WeTried Translations

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◈ The Hunting Genius of the Japanese Colonial Era

Chapter 36

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Our Tavern Is Open for Business (2)

The thing Han San had set his sights on was a single dagger, heavy and gleaming.

No—could you even call it a dagger?

In the late stages of Han San's past life, just a little before he regressed, a certain cartoonist had begun an irregular serialization in the Japanese magazine Hakusensha's Animal House[1]. The narration described the blade the protagonist drew like this:

—It was too large to be called a sword.

—Big, thick, heavy, and crude.

—It was, in truth, a lump of iron.

Han San, who had spent his whole life as a Seorak mountain man, had come to know that comic magazine because around that time he'd had occasion to visit his younger brother, Teacher Han Bada, but that wasn't important now.

What mattered now was that the moment he laid eyes on this homemade dagger, that very same impression flickered through his head.

More precisely, if that sword had spawned a child, it would look exactly like this.

'A leaf spring off a motorcar.'

Ford? A truck? Whatever it was, the thing had clearly been forged from the spine of some foreign automobile.

The edge had only been roughly ground. The lower part was wrapped round and round with cord, and over that, rubber-glue paper tape was wound to serve as a makeshift grip.

A crude homemade dagger through and through, but the thickness and the gleam were the real deal of real deals.

'Strike bone with this and the edge won't even chip.'

Han San swallowed hard. He'd grown sick of carrying around a slapdash knife or an awkward sickle anyway.

"This material's pretty tough, isn't it?"

At Han San's words, the owner of the homemade dagger puffed himself up.

"You've got an eye. Right? This here's a child of mine, my own flesh and blood. Swing it however you want and it'll lop the branches clean off."

"Any thought of selling it?"

"No, no. Where would I ever find another knife like this? The grip's a bit uncomfortable, sure."

Han San gave a wry smile. Of course—what looked good to him would look good to others too.

Everyone in this world has a knife-sharp grip on their own interest, so the kind of thing you read in martial-arts novels, where nobody else can recognize a treasure and you alone strike it lucky, hardly ever happens.

"Anyway, sharpen the edge for me. Good and keen. And if you can fix up the grip or balance the weight, all the better."

Han San folded away his regret. Then he set the price.

"Sharpening the edge runs ten jeon. Balancing the weight... Father, that's a big job, isn't it?"

Han Man-seok took the knife with his tobacco pipe still in his mouth and looked it over.

"It's a good piece. A good piece eats good things. Tools too. Can't do it here. You'd have to take it to Mr. Baek's smithy up in the Upper Hamlet."

"What's he saying?"

The dagger's owner blinked.

Han San translated.

"You'll have to pay three won."

"Now you look at this highway robber!"

The dagger's owner leapt up.

"Three won!? Just for slapping on a grip and whatnot—three damn won, are you serious or are you blowing smoke!?"

Han San frowned.

"I'm no highway robber. If I were the one setting the price, maybe, but if my father judged it so, then that's exactly how much it takes."

His father had been doubted, so his mood soured and his words went curt. The dagger's owner must have caught the change, because he gave a small cough.

"No need to get all stiff about it... ah, forget the weight, then. Just the edge... ten jeon, that's, well, fine."

Han San looked at Han Man-seok, and Han Man-seok simply nodded, and so Han San nodded again too.

'Even the Pyongyang governor's post means nothing if a man won't take it.[2]'

Han San asked, "Anything else you need?"

"No, no. Just give me some of that soup platter... wait, fifty jeon!? That's too pricey!"

"That soup platter's like my own flesh and blood to me too, you see."

Han San said it with a face of brass.

The dagger's owner clicked his teeth and rummaged through his pockets. His expression soon turned forlorn.

"Forget the platter—can't you just spot me a single cup of liquor?"

"No. If you've no money, like I said before, if you've a mind to sell that knife, give me the word. I can give you five won."

"What? Five won?"

Hm? More of a reaction than before?

But the dagger's owner soon shook his head back and forth.

"No, no. Not selling. Mm, won't sell. I told you, this is the same as a child of mine."

"Suit yourself, then."

Once again—even the Pyongyang governor's post means nothing if a man won't take it.

So the business went on, and before long, around the hour dusk settled in, the Pi Sun-dae House in front of the tavern.

A place where the slap of hwatu cards crossed with cheers and shrieks all at once. The one raising his voice loudest there right now was neither greenhorn hunter number one, who'd staked his whole fortune, nor greenhorn hunter number two, who'd pawned every bit of gear he owned.

