Festival for Three Thousand Women

by Richard Wiley

  “Got to go to Memphis,

  From there to Leland.

  Got to see my baby,

  ‘Bout a lovin’ spoonful…”

  Gary rolled a joint, which went by twice. Since Cherry wasn’t smoking, Bobby only pretended to, but the room was full of the stuff and he soon began looking at Cherry in a new kind of way. She was a beautiful girl, but what the hell was going on? She hadn’t touched him or held his hand in training, so why was she doing it now? Bobby found her refusal to smoke the marijuana wonderful, as if she knew some secret about herself and was avoiding a certain vulnerability, but he didn’t understand the rest of it. Perhaps it was only that she, too, had been holed up in a Korean village these past six weeks and was seeking a little release of her own—glad to see him, perhaps, but using him as well.

  Still, when Bobby looked at Larry he couldn’t help wondering why Cherry wasn’t touching him too. He was sitting just as close, after all, on her other side. So if she was glad to see them both, why touch one and not the other, why him and not Larry?

  Such questions might have been influenced by the clouds of smoke billowing about the room, but the answer that Bobby came to was this: though Cherry was glad to see Larry too, if she were to touch Larry, he would somehow have a right to take her touches in a certain serious way. Bobby, on the other hand, was a fat boy, and though he had nearly forgotten it, his role in America, in situations like the one at hand, had always been that of an asexual friend. Fat girls played that part too. And though his fluids moved within him just as surely as Larry’s did, Cherry somehow knew that he would not look upon her touches in the same way that Larry might. Bobby was a world apart and he was smart. Cherry knew that he would understand it all and so she touched him and not Larry. She sighed and kissed him and snuggled close and in every gesture she knew that he was safe. Goddamn!

  The five of them stayed there in Gary’s hooch for the rest of the afternoon, smoking and laughing. It was stupid and unnecessary, they all said, to go weeks without seeing each other again. Cherry’s village was only a little north of Larry’s and Bobby’s was only a little south. Because the missile base was in the middle, it was the obvious convenient meeting place, but the Peace Corps volunteers all urged the G.I.’s to get out and see the real Korea for a while. So it was decided that Larry and Cherry and Gary Smith and Ron would all come to Taechon during Christmas vacation, which was less than a month away. It’d be great to see each other again. They smiled and smiled.

  After that they spent an hour looking for Ron’s truck keys so that he could drive them down to the station in time to catch the last train home.

  Youthful Folly

  Nine in the second place means: The son is capable of taking charge of the household.

  Nat King Cole was singing “Too Young,” and Bobby was watching Miss Moon and remembering the narcotic effect that seeing Cherry Consiliak had had on him when Headmaster Kim came into the Love Tearoom to say that he’d at last found a family with whom Bobby could live.

  “They tried to tell us we’re too young,

  Too young to really be in love…”

  “Too Young” was Headmaster Kim’s favorite song, and he took a moment to listen to it before shaking the winter cold from his coat and sitting down. He had Mr. Soh with him in case Bobby didn’t understand.

  “I am so relieved,” said the headmaster. “You have been staying at the inn too long, my promise unfulfilled.”

  “It’s been fine,” Bobby replied, on guard a little. His room at the inn had not been fine, but he wanted to hold on to it until he found out what was in store. Also he was thinking about the Goma. What would happen to him if he moved away?

  Though Bobby’s Korean was getting better fast, Headmaster Kim insisted on looking at Mr. Soh for a translation. Bobby didn’t want to ignore Mr. Soh, but he continued looking directly at the headmaster.

  Finally the headmaster said, “Policeman Kim. His house is even closer to school than your inn. I would have asked him earlier but he was in Seoul. There is a boy, a third-year student who is doing poorly in English.”

  It was very common for Peace Corps volunteers to be taken into someone’s home so that they could teach English to members of the family. Some of Bobby’s training friends considered this a horrendously self-serving attitude on the part of the Koreans, but Bobby thought it was all right. The rent would be low. He tried to remember his third-year students, but no particular Kim stood out.

