Sunday Whatever – On Cloud Nine by Hahn Moo-Sook

About the Author

Hahn Moo-Sook (1918-1993) was a native of Seoul whose first artistic aspirations lay in painting, but she subsequently devoted her creative life to literature, publishing at least eight volumes of fiction during her lifetime and serving with distinction in the Korea branch of International P.E.N., in which capacity she brought many world-famous authors to the attention of a Korean audience. She is perhaps best known in English for Encounter: A Novel of Nineteenth-Century Korea, translated by Ok Young Kim Chang with a Foreword by Don Baker and published by the University of California Press.

About the Translators

Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton are the translators of numerous volumes of modern Korean fiction, most recently the novel Togani by Gong Ji-young (2023) and the Oh Jung-hee story collection Chinatown (2025, the first Penguin Modern Classic devoted to a Korean writer). Their translations of Korean short fiction appear in journals such as Granta, Ploughshares, The Southern Review and the New England Review. Bruce Fulton is the editor of The Penguin Book of Korean Short Stories (2023), the first volume of modern Korean literature among Penguin UK’s 3500-plus World Classics.

We are not represented by an agent, and we have the consent of Young-Key Kim-Renaud, daughter of the late author, to translate this story for publication.

Abstract

“On Cloud Nine” is a short but heartfelt sketch of a middle-aged woman who during the “dark years” of Korea’s colonization by Japan, awaits the return of her son, who like many young Korean men of the early 1940s was drafted for service in the Japanese military, munitions factories, or mines. The first of the village lads who return home don’t have the heart to tell her that they witnessed her son’s death. She makes a daily trip to the train station, just in case, leading the villagers to believe she may be growing senile. One evening she awakes from a dream in which her son appears in wedding attire. Half in a daze she rushes to the station and along the way comes upon a traditional drinking house and inn that is alive with merrymaking. She enters, believing her son’s wedding party is taking place there, and regales the customers. Later the villagers find her dead in a snow-filled ditch, her face bearing a celebratory smile.

***

On Cloud Nine

Hahn Moo-Sook

Translated from the Korean by Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton

“When we caught sight of her gray hair,” mumbled T’aeho and Sungdǔk from Upper Village, scratching their heads, “we just couldn’t say a word.

No one had the nerve to tell Sǒngin Ajumǒni, the mother of their comrade. How sad.

Ever since the return of the two young men from Japan, which had drafted them into military duty during the great war, she had appeared frazzled, her eyes glaring to the side and her gentle face tightened into a scowl. Not only T’aeho and Sungdŭk but other would-be truth tellers among the villagers lost heart when her sideways stare met their eyes.

The two young men from the backwoods were trying to process the trauma of war and in particular a gruesome experience engraved in their hearts—Sǒngin felled by a bullet. By then they were inured to the battleground and had confronted death, but to witness the corpse of their dear friend who had shared thick and thin with them under the scorching sun of a sweltering country to the south.…

Still sharp in their mind is how they wailed when they managed to recover his body and cast dirt over his fly-blown, decomposing face. And now they are terrified when they come across Auntie, for she reminds them of his gruesome death. Shivers run up their back and their delusions run amok–what if her tightened, glaring face turns into that maggot-ridden face?

Months have gone by. She’s given up by now, the villagers would wager, but at this very moment Auntie was walking on air, headed for the train station, an hour-and-a-half walk from her home. More resolute with each passing day, she had allowed herself ample time for her son’s return from the South Seas. Didn’t T’aeho and Sungdŭk say it took months for them? Even if her Sǒngin had mustered out soon after, perhaps it was too early to expect him to have set foot back on the native land. Such tedious days! But for her, flowing time filled the distance between mother and son, offering anticipation and hope.

 Sitting vacantly outside the empty waiting room after the departure of the train, she felt the breeze on her cheeks and looked up at the thin quilt of cottony clouds–surely autumn was on the way.

  It’s been four months since those boys returned, shouldn’t my boy be back by now? What if…? She was overcome with fright and suspicion.

She shot to her feet. No way! She had endured enough, suffered enough, stomached enough. No, I can’t allow that! There had to be a limit.

She practically flew back to the village, the fire inside her fueling her wasted body.

The township office came into view. She had first gone there when Sǒngin was eight. And what an insult she had endured! She had kept to their home all that time, working like an ox, but she summoned the courage to visit the intimidating office out of love for her boy. It was her first act of rebellion toward her husband, who no longer inquired about their school-age son, prompting her as a mother to have the boy tag along with her.

Back then the office in the squalid, thatch-roof structure with the single window had felt overwhelming. Arriving there with the boy, she took her courage in both hands, opened the door, and lurched to a stop—where to?

