Silence in Myeongdong*
- Roger Murphy
- Aug 7
- 3 min read
He narrows his bloodshot eyes and
The turtle-green soju bottle
Rises to his cracked and painful lips.
Two gulps he sucks down
And continues to watch from the shop doorway.
He leans against the tiled wall,
His drooping shoulder rubs against a poster for a circus,
He takes a drag from his slightly damp rolled-up cigarette.
He watches the performance on the spotlit stall.
Yellow and red sauce
Dance across the stage.
The chef’s dextrous ladle
Tosses the dok high in the air.
Cylinders like sticks of soft chalk,
Watched by the cook’s massive pasty face
Pass his tired eyes as they are tossed.
He scans the audience, picking out the prettiest girl.
The actor-chef is showing off.
Part performer,
Part periwig-pated fellow.
From the shadows, leaning back,
The drunk has noticed
The actor’s assistant.
A woman of impeccable emptiness.
Revealing a concave face with eyes like bowls of blood
And brown teeth encrusted with nicotine.
She has seen the girl the actor-chef likes and,
Taking the next bowl of Dok
Into the semi-darkness around the stall towards the girl,
She shoots a thin stream of spit –
Spit forced at high pressure between her brown front fangs.
It is only a split second perpetrated in the dark.
Leaving her post by the actor’s side,
She bears the steaming bowl
to the pretty purchaser. With disturbing smirks
She humbly presents, with a little bow and two hands,
The delicious food.
Centre stage, the master actor closes his eyes
His muscle memory takes over. Tosses a bowlful of
Dok with his eyes closed. Applause.
The drunkard’s eyes go down the long line of stalls –
The Busan fishcake – a double flat layer and a cup of fish broth.
Beyond that, it’s butter garlic shrimp.
He sees it every second night.
Being blasted with
The sudden blue light from a gas gun.
If he cranes his neck, which he will not,
Just up the street, a burning beef steak
Is charred with another blue flame,
Scissored into small segments and then,
Burned in a shower of sparks and flame,
Piled on a bowl of rice.
And finally, the soju knows,
At the end of the row of stalls
Webfoot octopus occupies the stage.
Dripping suckers, sagging grey body,
Sweet salad leaves, sliced carrots,
Onions and capsicums thinly cooked.
Sesame seeds and butter.
And Buljukkumi – a dish that numbs the mouth – is also proffered.
Tangtangi – wriggling bits of octopus
Seasoned with sesame oil and salt and
Topped with Korean pear slices, scallions, peppers,
Sesame seeds and an egg yolk.
The drunk closes his eyes.
He has seen it all before.
Stalls begin to close.
He slumps and slumbers,
One foot extends into the path of the thinning crowd.
A stream of urine trickles from his grubby trouser-leg
Across the pathway and into the gutter.
The final shoppers leave.
A few tourists, rather lost,
Wonder where their hotel is, and
Shift their backpacks in anticipation of
Another walk.
The actor has left, leaving
The assistant to fold cardboard
into a cart and wheel it up the slope.
She spits onto the kerbstones, a long, thin,
Satisfying and well-aimed stream.
Looking over towards the shops
She whistles a high shrill note.
The drunk, blinking, shambles
Obediently to his feet, his leg still dripping
WIth his own piss.
She stubs out her cigarette,
Gently puts his hand in hers
And turns the cart for home.
The silence closes in behind them
As they climb the rise.
Somewhere, far away,
A door opens and a momentary burst of music
Floods out, echoing across the night.
Then the door is closed, the music shut out
And all is silence in Myeongdong.
*Myeongdong is a famous night food-market in Seoul, South Korea