  “When can I see the place?” he asked.

  “Too Young” was going into its third consecutive playing—Miss Moon knew the headmaster’s tastes—but rather than answer the question, Headmaster Kim only nodded. “Good,” he said. “I will talk to Policeman Kim again and we will go there after school tomorrow. Thank you for your patience at the inn.”

  He and Mr. Soh stood. It was a Sunday evening and Bobby quickly understood that they had just come from Policeman Kim’s and that they were going back there now to make it all final. His seeing the room was the last thing on their minds. And a refusal of it was completely out of the question.

  The next day at school, Bobby was surprised to find the teachers not wearing their usual suits but plaid shirts with long boots over their trousers instead. Despite his growing proficiency in Korean he still had little idea of what went on at the morning meetings, so he assumed that he had simply missed an announcement, that this, happily, was a special day of some sort.

  It had been two weeks since his return from the missile base, and during that time the weather had grown surprisingly cold. They had reached the date by which the Ministry of Education had decreed heat could be turned on, and the teachers were huddled around the stove, blowing into their hands or warming them on the teacups that they held. Bobby walked up to his friend Mr. Lee and asked, “What’s going on?”

  Given fresh evidence that no one other than a Korean could ever really speak the language, Mr. Lee found Mr. Kwak and pulled him over to explain.

  “Tell him what’s happening,” he said. “He doesn’t understand.”

  Bobby was glad Mr. Lee hadn’t called over Mr. Soh, his usual interpreter. Though Bobby had continued to think of Mr. Kwak as the shy English teacher who immediately left school on his bicycle every day, he somehow liked the older man better than either Mr. Soh or Mr. Nam.

  Mr. Kwak grew pensive for a second but then he took off his glasses to clean them on his tie. And, speaking quietly, he said, “You see, once a year we dissolve our regular activities for the day and allow the children to run into the hills to catch rabbits. Today is that day. At the end of the rabbit-catching the teachers will all be made a stew and we will frolic in congeniality, however forced it may appear to be.”

  Bobby was astounded. Mr. Kwak’s English was clear and fluent and easily understood, though he did take his time bringing it out. But it was as if he were showing Bobby some secret part of himself by speaking that way, and immediately Mr. Kwak’s stature ballooned, never to be the same again.

  “Wow,” Bobby said.

  Unfortunately Mr. Nam was nearby and came over before Bobby had a chance to say something more clearly expressing his gratitude to Mr. Kwak. Still, Bobby was suddenly sure that he would have two true friends among the teachers: Mr. Kwak and Judo Lee. Judo Lee because of the largeness of his spirit, and Mr. Kwak because he had had the decency and grace to hide the good quality of his English while Bobby was studying Korean. How, Bobby wondered, could he know so clearly, from that frail little statement of his, that Mr. Kwak was at home with himself and someone important in the world?

  Policeman Kim did indeed live in a nice house, about halfway between the inn and the school. Policeman Kim was a friend and judo partner of Mr. Lee and it had been Mr. Lee who’d made the initial contact for the school. So after rabbit-catching day and with a full belly of rabbit stew, they all progressed from the inn to Policeman Kim’s house.

  There were six people in the man’s family: his mother, himself, his wife, his two children,
and a maid. The middle-school boy who was bad in English was not, it turned out, one of Bobby’s students, and the other child went to Taechon Girls’ Middle School, which was across town.

  When they got to the house Judo Lee opened the door for the Goma, who was struggling along under Bobby’s trunk. Headmaster Kim and Mr. Soh were there too, and when Policeman Kim came out Bobby was introduced. He was a broad man of about fifty, who shook Bobby’s hand gently, letting him feel the excess flesh of his palm.

  “I am rarely home,” he said. “But we are glad to have you.” He spoke quietly and Bobby could see why he and Mr. Lee were friends. He imagined that their judo matches were full of all kinds of protocol.

