by James Zerndt
DECEMBER 2002
Moon
“I didn’t know you had a son,” Billie says as they park at the subway station. “He’s so cute. Like a miniature Moon.”
“Moon beam,” Moon says. “My wife say this.”
Moon makes a mental note: Write Moon Beam Song.
He had no choice but to bring Hyo. It was either take him along to the Whanki Museum in Seoul or miss his Saturday with Hyo altogether. And there wasn’t much chance of Moon doing that.
Moon thought there would be at least three teachers coming with. That’s how many had put their name on the sign-up sheet. But it was a Saturday. And Moon understood that for most of the teachers Saturdays meant hangovers. Which is why he was surprised to see Billie waiting outside the school that morning. When she first spotted Hyo standing beside Moon, he couldn’t help but notice she looked a little disappointed. Probably the last thing she wanted after being surrounded by kids all week.
But it would be okay.
She’d soon see that Hyo was quiet most of the time, happy just to be out and about. A day dreamer. Happiest when surrounded by other people, his mouth slightly agape, watching the world go by.
They take the subway all the way into Seoul, then change lines for the museum. Moon’s proud of himself. He hasn’t taken the subway in a while, but so far he’s managed to get them where they need to go without any slip ups.
It was like riding a bike.
The thought reminds him of Hyo’s accident, gives him a little pang. He adjusts Hyo’s hat, pulls the brim down just a touch. Across from them, Moon realizes the other passengers are staring.
But not at Hyo.
At Billie.
Moon can’t understand why though. He noticed earlier that she hadn’t worn her eye patch for the trip. Probably for this very reason.
A man stands up, about Moon’s age, wearing jeans and t-shirt. The t-shirt is of a unified Korea, all in gold. The Sunshine Nation. But instead of the DMZ cutting across the midsection of Korea, there’s a ribbon of U.S. flag dividing the country.
The man grabs the handhold above him with both hands, then leans his head forward.
“Going to the protest?”
Moon doesn’t know anything about a protest. He scans the other passengers, sees that most of them are wearing the Korean national colors. Others have signs resting on the floor.
Yankees, Go Home!
Troops Out!
U.S.NAY!
Most of the posters are of the two dead school girls. Moon probably should have watched the news last night instead of trying to write silly children’s songs.
“We’re going to a museum.”
The man shakes his head. “With this American bitch?”
As the other passengers look on, the man then leans down, his face a sneering mass, and spits right in Billie’s face.
It happens so fast, so out of nowhere, that Moon can’t do much more than sit there with his mouth open.
Did that really just happen? Did Hyo see?
Billie sits motionless, staring at the man, a glob of spit sliding down her cheek. Moon expects her to start screaming, maybe start punching and kicking the man, but she just sits there, statue-like, her face filling with sadness rather than anger.
Moon stands, placing himself between the man and Billie.
If Hyo wasn’t there...
“I think you’ve made a mistake,” Moon says in Korean.
“Is she not American?”
“She’s a teacher. And she’s my friend.”
“Then maybe she should explain why her country is killing our people.”
Moon could no longer keep the anger out of his voice. He’d heard about what happened to the three U.S. soldiers on the subway last week, how a mob surrounded and beat them.
Moon wasn’t about to let Billie be bullied.
If Hyo had to see, then so be it.
“And maybe you should explain when our country started intimidating innocent people.”
When the man laughs at this, Moon grabs him by the shirt, and, in a voice loud enough to echo throughout the entire car, says, “Save your anger for those who deserve it! You should be ashamed of yourselves!”
Moon then pushes the man’s chest, with more force than he intends, and the man loses his grip on the handhold, falls back into his seat.
“Now apologize.”
“Excuse me?”
“Apologize to the lady.”
The man stands somewhat sheepishly, and, in English, says, “I’m apologize.” He then bows to both Billie and Moon before taking his seat again.
Billie wipes the spit from her face with her sleeve and bows back from her seat so awkwardly that some of the other passengers can’t help but smile a little.
When Moon sits back down, Hyo scoots a little closer to Billie.
Great. Just what Moon needs.
For Hyo to be scared of him.
Again.
But Moon soon realizes that isn’t why Hyo’s scooted away. He’s taken his hat off and is using it like a handkerchief to wipe at Billie’s cheek. It’s a scene so heartbreaking that Moon has to struggle to keep the tears from welling. Instead of crying, he glares at the other passengers until each and every one of them turns their heads away in shame.
It’s not much, but it’s something.
The next stop, thankfully, is apparently where the protest is being held as their car nearly empties out entirely. Moon notices the man who spit on Billie stop at the doorway and turn like he’s going to say something, but Moon stands again and the man exits without a word.
When they start moving, Billie turns to Moon and says, “Thank you. I’m so sorry Hyo had to see that.” She then leans down eye-level with Hyo. “You’re one lucky little dude to have such a good daddy, you know that?”
