The Wandering Ghost

by Martin Limon

  Ernie kept his arms crossed. “Not my lookout,” he said. “When we get back we tell them what we know. If the provost marshal sees it our way, he’ll send us back up here to finish the job.”

  “By then,” I said, “it might be too late.”

  Ernie studied me, his eyes squinted. I explained.

  Whoever had snuffed Pak Tong-i at the office of Kimchee Entertainment in Tongduchon most likely had obtained an excellent lead on the whereabouts of Corporal Jill Matthewson by stealing Pak’s file on the stripper Kim Yong-ai. Chances were good that the file contained either her new address or the location of her new job or some other information that could lead to Kim Yong-ai and, from there, to Jill Matthewson. Maybe they’d already found her. Maybe they were still looking. But after a fitful night’s sleep, an idea had come to me. I explained it to Ernie.

  “Camp Howze,” I told Ernie. “We check there. They’ll know if someone’s been looking for Jill. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  Ernie cursed but in the end he started up the jeep and, when we hit Tong-il Lo, he turned north.

  Camp Howze clung to the edge of a steep hill, overlooking the squalor of Bongil-chon. The morning fog had started to lift but the entire GI village looked raunchy and raw. Unlit neon signs advertised nightclubs: the SEXY LADY and the SOUL BROTHER and the PINK PUSSYCAT. Above the village, rows of Quonset huts perched on a craggy ridge looking down on the fertile invasion route of the Western Corridor. Other than the fur-capped guards at the gate, there seemed to be no life on Camp Howze. And no life in the ville. And no kisaeng houses.

  Two MPs manned the guard shack at the front gate. Ernie drove up to them and, as I’d instructed, turned the jeep around and kept the engine running, prepared for a quick getaway. I hopped out of the front seat.

  I flashed my CID badge to the MP but within milliseconds I’d folded it and stuck it back inside my jacket.

  “Bufford,” I told the MP. “MPI Warrant Officer from Camp Casey. He been around?”

  The MP look surprised, almost as if I’d woken him up. There wasn’t much traffic here at the main gate of Camp Howze. Only an occasional jeep or army deuce-and-a-half and no civilian traffic at all. It wasn’t allowed.

  The MP glanced back at another MP sitting at a wooden field table reading a comic book. There were a stack of alert notifications next to his elbow but they looked untouched. One of them, I figured, mentioned me and Ernie. Out here, at this sleepy little outpost, who really paid attention to such things?

  “Jonesy?” the MP asked. “You ever heard of some investigator from Casey named Bufford?”

  Jonesy looked up from the dog-eared comic. “The one with the big nose? Skinny?”

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  “He’s been living out here,” Jonesy replied, disgust filling his voice. “Him and that sidekick of his. What’s the name? Earwax?”

  “Weatherwax,” I said.

  “Yeah. He’s an arrogant asshole, too.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They always want Camp Howze MPs to do their legwork for them. They’re hunting some big important fugitive, according to them.”

  “They say who?”

  “How would I know? They don’t tell me nothing. I work the gate.”

  “Is Bufford still here?”

  The MP shrugged. “Ain’t my day to watch him.”

  I thanked the two MPs, told them to take it easy, and ran back to the jeep. Before either MP had a chance to give us much thought, Ernie and I were zooming toward Tongil-lo. After I briefed him, Ernie started honking his horn, forcing kimchee cabs to swerve out of our way. We understood now that speed was everything. And compared with the fact that Corporal Jill Matthewson was being hunted—now—by Mr. Fred Bufford and Staff Sergeant Weatherwax, our bureaucratic troubles with 8th Army really didn’t mean much.

  I only hoped we weren’t too late.

  We started our search by heading toward Seoul. I wanted to locate on my map every kisaeng house between Seoul and the DMZ and since we were closest to Seoul, it was easier to start on the southern end. However, after five minutes of driving, Ernie and I reached the dragon’s teeth, the rows of concrete monoliths that were designed to stop the North Korean communist armored divisions from invading Seoul. This marked the southernmost edge of the 2nd Division area of operations. Ahead, about a hundred yards away, stood the concrete bunker that was the Division checkpoint in the Western Corridor, manned by American MPs and Korean honbyong.

