Kimiko flung some money at the driver, climbed out, and was now only twenty yards behind the young woman in black silk hurrying down the sidewalk. The girl slipped through an opening between a teahouse and a boutique. When Kimiko trotted down the stone steps leading into the narrow pedestrian passageways, she couldn't see her. She must've turned down another side alley. The tiny lanes were like a catacomb down here and, unfortunately, Kimiko wasn't as familiar with the back alleys of Myongdong as she was with the back alleys of Itaewon. Soon she spotted the young woman, a block ahead, turning another corner. Does she know I'm following? But Kimiko put the thought out of her mind. When she caught up with her, the straight razor clutched in her right hand would answer all questions.
Up ahead, around another corner, Kimiko heard a buzzer. A metal door creaked open and then slammed shut with a clang. By the time Kimiko reached the entranceway, the girl had disappeared behind a steel grill backed by a door of carved oak. Kimiko stared up at the sign: The Garden of Forests and Moons.
A kisaeng house.
Kisaeng are female entertainers, providing service for the wealthiest men in Seoul. Something like Japanese geisha but without the elaborate costumes.
Kimiko cursed her bad luck. She thought better of ringing the buzzer. No sense tipping her hand. Instead, she backed up to the front of a noodle shop across the way and stared up at the seven-storey edifice in front of her. All the windows were shuttered and protected by steel bars. Only men with money and political connections could enter. By invitation only.
* * * *
It took three days for the woman in black silk to emerge. By then, Kimiko was a regular at the Myongdong Noodle Shop. Mrs. Bei, the owner, a rotund jolly woman, had taken such a liking to the ingratiating Kimiko that she now called her onni, older sister, an honor in a Confucian society. Kimiko started out as a customer but later, by virtue of all the hours she spent in the noodle shop, become an unpaid hostess, voluntarily ushering customers to their tables and making them feel comfortable. All the while, she kept an eagle eye on the kisaeng house known as the Garden of Forests and Moons. And whenever she found a chance, Kimiko grilled Mrs. Bei about the provenance of that exalted establishment.
"Kampei,” Mrs. Bei told her. Gangsters. They owned the business and often took advantage of the elegant young women to entertain their important guests. In ancient times, kisaeng were trained in the arts of music and poetry, dedicated to providing entertainment for the king and his guests. Now, they pour scotch and smile, and perform other services—services that require little special training—by arrangement.
"Many Japanese go there,” Mrs. Bei said. “Businessmen. Rich businessmen. And important men in the Korean government."
Exactly who, Mrs. Bei couldn't say. She'd seen their faces on television, but she couldn't remember their names.
It didn't matter what their names were, Kimiko thought. Ugly old men of wealth, beautiful young women of spare means; a combination that has been with us since time immemorial. But how to get in there, and how to find the woman in black silk, and more importantly, how to find the jar of bean paste? The front door of the Garden of Forests and Moons was guarded day and night by burly men in suits that Kimiko assumed to be apprentice gangsters. She would be unlikely to bluff her way past them, so instead Kimiko decided to wait. There was no back exit, Kimiko had checked. Apparently, the gangster who ran the Garden of Forests and Moons didn't want any of his kisaeng taking unexpected trips. The woman in black silk could only emerge from the front door. And so far, after three days, there'd been no sign of her. Even at night, Kimiko stood guard. Until the midnight curfew when the front door clanged shut with a bang. And then Kimiko would be back on sentry duty, bright and early, at four A.M. At that hour, the door was still locked and so far it had stayed locked every morning until about eleven A.M.
For the last three days, Kimiko ran plot after plot through her mind, trying to devise a way to enter the Garden of Forests and Moons. But the reclusive occupants never did so much as order in Chinese food. It was a mysterious place and Kimiko worried about the well-being of her money. For now, in her mind, it had become her money. Money she had earned.
The noon rush at the Myongdong Noodle Shop ended. Kimiko was scrubbing the top of one of the wooden tables, staring through the front window, when she saw a gangster shove open the front door. A slender young woman paraded out past him.
