Das Road, Page 2

  Actually, even the ‘old’ section of Choon Chun is fairly new, as the entire city was leveled during the war and has subsequently been rebuilt. We get out at Mr. Jong’s place. Unlocking the gate, he leads me through the tiny courtyard and into the house. I take off my shoes at the door.

  Mr. Jong’s wife approaches. She has the faded beauty so many Korean women develop after they marry. She appears to be about 35 and is several months pregnant.

  “I am sorry because our house is so poor,” she says by way of greeting.

  “Not at all,” I reply with ritual politeness, “I can’t begin to say how nice it is.”

  There is no introduction of her by Mr. Jong. The wife appears strictly in the role of servant. This is correct etiquette, however odd it strikes Western sensibilities.

  Anyway, who knows what really goes on in this house? Maybe Mr. Jong got the hell knocked out of him every night. But for now, he is lord of the fiefdom. The wife brings us into a side room and indicates cushions on the floor beside a low table. After a brief interlude, she returns with a dish of sliced pears.

  “I have two children, and, as you can see, another is on the way,” Mr. Jong says after his wife leaves. “It must be the electricity in this part of town. It keeps going off so ...”

  He makes an expansive gesture in front of his abdomen and laughs, showing a couple of gold teeth.

  “The government says to stop at two, but that isn’t always possible!” he says.

  I grin to cover my discomfort.

  Considering the short notice, the wife has prepared a fine meal. She brings in metal bowls of anchovy soup and an excellent selection of pan chan – dried seaweed, fish, tubu, kimchee, even some oysters. And rice, of course. Then she leaves us men folk to ourselves.

  Two small children, a boy of about four and a girl a year or so older, appear at the doorway. Curiosity overcoming his fear, the boy enters. Mr. Jong cuddles him.

  The little boy points a finger at me and says, “Mi gook saram.” American.

  “Kurochi!” I say. So it is!

  I open my blue eyes wide and lay a finger alongside my nose to indicate its immense size – by Korean standards, anyway. The boy digs tiny fists into his eyes and cringes, to the great amusement of his father.

  “What is your name?” I ask.

  The boy braves up enough to answer, “Kyung Soo.”

  He is almost too cute to be real.

  “Maybe I will have another son,” Mr. Jong says. “My wife dreamed about a big carp leaping out of the water. This is a good omen.”

  Right. As a Korean proverb states: “Riches, honor, many sons. Poverty, lowliness, many daughters.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask the little girl hovering by the door.

  She stares at me with something approaching terror. She backs away and is quickly gone.

  After enjoying our leisurely meal, we, too, are gone.

  I am in a good mood as we stride into the sool chip, but a little apprehensive, too. How well do I know Mr. Jong, anyway? Korean men can be fierce drinkers, I know from experience, and can be very unpleasant when drunk.

  The teachers at my school, with whom I’ve been out drinking occasionally, seem to have entire souls full of anguish and frustration to wring out. They can really get blasted, drinking to forget whatever was painful in their lives. They place no premium on ‘holding one’s liquor.”

  Another Oriental proverb comes to mind: “You can go out drinking with twenty friends and find yourself surrounded by twenty enemies.”

  Put another way, how long does it take a room full of angry Koreans to turn on the only white guy? Well, it’s too late now for such considerations.

  The outer area of the wine house contains the cheap seats for the all-male clientele. Numerous tables constructed from upended oil drums crowd the room. Braziers fitted in the tops sizzle with mounds of tripe or tak kalbi marinated chicken ribs. Smoke wafts up little chutes above each table, some of it escaping to create a murky atmosphere.

  Two ROK, Republic of Korea soldiers, sit on stools at one of these tables. Poor, burdened with their country’s defense, they seem to symbolize common soldiers everywhere. Their crisp, green, American-style uniforms contrast with their gloomy faces. Each wears a plastic name tag with English and Korean script. One is called Kim, S. C. and the other Li, J. H. Although a young man, Kim, S.C. has many gray strands mixed into his short, bristly hair.

  Paper lattice doors divide this main area from a the small side rooms where better-heeled patrons cavort with the wine house yojas. A matron leads us into one of these rooms where two girls await.

