Seoul Spankings

by Anastasia Vitsky

  “On Young Ha Say Yo,” she said, dipping her shoulders toward me in a passable imitation of the correct greeting. Such a simple thing, something I would have taken for granted in anyone else, had I not seen her performance earlier. Each syllable correct, if stilted. Each detail of her dress and hair was perfection. She stood awkwardly, like a runner shod in stilettos, but she did not shame me.

  Beside her, Miss Cha beamed with the pride of a mother. She adjusted Indi Go’s sash and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her skirt. Indi Go stared at me, wide-eyed and ready. I could order her as my servant, or I could invite her as my guest.

  With a heart lighter than before, I turned toward the limousine waiting outside. It was an extravagance for the congested Seoul traffic, but a comfort I had come to view as a necessity. I held out my hand and offered it to my would-be bride.

  “Come,” I said.

  And she did.

  ***

  “Yesului jondange kachura.”

  I tried to make sense of the unfamiliar words, but a sleek, uniformed chauffeur held open the door of an immaculate black car, glossy as a grand piano. After Hyunkyung entered, I slid into the smooth seat like Cinderella into her pumpkin coach. Was it a day ago I’d drowned my sorrows in homemade chocolate chip cookies? Was it a week ago Great-Aunt Matilda summoned me to her home? I’d gone armed with every answer to every possible accusation she could throw at me. I couldn’t help it if Greg needed the apartment. Yes, she’d told me so. Yes, I realized the baby’s due date in two months meant Greg had been cheating on me for as long as we’d lived together. No, I didn’t know what he was thinking.

  Stop it! Greg had no right to this evening. I’d given him too many years he didn’t deserve. I peered out the window, watching the crowded, tiny streets whiz by. A sea of black-haired heads made me dizzy, and the buildings stretched halfway to the sky. When I’d protested Great-Aunt Matilda’s choice of Korea, I hadn’t expected such a modern country. I had seen a rerun or two of Mash and learned about the Korean War in junior high history class, but that was it. I’d had to look it up on a map. The tiny peninsula jutting into the ocean was not much bigger than my home state of Iowa. I couldn’t imagine an entire country as small as one-fiftieth of mine. I’d thought I would see people wearing pointed straw hats and dragging rickshaws through mud streets, perhaps filled with the starving, big-bellied children I saw on television fundraising campaigns.

  I’d grumbled to myself, asking why Great-Aunt Matilda couldn’t distribute her largesse in a more appealing manner. It was my first chance to travel abroad, and instead of France, she had to pick a country I knew nothing about. What language did people speak in Korea, anyway? My two years of high school French would have let me order a croissant or croque-monsieur, s’il vous plait and some café au lait to drink. I could capture joie de vivre eating bonbons while overlooking the Seine River. Instead, I had to come to a land that, according to online travelers’ sites, had achieved fame for spicy spoiled cabbage. I’d almost lost my lunch thinking about it.

  The car came to a stop, and the chauffeur popped out to my side and opened the door. Awed, I took in the enormous sign saying Seoul Arts Center and the various billboards. I hesitated on the sidewalk, unsure where to go, but the chauffeur bowed to me and re-entered the car. Hyunkyung emerged next, stately and without hesitation. She sent an assistant ahead and spoke to me, for the first time as if I were a companion instead of a puppy who had piddled on her best rug.

  “Miss Cha will place our orders. We are later than expected.” She paused, her gaze traveling up and down my body.

  I tingled all over, unsure of her meaning. Her words should have expressed displeasure at failing her schedule, but instead, the appreciative nod seemed to say the delay had been worth it. My cheeks grew warm, and I felt naked despite the dress more modest than anything I had worn in years. Instead of Little Orphan Annie, I was Grace Farrell in her floating yellow creation. And yet…and yet this strange, haughty woman seemed to undress me with her eyes. I backed away, flattered and unnerved at the same time. Greg had never looked at me that way, not even in the beginning.

  “We will not dine at the Shilla Hotel. Instead, we will eat here. Follow me, please.”