It was Go Tae-chon.

"Come on, hyung! You've got a fine business like this, eh!? And you don't even tip me off—you go and team up with that wet-behind-the-ears kid, eh!?"

Go Tae-chon was sick to his stomach with envy.

Just sitting there, he could hear the cries ringing out from over yonder—"makgeolli and gukbap platter, fifty jeon" and "sleep with a blanket through to morning, one won." Just how shrewdly was that boy fleecing them?

What kind of capital-ism hell was this, where human greed got such free rein?

'This isn't some crab cannery ship![3]'

Go Tae-chon was so worked up he was nearly ready to turn into a red warrior. Right now he could hardly stand the urge to set this rotten world ablaze.

"Then you go dig up the news, finish all the groundwork, and bring the plan to me. Why are you fretting yourself sick over wanting to muck about in the hole Han San dug?"

"Still! With that kid!"

"Maybe because he's a kid, he sure feeds me well. Mmm, nom nom nom. See this? The money I'm eating."

"Let me in on it too!"

"Ah, you son of a bitch, did you marry that Mrs. Go woman or did you marry me? Why are you carrying on at me to set down one more spoon for you? Honestly, this... oh! Han San!"

Go Tae-chon flinched.

Pi Sun-dae, his whole face crumpled up in a grin, waved a hand in welcome—and sure enough, into the seat stepped Han San.

"Yes, hello, hyung."

"Business going well?"

"Of course. Ah, here's thirty won—the money you lent me when I opened the tavern. And here. The two-tenths share I promised."

Han San plunked something down. It was money worn thick with handling, but its value was no problem at all—a roll of bills. Watching it from the corner of his eye, Go Tae-chon felt that ache prickle through his gut all over again.

Pi Sun-dae paid Go Tae-chon no mind and scooped up the money with a thunk.

"Heh heh heh. First time I've ever seen someone pull back their investment this fast."

"It didn't cost much to begin with. And the thirty won you lent me went almost entirely into bringing in the next batch of materials."

Han San, likewise ignoring Go Tae-chon, took a seat.

"How about you, hyung? I sent a few your way."

"Going well! A real boom. Even fellows with no money at all turn out to be holding some halfway decent things. Though turning those into cash does take some labor..."

It was then.

"Aigo! How the hell does a busted hand come up there! You're all in on it together! Out to do me in!"

A wail rang out from inside the mansion. A slick reply followed at once.

"In on what, mister? Quit your whining. Your luck's just plain rotten, that's all."

"You expect me to believe that!"

"Believe it or not, that's your business. This knife—or whatever scrap of iron it is—we're taking it."

"No! That knife! That knife's my own flesh and blood!"

"If it's your child, it ought to be filial. Hear it? 'Father, don't you worry! I'll repay your debt with this body of mine.' See, it's saying that very thing. A real model son."

"Aaah! My knife!"

That voice was familiar.

'The one with the homemade dagger...'

Caught in the absurdity of it, Han San grasped the situation at once.

Won't sell, same as a child, he'd said—but sadly enough, this world holds people who'll pawn their own children to gamble.

"Why does the busted hand come up, whyyy..."

That sorrowful weeping must have grated on Pi Sun-dae's nerves, because he barked out irritably.

"Hey, quiet down over there! You sons of bitches! What are you doing, not slipping him a little walking-money and sending him off!"

"Sorry, hyung! Now, mister! Quit making a scene and get up quick..."

A mansion like this naturally has a back door. The voice of the dagger's owner—now likely its former owner—and the voice of Pi Sun-dae's lackey who'd cleaned him out both faded off into the distance.

And from the direction of the daecheong floor, another lackey came sauntering out, snickering.

"Heyyy, boss. This one looks pretty good, don't it?"

In the lackey's hand was, of course, that homemade dagger. In a mere two or three hours it had become an orphan blade, torn from its father.

Pi Sun-dae tipped his chin and glanced down at it, then nodded.

"Not bad. Got some heft to it—a fine tool."

"What should we do? Set it aside for the town, or take it to Mr. Baek up in the Upper Hamlet?"

"Hmm..."

Pi Sun-dae fell into thought.

And just then, Han San spoke up at the right moment.

"Could I buy it?"

Pi Sun-dae glanced at him.

"Why? Tempted?"

"Yes. It looks good."

