by Martin Limon
I decided to improvise. I’d wait, though, until they unwrapped me.
Things got quieter—no more street noises—and a deep chill filled my bones. More whispers.
Suddenly, the cart was in the air. Men had grabbed hold of it all around and were grunting and snorting through their noses. We descended down what must’ve been a steep flight of stairs. Finally, we reached bottom and with a loud bang, the men dropped the cart.
Now there was more talking. More joviality. I was wheeled along what seemed to be a smooth stone surface. Doors opened and shut. Finally we stopped. The cart behind me rolled up and bumped into mine. Footsteps faded away. All was quiet.
I lay perfectly still.
It was cold, colder than it had been. A vicious thought crept into my mind. Had they deposited me in a tomb?
Maybe they didn’t have the courage to kill me, but instead had wrapped me in this canvas and brought me down into some ungodly dark pit and left me here to die. To die of suffocation and starvation and cold.
I rolled slightly in the canvas, feeling with my legs and my arms. No folds. No place to grab onto an edge and pull. I lay still again and listened. No sound.
And then it overcame me, like some drooling monster bounding out of the dark. A horrendous, screaming surge of panic. I rolled and kicked and thrashed against the canvas and then I screamed, hollering out as loud as I could. But the more I struggled the tighter the canvas embraced me. I wiggled and pushed and clawed but nothing seemed to help. Finally, I was exhausted and I could hardly breathe. I lay in the canvas, sweat drenching my body, gasping for air like some enormous landlocked tuna fish.
I closed my eyes. Hoping for oblivion. It didn’t come. I realized that somehow, just enough oxygen was seeping into my tight shroud to keep me alive. I wouldn’t die and I wouldn’t be able to get out. Torture. I could stay here suffering for days.
I would go mad. I was certain that before I died, I would go mad.
My jaw locked open in a silent scream. My body became rigid. I prayed. Not to be saved, but for forgiveness. For all the things I’d done wrong, for all the people I’d hurt.
It was a long list.
It could’ve been two minutes. It could’ve been two days. I’m not sure how much time passed. But somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind I heard clicking. Not a metallic click but a softer sound. More like a tap. Shoe leather on stone.
The footsteps stopped. Class, or maybe porcelain, clinked. The footsteps came closer.
Next to my head, ancient hinges creaked. Something jarred the cart. I felt it, the shift in weight. Someone had dropped the side panel. I felt two tugs on the edge of my canvas. I went with them, rolling now, rolling toward the side of the cart, and then the surface gave way and I was falling.
I twisted and landed on my side and kept rolling, feeling the canvas unraveling and I saw daylight and pushed the last of the covering away and without warning I was blinded by light. Still, I struggled to my feet, wavering like a punch-drunk fighter, shielding my eyes with my hands.
I wasn’t angry anymore—at my captors for tying me up so cruelly—but I was tremendously grateful. Grateful to whoever had pulled me out of that living hell. And I was ready to fight. Ready to make sure that nobody put me back inside. I knotted my fists and opened my eyes and scanned for targets.
The light that had seemed blinding before was nothing more than a dim lantern. Guttering. Oil-fed. I seemed to be in some sort of chamber. Rock-hewn. Jagged edges. The space slowly came into focus.
It was nicely appointed, with a comfortable-looking sofa, a pair of lounging chairs, and a coffee table centered on an intricately knit black-and-red carpet. The design of the flooring seemed a jumble at first, but after staring for a while it leapt out at me. Phoenix rising.
Behind, lining the walls, were cabinets. Inlaid mother-of-pearl with intricately wrought metal handles and clasps.
The room didn’t make sense. Located in the bowels of the earth. Clean, comfortable, designed for entertaining guests. In it, the dirty old cart and flea-infested canvas seemed bafflingly out of place.
Wood rattled on wood. Something heavy thudded to the floor. A big brown mummy rolled toward me, unraveling, until I saw blue jeans and a pair of sneakers. Ernie!
