by Naomi Foyle
“Here’s Dr. Kim’s card—the scientist? She’s kyopo, so there’s no language problems.”
“Genetic Research International Productions,” Damien read out loud. “Sounds dodgy. So what’s she after, then?”
Sydney pursed her lips. “She’s not dodgy. She’s doing really important work, trying to stop diseases.” There was an awkward pause.
Damien was on the point of apologizing when she leaned over the table. Her voice was a little husky now, confidential. “But she also does fertility treatments. I donated some eggs last month to help foreigners in Korea have babies. She’s looking for sperm too. She pays half a million won, but I bet you could talk her up.”
Damien whistled silently in his head. So she was a real Canadian after all: save the whale, save the baby seals, save the Rocky Mountains, save the infertile foreigners in Korea. Examining the card, he thought through the offer. Half a million would be a nice chunk to add to his fund . . . but no, it would be crazy to squirt his genetic identity into some test tube—especially right before he got his new passport. Still, he didn’t want to hurt Sydney’s feelings.
“Sounds like a lot of money for a wank,” he joked.
Sydney was looking up at him from beneath her lashes, like a cross between Darla the Vampire and a cockapoo puppy. “It’s not just a—a wank,” she pouted.
He pocketed the card. “Well, who knows; maybe I’ll give her a call.”
“It’s really easy work,” she persisted, “especially for guys.”
She was just a kid, and she was just trying to be nice. But Christ, he had to get her off his case. “Look, Sydney, it takes just one tiny change in the law and all those stray sperm are wiggling right back home to Daddy. I’ve got nothing against helping people; I just don’t want some spotty kid turning up on my doorstep nineteen years from now demanding I put him through university.”
“It’s not like that here—Da Mi is totally confidential.” Scarily, there was a touch of Nurse Ratchet creeping into Sydney’s expression.
Damien lifted his teacup to his lips. He felt like biting the translucent green china. Jessica had always put on her heavy-duty face whenever she wanted him to do her bidding.
Abruptly, Sydney changed the subject. “Are you teaching English here?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
There was another strained pause, and Damien realized he might have offended her. She was just making small-talk, after all. Apart from Jake, Canadians didn’t always get his sense of humor. Though, to be fair, he had sounded snarky. Christ, he had to lighten up.
“I’m just taking the piss. Yeah, I’m teaching, kids mainly.”
Sydney perked up. “Do you like it?”
“Sure, what’s not to like? Half the time it’s just a big love-fest; the other half I play the heavy and they have to obey my every command. I should have started doing it years ago.”
That made her smile. Her eyes were an amazing shade of green, like limes with gold pips. They looked extra bright when she smiled.
“Aren’t you worried about Immigration?” she asked.
“Nah. I’ve only heard of one kindergarten getting busted, and my privates are all in Chamshil. The heat’s off there now, so I’m just getting on with it really. What about you?”
“Oh, I have a work visa. My modeling agent got me a contract.” She thought a moment, then said, “Hey, Chamshil—do you ever swim at the Olympic pool?”
“I get there too late. My Chamshil jobs are from five to nine and the pool closes at six. It’s a bit of a pisser, really. I used to go in the sea in Brighton.”
“Do you think you still would? I mean, do you believe the government about the radiation?”
He didn’t want to think about Brighton. “Who knows?”
“I’d like to go to London.” Sydney asserted. “When it’s safe again.”
Why were people so fucking desperate to visit London? Maybe the Mayor had organized those bombs. “London’s just a maze of overpriced shops and overrated museums filled with tourists, terrorists and riot police,” he told her, tetchily. “And it rains all the time. Total mono-season. You’d be far better off back in Canada.”
“Canada?” Sydney wrinkled her nose. “I’m having way more fun here.” She nodded dreamily. “Umm. I love these bits of ginseng in the tea.”
Damien chewed on the bitter root and found his mouth puckering. This lunch was fizzling out. But then again, he was exhausted.
Sydney yawned. “I gotta get home and crash. Wanna swap numbers? We could go to a movie sometime maybe?” She sounded eager now, a little vulnerable, as if he might refuse.
