The Wandering Ghost

by Martin Limon

  “Right.”

  “So you’d have to plan a second escape.”

  Ernie studied the map I’d drawn. Then he saw it. “You’d want to be close to Seoul. If you had to run, you’d have a better chance of disappearing if you could get lost in the crowd in a city of eight million people.”

  “Right. You wouldn’t want to be stuck up north in Munsan, near the DMZ. There’d be nowhere to go.”

  That was an exaggeration. There’d be some places to go but the options for escape into the teeming metropolis of Seoul would be better if you could locate yourself at the southern edge of the Western Corridor.

  Ernie glanced again at the map, at the southernmost city within the 2nd Division area of operations.

  “Byokjie,” he said.

  Because of its nearness to Seoul, it had a plethora of kisaeng houses. In the two years since Tongil-lo had been completed, making the drive from Seoul to the countryside more convenient, they’d sprung up like sunflowers after a summer rain.

  “Byokjie,” Ernie said, almost reverentially. Then he brightened. “We ain’t there yet?”

  Byokjie was nothing more than a good-sized intersection. Reunification Road, all four lanes of it, ran north and south along the edge of miles of fallow rice paddies. Bright headlights zoomed by in the darkness. Another road, this one two lanes, stretched from Uijongbu in the east and ran west until it smacked right up against Tongil-lo, forming a T-shaped intersection. The little village of Byokjie, sitting along the stem of the T, was lit up by floodlights. The small collection of buildings was what you’d expect: a sokyu sign for the gas station, a tire warehouse, a mechanic’s workshop, and then a few noodle stands. All of the establishments were still open, hoping for late-night business. A well-lit sign next to a large bus stop listed the connecting runs between here and numerous farming villages, all of them home to some people, adults or students, who commuted into Seoul every day.

  The cab driver who’d driven us from Bopwon-ni asked us where to stop.

  “Kisaeng,” Ernie said.

  The driver laughed and waved his hand. “I kuncho manundei,” he said. In this area there are a lot of them.

  And there were. We had him cruise slowly east from Byokjie, along the road that headed toward Uijongbu. Every few meters, hand-carved wooden signs and even a few signposts made of marble were engraved with the names of exclusive entertainment establishments. Each had its own gravel-topped driveway that led off the main road and up into the tree-covered hills. Occasionally, a dark sedan drove up one of the gravel roads.

  “Take your pick,” Ernie said.

  After I spotted more than two dozen signs I said, “We need your jeep.”

  “That we do.”

  I ordered the driver to continue eastward toward Uijongbu, promising once again that because he had to leave his authorized area of operations in Bopwon-ni, we’d pay him double meter.

  An hour and a half before midnight we returned to Byokjie, this time in Ernie’s jeep. Methodical as usual, we cruised down the road, Ernie pulling over each time he saw a signpost. In this manner I jotted down the names of the various kisaeng houses and located the turnoffs on our map. After a few of these stops, Ernie said, “This is going to take forever.”

  “You’re right. But one of those kisaeng houses back there, the Koryo Forest Inn, seemed to have more business than anybody else.”

  “And?”

  “So we reconnoiter.”

  “How? They’ll spot our jeep as soon as we drive up.”

  “So we park in Byokjie, at the gas station, and hoof it back there.”

  Ernie sighed. “You really are nuts, you know that Sueño?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Ernie pulled the jeep into the enormous gas station and parked at the edge of the gravel lot. I talked to the attendant, flashed my CID badge, and told him we would be back for the vehicle in an hour. He didn’t argue and I purposely didn’t give him a tip. As long as he thought I was here on official business, he wouldn’t dare complain. A nice thing about living in a police state is that people support local law enforcement. Whether they want to or not.

  “It’s cold up here,” Ernie said.

  “Hush.”

  We huddled in the tree line on the edge of the forest, gazing across a parking lot filled with compact black sedans. Most of them were Hyundais, made in Korea, but a few were imported Volvos and BMWs. Rich crowd. White-gloved chauffeurs, slim young Korean men all, stood in clumps, bundled up against the cold, smoking and joking.

