Festival for Three Thousand Women

by Richard Wiley

  As Bobby looked at the woman’s photograph he could see the hills beyond it, and he imagined the sea beyond the hills and America over there, somewhere beyond the sea. God, what a night this had been. At the funerals of his parents he had marched carefully past their caskets, head bowed, tears welling in his eyes. That was the way funerals were supposed to be anywhere in the world, any fool knew that. Yet tonight he had gotten drunk and sung unconnected songs, and now he was stuck with this goddamn photograph, staring at him from the bridge railing like the photograph of a judge. He should have taken it back but now it was too late. He had felt like an outcast in America to be sure, but what did he feel here, standing drunkenly in the market like he was?

  The Goma tried to take his hand, but when Bobby pulled away he stood back, content to wait for a sign that Bobby was tired and finally ready to go home.

  Gathering Together

  Nine in the second place means: If one is sincere it furthers one to bring even a small offering.

  The Monday after the funeral Bobby went to school tentatively, the woman’s photograph in a paper sack next to his lunch. Headmaster Kim was in his office and the teachers were in the teachers’ room when he arrived, so he went directly to the headmaster’s door and knocked.

  “Enter,” said Headmaster Kim.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Bobby. “The photograph of your uncle’s wife’s cousin is in this sack.”

  Headmaster Kim did not look up, but since Bobby had devoted most of his Sunday to learning his lines for this encounter, he knew they were correct.

  “Pardon me?” said the headmaster.

  “The photograph of your uncle’s wife’s cousin is in this sack.”

  Although the words were right, the headmaster wasn’t understanding. Bobby had practiced this sentence dozens of times on the Goma. What was the problem, then, with the headmaster?

  Bobby removed his lunch and laid the sack on the desk, bowing so that the headmaster would think he was contrite.

  “Oh,” said Headmaster Kim. “Thank you very much.”

  He took the sack but did not open it, and Bobby realized that the headmaster thought it was a gift Bobby’d brought with him from America. Bobby bowed again and walked back into the teachers’ room where the morning meeting was about to begin. Were some of the teachers looking at him strangely? Were these the teachers who had been at the funeral and were they now telling the others what he’d done? Was stealing a dead woman’s photo some sort of sacrilege at a Confucian funeral? Bobby wished he were back in training where there were people who could answer questions such as these. He wished he hadn’t taken the photograph, of course, and he wished he knew why he had. But when the meeting began he sat down at his desk, losing himself in the drone of language, letting it take him and letting it lessen the already abating feeling that he’d gotten off on the wrong foot.

  The official name of the school was Taechon Boys’ Middle School and, though it was essentially a nonacademic school—students here ended their education after ninth grade—there were three English teachers besides Bobby: Mr. Soh, Mr. Nam, and Mr. Kwak. Of the three, Mr. Soh appeared to be the only one who spoke decent English. Mr. Nam, however, would not admit that his English was bad, and Mr. Kwak seemed so embarrassed by the fact that he spoke so poorly that he would have nothing to do with Bobby, whose desk, in the teachers’ room, was beside his own. Bobby’s desk was at the edge of the English department, and the desk to his left marked the beginning of the physical education department, which had two teachers: Mr. Lee and Miss Lee. Miss Lee was the only woman on the faculty and Mr. Lee was its youngest man. He was a martial arts expert whose nickname was Judo Lee, and he seemed intent on becoming Bobby’s friend.

  At the far end of the teachers’ room was a chalkboard with room and teaching assignments printed on it. Bobby could see his name, carefully written at the bottom of the board, and it was clear that he had the easiest teaching load. Where the others taught on Saturday mornings, he was free. Where the others had few breaks during the day, his schedule showed that he had an easy time of it, with breaks in the morning and in the afternoon. Mr. Nam, the English teacher who sat across from him, seemed offended by his easy schedule. “Look, what an easy day!” he said, every morning for the first week. He pointed at the chalkboard and leaned down over Bobby’s desk when he said it, so there was no possibility of misunderstanding what he meant.