She wasn't wearing black this time. She wore gray. Her head was covered in a scarf, and the gray dress fell shapelessly almost to the ground. She kept her head tilted toward the ground but Kimiko recognized the even features of her profile. The woman in black silk. The woman from the Dragon Flame Nightclub in Itaewon. The woman who had signed the note in the earthenware jar using the name of Suk-ja
Suk-ja hurried down the street. Alone.
Kimiko set down her soapy sponge, shouted a goodbye to Mrs. Bei back in the kitchen, and hurried out the front door of the Myongdong Noodle Shop.
She followed a half block behind. Apparently, Suk-ja was not worried about being followed. She never glanced back. Instead, she shuffled resolutely forward, her head bowed, studying the pavement beneath her feet as if it were the most interesting document in the world.
Finally, the kisaeng known as Suk-ja stopped and pushed her way through a glass-plated doorway. The sign above said: MYONGDONG PUBLIC HEALTH CLINIC. A few seconds later Kimiko entered and slid unobtrusively onto a bench toward the back of the seating area.
Suk-ja, her wool scarf still wrapped tightly over her head, whispered to the receptionist at the front counter. Forms were filled out and signed and money exchanged and five minutes later, Suk-ja was ushered into the back rooms of the clinic.
Kimiko waited.
An hour passed. Suk-ja emerged, a white patch stuck to her cheek and gauze wrapped tightly around her left wrist and thumb. Still, her head was down and she pushed through the glass doors of the clinic and immediately turned as if heading back to the Garden of Forests and Moons.
Kimiko followed. When Suk-ja was about a block from the clinic, Kimiko caught up with her.
Shoving her into a deserted alley, Kimiko pushed the smaller Suk-ja up against a dirty cement wall. Immediately, the razor appeared in Kimiko's hand. She leaned it against the soft flesh of Suk-ja's neck.
"Where's my money?"
Suk-ja didn't ask why Kimiko thought it was hers. Through a restricted throat she simply said, “They took it."
"Who took it?"
"You know who."
"I do?” Kimiko pressed the blade a little deeper into the indentation of Suk-ja's flesh. A bright spot of blood blossomed and started to trickle down her neck. Suk-ja's eyes filled with tears.
"I tried to hide it from them. But they knew I wouldn't leave my boyfriend without good cause. Mr. Shin searched my room."
"Who's Mr. Shin?"
"The owner. The man who owns the Garden of Forests and Moons."
"And he found the money?"
"Yes. And then he beat me for hiding it from him."
Kimiko leaned toward the woman until her breath rebounded from Suk-ja's lips.
"You're lying,” she said.
"I'm not. I only returned to my old job at the Garden of Forests and Moons because I thought I could pick up my things and leave. But Mr. Shin said they had a party that night and I decided he might become suspicious if I turned down the easy money, so I stayed. While I worked, Mr. Shin kept staring at me, sensing something had changed. I became more and more nervous and finally he searched my room and found the jar of bean paste and then he beat me."
Suk-ja's eyes filled with tears, but at the sight, Kimiko felt only loathing. Sure, pimps are like wizards, they seem to have the ability to read a young woman's thoughts. But that's where a strong mind must be cultivated. To keep your face and your actions from revealing turmoil inside. This young Suk-ja had not even learned that? Then why did she think she could join the ranks of thieves?
"You should've never returned to t
he Garden of Forests and Moons,” Kimiko said.
"But they'd been nice to me before."
The last word came out as a wail, and Kimiko was thoroughly disgusted now. She stepped away from Suk-ja, snapping her straight razor shut, slipping it into the pocket of her skirt.
"All right,” she said, “go back to them. They'll use you for a few months more. Maybe a year or two. Then your beauty will fade and they'll toss you out like used charcoal."
At this, Suk-ja wailed more loudly, but Kimiko had already turned and strode back to the main road.
* * * *
"You must be out of your gourd,” the G.I. said in English.
"You can do it.” Kimiko shoved him into the front door of the Myongdong police station.
The startled desk officer, wearing the khaki uniform bedecked with the rank insignia of a sergeant of the Korean National Police, looked up at them.