  Ernie pulled over to the side of the road. “We don’t want to go there,” he said.

  “No, we don’t.”

  He waited until the traffic cleared and performed a U-turn on Reunification Road. We were heading back north and now I knew for sure that the first kisaeng houses north of Seoul were in Byokjie. When we reached the Byokjie intersection, we turned east on the road heading toward Uijongbu. It took us about a half hour to finish mapping the few remaining kisaeng houses in the area. All of them were shuttered and closed but I was able to read their names on the signposts. None of them were called the Forest of Seven Clouds, or anything close to it.

  We returned to Tongil-lo, turned right, and continued north toward the Demilitarized Zone. After passing Bong-il Chon again, we were able to mark the positions of about a half-dozen more kisaeng houses along the road, none of which was named the Forest of Seven Clouds. We came to the turnoff for Kumchon. Kumchon is the largest town between Seoul and Munsan, and the county seat of Paju, the agricultural county through which we were now traveling. We’d reached about halfway along our planned route.

  “There must be plenty of kisaeng houses over there,” Ernie said.

  “Must be. Let’s try it.”

  To be fair, Ernie and I were using the term kisaeng very loosely. During the Yi Dynasty, girls of intelligence and beauty were taken from their families and taught the gentle arts: calligraphy, the playing of musical instruments, dancing, drumming, even how to write a form of short lyric poetry called sijo. Once trained, they were sent off to the royal or provincial courts to entertain aristocracy. Sometimes they were even transported to remote military outposts. The advantage they received over normal women was education. The disadvantage was that they were forced to leave their families and never marry; their lives were unbearably lonely. Some of the greatest Korean poetry has come from kisaeng, usually dealing with longing and loss.

  The women we were seeing in the modern, so-called kisaeng houses were, for the most part, poorly educated country girls. And their work was only one step above that of common prostitutes. Still, they were called kisaeng, women of skill, and that gave them status. A rock upon which to rebuild their pride.

  The town of Kumchon sat two kilometers west of Tongil-lo. Already we’d seen two or three signs pointing up gravel roads that led into the hills, advertising establishments with elaborate Chinese characters in their names. Characters like “dream” and “cloud” and “flower” and “palace” and “peony.” Kisaeng houses all. But not the one we were looking for.

  When we reached the outskirts of Kumchon, Ernie slowed the jeep to about five miles an hour. A two-lane road passed through the center of town. Shops framed of weathered wood lined either side of the road and farmers pushed carts laden with sacks of grain or piled high with glimmering winter cabbage. Old men in jade-colored vests and billowing white pantaloons, holding canes and wearing the traditional Korean horsehair stovepipe hat, strolled unconcerned across the road, expecting vehicular traffic to make way for their venerable personages. It did. Even impatient young truck drivers refused to honk their horns at the elderly. The entire city of Kumchon reeked of fresh produce and raw earth.

  “Like going back in time,” Ernie said.

  On the shops, handwritten signs advertised their wares: hot noodle eateries, fishmongers, silk merchants, porcelain vendors, even a little shop with a glowing acetylene torch advertising ironworks. One of the names of the shops was slashed with red Chinese characters: Kongju Miyo
ngsil. Princess Beauty Shop. It caught my eye:

  We reached the end of town which tapered off into smaller buildings and then empty lots and finally we were cruising, once again, through endless fields of fallow rice paddies. No signs for kisaeng houses out here. After about a half mile, we turned around.

  It was almost ten in the morning and I realized that Ernie and I were two hours AWOL, although I didn’t mention this to him. In fact, I tried to banish the thought from my own mind, but without much success.

  As we were driving back through Kumchon, I noticed that someone had switched on a light inside the Princess Beauty Shop.

  “Pull over,” I told Ernie.

  “Why? No kisaeng houses around here.”

  “No. But that beauty shop’s open. I want to ask some questions.”

