Seoul Survivors

by Naomi Foyle

  Had it been quick? It had seemed timeless. “No,” she replied, sleepily, “very nice.”

  “Western man very long,” Jae Ho insisted, holding his hands about nine inches apart. “Asian man short.”

  In her blissed-out semi-doze it was hard to think what to say. Sure she liked big cocks, but she had to be turned on to enjoy them—and with Jae Ho she’d been so excited she’d hardly noticed his size. And now—unlike a guy who thought he was God’s gift but couldn’t even get it up all the time—instead of rolling over and starting to snore, he was talking to her, stroking her, sounding anxious to have pleased her. That was sexy.

  She reached up and tickled his nose. “Western men all different. Size not important, anyway.”

  “I think you lying.” He sat up on his elbow and examined her intently.

  “I am not—” She turned toward him, and he gasped.

  “Sydney have belly!” he announced. “Like Vietnam pot-belly pig!”

  Jeez, what a way to change the subject. “Thanks a lot!” she protested, but he was rubbing her tummy and poking his finger in her belly button.

  “I like belly,” he declared. “Very woman shape.”

  Lots of guys liked curves on girls; she knew that from her escort days. She gave his hand a little slap. “Woman, okay. Pig no!”

  “Okay. Sydney my piglet,” he decided, as she twisted round and snuggled her bum into his lap. He cupped her tummy as they spooned, like Johnny sometimes used to do. It had always felt nice, comforting, until he’d started telling her to stop fucking worrying about the fucking designers, and they’d get into a fight. Jae Ho didn’t know anything about her job issues, and he didn’t need to. He was a beautiful break from all that. Stroking his fingers, she yawned and closed her eyes.

  When his MoPho rang again he rose abruptly, and dressed. Before he left he clutched her breast for a moment, smiled as he had done at the fairy-lights, then kissed her lightly goodbye.

  “See you soon, Sy-duh-ney.”

  “See you soon, Jae Ho,” she whispered. She flopped back on her pillow as the door closed, hugging herself with glee.

  She’d slept with an artist. He’d talked to her, asked her how she felt. He didn’t even know how gorgeous he was. She was never again going to sleep with some thick dolt just because he had money. Soon she would be appearing in her first-ever runway show; soon she would be friends with designers and scientists and having a mad torrid affair with a painter. From now on she was in charge of her own life.

  As the cab drew across the river Johnny felt the anticipation rising. He took the stairs two at a time.

  “Herrrrrrre’s Johnny . . .” he announced.

  To an empty apartment.

  The living room was silent, the bed un-slept in. Where the fuck was she? Was she fucking fucking somebody else? Where was all her junk? He flung open the wardrobe: nothing but empty hangers dangling and jangling on her side. He banged open the door to the en suite. All her toiletries were gone.

  “Sydney,” he shouted. He sounded ridiculous, he knew it, and shut up. She was gone. Had Kim fucking taken her? Blood pulsing in his temples, he stormed back into the living room. Half the CDs were missing, but the blanket on the sofa was mussed up and the remote lay where she usually left it, as if she might wander back from the toilet at any minute and turn the TV on.

  His gut twisted and a lump bulged in his throat. Just for a second a hot prickle darted around his eyes. Fuck, was the Sandman crying? He wiped his face roughly with his sleeve. No, he was just exhausted—and, it had to be admitted, outmaneuvered.

  That bitch Da Mi must have stepped in. But in so doing, she had overstepped big time. He just had to let Sydney know he was back, that she could come home. He grinned. Kim didn’t know what Sydney was like when she wanted something bad. There was no way she’d be able to keep the girl against her will.

  He switched his MoPho back on and called Sydney. Out of service—of course she was. He’d have to call Kim, demand the new number—but first he needed a drink: Johnny Walker Black Label, a double, on the rocks.

  The note was on the kitchen table beside a stack of his Andrew Beacon books and a pile of jewelry: Sydney’s Gotcha Watch and the six pairs of EarRings he’d given her.

  Johnny. I’M SORRY you got so mad at me all the time. I’M SORRY I don’t want to work for your stupid clients anymore. I’M SORRY I hate your sicko porn. I’M SORRY things didn’t work out. I’M SORRY I just want to do things MY WAY for a change.