"I'm Robert Pernweller,” the G.I. said. “Specialist Six. I work at 8th Army JAG."
The desk sergeant didn't understand but soon a captain wearing the nametag of Ahn emerged from a back room. Specialist Pernweller repeated his story.
"You have the serial numbers of these bills?” Captain Ahn asked.
"Right here.” Pernweller handed him a neatly typed list.
Whenever the 8th Army Judge Advocate's Office pays a Serviceman's Group Life Insurance policy in cash, they keep a certified copy of the serial numbers of the bills.
"And where's the money now?” Captain Ahn asked.
"This woman knows,” Pernweller said, turning to Kimiko, “but she wants a twenty percent finder's fee."
Captain Ahn stared at Kimiko, his hard stare trying to burn all courage from her heart. But Kimiko stared back, unflinching, and after a long while, Captain Ahn nodded his head in agreement.
* * * *
The raid on the Garden of Forests and Moons was successful. Only two gangsters were injured, by nightsticks and not by bullets, and none of the Korean national policemen were hurt. Only part of the money was recovered, a little over seven thousand dollars, and of that, Ok-hi Culverson, the rightful owner, agreed happily to allow a twenty percent finder's fee. Unbeknownst to 8th Army JAG, Captain Ahn kept half of that fee for himself, his two lead officers in the raid split a quarter, and Kimiko was allowed to keep the rest: a little over three hundred and fifty dollars U.S.
A fortune.
Suk-ja, broke now, remained in the Garden of Forests and Moons, working as a kisaeng for the rich and powerful. Mr. Shin, her pimp, was held by the Korean National Police for three days, but then all charges were dropped and he was released. Suk-ja's boyfriend never returned from Kwangju. Mrs. Ok-hi Culverson, shortly after recovering more than half of her money, flew to the United States to live near a cousin in Cleveland where, Kimiko heard later, she was making a small fortune in real estate.
Kimiko, on the afternoon she received her share of the insurance money, bought some rice wine for herself and her friends and spent the next two nights playing flower cards. She won at first, but then moved on to a bigger game in the back room of the Rising Phoenix Teahouse. Sharks arrived and Kimiko ended up being cheated out of her entire fortune of three hundred and fifty U.S. dollars.
Frederick K. Culverson's remains were shipped back to the United States—to his hometown of Dubuque, Iowa—at U.S. taxpayers’ expense.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Copyright © 2005 by Martin Limón.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Coughing John by Russel D. McLean
In a city, even one as small as Dundee, some people just seem to be part of the scenery.
Coughing John, for instance. Coughing John lived on Union Street, generally in the shelter of the overpass that goes from up Union Street, crosses a roundabout, and comes back down to Dundee Rail Station. I used to give John money from time to time because he looked in need of it. I always figured that even if he spent it on drink, at least the drink would keep him warm.
He was a short man, maybe five-five, with gray hair and a beard that made him look like a Santa Claus who knew better days. He was always dressed the same: black trousers, a stained white shirt, and a green jacket that in its day probably cost a few quid. He was always polite to me, although we never really exchanged many pleasantries. I was just one of those few generous people who would share whatever I had with him.
I was the one called him Coughing John. I didn't know his real name until after he died. I knew he was called John because once I asked him for his name before I gave him his change. I called him Coughing John because of his rasp, a hellish, torturous implosion that used to overtake his entire body.
But Coughing John was little more to me than a part of the Dundee city landscape, and like any landmark, when he left things were different somehow.
It was ten thirty on a Saturday evening, and I was walking down Union Street to meet Ros at the train station. Ros had been down in Bristol for a conference. She's a philosophy lecturer at the local university. She specializes in Continental and feminist philosophy. I don't know much about any of it, though God knows she's tried to teach me. I guess I can't always see the point in it; it just seems like so much talk.
Ros had only been gone a few days, but it felt longer. I like to keep a hard exterior, but if I'm honest, I think inside I'm getting soft with old age. My mother always said when you fall in love, you know it because you can't imagine your life without that person. I'd like to have the opportunity to tell her she was right. Sometimes, when I go to visit her and Dad up at Balgay Cemetery, I imagine she can hear when I'm talking about these things.
