Zion's Garden - Chapter 1.1

He laughed like a child.

When I saw him in person, laughing with that soft, whisper-like breath, I realized something profound. No television screen could capture even a tenth of his natural beauty. The world that adored him seemed pitiable to me.

“Looks like I’ll be able to sleep a bit tonight.”

He curled up on the large sofa, looking up at me with a smile. The bird that once soared over the stage as if flying through clouds had crashed to the ground, wings broken. His lean, almost emaciated frame was covered by a white T-shirt, as stark and thin as snow.

“…I’ll administer 50 ml.”

I hesitated, questioning if I truly had the courage to pierce that pale wrist with the needle. He exhaled another gentle, sweet laugh, revealing his perfectly aligned teeth as his shoulders lifted and fell.

“That’s not even enough to reach the gates of heaven. You know that.”

He seemed unaware of the truth—that for many, wherever he was, no matter if it was a disease-ridden, rat-infested ruin, that place would be considered heaven.

[“I will follow the dietetic principles which I consider beneficial to my patients, and abstain from any harm. I will enter any house for the good of the sick, keeping myself from intentional ill-doing or corruption, avoiding any temptations from men or women, citizen or slave. Whatever I see or hear in my professional practice, or outside it, which ought not to be disclosed, I will keep secret. These promises I consider binding.”]

There was a time when I memorized the Hippocratic Oath as if it were an incantation to pass my entrance exams. Though born into an unremarkable family, I was determined not to live an unremarkable life. For a nineteen-year-old, becoming a doctor was the ultimate goal.

It wasn’t just because my mother revered professions with the character “사” (doctor, lawyer, judge, etc.) in them. She desperately hoped I would achieve one of those titles, and on the days when report cards were handed out, she would drink cheap soju on an empty stomach, using that piece of paper as a side dish.

The reason I chose medicine out of all the “사” professions was simple. I loved the white doctor’s coat. I felt that wearing the crisp, sharp white coat would somehow compensate for the rags I wore during childhood. I believed that it could dilute the despair I felt the day I saw my mother, who sold herself in front of the American base, sitting in protest on the cold ground during the brothel demolition in winter.

My illusion of the doctor’s coat shattered during my internship and first year of residency. Life became an endless cycle of sleeping in hospital wards, responding to calls in a wrinkled coat, and running to the emergency room. I was too busy to recall Hippocrates, and my only way of helping my mother was wiring her my entire meager salary.

I wasn’t sure whether I pursued psychiatry because of my mother’s alcoholism or because I knew it promised a top 10% salary among specialists. The day I received the call that she had been found dead in her room, without even turning on the boiler, I felt the roof of my world collapse.

“Did you give your mother a proper send-off?”

Professor Jung, smoking a cigarette, broke the silence. The “No Smoking” signs posted throughout the ward were a joke in his office, where the smell of smoke lingered constantly. My mother always smoked in the one-room flat. The scent of Marlboro stirred memories in my head rather than spreading through my lungs. Every time I smelled it, I thought I could almost sense her heavy perfume. Lost in my thoughts, I failed to respond, and Professor Jung tapped his ash into the tray.

“Do you want a cup of coffee? I have some instant.”

“I’ll make it.”

I stood up, put water on to boil, and poured two sachets of instant coffee into a stained mug. The kettle began to hum softly as it heated up. Just then, Professor Jung spoke again from behind me.

“I’ve watched you since your undergrad days.”

As the kettle hissed and steam shot out, he waited until it clicked off automatically.

“I don’t believe anyone is born a doctor. We’re all chiseled down, worn out, shaped by the process. We reach a point where we hit our limit, face despair, and realize that doctors aren’t gods. We encounter dilemmas and choices that push some to quit and others to keep going simply because there’s nothing else they can do.”

I stirred the coffee slowly, then placed both cups on the table without a tray. His cigarette, now nearly spent, smoldered between his fingers. I clasped my mug and watched the steam swirl up. I already knew what he would say before I entered the room. Professor Jung stubbed out his cigarette and sighed.