  XX SYDNEY XX

  His chest heaving, his hands shaking, Johnny poured himself a stiff shot of Scotch and sat down. Light filtered between the shutters on the windows, scoring sharp lines down the center of the kitchen table. His Gotcha rang. He let it. He finished his drink. Then he listened to the message from Kim.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sandman. I gather all went well in Beijing. Congratulations.” Her voice was pointedly monotonous. “In your absence and after consultation with your superiors, it was decided that GRIP would take over the negotiations with your Canadian candidate. She has arranged independent living arrangements and is now under our protection. Under no circumstances are you to contact her in any way. To do so would be grounds for instant dismissal. Please call me to discuss your own revised role in future proceedings. I look forward to speaking to you soon.”

  So Kim had organized the bolt-hole. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Johnny threw open the shutters and hurled Sydney’s accessories out of the window. Then he ripped up the note and tore the Beacon books into pieces and pitched them down to the street as well. After smashing all the dishes against the kitchen wall, destroying the chairs and slashing the mattress in the bedroom to shreds with a carving knife, he polished off the Johnny Walker bottle and passed out on the sofa for nine hours.

  He woke up hungry, still monumentally pissed off, but not displeased. Fuck Beacon. Fuck empathy. Fuck opening doors.

  Part Three

  GROOMING

  14 / Gene Genie

  “Sy-duh-nee, Supermodel, Gentlewoman—Your eyes like green fish—You moving super-shocking tidal wave.” Tapping his chest, Jin Sok beamed over Sydney’s shoulder as she peeled off her false eyelashes. “My know-how—you style. So natural. Super Natural.” Sydney twisted round and flung herself into his arms, almost knocking a bunch of mauve roses out of his hand.

  The Hyatt show had been a stunning success. The OhmEgo designers had tarted her up in strawberry and lemon-lime Lycra, strapped her feet into stilettos, ripped her hems and torn her bodices to shreds. She’d thrust her way down to the end of the catwalk for the very first time, swinging her right arm slightly higher than her left, just as Jin Sok had instructed her, and when she’d reached the end she’d leaned into the audience, her hands on hips, prying the air with her tongue. People had clapped. They had actually clapped. On her second and third forays she’d played it coy—winking, undoing one top button, snapping her skirt—only to return for her fourth and final appearance with a full-blown pirouette. The applause had gone on and on, rippling around the room like an ocean of love. Yes, love. Backstage the designers had hugged her, Korea loves you, they had said. Now she was glowing with exhilaration. She was also starving, but just like before the show, there was no food in the dressing room.

  “Sydney. Darling. You were amazing. You positively exuded happiness up there.” A warm familiar voice gushed into the room. Sydney disentangled herself from Jin Sok’s bear-hug and swiveled around into an enormous bunch of fat pink peonies.

  “Da Mi! Where are you?” she laughed.

  Da Mi emerged from behind the flowers. “Here I am, darling. Straight from the front row.”

  Sydney carefully placed the frilly peonies next to the roses on the make-up ledge. “Da Mi,” she said proudly, “this is my best friend in Seoul, Park Jin Sok. He’s the best fashion photographer in Korea. Jin Sok, this is Dr. Kim Da Mi. She’s a top Korean-American scientist.”

  “Pangapsumnida.” The two Koreans spoke as one, smo
othly exchanging name-cards. Then one of Jin Sok’s assistants poked her head around the door and rattled off something in Korean.

  “See you in lobby, yes?” he apologized.

  “Annyong!” Sydney blew Jin Sok a kiss, then clasped Da Mi’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered. “I want to talk to you about GRIP. I’ve moved into my new apartment and I need as much work as possible.”

  Da Mi squeezed Sydney’s hand. “How exciting. I have a great project right now that pays exceptionally well. Why don’t you come round for dinner tomorrow night to discuss it?”

  “Fantastic—Jeez, I’m so hungry now, I could eat a whale!”

  A few minutes later, surrounded by babbling hordes of fashionistas, media junkies and Seoul celebs, Sydney was munching on canapés with Da Mi in the hotel bar. She lifted her champagne glass, about to make a toast, when Da Mi took a small plastic bottle out of her purse and squeezed a drop of clear liquid into her glass.

  “What’s that? Pollen?”

