by Naomi Foyle
In the afternoon, Dr. Dong Sun took her pulse and examined her throat and ears. He prescribed pills to help balance her energies, and clove-oil for her gums. He advised Su Jin to use the oil too, on her fingertips, to help her stop biting her nails, and when she showed him some noticeable growth he brought her a South Korean fashion magazine, all the way from the train station. She barely said thank you, but she stayed up late into the night reading and re-reading it, the glossy pages snapping and sighing as Mee Hee drifted off to sleep.
Gradually, Mee Hee grew stronger, and as the days passed, she was able to eat more often, without making her stomach feel so bloated and sore. She couldn’t tell if she was putting on weight, but her bruises were fading and shrinking, and her gums had stopped bleeding when she brushed her teeth. She was still too weak to walk, but as soon as she could sit up in bed for a few hours at a time, the other women began to visit her. They would arrive in groups of three or four, bringing their own chairs; the metal legs scraped against the tiled floor as the women clucked and exclaimed, telling stories of the suffering in their villages, the deaths of their children and husbands. The most frequent visitor was Older Sister, who had lost three sons in six months and was now eating so much she had begun to look almost stocky.
“Women from the Diamond Mountains are built to survive,” she would say gruffly as the others admired her thick arms. Apart from Mee Hee, the thinnest woman was Little Sister, whose quiet modesty made her seem much older than nineteen. Following the deaths of her parents, she had become a devout secret Christian, like her mother.
“Jesus fasted for many days in the wilderness,” she said to Mee Hee at their first meeting. “I thought of his beautiful strength whenever my stomach cried out.”
Six of the other women were Buddhists. Two had always meditated, they said, despite the Wise Young Leader’s orders not to worship false prophets. The others were only now beginning to learn about the religion, praying with bracelets of beads they had bought in the markets outside the hotel. Two more women wore crucifixes around their necks, but neither spoke about Jesus as if they knew him, like Little Sister did.
The visits were full of kindness and noise, and Mee Hee soon began to look forward to them. None of the women pressed her to speak, and if they did dwell on the subject of their lost children, a warning look from Su Jin had them quickly fussing over Mee Hee’s health, before her room-mate shooed their sisters away.
At last, Dr. Tae Sun said she was allowed to try to walk. A nurse brought slippers and a dressing gown and Mee Hee sat on the side of the bed, slipping her arms into the sleeves, her feet into the blue flannel. She thought the nurse would help, but Dr. Tae Sun himself stepped forward and put his arm around her.
“I’m all right by myself,” she whispered, embarrassed, but her knees were weak and she let him help her stand. As they walked together across the room she clutched at his hand around her waist. In the morning she walked to the bathroom with Su Jin, who washed her hair and scrubbed her skin in the steamy shower stall. When they came back, Mee Hee asked if she could sit on Su Jin’s bed and look out of the window.
“Of course!” She helped Mee Hee kneel on the blanket. They peered out between the curtains into the roar of the traffic, the loud pop music of the cassette salesman on the corner and the harsh cries of the street vendors.
“Oh!” Mee Hee clutched the sill and raised herself higher. She hadn’t known there could be so many people in the world, so many different kinds of clothes: young girls in school uniforms; gentlemen in suits with silk ties; women in flowery blouses. And look—“People are selling food on the street!”
“Smell it.” Su Jin reached up and opened the window and a fragrant gust of burned sugar billowed up from the doughnut stand outside the hotel. Across the street a man was ladling out what looked like stew; beside him a woman was frying grasshoppers.
Mee Hee’s mouth watered. “The Chinese must live to eat,” she whispered.
“The bean cakes are delicious. I’ll buy you one later.” Su Jin said. But Dr. Dong Sun wouldn’t let her interfere with Mee Hee’s diet, so she arrived back with a brooch instead, a glittery blue bird.
“The messenger of the Gods.” Mee Hee stroked the enamel. He can send my love to Song Ju, she thought.
“For us, yes, the blue bird is a spy.” Su Jin took the brooch from her hand. “But in Russia, the blue bird means hope. I read it in a magazine.” Su Jin pinned the bird to Mee Hee’s blouse. As she did so, Mee Hee coughed and the sharp point of the pin pricked her breast. She flinched.