“So what do you plan to do by quitting now?”

I took a silent sip. The coffee was too sweet.

“I know losing your mother suddenly is tough. But this isn’t something you should decide on emotion. Wanting to take a break and wanting to quit are different. Take ten days off and think it over.”

“I’ve already thought long and hard, sir.”

Seeing him genuinely concerned, despite usually speaking only about patients, made me grateful. At least I had the decency to give advance notice. Even as she lay dying, my mother, who wanted so badly to boast to anyone who’d listen that her son was a doctor, left the world without giving me a word of warning. Would anything have changed if she had?

“Think it over.”

Would admitting her to a hospital, showing her that her son was making rounds in a white coat, have given her a few more days?

“I’m sorry, Professor. I can’t.”

I had studied relentlessly, even to the point of nosebleeds, never missing a scholarship. But tuition wasn’t the only expense. I bought books with the money from my aging mother’s work and paid the rent for our basement apartment. Just when I thought I could catch my breath, just when the mountain’s peak seemed within sight, she was gone. And with her, my reason for reaching the summit.

“Then I’ll be going now.”

I placed the coffee cup on the table and stood up. Just as I was about to open the door, Professor Jung’s voice cut through the air, striking the back of my head.

“Fine, I won’t tell you to come back to the hospital. But for now, do a job I’ll assign you. You need the money, don’t you?”
I froze, hand on the doorknob.

“They say you borrowed from loan sharks for your mother’s funeral. If you walk out now and try to pay it back with manual labor, you’ll never make it. The interest will keep snowballing. That’s how it works.”

Only after my mother’s death did I discover that the money I’d been sending her had gone solely to pay for her medication.

Saving was a concept that only existed in dreams. Yet, I wanted to ensure her final journey was a grand one. For the first time, I borrowed money. He deposited ten million won into my nearly empty bank account within half a day. I called everyone listed in my mother’s address book, including the aunts from Dongducheon who used to slip me chocolates. The funeral hall was crowded with elderly prostitutes. Aunt Annie, who arrived barefaced and clung to my hand as she sobbed, heard me say:
“Auntie, you look best with makeup, just like my mom did.”

I stayed by their side at the wake, drinking and smoking again, sending my mother off on her final journey. After the funeral ended, the kind loan shark who had lent me the money waited for me outside the hospital.

“Don’t think of it as being a doctor; think of it as making money.”

I was considering leaving on a ship or perhaps being taken away by the loan shark and losing a kidney or two. It didn’t matter anymore; I had lost my purpose, so being a sailor or ending up disabled felt like equally viable options.

“Or you could take on a request from your former mentor.”
Word of my loan had reached Professor Jung’s ears—an unfortunate piece of news that had likely spread throughout the hospital. My persistent poverty, a rumor that clung to me since my university days, was now laid bare for all to see. I turned slowly to face Professor Jung, who was leaning back on the sofa, and asked him directly.

“How much will I be paid? As you mentioned, my resident’s salary wouldn’t even cover the interest.”

“I can’t go into details, but I assure you, you’ll make what a licensed specialist would earn in a year—within a month.”
Throwing out vague promises was less reassuring than giving me exact figures. Not that it mattered; I only needed 1.5 million won at this point. The initial loan was ten million, but the loan shark’s stellar arithmetic turned it into fifteen million in two weeks. The humiliation of needing to bow to that sum weighed on me heavily.

“I’ll do it.”

“Without even asking what it is?”

“As long as it’s not at the hospital.”

“No turning back.”

“What kind of job is this, anyway? You’re building up a lot of suspense.”

“I just want to make it clear—there won’t be any hospital shifts.”

“That’s all I care about.”

Professor Jung interlaced his fingers and kept silent for a moment. I returned to the sofa, sat across from him, and mirrored his silence. After a moment, he adjusted his glasses and spoke.