  Every morning the faculty of Taechon Boys’ Middle School had a long meeting. Headmaster Kim rarely came, leaving the vice-headmaster in charge, and the speeches given by one faculty member or another were long. Bobby understood little of what went on, so when the bell rang he was glad to be able to pad in his slippers (all the teachers checked their shoes at the front door) down the slick hallways, heading for his first class. His room was next to Mr. Soh’s, and when they walked together Mr. Soh would often speak kindly to him, recognizing the difficulty of his adjustment and doing what he could to relieve it.

  When Bobby entered his first class each day the student monitor would shout and everyone would jump to attention.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bobby,” they would say, and he would then pace about, dividing the room for dialogues and having them repeat the little dramas from their tired old books. English, English, English. It was totally useless to them, one and all.

  All the same, the students were wonderful. Bobby was formal with them, calling them Mr. This and Mr. That and differentiating between the various Kims and Lees and Paks by the use of some kind of descriptive adjective: the handsome Mr. Kim, the baseball-playing Mr. Pak, the missing-tooth Mr. Lee. When he called on them they would stand and smile and struggle, putting as much heart into their English as they had and showboating for their buddies with as much individualism as they dared.

  Each classroom had a round-bellied stove at its center, but the teachers weren’t allowed to light the stoves until a certain date had passed, and, as of the week after Headmaster Kim’s uncle’s wife’s cousin’s funeral, that day still had not come, though a cold breeze began to insinuate itself upon the classrooms.

  In Bobby’s room a rat would occasionally run along the outside windowsills, causing the students to turn in their seats and giving Bobby a chance to include the rat in the sentences he made up. And all he had to do to make the students laugh was to speak English quickly, leaving them all behind.

  “Now look at that rat, would you?” he would say. “Maybe we should invite him in for tea,” and the students would roar. At first he thought one or two of them understood, but they did not. They were simply thrilled at the prospect of watching him break away like that, as if by such acceleration he could escape back to America where he, and such breakneck-speed speech, obviously belonged.

  When the school day ended, the teachers usually left the campus together, in order to show Headmaster Kim that there was an esprit de corps that extended even into their private lives. Some of the teachers had bicycles, so the camaraderie that they exhibited needed only last as far as the walk to the bicycle shed at the edge of the street. Much to his own relief, Mr. Kwak, the third English teacher, was one of these. But for the rest of them, for Mr. Soh and Mr. Nam, for the two physical education Lees and for Bobby, the school day didn’t really end until they had walked back into the village proper, where they could turn down their various alleys and be done with each other for a while.

  On this day, the Monday after the funeral, Judo Lee spoke just as they came to the edge of the town.

  “We need coffee to start the week off right,” he said.

  Only Mr. Soh and Mr. Nam were still with Bobby and Mr. Lee, and although his comment sounded innocent enough, they both knew that coffee could lead to other things.

  “Ah, but it’s nearly payday,” said Mr. Soh. “Let’s go for coffee when we’ve got some cash.”

  It so happened that the nearest tearoom was one Bobby had visited over the weekend with the Goma. It was called the Sarang Tabang, the Love Tearoom, and was run by a beaut
iful young woman named Miss Moon.

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Lee. “I’ve got a tab in there, everything’s on me.” Since all the teachers had tabs everywhere there was nothing special in Mr. Lee’s offer, but now that he had invited them the others could not refuse.

  The tearoom was empty, but by the time their eyes adjusted to the dim light, Miss Moon had met them and ushered them to a table in the back. An American song was playing on the tearoom phonograph, and Judo Lee put his arm around Miss Moon and began to sing along:

  “I can’t say the thing I want to say.

  When you’re with another man

  Da-Da-Da-Da, Answer Yes or No

  Darling I will understand…”

  Mr. Lee sat down smiling, and Miss Moon put her hand to her mouth, disarmed by his antics.

  By the time Miss Moon had brought them their coffee, the four men were warm and smiling at each other like old friends. This is what Bobby wanted, a casual atmosphere in which to make friends. But though two of the men were English teachers, it was Mr. Lee that he wanted most to befriend. Mr. Lee was nearly as big as Bobby, though his weight was proportioned differently, and he had a convivial face. Bobby’s Korean had been among the best in his training group and he formed a question for Mr. Lee.

