Sad Peninsula

by Mark Sampson

  They arrived on a late-afternoon train and soon filled Po and Eun-young’s tiny house with sounds it had never heard before — the raucous noise of a young family. The children took an instant liking to their uncle, especially Ji-young’s eldest, Tae. The six-year-old girl was all over Po, climbing him as if he were monkey bars and wanting to show him things she had been taught at school, how to write her name in both Korean and Chinese characters and how to sing the new national anthem. She drew him pictures of rabbits and giraffes she had seen at a zoo in Seoul, and Po put on great airs about her crude, bulbous drawings. The sight of him with the children at bedtime on that first night, reading one of the storybooks they had brought from Seoul, put an enormous smile on Ji-young’s face. “He is a natural father,” she whispered to Eun-young as they watched him from the door jam of the adjacent room, and then tossed her a look of curiosity, tinged with censure.

  “We are trying,” was all Eun-young could say.

  The plan on the second day was to go on a hiking trip up the nearby mountain, but Eun-young awoke to discover her body in sudden rebellion, a sickly stabbing to her kidneys. “I’m not well today — you’ll need to go without me,” she informed the six of them over breakfast. “Oh, but we couldn’t!” Ji-young exclaimed.

  Eun-young just shook her head. “Don’t worry, you’ll have fun. I’ll make sure to have dinner ready when you get back.”

  Ji-young protested again, but Po came to Eun-young’s rescue. “You must forgive my wife,” he said. “She is not always the healthiest of people. It’s one of the trials of getting old.” He meant for this to sound ironic, but Ji-young and Chung Hee just furrowed their brows. What are you talking about, Po? She’s only thirty-two …

  While they were gone, Eun-young spent most of the day in the bathroom, huddled over the ancient throbs that ricocheted through her nether regions. These bouts of random illness had become more frequent in the last few years, a constant reminder of what she hid from everyone. When she was finally well enough, she moved back out to the kitchen to begin preparing the evening meal. Her family returned from their hike with happy faces crimson from the sun and boots caked with mud. When they came through the door, Eun-young saw that Po was carrying a giggly, squirming Tae on his shoulders.

  On the third night, after the children had gone to sleep, the men sat in the main room with glasses of soju and talked politics while the women cleaned up in the kitchen. Chung Hee had no stomach for the fledging but incompetent new democracy that was making a mess of everything, and was convinced that the nation would collapse into communism without decisive leadership. He was in favour of the army general who shared his name — Park Chung Hee — taking control of things.

  “So you believe the army should be running the country?” Po asked in disbelief.

  “I don’t believe that,” Chung Hee replied. “And neither does General Park. He’s been very vocal about getting the military out of politics. But we must do something to keep our economy, our society, from spiralling out of control. The Marxist-Leninists are still here, hiding in their basement apartments and holding their secret rallies — and they thrive on chaos, like worms on a corpse. I ask you this, Po: What did you and I fight for, kill for, if our country turns communist and simply merges with the North? Nothing, that’s what. General Park offers our best chance at stability.”

  You didn’t kill anyone — you were just a mechanic, Po thought. “The Americans will not allow Korea to fail.”

  “The Americans have their own problems. Besides, it’s time for Korea to stand on its own. We cannot be cloistered and isolationist. That’s the North’s path — and it will lead only to dictatorship and poverty. I’m tired of being poor. We need to be a strong and wealthy country. We do.” He took the last sip of his soju. “We could start by normalizing our relationship with Japan.”

  “Oh, Chung Hee …”

  “No, I’m serious. There are great trade opportunities between our country and theirs.”

  “I can’t see it happening.”

  “But it must happen. General Park believes this. The occupation ended fifteen years ago. Why are we so stuck in the past? We need to make our peace with the Japanese before we can move forward.”

  Chung Hee said this just as Eun-young was limping over from the kitchen with the bottle of soju to freshen up their glasses. She stopped, frozen at the sound of her brother-in-law’s words. She held the bottle limply in her hand. Chung Hee extended his glass without looking at her.

  “They raped us,” she said.

  The two men flashed their faces up at her from their place on the floor.

  “Eun-young …?” Po was staring at her like he didn’t know who she was.