I helped him to his feet. Blindly, he let loose a couple of roundhouse punches into the air.
“I’ll kill the bastards!” he said. “I’ll kill ‘em.”
Gingerly, I patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Ernie. It’s just me. We’re all right now.”
He stopped swirling around and grabbed my arm and
leaned on me, letting his eyes adjust to the light. Breathing heavily, he took in the room in which we stood.
Standing in the middle of the carpet, her hands clasped demurely in front of her waist, stood a beautiful young woman.
As I gazed at her I realized that she had no plans— nor any capability—of rolling us back into the canvas. I knew she didn’t deserve my gratitude—she had to be a part of the gang who’d dragged us here—but my heart flooded with warm feeling for her. She was, after all, the woman who set us free. Our liberator.
When she realized we could see her, she lowered her large brown eyes and bowed slowly from the waist. Her glossy black hair brushed forward as she did so, covering her soft cheeks and exposing the tender flesh of her neck. She straightened her back and I took a long look at her.
She was not very tall, maybe just slightly above the average height for a Korean woman, but she gave the appearance of being tall. Red silk, intricately embroidered with an entwining gold dragon, wrapped around her slender body. The collar was high, buttoned, in the style of the Manchu Dynasty. A slit at the side of the dress exposed naked thigh.
She smiled at us. Tentatively. Full lips, round nose, big eyes. Cheekbones not sharp but soft and gently contoured. It dawned on me that she wasn’t Korean. She was Chinese.
When she opened her mouth to speak, the voice was high and lilting. The words came out in faltering English.
“You must be tired.” She gestured towards the teapot and cups on the coffee table. “Please sit. I will pour you some tea.”
Ernie’s mouth fell open. “What kinda bullshit is this!”
He scurried off into the dark crevices of the chamber, checking the two doors, rattling the locks, pacing the length of the craggy stone walls. When he was satisfied that there was no way out, he returned to us, planted his feet in front of the Chinese woman, and held out his hand.
“Gimme the key,” he said. She smiled at him. “Gimme the goddamn key to the door!”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t have it.”
He bunched his fist and took a step toward her. I rushed forward and grabbed him.
“Hold it, pal. Give her a chance. They wouldn’t have left us down here with just her if there was a way out.”
Ernie glared at her, murder in his eyes.
In his haste, Ernie had missed a couple of spots.
“Over here,” I said.
We trotted to the other end of the chamber and in the shadows found an opening carved out of the rock. Ernie stared down a short stairwell that led into blackness. I turned to the girl.
“Where does this go?”
“Not out. Please, have a seat. You will be taken to my employer.”
Ernie peered into the black pit. “It’s too damn dark down there.”
I looked at the steps. They were carved out of stone.
Who in the hell had built this place?
I didn’t have any particular desire to go deeper into the cave. I looked back across the room. There must be a way to pry the doors open. I grabbed Ernie’s elbow and whispered.
“She’s our best bet to get out of here. Come on back. We’ll talk to her.”
He nodded and we returned to the center of the chamber.
“Who is your employer?” I asked.
She answered in Korean. “So Boncho-ga.” Herbalist So.
The man we
wanted to talk to. Might as well have a go at it. We were just as likely to be able to bust out of here later as we were now. Which maybe wasn’t very likely at all.
I sat on the edge of the couch, keeping most of my weight on the balls of my feet, my forearms draped over my knees. Ernie joined me, but his head kept swiveling around as if he expected a window to open up in the stone walls any second.
She poured aromatic tea into thick porcelain cups with no handles and offered them to us with both hands. I took my cup from her and as I did I brushed the flesh of her fingers. Amazingly soft. This was a woman who had been bred for graciousness, not work. I looked at her feet. Normal. Soft-soled black canvas shoes with sequins. I’d almost expected her feet to be bound.
