Snow Hunters: A Novel by Paul Yoon Read Free Book Online

dinner.
    Every few weeks he and Kiyoshi went to an Italian barber whom the tailor had known for years. Kiyoshi would never get a haircut. Instead he sat in the corner and exchanged town gossip with the man while Yohan’s hair was trimmed and he was given a shave.
    They spoke in Portuguese and he listened as they discussed the ongoing love affair between a waitress and a dockworker. There was also the woman with a pet bird who had a habit of talking to her dead husband when she believed no one could hear. A boardinghouse near the port was in fact a brothel.
    Later, taking a walk, he asked Kiyoshi about the words he had not understood, and the tailor translated them for him in Japanese, grinning.
    In the winter of 1956, a week of cold weather began. They kept their windows closed, Yohan’s body no longer used to it. He and Kiyoshi wore sweaters. He had not worn one since the war. It took him a day to grow accustomed to the weight on his shoulders and his arms.Neighbors brought in coats they had long ago placed in storage, asking for a new lining, a new button.
    One afternoon it took effort for Kiyoshi to rise from his chair. All that morning he had paused in his work and stared at his hands.
    He retired early and remained in his room. That evening when Yohan brought him tea he saw the man lying there with his arms raised toward the ceiling. He continued to stare at his hands. It was as though they were not his at all, as though he no longer recognized them.
    —It’s all right, the old man said. It’s just a cold. I’ll sleep for a little while.
    Yohan called the doctor. He was young and dressed in one of Kiyoshi’s suits. Through the space in the curtains Yohan could see him sitting beside Kiyoshi’s bed, a stethoscope placed against the tailor’s chest.
    —There’s nothing wrong with him, he told Yohan later, the two of them standing in the shop.
    After he left, Kiyoshi sat down at his table and began to work. Then he paused and lifted his head, staring at the wall in front of him.
    He said, —You didn’t need to do that, and returned to the shirt he was mending.
    Whatever it was gradually left him, day by day, though there were remnants: he slept more, waking up later. It was Yohan who opened the shop now. And although the old man continued to care for his customers and measure them without delay, it took him longer to complete an article of clothing.
    On a Sunday when the shop was closed, Yohan spent an afternoon at the harbor. It was quieter than the other days. There was the occasional whistle of a machine. The sound of bottles and ice being spread over fish. He passed stacks of empty crates. He looked up at the vessels in the sunlight, scanning the names on the bows in all the various languages until he arrived at the last pier to the south.
    He heard his name. A short man with a graying beard waved and approached him. They stood facing each other and the man laughed, admiring Yohan’s sweater.
    —Wanting to go back out onto the water? the sailor said.
    They embraced. A year had passed since they had last seen each other. He was startled by how much the man had aged: the wrinkles around his eyes, his thinning hair, the slight stoop as he walked.
    —It’s just me now, the sailor said, pointing at thecrew who was beginning to unload the vessel’s cargo, all of whom Yohan had never seen before.
    They spoke Korean. He had not heard or spoken it in a year. It took him a moment to find certain words.
    One of the men had died, a crane accident. The rest had changed jobs and crews, moving to other routes and crossing the Pacific toward the western United States.
    He patted Yohan on the shoulder.
    —But you, he said. You will stay.
    And he laughed again and looked back toward the ship where a man was sliding crates down a plank.
    —Ah, he said. Yours.
    They moved down the pier where there were two shipments of textiles from Tokyo and Osaka. He did not leave right away. He sat on one of the crates, facing the