Festival for Three Thousand Women

by Richard Wiley

  But when he woke it was not, yet, because of his need to return to the outhouse. He had started dreaming of a dust storm, of walking unprotected among the whirling sands, when suddenly he began to cough and sputter and spit. He sat up in bed and when he opened his eyes again he saw that the grandmother was back, a roguish smile spread across her face. In one hand she held the empty vial that had contained the reindeer-antler potion that she’d made, and in the other a funnel formed from Bobby’s last two aerograms, a funnel that she’d just removed from his wide-open mouth.

  Bobby ended the year like that, much of his holiday taken up with the dysentery or flu or whatever it was. The grandmother came often and he no longer fought her visits and he took whatever it was she gave him.

  She told stories of how it had been in the old days, and Heh Sook and the boy who was bad in English came in to tuck their feet beneath the blankets and listen.

  When it came time to go back to school Bobby was well again, but for a long while his defenses had been so low that the grandmother’s tuberculosis germs took the opportunity and moved from the walls of his esophagus into the softer tissue of his lungs where they multiplied.

  The American has been here for months now and I was worrying about the fact that I had still not spoken to him, worrying whether he had noticed and whether he thought my silence an unkindness of some kind, when he walked up and spoke directly to me. I was astonished. He spoke in Korean, and though his words were strange, I understood them. He was asking me if I would like to join an evening English class that he had organized for the benefit of the teachers of the school.

  I was so taken aback that my mouth hung open like a stupid old bird’s. I said, “I have enough trouble with Korean,” an expression that made the American smile, and one in which I have taken some pride now that I’ve had time to think it over. “I have enough trouble with Korean.” Considering that I did not expect him to come to my desk and that I had no time to prepare what I would say, I think such a statement exhibits my good training pretty well. It is disarming, it is self-effacing, and it is polite. All in all, it is a very good thing to say, and I have learned from it the lesson that spontaneity is not always bad.

  The truth of the matter is that I have been wanting to speak to the American, but I have been muddling around, imagining myself walking up to him and delivering some comment like, “Good day, sir,” which any fool knows will almost always bring the response of “Good day.” I might have said something about the business of the school, of course, but I was afraid anything like that would be too complicated and he would not understand. How wonderful, then, that it is all cleared up now. “I have enough trouble with Korean!” Not bad at all.

  I have noticed that my fascination with this American is not so far removed from the fascination one feels during a courtship, and that makes me pause and chuckle. How is it that I have become so enamored with the man? It is as if the Chinese circus has come to town and I am spending all my money to stand inside its strangest tent.

  Written on the slow train to Hongsong, as I work my way up the coast to see my younger brother.

  Part Two

  Retreat

  Nine in the fourth place means: Voluntary retreat brings good fortune to the superior man.

  At the back of the school there was a big room housing the library, and Mr. Soh, once a week, was the school librarian. There weren’t many books in the library, but it had the school’s best stove, and for that reason Mr. Soh had reserved it for Bobby’s special English class, the one he had been promising to teach ever since his arrival in town.

  By now Bobby understood, of course, that teaching in Taechon Boys’ Middle School was a worthless occupation for a Peace Corps volunteer—even his best students would end their formal education after ninth grade. He had been assigned there, he had come to realize, simply because the Ministry of Education had been given the job of placing the Peace Corps volunteers and had not known what to do. He was a commodity, a badge of improvement for the community, and nothing more.

  But if he was going to make the best of it, he asked himself, why not teach a special class for teachers and adults, since there were some who were interested? Headmaster Kim, when he heard about it, wanted to charge the teachers and pay Bobby extra for his work but Bobby said no. His only other stipulation was that they not go drinking after class. He was healthy again, and he wanted to stay that way.

  The first students to enroll in the special class were Mr. Soh, Mr. Kwak, and Mr. Nam. Bobby hadn’t intended that the class be exclusively for teachers at the school, but since it was on school property and a considerable walk from town, no one else joined. Finally, though, Judo Lee and Miss Lee signed up. Bobby asked the headmaster and vice-headmaster if they too would like to join the class but they both declined. “English is the language of the young,” said Headmaster Kim. “I have enough trouble with Korean,” said his assistant.