A young man confronted her–too young, she thought. “Yes?”

“Mmm, I’m here…to enroll my boy in school.”

“School? This isn’t a school.”

“The school told me to get a copy of our family register.”

“So you need to see the Registrar.” And with that he turned away.

Registrar? But any further inquiries for the young man had evaporated. Fortunately a man waiting nearby was kind enough to direct her to the Registrar’s office.

“I want to send my boy to school,” she told the Registrar, “and was told we need our family register.”

“What is the boy’s name?” said the man, a pencil behind his ear.

“Kim Sǒngin, son of Kim Sǒngho.” She followed with the address.

Flipping through a thick register, he said, “The father is Kim Sǒngho?” He repeated the address.

“Yes.”

“Kim Sǒngho…yes, here he is. And Kim Sǒngin? His age?”

“He just turned eight.”

Head cocked, the man kept leafing through the register. “I don’t see him…. Hmm, I do see Kim Yongin, four years old.” 

“How could that be?” She gave the man a suspicious look.

“Ma’am, I believe I’ve read correctly. The register lists Kim Yongin, four years of age, no mistake about it. Is it possible you call him Sǒngin at home but he was registered as Yongin?”

“But my Sǒngin is already eight.…”

“Perhaps he was registered late?”

“Then my boy can’t go to school this year?”

“Well, why don’t have it corrected right now?” But there was no listing for Sǒngin and therefore nothing to correct.

The fact was, Yongin was Sǒngin’s half-brother and his mistress mother had been registered as his father’s legal wife. Sǒngin was his mother’s only child. But her family register had no record of her marriage, leaving her doomed to be the maiden ghost of folklore. Even so, her son’s very existence and the father’s monetary support proved sufficient for a worthwhile life.

Country girl though she was, she had experienced a difficult childbirth. Worse, her postpartum recovery was challenging, especially the severe cramps. The usual three-day rest was impossible because of her mother-in-law’s snickering. “All she needs to do is set foot in the kitchen,” said the older woman, her voice carrying to where mother and baby lay, “and goodbye to the cramps! Just lolling in bed, how’s that supposed to help?”

It wasn’t as if she was needed in the fields, which lay fallow.

She had gritted her teeth and borne the pain, every pang of which softened into love, for he was a healthy boy, not much affected by the pox or measles. In the meantime, news spread that the mistress was expecting.

Around that time, her mother-in-law’s sixtieth birthday celebration was looming. Squatting on the bare earth next to the kitchen and grinding soaked soybeans for the gathering, she heard the older woman’s voice from the interior: “How can a man live so long without a girl?” Puffing on her pipe, she was taking her sweet time ginning cotton with the village women. “I’m not saying this just because he’s my son, you know?”

“Then why not have Sǒngin’s mom move out?” said one of the village women.

“No way! Have you ever known a person to let go of daughter-in-law number one? No, that’s unheard of.”

“How long has he had the mistress? Have you seen her?”

“For five years,” said Mother-in-Law, tapping the bowl of her pipe to empty it.

“That long? What’s she like?”

“Stylish, talented, respects her elders…adorable, wouldn’t you say?”

“Huh,” said the neighbor woman, who spoke straightforwardly out of sympathy for Sŏngin’s uninformed mother. “No wonder people say a mother gives her son’s mistress a flower cushion and her son-in-law’s mistress a pincushion.”

“It’s not my place to say,” said Mother-in-Law; “whatever makes him happy. Sure, she’s the first daughter-in-law, but we’re not related by flesh and blood…. It shouldn’t be a disgrace for a man to have a mistress. I’ll be able to summon Yongin’s mother and get a big bow on my birthday.”

Sŏngin’s mother managed to hear every word even while grinding all three hefty sacks of soybeans.

She had borne hardship, had endured fiery treatment living with her in-laws. But then, even more regrettable, she had had to surrender her sweet son, her only thread to a meaningful life. A form had arrived, a blank sheet she was told was a report-for duty form, and it absolutely had to be honored—and off went her precious son to Japan. Her only consolation was the empty thought that T’aeho and Sungdŭk would likewise be reporting for duty.

But those boys came home after we were freed from Japan…. This thought was driving her crazy.

From the train station she set off back home, hopping across the stepping stones over the stream that lay between the township and the village. As recently as several months ago, she was so laughingly clumsy she could only stumble over these rocks.

And weeding the rice paddies all day gave her no back pain.

“How old is she anyway?” the villagers would query whenever they heard the vigorous pounding of her mortar and pestle.

“Let’s see,” said one woman, “she was forty-five when she helped me after Noma was born, and the boy is six now…oh my, she’s already turned fifty!”

