Vincenzo02 Möbius strip
w. smallnutt
Life after that day was, well, a little different. Every night, feeling unintentionally elated, I'd draw a line on the wall. Before I knew it, I'd drawn two or three more strokes of the character "Barul Jeong." The staunch realist had become a dreamer. Even while glueing on doll eyes, he'd find himself lost in daydreams. The neighborhood no longer called him the cool-headed, realistic kid. Watching his expression, which would constantly break into a sly smile, only deepened my curiosity.
It was the same story here. It ended with just the words "Mafia Game" and no further explanation. I'd hoped for a postscript, but there was no word for almost a week.
By the way, "Mafia" out of the blue? It wasn't an unfamiliar name, but it wasn't a game I particularly enjoyed. I only had a very cursory understanding of the general progression and rules. The brief explanations I'd heard from my peers hadn't really piqued my interest, but thanks to this opportunity, my curiosity was piqued. Only then did I truly grasp what "Mafia" meant.
It is said to have originated in Sicily, Italy. Below the godfather were the underboss and consigliere, and there were various titles for the ranks. At first glance, it was similar to a group of local gangsters who formed factions and engaged in thuggery. The only noticeable differences were the fancy names, the affectionate word "family" instead of the unsophisticated factions to reinforce the sense of belonging, and... a stylish watch was always on their left wrist. Lastly, the scale of the geum was enormous. A somewhat fancy group of gangsters, that's how I defined them.
Mafia games didn't seem to have much to do with the actual mafia. If that's the case, then changing the mafia to yakuza wouldn't have been controversial. I suspect it's for the same reason as above: a mafia game sounds more plausible than a yakuza game.
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And then, a month later, the same postman, as always, stalked the neighborhood. A red box was soon to contain his terse reply, promising to respond. While there were some minor changes over the month, it was no different from any other. It felt like I'd wandered aimlessly along a Möbius strip, stumbled upon salvation, and escaped the shackles. My steps were so light that I looked back, wondering if I'd grown wings.
The men who came to collect the finely woven clothes meticulously inspected them, inspecting every flaw. If there was even the slightest flaw, they would throw it to the floor like a knife, saying it wasn't right. At that, far from protesting, they could only lower their heads. They were a group that would never have to write their names on the first column of a contract in their entire lives. The reward for their hard work, sewing with hunched shoulders all day, was miserable. All they could do was squeeze a few bills into their hands. Even those affectionate handshakes and pats on the shoulder for their hard work were insufficient to soothe their empty hearts.
One of the men, all clucking their tongues in identical uniforms, stopped in front of his. He carefully examined the inside of the sleeves and the back of the neck, then smiled with satisfaction and draped it over his shoulder. Then, perhaps feeling overwhelmed, he called over one of his subordinates and told him to pick out the items he liked. It was a truly efficient and systematic system.
I thought he'd taken everything, but he hesitated, leaving behind only the last item. No matter how many times I looked at it, it still didn't seem to satisfy me. The subordinate next to me seemed determined to stand there in silence for a while, waiting for permission to take it. His deep, worried groan echoed in my ears. It wasn't even a single bill, but I held my breath and felt anxious for no reason.
“…….Take everything except this.”
After much deliberation, the conclusion he reached was a paltry one. It seemed perfectly fine to him, but he couldn't quite grasp how she could act so coldly. The more he thought about it, the more frustrated he became. He stared blankly down at the single piece of clothing abandoned on the floor. Then, cautiously, he began to speak.
“I don’t think a scratch like this will be a problem…?”
For the first time, they rebelled. For the first time, a rebellion erupted in a neighborhood that had always been obedient. In the silence that had suddenly fallen, the man who had been two or three paces ahead turned around again. A tinge of tension hung in the air.
It was a small but significant ripple effect. It was the first time that an achievement had been recognized as the best anywhere.
His eyebrows furrowed sharply. A look of displeasure etched across the man's face. To emphasize his power, he strode forward, his voice growing louder. His strides were wide, and he was in front of me in the blink of an eye. Even with his back straight and his shoulders, which were always hunched inward, stretched out as far as they could, a flapping chicken could never hope to outdo the graceful swan. Standing before the man, his infinitely small frame and bony joints stood out.
The man stopped dead in his tracks before her, his gaze flicking twice: once to a set of clothes thrown haphazardly, and then back to her. Then he snorted at a small boy, barely touching his shoulder. He dismissed the remark with a dismissive, almost nonchalant chuckle.
“That little thing…. He really follows what adults say. Huh?”
"……."
"Inma. You have to think about the consumer, the consumer. How can you get a good reputation by doing such a sloppy inspection? It's showing off how uneducated you are."
And then, he roughly stroked his already shaggy, brittle hair. It wasn't the thick, hand of his beloved father, nor the hand of the neighborhood uncle who'd passed away last year, who'd always greeted him so kindly. Instead, he vividly felt the hunched, slashed hand of a stranger. He grimaced at the unpleasant sensation, but it wasn't easy to see the slightest distortion in the dark surroundings.
Thinking about consumers? Give them time to talk about it. Words like "thinking of others" and "giving" only come naturally when you're already well-off. Who would tighten their own belt while loosening others'?
But he remained silent, fearing that revealing even that truth openly would cause great trouble not only for himself but also for the neighborhood. The man burst into laughter, as if he was laughing so hard that he almost burst out laughing. The neighborhood remained quiet. The man's loud laughter echoed throughout the quiet neighborhood, and the silence continued without a single sound of a rat devouring a snack. The men standing behind him also noticed and laughed awkwardly, and with that bitter, unknown laugh, the situation came to an end.
A single piece of clothing lay abandoned, its owner still unclaimed, covered in dirt, and at the same time, with the roar of several trucks starting, the group of men departed. He stood motionless, but they sensed change. The world was changing, and they were gradually changing.
Courage begat courage. His small question raised countless counter-questions, and people began to ask themselves their own questions. Slowly, though. To outsiders, the change seemed dim. He stood, dumbfounded, in the midst of a very slow process of change.
The neighborhood called him a hero.