Chapter 4 — Woman of Autumn Days - 1 (4)

The next day, I went to visit both the "Ramen Shop" and the "Riverside Tea House." I needed to say goodbye.

"I've had a meaningful autumn, thanks to you."

"Me too. This autumn was beautiful because of you, Sang-soo Park."

"This 'Riverside Tea House' will remain in my memory for a long time."

"Does that mean you won't come back to Busan?"

"Maybe not. But I'll try to return… if I can."

"No, don't even try."

After that farewell ritual at the Riverside Tea House, I went to the ramen shop. The old man in overalls greeted me just as he had the first time—overalls, tall rubber boots, a pipe clenched between his teeth, and that same blank expression.

"Will I ever be able to come back here again?"

"Hard to say. I'll try to come back, if I can…"

"Next time, bring a woman to share a bowl of Ho-ho ramen. Not that woman by the river…"

Back in Seoul, I threw myself into a new project, rushing from place to place. In the midst of it all, autumn slowly receded.

One day, when the trees along the streets had nearly shed all their leaves and their bare branches trembled in the biting cold, I visited my old school. I needed a filming location that could evoke autumn, so I went to the school's audiovisual archive.

I picked out films that seemed connected to autumn. Among them was a movie titled Late Autumn. The Late Autumn I chose was a black-and-white film from the early 1960s—the time just before I was born—directed by a renowned director.

I had seen this very film in that same archive room years ago when I was a student. Late Autumn had been remade in the 1980s and 1990s, but those versions were artistically incomparable to the original.

Though the remakes were in color, their visual beauty paled next to the stark, poetic power of the black-and-white original. Even with famous leading actresses, they couldn't match the profound performance of the lead actress in the original.

The remakes' screenplays had been adapted by an award-winning writer, but the original script, written by the director himself—a non-professional—was far more literary and refined.

I threaded the Late Autumn film reel onto the projector.

The first scene filled the screen with falling leaves. Then the camera pulled back to show a park where leaves drifted down. On one side of a bench sat a woman. In the distance, an old janitor swept leaves, slowly approaching her.

The camera slowly zoomed in on the woman. She wore a trench coat with the collar turned up, her long hair spilling over it. A scarf wrapped tightly around her face. Her features grew clearer with each passing second.

That was the moment. I felt a faint shiver. On the screen was her—the woman from the riverside. The melancholy woman in the film looked exactly like her.

The autumnal aura, the cool, distant eyes, the even white teeth, the slightly angular jawline that somehow made her seem more intelligent—both the woman in the film and the woman by the river shared the same haunting presence.

That was it. That was why she hadn't felt unfamiliar when I first met her. That was why she seemed like someone I'd seen before.

The following summer was fading. Autumn was approaching. I missed her—so much so that I began to feel restless, as if pulled by something I couldn't name.

I fabricated a reason to be transferred to the Busan office, pleaded with my supervisor in Seoul, and finally managed to get the assignment.

As soon as I arrived in Busan, I hastily unpacked at my lodging and went straight to the Riverside Tea House. She welcomed me warmly—so warmly that a faint blush, rare on her usually composed face, colored her cheeks.

"We should celebrate, meeting like this again."

"Celebrate? How?"

"Let's go to Eulsukdo reed field. We'll take a boat…"

"But it's still too hot. Autumn hasn't even come yet."

"So what? The river is there. The reeds are there."

And so we boarded the boat together.

The old boatman, deaf and mute, rowed us across after signing a question to her.

"What is he asking?"

"He wants to know who you are."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you're my boyfriend—the one who's kind to Thomas."

"And then?"

"He says you seem like a good man."

We reached Eulsukdo around three in the afternoon. The sun burned as fiercely as midsummer. The reed field unfolded the moment we stepped off the boat.

We trampled through the reeds, searching for a suitable spot to sit and talk.

She looked unbearably hot. I needed to shield her from the scorching sunlight. I stopped at a place where tall reeds grew thick and dense.

"I'll build you a little shelter."

"How can you build a shelter here?"

"You'll see."

I laid down dozens of reeds flat on the ground, creating a level space surrounded on all sides by thick reeds. Then I began tying the tips of reeds from opposite sides together overhead.

As I tied them, a crude roof formed. It was haphazard, but it worked—casting shade and blocking some of the sun. We sat beneath the reed shelter, and for the first time, I felt a quiet intimacy.

"How is it? A fine shelter, isn't it?"

"Who built this, anyway?"

"Is it cooler now?"

"Yes, much cooler. Maybe it's not just the shade—maybe it's your thoughtfulness keeping me cool."

We talked for a long time there.

Then the sunlight inside the shelter began to fade. Dark clouds gathered in the sky. The inside of our little hut grew dim. Then came a soft thudding sound—raindrops striking the reed roof.

"It looks like heavy rain. We should go back."

"It's just a shower. It'll pass soon."

"No. This doesn't feel like a passing shower. It's not summer rain."

"Even so, we need the boat to cross the river."

"If we wave from the bank, the old boatman will come."

We stood on the riverbank, waving our arms. But the boat on the far side remained still.

The rain grew heavier. Still, a question nagged at me—how did people signal the boatman at night, if someone came to the reeds after dark?

"How do you signal the boatman at night?"

"I think they light a few reed leaves and wave them."

But the old boatman never came. She wiped rainwater from her face and said,

"We can't wait. Let's go over there. Maybe there's somewhere to take cover."

"Yes. We should."

We walked along the riverbank, pushing through the downpour. The bank was so narrow we had to walk single file.

Her clothes were soaked through. The thin fabric clung tightly to her skin.

Her naked form was fully revealed—the slender curve of her waist, the sensual slope of her back, the fullness of her hips, and at the center of it all, yellow panties pressed against her flesh. It was more than enough to ignite desire within me.

I remembered the folktale of the brother and sister who gathered herbs in the mountains and were caught in a sudden downpour. Like us, their clothes clung to their bodies, drenched. I imagined the younger brother must have felt the same desire I now struggled with.

I fought desperately to suppress the rising heat inside me. To feel desire for her—so delicate, so pure—felt like defiling something sacred, like throwing filth upon a shrine.

We had walked for about ten minutes through the heavy rain when I spotted an open clearing where the reeds had been cleared. There stood a beach umbrella from a beverage company.

I picked it up. We were already soaked beyond saving, but I wanted to give her some sense of relief. Holding the umbrella forced us to stand close—too close to avoid each other.

I walked behind her, holding the umbrella over us. I could feel her warmth. The scent rising from her wet body reached my nose—bitter, like boiled herbs.

Again and again, I had to suppress the urge to wrap my arms around her from behind, to pull her trembling body against mine.

We walked farther—perhaps as far as we had already come—when I saw a young man. He looked like the boy from the film Tico, shirtless, wearing a necklace made of seashells. In his hand was something that looked like fishing gear.

"Looking for the shop?"

"Yes. Is there one here?"

"Then follow me."