“Oh! I’m sorry!”
“No, it was my fault.”
“Don’t be silly. Here, look at how pretty you are.” Su Jin passed Mee Hee the mirror. Almost frightened, she peeked at her reflection. The brooch was beautiful, but behind it, she saw a plain, ordinary woman, with broad cheekbones and a snub nose. There was flesh on her face now, but she would never be pretty like Su Jin.
“Do you have hope?” Mee Hee asked timidly.
“Of course.” Su Jin frowned. “Don’t you?”
Mee Hee laid the mirror down. She knew she couldn’t give the right answer. Hope meant wanting things to get better. But she prayed every night that her life would stay exactly as it was now.
“You must have hope, or you wouldn’t have come in the truck.” Su Jin’s voice was determined, almost giving her an order. Mee Hee thought back to that moment in the rice paddy when her heart had fluttered in her chest.
“Dr. Che,” she whispered. “Che Tae Sun, he gives me hope.”
“Well, I’ve seen more handsome men, but those two are worth recovering for, I suppose.”
Mee Hee paused. “Which do you prefer?” she asked, terrified of the answer, but desperate to know.
“They’re as alike as two soy beans!” Su Jin laughed. “Well, Dr. Dong Sun is a little more muscular. Yes, I think I’d have to take a honeymoon with him.”
Mee Hee felt a surge of energy run through her. Was this hope? “Oh no, they’re very different,” she insisted. “Dr. Tae Sun is very gentle and sensitive. And his looks are . . . more refined.”
Su Jin flashed her sharp little teeth. “If you’re feeling well enough to fight over the doctors you should come downstairs for supper tonight. You can’t just lie here mooning over your Doctor Prince!”
“I do not!” Mee Hee protested, a blush sweeping over her face.
“You mustn’t brood over the past either. Come downstairs and watch TV while supper’s being made.”
So that evening, holding tightly onto Su Jin’s arm, Mee Hee tottered down to the lobby of the hotel, where a dozen women sat cross-legged on the floor, their faces bathed in the spectral light of the television. They applauded Mee Hee’s arrival, and Younger Sister plumped up a cushion for her. Then the women began to squabble over a shelf of slim plastic boxes with colorful sleeves.
“They’re dee-vee-dees,” Su Jin explained, pronouncing the foreign word slowly. “Like books for television.”
“It’s my turn to choose,” Older Sister announced, and she deftly lifted a golden disc from a sliding drawer below the TV screen and replaced it with another, making a coarse joke about how easily the drawer slid in. Mee Hee sat silently. She had seen televisions before, of course, and even videocassettes, when Education Units had come to the village to inform them of the Wise Young Leader’s latest achievements. But she had never seen a dee-vee-dee casually glinting in the callused hands of a peasant woman.
“Oh good, Castles and Queens.” Su Jin murmured knowledgeably. A rapt hush settled over the room as the television sprang alive with swirls of golden light and a fanfare of trumpets. Older Sister, sitting beside Su Jin, pressed a button on a black rectangular unit (“It’s a remote control,” Su Jin whispered) and a Korean woman’s face filled the screen. Her make-up was flawless, her skin smooth, her gold jewelry tasteful and discreet; she was older than any of the women in the room, but more beautiful than anyone Mee Hee had ever seen. Despite the immense care that had
obviously gone into her appearance, however, there was nothing distant or artificial about her expression. Her face was so tender that for a moment Mee Hee felt as if she were looking up into the face of her own mother.
“Hello.” The woman’s voice was as full and creamy as her lips. With her lush, painted mouth and soft brown eyes, she smiled into Mee Hee’s soul. “My name is Dr. Kim Da Mi. Welcome to Castles and Queens.”
Mee Hee gripped Su Jin’s arm. “Is that—?” she asked in disbelief.
Su Jin nodded as a woman in front of them turned her head and whispered, “Shush.”
Mee Hee needed no further instruction to sit still and watch, entranced, as Dr. Kim’s heart-shaped face dissolved into a scene of rolling green hillsides. The camera zoomed in on a stone castle with round turrets and fluttering triangular flags. There were more trumpets, and then Dr. Kim’s warm, melodious voice began narrating a story about Queen Eleanor, who lived in the top rooms of the castle, ruled over two different lands and had given birth to three kings.