“But she never gets old! Remember when I came here to tie the knot? Well, look at me now!”

Indeed, Songin’s mother’s well-proportioned facial features had never changed, in spite of her husband leaving her to play second fiddle to the mistress.

But the past few months had hardened her comely features and her once tight-fitting Korean jacket hung loose from her shoulders.

Into the village she strode.

That night she slept deeply for the first time in several months, like ash settling gently after a conflagration.

In her dream she found herself in a radiant, silvery world. A wedding ceremony was under way beneath a huge tent in a field. 

Groom and bride were clad in traditional wedding attire, the former in top hat and robe, the bride in traditional Korean skirt and jacket underneath a ceremonial robe.

Before she realized it she was screaming, “Look, my Sŏngin!” Her dear son, standing there in black hat and robe!She wanted to approach and give him a great hug, but her legs were somehow stuck—she couldn’t move! She waited until the ceremony was over to eye the bride, and what do you know, it was Suni from the Ridge Cotton Gin, a girl she had always imagined her son marrying, bashfully lowering her head with its small floral crown.

“Aigo, aigo!” she called out, not knowing if the cry was one ofecstasy or a moan. “Sŏngin—dear me, now I can die in peace!”

At that very moment the goose on the grand table between the couple, symbol of single-minded devotion, began honking.

And then the honking changed to a loud, rapid chittering. “Oh no,” said someone, “what’s that magpie doing on the table?” And that is what woke her.

She sprang up and went outside. Snow must have fallen through the night—it was a silvery world.

Kkak-kkak-kkak-kkak. A magpie was perched on a snow-topped persimmon tree.   

“Hello, my cheery friend! Do you bring good news? Is my Sŏngin coming home?” Her heart was pounding. Briskly she washed up. “Have to be there in time for the train,” she murmured. Her son was returning that very day! The dream and then the chittering magpie had set her mind flickering only faintly, but in time with her stewing heart.

“You don’t want to be heading out in this snow.…” The villagers tried to dissuade her, but she left them behind.

As she plowed through the soft, deep snow she felt as if she were floating. Around a bend in the hill the morning sun offered a wide view of a radiant, silvery world. Haven’t I seen this before? “Aigu, what nice weather–perfect for a wedding day and a wonderful life!”

The Ridgetop Cotton Gin came into sight. “Wait a minute! I must be crazy! How could I go to the in-laws on the wedding day, even if I’m dying to see my new daughter-in-law.” Tsk-tsking, she changed course.

 Swaying back and forth, she thrilled with joy. How long had she walked? 

 See saw smoke issuing from the chimney of a thatch-roof structure beside the road

–a tavern.

Without thinking she ambled in and scanned the interior. Several hefty men were having hangover soup. She addressed them: “Please enjoy our humble meal!”

Confused, the men stared at one another, mouths hanging open.

Hoisting a kettle if makkŏlli, she followed up: “I know it’s not polite for a woman to prattle on and urge you to drink, but he’s my only son. I’m so happy I’ll even dance for you.”

She was about to serve the men when she noticed there were no drinking snacks. “Aigu, there’s no anju. Hey,” she hollered toward the kitchen, “bring out some more anju!”

The men remained silent. By now they were exchanged knowing gazes.

The serving girl’s head poked out from the kitchen. She was drying her hands.

“Aigu, sweety!” Sŏngin’s mother took the girl’s hand. “How about serving me a drink? I never drink, but why not? Today’s the day.”  

The tavern owner appeared and signaled the girl with his eyes. She poured a bowl of the rice brew with trembling hands. Sŏngin’s mother gulped it and released a great sigh.

“Now I can die!” She burst into tears, and in no time started clapping and laughing, wiping the tears with the breast tie of her jacket. 

“I must be losing my mind. Look at me, a tear jerker on this celebratory day. How embarrassing!”

The alcohol left her mind all the more fuzzy.

“Shall I dance?” She rose and began moving her arms. “Here we go….” Her bottom shook.

“Have I gone mad? Well, I’m madly happy.”

Suddenly she stopped, her face stiffening. “I forgot,” she murmured. “The day after tomorrow the bride will greet me. So much to do, no time to be slacking off….” Her face crinkled doubtfully. “Well, come and see the bride!” she said, bidding farewell to the onlookers of this ridiculous spectacle, and then she dashed outside.

Three days later a woodcutter’s son found her buried in the snow. Her tipsiness had led to eternal slumber.

Her life was beset with hardship, pain, and agony. But in her death mask, heavenly peace and exaltation were set in stone, to become the talk of the town for quite some time.

Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton