by Gus Lee
I removed the envelope from my pocket. I bowed and offered the envelope with the right hand, my left holding the sleeve of the right, as Song Sae had taught me.
“For the orphanage, from McCrail shee. Open it later.”
Inside was over $150,000 U.S. It had belonged to a wizard. With it was my check for the Chun's Happiness Cafe, which had been blown up for our sake.
Legally, the Wizard's black-market and recruitment money belonged to both America and Korea. But the place where the true debts of those two nations met was the Jungsan Orphanage, where children with the faces of both lands waited for angels.
I had returned to Asia, rescued a friend, lost a comrade, practiced history and become a sitting magistrate, trying to dispense monetary and equitable judgments.
Song Sae nodded, eyes moist, her hands in Buddhist prayer. She accepted it with a low bow, her hands mir-roring my offer. She spoke softly to the mudang, who showed no surprise.
Jae-woo entered and sat next to me, gently resting her head on my shoulder. “Aboji,” she whispered. Slowly, my body feeling apart from me, I put an arm around her small frame, and she breathed as cats purr. Song Sae smiled.
Time passed without measure, the drums and cymbals beating, something unseen and heavy leaving me, something invisible and sweet in my breath.
They spoke softly. I was content to listen without comprehension. When Jae-woo laughed, I smiled. When Song Sae wept, I closed my eyes, and felt Ma's warm smile from across the Eastern Sea, joining the warmth of this society of women.
Later, Song Sae held the willow branch to a burning candle until it ignited.
Gracefully, she took it outside in a trail of smoke, toward the courtyard where Patrick McCrail was to be buried.
44
FAREWELL
The report of the rifles echoed across the valley, the smoke of the salute dissipating like fleeing Chinese spirits in the high morning wind. Frightened birds flut-tered down the mountain. The M-14 rounds cracked like the iron hammers of Norse gods, proclaiming that the soldier was dead. I remembered funerals at West Point, the widows recoiling, stabbed by the harsh finality of rifle fire. Let there be no doubt: This man was loved and is now dead. Move on.
The seven-man honor guard ordered arms at the last echo. They attempted precision, but they were distracted by the crowd of silent Amerasian orphans, the ten unusually overbuilt Korean men in peasant work clothes, the weeping women, the mysterious nature of the man they had honored. Their manual of arms was ragged, some of the older troops wincing in recognition of glaring imperfections.
The young bugler loosened the chin strap of his dress cap, took a lungful of cold mountain air and played taps flawlessly, the sad minor key lingering on the hillside, passing into the frigid winter fog that hugged the lower peaks, hinting at the hills of Eire. The sergeant major would have approved.
The honor guard commander gave me McCrail's folded flag with the spent cartridges within. With soft commands, he marched the guard out of the garden at subdued route step. The big, burly Korean men observed silently. Then they began the long walk down the mountain to the orphanage.
I thanked the padre, a Catholic chaplain little older than me.
He had delivered a service fit for a man who had sinned and been redeemed, whose ample good deeds had swelled his memory beyond the marks left by ordinary mortals. I was proud to have known this great sergeant, whose old bones had finally won repose, to stand in the place of a long-absent family of soldiers and kin.
The padre descended the path, following the men of the tiger.
Song Sae bowed to me, and I to her. “Thank you,” I said.
“We did very little, dae-wi. It was your chingu, McCrail shee, who took the Wizard from the Valley of War and burned his guns in the village. You are the Chinese man who brought McCrail shee to us, to make the sacrifice of Non-gae on Jungsan Peak. It was you who marked the Wizard for the man he was, who drew his fire to allow the American giant to kill the evil in this valley.” Her large, feline eyes glittered at me. “It is a story that will join the folklore of our sad country.”
“The sergeant major would like that. Stories of soldiers saving children. Please thank the wang mansin for her help.”
She surveyed my face. “Hu-chin,” she whispered, using my true name. “I will pray for you, deep in my heart, every day of my life, in this garden. I will pray through all the seasons Buddha gives me. And I will wave to you, as if we were still close.”
The wind rustled branches. “Soon, Hu-chin, the ginkgos will turn green, and the petals of many-colored flowers will make this garden the most beautiful place in all the world. I am sorry you did not see Korea in spring. The air becomes warm. Birds sing day and night. The fields are green, the sun shines on the rice paddies.
“My dear chingu, in this garden, every day, I will face east, toward America. Toward you. And pray.
“Hu-chin, I ask you to do the same for me in Mi-guk, in America. The money is a fine gift, but it is nothing compared to the love that children need. So pray for my orphans. Hu-chin, you are a tiger man, round and full with Korean Sanshin, tiger spirit, and your God loves you very much.”
She smiled with her own sadness, touching my face. “This is very strong luck. If you shared it with me, through your prayers to your God, I would be very happy.”
It was a heavy request, beyond my habits. Her eyes moved me, and the words fell: “Then I will do it.”
Her eyes were moist. “Thank you, Hu-chin.” She stood on her toes and softly kissed my cheek, letting her smooth face touch mine for an instant, her eyelashes leaving an indelible trace.
She walked into the villa, the children following her. Someone closed the door, and I cried without logic or anguish, for having been touched by so much selflessness, so much mystic love, by a woman of my fading past, a woman I would only know henceforth in prayer.
All the chapters of a second, alternative life had walked away, and I knew, regardless of the jobs, the joys, the pitfalls and the promises that might await me, I would always wonder about what I had left on this mountain.
It was not my yeh to be here; I had pledged to the land of my father, the land which had saved us and to which I owed an enduring Chinese debt, and that was to the east. I looked at the old, closed door and thought of the woman behind it with wonder. I held out my hand, as if we were still close.
Goodbye. Manmanlai, I whispered. Go softly.
Levine wore snug jeans and a bulky parka, her hair under a fuzzy white ski cap. I took a breath.
“Let's see, Levine. You found McCrail, got Jimmy out of the Ville, burned down a Q, stole the key map, negoti-ated ten Tiger Tails into a monastery, ate a pound of candy, helped avoid world war, and made me pick up my socks. Now what?”
“And I mouthed off.” She looked down at her black high-topped civilian boots. “I always do that.”
“Levine, we're the same rank.”
“You're team leader. Men, senior or not, hate it.”
“They shouldn't. You're unnaturally smart, honest and tough. And at times,” I nodded, “a colossal pain in the ass.”
“And that's all, to a fine, well-educated, polite Jewish boy from Warsaw who likes kugel and can roll matzoh balls.”
I nodded. “That's all, for comedy teams in the field. By the way—what's your first name? Maybe, someday, we can evolve into a first-name relationship.”
She put out her hand. She smiled sweetly as we shook.
“Screw you, Kan. Call me if you get a dangerous mission.”
Major Purvis, M.D., studied the headstone. It had taken petitions, permits, the CG, four lawyers and a shaman to inter Mr. Max on holy Korean ground.
“I'm extending my tour,” he said. “Orphanage needs a doctor. Jackson, are you… interested… in Song Sae Moon?”
“No.”
He rubbed his jaw. “I think she's hung up on you. Think I have a chance?”
I had been uninvolved with women for years. In the space of six
months, I was brimming with prospects. Up and down the river, my ancestors had to be smiling and blessing Guan Yin.
“Absolutely. If you're very patient. Asian patient. Years.”
He laughed. “Well, I‘m that Maybe Jae-woo, or some other girl, will pop up in the Ville with sin byong and strut the stuff to be the next mudang. And that'll be my chance to retire Song Sae and take her to Brownsburg, Indiana.”
I smiled with the image. It could happen. “Good luck, Doc.”
“You, too, partner.” We shook hands and he left.
Magrip and Levine had the seven-digit port-of-call codes for seats on tonight's military charter, category A, Tiger Airlines. No more first class on foreign flag carriers.
I wouldn't miss it; I was flying coach to Hong Kong. My three team members—Magrip, Levine and Bin— had survived.
“The Army'll miss you, Magrip.”
“Oh, horseshit. The Army misses no one.”
“I'll miss you.”
He looked at me. “God, why? When the hell would you miss meT
“Every time I see a chicken.”
It was seven P.M. in San Francisco. I dialed the access code for her office, my pulse elevated. It rang twice.
“This is Cara Milano. Wait one minute, please.”
My heart tripped on the sound of her smooth voice, full of sensual secrets and the steady workings of a conscious mind. I slowed my breathing. She returned. “Thank you for waiting.”
“Ms. Milano, this is Art Fleming from the television game show Jeopardy, coming to you from the Republic of Korea. We were required to move the program without notice to our sponsors…
“Ms. Milano, we're in Final Jeopardy and the category is Romance. You are the leader. How much are you willing to risk?”
The pause was more than three seconds. “Everything.”
My heart played dodge ball with my blood. “The answer, tor the game, is 4He loves you more than anyone else in the world.’”
Three-second delay. “There was this toadlike fellow who romanced me with slow dancing and big talk of eternal families, but he never said he loved me. Then he left, I think, a little dishonestly. So, Art, this is a wild guess.” Pause. ” 4Who is Jackson Hu-chin Kan?’”
“You win, Cara.” I said “Cara” with an Italian trill. Softly, slowly. “I love you.”
She laughed. “Mr. Fleming, you must be kidding. Don't you mean you might love me?”
“No mights…. Cara, I'm sorry I left you without a word. Part of my job. God, I love your voice. I love you. Isn't that a gas?”
She exhaled through her pretty nose. “You jerk. You toad. You're driving me crazy,”
“I knew I was a jerk. I didn't know I was a toad. Cara, enough with the flattery. How are you?” Meaning, how are we?
“Oh, Jackson, Jackson… I'm wonderful. I love you— oh—I love you so much! Damn, you are such a jerk. Urrhhh! When are you coming home?”
“Three days. As soon as I can. I miss my pillow.”
“Oh?” She laughed heartily, and bells rang and midnight was no more. “Baby, is that all you miss?”
“Some other things.” I laughed, the delays of distance placing them on top of each other. “The smell of espresso. Your eyes. The smell of you. Your nose, the flute above your lips. Your mouth. Kissing you. I ache for you. More than black-bean chow fun”
“Well, then, it must be love. Hurry home, sweetheart. And be careful. I'll kill you if anything happens to you.” A breath. “Baby, you are not off the hook. You've been holding out on me.”
“I know. Fm going to tell you. Now.”
I did, leaving nothing out, as if the sense of forgiveness I had experienced in the villa were a Confucian axiom, as if I merited her earlier fearlessness about me. I told her I was going to pray every day for a Korean holy woman. That I wanted to pay for the college education of a fourteen-year-old girl named Jae-woo.
“Do you love them, carol”
“Like family.”
“Then they are my family, too. Caro, it'll hurt, I know, but you should tell me. What happened to your baby brothers?”
I had to find the words. “They were in the Presbyterian church at Chingshan, on the Yangtze while BaBa and Ma shopped. I was supposed to stay with my brothers, but I went outside. I was throwing rocks. Shells began exploding in the town. I ran for the church. Hu-chien was four and he was scared and saw me coming and waved to Hu-Hau to come. A grenade hit me on the shoulder, knocking me down just as they came to the door. It rolled to them and blew up.”
“Oh, God.” She wept. “Tell me you didn't blame yourself. That your parents didn't blame you. Oh, baby.”
“If I had been inside, the grenade couldn't have hit me. But it was civil war. Both Communists and Nationalists shelled the church that day. They had no affection for Christians. BaBa said that if I had been inside, he would have lost all his sons.”
She exhaled. “And you became a soldier?”
“It was my yeh, my karma, and my badze, my horoscope.”
A longer pause. “Caro, do you still believe in that?”
I thought of BaBa's durability after the death of his sons, his immeasurable spiritual strength, his expectations of me, the magic that still somehow ran through me.
“No.”
“Good, caro” She blew her nose. “I'll make you a Catholic, yet.”
“I can't wait.” A silence.
Her voice became smaller, finer, more physically distant, more emotive, more personal. “Baby, I have a confession to make. You won't like it. It may cost us everything.” She sighed, then made it. It felt like knives. I was silent for a while, taking controlled breaths.