  “What beauty shop?”

  “Never mind. Just find a place to park.”

  He did. At the edge of town near an eatery that catered to cab drivers. We chained and padlocked the jeep’s steering wheel and hoofed our way into downtown Kumchon.

  I rapped twice on the door of the Princess Beauty Shop and entered, poking my nose in first.

  “Anyonghaseiyo?” I asked. Are you at peace?

  One young woman sat in a chair with a pink cloth draped over her body, her hair in curlers, gaping at this strange creature—me— who’d just entered her world. A middle-aged woman wearing a white beautician’s smock stood behind her. In Korean, I said, “Sorry to bother you. Do you think it would be too much trouble if I use your telephone?”

  Involuntarily, both women glanced at a counter in the waiting area. On a knitted pad sat a clunky black telephone. Telephones are status symbols in Korea. Not everyone has them, not by a long shot. The phone company, which is a government monopoly, demands a costly security deposit—often well over a thousand dollars—before it will entrust anyone with phone equipment. But it figured that a going concern like the Princess Beauty Shop would have a telephone because they had to be able to make appointments with the wealthy ladies who were their clients.

  The two women sat in stunned silence. Another two women in the back room had apparently heard my voice. Both wore beautician’s smocks and peered out through a beaded curtain. Ernie entered the beauty shop and this gave the women even more to gawk at.

  I strode over to the phone saying, “I’m sorry but I have to make a call to Seoul.”

  The eldest beautician started to say something in protest, but I pulled out a five hundred won note, a little more than a buck, and laid it on the counter next to the phone. That shut her up. Pretending to ignore her, I dialed the number for the 8th Army exchange.

  Ernie strolled around the shop, smiling, studying the color photographs of beautiful women with beautiful hairdos. I stared at the photos, too. Korean women of unearthly beauty. I listened to clicking sounds and various pitches of dial tone.

  Phone systems in Korea in the seventies are primitive. Lines are easily overloaded, and it isn’t unusual to wait twenty minutes just to be able to get through to the 8th Army operator. As I waited, I watched the beauticians. The two young ones had emerged from the back room and pretended to be busy preparing their work areas. Ernie smiled at them. They smiled back. Amongst themselves they whispered.

  I held the phone slightly away from my ear, listening.

  “Muol hei?” What are they doing?”

  “The big one wants to use the phone.”

  “I can see that. What are they doing here in Kumchon?”

  “Who knows?”

  And then the clicking grew louder and suddenly, above the static, a Korean-accented woman’s voice said in English, “Eighth Army Operator Number Thirty-seven. How may I help you?”

  I gave her the number to the CID administrative office and waited. In Korean, I said to the beauticians, “Miguk kisaeng dei dei ro yogi ei wassoyo?” Does the American kisaeng sometimes come in here?

  The women’s eyes widened and they stared at one another.

  Staff Sergeant Riley’s voice came over the line.

  “Sueño?” he asked, after I’d identified myself. “Where in the hell are you?”

  “On our way to Seoul,” I said. “But first we have to pick up Corporal Matthewson.”

  “You found her?”

  “Just about.”

  “‘Just about’? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “We have a solid lead.” About as solid as a whiff of perfume in a windstorm.

  “The first sergeant has a case of the big ass,” Riley said. “So does the Eighth Army PMO.”

  “Stall’em for us, Riley. We almost have her.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that. The Second ID honchos have been teletyping messages down here like mad. Apparently, you—or somebody who looks like you—was spotted at a student demonstration in Tongduchon.”

  “Do you believe everything you hear?”

  “That’s not an answer,” Riley growled.

  “How about the ration control records? The ones that were classified?”

  “Smitty says he should have them by tonight. But what do I tell the First Shirt?”

  “No time now. Got to run. Tell them we’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  He started to say something more but, quickly, I hung up.

  I noticed that the Division hadn’t messaged 8th Army about the shooting incident at the Tongduchon Market. Nor had they mentioned the fire at the Turkey Farm. Division was being, as usual, selective in their outrage.

