I reach the top of Namsan, and the winds carry to me a premonition that my days are about to change in some wondrous way. I call Jee Yeon, whose voice, whispered, serene, is always a restorative. I don’t say much, and neither does she, but it feels like enough for both of us.
32
Early April 1998
When I go to pick her up, Jee Yeon hurries out to meet me at the front gate, closing the heavy iron doors behind her. Beyond the gate, I glimpse a large, manicured garden, bonsai and cherry blossom trees, a front yard of enchantment, I imagine, and, higher up, a brick mansion, a rare sight in apartment-dense Seoul. A large Taegukgi, with the familiar red-blue yin and yang symbol, flutters in the wind.
I’m relieved not to face Chairman Chung again, but I wonder briefly if she’s embarrassed to put me in front of her parents. It takes me a minute to realize it’s the opposite.
“Embarrassed to show me your palace?” I say.
“Anyoung to you, too,” she says, with a smile.
A garage door opens with a groan, and a shiny, black Chairman rolls out. The driver slides down the tinted glass window, asks, “Where to, Agassi?”
“Anyo, Ajussi, that’s okay,” she says, walking hurriedly past the sedan. “We’ll just walk.” She hooks her arm through mine and, as if lifting some of the heaviness I carry around, marches me forward in light steps.
“Looks like a nice car,” I say, unable to resist. “Be a hell of a lot more comfy than one of those grubby taxis.”
She pretends to ignore me.
“You know, denying your wealth is as silly as someone denying their poverty. You can’t hide who you are. Besides, I don’t care about that stuff.”
“Well, it’s not who I am,” she says, in her usual quiet voice but with a firmness I’m not used to. “All that . . . that’s Appa’s. And soon to be Oppa’s. Not mine.”
“So, where,” I say, changing the topic, “is this great stargazer?”
“In Miari. Short cab ride, if not too much traffic.”
“Maybe we should take the bus. If we want to really do the proletarian thing.” I get a laugh out of her. “Or ride bicycles there . . .”
“All right, all right,” she says, hailing down a taxi.
In the taxi, she leans her head on my shoulder. “What’s going to happen to your friend Hyun Suk?” she says. “And Ilsung?”
“I don’t know what’s in his stars,” I say. “A chaebol without a company . . .” Better, I think, than a man without a country. “Going to visit him tomorrow. At the detention center.”
“Poor your friend,” she says and leaves it there. She and I both know the rest is up to me.
I roll down the window to get some air.
By the time we reach Miari, it’s gotten dark. Under a rising amber moon, we walk around trying to find the place. We come to a run-down storefront with a placard on the door that says, in Chinese characters, CHULHAGWON. Literally, place of study of light, more commonly known as philosophy.
We open the door to a small room, and there is a man in his fifties, his long, white hair tied in a ponytail, sitting on the floor behind a low wooden desk. As if expecting us, he motions for us to sit. We sit on two red cushions on the floor in front of the desk. We tell him we’re here to have our koonghap rendered.
The philosopher slides his horn-rim glasses down the nose and studies us, one, then the other. He asks for our vitals, on lunar calendar, as Jee Yeon had predicted. He wrinkles his nose when I tell him I don’t know the hour of my birth.
The philosopher opens a thick, yellowed book, and the dust of centuries of wisdom floats up from it. He says, without looking up, “Western-educated?”
I nod.
“They’ve studied same thing in West through the ages,” he says. “I don’t mean astrology, horoscopes, I mean astronomy. ‘Star regulating’ in Greek. Greeks, then Romans, studied the stars and heavens to divine their future. It’s all related.” He brings his hands together, locks the fingers. “It’s in Dante and Shakespeare. West, East. Same study.
“Of course, Western philosophers thought life moved linearly. That’s why they focus, wrongly, on years, numbering them sequentially. The reality is, our lives go in cycles, like phases of the moon. The day, the months, the seasons, all go around and come back again. Life is a cycle.”
The seer consults the charts in his book, traces our positions in them, his long forefinger a divining rod.
“You have to see the patterns based on what’s happened before, over the centuries. Understand your position relative to the movements of celestial objects, the moon and the stars. Your fate is all there in the heavens.”
He furrows his brow. “Your stars show there is too much shadow, not enough light,” he says to me. “You have faced a great struggle. You have lost . . . a close friend.” He watches me for a reaction. “Or rather, you will lose a relative.” He sees me flinch and says, “A very close family member. Your mother.”
I tilt my head skeptically. And he quickly adds, “Or your father.”
Turning to Jee Yeon, he says, “You fight your stars. You fought them. But they’re moving . . . moving toward you. Your fire energy used to be excessive, but now is coming more into balance with your water. Now you accept.”
She listens impassively.
“In the old days, because of your fire-water imbalance, you might have had problems with your uterus. Now, you will be able to conceive. I see . . . a son.”
Enough of our saju, Jee Yeon says. “What of our compatibility?”
The philosopher-seer flips pages back and forth. “Strangely enough, your stars line up. Your own imbalances are compensated by the other’s. Your fire energy mixes well with his earth energy. You each have your, ah, issues, but together, you overcome them.”