Queen Eleanor was brave and wise. She wore long, brocaded robes and presided over lavish banquets. Her trestle tables strained under great platters of food: roast beef, peacock and lamb, massive pork and pigeon pies, enormous wheels of cheese, trays of honey-glazed vegetables, mountains of fruit, huge bowls of rich, creamy puddings, and flagons of wine made from wildflowers and berries. Seeing the king and queen lick their fingers as they ate the lamb was shocking—how could anyone eat a baby animal that had been so cruelly taken from its mother?—but still, as she watched the feasting, Mee Hee longed to taste from every plate. And in the tournament scenes, when Queen Eleanor’s knights jousted for her favors, she gasped and gripped her cushion, cheering with the other women when one rider toppled the other and cooing over the beautiful ornate dresses of the ladies of the court.
The film didn’t really have a story, but it didn’t have to. It was pleasure enough just to marvel at these rich, splendid images, bask in the stately music, lean against Su Jin and giggle over which knight was the most refined. When the film was over, Dr. Kim’s peaceful face appeared again on the screen. She thanked them for watching and said she hoped they had enjoyed the program, and all the others in the series. Immediately, the women began arguing again.
“Queen Son Dok!”
“No, the one about Seoul!”
“Yes, the restaurants in Seoul!”
Mee Hee sat shyly, still enveloped in the television’s luminous glow. Her heart was aching, a sweet ache that reminded her she was still alive, was still the same girl who had sat on the mountainside staring at the sunset, hoping and longing to wrap its red and orange ribbons around her waist and fly into another world.
10 / First Night Out
Damien sauntered down the concrete steps that cut through his new ’hood: Tae Hung Dong, or Well Hung Dong, as Jake called it. It was amazing how good the Dong looked after dark, especially if you’d just smoked a quick joint. The daytime monotony of apartments and rubbish was now overwritten by a maze of neon signs and eerily illuminated windows; the cop box on the corner was a cube of sterile incandescence, and the butcher’s, hung with flayed carcasses, burned like an Amsterdam brothel. Next to the video store, its postered window glowing like a paper lantern, the late-night open market gleamed with food: fish, meat, poultry on ice trays; mountains of nectarines, plums, cherries, watermelons; crates of pak choi and eggplant, plastic bags full of bean sprouts, peeled garlic cloves and brown, holey slices of what Damien now knew was lotus root. Everything was shimmering; even the pools of vomit on the steps were almost throbbing with light.
It was stupidly hot, though. His damp shirt clinging to his skin, Damien emerged onto the main road at the foot of the Dong, turned left alongside eight blaring lanes of traffic, and made an effort to speed up. It was the opening night of Azitoo, Jake and Sam’s bar, and Jake’s band, Mama Gold, was due on at half-ten. Also, Sam would be there. Jake had sent an enigmatic text, giving the impression that his cousin had some news about the passport. As Damien headed toward Shinch’on traffic circle, all the underlying anxiety of the last two weeks started churning in his stomach. It was hard to feel Zen when his entire future probably rested on the outcome of tonight.
It was also hard to get anywhere quickly. Dukbogee stands blocked every pavement corner, their stoic vendors hawking rice noodles and hot sauce to queues of nightcrawlers. Trendy boys in trim jackets and drainpipes, spiky hair gelled forward, sideburns neatly trimmed, elbowed past him; gaggles of girls in tight dresses and rhinestone jewelry teetered in front of shop windows, clutching each other’s arms for support. Sucked in to the swell of the crowd, Damien kept pace with the bare legs of a mini-skirted belle. She was on her own: Jake would have tried to catch up, chat her up, but he kept his distance. He did a lot of looking these days, but he was pretty sure talking—especially the kind which might lead to touching—would not be a good idea.
He had quickly realized most Korean girls were afflicted with a fatal fondness for sentimental gifts, not to mention dreams of wedding shops. Soft-skinned and dewy-eyed they might be, but most of the girls lived at home, didn’t do one-night stands and at heart were little kittens you could crush with just one flippant remark, never mind an inevitable decision to leave the country. Plus, no matter how good their English was, they didn’t understand the word “over.” Jake had dumped his latest ex in order to concentrate on his band and bar, and for the last two weeks she’d been messaging him twenty times a day.