  On the first night of class, Mr. Soh went back to school early to relight the library fire, and the rest of them followed later on. When Bobby left his room, walking up the pathway leading to the main road, he envisioned himself not so much as a teacher but as a leader of discussions, keeping everything simple but letting the others do most of the talking. He wanted this to be something he did well. His students would learn that the English language, too, was flexible and could be used creatively by someone with control. Never mind that the students were of vastly different abilities; he would trim his lesson to include them all.

  Bobby was walking quickly, looking at the moon and thinking over the potential difficulties of the class, when the Goma appeared from the shadows, underdressed as usual and ignoring the cold night. Though Bobby had been living with Policeman Kim for several months, he had continued meeting the Goma occasionally, so seeing him pop up wasn’t surprising. There was no place for him among the teachers, however, and Bobby told him so.

  “Teach me too,” said the Goma. “Big-time class start right now.”

  The more Korean Bobby learned, the more atrocious the Goma’s became. “No, Goma,” he said. “This class is for the teachers, not for you.”

  “Please,” the Goma said quietly. “It is my only chance.”

  Bobby stared at him. His only chance for what? He couldn’t speak Korean well, he had never been to school, and the teachers would surely be insulted by his presence in the room. Still, he had spoken very well just then, and Bobby knew all too clearly what being an outcast was like. Did the Goma really think he had some kind of chance? He didn’t even have a winter coat, let alone any kind of chance.

  “Please,” the Goma said, seeing something like real consideration in Bobby’s eyes. “If I learn English I can go to America, be your boy. Or I can hang out with army, get lost, find my way.”

  Bobby looked at him. “The teachers won’t like it,” he said, and at the same time he realized that he was going to take the boy along.

  “Screw the teachers,” said the Goma, reverting to pidgin again and making Bobby wince. What was he getting himself into?

  When they entered the library, the others had already arrived. The stove was hot and a pot of barley tea was steaming on top of it. Bobby tried to make light of the Goma’s presence, but even Mr. Kwak seemed surprised by it. “He’s only here to listen,” Bobby said in English. “Think of it as our good deed.” And the Goma, as if concurring, scurried into the corner, making himself small.

  Bobby sat in a chair that the teachers had placed at the head of the table, closest to the stove. Mr. Lee and Miss Lee were beside him, and Mr. Soh was at the far end with Mr. Kwak and Mr. Nam.

  “All right,” Bobby said. “Let’s try this. Let’s speak only English, or let’s try to anyway. Let’s not use Korean except for clarification.”

  Bobby said this twice, first in English, then in Korean, and everyone nodded, faces expectant and bright.

  Bobby had a notebook with him, but all he’d managed to prepare was a list of possible discussion topics: the upcoming U.
S. election, popular music around the world, Korean-American relations, the recent defection to the South of a North Korean big shot. He was about to suggest that they start with something simple when Mr. Nam stood up and began walking around the table, passing out books. “Here we go,” he said.

  Bobby wanted to object, but Mr. Nam astonished him by handing a book to the Goma, who was still slumped against a bookcase at the rear. All right, Bobby thought, if Nam can be democratic, I can too. He looked down at the title to see what Mr. Nam wanted them to learn. “American English Hollywood Style,” said the print on the cover of the book.

  “Mr. Nam…,” Bobby said.

  “I know, I know,” said Nam. “But give it a chance.”

  When he spoke he looked at the Goma again and Bobby knew he was trapped. He opened the book at random, and as he turned the pages he discovered that the book was essentially a collection of old American slang phrases, each one followed by a Korean explanation and by stick-figure drawings depicting the social situations in which the phrases could be used.

  “Okeydokey,” said Nam. “Here’s one, page twenty-six. What do such phrases mean?”