  Bobby met the children and the grandmother and Policeman Kim’s wife, and then everyone took off their shoes and stepped up into the main part of the house to look at Bobby’s room. The house was square and contained four rooms and a kitchen. Policeman Kim and his wife shared one room and the grandmother and daughter another. The bad English student was in the smallest room by himself, and Bobby’s was the second largest. It had a warm floor and was three times the size of his room at the inn. The Goma brought the trunk in and looked around, his eyes wide but keeping his mouth shut, just as Bobby’d told him he must.

  “This is very fine,” said Bobby. “I will try not to be a bother.”

  Policeman Kim chuckled and turned to nod his approval to Judo Lee. Then, as quickly as they had come, everyone left. Bobby had expected that they might all sit around a while, but the day had been long and the cold night was coming in fast. Headmaster Kim kept rubbing his hands together and sighing, clearly happy to be rid of the burden of finding Bobby a home, and Mr. Soh left without having said a word. This time Bobby’s Korean had sufficed. Only the Goma hung about the entrance to the house longer than anyone else. “Good-bye, Goma,” Bobby said. “We’ll be seeing each other soon.” He then stepped back into the expansiveness of his new room and closed the door.

  Bobby had grown accustomed to the solitude of the inn, for he was surprised when, before he had a chance to organize his things, the grandmother came back in carrying cups on a tray. She was accompanied by the two children. “Let’s have some tea!” she shouted. “Maybe I should bring some food!”

  Though she was diminutive and old, the grandmother’s voice boomed through the house, and when they all sat down, Bobby looked at the children.

  “So,” he said, “how would you like to learn some English while I’m here?”

  The little girl, whose name was Heh Sook, covered her mouth, and the boy turned red, but neither of them spoke.

  “Sorry,” yelled the grandmother. “They don’t speak English!”

  “I know,” said Bobby. “I wasn’t asking whether they spoke English, but whether they’d like to learn.”

  All of what he had said was in absolutely correct and clear Korean and he was getting irritated. Why was it that no one ever opened their ears when he spoke? Why did they always expect not to understand?

  “Not a bit of it!” hollered the grandmother. “Nothing! Not a word!”

  This old woman looked hearty enough, but the effort of screaming everything was too much and before she could say anything more, or before Bobby could, she had a coughing fit that simply would not end. She splattered phlegm all about the room, sending armies of germs into Bobby’s mouth and lungs. She slumped forward and coughed and coughed. For a few seconds Bobby and the children waited for the fit to stop, but shortly it became clear that they were in for a long wait. Once or twice the grandmother gained slight control over her tremors and put a finger up in the air, but just then the coughing would take over again and away she’d go. Finally Bobby looked at the boy.

  “Get her some water, can’t you?” he asked.

  This time either the boy understood or he got the idea at the same time, for he stood and went quickly back out of the room. The grandmother was coughing on like an old car, and the little girl saw the concern in Bobby’s face.

  “Do not worry,” she said. “She always coughs like this. She’s got tuberculosis.”

  The little girl’s face lit up and Bobby looked toward the side of the room. There were bits of the grandmother’s phlegm on his sleeve and the memory of some of it hitting his face came back to him. He moved a little on his cushion, pulling himself up. “Has she seen a doctor?” he asked.

  The boy who was bad in English came back in with his father, who was carrying water.

  “Here, Mom,” he said, “drink up.”

  The old woman pushed one blind claw into the air, swinging it around until her son caught it and guided it around the glass. He kept hold of it until she gulped a little of the water down. “There, there,” he said.

  To Bobby’s surprise, the water worked a miracle and the coughing stopped. The grandmother’s head hung like carrion and Policeman Kim looked at Bobby.

  “I think that’s enough for tonight,” he said softly, and Bobby realized that the man believed his mother had choked on English, that Bobby had started right in teaching her and that the words had gagged her as she tried to bring them up.

  “Fine,” Bobby said. “Of course.” He stood and took one side of the grandmother, with Policeman Kim on the other. “This doesn’t happen often,” said Policeman Kim. “Only once in a while.”