I sipped on the tea. The bitter taste of ginseng rolled down my parched throat. Ernie set his on the table in front of us. Didn’t touch it.
When I finished, I asked for more. No sense being impolite. She poured with a pleased expression.
Relaxing us like this so soon after our ordeal was obviously her job. And the fact that even I, a half-crazed foreign devil, had responded to her ministrations would give her good face. Demonstrate to her employer the full extent of her skills. Which were extraordinary. Just having her around, with her graceful movements and her beauty and the smooth serenity of her demeanor, had a calming effect.
On me, anyway. Ernie still looked angry enough to frighten Jack the Ripper.
I started to wonder about this Herbalist So. He hires thugs to knock us out and cart us through Itaewon. And then this beautiful woman to bring us back to a semblance of civility. So was used to manipulating people. I’d let him think it was working. For the time being.
After I finished my second cup of tea, the young lady rose and bowed again.
“It is time to see my employer,” she said. “Please come with me.”
When we didn’t move she stared at us, puzzled.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She shook her head and her black hair fluttered like a raven’s wing. “Not important.”
“You’re not Korean,” I said. “You’re Chinese.”
“Many Chinese in Korea. Since the revolution.”
“Why do vou work for Herbalist So?”
“Who?”
“So Boncho-ga.”
“Oh. Because he is a very kind man.”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Then why did he hit me over the head?”
“He did not hit you over the head. Those boys did.” A disapproving expression crossed the soft features of her face. “They are very bad.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Very bad.”
I pushed myself up. Ernie rose too, still swiveling his head around, looking for a monster to leap out of the dark so he could bust him in the chops.
We followed the beautiful Chinese woman through the carved opening in the stone, into the darkness that led to Herbalist So.
17
WE MADE TWO TURNS, DOUBLING BACK ON OURSELVES through narrow passageways. It was cold down here and getting colder. I admired the goose-bumped flesh on the arms of the Chinese girl and wondered how she could stand the frigid temperatures.
Our path was lit by small oil lamps flickering out of indentations carved in the granite walls. Whoever set up this operation had little faith in electricity.
Mining must’ve gone on down here at one time or another. At the opening to an old shaft I spotted rusty rails and what appeared to be a cast-iron mining car. Probably an antique.
A shroud of smoke drifted close to the floor, snaking its way into the dark shaft.
At another carved opening, this one covered only with a beaded curtain, the Chinese girl bowed and motioned for us to enter. I nodded to her and watched as she trotted back into the darkness.
“Nice can,” Ernie said.
I grunted. He never lets up.
The beads clattered as we pushed through. This chamber was even darker than the hallway. In-
side, there were no lamps. Instead, the sparse flames of stone stoves sputtered beneath thick earthen pots. The room was filled with the pungent aroma of herbs. Some tangy, some sweet. All types of herbs. Seared, boiled, roasted. I felt as if I had stepped into the den of some long-lost medieval alchemist.
Along the walls were plain wooden cabinets, each lined with hundreds of square panels. A wooden knob poked out of each little panel and every one was marked in black ink with a Chinese character. I couldn’t read all of the characters but most of them had the radicals for “wood” or “plant” or “horn.” The collection of herbs in the wall of tiny drawers was vast. It must’ve taken years to accumulate.
Something moved.
At first I thought it was nothing more than a shawl draped over the back of a chair. Then I realized it was a man, hunched over one of the small pots.
“Good evening, Agent Sueño,” he said.
His voice resonated with venerable authority. To my amazement he even pronounced my name correctly.
Ernie stepped toward one of the stoves and grabbed a pair of metal tongs.
“Ah,” the man said, “and Agent Bascom. So good of you to join us.”
Ernie spat on the floor.
I decided to answer in Korean. And not politely.
“Wei uri chapko deiri wasso?” Why did you drag us here?
The man known as So Boncho-ga, Herbalist So, stood up. He was tall for a Korean, with a back that was crooked only when he leaned over his pots.