She must be lonely, Damien realized. She’s kooky, definitely; bossy, a bit; but pretty and lonely and mostly the right kind of nice. She hadn’t said anything about high school or poker, after all.
“Sure,” he said, getting his MoPho out of his pocket. He slid it next to hers on the table and they watched in silence as the phones coupled, waiting for the flash and burble of a small “successful upload” fusion tone.
Sydney followed Damien along the narrow sidewalk of Insadong’s main drag, passing antique shops and galleries, mulberry paper vendors and calligraphy shops dripping with brushes as big as her head. She was feeling irritated with herself. The meeting had hardly gone to plan. She’d felt ridiculous in the tearoom, earnestly discussing ovaries and sperm—Damien clearly thought she was an idiot. And now they were heading toward Jae Ho’s wife’s gallery; on this street, Jin Sok had said. She’d invited Damien to Insa Dong partly so she could see it without having to walk past it by herself, but right now she was in no mood to confront Jae Ho’s perfect wife and perfect life, let alone him. She’d left him still sleeping in her apartment, but who knows, he could be down here already, helping his wife, or even having coffee with Jin Sok. She just wanted to get home as quickly as she could.
Damien didn’t know that, of course. He stopped in front of a large gray and white canvas hanging in a window. “Hey, isn’t this by the same guy who hangs in Gongjang?”
Sydney’s heart floundered in her chest. “Yeah, must be,” she said, as casually as she could manage.
The canvas was emblazoned with a tarry black cross, a plus sign to balance the minus sign at the nightclub. The background was an aerial map of Seoul, roughly painted over with thick, viscous brushstrokes. Jae Ho had scratched at the paint, scoring the outlines of buildings, bridges, streets—and the occasional suggestion of people drowning in a sick and rotting sea.
“Ground Zero. Floods.” Damien remarked. “I wonder if he painted it since London.”
“Looks like a dirty window to me.” Sydney peered past the painting to the gallery within, all gleaming hardwood floors. There were some ink drawings on the walls, and a tall Korean woman in a sleeveless dress was talking on the phone behind a desk, her face obscured by a huge bouquet of flowers.
“He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, the artist?”
She had thought about that question already. “He’s a friend of Jin Sok’s. Cool guy—doesn’t speak much English.”
“Do you want to go in?”
“I’m bushed. Maybe another time?”
Damien was heading over the river to teach, so they parted company at Chongno with a quick kiss. Sydney got a cab back to Hongdae. It was an uncomfortable ride. Damien thought she was a freak and wouldn’t return her calls; Da Mi would be disappointed in her, and the start-date for the Peonies would be delayed. Plus, it had been horrible, looking into the gallery, wondering if that elegant woman at the desk was Jae Ho’s wife. She got stomach cramps just thinking about it.
But there was nothing she could do about any of that right now. She was dog-tired. She wanted only one thing now, and that was her bed.
She wasn’t expecting Jae Ho to still be in her apartment, but his boots were lying in the hallway where he’d kicked them off the night before, and inside the studio room, he was still asleep. She slipped off
her clothes and curled around him on the yo. He stirred, opened his eyes, ran his hands over her body. She waited for him to ask where she’d gone, but he just yawned, picked up her alarm clock, frowned and said, “Oh, late.”
She laid her head upon his chest, listened to his heart. “Jae Ho?” she whispered.
“Umm?”
“Do you want to go out for dinner with me this week? Not in Hongdae.”
He ran his fingers through her hair. “Sy-duh nee. I no like appointments,” he finally replied. “Appointments give me . . . stress. Today I had appointment with my wife, for lunch, promise. But I sleep. I here. Now I worried.” She raised her head to look at him. The aperture of his face closed in on itself like it had done when he was talking about the blood-song.
There was another long silence as her stomach turned.
“Piglet, I playboy. I married,” he said, apologetically, his voice lifting on the last word, as if he was alarming even himself with this reminder. Soberly, he continued, “I want free, but I not free. I don’t want you get too in love with me.”