  Lifting the woman off the floor, they carried her out of Bobby’s room and back into her own. “Ugh,” she said. “Ugh, ugh.” Once she was safely down again Bobby went back to his own room quickly and closed the door, but in a moment, when he listened, he could hear nothing coming from the old lady’s room and he calmed a bit, laughing at the odd sequence of events. The room, after all, was wonderful, the light on the ceiling far brighter than his other light had been. His Peace Corps trunk returned to its normal size in this room, and his books and papers had a desk on which to rest.

  Bobby was sleepy and could see his bedding spread neatly against the nearest wall. It was late and there was school again tomorrow, with real teaching and no more rabbit stew. He took his clothes off and climbed under his heavy quilt. As he was settling himself he began to hear the old grandmother coughing again in the other room. This time, however, she sounded as though she was in control, as though she’d be able to stop herself if this fit of hers went on for too long.

  Oppression

  Six in the third place means: A man permits himself to be oppressed by stone, and leans on thorns and thistles.

  It has somehow not become clear yet that Taechon was situated only eight kilometers from a famous beach. There were two Taechons, really—Taechon village and Taechon Beach. The beach, however, like the school heating, had a distinct season, so during the weeks that Bobby had been in town it had not occurred to any of the teachers to take him there. But he had heard of the beach often, and on the weekend before Christmas vacation he decided to go and see it for himself.

  It was a rainy Saturday afternoon when Bobby headed out of the house and down past his old inn to the bus stop. He was wearing his heavy overcoat with heavy clothing underneath, and as he passed the inn he pulled his collar up, hoping to avoid the Goma. The inn, however, looked closed, the Goma nowhere in sight. The bus stop was near the train station, so Bobby kept an eye out for the crazy woman as well, but she too was gone. The streets, in fact, were nearly empty. Only a few children were around, coming back from their last Saturday at school before winter vacation, clustered together on the road.

  Bobby had the bus to himself and as they wove back through the town he finally did see the Goma, freezing in his threadbare shirt, hopping around the side of the building with a bucket of trash. Soon, however, they were on a road out past the school and into the country, the rice fields shining wet from the side of the road but nobody waving from anywhere for the bus to stop.

  There was a kind of town square at the beach, a quirky little turnaround area with a frozen, decrepit fountain at its center. The driver whirled around the fountain, popped the door open and told Bobby to get out fa
st. “Last bus back is at six o’clock,” he said.

  As Bobby walked away he buttoned his overcoat again, though the beach felt warmer than the town. And when he finally stopped to get his bearings he realized that this season business was serious stuff. Nothing was open out here, not a hotel or a shop of any kind. He counted six closed hotels, all on the beach side of the street, and all in the kind of faded disrepair that twenty years of summers had caused.

  Bobby walked the length of the street and then found a path that cut down to the beach. As he walked on the sand, he watched the wind lifting bits of debris about, the whitecaps as they moved toward shore. This was the Yellow Sea and he was facing China and there was no one, anywhere, but him. This beach did not look very much like the coastline near his grandmother’s house, but it did give him the same feeling of loneliness that he’d had at home, and he remembered Carl Nesbitt’s fist again, the way he’d sucked it in between his rolls of fat. On that beach he had watched couples stroll, even in winter, arm-in-arm up into the foggy brush.

  To Bobby’s right the beach seemed quickly to end in rocks, so he turned left and walked south along the Korean peninsula, imagining as he stepped just where he was in the world and where he ought to be. He was terribly lonely for the first time, but when he tried to think of who he might like to have there with him, no one came to mind. There was only his grandmother; there was Carl Nesbitt, of course. Others had passed through his life quickly, leaving little of themselves for him to hold onto.

  Bobby walked to a bend around which he could see nothing but sand and brush and water, no signs of other life at all. He was beginning to feel really cold now, with the new rain needling him and the wind cutting in between the folds of his coat, and he wished he had not let the little bus go back into Taechon alone. Suddenly, though, a voice bleated at him from a spot some distance away. “Baaa,” the voice said, and Bobby was reminded of sheep on a hillside, of the springtime countryside on the side of his grandmother’s house opposite the beach.