Festival for Three Thousand Women

by Richard Wiley

The events of the days surrounding Bobby’s betrayal of his Korean friends had so overwhelmed Bobby that when summer vacation finally came he didn’t travel as he’d thought he would, but simply stayed in town for a long, quiet rest.

  During the final weeks of school he led a circumspect life, stacking his books over onto Mr. Kwak’s empty desk, but otherwise ignoring Mr. Kwak’s departure as completely as he could. Mr. Lee and Miss Lee would be transferred too, everyone said, but while they were still around, Bobby maintained a respectful distance: that of a contrite friend awaiting acceptance once again. Mr. Lee understood his intentions and continued throwing him good-naturedly around the gym. Miss Lee too smiled at him, though she did no more than that.

  In September Bobby began to feel run down. His mammoth weight loss had until then given him only cause for joy. Now, though, when the grandmother stopped by his room, Bobby occasionally joined her in her coughing fits. And if he exerted himself too much, his lungs felt sore. By November he was forced to give up judo, and in December he made arrangements to travel to Seoul, where there was a Peace Corps doctor, to find out what was wrong.

  On the evening before his departure, Bobby stopped by the Pusan-chip to pay his tab. It should be noted that Miss Kim, the girl who had worked in the Pusan-chip when Bobby arrived in town, had moved away to marry a farmer’s son and that during the fall and early winter the owner had been running the place alone. All the regular customers hoped that she would find a helper soon, and a common subject of discussion was whether Miss Kim’s eventual replacement would be prettier or uglier, whether she would have a good singing voice or a bad one, and whether she would have a good sense of humor. Miss Kim, everyone agreed, had been wonderful and they were lucky to have had her for so long.

  So when Bobby opened the door that night, he was surprised to find that Miss Kim’s replacement was at hand, and that she was none other than Miss Moon. He had been going by the tearoom periodically ever since spy-catching day, but it had not reopened, and no one had been able to tell him why.

  The bar was empty, except for Miss Moon, the owner, and the Goma, who sat in the corner staring at his English book.

  “My God, Miss Moon,” said Bobby.

  “Close the door,” said the Goma.

  The owner greeted Bobby in her usual way, and Miss Moon bowed slightly before turning to the makkoli pots and preparing to bring him a drink.

  “I believe you know our new girl,” said the owner.

  It was the owner’s habit, early each evening, to visit other nearby bars in order to chat and gossip for a while, but tonight she had a stew on the fire and could not leave until it was done. Bobby therefore looked around at the Goma, sensing that he should not focus too much attention on Miss Moon. The Goma had been avoiding Mr. Nam for months by then, and he was never without his English book. For all Bobby knew, he really had been studying the thing. When the Goma saw Bobby looking at him, he smiled.

  “Can you really read that book?” Bobby asked.

  “You bet,” said the Goma.

  Miss Moon, whose job was to entertain, came over and sat down. Bobby noticed a tragic air about her, but since the owner’s eyes were on them, he continued talking to the Goma while trying to read something in Miss Moon’s downcast eyes.

  “Do you know what the words mean?” he asked. “Do you know what the meaning is of the things you say?”

  “Sure,” said the Goma, “Enough’s as good as a feast.”

  Bobby hadn’t seen the Goma in weeks, but for him to actually learn anything from Mr. Nam’s book seemed impossible. Bobby didn’t think he could even read Korean well.

  “What if I spoke to you in English?” Bobby asked. “Would you understand?”

  “Beats me,” the Goma said.

  Bobby turned on his stool and, switching to his native tongue, said, “How are you today, Goma? Are you feeling fine?” He knew the question, in just that form, was right out of Mr. Nam’s book, and he waited for the Goma to give him the book’s response.

  “Cool as a cucumber,” the Goma said.

  “Isn’t it wonderful how the weather has cleared?”

  “Yessiree, Bob. Not a cloud in the sky.”

  Bobby paused, trying to remember what else was in the book. Those two questions had been on the first page, but he did know one line from somewhere farther back.

  “How about it, Mack?” he said. “Lend me a sawbuck till Saturday night.”

