Korean crime fiction: A domestic nightmare unravels Yuna Shin’s ‘perfect’ life

Jiyoo turned towards the living room door. Mother bent over and picked up the hair dryer that had dropped to the floor. The whirring started up again. When Jiyoo reached the threshold, her toe hit something. It was the nozzle of the hair dryer.

Jiyoo ever so slightly turned her chin to look back over her shoulder. The hair dryer was by itself blowing hot air across the floor. Mother, on the other hand, was on her knees, apparently looking for something underneath the sofa. Jiyoo slid across the floor the hair dryer nozzle, which might have been the thing Mother was looking for. But Jiyoo didn’t slide it towards Mother. She slid it towards the kitchen table. The nozzle slid under the table like a speeding bullet. It let out a scratching sound as it skidded across the floor, but it seemed like Mother hadn’t heard it. If she had, she would have asked about it.

Jiyoo left the living room. She tiptoed up the stairs like a ballerina and then disappeared into her room.

That day was unbearably long. Jiyoo felt like she was trapped, not on the second floor, but in time. Only after eating, going to the bathroom, perching on the windowsill and staring down at the wetlands, reading all of Frozen II – A New Destiny which Father had bought for her, and glancing at her Snow White clock more than one hundred times did the sun finally set.

Even though she couldn’t make out the hands of the clock in the dark room, she knew it had just turned ten because the train of dwarves inside the clock made ten passes. Jiyoo sat up in her bed. She leaned up against the headboard and listened to the sounds of the night coming in through the window – branches from the maple tree in the courtyard bumping up against one another, a faint breeze caressing the reeds, the barking of the dog from the neighbours down the road. The night was placid, boring, and bright.

Lying on the moonlit windowsill was a tray, on which was a bowl with goulash on rice, silverware, and a cup of water. Mother had brought it up an hour ago. It felt like she had barely remembered Jiyoo’s dinner.When she brought the food, Jiyoo was lying on her bed pretending to be asleep. Without turning on the lights, Mother came into the room, laid down the tray, and then left. Jiyoo didn’t touch the goulash. But it wasn’t because it tasted bad.

Mother was as good at making goulash as she was making duck feed. And Jiyoo knew exactly how she made it. Mother would stir-fry large chunks of beef with onions, add water and bring it to a boil, add goulash seasoning, paprika powder, and potatoes, then boil it all down until the meat was tender. One pot was enough to last days. Just like seaweed soup, the longer you boiled it, the richer the flavour. At least, that’s what Mother said.

Apparently, Mother learned how to make goulash from her Hungarian roommate while studying in Russia. Stepfather’s opinion was that, of the dishes Mother cooked, this was one of the “acceptable” ones. Jiyoo agreed with Stepfather. But she didn’t want to eat any more of Mother’s goulash. It wasn’t that she was being picky. No one would want goulash three meals in a row after being locked in their room all day. Unfortunately, because Mother cooked a full pot of goulash last night, it might be on the menu for the rest of their stay.

Downstairs was now quiet. The whirring of the vacuum cleaner and the grinder had ceased. And Jiyoo hadn’t heard a sound out of Mother since she brought up dinner. It seemed like she went to sleep as soon as she went back downstairs.

But that was understandable. She had spent all day tirelessly doing “chores: – Who wouldn’t be tired? And if Mother was really asleep, she wasn’t going to wake up suddenly and bring Jiyoo another bowl of goulash.

Jiyoo looked over at the bedroom door. You want to go to the attic, don’t you? Jiyoo could hear a voice in her head. Mother had named the voice the “Mischievous Mouse.” When Jiyoo didn’t answer, the mouse in her head goaded her on.

Go if you want. You can play up there as long as you clean up and don’t leave any traces.

Are you sure? Jiyoo thought of the box of puppets in the attic and the day she discovered it.

Despite only containing one room, the second floor had three doors: the bedroom door that faced the stairs, the door to the left which led to the bathroom, and the door to the right which had a lock on it, all connected by a long hallway.

Whenever they stayed at the cabin, Jiyoo was dying of curiosity about what was behind the locked door. And when she found the keys hidden in the drawer of the hallway dresser one day, she felt like she had dug up lost treasure because one of the three keys on the chain fit the lock to the attic perfectly.

After finding the keys, Jiyoo didn’t hesitate before opening the door. She was immediately met with complete darkness. There wasn’t a single window. Jiyoo flipped the switch on the wall, but even with the lights on, the room wasn’t as bright as a normal room. Indeed, the only light in the room was a single dim lightbulb attached to the wall. The first thing that her eyes locked onto was the ceiling of the room, which matched the one in the second-floor bathroom. It followed the slope of the roof.

Stepping into the room, Jiyoo was struck by a musty smell. Stacked on the long, narrow wood floor were all kinds of objects. A rolled-up carpet that had been stood upright, a blanket wrapped in a plastic cover, a curtain stuffed in a plastic bag, old comic books, plastic baskets filled with unrecognisable junk, and an assortment of paper boxes. And among all these objects was a box full of hand puppets.

Overwhelmed by excitement, Jiyoo ran downstairs. She wanted to ask Mother if she could play with the hand puppets.

“Mother.”

Mother, who was chopping meat on the counter when Jiyoo called her, turned around. When her eyes met Jiyoo’s, she smiled. Jiyoo loved Mother’s smile. Or rather, she loved the moments when Mother smiled. Those moments when the corners of Mother’s eyes curled up as she beamed at Jiyoo with her beautifully straight teeth. Her sparkling eyes were asking, Yes, my daughter?

“Can I play in the attic?”

“The attic? You mean the storage room upstairs?”

“Yes, that one,” Jiyoo said, barely able to hold back her excitement. She had almost revealed the fact she found the key. She had wanted to ask if she could play with the things in the attic. The puppets = were one of the things in the attic.

Mother turned back to face the counter and threw down the cleaver she had been holding. When she turned back to look at Jiyoo, the smile had disappeared from her face. Her lips had turned thin, her cheeks hollow, even the sparkle in her eyes had disappeared. So icy was her expression that Jiyoo felt like she shouldn’t breathe. Breathless, Jiyoo waited for Mother’s response.

“No, you may not.”

If Mother said no, that meant no. She had never changed her mind once she said no. In other words, there was no point in Jiyoo’s going downstairs, waking up her sleeping mother, and asking again if she could play with the puppets. It was enough that she had cried her eyes out that one day.

Excerpted with permission from Perfect Happiness, You-Jeong Jeong, translated from the Korean by Sean Lin Halbert, Penguin Random House.