  Are you about to do this? Will you tell them, now, everything? Every last bit of it? Ji-young had moved out of the kitchen, as well, and was looking at her sister.

  “They raped our country, I mean,” Eun-young went on instead. “Have you forgotten, Chung Hee? They burned down our temples and monuments. They refused to teach us our language, our history. Their army conscripted my brothers and sent them off to die in China. In China.” Her tongue took a trip across the scar over her lip. “And you wish to make peace with these people?”

  Chung Hee looked at Po as if to say, Does your wife speak to you this way? He turned back to her. “Eun-young, please — politics are no place for a woman.”

  She tried to keep from shaking. Chung Hee offered his glass again, jiggled it. So she poured the soju — but didn’t fold her left arm over the right in the respectful, traditional manner. When she finished doing the same for Po, she waddled back to the kitchen, bumping shoulders with Ji-young as she did.

  Their last day in Pusan was one of sadness and long goodbyes. The children didn’t want to leave. Tae climbed into Po’s lap and clung to him as if he were a life preserver, beginning to cry in that way that small children do when fun times are about to end. Eun-young watched her husband display an avuncular grace with the child. He patted her head sweetly, told her that she needed to be a big girl and not cry, that he and Eun-young would come to Seoul and visit just as soon as times got better. Tae eventually slipped out of his lap and resumed her place at her mother’s hip. Ji-young tousled her daughter’s hair and asked if she wanted to give Po and Eun-young the new picture she had drawn. The child bolted away to her bag, then hurried back to present the long piece of paper to her aunt and uncle. Po laid it flat on his legs as Eun-young looked over his shoulder. There were seven rough stick figures drawn across the page, with Pusan’s jagged mountains in the back. Tae took great care explaining who each figure was. Only the sketch of Eun-young carried extra detail: she floated above everyone, like a phantom, smaller than the other adults, as if in the background, and there was what looked to be a lightning bolt streaking across her face.

  That night, with the house silent after a week of guests, Po came to their bed naked and eager. This was one of his favourite expressions, and he often wished Eun-young would do the same for him, sometimes. “I long for you to come to me naked and eager, every now and then.” Tonight, she lay on their mattress as limp as a wet leaf.

  “Don’t be sad,” he cooed as he caressed her. “We’ll see them again soon. In the meantime, let’s try to fill this house with our own noises.”

  Eun-young said nothing as his hands and mouth moved over her body. His breath quickened as his back arched downward and his arms folded around her head. He moved between her scarred legs and took himself in his hand. She waited. And waited. And waited.

  “Dammit,” he muttered. “C’mon … c’mon … c’mon …”

  “Po, it’s okay.”

  He collapsed on his side of the bed and let out that long, pitiful moan of his. He fell silent for the longest time. Then finally spoke again. “He never killed anyone.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Chung Hee. He never killed anyone. He was just a mechanic.”

  “Po …”

  He turned and looked across the bed
at her, his face full of humiliation. “Eun-young, I want to tell you something.”

  “Po, just go to sleep.”

  “No. I want to tell you. I am willing … I am willing to turn my back. I’m willing to turn my back for you.”

  “ What?”

  He cleared his throat. “If you wish to take a boyfriend behind my back, I — I will understand.”

  “Ah, Po, just go to sleep!”

  And she rolled all the way over on the mattress, as far away from him as she could.

  Chapter 15

  I am remembering something that Rob Cruise once told me: that contrary to the popular axiom, every man is an island, floating out there alone in the sea. This has been his guiding principle while navigating the sleazier side of Seoul’s nightlife — cutting himself off from the mainland of bigger meanings, a larger purpose. Thirty-four years old and he’s getting worse, not better, as time goes on, regressing into his late adolescence, a period of big mistakes and zero expectations about his future. When you hang out with Rob, it’s easy to be lured in by his philosophy, to see Korea as an island of ideal hedonism. The work here is plentiful, the drinks are cheap, the women are beautiful, and there is nothing waiting for any of us beyond these shores. I’m convinced Rob will be here forever; he makes being here forever sound like the only option any of us has.