  She swept across the crosswalk, and the crowd parted to let her pass. I could almost see the red carpet spread underneath her feet. I tottered forward, gazing at the gray-blue mist over the mountains rising from the back of the center. A sparkling glass wall met the ground, while a much-older set of yellowing stone walls rose from behind. One large banner depicted unfamiliar letters across the background of a black-haired woman gripped by an anguished man.

  To our right, a green bus trundled to a stop next to a large sign. A swarm of waiting people clustered toward the opening door, just as Hyunkyung’s assistants had clustered around her. I pictured this country full of black-haired fish swimming toward flakes of food sprinkled on top of their water. Wallets waved, purses swung, and fists brandished what looked like credit cards. People occupied every seat on the bus, as well as the aisles, but they kept piling inside. By the time the bus groaned to a start minutes later, every single one of the would-be passengers was tucked inside. One girl even stood on the step she would use to get off the bus. I looked back at our limousine driving toward the parking garage, and I understood the perks of traveling with a wealthy woman.

  “Miss Go!” came the sharp command. “Hurry! We will be late!” And the penalty will be severe, her thoughts flashed as if from a neon sign. She led me past the sliding-glass automatic doors into the air conditioning, through a long hallway packed with ticket counters, shops, a convenience store tucked into a counter, and up an escalator into another long corridor. I panted as I tried to catch up with her, and at each turn she urged me to “Bahlee, bahlee!” When I looked blank, she explained. “Hurry, hurry!” After one last escalator, she pulled open a door and ushered me into a bright foyer leading to a sparkling restaurant stuffed with bodies and noise.

  My head ached. Spillville, Iowa had to call out the National Guard if more than three vehicles met each other on the road. This crowding made my head spin. Ristorante Bellini, read the sign. I frowned at it. Granted, I didn’t know much about languages, but wasn’t that Italian? I followed Hyunkyung Han into the restaurant, where the maître d’ stepped aside for the owner to usher us into a private room draped with velvet curtains and decorated with perfectly coordinated works of art. He spoke rapidly in Korean, bowed to both of us, and placed a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on our table.

  As he closed the door, the thick curtains blocked out the clanking roar from outside. I stared at the table in surprise. Tiny gold and red foil hearts had been sprinkled around two white tapered candles in gold candlestick holders. Combined with the soft lighting, the atmosphere was unlike any job interview I might have expected.

  Perhaps things were different in Korea. I took a deep breath and massaged my calves underneath the table. Sheer luck had kept me from falling, but I didn’t know whether I could stand up again. Grateful not to have to walk for a while, I sipped ice water from the goblet in front of me. I shivered.

  “It’s cold, isn’t it?” Hyunkyung took a sip of her own before placing a napkin in her lap. She checked her watch. “I ordered soup to warm us up.”

  I frowned. Greg, for all his faults, had never tried to control my food. I closed my eyes. This was not a date. I should not compare a job interview, however odd it might be, with a failed romantic relationship. “I didn’t see a menu.” I unfolded my own napkin, imitating Hyunkyung.

  “Their seafood Portofino is famous.” I watched as Hyunkyung picked up a rolled-up white washcloth and wiped her hands. She edged the basket toward me. “The Philharmonic Symphony is playing the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto tonight with their new star, Leila Feran. She’s the youngest concertmaster they’ve ever had, and she’s a woman. We would never see a woman as concertmaster in my country’s symphony.”

  I held the warm cloth in my hands,
shivering as the heat dissipated. I wished Miss Cha had given me a sweater or at least a shawl. I hoped the concert hall would be warmer. Then again, the cold might be a good thing. Classical music made me sleepy, and the only thing I remembered about watching Yo-Yo Ma on Sesame Street was his name. “I’ve never heard of them,” I admitted. P!nk and Lady Gaga were more my style.

  Hyunkyung blinked, started to say something, and stopped. “They’re from New York. You are American, yes? Leila Feran is known all over the world, but especially in her home country. And yet she refuses three-quarters of her invitations to play abroad, because her beloved prefers the quiet country life.”