  “An anti-diuretic—it counters the dehydrating effects of alcohol. So you can drink all you like without getting a hangover. Would you like to try it?”

  Sydney stuck out her own crystal flute. “Sure!”

  Glasses in hand, she and Da Mi inched across the hotel bar to a knot of people with Jin Sok at its center. Sydney pulled him aside. “All clear?” she whispered.

  Jin Sok grinned. “Mr. Johnny at Trance tonight, has date with drag queen. A real woman for Mr. Johnny tonight!”

  “My ex is back from his business trip,” Sydney explained to Da Mi. “I’m a bit worried he might show up looking for me.”

  “He come here, I kick him onto street.” Jin Sok flexed his biceps and pulled a Popeye face. Sydney rolled her eyes and took another sip of champagne. As congratulations and gossip swirled around her she relaxed for the first time since her night with Jae Ho, for, unless he was hiding behind a pillar, Johnny was not among the chic and wealthy crowd filling the Hyatt bar. Neither, however, was Jae Ho, but though Sydney longed to ask Jin Sok about the painter, she didn’t dare. She’d casually mentioned him a few days ago, only to be told how beautiful, kind, and intelligent his wife was. She wasn’t sure if Jin Sok knew about her escapade, or if he was simply warning her that Jae Ho was off-limits, but she had quickly changed the subject.

  Maybe it was greedy to expect to see him so soon. For now, she let the Hyatt festivities fill her to the brim. It was three a.m. before she tumbled out of a taxi and entered her apartment building, carrying armfuls of flowers into the elevator and up to her new home.

  Da Mi sent a black cab round to pick her up at half past seven the next evening. Grateful for the air-con, Sydney settled into the creamy leather backseat and turned her full-skirted baby-blue GrilleTexTM dress up to body-temperature and her MoPho to her favorite playlist. As the Mercedes slipped through Hongdae’s maze of back alleys she nodded along to the latest Europop froth, staring through the tinted windows at the multicolored pub and club signs, the street-sellers’ silver chains and bracelets and the shining eyes of post–happy hour tourists and Korean teens.

  The taxi turned north, accelerating smoothly up the eight-lane expressway toward the mountains. The music was all echoey and industrial now, almost as if the MoPho knew she was driving between massive office buildings and warehouses. Da Mi had told her to have a comfortable ride, so Sydney opened the drinks cabinet behind the driver’s seat and mixed herself a dry martini. She didn’t really like gin, but martinis always looked so sophisticated, and she wanted to train her taste buds to accept them. She managed the second sip without flinching. Ahead, the rocky jaws of Seoul’s mountain parks chewed up the pale, blank sky.

  The road followed an ancient wall between two craggy slopes and then descended into a valley thick with trees and large, Western-style houses, half-hidden by brick walls of their own. Finally the driver pulled up in front of a high iron gate set into a barricade crested with foot-long shards of glass.

  Even as Sydney wondered if she’d come to the right place, a guard stepped out of a sentry-box and walked over to the car, a pistol jutting out against his hip. Frightened, she fumbled in her bag for her MoPho—maybe she should call Da Mi? But before she could start dialing, the man had peered into the back seat, given her a thumbs-up and stepped back to open the gate.

  The curved driveway led through a landscaped garden, past a pond filled with large green lily pads to a large, traditional Korean house, its tiled roof sheltering whitewashed walls and a dark-beamed porch. Apart from the cab tires complaining on the gravel, the estate was silent, as hauntingly dignified as the palaces and monasteries Sydney had visited with Jin Sok.

  The cab-driver stopped by the latticed front doors. Despite the air-con, Sydney’s palms were damp. She wiped them on her skirt, adjusted her rhinestone hair clip and reached for the door handle, but the driver turned and raised a white-gloved finger.

  “I open,” he announced.

  Sydney stepped into a muggy bath of night air. She’d be indoors in a moment; there was no point in cooling the temperature of her dress. Instead, she steadied her nerves with a narcotic lungful of night jasmine: the bush swarming up the porch was throwing off the scent like steam from a hot tub. Behind the foliage, Da Mi was standing at the door, dressed in a long crimson skirt and a filmy red sleeveless blouse, buttoned to the neck. Her hair was braided with red and gold silk ribbons and coiled around her head. She held out her hands and Sydney mounted the steps.