  “You’re back!” the girls cry.

  I’ve never been here before and do not recognize them, but they are too pretty to disagree with.

  “Nice to see you again,” I say.

  ***

  So, the night moves on pleasantly. Booze, food, female companionship. What else matters?

  I recline luxuriously on the floor and drain my cup of makoli ‘rice wine.’ It tastes horrible, synthetic – the government-mandated concoction that substitutes God knows what chemicals for the natural ingredients. Have to conserve rice, the official line goes.

  Too much of this stuff will blow off the top of your skull and give you a memorable case of the runs.

  Munchies clutter the low table – octopus, sea slug, tripe smothered in hot sauce – stuff I could never imagine eating back home. All delicious. I feel contented for the first time in many days.

  Yun Hee recedes into an alcoholic mist. She remains there even while the girl sitting next to me sings a traditional song of love gone awry:

  “... although Kapsun’s heart was only for Kapdol,

  on the surface she pretended it wasn’t so!” etc.

  The girl has a beautiful, clear voice. With one hand she beats metal chopsticks against the table edge in time to the music. With the other hand she discreetly massages my crotch, kind of beating my chopstick, too. Mr. Jong sits red-faced across the table with the other girl, singing along lustily and out of tune.

  My girl finishes singing to appreciative applause. In her traditional hanbok with its puffy red skirt, white top and flowing bow, she seems like some magical confection waiting to be devoured. Light rouge accents her perfect skin, and her tied back hair – jet black – frames a face so pretty it should be illegal.

  Mr. Jong thrusts the wine kettle toward me and pours unsteadily. My cup fills to the brim as the last contents dribble from the kettle. The girls applaud.

  “A good omen!” Mr. Jong cries in blurred English. “You’re going to have a son!”

  “But I’m not married,” I say.

  “All the better!”

  It is my turn to sing. I bellow out a morose Korean song about a guy pondering his distant hometown and lost youth. At least it is easy to sing.

  Enthusiastic applause.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” I say.

  It is one of those transcendent moments when you feel like you are a true citizen of Oori Nara. Then I happen to glance at a mirror angled down from the wall. In the middle of the group of Asians gleams a pale white face. Things immediately jerk back into perspective.

  Another kettle of makoli arrives and I fill Mr. Jong’s cup. I catch a glimpse of his eyes and detect a flicker of anger there.

  A warning sign. The booze is melting his inhibitions and some bogeyman penned inside him is aching to bust out. I should be planning my exit, before things have a chance to turn ugly. But my girl is prodding me.

  “Sing another song, please,” she says. “You have such a manly voice!”

  I look away from Mr. Jong’s livid face. Through my makoli buzz, the girl beside me glows with heavenly radiance. Her lovely brown eyes, her little mouth, curving up just the right amount. She is every beautiful Korean yoja rolled into one. She is the perfect woman I was supposed to be taking back to the States.

  “I love you,” I whisper in English.

  “Eh?”


  “Nothing, nothing at all.”

  I begin a rendition of the old Confederate army song, Goober Peas. While I am singing, Mr. Jong begins manhandling the girl next to him, grabbing her breasts and attempting to kiss her roughly. She fights him off and stands up.

  “Godammit!” Mr. Jong cries in English.

  My song trails off. Mr. Jong’s girl flings open the paper door and stalks away.

  “Your friend is very drunk,” my girl says.

  “God damn!” Mr. Jong says, his face a snarling beet. “Fucking CIA! Fucking Peace Corps!”

  Oh no, not the old CIA routine again. Often I’ve heard the ridiculous story that Peace Corps Volunteers are actually spies. Well, if I’ve somehow been spying this past year, then somebody owes me back pay.

  One thing is obvious, though, I have a mean drunk on my hands.

  “Yobo seyo, look here,” my girl says. “Why not take your friend home and then come back for me? We can go to a yogwan. You want that?”

  I feign ignorance.

  “A yogwan, why?” I ask innocently.

  “Ai!” She squeezes my crotch.

  “Okay!” I yelp.

  I look over at Mr. Jong, hesitant to say anything that might anger him further.

  “Mr. Jong,” I say, “shall we leave?”