  Everyone turned to page twenty-six, and Nam, before sitting down again, patiently found the correct page for the Goma. There were three English phrases on page twenty-six, in the middle of a sea of tightly typed Korean. All the expressions were wrong and Bobby looked up, hoping someone would come to his aid. No such luck. “Explain please,” said Mr. Nam, “each expression in turn.”

  Mr. Kwak had a faintly bemused smile on his face, but the others looked at Bobby as Nam did. “Nothing unreasonable going on here,” their expressions seemed to say.

  Bobby read the first phrase out loud, and to his surprise they all repeated it in unison: “Please may I have intercourse with you?”

  He had them repeat the phrase one at a time, skipping the Goma, and reasonable renditions of “Please may I have intercourse with you?” rang around the table like a song. These folks had had language classes before.

  “All right,” he said, “what does this expression mean?” There was a moment of hesitation, but then, to his surprise, Miss Lee raised her hand.

  “Yes?” Bobby said. “Miss Lee?”

  “It is a polite method of asking for conversation,” she said in good English.

  Bobby’s eyes lit up. “Yes!” he said. “That’s right!”

  “What, then, is the difference between ‘intercourse’ and ‘speak?’” asked Mr. Soh.

  “Ah,” Bobby responded, “there’s a big difference. Once they were similar but now they are not. Now we say speak every time.”

  “Except when being formal,” said Mr. Nam.

  “No, Mr. Nam. ‘Please may I speak with you’ is now accepted in informal and formal situations as well, you can be sure.”

  “What about when addressing the president of the United States?” Mr. Kwak wanted to know. His enigmatic smile was still there, but Bobby couldn’t read his intentions.

  “When addressing the president of the United States one should never say, ‘Please may I have intercourse with you,’” Bobby answered. Then he added, “Of this I am sure.”

  All five of them were taking notes, and even Mr. Nam seemed willing to alter the wording of his phrase now that Bobby had told him he should. Bobby could see, out of the corner of his eye, that the Goma was working his mouth a little too, turning it in completely unaccustomed ways.

  Miss Lee got up to bring everyone tea and they went on to expression number two: “I always was born with a silver spoon in my mouth.” Bobby read the phrase to them and they repeated it heartily. Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad, he thought.

  “This one comes a little closer to real usage,” he said. “Except for that word ‘always’ in there. It means that the speaker was born rich, that he has always had money.”

  “Ah ha,” said Mr. Nam. “You said ‘always.’”

  “Yes,” Bobby answered, “but to say ‘always was born’ gives the impression of repeated action and we are only born once. It is an occurrence that ends once it has happened.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Nam, “but we can be reborn,” and Mr. Kwak nodded, conceding, for Bobby, that point.

  What was Bobby to do? If Nam was trying to draw him into religion, he would not be drawn. He looked at Mr. Lee, the only one as yet not to speak, but Mr. Lee shook his head. “Too deep,” his expression seemed to say, his face froglike in the warming room.

  Bobby took another breath and said slowly, “Perhaps we can be reborn and perhaps we cannot, but the expression in question has nothing to do with that. It has to do with whether or not the speaker was born rich, and one can only be born rich once. Thus, no ‘always.’”

  The English he had used was pretty complicated, but no one seemed lost. Mr. and Miss Lee both nodded as if accepting the logic of the point, and Bobby stared at Mr. Nam, a bluff, hoping he’d shut up once he saw the challenge in his eyes. No such luck.

  “Ah,” Nam said quietly, “but when one is reborn one is reborn with abundance, and abundance means ‘rich’ so ‘I always was born with a silver spoon in my mouth’ means to be reborn, resplendent in the riches of God.”

  Bobby looked down at the Korean surrounding the expression in the book. Surely nothing like what Nam had said was represented there. What should he do? He had wanted this class to be his first real teaching success. The final expression leapt off the page as if mocking him, but he plunged ahead heedlessly out of his depth.

  “Beat me daddy eight to the bar,” he said, but this time there was only scattered repetition, for Mr. Nam and Mr. Soh were silent at the other end of the table.