  “Sydney, you look delightful,” the scientist cooed as she led her into the cool, dark interior of the house. “So whimsical and fresh.”

  “That’s some heavy security you’ve got here, Da Mi.” A celadon cup of hangover-free white wine in her hand, Sydney mock-toasted the large antique sword hanging on the scientist’s wall. They were sitting on silk cushions at a low black table filled with food. Beside them, a paper screen door had been pulled back to reveal the back porch and garden, where a bamboo grove and a row of pine trees stood guard over a bed of pale white flowers. Dusk was falling now, but the garden path was lined with solar-lamps, and inside candles cast gleaming reflections on the polished hardwood floor. The room was minimally furnished, but with beautiful stuff: a carved chest; a translucent porcelain vase; a scroll painted with fat pink peonies like the ones Da Mi had given her; and a shiny black lacquer stereo cabinet, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Sydney couldn’t see the stereo speakers, but the voice of Kim Min Gee, the Korean Leonard Cohen, murmured like a sad wind in the corners of the room.

  “It’s the only way, I’m afraid, to protect the openness of the architecture.” Da Mi gestured lightly around the place. “As you can see, I have some valuable treasures here.”

  “This room is bigger than my whole flat—Jeez, I wish I could open up my wall like this. Except I’d probably get pissed and fall out onto the street.” Sydney blushed and took another sip of wine. “Unless I get some of your drops. It was so great, waking up bright and early this morning.”

  “I’m sure your new home is lovely.” Da Mi minutely adjusted the position of a candle on the table. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a chrysalis, and the real you will emerge from it like a beautiful butterfly.”

  “That would be nice.” Sydney sighed. “Right now I still feel like a grub, especially compared to you and all the Korean models.”

  “Sydney! You look so much better than when we first met. I hope you still have an appetite. Please, help yourself.” Da Mi gestured at the dishes of Korean food on the table: seaweed soup, cucumber salad, breaded fish, kim chee, dumplings, mushrooms with pine nuts, marinated tubu, fried greens, shrimp, and a dish that looked curiously like a present, wrapped in dark green leaves. Sydney didn’t have a photoshoot for a week. She filled her bowl.

  The mushrooms were wild, picked in the mountains, Da Mi told her, and the parcel was a traditional temple dish: rice wrapped in fried lotus leaves. It was considered a royal delicacy, and rare, even in the best restaurants these days. “B
ut I have so many lotus leaves in my pond, so I always serve them for my special guests.” Da Mi lifted a spoonful of the rice to her lips. Sydney noticed she’d barely eaten half a bowlful of the banquet.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked, beginning to feel like a bit of a glutton.

  “Oh, don’t worry; I always nibble when I’m cooking. Please, have another glass of wine.”

  Da Mi dosed their next glasses with an enzyme that neutralized the alcohol completely. The wine still tasted nice, but it was a shame not to feel tipsy, Sydney thought, though she was glad her mind wasn’t cloudy as she gossiped with Da Mi about the Hyatt show, Jin Sok’s famous contacts and the attractions of her new neighborhood. Well, most of them. She was careful not to mention Jae Ho. Seoul was a small town, and Da Mi might know the painter’s wife.

  “That was the best, Da Mi,” she said at last. Contentedly, she set down her chopsticks. “I could eat Korean food forever.”

  “What about your parents? Doesn’t your mother miss cooking for you?”

  That was a curveball. Sydney frowned at her empty bowl. Her parents? Short answer: fuck ’em—but that probably wasn’t the kind of language Da Mi was used to.

  “Umm . . . well . . .” She looked up. Da Mi’s gentle face was glowing in the candlelight. The scientist was from another world, Sydney thought sadly. How could she tell her what her mother was like? Cooking? Mom had only ever served take-outs and frozen fries. And miss her? She’d kicked Sydney out, after months of Blaine trying to flirt with her in front of his friends, drooling all over her tits and groping her in the kitchen. She’d put up with it, talking back, until that day he’d pinned her up against the cupboard and Mom had walked in. Mom hadn’t yelled at him, no—she’d defended him: blamed Sydney, calling her a poisonous little slut. Blaine had called her a whore too, loads of times. She’d felt like sending them a postcard when she started working for the agency: “Making $300 a night now—how’s the queue at the welfare office?”