3

As soon as Manson crossed Yeongnang Bridge, he suddenly picked up speed. The motorcycle cut through the storm, heading north. There were no pedestrians on the streets and no cars on the road. Manson looked like a small stone thrown into an empty space. He raced through the black clouds rolling in from the East Sea and the fierce winds sweeping down from Seoraksan. The jjamppong broth soaked into his clothes was washed away by the rain and wind. Behind his blue lips, his teeth chattered. When he reached Cheonggan Bridge, Manson slowed down, and once he had crossed it, he turned the handlebars to the right. The helmet in the delivery basket on the back seat slid to the right.

Manson parked the motorcycle in a corner of the empty parking lot and walked toward the sea. He raised his right arm and smelled it. Perhaps because the jjamppong broth still clung to his clothes, Manson gathered strength from the back of his throat and spat. As the strength went out of his body, his teeth began chattering again.

Manson reached the pavilion but did not take shelter from the rain. He stood there alone in the rain, turning his head from side to side to smell the odor clinging to his shoulders, or raising an arm to his nose, again and again. Time left the physical world of second hands and minute hands and, caught in Manson’s sense of smell, could not move at all. The black clouds were disappearing far out over the sea. The fierce wind that had been blowing from Misiryeong had also eased, and no more sound came from Manson’s mouth.