“No,” she said firmly, desperately, sitting up, “I free! I only want to see you sometimes—special times. Like giseang.” Giseang were traditional Korean courtesans; they were cultured and intelligent, and they entertained their clients with more than just their bodies. She hoped the reference would make him smile, and it did.
“You play guitar?” he teased.
“I learn!”
“Okay, okay!”
But it wasn’t okay, she could tell.
He got up and began to dress, not looking at her, checking he had everything he’d left strewn around the flat.
Suddenly she felt angry with him—and with herself. Was she really such a simpering idiot? “Maybe I’ll get another boyfriend,” she said, airily. “As well as you.”
“Ah, good idea.” He smiled. “Who? Oasis boy?”
“Oasis boy?” She didn’t get it.
“Black hair boy. I think you make date with him last night.”
“Oh, him. Maybe.” She tried to sound indifferent, but her stomach was doing back-flips. What was wrong with Jae Ho? Why didn’t he give a shit if she fucked someone else?
“Very nice. He look good with you.” His tone was light and approving—but surely he must be feeling something.
She tossed her hair. “Actually, I just went out for tea with him. I’ll have to see.”
Jae Ho nodded sagely, and buttoned up his jeans.
After he left Sydney lay down on her yo, curled into a tight little ball. Everything was all wrong. Jae Ho was a heartless jerk, trying to get rid of her—or pimp her out to other men. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was just insecure. Maybe he’d decided that she really wanted a Western boyfriend and was just trying to get out of their relationship with his pride intact. In which case she’d just done the stupidest thing in the world—why had she taunted him? She should have reassured him instead. Had she just fucked everything up?
Just as the tears began drooling down her face her Gotcha vibrated on her wrist: Da Mi, calling to see how it had gone with Damien. They’d agreed to talk as soon as Sydney got back from Insa Dong.
She clamped her hands between her legs, but the Gotcha just buzzed against her thighs, saying Da Mi is your friend. Da Mi has always been way kinder than this selfish bastard who only wanted to fuck you. Da Mi had given her so much, and so far all she’d done was fart about, paying nothing but chapped lip service to the tiny favor Da Mi had asked in return.
Taking a deep breath, she wiped her face with the sheet and picked up. “Hi, Da Mi,” she said in a tiny voice into the Gotcha.
“Sydney. Are you all right?” Da Mi’s voice vibrated faintly from the watch.
“Yeah.” She sniffed. “I mean, no, I guess not.”
“Oh, darling. Did Damien upset you?”
She fought back the tears, trying to think of a plausible story, but nothing came to mind. “No,” she gulped, “not him.”
“Who then, sweetheart?”
“I feel so bad. I should have told you ages ago.”
“Told me what? Sydney, calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”
Sydney struggled to control herself. Through her weeping hiccoughs she tried to explain. “Oh Da Mi, I’ve been trying to be good, to be enlightened, but it’s so hard without the Chair. I didn’t mean to, honestly, but I . . . got involved with this married guy, an artist I met at the club. It felt so beautiful sometimes, I thought he loved me, but now I know he doesn’t. He was so horrible to me today. I’m sorry, I wanted to tell you . . . but I didn’t do anything during the donation cycle, I promise.” She wiped her nose again on the sheet. God, what would Da Mi say?
“Darling, it’s just what happens in these clubs. I know you didn’t do anything to jeopardize the Peonies. Your eggs are perfect. Now we just have to get you sorted out too.”
“But how?” Sydney wailed. “I’m in love with him—I can’t stand it that he doesn’t care about me at all. It hurts so much, Da Mi.”
“Shhh. It’s love pain, not cancer, my darling. Just an excessive attachment, that’s all. You can easily cure it in the Chair. Have you been taking your honey recently?”
“No,” she admitted.
“You have some in the apartment, don’t you? So after this call, make yourself a double dose and get an early night. I have to go to Kyongiddo tomorrow to deal with an emergency, but I’ll be back by the evening. Why don’t you come up to my place for dinner? I’ll send a taxi.”
Her heart was a rock-hard ache between her ribs. No, it’s hopeless. Nothing can help me, Sydney wanted to sob. But she hesitated. Maybe she should try the Chair again. It had been so amazing last time. And at least she’d be getting out of the apartment.