As he said it, the thought struck him that letting this thug see how badly he wanted it might invite a gouging—but, well, so be it. If it cost too much, he just wouldn't buy it.

But that worry had been too cautious. Pi Sun-dae jerked his chin straight at the lackey.

"Hey! What'd that fellow pawn it for just now?"

"Took it for one won, boss."

"There you have it. Give it to him for one won."

It was unexpected for Han San. What had gotten into this thug?

"You don't want to add a little more on top..."

"It's fine, fine. Aren't we working together? A tool like this, heh—a fellow with spicy fists is the one who ought to wield it, eh."

Pi Sun-dae said it wearing that signature grin of his, the whole skin of his face creasing into fine wrinkles.

The lackey held out the knife with a slightly fearful hand. Han San, for once, hesitated as he took it, then handed over the money.

'Tossing out a whole won just like that!'

Watching from the side, Go Tae-chon's stomach turned over again. With that much you could buy a Leghorn hen...

Whatever Go Tae-chon was thinking, Han San gave Pi Sun-dae a bow.

"Thank you."

"I said it's fine! A man of value ought to be treated as a man of value, no?"

"Ha ha."

Once he'd confirmed Pi Sun-dae had no hidden angle, Han San's mood lifted too.

He'd been ready to pay up to five won for this iron blade, and here he'd gotten it for less than a quarter of that.

'Mm!'

The feel of it against his hand—heavy beyond measure.

The grip was uncomfortable, just as the man had said, and whoever forged it hadn't hammered it right, so the balance was a mess, but that was a matter to leave to his father to set right.

'With just this one, jungle knife and butchering blade are both covered.'

He could say it flat out—this was simply the end-all of knives you could get anywhere near Inje. A better blade than this you'd only find once you pushed out past Chuncheon.

"I'll put it to good use."

For all you might curse a thug a thug, when that thug is your thug, there are perks like this.

The thug too wore a pleased face at this hunter of theirs and his knack for making money.

"Aye. You give a thing worth using to a man who'll use it well, no? Especially you, Han San—you bring in good money and send me good marks besides."

"We help each other get by."

"And you gave the inn a real slick name. [Wolf-Catching Tavern]. Right! Hang up a wolf hide and its head, and where else would fellows out to catch wolves go but here?"

Han San laughed, pleased.

"Ah, about that. Truth is, I'd first thought of calling it [Salnyang Salnyang (Kill the Wolf, Kill the Wolf)][4]—kill the wolf and kill it again, something along those lines."

"?"

"But then I thought it over. How many of the customers would actually be able to read the hanja? Not easy. So I named it like it is now, but it's a real shame."

A silence fell.

Only after a moment did Pi Sun-dae speak.

"You... Han San, when you have a kid someday, you make sure you leave the naming to your wife. What's all that musty mildew stink doing on a young fellow's name-making?"

And just why was that? He'd thought it a rather youthful turn of phrase himself. Han San sank into gloom once more...

'I suppose, being a thug, his cultivation's so thin he can't follow it.'

Being gloomy, he decided to needle Go Tae-chon instead.

"Oh! Mr. Go. Just noticed you. What brings you here?"

When Han San floated it with a put-on look of surprise, Go Tae-chon—who'd been muttering "Salnyang Salnyang (Kill the Wolf, Kill the Wolf), eh... not half bad..." with a hand to his chin—jumped in a fright.

[1] Hakusensha's Animal House (白泉社, アニマルハウス) is a real Japanese manga publisher and magazine; the "too large to be called a sword" blade described here is the Dragonslayer from Kentaro Miura's Berserk, an anachronistic nod to Han San's modern past life.

[2] "Even the Pyongyang governor's post means nothing if a man won't take it" (평양 감사도 저 싫으면 그만이다) is a Korean proverb meaning that no honor or bargain, however fine, can be forced on someone unwilling — the governorship of Pyongan Province being a famously coveted post.

[3] The "crab cannery ship" (게잡이 공선) alludes to Kani Kōsen, Kobayashi Takiji's 1929 proletarian novel about brutally exploited cannery-ship laborers, a touchstone of leftist literature that frames Go Tae-chon's "red warrior" outburst.

[4] Salnyang Salnyang (殺狼殺狼, "kill the wolf, kill the wolf") is a pun: the hanja reads as slaying wolves, while the identical-sounding native Korean 살랑살랑 is a light, breezy onomatopoeia for gentle swaying — the joke being the violent meaning hidden in a soft-sounding name.

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