  I am remembering this as I find websites about Korea’s comfort women. I sit in the smoky dimness of a PC Room not far from my apartment, surrounded by pimply teenagers — and grown men — playing video games here in the darkness. I ignore the racket of their laser blasts and watch as a grainy, hidden history downloads in front of me. Pictures of young girls and the old women they would become. Photos of grinning Japanese soldiers lined up outside stalls, outside cubicles. And endless, endless testimonials in rickety translation about what happened in those curtained-off rooms. A new wisdom takes hold of me. A voice. A story I want to tell. The truth of this place is not in its dance clubs and brothels. The truth is something cryptic and lost. There is a sorrow here that I can barely comprehend. Korea is not an island. It is a peninsula. It is attached to something larger than itself. This is a story I want to tell when I finally decide to leave this place. Jin once said: “Michael, you’re in Korea. You don’t know what real shame is.” So show me real shame, Korea. Show me the disgrace that splits you in two.

  And man, does it ever. Those pages download from the Web and I can hardly believe what I’m reading.

  I buy a digital camera on the night of the birthday party and take it with me. On the subway back from Yongsan Electronics Market, I play with my new toy as if discovering the technology for the first time. I mess with the settings, draw Tetris shapes in the air, watch pixilated commuters and overhead ads undulate through the viewfinder. This is far more fun than reading the English-language newspaper I brought along for the ride. Everything is Iraq, Iraq. It’s the summer of 2004 and Baghdad is burning.

  The restaurant is at Yeoksam Station. I exit the subway and follow Jin’s directions until I locate it. It’s a massive, traditional Korean structure, like an ancient temple: piled-stone foundation, looming pagoda roof, a cedar-wood portico out front. I find Jin waiting for me underneath it.

  “You bought a camera!” she exclaims. “About bloody time, Michael. You’ve been here a year and a half!”

  I point the camera at her and she strikes an immediate pose between the pillars, arms stretched to embrace them, head tilted and lips crushed into a come-hither pout.

  “Have things started in there?” I ask after I’ve taken the picture.

  She nods. “It’s time for you to meet some people.”

  I soon realize that this is more than just a restaurant. It’s like a compound, actually, a fort, a place with private rooms in the back for private parties. The hostess at the door, standing at her podium, exchanges a few sentences with Jin and then motions to the hallway at the back. On our way, we wander past casual diners sitting at Western-style booths. The lights are dim here, flickering faux torches in the corners. Jin and I enter the long wooden hallway leading to the back.

  This is what I notice: On either side of us are sliding paper doors with wooden frames. Behind each door is a private room. Like cubicles. Like stalls. I halt for a moment there on the hardwood. Behind the doors I hear the sound of revellers – the clinking of soju bottles, the clacking of chopsticks, and hearty laughter that sounds almost like weeping. Jin is walking but then turns, comes over.

  “Michael, what is it?”

  I don’t know what it is. There is something about this hallway, a reminder so recent. A reminder of what I’ve been reading on the Internet in the last month. My little bit of research. I’m suddenly very creeped out.

  “C’mon, let’s go,” Jin says. “There’s no reason to be nervous. Everyone will like you. I promise.”

  She leads me by the arm to the back and slides open the last door on the left. I release my breath as we step inside. Her family has rented the largest room in the place. A low cherry-wood table goes from one end of it to the other. Jin’s extended family is seated on mats around the table; and at the centre, an old woman, the guest of honour. Ji-young. Her grandmother.

  People turn to look as we slip off our shoes in the entryway and climb up onto the elevated floor. Hellos flutter through the air like swallows — the only English word everyone knows for sure. I nod and toss my own hello back; I feel uncomfortable speaking even the most rudimentary Korean in front of these staring, curious people. It’s like my presence has abruptly crashed their party, put hamstrings on their conversations because I’m not fluent in their tongue. Jin leads me to the centre of the table and introduces me to Ji-young and her husband, Chung Hee, down there on the floor. Ji-young is in her early seventies, a small and fragile-looking woman, her pewter-coloured hair cropped close to her skull. She smiles at me, her eyes vanishing into the wrinkles of her face. She speaks in Korean and Jin translates. “She wants to thank you for coming. She’s never had a waegookin at her birthday before.”