  “What you say?” He demands in English.

  “We should be going, your wife must be waiting.”

  “Fuck!”

  Big mistake. Mention of his wife enrages Jong further. He hurls an ashtray at my girl. Just in time, she throws up a hand to protect her head. A cloud of cigarette ash pollutes the air.

  Her lovely face turns ferocious. “Crazy S.O.B!”

  I intervene quickly, helping Mr. Jong to his feet while pinioning his throwing arm at the same time. I want to break it for him. With his free hand, he withdraws some bills from his pocket and flings them on the table.

  “Godammit!” he says.

  The sight of the money placates the girl. She becomes pleasant again and even escorts us out. The main room has largely emptied with only a few drinkers remaining to observe our inglorious departure.

  At the door, Mr. Jong breaks from my grip and reels out into the darkness. Before I can follow, the girl seizes my hand.

  “You’re coming back?” she says.

  “Yes, yes, in a little while.”

  It is a twenty minute walk to Mr. Jong’s house, every step a bitter struggle. Twice he attempts to dash in front of traffic and I have to drag him back to the sidewalk. His language reels from profane English and Korean to maudlin statements like: “You-me, America-Korea, same-same!”

  I feel like a fool. Pedestrians gape at the disgraceful spectacle. I don’t dare hail a taxi for fear that Mr. Jong will begin a row with the driver. I’m usually pretty good at locating places, but since I am fairly drunk himself, I stand only a problematical chance of finding the house again. Mr. Jong is too far gone to provide directions.

  Thank God, after only a single wrong turn, I bring us to the same gate from which we’d departed in such high spirits a few hours before. Jong sags against me, semi passed out. I am preparing to ring the bell and dump him when the wife opens the gate of her own accord.

  “Please come in,” she says.

  Mr. Jong struggles back to life. “Fucking CIA!”

  I don’t want to subject the poor woman to the indignity of wrestling with her husband in the street, so I tighten my aching fingers on Jong’s arm and bring him into the courtyard.

  “I am sorry, I am sorry,” the wife keeps saying. “This is such an inconvenience for you.”

  “It’s all right,” I say lamely.

  With a furious yank, Mr. Jong breaks my grasp, unzips his fly, and begins to urinate indiscriminately as he staggers around the courtyard. I dodge a fire hose of piss. The poor humiliated wife bears this further outrage stoically.

  I retreat toward the gate. I feel huge, awkward. Nobody back home would say I am a particularly large person, but in this tiny courtyard, I feel oversized. I stumble into the street and flee.

  “Thank God that’s over!”

  I gulp in cool night air like a drowning man breaking the surface. Well, Mr. Jong is definitely off my Christmas card list. Mom said that her father was like this, too – okay until he got drunk. He left the state after Grandma filed for divorce and I’d never met him, although he died only a few years ago.

  It is well past 11:00. At midnight the police will begin picking up curfew violators. I quicken my steps, propelled by lust for the wine house girl.

  She meets me on the street outside the wine house. She wears a battered coat over her hanbok and carries a small bag.

  “Yobo seyo,” she says. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

  She takes my arm.

  4: A Day of Desultory

  “Well, a man makes many mistakes in his lifetime.” – Nikita Khrushchev, Khrushchev Remembers, the Glasnost Tapes

  The massive bell of some Buddhist temple reverberates, heralding the dawn of another day in this world of pain and rebirth. The hermit monk who lives in a cave on Bong Yi San mountain begins his mad howling.

  Lying on the yogwan room floor, wrapped in the yo and ibul, I wonder if these sounds really exist or are merely a personal symphony echoing around my mind. Weary ROKs, who have spent the night hunting North Korean infiltrators in the mountains, will be stretching themselves and watching for the sun.

  The paper lattice door slides open. The wine house girl reenters and slips back under the covers.

  Another night, another whore. This is it?

  I fumble in my shoulder bag for cigarettes and discover that my condom supply remains untouched in its box. Idiot! Too drunk and befuddled to roll one on, eh? And now an almost guaranteed dose of VD.