Of course there were loads of Westerners in Seoul, but most of them were Canadian—and after just a fortnight in Seoul, Damien had realized that the only problem with his climate change-savvy, international terrorism-conscious survivalist life plan was that he just didn’t fancy female Canucks. The ones he’d met at Jake’s friends’ parties were card-playing, skinny-Minny, PC intellectuals who hung out in packs, discussing nuclear power, racism and their grade-school teachers in Elbow or Cold Turkey, or wherever. Even if one was cute—okay, the redhead—there was no getting close to her. And if by some minor miracle you did manage to peel her away from her game of Kaiser, she’d force you to listen to Arcade Fire or Joni Mitchell all night, and then hold a conference call about the contents of your bookshelf the next day. There was no mystery or edge to Canadian girls, that was the problem; though to be fair, the Americans and Aussies were worse.
What he needed was some moody French bird. Or a quirky Icelandic maiden. But then again, in Damien’s experience even the simplest of holiday flings had the potential to turn into long-drawn-out battles for emotional supremacy. Sometimes even that was worth it for the sex and general sense of drama, but he had other priorities here in Seoul, and tonight’s was meeting Sam.
He reached the traffic circle, a massive roundabout overhung by the technicolor hoardings of the Grand Mart Cinema. Opposite stood Elegance Department Store, its pristine façade tied up in a neon red ribbon. Behind it, Shinch’on jigsawed out into a pell-mell, hugger-mugger zone of night spots: Hofs for beer, smoked fish and peanuts, norebangs for Korean Karaoke; jazz rooms; coffee shops; Web Space Cafés; theme bars named after such luminaries as Kenny Rogers, the Eagles, Coldplay, The Rolling Stones. And now there was Azitoo, which, according to Jake, didn’t mean anything at all.
Damien headed down into the underpass. As he crossed the concourse, a blonde girl covered in gold make-up, her hair a Medusa tangle of metal-tipped braids, glowered at him from a VidAd screen. The camera zoomed out as she tweaked a button on her GrilleTexTM jacket and her face and hair turned a cool silvery blue. Chill out . . . with OhmEgo the slogan urged before the girl’s sly grin faded and a tofu ad took her place.
He emerged in front of Elegance slathered in sweat. If he could afford temp-control clothing he’d’ve got himself a whole new wardrobe, but his wages were accounted for already. What he really wanted to find out tonight was that the passport and SIN card would only cost a few million so he could get to Canada as soon as possible. Then he’d be well chilled.
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Her black crêpe dress slicked to her skin, Sydney pranced up the street. Her street. In her new neighborhood.
“Freedom!” She waved to the night sky, then spun round to hug Jin Sok. “Yeee haaaa!”
Jin Sok’s deep laughter echoed off the buildings. “You never stop moving, Superwoman. Come, now I show you Gongjang, best late nightclub in Seoul.”
She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “I thought that was the club we just left?” Everywhere Jin Sok took her was the best of its kind in Seoul. Tonight they’d started at a Japanese restaurant in Apkuchong after the shoot, then gradually crossed the city back to her home turf.
“No, Smartie Girl, that best club in Shinch’on.” The photographer grabbed her waist and guided her past a dim strip of closed boutiques and restaurants. A few brightly dressed clubbers were eating fish sticks at an o-dang van on the corner, steam from the hot pots blurring their faces. Otherwise, the neighborhood looked deserted. It was nearly two a.m., after all.
“Are you sure—?”
“Shhh. Politzi.” Jin Sok placed his finger sternly on his lips and she rolled her eyes, but let him lead her silently past a row of walled houses, their demure gardens just visible behind iron gates. They crossed a quiet road and he pulled her around an island of discarded electronics and a broken fridge toward a gray building: offices or apartments, it was hard to tell. A sickly pool of light spilled through the glass doors of the lobby.
A young Korean wearing an earphone headset materialized from nowhere. Jin Sok slipped him a couple of man won bills and after glancing up and down the road, the bouncer ushered them inside. Sydney’s heels clicked on the steps leading down to the basement.