  I nod, then scan the room quickly, hunting for the person I’ve really come here to see. I spot young faces and middle-aged faces, but no other elderly faces than the two in front of me. “Is everyone here?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so,” Jin says, scanning the room herself. “Come on. Let’s settle in.”

  We find a place farther down the table where Jin’s parents are sitting. “Hello, chief!” Minsu exclaims. He waggles a bottle of soju in the air. “Please, come. You must get drunk with me.” Tae gives him a stern look as I put myself down on an empty mat. Minsu passes me the bottle and waves at two small, empty glasses on the table. Since I’m younger, I am to pour for us both. I do so, folding my left arm over my right as the clear liquid glugs out of the bottle. Approving stares stream down the length of the table at my gesture; Jin has trained me well.

  I turn to her. “You want some?” She raises her own glass and tosses an impish leer at her mother.

  I can’t engage all that much at the table as conversations resume in Korean. Jin tries to translate, but it’s hard work. Family banter takes her away for several minutes at a stretch. It doesn’t matter. Each time the sliding door opens, I startle a little. A few more guests drift in — cousins smartly dressed in pastel colours, a mom toting a toddler on her hip. But I’m waiting for someone else’s arrival. I know I am. I’m jumpy.

  In the meantime, I can’t help but notice the hierarchies that stretch over the room. Ji-young and Chung Hee are the centre of attention — not just because it’s Ji-young’s birthday, but because they are the oldest here and draw a quiet, almost Confucian respect. Below them in this familial pyramid are Tae and Minsu, and Tae’s siblings and their spouses. And below them, the assemblage of cousins, the younger generation of which Jin is a part. Some have babies of their own, some are students; and a few, I find out, are unmarried and still live at home, like Jin. Yet I notice through their chit-chat that Jin stands out in this familial hierarchy. It
’s not much; just a touch of exclusion. A bit of body language; the way her cousins don’t fully engage with her. I assume it’s because I am here. The fact that Jin has a waegookin boyfriend reinforces to the hierarchy that she is the black sheep of the family.

  The paper door slides open again, and again I jump. It’s the food coming now — the waitresses, dressed in traditional hanbok, cart in dishes and trays, plates and bowls, and begin loading the table with them. The colours of their hanbok are ferociously bright, garish, a little ridiculous. Watching the waitresses as they work, I think what every foreigner thinks when he sees these tent-like dresses: It looks like maternity wear. I raise my camera, turn it on, and snap a photo of them.

  “Michael,” Tae asks, “you like hanbok?”

  “Sure,” I stammer, then turn to Jin. “Do you ever wear it?”

  “No, I never wear hanbok.” She smirks. “It’s not flattering. You can’t tell what a fantastic ass I have.”

  A couple of cousins who speak enough English giggle at this, covering their mouths. Tae looks at Jin with confusion, and Minsu looks at Jin without confusion, but graciously pretends that he is confused. Jin spouts something in Korean at her mom, clearly a lie about what she has just said in English. Tae is dissatisfied. She scowls a little, at me.

  I can pay no heed because the food is in front of us now. Elaborate, spicy japchae noodles, steamed ox leg soup and barbecued beef ribs, bowls of dumplings, and long plates of mottled fried rice. The aroma is inebriating. The little porcelain dishes of kimchi ring out on the cherry wood as the waitresses lower them from their trays. I need to stand to take the photographs I want. Everyone’s looking at me as I snap and snap and snap. Jin tugs at my pant leg, smiling. “You should sit and eat.” And so I do. My silver chopsticks fling forth with an expertness that I had once thought unimaginable. I impress Minsu when I order a bottle of baekseju from a passing waitress; he gives me one of his cheerful thumbs-up. The golden bottle comes and I pour and pour. We drink and eat, eat and drink. I understand none of the conversations that fly across the table, but I don’t need to. I think: I could do this — I could make these people my new family. I want to lean over and kiss Jin for what she has brought into my grey little life. But of course I don’t. I know the etiquette on public affection. It doesn’t matter. Only this food matters. Soup splashes a little on the table around my bowls and plates; the edge of my hand is stained with red sauce. Minsu chuckles at my minor clumsiness, pours me another drink.