelled, for the first time since Id started at the guest house, to make excuses for myself. I wasnt responsible for the run-down state of the place. Id only been working there a month.

There were two buildings. In the main building, the reception, kitchen and visitors lounge downstairs, and a hallway lined with guest rooms. Another hallway with more guest rooms upstairs. Orange and green corridors, lit by blueish light bulbs. Old Park hadnt moved on from the days after the war, when guests were lured like squid to their nets, dazzled by strings of blinking lights. From the boiler room, on clear days, I could see the beach stretching all the way to the Ulsan mountains that swelled on the horizon. The second building was round the back of the first one, down a long alleyway. A traditional house on stilts, restored to make the most of its two rooms with their heated floors and paper dividing walls. An internal courtyard with a frozen fountain and a bare chestnut tree. There was no mention of Old Parks in the guidebooks. People washed up there by chance, when theyd had too much to drink or missed the last bus home.

The computer froze. I left it to recover while I went over the information for guests with the Frenchman. It was usually Old Parks job to do this but he wasnt there that day. Breakfast from 5 a.m. to 10, in the kitchen next to the reception, through the sliding glass door. No charge for toast, butter, jam, coffee, tea, orange juice and milk. Fruit and yogurt extra, put a thousand won in the basket on top of the toaster. Items to be washed should be left in the machine at the end of the corridor on the ground floor, Id take care of the laundry. Wifi password: ilovesokcho, all one word, no capitals. Convenience store open twenty-four hours a day, fifty metres down the road. Bus stop on the left just past the shop. Seoraksan National Park, one hour away, open all day until sunset. A good pair of boots recommended, for the snow. He should bear in mind that Sokcho was a seaside resort, I added. There wasnt much to do in the winter.

Guests were few and far between at that time of year. A Japanese climber, and a girl about my age, seeking refuge from the capital while she recovered from plastic surgery to her face. Shed been at the guest house for about two weeks, her boyfriend had just joined her for ten days. Id put all three of them in the main house. Business had been slow since the death of Parks wife the previous year. Park had closed up the upstairs bedrooms. When you included my room and Parks, all the rooms were taken. The Frenchman could sleep in the other building.

It was dark. We set off down the narrow alleyway past Mother Kims stall. Her pork balls gave off an aroma of garlic and drains that lingered in the mouth all the way down the street. Ice cracked beneath our feet. Pallid neon lights. We crossed a second alleyway and came to the front porch.

Kerrand slid the door open. Pink paint, plastic faux baroque mirror, desk, purple bedspread. His head brushed the ceiling, from wall to bed was no more than two steps for him. Id given him the smallest room in the building, to save on cleaning. The communal bathroom was across the courtyard, but he wouldnt get wet, there was a covered walkway all around the house. It didnt bother him anyway. He examined the stains on the wallpaper, put down his suitcase, handed me five thousand won. I tried to refuse it but he insisted, wearily.

On my way back to reception, I took a detour through the fish market to pick up the leftovers my mother had put aside for me. I walked down the aisles to stand number forty-two, ignoring the looks people gave me as I passed. My French origins were still a source of gossip even though it was twenty-three years since my father had seduced my mother and then vanished without a trace.

My mother, wearing too much make-up as usual, handed me a bag of baby octopus:

Thats all there is right now. Have you got any bean paste left?

Yes.

Ill give you some.

No need, I still have some.

Why dont you use it?

I do!

Her rubber gloves made a sucking noise as she pulled them on and looked at me suspiciously. Id lost weight. Old Park didnt give me enough time to eat, shed have a word with him. I told her not to. Id been consuming vast amounts of toast and milky coffee every morning ever since Id started working there, I said, I couldnt possibly have lost weight. Old Park had taken a while to get used to my cooking but he didnt interfere. The kitchen was my domain.

The octopus were tiny, ten or so to a handful. I sorted through them, browned them with shallots, soy sauce, sugar and diluted bean paste. I reduced the heat to stop them getting too dry. When the sauce had thickened, I added some sesame and tteok, slices of small sticky rice balls. Then I started to chop the carrots. Reflected in the blade of the knife, their grooved surface blended weirdly with the flesh of my fingers.

I felt a chill as a draught blew through the kitchen. Turning round I saw Kerrand come in. He wanted a glass of water. He watched me work while he drank it, staring hard as if he were trying to make sense of the image in front of him. I lost concentration and nicked the palm of my hand. Blood welled onto the carrots, hardening to form a brownish crust. Kerrand took a handkerchief from his pocket. He stood close to me and held it to the wound.

You should be more careful.

I didnt do it on purpose.

Just as well.