I Have the Right to Destroy Myself (11 page)

If a lesser artist had painted the same scene, he would have depicted Sardanapale with his arms over his head, grieving. But Delacroix understood the inner thoughts of a person presiding over death.

***

I decided to water the plants in the living room, which I haven't done in a long time. The flowers, filling the room, always looked the same. My flowers neither bloom anew nor fade. They don't break off, bleeding like the camellias of Seonun Buddhist Temple. I water my fake flowers once a week. I bought them when I moved to this place. I'm planning to throw them all out and bring in new floral arrangements next month.

Mimi, the only client who ever came to my apartment, was taken aback by the flowers blooming in my living room. When she realized they were fake, she refused to go near them.

"Why do you have so many of these fake flowers?"

"It doesn't matter whether they're fake or real, they exist only for you to look at them."

Mimi came back. But this time she looked brighter and happier.

"Did you see him?" I asked.

Mimi nodded. "It was a great project. But he can't save me."

"Nobody can save anyone," I replied.

Before settling into the bathtub, Mimi turned on Leonard Cohen's "Everybody Knows" and danced to it for a long time. Leonard Cohen's rough voice and the deep bass chords suited her dancing. I could hear the water running in the bathroom. The tub must have been overflowing. She listened
to "Everybody Knows" about ten times, then went to the tub. Standing at the doorway of the bathroom, I watched her slowly lower herself into the tub, the water flowing over the rim. She glanced at me as she picked up the knife.

"Good-bye. Thank you for everything. I hope your flowers will bloom forever."

"Good-bye."

Her crimson blood, emerging from the depths of the tub, quickly stained the water. She struggled to keep looking at me in spite of her fading consciousness. Her eyes slowly drifted shut. This was a good time for me to leave.

"I'm going now. Have a good trip," I told her.

I took off my gloves when I left her apartment. I always wear gloves when I go to a client's place, to make sure my fingerprints aren't discovered. Sometimes there are clients who want sex, but I usually refuse. But if I can't, I use contraception. Not only do I have to be prepared for a possible autopsy, it's also indecent for a new life to awaken in a dead body.

Mimi left with flair. Judith went peacefully. I miss them immensely. Their stories are done, and my novel will be a beautiful fake-flower arrangement that will be placed on their graves. Everyone who reads this will meet me at one point, in Marronniers Park like Judith or in a deserted street like Mimi. I will approach them without warning and ask, "Nothing's changed although you've come a long way, right?" Or, "Wouldn't you like to rest?" When that happens, hold my hand and follow me. Don't look back, even if you don't have the guts to go through with it. Keep going, even if it's painful and wearisome. I don't want too many clients. And now, more than anything, I want to rest. My life is always the same and endlessly wearying, just like these bunches of fake flowers lining my living room.

After I submit this novel, I'm going to leave for Babylon. Will there be someone like Mimi or Judith waiting for me there, like that woman was in Vienna? Why does nothing change, even when you set out for a faraway place?