Seoul Spankings

by Anastasia Vitsky

  “I grew up in a town of four hundred people,” Indi Go said. “Well, more like three hundred and fifty now, and I still didn’t learn that.”

  “She taught me how to gamble.” I laughed, remembering. Indi Go laughed as if not sure whether to believe me. “No, really. We have this card game, hwatu, um, War of Flowers, and she taught me how to play when I was a little girl.” I could feel the reverberations from Halmoni slapping the floor in disgust at a bad hand. She took no mercy on me, beating me from the time I was old enough to play the cards. I lost more money to her than any grandparent took from a grandchild, but, in exchange, she taught me how to hold my head high despite defeat.

  “Did you get to go back?” Unnoticing, Indi Go stabbed the piece of kimchi and put it into her mouth. She coughed, choking, until she grabbed for a sip of water.

  A Korean would have dismissed the memories of our country weak, ashamed, and powerless. A Korean girl would have been impatient with talk about past failures and want to focus on the present. Looking at this American girl, something inside of me relaxed. “Never,” I answered. “Halmoni lived there for five more years, until her health failed. My father moved her to Seoul with us, but she hated the pollution and noise. She died a few months later, angry she couldn’t go faster.”

  Indi Go dropped her gaze again, this time out of sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Americans were so funny. They reveled in their ignorance, talking more loudly than any polite adult should, and yet they opened their hearts in a way Koreans did not.

  “Thank you.” She squeezed my hand. When I looked down, she released it in surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just….”

  “It’s okay.” My heart lightened saying the words. I covered our hands with my other one. “Thank you, Go Indi.”

  She squinted at me. “Go Indi?”

  It was my turn to apologize. “Your name sounds like a Korean one. Ko In Di.” I shrugged. “Indi is a little unusual, but I thought since your parents raised you in America….”

  She laughed. “My parents are a mixture of Scottish, English, Welsh, and probably Spanish. No Korean that I know of. That’s why you say my name so strangely.”

  I frowned. “Indi Go is not correct?”

  She shook her head so hard that the adorable pixie cut flew in a mini halo. “Indigo,” she said. “Or just Indi. My friends call me that.”

  “In.” I thought about it. “It sounds like a Korean name. A good one. The Chinese character for In means tolerance, benevolence, and understanding. ‘Di’…well, it’s not traditional Korean.”

  She looked torn between pleasure and more confusion. “Chinese? But you said it sounded like a Korean name.”

  I nodded. “Traditional Korean names are made with Chinese characters. Like my name, Hyunkyung. Hyun means wisdom, and kyung means respect and trying to do the right thing. O-jjil hyun and konggyung kyung. My grandfather made my name to carry on the Han tradition, and he wanted me live a wise and respectful life.”

  “It’s a beautiful meaning,” Indigo—Indi said, but she still looked puzzled. “Miss Cha calls you something else. Ee…Easy….”

  I laughed. Instead of embarrassing me, her ignorance now offered a chance to explain things in a new light. I enjoyed the freshness of my ordinary world seen through foreign eyes. “Ee Sajang. Miss Cha and my employees call me Ee Sajangnim, or the head of the company. Technically, Ee Sajangnim is my father, but he has turned most of the business over to me.”

  I should have been thrilled to assume my new rights and privileges, but instead, I had made international headlines as the spoiled Han princess who demanded rich food. An American prankster had sent a case of Nutrageous bars to my office, and a peanut company offered a special sale with single-serving packets labeled as Princess Peanut. The company stocks shot through the roof overnight, at my expense.

  “But, please, call me Hyunkyung.” I smiled. Instead of returning the smile, she faltered.

  “I would…I wish I could. But it’s so difficult.”

  “Nonsense.” I laughed and checked my watch. “If you’re not going to eat more than that, we should go to the concert hall.”

  Gratefully, she stood up. “I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s delicious, but my stomach feels funny after the long flight.”

  I gave her points for diplomacy. “Come,” I said. “After the concert, I’ll have to teach you to say my name.”