  “Not a chance, pal,” said the Goma. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  It was incredible but it appeared that the Goma really had memorized Mr. Nam’s entire book, questions and answers both.

  “This is wonderful, Goma,” said Bobby, speaking Korean again. “You should be proud.”

  “Piece of cake,” said he. “Like taking candy from a baby.”

  By this time the owner’s stew was sufficiently cooked so she slipped into her overcoat, telling Miss Moon she wouldn’t be a minute, that she only wanted to say hello to a friend. And the moment the door closed, Miss Moon began to cry.

  “You will want something more to drink,” she said.

  “You just disappeared,” said Bobby. “You didn’t even say good-bye.”

  He had worried, since she was already crying, that his comment might make her cry harder, but instead she stiffened, standing and going back by the makkoli pots.

  “That tearoom was always losing money,” she said. “Did you expect it to stay open on your thirty won a day?”

  “No,” said Bobby. “But we were friends. And you left so abruptly.”

  He was completely at a loss. Miss Moon seemed so different now. She was thinner and her face carried its more tragic lines so forthrightly.

  “Come,” she said. “Buy another bowl of wine. I am here to drink with you.”

  Miss Moon filled Bobby’s bowl, though he had barely touched it, and poured a large one for herself. “How about that little twerp?” she asked, pointing at the Goma.

  Bobby was taken aback. Miss Moon had always been unfailingly kind to the Goma.

  “Sure,” Bobby said. “If he wants a drink let’s give him one.”

  But when she called his name, even the Goma came on careful feet, seeing the change in her and on his guard for some trick. Would she throw the bowl of makkoli in his face, perhaps? Everyone was mean to the Goma. Until now Miss Moon had been a rare exception.

  Some ten minutes went by without anyone speaking. The Goma turned his back so that if she did take a swipe at him he’d be able to dodge, but Miss Moon was content to gulp what she had poured for herself and then shove her bowl across the bar. But as the silence continued Bobby did observe that some of Miss Moon’s old facial qualities were beginning to return. There, in the corners of her eyes, was the softness that she used to exhibit when listening to the Love Tearoom’s serious songs. There, where the smooth skin of her chin began its gentle descent, was a tremor so slight that it spoke volumes, as if it were the hiding place of her real and former self.

  But they really didn’t talk at all. And when the owner came back she was followed by some of the regular customers, and by Mr. Soh, who had been looking everywhere for Bobby.

  “Ah,” he said. “Headmaster Kim is having a party and he hoped that I would be able to bring you along.”

  “What? You mean right now?”

  “Yes,” he said. “The vice-headmaster’s retirement is near.”

  Bobby looked around the bar a moment but then stood to go with Mr. Soh. Since it was early he promised himself that he’d leave the headmaster’s party before curfew, and come back down here later to find out what was really going on.

  “You realize,” said Mr. Soh, “that I’m talking about a party at Headmaster Kim’s house. A thing like that doesn’t happen every day.”

  Headmaster Kim had a substantial house, built like Policeman Kim’s but larger and better appointed. The teachers were gathered in the living room, around a low table, the vice-headmaster at one end, the headmaster at th
e other. When he and Mr. Soh walked in, everyone moved around to make room for them. Bobby looked for Mr. Nam and then sat down away from him, up next to the vice-headmaster, of whom he had recently grown fond. There were many bottles of scotch on the table and mountains of food.

  “What a glorious time we are having and how wonderful that you have come!” said the vice-headmaster. “Soon I shall retire, but I will always remember this day!” He grabbed a glass and poured it half full of warm scotch, splashing it at Bobby.

  “I would like to propose a toast,” said Headmaster Kim. “To our vice-headmaster, who has been in the business of educating boys for thirty years.”

  Everyone held their glasses high while the vice-headmaster bobbed his head in thanks. For his part, Bobby lowered his glass until the brim of it was below the table’s edge. Then he quietly placed it on the floor. Unfortunately the vice-headmaster saw him and was very quick to lower his own glass, pouring part of its contents into Bobby’s.