Bulging eyes glistened in the dim light like eggs swimming in water. From a tangled bush of gray hair, a bronze forehead slanted downward, lined with deep wrinkles, making the skull that housed his brain seem as solid and as secure as the steep flight of stone steps which led to his kingdom.
He reached forward with a pair of rusty tongs that were almost as crooked as his fingers and moved a steaming
pot from one fire to another. When he looked back at me his full lips moved, enunciating the English as if he had been born a first cousin to the House of Windsor.
“You employ our mother tongue well,” Herbalist So said. “Even the indirect insult. Quite admirable.”
He puttered amongst his pots for a moment or two, finished some obscure chore, stepped forward, then turned his full attention toward me.
“Are you familiar with Chinese medicine, Agent Sueño?”
I could’ve tried to hard-ass him. Make him answer my question. But I knew the door behind us was barred and I doubted that there was any other way out of this damp cave. Besides, his boys probably weren’t far away. I had to go along with him. For now.
Ernie still stood motionless. I didn’t know how long that would last.
“I know that a lot of Koreans believe in Chinese medicine,” I replied.
“Oh, yes. They certainly do. And for good reason. There are many secrets locked in these herbs. Secrets that I have spent my life trying to unravel.”
“But it’s only a hobby for you,” I said. “Not your main line of work.”
He chuckled at that.
“Yes, you’re right. Not my main line of work. It was at one time, though. When I was young. Even our Japanese overlords believed in Chinese medicine. They had no objection to us plying our trade as long as all prescriptions were written in their foul language.” He turned, spat on the floor, and stared directly at Ernie.
Ernie tightened his grip on the tongs. Herbalist So looked back at me.
“This chamber.” He waved his arm. “It was carved out of natural formations that were discovered when dropping a new well in the area behind Itaewon. The local chief of the partisans decided to use it for his headquarters.”
I stared at him, trying to discover the source of the pride that rang in his voice. I said nothing.
“Yes. That’s right. The chief of the partisans was my father.”
With a damp cheesecloth he wiped residue dripping from an earthen spout.
“We held classes down here. I was one of the students. T
he Japanese had forbidden us Koreans to speak or read or write our own language. Everything had to be conducted in Japanese. To keep our own culture was risky, but we did it. After four thousand years of Korean history, did they really think their brutal methods could turn us into second-rate Japanese?”
I didn’t have an answer for him.
“Of course not,” he said. “Have you been to south post on your own compound lately? The old prison there?”
“Yes. I’ve seen the bullet holes in the wall,” I said.
“The Japanese executed many Koreans. Some of them just before you Americans arrived, after their Emperor surrendered. The Imperial Army from your compound made a final raid on Itaewon and the surrounding areas. With the thought that our misery was almost over, my father was careless. They caught him, up above. Two days later they executed him. The following day an American troop ship landed at the port of Inchon.”
One of the pots started to bubble. He rushed toward it, lifted it with a thick pad, and with a charred stick rearranged the glowing coals beneath.
I could see more clearly now and I searched the walls. They were mostly carved stone but there were some spots that were darker than others. My bet was that there were back entrances. If these chambers had been used by_armed men resisting the Japanese, they would’ve had more than one means of escape. There had to be ventilation. The smoke from the pots drifted back to the entranceway, toward the old mining shaft we had seen on the way in.
“After the war,” Herbalist So said, “we Koreans had nothing. The Japanese, yes, set up some industry. But its purpose was to export raw materials back to their heathen islands. The rest of our economy was utterly devastated. Still, we started to rebuild.”
“And then the Communists came south?”
He looked at me sharply, wondering if I was mocking his slow tale. I kept my face unrevealing.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Armies paraded up and down our peninsula. First the North Koreans, then you Americans, then the Chinese. We were poor before, but after our own civil war we were desperate.”
“That’s when you started the slicky boy operation.”