He looks up. “I see harmony in your union. You are . . . a felicitous match.”
Before he can elaborate, I thank him and give a vigorous bow. I put down a few bills on the desk, and I take Jee Yeon’s hand and rush out the door.
We’ve barely reached the alleyway outside when we burst out laughing. Our laughter comes back down the alleyway as the sound of applause. We feel a release, a liberation of some momentous sort, and, like a ripe peach splitting, an opening of possibilities before us.
“That’s it then,” I say when I catch my breath. “Our union is blessed by the heavens. Felicitous.”
“It’s meant to be,” she says. “I can tell my parents.”
“Just out of curiosity, what would you have done if the reading hadn’t been auspicious?”
“Taken us to the next star reader. And then the next.”
I can only smile.
We walk in quiet for a few blocks.
“The moon and the stars are lining up for us,” I say. “I think that’s what they call destiny.”
“Our destiny, Dae Joon-ssi.”
“You know, if you like, we could just leave.” I turn to look at her. “My work here is over. Sovereign bond done deal, M&A deal, well, gone. We could go to Germany.”
“Deutschland,” she says, rolling the name around her tongue like a satang, hard candy.
“Always wanted to go. Can always come back here in the future, of course.”
“We could do that,” she says. And she takes my hand in hers.
The rapturous cry of an infant from above pierces the quiet of the alley. Under the iridescent moonlight, in the rippling beauty of Jee Yeon’s eyes, the ghosts of the past are extinguished, the superstitions, even the curse, lifted, and the promise of a future with its hopes and dreams is given miraculous birth.
33
April 1998
The detention center where they house Wayne is in Uiwang, an hour southwest of Seoul. It has the barbed wire outside and the bare cinder-block walls you’d expect. A buzz, a release-opened door, and a bare room with a desk and two chairs. There’s a guard, his face a gargoyle, sitting in the back, taking notes.
Wayne comes in and gives me a wan smile. His
hair is unmoussed, his face unshaven. He wears a tan inmate uniform that looks large on him.
Before I can ask, Wayne says, “Holding up fine, pardner.”
Usually when I’m with wealthy people, even Jee Yeon, I feel guilt in the air, but I’ve never felt that way with Wayne. He knew wealth was his lot, and he was comfortable with it and trying to tend it and grow it. But now he’s different. His corporate kingdom gone, his Sil dismantled, Wayne seems lost. I don’t see disappointment or anger in his face. What I see is confusion. It wasn’t meant to be this way. His belief in the universe has been shaken to its core.
“Food okay?” I hardly know what else to ask.
“Vegetables and rice,” he says. “Barley rice. Temple food. Like the North Koreans. Good way to lose weight.” He pats his flattened stomach. He offers, “Sorry about Thunderball.”
Words catch in my throat. I’ve been racked with the thought that my T-ball gambit with the Germans started the chain of events that landed Wayne here, in jail. His misplaced apology is an accidentally sprouted dandelion in a weed garden of secrets and lies.
“At least I didn’t blow a real million in a squash match,” I manage to say. “They treating you okay, otherwise?”
“Guards leave me alone. Other people here, well, this is white-collar detention, so I know many of them.” He finds this amusing. “One thing in here, you have a lot of time.”
“You doing any painting?’ I say.
He shakes his head. “They don’t let me. Art is apparently not a good statement of repentance. Warden said this is not a resort. You’re not here on vacation.”
I shake my head.
“I have time to think,” he says. “I meditate a lot.”
I wait for more, a revelation of some realization he’s made, a hint of regret perhaps. But none is forthcoming. That wouldn’t be Wayne.
“So. Been on any dates?” he says, brightening. “Some hot new talent?”
“Actually, I’ve been seeing someone,” I say. “She’s a musician, a cellist.”
“Is it serious?” He lifts his eyebrows. “Meet her parents yet?”
“Yeah. Her father’s kind of scary.”
“Sounds pretty serious.”
“It is. She brings out something in me. Think the good part.”
“Just make sure she brings out the Hanguk nom in you.”
“We’re making . . . plans. Actually, I think you know her. She knows you.”
“Small society.” He’s used to people knowing him. “Let’s hope I get out in time for the wedding.”
Wayne has been indicted for embezzlement, bribery, and tax evasion. And the General Prosecutor’s Office has added perjury to his list of felonies. He’s now in a liminal state, waiting for his next incarnation as he awaits trial. If convicted, he faces up to seven years in prison, although chaebol chieftains often have their sentences commuted, supposedly for the good of the economy.
“Heard you hired Chang & Kim,” I say.
“Yeah, best law firm money can buy. But I’m not intending to fight.”
“You’re cooperating?”
“I don’t see how Abuji could survive prison, at his age,” he says, by way of explanation. “One of us has to go. My lawyers say I play the ball, they go easy on the old man.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard Wayne refer to the chairman as his abuji. Wayne sounds like he’s made up his mind to fall on the sword, for his father.
“But surely you could contest some of the charges?”