  I turned back to the beauticians, flashed my best smile, and bowed. “Thank you for the use of your phone.”

  The eldest woman nodded.

  One of the younger beauticians blurted out, “Ku yoja arrassoyo? ” You knew that woman?

  I didn’t like the use of the past tense but I kept my face as impassive as I could. Ernie stood still, sensing that I’d just been stunned by something the young beautician had said.

  “Of course, I knew her,” I replied.

  “Then you know what happened?”

  All the women waited for my response. They were testing me. I decided to take a chance.

  “You mean at the Forest of the Seven Clouds?”

  They all exhaled together.

  “Yes.”

  “I heard something about it. Can you explain?”

  “No. We don’t know either. All we know is that many powerful people were angry and the women who work at the Forest of the Seven Clouds haven’t been in here to have their hair done since then.”

  How long ago, I thought, but I didn’t want to show my ignorance. They might stop talking. So I said, “Can they go that long without a hairdo?”

  One of the youngest of the beauticians giggled, modestly covering her mouth with cupped fingers. “It’s only been three days,” she said.

  I grinned. “Yes. Only three days. So no one from the Forest of the Seven Clouds has been in since that time. Not even the American woman?”

  They shook their heads sadly. The youngest one piped up again. “Her hair was lovely. Gold with just a little red. And each strand so thin.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together as if caressing silk.

  “Where is the Forest of the Seven Clouds from here?” I asked.

  “Not far. Usually they take a taxi.”

  The youngest one piped up again. “Kisaeng are rich.” Another beautician elbowed her to be quiet. The young one pouted.

  I bowed once again to the women. “Thank you so much for your help.”

  On our way out, Ernie grinned and saluted them. They waved back, the youngest beautician saying, “Bye-bye.”

  We were halfway back to the jeep when Ernie asked, “What’d they say?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  An empty kimchee cab was cruising down the road toward us. I waved him down. When I opened the door and started asking him questions, his face drooped in disappointment. Obviously, he thought that Ernie and I were two GIs stranded far from our compound and a fat fare was in the offer
ing. When I asked him for the location of the Forest of the Seven Clouds the disappointment on his face became more profound. He wasn’t working us for a tip. Most Koreans, especially those who live in the countryside, don’t think that way. They’re not born to hustle. They’re born to be polite. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a one thousand won note. Two bucks. He shook his head. Not necessary, he told me.

  Then he explained that the Forest of the Seven Clouds was one of the highest-class kisaeng houses in the entire Paju County region. It was situated by itself on the side of a hill overlooking the valley. He pulled out a pad of brown pulp paper and a pen and sketched a quick map for me. I took the map and thanked him and tried once again to offer the thousand won note. Again, he refused. I told him that his time was valuable and so was his information and asked him not to embarrass me by not accepting my gift.

  Reluctantly, the young man pocketed the money.

  The narrow road was bordered by rice paddies. The fog had lifted but no sun came out, only a cold gray overcast that shrouded the world. We were traveling east. A few farm families pushing wooden carts were traveling west, pushing their wares toward the markets of Kumchon.

  I studied the cab driver’s map. The roads were clear enough but his handwriting was difficult for a foreigner like me to make out. We came to an intersection. Ernie slowed. The signpost pointed off to the right toward the village of Chuk-hyon. The map, although indecipherable by itself, clearly showed the same name, now that I knew what I was looking for. We turned right. After a hundred yards, the road curved left, up towards hills, and then we were rising rapidly.

  As we rounded a bend in the road, off in the valley below, three white cranes rose from the muck and winged their way gently into the dark sky.

  Just the fact that the Forest of the Seven Clouds was so far from Seoul made it more high class. In order to have the time to drive all the way out here, you had to be a powerful boss who didn’t worry about punching the clock.

  The remoteness also had another advantage, at least from Jill Matthewson’s point of view. There were no American military compounds within miles. And I’d be willing to bet that they’d never seen a GI up here in the entire history of their establishment, with—I was hoping—the possible exception of Corporal Matthewson.