Devil’s Music

It was Friday morning at 11 o'clock.

It was that time when everyone was lost in slumber after practicing until late into the night. Geon, alone in a corner of the practice room, was watching a live video of 'You are my kind' by 'Seal' on his laptop. With one arm on the table and a frustrated expression, Geon sighed.

"'Seal' effortlessly indulges in Latin music while swaying bit by bit as he sings. The feel of Latin rock comes across so well... Why can't I make it work?"

Geon pondered a lot while singing. He calculated tirelessly to capture the emotions injected by the composer and lyricist into the music. This song demanded even more concentration than others. The melody was a fast-paced Latin rock, making it challenging to handle the emotions, let alone focus on stage actions.

After briefly searching for another live video by 'Santana' on his laptop, Geon closed it. Leaning back, he gazed up at the ceiling.

"How can I evoke more emotion naturally? Should I act out a romantic scene?"

Geon stared at the ceiling for a while, feeling a stiffness in his neck, then massaged it before getting up from his seat.

"I should eat something first. Can't think on an empty stomach."

With a troubled expression, Geon walked out of the Chicago Cultural Center. After strolling for about three minutes along the street, he found himself in front of the 'Millennium Station.' Spotting a hotdog truck by the entrance of the subway station, he approached it, thinking he could sit on the nearby bench and eat.

Inside the truck, a white-haired elderly man in his late sixties was vigorously grilling sausages. Glancing at the menu attached to the side of the truck, Geon spoke up.

"Could I have a cheese dog and a cola, please?"

The old man, upon seeing Geon, faintly smiled and nodded. As Geon reached for money from his pocket to hand it to the old man, a similarly aged woman emerged from behind the truck and spoke.

"Give the money to me."

As Geon looked at the woman, then at the man, the man nodded.

"She's my wife. You can give the money to her."

Bowing slightly, Geon handed the money to the woman, who seemed unfamiliar with Asian customs, and she awkwardly accepted it with a bow before smiling at Geon.

"Young man, are you Japanese? They usually behave like this."

Shaking his head, Geon replied, "I'm Korean. We also have our customs."

Smiling, the woman put the money in a basket on the truck.

"Ah, I see. I'll give you the food soon. Can you sit by the bench next to you for a moment?"

Geon smiled and sat on the bench. Millennium Station was usually bustling, but this morning it seemed quiet. Stretching and sitting on the bench, Geon felt his mind clearing.

"I did the right thing coming out. My head feels clearer outside."

"Um... ma... ga... seom... geu...neul...e..."

Geon abruptly turned at the sound of a song behind him.

"Korean?"

Looking around for the source of the Korean nursery rhyme, Geon saw a woman sitting alone in the grass behind the bench, singing softly. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, dressed formally, yet seated on the grass.

As Geon squirmed to get a better look, he noticed the woman had one leg crossed over the other, staring at the ground with sad eyes. With her head bowed, she held her left chest with one hand, looking painfully sorrowful. Geon felt a mix of curiosity about her situation and a desire to help a fellow Korean, prompting him to rise from his seat. Just then, the elderly woman pushed hotdogs and a cola towards him.

"Here you go. Enjoy it."

After glancing at the elderly woman and then back at the woman singing, Geon received the hotdog. The elderly woman looked at the woman with a pitiful expression and said,

"She's here again. That lady."

With a mouthful of hotdog, Geon turned to the elderly woman and asked, "Does she have a story? She sings so sadly."

Shaking her head sorrowfully, the elderly woman replied, "I heard it from Lisa, who used to run a flower shop here... Last year, during that gang shooting incident at this station, she lost her daughter. A three-year-old, exactly."

"She was three," chimed in a gruff voice beside him. The grandfather, wiping his hands with a towel, approached. He tied the towel around his neck, placing his hand on his hip as he looked at the woman.

"That daughter was three. Even while taking a walk with her daughter, she was always on the phone for work. Apparently, on the day of that incident, she was yelling on the phone during their walk. She still managed to hold her daughter's hand and tell her to play alone for a bit while she took a call beside that building."

Geon looked at the woman with sympathetic eyes. She seemed to be tearing herself apart, holding and patting her chest while shedding tears. She softly sang a little song:

When mom goes to gather shells in the shade

The baby stays alone and watches the house

Listening to the lullaby the sea sings

Cuddling her arms, she slowly falls asleep

Even though the baby sleeps soundly

The seagull's cries make her heart flutter

With a basket not entirely filled on her head

Mom hurries back

As the song ended, the woman lowered her head to caress the ground again, and her singing continued uninterrupted. The grandfather said sadly, "What a pity."

"That spot where the woman stands is where her daughter was shot. She doesn't think her child died because she left her place empty. She believes if they were together, they'd have died together. Since then, she's been sitting there, singing incomprehensible songs all day."

Geon couldn't take his eyes off the woman as he pondered.

"So that's why she sings for her lost child... The person who made that song sought refuge in Busan during the 6.25 Incident and heard about a mother who, while away, worried for her newborn left alone at home while she worked in the fields."

"So... she's singing that song because she feels responsible for losing her daughter."

Geon remained fixed on the woman for a long while. His forgotten hot dog had gone cold, and condensation dampened his cola. Even while the grandparents beside him returned to their tasks, Geon's attention didn't waver from the woman. Just looking at her brought tears to his eyes.

"How much pain must she be in? How much regret? Guilt? How much does she long to see her daughter?"

Geon lowered his head in contemplation.

"If... it were me, could I have endured it? It wouldn't have been my fault, but in such a situation, one couldn't help but blame oneself."

Feeling a surge of emotions while gazing at the woman, Geon felt remorseful for having such thoughts. Silently, he offered an apology to her, knowing she wouldn't hear.

"I'm sorry. It's too presumptuous of me to have these thoughts about your immeasurable grief. Someday, when you're better, I'll compose a song that heals you. Please recover."

When Geon's grandmother returned to warm his cold hot dog, he had already vanished.

"Where did that lad go? Lad! Lad!"

Returning to the practice room, Geon picked up the sheet music for 'You are my kind.' The musical notes were still in a vibrant shade of 'violet.'

"The color representing ardent love. Is that truly accurate? It was Chagall who said that about violet, not Rachmaninoff. Could I be mistaken?"

Beside the musical notes, Geon transcribed English lyrics into Korean. Suddenly, he paused at one point.

"Stay by my side, that's all I ask for

Knowing someday this moment won't be remembered by you

Because you're like me, you're everything I desire

Our lives remain here until we die

Our breath, our skin, our hearts, our minds

You're unique yet just like me, you're just like me"

Geon stopped writing and looked at the lyrics.

"I misunderstood.

"Violet isn't 'ardent love,' it's 'painful solitary love.' My emotions were misinterpreted. That's why I had to concentrate so intensely while singing."

"This song isn't meant for someone else. It's words I couldn't articulate and spit out alone."

Crossing his arms and closing his eyes, Geon, inexperienced in unrequited love, found interpreting emotions challenging.

He folded the sheet music, placed it in his guitar bag, and glanced at the time on the wall.

"Two o'clock in the afternoon. Thirty hours until the live performance."

>

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