  Something wistful in Hyunkyung’s tone made me sneak a sideways glance. Even allowing for cultural differences, this could not have been a traditional job interview. My breath caught. Was Hyunkyung trying to tell me something? I set the thought aside as the door opened to reveal a new server.

  The server brought our bowls, and I picked up the soup spoon in order to delay answering. How odd, to quiz me on my pastimes. Maybe Han Incorporated insisted on after-hours socializing and wanted employees to be compatible. “Uh, no. I don’t know opera singers or literature professors, either. I like TV shows.” The soup, suspicious in its muddy brownness, tasted surprisingly good. Cream of mushroom, not like the bland condensed soup I despised at home, but a fresh, rich texture, full of flavor.

  Hyunkyung rattled off the names of arts shows and documentaries interspersed with European films. I shook my head, wondering what this job would entail. Was I supposed to work as a foreign attaché and arts consultant? Great-Aunt Matilda had made it sound as if the job would be simple, or at least well within my reach.

  “What do you like?” Desperate for a break in the grilling, I seized on the first opening. Hyunkyung closed her mouth mid-question, and I cringed. Had I offended her? Instead, she answered as if lost in thought.

  “Piano. I always wished to study piano, but the family business….” She gave a small smile, shrugged, and motioned for the waiter to set down the heaping platter of pasta adorned with oysters and shrimp in their shells.

  Spillville, Iowa, did not have much in the way of seafood, and my mouth puckered at a food combination not found in nature. Shrimp and oysters, those were easy to identify. What about the white round circles that appeared to be a cross between tofu and marshmallows? And those purple-edged white rings lay next to more purple-edged white strips with definite suckered tentacles.

  I shouldn’t have worried about eating dog in Korea.

  Chapter Four

  Indi Go set her fork down with a sickly shudder. “Thank you,” she said. “But I’m not hungry.”

  Ristorante Bellini prided itself on hand-cutting its noodles, and it had elevated Italian cuisine to grand style. Maybe, as a Korean, I should have introduced my guest to Korean food, but pasta had seemed a safer bet. Everyone loved pasta, even finicky eaters.

  “It’s a little bland,” I agreed. “The sauce needs some spice to cut through the thickness. Here, have some kimchi to cleanse the palate.” I picked up a few choice pieces of fermented, spicy cabbage and set them on the edge of her plate. She looked, if possible, even greener. “Kimchi is good for you,” I said. “Full of vitamin C, low in calories….”

  Indi Go picked up her fork and gave a weak stab at the limp cabbage. She patted the tines on top and next to the kimchi but not through it. Did she not know how to use chopsticks, either? “What kind of work do you want me to do?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the plate.

  Work? I wanted to pick up the kimchi and deposit it into her mouth, cupping my hand under her chin and making her open those sweet, kissable lips. Not now, Hyunkyung. “Well, your lack of Korean ability is a serious drawback. I needed someone who could serve as a second figurehead in my absence.”

  Giving up on the kimchi with evident relief, she poked her fork amidst the noodles heaped onto her plate. Ignoring the best parts, she twirled a plain noodle onto her fork and popped it into her mouth.

  I sighed. A picky eater would offend hosts who labored to please the representative of Han Incorporated. If she had a child’s short tongue, no amount of allowance for her foreignness would overcome the implied insult. She’ll never be suitable, Hyunkyung. Think with your head instead of your pants.

  “A figurehead? Isn’t that kind of an important job for someone brand new like me?” She winced and took a gulp of water.

  She couldn’t handle plain noodles? Did I have to wash her kimchi in water to make it less spicy, the way a mother would for a baby? This was a public relations nightmare in the making. “What is your experience?” Maybe if I focused on her good qualities, I could ignore her ten-year-old palate.

  “Uh….” She fiddled with her napkin. “I work at my university pub. After I graduated, it was easier to stay on. It’s hard to find the right job with a philosophy degree.”

  Madame Eve had sent me a green schoolgirl without so much as one professional entry on her resume? I sighed. Was a Frenchwoman having a joke at my expense, tossing me another packet of peanuts while the reports had a field day at my reaction? Determined to avoid another incident, I focused on the one bit of interesting information.