“That would be really nice, Da Mi,” she sniffled.
“Perfect. We’ll give you a booster tomorrow, then you can start having regular sessions. No man is worth all this torment, Sydney. You don’t have to give up romance to be the Queen of the Peonies, but when you’re closer to Enlightenment, you’ll be able to choose someone who’s good for you. Someone who shares our values.”
Sydney sat up, and pulled the sheet around her. “That’s what I want, Da Mi—I guess I thought because Jae Ho was an artist he was special, but today he was so casual and . . . mean.”
“Trust me, sweetheart, he doesn’t deserve you. Look, why don’t you make yourself a cup of honey drink now?”
Yes, she should really. Sydney got to her feet and, still wrapped in the sheet, headed over to the kitchen and opened the cupboard.
“Good girl,” Da Mi cooed from her wrist. “But tell me, how did it go with Damien?”
Sydney clattered about the kitchen, filling the kettle, dipping a spoon in the jar of honey. “I don’t know, Da Mi. I was feeling bad about that too. I passed your card on, but I don’t think he’ll call. He said he didn’t want some kid showing up in twenty years. Maybe I just didn’t sell it to him well enough.”
“It’s not everybody’s cup of tea. We might have to try another angle. Otherwise, do you think he’d be a good choice?”
“I think he’d be fab. He’s really smart—the way he talks about things, it’s very . . . English. But he doesn’t want to go back there. I mean, who can blame him?”
“That might be a way in.”
“If I haven’t blown it already. I think he thought I was a nutcase, Da Mi.”
Da Mi chuckled. “I’m sure he thinks you’re lovely. We’ll just have to keep trying. I have a biotech project coming up he might be more interested in.”
“I’ve got his MoPho number. He said to call.”
“You can do that soon—just remember, don’t mention singing unless he does. Now, look, don’t worry any more about this artist; get some sleep tonight and I’ll send a taxi round tomorrow.”
Da Mi said goodbye, leaving Sydney to lie back in bed with her honey drink. She drank it slowly, feeling its restorative powers. She knew it was dumb to get all worked up
about Jae Ho when the whole VirtuWorld project was only just beginning. Maybe a few more sessions in the chair would make her less emotional, more accepting of this situation? By bugging Jae Ho about his wife she was only driving him away. Fucking Damien to make him jealous would be stupid too. Anyway, soon she’d be famous, with queues of men to choose from. But right now she was “knackered,” as Damien would say.
Giggling to herself, she slurped down the last of the hot honey drink and rolled underneath the blankets.
28 / Carving Knives
Sunday afternoon, and he’d finally finished the first draft of his post-snukes British foreign tourism projection report. Johnny fancied a cigar and a big snifter of Courvoisier. He strode down to Churchill’s, a new Itaewon gastropub with a North African menu and backroom humidor. The glassed-off antechamber was comfortably furnished with wing-tipped leather chairs and copies of the latest Financial Times on long wooden news grippers. Today it was empty; maybe the place was too new to have caught on yet.
He’d savored three puffs of his Cuban leaf when his MoPho buzzed in his jacket pocket.
Withheld number: that had been happening lately, calls he’d miss, and no left messages. He’d no time for games like that—but then again, it could be the lab.
“Mr. Joh-nee?” A voice he hated whined in his ear.
“Look. I said I’d call you.”
“I sorry, very sorry, but emergency. You can talk? Private?”
Johnny took a swig of his cognac. “Better make it snappy, Ratty.”
“Okay, okay, I talk quick. My mind trouble, Mr. Joh-nee. I need thirty million won in cash very soon, or else I have show sexy sexy video to a friend of ours. I don’t think Dr. Kim gonna be happy when she see what happen at hospital.”
Johnny checked over his shoulder. The tall Moroccan waiter was still flirting with some Korean chick in a skimpy dress. He must do well here, one of a kind. There might be an escort angle to follow up on later . . . But for now, Johnny had to concentrate on this fuck-up. Like, was this unrefrigerated shrimp trying to blackmail him?