  “What the hell does this mean?” Bobby asked, and Mr. Kwak laughed. “It was apparently used when asking someone to dance,” he said. And then he added, “I only know this, however, because I read a little ahead.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Bobby, but though he’d spoken under his breath, that was too much for Mr. Nam.

  “Jesus Christ?” Nam said. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Nam,” said Bobby. “I don’t mean a goddamn thing by it.” Nam leapt to his feet pointing down. “Jesus Christ! Goddamn!”

  “Oh, shit,” Bobby said.

  Mr. Nam pulled at his collar with the hand that wasn’t pointing and began to gag. He jumped up and down, his finger slicing the air like a concert master’s.

  Bobby tried to apologize for the language he had used but Mr. Nam would not quit. He stood there sputtering Bobby’s obscenities back at him and then, plugging his ears against Bobby’s attempts at reconciliation, he ran around collecting the copies of his book and bolted from the room. A moment later Mr. Soh ran out after him.

  The rest of them sat there staring at each other. Bobby had wanted the evening to go so well. The expression on his face was one of desolation, and in a moment the three remaining teachers began touching him, bringing their chairs closer and telling him not to worry.

  “Never mind,” said Mr. Lee. “Nam is always like that,” and Miss Lee nodded too, assuring Bobby that indeed he was. Then Mr. Kwak spoke.

  “Now that that is over, what the three of us would really like is simply to discuss things with you.” His tone was soft but there was an urgency in his voice that made Bobby think that everything, thus far, had gone according to his plan. “You know, we are Koreans,” Mr. Kwak continued, “and there is much that we would like to say but cannot because we are afraid. Mr. Lee and Miss Lee, for example, would like to tell you about themselves. They both understand the English we have used and can make themselves understood when necessary.” Mr. Kwak paused to see if Bobby was listening, if he had gotten over the shock of Mr. Nam’s leaving, and then he added, “Do not misunderstand. We need not speak in English. As a matter of fact, we are all proud of your magnificent ability in Korean. But if we call it an English class, don’t you see, that will make things easier all around. As for the real language of our discussions, it should be the truth, whatever the
tongue.”

  Mr. Kwak stopped speaking and waited, but Bobby was stunned. Mr. Lee and Miss Lee both seemed to have transformed themselves from hopeful English students, from wide-eyed physical-education teachers, into conspirators, and Bobby didn’t know what in the world to say. Peace Corps volunteers weren’t supposed to be political, but then these people weren’t asking him to be political, were they? They were only saying that they wanted to dispense with form and to talk openly.

  Miss Lee had brought cake with her and she placed a fat piece in front of each of them, giving the Goma one from the portion she had brought for Mr. Soh and Mr. Nam. She looked at Bobby and said in a quiet, offhanded way, “You know, Mr. Lee and I are lovers.”

  It was only the second time Bobby had heard Miss Lee speak in English and he was sure she was mistaken in her choice of words. Perhaps “lovers,” like “intercourse,” had gone around the bend and come back with its meaning trimmed. Lovers meant friends perhaps, or maybe it meant that they were engaged.

  He sat up and said, “What do you mean, exactly, when you use the word ‘lovers.’ Maybe you mean close friends?”

  Miss Lee was still for a moment, but then she gave him a quizzical look. “Forgive me,” she said. “Lovers. Mr. Lee and I are lovers.” She emphasized her words carefully, and then Mr. Lee, hoping to make everything clear, closed his right fist and ran his left index finger in and out of it quickly, in an incredibly obscene way.

  Bobby could feel himself growing red. “OK,” he said. “I get it. Wow.”

  “We were lovers when we lived in Seoul,” Miss Lee continued, “and we are lovers now. We will be lovers always, I think.”

  “So why don’t you get married?” Bobby asked.

  “Because our families are against us,” Miss Lee said slowly. “Because Mr. Lee and I were sent to Taechon as punishment. We were banished for our activities when we were teaching elsewhere.”