  A wonderful going away present! Hopefully, it will be nothing worse than ‘nonspecific urethritis’ which can be easily cured. With less luck, gonorrhea or maybe even the Big Syph. I smoke a cigarette, silently cursing myself. The girl is sleeping by the time I finish.

  I am too agitated to drop off, so I withdraw a blue felt-tip pen from my bag. Until recently I’d used it to check student papers. I pull back the covers. The girl is lying on her back and stirs a bit at the sudden exposure. Her body looks soft and inviting in the dim light – very petite with firm little breasts and full hips – just like Yun Hee’s.

  Not that I’d ever seen Yun Hee naked. She’d made it abundantly clear that the ‘big event’ would have to wait until after she was married. That was frustrating, to say the least. I wonder what it would have been like to pull the covers off her some morning and realize that she was there just for me.

  I glide the felt tip over the wine house girl, and she startles half awake. I draw lazy spirals around her nipples, then join them at the solar plexus. She squirms and giggles. I arrive at her navel and draw another spiral. Then arrows pointing south toward the short pubic hairs.

  I etch a quote from Li Po on her inner thigh:

  All I want is to be drunk forever

  On her other thigh, I write a companion verse:

  Only the great drinkers immortalize their fame.

  I’d done this with other whores, back before meeting Yun Hee, and it had been fun, erotic even. Now it has gotten old. I feel old myself. I toss the pen aside. The girl seems to have enjoyed it, though.

  “You’re even more fun than last time!” she giggles and pulls me on top for another ride.

  To hell with the condoms; too late for them anyway. The ink smears over our skins.

  Afterwards she says, “You must give me 500 won for a bath. I can’t go around like this.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  I can afford an extra 500 won – about one American dollar – even though it is far above the going bath house rate. My frustrated energies spent, I cover up beside the girl.

  So, my journey to the Orient is almost over – this roller coaster ride of thrills and disappointments. I
drop off to a dreamy half sleep and envision the middle-class American suburb to which I am returning. It rolls up to my mind’s eye like some large, insipid billboard on wheels illustrated with daisies, uniform houses, and blue sky.

  Life will be safe and steady, no longer the unpredictable struggle it is here. I’ll do ordinary American things, visit typical places and never see an exotic nook of creation again. I’ll become just another person slumped behind the wheel of an automobile, following a career track towards old age. The ibul presses down with suffocating weight, and I shove it off myself.

  I’ll miss Oori Nara – miss it already. Here, even when you feel lousy, at least you know you’re alive.

  A couple of hours later I am on my way. The girl seems interested in going with me, but I don’t want her company. She is so lovely that I’ll start fantasizing about her, developing foolishly romantic ideas. Our ‘relationship’ is a trashy, futureless thing, however, so I wander off alone.

  I walk to the lower slopes of Bong Yi San at the edge of town and breakfast at the King Sejong tourist hotel. At one time the hotel’s scrambled eggs, bacon, and muffins seemed an incredible luxury, now they are just a harbinger of things to come. I peer out toward the American helicopter base along the river past the city outskirts. Lethal machines hover like dragon flies, too far off for their engines to be heard.

  Then I move down the slopes and half way across town for a stroll through the market street. Crowds of women, many with children tied to their backs, shop the food stalls and carts. A sudden fear grips me that I might bump into Mr. Jong’s wife, and I keep a sharp lookout to avoid an embarrassing encounter.

  A blind beggar man, led by a little girl, plays a bamboo flute. I follow them briefly through the crowds, enchanted by his complex little tune. A young Buddhist monk in gray robe and shaved head is having a miserable time chanting and banging a wooden jingle bell at shop entrances, begging for alms. The shopkeepers make their irritation known.

  Savory odors fill the air around street vendors who are cooking potatoes and clams. A less pleasant fragrance attends the steamed snail vendor. A positive stink wafts from a cart selling cooked silk worm pupae. I’ve never mustered the nerve to eat one of those.

  Bob West, a PCV friend, once described the experience as, “biting into a fried pimple.”

  I determine to soak up as many impressions as possible. The Pentax helps. I carry it in one hand discreetly covered by my shoulder bag, pulling it out to snap a picture, then hiding it away again. The camera feels almost like an extension of my own body.