As I turned off the Nethergate and down onto Union Street, I knew something was wrong. At the far end of the street, blue lights flashed, strobing the night air. The karaoke bar was silent.
I walked quickly down and saw Sandy talking to a uniformed officer. He looked serious, listening as the officer read off his notes. I waited until Sandy was done and then walked over.
"Hey,” I said.
"Hey, Sam,” he said, looking up. “How're you doing?"
"What's going on?"
"Some homeless guy got himself killed,” Sandy told me. He dug his hands into the pockets of his gray suit. It was a cold night. The wind picked up, ruffling his wispy orange hair.
"What happened?” I asked. I saw the overpass had been closed off. Paramedics were coming down the stairs, negotiating a bed trolley. The body was covered in a white cloth. D.O.A., like they say in all the American movies.
"Scuffle of some kind,” Sandy said. “If you ask me, it was some kids out for kicks. That copper there, he thinks it was drugs, but it doesn't feel right, you know?"
I nodded. It wasn't uncommon in any city. Kids get bored and sometimes that boredom erupts into violence. All the same, it was still unsettling.
"Ros is waiting for me,” I said. “At the station."
"Take the car,” said Sandy. “No one's getting over."
I exhaled loudly.
Sandy got the hint: “No favors."
"Can I see the body?"
"Why would you want to? You're not on the force anymore,” Sandy said.
I shrugged. “Professional curiosity."
"Morbid curiosity,” Sandy said.
"I can't resist a mystery."
"Every time you look at a corpse, the situation gets out of control,” Sandy said. He was right, of course. I'm known at the Tayside police force as something of a jinx. Even when I'd been a beat officer myself, I had a nasty habit of getting myself too deeply involved in cases most other coppers wouldn't even glance at.
The paramedics brought the stretcher down the steps. They stopped beside us. Sandy lifted the sheet to look at the homeless guy. I looked over Sandy's shoulder.
He must have heard my sudden intake of breath because he looked at me with surprise.
"Do you know this guy?"
"Aye,” I said. “That's Coughing John."
* * * *
Sandy gave
me a lift round to the train station. Ros was waiting in the arrivals lounge, which was cold and bare at eleven P.M. She looked pleased to see me when I slid into the plastic seat beside her. We kissed briefly, and she stood up, ready to leave. We took the long route back, walking back on the footpath beside the River Tay. We didn't pass anyone on our walk. We took our time, talking about what we'd been up to the last few days.
When we arrived back at my place, Ros commented on what a mess it was. She said it with a smile, and I knew she was joking. I'd missed her voice, the sly way she'd poke fun at me, that cute Alabama accent obscuring the sarcasm she'd inherited from too many years living in Scotland. She went to the bedroom to dump her bags, then she took a shower.
I prepared a quick dinner, zapping some ready-made meals in the microwave. Hardly cordon bleu, as they say, but I felt too tired and drained to do anything else. The death of Coughing John was weighing on my thoughts. I kept asking myself who would want to kill him. He was a drunk and a bum and a pathetic old man, but he'd never done any harm to anyone. And I knew even then that the city was going to feel a little more empty without him and his sad, strangled voice asking passersby if they could spare anything for a wee guy who just happened to be down on his luck.
When Ros came out after her shower, I pulled out the fold-down table I kept in a corner of the living room and threw a cloth over it. She watched me do this, still in her thick white robe. She smiled as I brought out some candles and then fumbled around, getting them set up in the center of the table.
"All this for me,” she said, smiling gently. I loved the way her eyes sparkled. Sometimes, when I start thinking about the hell that we've made of this world, I just have to make Ros smile and things don't really seem all that bad. It's a hellish, romantic cliché that's undeniable. I've never been able to articulate any of this to her, but I think she knows.
I lit the candles. She moved away from the door and sat down at the table. I brought out the microwaved meals and laid her plate before her. She laughed, and I laughed too.
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