  The front of the Koryo Forest Inn looked like an ancient palace. A gate painted in red lacquer and carved with the faces of fierce, green-eyed dragons. Beyond the gate, water trickled over rocks in a lush garden and beyond that loomed the raised, varnished floor of the inner sanctum of the Koryo Forest Inn.

  “Nice place they got here,” Ernie said. “But expensive.”

  We were used to paying a hundred and fifty won, about thirty cents, for a bottle of OB beer in the dives we frequented. Here, in the Koryo Forest Inn, they probably wouldn’t stoop so low as to tell you how much they were charging for booze. And no self-respecting businessman would lower himself to ask. The bill was presented, it was paid out of the company expense account, and that was it. Guys like me and Ernie, who wanted to see a price list before ordering, were not welcome.

  “So what’s your plan?” Ernie asked.

  “The usual,” I answered. “We go in. We ask questions.”

  For once, Ernie Bascom was intimidated. “What if they charge us?”

  “For what?”

  “For talking to a hostess. I heard they slap a ten thousand won charge on you the minute she sits down.”

  “So we won’t sit down. Come on.”

  I pushed through the underbrush and walked between two parked cars. By the time the chauffeurs noticed me, I was already underneath the hand-carved wooden portal of the Koryo Forest Inn, Ernie right behind me.

  Stunted trees, raked gravel, koi luxuriating in ponds, all lit by hanging Chinese lanterns. We followed the flagstone steps to the elevated porch and as I was about to slip off my shoes, two beautiful young Korean women, decked out in full regalia—jade hairpins, silk-embroidered chima-chogori—stepped forward and bowed.

  In unison, they said in lilting, singsong voices, “Oso-oseiyo.” Please come in.

  When they rose from their bows their heavily made-up eyes widened.

  “Ohmaya,” one of them said, raising her cupped fingers to her mouth. Dear mother. An expression of shock.

  The other hostess had more presence of mind and scurried off into a side hallway. I stood on the lacquered wooden floor in my stocking feet, speaking to the remaining hostess.

  “Yogi ei Miguk yoja ilheissoyo?” I asked. Has an American woman been working here?

  She stared at me without comprehension, still in shock at seeing a long-nosed foreigner plopped down right here in the midst of the opulent Koryo Forest Inn.

  Ernie had reached the landing now.

  “So they haven’t seen a big nose before,” he said. “Who gives a damn.”

  He stepped forward into the main hallway.

  The surprised woman found her courage. She scooted in front of Ernie, blocking his path, and bowed. “Andeiyo,” she said. Not permissible.

  Ernie kept moving. She stood her ground.

  “Andei,” she said again. “Sonnim issoyo.” Not permissible. There are guests.

  Ernie understood that part. He pushed past her saying, “Screw your high-class sonnim. I’m a guest, too.”

  Ernie had recovered from his initial reticence. And the way the two young women reacted to our presence had made him determined to make sure that everybody on the premises was aware that their cozy little pleasure dome had been defiled by the presence to two Miguks.

  The entrance hallway ran through the building to another garden out back. But to the right, the sound of laughter and low male voices floated down a long varnished corridor. The odor of fried shrim
p followed the voices like an oily cloud. Ernie pointed his nose toward the sound and pounded his way down the hallway. Light filtered through the first oil-papered door. He slid it open and stepped into the private room.

  The hostess who had scurried away returned, this time with two burly young Korean men in suits. One glance told me that they were weightlifters. By the light of the overhead bulb, I could also see that the one standing closest to me had noticeable calluses on the knuckles of his right hand. Martial arts. No doubt.

  I nodded toward the two men who stared at me impassively. Without showing fear—or at least hoping I wasn’t showing fear—I stepped forward and pulled out my credentials. I told them in Korean that I was from 8th Army CID, here as part of a criminal investigation.

  Down the hallway, someone shouted.

  I turned and ran, the two weightlifters right behind me.

