《吹口哨》這篇小說（簡短版）是我在2022年寫下的，最近在讀韓江的《素食者》時，又重新想起來。
那種讓人無法言說的感覺——像是從身體深處浮起的氣味、聲音和溫度。
《吹口哨》
爸爸愛聽歌，也很會吹口哨。以前開車時，總是沿路放著音樂，一邊吹著口哨，一邊不耐煩地猛按喇叭、飆罵髒話。他也愛唱歌。小學放學回家時，長年沒工作的他常躺在地板上午睡。見我回來，便拉著我一起躺下，翻開那本厚重的歌本，一頁一頁地唱著裡面的歌。大多是藝術歌曲——怒髮衝冠，憑欄處，潚潚雨歇……我還記得他那種聲樂式的唱法，慷慨激昂，渾厚有力。
天氣熱的日子裡，他只穿一條內褲，滿身是汗地躺在地上。躺久了，就坐起來要我幫他抓抓背、按摩，嘴裡還喊著我是他的「心肝寶貝」。按完摩之後，就要親親，左臉、右臉、額頭、鼻子、嘴唇，缺一不可。他會自動把下一個部位湊到我嘴前。親完一輪，換他親我，同樣的順序，最後再來一個緊密的擁抱。這樣的儀式，從我有記憶以來，就從未改變過。
爸爸似乎喜歡我替他打點一切。我是他的小幫手、小幫傭，從小學一年級開始訓練，包括幫他洗衣、熨襯衫和西裝褲。我記得用雙手高舉那些衣物時，它們幾乎和我身高一樣長。洗衣服要先浸泡肥皂水，再用刷子在洗衣板上反覆刷洗，尤其是領口和袖口。再換兩次清水，來回勺水、泡洗十幾次，水裡的衣服濕透變得沉重，我總是洗得費力又抬不動，怎樣都洗不乾淨。
爸爸說訓練是為了我將來好，做不好就要挨罵。我似乎總是在被罵。我也熨不好那幾乎蓋住我的大襯衫和西裝褲，他對每一道褶痕都有要求，而我從來都不及格。那時沒有熨衣板，熨斗直接放地上，我跪著熨。熨斗很重，有一次倒下來壓到我的腳，燙傷的疤至今仍在。
他還訓練我做菜，叫我煎魚給弟弟吃。他說煎魚其實很簡單，口頭交代幾句就走了。那時我才剛比瓦斯爐高一點。洗過的魚放進熱油鍋，油水不相容，爆起的油花亂飛，把我嚇壞了，我拿鍋蓋當擋箭牌。過一會還得翻面，力道控制不好，油花再次高濺。翻完一條，卻苦惱隔壁那條該怎麼靠近才能不被油噴。不是只有一條，是四、五條小魚，輪番帶來恐懼。我不記得最後怎麼把那盤魚上了桌，但我記得爸爸只用筷子挑了幾下魚身就大怒：「這要怎麼吃？你過來看看這是什麼，怎麼內臟都沒清？連這個都不懂？我怎麼會生出你這麼笨的孩子？」在弟弟們面前，我只覺得無地自容。他轉頭安撫弟弟們吃別的，然後對我說：「都拿去丟掉。」
“Whistling” is a story (short version) I wrote in 2022.
Recently, while reading Han Kang’s The Vegetarian, it came back to me.
That unspeakable feeling—like a scent, a sound, or a trace of warmth rising quietly from deep within the body.
“Whistling”
Dad loved music and was a skilled whistler. When he drove, he always had music playing, whistling along, impatiently honking the horn and shouting profanities. He loved singing, too. When I came home from elementary school, he—long unemployed—would often be napping on the floor. Upon seeing me, he’d pull me down beside him, open a thick songbook, and sing through it, page by page, song by song. Most of the songs were art songs—“With hair standing on end, I lean on the railing, the drizzle has just ceased...” I still remember his operatic singing style—bold, resonant, full of emotion.
On hot days, he’d lie on the floor in nothing but his underwear, sweating. After a while, he’d sit up and ask me to scratch his back and give him a massage, calling me his "precious baby" as he did. After the massage, he always wanted kisses: left cheek, right cheek, forehead, nose, and lips—none could be skipped. He’d lean in to guide my mouth to the next spot. After I finished, he’d kiss me back in the same order, ending with a tight hug. This sequence never changed for as long as I can remember.
Dad seemed to like having me manage everything for him. I was his little helper, his little maid, trained since first grade—washing and ironing his shirts and trousers. I remember lifting the clothes with both hands; they were as long as my entire body, if not longer. Washing meant soaking them in soapy water, scrubbing them on a washboard with a brush—especially the collars and cuffs—then rinsing twice in clean water. I’d scoop water back and forth more than ten times to rinse them. Once soaked, the clothes became unbearably heavy. I could barely lift or wring them out. They were never really clean.
Dad said the training was for my own good. If I didn’t do it well, he’d scold me. I always seemed to be getting scolded. I couldn't iron his oversized shirts and trousers properly either. He demanded perfection for every crease and fold, and I never met his standard. We didn’t have an ironing board then—the iron sat directly on the floor, and I knelt to iron. It was heavy. Once, it tipped over onto my foot, burning me. The scar stayed for years.
He also trained me to cook for my younger brothers. Like the time he told me to pan-fry fish. He said it was easy, gave a few verbal instructions, and walked away. I was barely taller than the stove. I dropped the water-rinsed fish into the hot oil. The oil and water clashed violently, crackling and popping unpredictably. Terrified, I used the lid as a shield. After a while, I had to flip the fish. I couldn’t control the force, and the oil leapt high into the air before bursting into a furious crackle. I flipped one fish, then hesitated—how could I get close enough to flip the others without being burned? It wasn’t just one fish. Four or five small fish came at me like waves of fear. I don’t remember how I got the plate of fried fish to the table, but I remember Dad picking at one with his chopsticks and exploding: “How is anyone supposed to eat this? Come here and look! You didn’t even clean out the guts. You really don’t understand anything. How could I have such a stupid child?” In front of my younger brothers, I felt humiliated. Dad turned and comforted them, telling them to eat something else. Then he said to me, “Throw it all away.”