  “In America I once tried out for football,” he said. “Do you know football?”

  “Ah, football,” said Mr. Lee.

  Bobby didn’t want the English teachers to butt in, but Mr. Nam immediately spoke up.

  “Mr. Lee is just a baby in English,” he said, and though the sentence made no sense, everyone fell silent again.

  It is the policy of Korean tearooms to give only little bits of coffee in their cups and Bobby’s was gone in an instant, though he knew there were no free refills. During his first visit to the tearoom he had actually asked for a second cup and Miss Moon had looked at him strangely. “But you just had one,” she said, and the Goma had nodded hard as if to reassure her that he had. After that the Goma explained to Bobby that coffee was expensive and was meant merely as a kind of ticket to sit. Besides, who really wanted to drink the stuff? Who, among the regular customers, really liked it?

  So with Bobby’s coffee gone and with their conversation at a halt, Mr. Lee saw no alternative but to drink up too, and suggest that they repair to the Pusan-chip, his favorite bar, where Mr. Soh had bought the wine for the funeral only a few days before.

  The Pusan-chip was at the other end of the town, down by the train station, way past Bobby’s inn. The town was dark by the time they left for the bar, but the Goma had seen them and was tagging along. When Bobby saw the Goma he sent him back to the inn for his overcoat. The other teachers, however, didn’t acknowledge the Goma’s presence, seeming to prefer not to admit his existence at all.

  Inside the Pusan-chip sat an old woman and a young one, the owner and the country girl who currently worked for her. Mr. Lee didn’t enter singing this time, but the women were clearly glad to see him. No one else was in this place either and the makkoli pots were full.

  “Ah, the American,” said the older woman. “You’ve brought the American along.”

  The Pusan-chip had a dirt floor and a five-stool bar out front. There was also a raised back room with paper doors and a heated floor. The old woman served the makkoli and food, but it was the young woman’s job to sit with the customers, to rub her hands across their legs and pour their wine. The young woman’s name was Miss Kim, and she was in the back room ahead of them, sitting next to Bobby and making him wonder what she would do.

  Before they had really settled themselves, however, the front door opened again and three soldiers came in, rough-looking characters in camouflage uniforms. The soldiers were attached to the U.S. Army, as Mr. Soh had been during the war, but even in uniform they looked like delinquents. They affected a certain insolence in small ways, by a slight swagger and sneer as they walked across the room. When they saw Bobby one of them said, “Oh look, boys’ night out.”

  His English sounded a lot like Mr. Nam’s, and Mr. Soh told Mr. Lee to close the door. The soldier who’d spoken, however, thrust his boot up, blocking the way.

  Luckily the owner of the bar had the makkoli ready and stood waiting for the soldier to put his foot down so that she could bring it in. She said something Bobby didn’t catch, but its meaning was clear enough and the soldier moved away. Mr. Lee took the opportunity to push the paper door shut once the owner was gone.

  They had their makkoli and they had Miss Kim, and Bobby wondered if her being there was what had made the soldiers so unfriendly. Mr. Nam was nervous over the encounter, but Mr. Soh and Mr. Lee laughed. “I’m glad my army days are over,” said Mr. Soh. “We were always proud. Not like now.”

  Judo Lee poured the makkoli, and when they were ready to drink the owner came back with a bottle of Specicola for Mr. Nam, who was a Christian and did not drink alcohol. They toasted each other a time or two, but it soon became clear that the evening didn’t have the right feel to it. Perhaps the soldiers had spoiled it. Even Mr. Lee would have gone home then, had he been given the chance. Their hostess, Miss Kim, did her best to raise their spirits but she too was giving up when suddenly there was a racket in the other room. Mr. Lee pushed the door open again to reveal one of the KATUSAs wearing Bobby’s overcoat and dancing around. Another had the Goma in a headlock, rubbing his ear and making him cry.