  Ernie stood inside the private room. It was about twelve tatami mats square. A low rectangular table occupied the middle of the room with eight or nine businessmen seated around it. Bulkogi and bottles of Scotch and boiled quail eggs overflowed the table. The businessmen had taken off their coats, which were hung on the wall behind them. Kisaeng sat next to them. Beautiful Korean women, most of them dressed fashionably, in Western skirts and blouses, as opposed to the traditional clothing of the two girls who had greeted us at the front door.

  The faces of the Korean businessmen were flushed with booze. And maybe something else. Shock at the fact that some big yangnom, foreign lout, had barged his way into their private party. The oldest of the businessmen, the only one with streaks of gray in his hair, stood toe-to-toe with Ernie, shouting at him, waggling a short finger at Ernie’s pointed nose. For his part, Ernie yelled at the man in English while the man shouted back in Korean.

  “Yoja,” Ernie was saying. “Woman. You know, Miguk woman.” He made wavy motions with his hands. “You arra?” You understand? “American MP woman.”

  What the red-faced businessman shouted back was too rapid for me to decipher, but I do know that it was filled with invective. I grabbed Ernie by the elbow. “Come on.” When he seemed reluctant to leave, I said, “There are more rooms down the hallway.”

  He shot a withering look of contempt at the enraged businessman and backed out of the room. Ernie proceeded down the long corridor, sliding open every oil-papered door, revealing groups of businessmen and other wealthy gentlemen drinking and enjoying themselves. Some of the kisaeng were dressed smartly in Western clothes, others wore the full traditional silk chima-chogori. But what we didn’t find, and what everyone denied knowledge of, was a Miguk yoja. An American woman.

  The weightlifters had stayed close to us but so far they hadn’t made a move. I’m sure they were held back out of their respect—and fear—of my badge. But by now the entire Koryo Forest Inn was in an uproar and kisaeng and customers stood in the halls shouting. Ernie ignored them. He paraded up and down the corridor as if he owned the Koryo Forest Inn, the city of Byokjie, and the entire province in which it sat.

  Finally, when he started to check the rooms out back, the weightlifters became fed up. One of them started to speak to Ernie in Korean, as if he wanted to reason with him, convince him to stop this disconcerting search through their little establishment. When the weightlifter reached out to touch Ernie’s arm, Ernie swiveled and shot a straight punch at the man’s nose. Within seconds, Ernie was flat on his back. Instead of jumping in to wrestle with the guy, I backed off a few steps, pulled my .45, and aimed it at the two burly martial arts experts. They froze.

  Down the corridor, the hubbub of outrage ceased, changing to a stunned silence. Ernie rose to his feet, dusted off his pants, and shot a long hard stare at the man who’d dropped him on his butt. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to repeat his stupidity. Instead, he regained his self-control. Before he lost it again, I motioned to him and he and I walked toward the front entrance. In Korean, I told everyone to stay put. Quickly, Ernie inspected the upstairs area and the empty side rooms that we hadn’t looked into yet and finally the gazebo out back that was used during the spring.

  “Nothing,” he said when he returned.

  “I guess that does it then.”

  Speaking in Korean, I thanked everyone for their cooperation. Ernie and I backed out of the Koryo Forest Inn. The chauffeurs stopped smoking when we passed by. Together, we hustled down the gravel road.

  “They’ll call the KNPs,” Ernie said.

  “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

  “Well, what did you want me to do? They weren’t answering your questions.”

  “I hadn’t started asking questions.”

  “Same difference.”

  We returned to the jeep, Ernie started it up and we drove toward Reunification Road.

  The time was ten minutes until midnight. Ten minutes until the midnight to four curfew. Ernie and I sat in the jeep in a cleared area next to Reunification Road that was normally used as a bus turnaround. For the last twenty minutes we’d been observing a steady stream of expensive sedans—Hyundais, Volvos, BMWs—streaming south, back toward Seoul.

  Nobody was driving north.

  “There must be a million of them,” Ernie said.

  “Yeah. Which means a big demand for kisaeng.”