  “Ha ha,” he said. Then he lifted his glass up until Bobby was forced to pull his full one back off the floor. “Mani Tushipsho,” said the vice-headmaster. “To your continued good health.”

  Bobby had had a bowl of makkoli at the Pusan-chip and he’d put the scotch to his lips once or twice here, but with the vice-headmaster staring at him, challenge all over his face, he could think of nothing to do but stand up and ask where the toilet was, taking his whiskey with him when he left the room. Ill or not, pouring booze away while pretending not to was, after all, as Korean as apple pie.

  It was freezing outside. Bobby had not brought his coat and the outhouse shoes were so small that he could barely walk in them. But there was a clear moon above him and as he walked he looked ahead, hoping to find another moon cut into the outhouse door. Instead he saw the Goma standing there. “Hail fellow well met,” he said.

  “Hey,” said Bobby, “where have you been?”

  The Goma pointed to a sand pit at the side of the house, just under the window where the vice-headmaster sat.

  “It’s a good place to listen,” he said.

  When Bobby offered him a sip of scotch he downed half of it in a gulp, holding on tight while it warmed his insides.

  “Holy cow!” he said.

  Bobby left the Goma with his whiskey glass while he stepped into the outhouse, and when he came back out the Goma was gone. Alas, though he’d solved the problem of the whiskey, he had lost the glass as well. And there was Mr. Nam, standing on the doorstep, waiting his turn.

  “If I had the nerve I would leave now,” said Mr. Nam. “From this point forward all Korean parties go downhill.” He looked at his watch and shook his head. “It’s still early, no one will be allowed to go home until eleven.”

  Mr. Nam hovered there with Bobby for a moment, but when he heard someone else coming out he hurried on. Bobby watched him go and then looked toward the side of the house where the Goma was standing. He threw Bobby the empty glass and then darted away just as another man appeared, full whiskey glass in hand.

  For the next hour, once everyone was back inside, the staff of Taechon Boys’ Middle School took it easy on drink and dedicated itself to song. Bobby sang “The Bald-Headed Bachelor,” and the vice-headmaster sang “O Solo Mio” reasonably well. After much coaxing the headmaster took a couple of toothpicks, used them to prop his eyes wide open, and then did a Chinese dragon dance all around the room. It was fun, and though Bobby was tired, he was pleased to be taken for granted, accepted as one of the teachers, his specialness slipping ever so steadily away.

  At eleven o’clock they all sang the vice-headmaster’s favorite song, “Auld Lang Syne,” with Mr. Nam asking Bobby whether its proper English title was “The Good Old Times” or “The Old Good Times.” And when the party ended and they all walked out together, the vice-headmaster was by Bobby’s side. “I’ve got two wives,” he said. “I’m the only one at school with two wives.”

  For a moment Headmaster Kim stood waving to them from the edge of his garden. His one wife was by his side, and a few children and old people had come from the house to bid them farewell. By the time they got to the main street, teachers were staggering everywhere, lurching to and fro, but though Bobby expected to have trouble getting away from them, he did not. All he had to do was bob and weave like they did for a while, then duck into the shadows and wait for the last of the teachers to stumble off toward home. And when the street was clear he buttoned his jacket and walked back down toward the Pusan-chip to find out what was really going on.

  Of course, he was not alone. As he walked, the Goma slid from the shadows and matched him stride for stride, like Wyatt Earp and his deputy heading for the OK Corral.

  When they got to the Pusan-chip the light was off, but they slid back the door anyway. They stepped into a scene of chaos. The customers were gone, but the stools in the front room were turned on their sides, one of them broken, and makkoli bowls were everywhere. The owner was hunched over the fire, her knees wide, staring into the great valley of her skirt. She hardly looked up when they came in.

  Looking around, Bobby noticed that someone had shoved a makkoli bowl through the paper of the backroom door, so now there was a hole the size of a big man’s head, low down and off to one side. When Bobby looked through the hole he could see the sleeping figure of a farmer, but nothing of Miss Moon. The whole place was drenched in makkoli. Even the Goma, who had spent his evening in a sand pit, stepped lightly and seemed offended by the lavish destruction.