  At her confused nod, I hid a smile. Maybe, just maybe, I had gotten lucky despite all the mix-ups.

  Maybe I won’t force Madame Eve out of business, after all.

  Chapter Five

  As we entered an enormous room lined with seat boxes at irregular intervals, Hyunkyung touched the small of my back to guide me into the seat next to hers. We had a private box off to the right side of the stage, as if we were royalty. I glanced down at my Cinderella costume and wondered if any of the concertgoers streaming through the doors wished they could be in my place. Most likely. Who wouldn’t want the seat of honor, free from kicking seatmates, whining children, and the inevitable ringing cell phone?

  If only I wanted to be in my place, too. I had enjoyed our dinner conversation more than I cared to admit, but I hated classical music. I never understood the story or all of the finer points that the commentators loved to hash out. The one time I’d attended a concert for school, I’d fidgeted the entire time and wished I could fake illness to go home early. I hated feeling as stupid as Greg had made me feel when we watched football and I didn’t understand the action.

  Greg. Stop it! I crossed my legs underneath my borrowed finery. “Why do you like this program?” I couldn’t feign interest in the music, but I wanted to know why Hyunkyung cared about it so much. She gave me a quick look.

  “If you’ve never seen Leila Feran, you….” She struggled to find words. “Ma-um-ee apayo. How do you say it in English?” She tapped her chest. “My heart hurts. Listening to Leila Feran makes my heart hurt. She makes me cry, and afterward, I feel as if an angel touched my soul.”

  Stunned, I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. Talking about music, her jaw and temple lines softened. “But there aren’t any words, and it’s so difficult to understand.” I hadn’t meant to admit that, but I wanted to make sense of her private joy. What music gave to Hyunkyung, I wanted to experience, too.

  She took my hand in hers. “Leila Feran learned to play the Tchaikovsky at age seven, and it’s still her favorite. It’s the most over-played violin concerto in the world, and yet every major symphony will put it on the schedule if she agrees to perform. Tchaikovsky’s music is passionate, and Leila Feran’s playing is passionate, but it’s more than that.” She paused, thinking. “It’s like entering heaven for thirty-five minutes.”

  We sat through a short piece that seemed mainly to warn everyone the concert had started, as during the applause, streams of latecomers rushed to their seats. Then a dark-haired woman in a plain black dress entered the stage, and she lifted her violin to tune the strings.

  “Always black,” Hyunkyung whispered to me amidst the roar of applause. “No sequins, no glitter, no lamé. She wears it in honor of her wife, who insists that Leila perform classical music, not a sideshow. And Leila, who could buy half a dozen ball gowns for each concert of the year, asks her wife to choose her dresses.”

  Hyunkyung sat upright in her chair, applauding wildly as Leila took a bow. Then the music began, and I forgot I hated stuffy symphony music. Not because I enjoyed the music, but because I stared at Hyunkyung. Her body dipped and swayed, her fingertips twitching with the rhythm and tears shining on her cheeks. Her lips parted, she drank in each note as if it were nectar.

  I tried as hard as I could to enjoy the music, and, for the first few minutes, I took in the grandeur of the setting. After that, however, I watched only my companion. Could this be the brittle, judgmental snob who ordered me onto a plane because I couldn’t speak her language? Or was this a frustrated artiste, one whose soul long
ed to sing music incongruous with her cutthroat business life?

  After the concert, Hyunkyung took me backstage to sip flutes of champagne and chatter with the conductor and performers. Leila, the star of the show, embraced Hyunkyung as if she were a schoolmate from childhood. Perhaps she was. I realized how little I actually knew about Hyunkyung and her background. Then again, she said she’d spent her childhood in the country, or was that only for a few years?

  “It was magnificent, as always,” Hyunkyung gushed, starry-eyed.

  I stared at her once more. I understood playing a solo violin piece meant some degree of fame, but I had never heard of Leila before tonight. Hyunkyung could have been a teenager at her favorite rock band concert.

  She is, I realized. This was Hyunkyung’s rock band, and this was her soul. Touched at seeing this side of the powerful business magnate, I smiled from behind my flute of sparkling wine. I couldn’t hold much liquor, so I sipped more for show than taste.