  “Some of those gals back at the Koryo Forest Inn were good-looking hammers.”

  “You noticed.”

  “I did.”

  The traffic in front of us started to thin. The vehicles that continued south were routinely breaking the speed limit, in a hurry to make it back to Seoul and get off the street before curfew.

  “Here we are,” Ernie said. “Cold as shit, we haven’t uncovered anything new, and curfew’s about to descend on the entire world.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that I don’t want to sit here in this freaking jeep all night long.”

  I thought about that for a minute. “Good point.”

  “Glad you concur.” He waited for the silence to lengthen and then he raised his voice and said, “So what in the hell are we going to do about it?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I was thinking about the case.”

  “The case? But we didn’t learn anything new tonight.”

  “Sure we did.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Jill Matthewson has never worked at the Koryo Forest Inn.”

  “Great. That narrows down our search.”

  “And during the hubbub you created, one of the kisaeng was holding on to another kisaeng’s arm, whispering to her.”

  “Sweet. Whispering what?”

  “Whispering ‘Chil Un Lim.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Forest of Seven Clouds, I think. But I’d have to see the Chinese characters to be sure.”

  “You and your Chinese characters. So what do you make of it?

  “The girl knew we were looking for an American woman, she whispered the name of a kisaeng house to her girlfriend. What do you think that means?”

  “It means that she heard that a Miguk woman was working at that kisaeng house.”

  “Exactly.”

  “She might be right; she might be wrong.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So where is this place?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “That helps.”

  “At least you’re becoming more optimistic.”

  “Yeah. Now if I don’t freeze my spleen tonight, my attitude will perk up even more.”

  “Wouldn’t want to dampen your attitude.”

  We drove off toward the nearest village, searching for a place to flop. We found it. In a yoinsuk, a Korean flophouse with an outdoor toilet and communal sleeping rooms. A half-dozen Korean trucks drivers were snoring so loudly that I thought the tile roof would fall off. That part didn’t bother Ernie. He can sleep through anything. What did bother him was their kimchee breath.

  “If I had a knife,” he told me, “I could cut t
he stink up into bricks and package it.”

  As soon as he said that, one of the truck drivers farted. Ernie groaned and rolled over on his sleeping mat.

  An hour before dawn, the proprietress provided—for a small fee—towels and pans of hot water and black-market shaving equipment. After we washed up, she provided us with a complimentary bowl of rice gruel and muu maleingi, slices of dried turnip. Thus refreshed, Ernie and I started our search for the Forest of Seven Clouds.

  Or at least I thought we were going to start our search for the Forest of Seven Clouds.

  11

  Ernie balked. He’d been more than willing to come up here during our time off and take the risk of playing cat-and-mouse with the Division MPs, but he wasn’t willing to directly defy 8th Army.

  “In two hours,” he said, “we’re going to be AWOL.”

  We sat in the jeep, parked next to the wood-slat wall of the yoinsuk. In front of us, at the end of a gravel access road, the paved Tongil-lo highway, Reunification Road, sat on its earthen foundation elevated above the rice paddies that spread through the valley. A blanket of fog lay on the land. Our breath formed clouds on the windshield of the jeep.

  “You’re wrong, Ernie,” I replied. “Failure to repair. That’s the most they can slap us with.”Missing mandatory formations is punishable, but it’s not AWOL.

  Ernie looked at me as if I were out of my gourd. “Failure to repair, AWOL, either way we’re in line for an Article Fifteen. It’s now zero-six-hundred on Monday morning, Sueño, in case you forgot. We have two hours to show up for work—clean shaven, shoes shined, smiles on our chops—at the Criminal Investigation Detachment on Yongsan Compound. That’s by direct order of the Eighth United States Army provost marshal. If we leave now, and the Seoul traffic’s not too bad, we just might make it.”

  “Your shoes aren’t shined.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m not changing the subject. We go back now, they’ll never let us return to Division. The honchos will stick together and not one of them will be willing to take responsibility for making a decision that directly contradicts the 2nd Division request to have us recalled.”