  They opened the door and stepped into the back room and tiptoed across the stains. The farmer was soaked and out cold, but he was alive. And when Bobby turned around, he found Miss Moon huddled in the corner, her gown in shreds, one bare knee up under her chin.

  “Sure is a sight for sore eyes,” said the Goma.

  Bobby had spent a good deal of time at the Pusan-chip, and the wreckage was more than just the results of another evening at play. Miss Moon didn’t seem injured, but though Bobby shook her shoulders he couldn’t get her to respond.

  “She’s dead,” said the Goma.

  They stepped back down into the main room again and tried their luck with the owner.

  “What happened here? Was anyone hurt?”

  The owner shook her head. “It will take me all night to clean up,” she said. “How about giving a hand?”

  Though ruined, the Pusan-chip was small, and when the owner began to stir, Bobby and the Goma set about putting things right. They cleaned up the broken furniture, sat the stools back up, and stacked all the bowls. The owner had a tub of soapy water, and the Goma went behind the bar once the bowls were collected and began washing them. Bobby found a mop and attacked the pools of makkoli on the back room floor while the owner made tea. It didn’t take long and the work made them all feel better.

  Once the tea was ready, the owner went out and came back quickly with a blanket for the farmer and a dry change of clothes for Miss Moon, who was beginning to wobble a bit. When the clothes were presented to her she changed into them all by herself in the corner.

  When the tea was poured and they had stools to sit on, and when Miss Moon was propped in the doorway with her hands wrapped around a warm cup of the stuff, the owner told them what had happened.

  “That gent back there,” she said, jerking a thumb toward the other room, “claims he owns this girl. He’s a bumpkin, but he has a big farm and he claims some men talked him into putting all his money into that tearoom that went broke. He lost everything and says they gave him this girl as compensation for his loss. He’s had her out there on his farm since then, but a week ago she took off, coming back here. I let him drink on the house and finally the other farmers tried to dislodge him, but he stood up to us all. When he wakes up he’ll start haranguing again. I took her on to help her, but one night of this is enough.”

  Bobby looked at the Goma. The owner’s accent was so countrified that Bobby wasn’t sure he had it right. But the Goma nodded. “It’s got the ring of truth to it,” he
said.

  “Why doesn’t she go to the police?” Bobby asked, but the Goma and the owner both looked at him like his question should not be dignified with a response. At that moment Miss Moon stepped down into the main room and put her hand on Bobby’s shoulder.

  “It’s all true,” she said. “What I need now is money so that I can run away.”

  Bobby looked at the owner, but she shrugged. She had done all she was going to, just by giving Miss Moon the job.

  “How much do you need?” he asked. “Where will you go?”

  “Anywhere,” she said. “But now, before he wakes up.”

  The clothes that the owner had brought for Miss Moon were men’s, and as Bobby looked at them the thought crossed his mind that maybe he was being played for a fool. Maybe the farmer had nothing to do with Miss Moon and the object of the whole story was money. But surely not. If anyone did, the owner of this bar knew that he was nearly always broke. Bobby did have the money he was going to use to pay his tab, and he told the Goma to take Miss Moon back to his inn and to hide her there until the morning train left for Seoul. By then it was nearly midnight and since the train left early, Bobby wanted to go back home for a few hours’ sleep. The owner, however, seemed to think that they would sit a while longer, warming their hands on the cups. She was in need of a bar girl again but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “There is always an abundance of pretty young girls,” she said. “The trick is finding one who will work.”

  Bobby sat there until the owner saw that he was tired. He then took the blanket she offered him and went in to lay down next to the farmer for a while.

  It wasn’t the curfew that kept him from going home, but his lack of energy for the walk.

  The Family

  Six in the second place means: She should not follow her whims.

  It took Bobby and Miss Moon eight hours to get to Seoul, though the trip on the fast train would have taken four. Their departure was uneventful. The Goma was there, but the Pusan-chip’s madam had taken the farmer by the arm and helped him with a house-by-house search of the farthest reaches of the town.