Wayne looks at the guard, then lowers his voice. “They’ve got a lot of shit on us. The dirty dry cleaning.” He adds, “From Dongseng.”
“Kane?” I say. His younger brother blew the whistle? He must have turned state’s witness.
“He sold Ajussi up the river,” Wayne says.
Almighty No. 2 down, just like that. “The pressure must’ve gotten to Kane—”
“You don’t understand. He’d planned it.” He sees incomprehension on my face. “It was his revenge. Getting back at me. For getting the throne. At Abuji, too.”
“Hard to believe . . . your little brother could do that.”
“He claimed he wanted to clean up the group, to start a new Ilsung.” He shakes his head. “Of course, he just wanted it for himself. Ttolai had no idea what kind of trouble we were in—real trouble, I mean. The financial mess. He thought with me out of the way, he’d be crowned king and inherit the group as it was. Well, après moi, le deluge.
“Worst part is Abuji,” he continues. “After all Abuji has done for him, for us . . .”
Wayne looks defeated. I don’t know if he has true remorse for what he did or whether he even did what he’s charged with. I sense he thinks it all unfair, his getting singled out for punishment when all the chaebol heads do the same deeds, have done it for years. What hurts is Kane’s betrayal. His father must have felt it, too. Is there a deeper cut than defeat by your own flesh and blood? Family betrayal, that’s against the order of the universe.
“Abuji collapsed when he found out,” he says. “I hear he’s stopped eating since he learned I’m preparing to go serve time.” He sounds broken.
I take a deep breath, say, “I have something to tell you, too.”
Wayne looks up at me. His face is not one that can bear more pain. But he needs to know, and he deserves to hear it from me. And I need to tell him.
“Thunderball . . . it may not be what it seemed,” I say. “The truth is, I led Daimler astray, when they had serious interest. I . . . I blew up the deal.” Is it another form of selfishness, I wonder, to confess to someone to alleviate your own conscience? My confession is a thief, taking away more than it gives.
“How?” He looks confused. “Why would you do that?”
“I let Daimler and the other buyers know about the contingent liabilities and made jobs guarantee a closing condition. I went against your interests, I did wrong by you as a client and a friend, and by my firm. To do what I thought was right.”
“Which was?”
“To save lives. Thousands of workers would have been out on the street. So I did what I could to make sure that didn’t happen.”
All Wayne says is, “I should’ve known. Ever the idealist. Champion of the people.”
“I’m sorry . . . Truly sorry.”
He closes his eyes. “So did it? Save jobs?”
“I think so. We don’t know what will happen with the creditors and the court receiver. But I like to think I’ve given the workers a fighting chance.” I leave out and free from chaebol oppression.
A heavy quiet hangs between us.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” he says, sighing. “Even if Daimler had moved ahead, who knows if the deal would have gone through. Or if T-ball would have saved the group, overcoming . . . all the other stuff.”
Wayne’s charity makes it worse. Anger is easier than understanding; it’s a shelter you can hide in. I expected, maybe even wanted, him to explode in anger and hurt, to condemn me as the worst kind of human being, one who turns on a friend. I certainly deserve it. But in his quiet forgiveness, he’s left it to me to forge my own peace.
In the waning late afternoon light, Wayne looks emaciated. His tan shirt hangs too loosely on his shrunken frame. “You should make sure to eat,” I tell him. “Keep up your strength.”
“Interferes with my meditation. I’m trying to dissolve space into light.” He smiles weakly. “Before entering the next stage.”
I’ve read about the self-mummifying Buddhist monks. To ensure passage to the next bardo, the monk would lock himself in a small stone tomb underground, where, sitting in the lotus position, he would meditate and recite mantras. His only connection with the outside world was a bamboo tube, through which he’d breathe. It typically took a thousand days for the monk to attain the goal of bodily desiccation, which disassociated his soul from physical body. This would allow it to travel toward a blissful reincarnation.
Five more minutes, says the guard.
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“Crazy thing in all this?” Wayne says. “I didn’t even want to be Ilsung chairman.” He runs his hands through his hair, an old habit. “I never asked for this. I was just doing my duty as jangnam.”
The shared fate of first sons in Korean families. A right of birth that somewhere along the line turns into a duty that, in turn, becomes the burden of a lifetime. So much weight, too much weight; some of us learning to accept and bear it, others getting crushed under it.
“You’re a good son,” I say.
“Not good enough,” he says. “How’s your buchin?”
“Abuji’s in the hospital, too. I’m going back to New Jersey tomorrow. He may not have much time left.”
“Anything I can do to help?” he says reflexively, and we both find ourselves laughing at the absurdity and sadness of his offer, though his laugh is without the trademark peals of thunder.
“I want to spend his last days with him,” I say.
“You’re a good son, too. A hyoja . . . Isn’t it strange to think we’re going to be fatherless someday?”
My breath stops. Fatherless. The Earth falls away under my feet. To be a son without a father. Alone. Lost. Terror. Eternity.
I agree it is, strange, and sad. And I leave him with a fierce, wordless hug.
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