  Bobby realized what was happening immediately, but feared that since the teachers thought the Goma beneath them, none of them would come to his aid. In fact, Judo Lee at first smiled at the sight. Bobby’s overcoat, however, was another matter entirely, and in a moment Mr. Lee and Bobby both stood up, stepping down into the main room at the same time. As Mr. Nam and Mr. Soh moved closer to the door, Miss Kim tried to call Bobby back.

  The soldier holding the Goma had rubbed his face so hard that a piece of his scab had come off and his lip was bleeding. Bobby grabbed his free arm and pulled, surprising everybody when his head slipped loose.

  “Mr. Bobby,” Miss Kim said urgently. The embarrassed soldier took a step in Bobby’s direction while the Goma scrambled under a table and came up over by the main door. The other soldier, meanwhile, had taken off the overcoat and let it fall down onto the dirty floor.

  “Hey! Hey!” said the owner. “I don’t want any fighting in here. Get out! Go outside!”

  At that moment, though, everyone focused on Judo Lee. He knelt down gently to pick up the overcoat, brushing the dirt from it as best he could while still crouching. The soldier who’d been advancing on Bobby angled a bit in Mr. Lee’s direction and swung his heavy boot back to kick Mr. Lee in the side of the head. The teacher, however, deftly swayed back, just outside of the range of the kick, and then he stood up fast, taking the man’s leg with him, using its momentum to help it along its inevitable path toward the ceiling of the room. The man fell down hard, cracking his head on the ground. Mr. Lee looked at the other two soldiers, but they had stopped short, wiping their feet like young bulls, deciding what to do.

  “Mr. Lee is an expert in judo,” Mr. Nam told the soldiers. “You better go now.”

  Mr. Lee handed Bobby his coat and then bent down to help the third soldier to his feet, brushing the dirt from him just as he had done from the coat. “No harm done,” he told the man. “We are all Koreans and must make a good impression on the outside world.” Then he smiled so nicely that the three soldiers smiled back and soon everyone was shaking hands. The Goma came out from his hiding place and Mr. Lee told the owner to charge everyone’s makkoli to him.

  Before Bobby had really recovered his wits again, it was midnight and he and the Goma were hurrying along the dark street, trying to get back to the inn before the curfew. Judo Lee and the soldiers lived too far from the bar, so they decided to sleep there, all happily moving around the back room in their long underwear. Mr. Soh and Mr. Nam had left a few minutes earlier, and Miss Kim walked with the Goma and Bobby until they got to a certain passageway. Then she too was gone, wi
thout so much as a farewell.

  Bobby’s room was one of the smallest in the inn and the Goma slept in the inn’s kitchen, on the dirt floor beside one of the charcoal fires.

  “I want to sleep,” Bobby said. “I have work tomorrow.”

  Whenever he spoke to the Goma he used horrible Korean, but the Goma smiled anyway and walked around the inner courtyard with him to the sliding-door entrance of his room.

  “Good night, Goma,” Bobby said. He pushed the boy back so that he could close his door, but even after the paper partition was between them, the Goma did not move. His shadow swayed on the paper like a burglar’s.

  Bobby turned on the overhead light and looked about his room. His Peace Corps trunk was closed as he’d left it, a few paperbacks stacked on top. He picked up his little short-wave radio and tried to find the Voice of America, but it was too late for anything but static. When the Goma, still outside the door, cleared his throat, Bobby said, “Go away.”

  “I will,” said the Goma, “but first I have a question.” As usual, the Goma was speaking the most rudimentary form of pidgin Korean, the kind he had decided early on was the best way to get through to Bobby.

  Bobby opened the door again and looked out into the darkness. “What?” he asked.

  “My father is dead and I must return to the countryside for a while,” the Goma said.

  Bobby understood, but made him repeat it so that he was sure. “Your father’s dead?” he asked. “When did you hear? How old was he? How did you find out?”

  The Goma smirked in the shadows, but then said that his father had been very old, over eighty. “I don’t have any money to go home with,” he continued, “nothing with which to buy a bus ticket, nothing to take as a gift.”

  He was asking for a loan, Bobby realized, but his own salary was a mere thirty-five dollars a month.