“Baby?” she asked. “Talk to me.”
“God, I hate it that you did that. Why did you have to do that? Couldn't you trust me?”
“Trust? Trust someone who never said he loved me? Who disappeared without a word? Who I thought was dead until your boss called to say you were at Walter Reed but never called me back—‘cause you weren't there? Trust you to do what? To leave me like a mean, low-down son-of-a-bitch?”
She had been in bed with another man, a man I could deal a Chinese death and bury facedown in the mud, my knife in his throat. I held my head. I touched the knife like a crucifix.
“Caro, he meant nothing to me. It was so stupid. Horrible. I'll tell you anything you want, but he's not worth our time.” She whispered, “Please forgive me. I was so lonely without you. You left me! Oh God, I hated you!”
We all had lonely needs. I thought of what I had done in a rain forest seven years ago. I felt the grenade bounce off my shoulder. I nodded.
“Caro? ” she asked. I took my hand from the knife hilt.
I cleared my throat. “I forgive you. Don't ever do that again. It hurts too much.”
“I won't, honey.” She kissed into the phone. “Tell me you love me. That you miss me. That you can't live without me. That you'll never leave me.”
“I do, I do, I do.”
“Jackson, I love it when you talk suggestively, but that doesn't work. You have to say the words.” I did.
She took a breath. “Would you leave the Army for me?”
“I don't know. Would you leave the firm to have babies?”
“You're going too fast. I just want you out of uni-form.” And then she laughed. Cara's voice took me like a following sea to a calm harbor. I imagined her in a bridal gown. I imagined her out of a bridal gown.
I replayed her words of love for me, leaving out a part. I remembered the ruin I had caused others, the anonymous lives I had truncated, the men who had died with me. I saw her face, and reexperienced the lifting of burdens at Jungsan. I felt what it was like to love my life.
By dusk, the team had left Korea. I was alone in the garden. After cleaning Mrs. McCrail's mud-spattered grave, I laid a colorful, dried wildflower bouquet against it.
Da-ma, Auntie, I am sorry for the pain the Army caused you. McCrail's fresh white military marker was next to hers. This, un
like the bogus edition in the Wizard's yard, held the high ground, from the Valley of War, the Z and the Imjin to the MSR to Ouijeongbu in the south.
He had a good view and would always experience strong, clean, fresh mountain winds. He could smell the enemy and unsafety weapons before the enemy crested the ridge in their wet cotton-twill uniforms. It was an ideal site for a fine Chinese grave. Song Sae had said that their dead were interred on high ground. “We call it Happy Mountain, for the end of pain.”
I looked to the east and the New Territories of Hong Kong.
His body was beneath me, the big hands holding his Bible and rosary, a straight, regimented squad of expensive cigars breaking the smooth contour of his heavily beribboned blouse, a sheen of British Sterling cologne on his cheeks and thick Irish neck.
I had bought him a Chinese thousand-piece-of-silver ironwood casket, the kind my grandfather, the man who had named me for the tiger and danger, had always deserved but had never seen.
The kind my brothers will have, someday, when Chi-nese sons from America can return home. This is for you, didi, my little brothers. And you, Gung-gung. This big man we buried, he, too, is a man of clans and long memory.
Perhaps, someday, my son will find your graves in China, and get you three fine, smooth red caskets. We will not forget you, for you are our ancestor and you are my brothers.
The Fifty-seven Foxtrots announced him to be the sweetest-smelling corpse in Korea. Even the dead would never guess he had spent seven years in a sewer and three in Manchuria without a bath.
I wondered where the rest of him, the uncorporeal part, was.
I thought I knew.
I put down my briefcase and rested the triangular-folded American flag atop the stone and pulled out two long cigars.
I stuffed the cellophane in my pocket and bit off the ends. I lit both, superstitiously inhaling the smoke of each to dignify the moment. I felt his big gray cat-eyes on me.
Aye, laddie. Give me one.
I stuck one of them into the soft ground above the sergeant major's body and puffed on the other, letting the wind build the ash on both. With it, I put an assortment of chewing gums and cigarettes so heavily favored by the men he had once led.
