Wed to a Bird With No Wings

His watch

“What’s the date today?”

“What time is it?”

“Is the weather cloudy or bright?”

He always started the day with questions like that.

Eight o’clock. That was his rising time, and I had orders to wake him up, even if it meant slapping his face, if he did not wake by himself.

Once up, the first thing was a cigarette, then a pee. Next came the turning on of radio or television to listen to music and the news. I had already had breakfast and now was the time for me to come into the room with a basin of water to wash his face and hands.

While I was doing that, the radio or television would be delivering an endless flow of information about the day’s weather, the date, the precise time, and so on, to all of which he would listen intently. Yet still he could not absorb it. He would only feel certain after he had asked me again, just to make sure, and once I had left to go to work, he would keep asking my mother the same questions over and over again.

He never for one moment took off his watch in the course of the year, not once in twelve months. He even wore it while he slept.

He was for ever boasting that his watch told exactly the same time as the clock on the television, but he was all the time on edge with his systematic efforts to make sure it never varied so much as a minute, a second even, from that precise electric timepiece. His watch always told the right time, but when it came to checking its accuracy he needed my collaboration, and my mother’s too.

“What time is it now?”

From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning until he fell asleep late in the evening, he was constantly asking the same question. Sometimes he would wake up early. In that case, although he was wearing his watch, he would invariably wake me up, no matter how deeply I was asleep, to ask what time it was.

“It’s only five o’clock. It’s much too early. Go back to sleep.”

“Ah, alright.”

Then he would seem reassured, satisfied, and settle down to go back to sleep as he spoke.

Looking straight at a calendar, he would ask, “What’s the date today?” and consulting his watch, “What time is it?” so there were times when mother and I would tease him for his constant questioning by giving off-beat answers.

“Omma-yo, how many minutes past the hour is it?”

“Well, I don’t rightly know. It must be ten past, surely?”

“No, it’s seven minutes past!”

“Then why ask me, if you already know?”

“I wanted to see if your watch and mine told the same time. My watch tells the same time as the television.”

“My watch is the same, too.”

“Not at all. It’s wrong!”

For us it was funny, but he was always completely serious about checking the time. And he would always get up, eat, have a drink, smoke a cigarette, and go to sleep, according to the precise time told by his electric watch.

He was convinced that so long as he lived a steady life, God would not punish him and he would not fall sick again.

According to his timetable, the right time for the morning meal was precisely eleven o’clock. Moreover, he would never eat anything at all until it was time for his morning meal, that was a combination of breakfast and lunch. Instead, as eleven approached, he would keep telling mother what time it was. It was like a control tower embarked on a countdown before the launch of an artificial satellite.

“Omma-yo, it’s a quarter to...”

“Omma-yo, it’s five to.”

Then and only then, at eleven precisely and not a minute before, would he let us serve the meal. If mother brought in the food a few minutes early, he would pay no attention to it until the time was right. He would protest: “I only eat when it’s eleven, that’s the right time for me to eat, why are you in such a rush?” and he would wait until it was eleven.

With such a son-in-law, mother would sometimes play a joke. If she pretended not to hear when he announced “quarter to” and “ten to” he would become terribly agitated. Then, as he announced “five to” a veritable little squabble would arise between them.

“Omma-yo, it’s five to.”

“I must hurry up and serve.”

“You see, if I hadn’t told you, it would have been terrible.”

“But everything’s ready, I only have to serve it up. What on earth do you mean, terrible?”

“Still, it’s as I say. If I hadn’t told you, it would have been terrible! Why don’t you wear a watch? I bought you one, why won’t you wear it? You have to look at your watch. Your watch. If you don’t keep your eye on the time... If I hadn’t told you, that would have been terrible.”

He would keep repeating, “That would have been terrible,” with an artless air that was so comic, mother found herself forced to laugh, although it was something that was always happening.

Sometimes he would take a snooze before the morning meal, and that too always gave rise to an altercation. If he happened to have woken up a bit earlier than usual, he would be drowsy. In which case he would start: “I mustn’t fall asleep, must I Omma-yo? I mustn’t fall asleep.”

He would repeat the same thing over and over again. He was worried he might not be on time for his meal.

“Go to sleep. If you’re still asleep at five to eleven, I’ll wake you up in time for your meal. Sleep now.”

“You won’t forget? If I doze off, I may be sound asleep.”

“You’ve got two hours yet; stop worrying.”

Once he had been through the formalities of obtaining mother’s reassurance, he would go to sleep. Then sometimes he would open his eyes at exactly five to eleven, without having been called. In that case, he would immediately turn on mother.

“Why, Omma, you nearly didn’t wake me up! If I’m asleep, you must wake me up, even if it means slapping my face. You were going to forget, if I hadn’t woken up first, weren’t you?”

“Have I ever not woken you up? I’ll give you your meal when it strikes eleven.”

No matter what mother said or did, there was no end to his ceaseless lament of “That would have been terrible.”

He ate twice a day. His evening meal at nine was taken care of by my niece Yong-jin. She loved her uncle as dearly as if she had been his real daughter, and would always prepare dishes he liked as well as keep him company, so that his evenings were spent happily.

By the time I closed Kwich’ŏn and got home, it was usually past eleven o’clock. From then until bedtime at twelve forty, I was all the time obliged to give precise answers to the question, “What time is it now?” He had decided on twelve forty as his regular bedtime; prior to that I had the task of bringing about a favorable atmosphere to help sleep to come.

At midnight, I would turn off the television and switch on the radio. That was because we listened to music before going to sleep. Then at twelve forty I would turn off the radio and change the thirty watt light-bulb for a ten watt one, that stayed burning while he slept. Once he was lying down and I had finally arranged the coverlet over him, his timetable for the day had been successfully completed.

“No matter what happens, be sure to come into my room at midnight. The radio has to be turned on.”

“You’re sure you know the radio has to go off at twelve forty?”

With those words he always made me responsible for the proper completion of his daily routine, and I did my best to be punctual to the minute.