Festival for Three Thousand Women Read Online Free

arm, then filled two bowls with wine.
    â€œCongratulations,” said Mr. Soh, “you’ve made a great impression on my uncle. He now wants to give you something.”
    â€œI will compose a poem,” said the old man. “Everybody listen. I will compose a poem for our younger brother.”
    Everyone was leaning forward, red-faced. They tried to remain quiet but could not.
    â€œShut up!” the old man ordered. “Have you no respect for age?” He quieted and looked at Bobby again. “This is a summer poem, in honor of the coming winter,” he said. “Its purpose is to tide you over until we meet again.”
    Bobby was swaying back and forth, smiling as if he understood. His cheeks were burning and his mouth was wet and he could see only the old man’s thin face, beside him like a crescent moon.
    â€œAll right, I’ve got it,” the old man said. “Everybody listen.” He was quiet again, but then he erupted in a strange, monotonous tone, his stark voice tearing at the momentary calm:
    â€œFlies on the table—
We sat drinking makkoli—
With flies in it.”
    The old man leaned over, his eyes inches from Bobby’s. Everybody in the room was waiting for his reaction.
    â€œFlies on the table, we sat drinking makkoli, with flies in it,” said Mr. Soh.
    Bobby stared at them all and then swallowed and tried to think of a Korean word to say. Mr. Soh was breathing heavily at his side, but though Bobby looked at the table and smiled, no words came. Finally the old man poked him and Bobby looked up one more time.
    â€œPlease accept my condolences,” he said.
    The dinner ended when one of the women flung the paper doors aside, driving them all out into the night. Those who lived nearby walked to the edge of the courtyard and stepped onto the small footpaths, staggering into the darkness. But for some reason Bobby stumbled over to the room containing the dead woman’s body once more. He slid the door open and climbed in and crawled across the floor to the table-altar and took the photograph down, trying to look at it in the bit of moonlight that had followed him in. And he slipped the photograph inside his jacket when he heard the others calling his name.
    Those who remained included the old man, the headmaster, and those who had come on the bus. The old woman was pulling on the old man’s arm. “Piss on the curfew,” she said. “Our cousin does not die every day. Stay and drink. Stay and sing. We must keep her company.”
    But the old man jerked away, hopping into the side of the house. “Let’s go, Junior,” he said, and the old woman, sensing defeat, fell to the ground in front of Bobby again.
    â€œThank you for coming,” she said. “Thank you for honoring us by coming to the funeral of our cousin.”
    They all began bowing to the old lady, backing out of the yard. Mr. Soh went first, brandishing a big flashlight and shining it back and forth along the path. The night was gray, then black, then gray again as clouds moved across the moon. It was cold and all the men soon pulled their heads into their overcoats and became silent.
    Bobby could feel the dead woman’s photograph pressing into his flesh, and wanted to turn around and take it back. He had no idea why he’d taken it, yet even in his drunkenness he was sure that they would miss it soon, that someone would come along, asking for its return. He turned around to look at the others, to try to make some excuse, but when he did so he slipped off the path. Quickly his legs disappeared into the muck, one to its knee, the other all the way up to his crotch. He shouted and tried to pull himself free, but it was no good. The Koreans gathered around. They pulled him from the muck laughing, all of them staggering about but somehow staying on the path.
    â€œHe’s too drunk,” said the old man. “We must carry him.” He was gesturing