  “Carene sends her love,” said Leila, and it took me a moment to understand she meant her wife. “She wanted to see you, but she hates jet lag. Come and visit us the next time you’re in New York. Maybe that will convince Carene to visit me for once, instead of me always going to her.”

  Hyungkyung laughed, a tinkle of delight and high spirits. “City mouse. You underestimate the country,” she said. “You always did.”

  Feeling left out, I edged toward the refreshment table. Most of the conversation was in Korean, but quite a few people gave me sidelong looks. I couldn’t understand why, but I didn’t return their gaze. I was out of place, even in my one-night finery. Maybe midnight would strike in a few moments, and I’d find myself dashing home as pumpkins and mice rolled every which way.

  “Your new girl,” Leila’s voice broke over the hubbub of Korean. “Is this the one? You’ve been teasing me for ages about settling down.”

  I blinked, dropping my chocolate cookie. Hyunkyung only had one companion tonight. She murmured something I couldn’t hear, and Leila’s voice rose again.

  “But the way you look at her! Does she know what she’s getting herself into? The big, bad Hyunkyung. I believe mothers should warn their daughters about you.”

  I stared at the floor, wishing I could sink below the floorboards. Cheeks burning, I ducked behind a coat rack. This time, Hyunkyung’s words came as clearly as if she intended me to hear. Perhaps she did.

  “Don’t be silly, Leila. She’s a client, nothing more. We’re negotiating a merger, and I’m giving her the VIP treatment. You know how it is with business.”

  Stunned, I set down my champagne glass and crept toward the door. I would have taken off the clothes Hyunkyung had given me, but the alternative was more X-rated than I wished. I was a business front for Hyunkyung, nothing more. I should have known. I had thought…our conversation at dinner, the way she took my hand.

  As crazy as it sounded, she had seemed to treat me as a friend. Maybe something more.

  I had come to Korea expecting a job interview. I would leave tomorrow after losing a potential love interest.

  Love? I scoffed at myself. Get real.

  I used to believe in love. I’d packed up all of my belongings the day Greg told me he’d cheated on me and the other girl was pregnant. I paid the apartment rent and had forked over the deposit, but he had insisted on the lease in his name.

  Look up stupid in the encyclopedia, and you’ll find my picture.

  Indi, he’d said, in the husky voice that made me lose contact with any of my surviving brain cells. Our apartment will belong to both of us, but I want my name on the lease. I want you to come home to a place I’ve provided for you.

  Down went my first three paychecks from waitressing at the university pub. My supervisor should have made me leave after I graduated, but he was comfortable and so was I. There weren’t many other options for a philosophy major. I worked hard; he left me alone. I learned the tricks to ingratiating myself to each customer, using the best methods to garner the biggest tips. Not the college boys—they were too cheap and too broke. No, it was the professors who were the easiest to fluster. A “trip” while walking on high heels, a hand planted on the counter, and a chest displayed oh-so-accidentally worked magic on the stuffy men who lusted after their graduate assistants. It turned out that more than professors wanted the graduate assistants.

  Wonder what Nietzsche would have said about that?

  Indi, Greg had said after we moved in together, I don’t want kids. Why have all the hassle of snotty noses and stinky diapers? I’ll never be a family kind of guy.

  My snarly great-aunt Matilda was right. She had told me from the beginning that if I moved in with him because he wouldn’t commit, he never would. Why make a promise to someone who already had given you what you wanted, she asked me. She said a boy like that only took what he wanted and would never give back.

  Actually, she was only half right. Greg could make a commitment, but not to me.

  “That’s stupid,” he told me on our fourth date. Or, rather, our fourth time seeing each other. He didn’t believe in dates or timelines or commitments. “I go to work to work. I don’t spend time with people to work.”

  How stupid I’d been, yet again. I thought perhaps Hyunkyung saw something in me, but I should have known. She didn’t need someone to pay her rent and bills, but she needed a front to make her business look good. She didn’t want to spend time with people to work.