  “Philosophy? You’re interested in international business now, but you started with philosophy? How did that happen?”

  She colored and dropped her gaze in a gesture as attractive as it seemed unusual for her. She struck me as more forthright. Certainly, not many people would court favor by admitting to an unglamorous background as a bar attendant. I shuddered. And with good reason.

  “Because of my grandma,” she said, fidgeting with the edge of her necklace. The diamonds sparkled in the candlelight, reflecting brilliance in a silvery aura. “She made me look at people in different ways, and I wondered why. When I got to college, none of the facts and sciences made sense to me. Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Kant, Sartre all tried to understand why we do what we do.”

  Impressed but not wanting to admit to it, I raised my eyebrows. “You looked to dead European men to figure out your grandmother’s words?” There was something about this barely grown schoolgirl, something both sweet and unexpected. A Korean girl her age would have tried to impress me with her college pedigree, list of exclusive academies, and name-dropping of the wealthiest and best-connected people who might give her an edge with me.

  Giving up on the pasta altogether, she pushed the plate toward the center of the table and propped her elbows on the table. I winced, but she rested her chin in her hands and spoke as if telling a fairy tale.

  “Some people have the capacity to love, no matter what. My mom’s mom, Grandma Teresa, loved her husband even after he walked out to start a new family in another state. He stole the money from their bank account and never contacted her again, except to say he needed more money. Grandma Teresa got a second job, moved into an efficiency apartment with my mom, and gave him money every time he asked. She made too much money to receive food stamps but not enough to make ends meet, so she chose which bills to pay each month. She lived on beans and potatoes while making sure my mom ate meat at least once a week. She prayed for her husband every day of her life and made my mom join in. ‘Love means never giving up,’ she said.”

  I set down my chopsticks, spellbound. This girl came from nothing, and yet she spoke of it with pride. My schoolmates would have died rather than admit to less than stellar wealth. She continued, warming up to her topic. I could see her swinging her legs underneath her college classroom desk, anxious to tell her story.

  “My mom, at age twelve, watched the tears rolling down Grandma Teresa’s cheeks during her endless prayers and vowed never to let anyone hurt her the same way. Mom left my father when I was five and refused to let me have contact with him. Through it all, Grandma Teresa taught me to pray. When I asked her why she never spoke badly about her husband, she gave me a lesson I never forgot. She said, ‘Indigo, feeling anger and being hurtful are two different things. I can be angry at someone’s behavior while
loving the person. I made a promise to love for life.’ When I threatened to run away from home because Mom wouldn’t buy me designer clothes or belittled my boyfriends, Grandma Teresa repeated her favorite mantra: ‘Love means never giving up.’”

  I stared in awe at this girl I had dismissed as ignorant, unworldly, and irrelevant. I had scorned her for her lack of knowledge, and yet she taught me lessons as if I sat next to my own grandmother. Halmoni, my father’s mother, had dispensed love and licks with equal generosity. She told my parents not to spoil me, not the other way around, and she’d sent me to pick my own switch more than once when I didn’t like her orders. I learned to do as she said from a tiny age, but I also went to her for comfort.

  “I was raised by my grandmother,” I said, surprising myself. “My father was too busy running the family business, and my mother had to entertain clients. After the IMF crisis, we lost everything.”

  “What is IMF?” Indigo picked, absently, at the piece of kimchi on her plate. I longed to place it in her mouth and watch her wince from the unexpected sharp spiciness.

  “What is?” It took me a moment to understand. “IMF? The International Monetary Fund? In 1997?” At each inquiry, she shook her head, looking more and more confused. “My country had loans, a staggering amount, and couldn’t pay. The financial crisis killed the economy and threw countless people out of work. My father….” I shook myself. This wasn’t the place or time, and yet this foreign girl made me tell things I had never said before. “I begged my father not to send me away to the country, where Halmoni lived, but he told me Seoul was no longer a place for children. When I came back three years later, my classmates laughed at my country accent and lack of academic progress.” I smiled, even though the memories brought pain. “Halmoni taught me to catch a fish with my bare hands, to cook, and to gather wild herbs and plants.”