  I should have been flattered someone like Hyunkyung wanted me for arm candy. I cleaned up pretty well, after all. But I darted into the nearest restroom, locked the stall door, leaned my forehead against the wall, and cried.

  Never again.

  I’d never let anyone woo me with false promises again.

  Chapter Six

  Leila took my arm and drew me in for a whisper. “Oh, give it a rest. It’s obvious you’re smitten with each other. Use a lame cover story for the tabloids if you like, but don’t try to fool me. Is she good in bed?”

  “Leila!” I choked on my champagne. “You’re unmanageable without Carene to keep you in check. You need a good—”

  She grinned. “Tell me something I don’t know. So, spill. How did you find her? When’s the wedding, or are you playing ladykiller until your father forces you to settle down?”

  “Leila Feran! Leila Feran! We want your autograph!” Hordes of concertgoers pressed at the doorway. “We’ve been waiting for ages!”

  Leila groaned. “As if my wrist doesn’t hurt already after the concert! No.” She answered my unspoken question with a defensive shrug. “Nothing’s wrong. My wrist’s fine. I just hate signing autographs, that’s all.”

  Grateful for an escape, I looked for Indigo. Before I could move away, Leila gave a knowing wink.

  “Better warn her about your toy box before her first night. You don’t want to make ladykiller a literal truth.”

  I shook my head and sent my love to Carene, giving Leila one last hug. “Good thing Indigo isn’t bratty like you.”

  Leila laughed without taking offense. “Just imagine what I’d be like without Carene’s influence.” As I turned to find Indigo, Leila slapped my backside and feigned innocence when I glared at her.

  Really! I scanned the room for Indigo’s brilliant green dress. Carene shouldn’t let Leila tour without her. She’ll have a big-headed diva on her hands, and….

  Where was Indigo? With the light-colored hair and her striking dress, I should have found her at a glance. I motioned for Minhee to come near.

  “The bathroom?” she suggested, knowing my question before I asked.

  I nodded in relief. “Of course. Cancel our reservation for Namsan Tower and call Miss Cha to pick up some fresh samgyopsal and all of the trimmings. Where can we get a portable grill at this time of night?”

  Minhee’s silence said what she didn’t dare say aloud. Have you gone insane? “Of course,” she said, throwing in extra enthusiasm to make up for the delay. “You want a picnic.”

&nb
sp; “In the country,” I added. “We’ll need a net canopy and a floodlight and a covered picnic spot near a stream. With fish, if possible.”

  “With fish,” Minhee repeated. She backed away, repeating my requests. To her credit, she kept most of the incredulity out of her voice, if not her face. “Yes, now!” she said into her phone. “I know the stores are closed. Find an all-night mart!”

  I nodded in satisfaction and slipped to the nearest restroom. Fortunately, there was only one close to our side of the stage. I waited, half-aware of someone sobbing in an occupied stall. Poor girl. Hope her night gets better.

  As patrons entered and exited the stalls, the middle left door remained closed. The cries quieted, followed by snuffling and nose-blowing. I grimaced. It was not an attractive sound, for sure. Maybe she would compose herself and come out to re-apply her makeup.

  When the door opened at last, I found myself staring into the woebegone expression of Indigo in a crumpled, tearstained dress. Her nose shone bright red, and she sniffed. When she saw me, she took a step backward and almost closed the door. I held my hand out and propped the door open. What’s wrong? I wanted to say, but I didn’t know whether I should ask. With a sudden pang, I remembered my first night in America as an exchange student. I had sobbed in every airport bathroom from Seoul to New York City. In the last one, in the JFK airport, I met Leila returning home from a tour of Eastern Europe. She could barely understand my terrible English, but she took me home with her and helped me find my way to the dormitory at Columbia. She took me there herself, and I never forgot her kindness.

  “Are you sick?” I settled for a safe, physical question. Indigo could blame any emotional duress on her body, the way a good Korean woman would do. Headaches, stomachaches, improperly functioning bowels and bladders all served to excuse tears at inopportune times.