Hyo has no idea what she’s saying, but he smiles, crinkles up his nose the way he does when he’s smitten with somebody. Moon’s only seen him to do it a couple of times before.
And never to him.
When their stop arrives, Moon guides Hyo and Billie through the underground labyrinth of shops and restaurants that lead to the museum. They pass a homeless man lying on a piece of cardboard. There’s something wrong with his leg. It’s bandaged, swollen. He’s kneeling with his head nearly touching the ground, a tin cup with a few coins in it raised above his head.
It’s like he’s trying to make himself invisible.
Moon wants to give him something, but he knows he’s not supposed to. They have services for these people. Places he could go if wanted to take a shower and eat. Moon wonders if he’s an alcoholic, if he’d spend the money on drink. Most people won’t give the homeless money if they think they’re going to spend it on alcohol. But Moon understands what it’s like. The drink is food to them. Maybe on the way back he’d sneak something to him if he was still there.
If Hyo wasn’t looking.
The museum turns out to be a lot bigger than Moon expected, and Billie’s mood brightens noticeably once they get inside. Almost immediately she asks if it’s okay to wander around by herself for awhile. Moon is worried about her, but he agrees to meet her in an hour.
Which is probably for the best seeing as Moon’s English isn’t nearly good enough for him to be much of a guide though he did try to read up a little on Whanki the night before.
As he walks through the gallery, Moon carries Hyo up on his shoulders so he can see the paintings. He tells Hyo everything he knows about Whanki, how his nickname was Suhwa or “the one who talks to trees.” He asks Hyo what he thinks of that, if Hyo talks to trees and Hyo just smiles, shakes his head like his daddy is crazy. Moon tells him how Whanki listened to music while he painted, that sometimes he wept while he painted and that he dreamed of his paintings someday making people cry like music and movies sometimes make people cry.
In front of them is a painting of a woman with a bowl of fish on her head, and Moon asks Hyo if the painting makes him sad.
“Mommy,�
�� Hyo says and reaches out to touch the painting.
“Does Mommy carry fish on her head?”
Hyo shakes his head again, giggles a little. “Noooo.”
“No,” Moon says. “I suppose not.”
The paintings are more textured, more vibrant, than Moon expected. Next they stop in front of one called Hundred Thousand Dots.
Hyo likes it.
Moon knows this because he keeps grabbing for it.
“Blue sky,” Hyo says. “Blue world.”
“Yes,” Moon says. “Blue world.”
Moon remembers something Whanki said in the article he read. That to hold a brush was life. What, then, was Moon’s life? What was he to hold? Just as he’s thinking this, Hyo reaches down into Moon’s shirt pocket, pulls out a piece of candy Moon was hiding for later.
Hyo is what Moon was meant to hold.
Hyo is Moon’s life.
And Moon wants his life back.
The paintings seem to float by in a dream and before Moon knows it, the hour is up. They find Billie waiting in front of a large painting of two jars.
Moon jars.
“I bet this one is your favorite,” Billie says, teasing Moon.
Moon had read about the painting. How Whanki’s daughter often saw her father stroking the jars when he was alone. Moon liked that. The idea of him petting the jars like they were pets of his.
Like Moon strokes his bottle of soju on the mantle.
The painting was one of Moon’s favorites, too, but not because of the moon jars. Because of the blues. There seemed to be a hundred different shades of them. All of them adding to the overall blueness of the painting.
He laughs to himself.
The overall blueness. Moon was no art critic.
“It’s lovely,” Billie says. “The jars almost seem alive.”
Moon wants to tell her about moon jars, about how the two halves represent yin and yang, how some think it represents North and South Korea. But he just nods and smiles at Billie. It would take too long to explain.
He’s about to suggest they leave, maybe stop somewhere nearby for a bite to eat, when Hyo, who’s been standing between them, reaches up and grabs Billie’s hand. He does this sort of absently-mindedly before going back to staring at the painting. Again, Moon finds himself surprised at how quickly Hyo’s taken to her.
But then the kid’s always been a good judge of character.
Moon changes his mind, decides he’ll try to explain about the jars, about the two halves, but when he looks over at Billie, tears are silently streaking down her cheeks and her chin is quivering.
Hyo sees it, too.
Moon doesn’t know what to do.
Could it be that the painting was that good?
Did Whanki finally achieve what he wanted?
No, it had to be something else. Moon wasn’t the most intuitive man on the planet, but he sensed the tears were about something else.
Something much deeper than a couple of moon jars.
Yun-ji
They acquitted both of the killers. Yun-ji heard that one of them was going to retire and the other was taking a transfer.
A transfer?
After you run over another human being?
And she read on the internet that the U.S. soldiers were laughing after the accident.
The murder.
Yun-ji made up her mind to go to the candlelight vigil with Soo on New Year’s Eve. Soo had been after her all week to go, but Yun-ji kept putting her off. The truth was she was embarrassed at how big her belly was getting. It prompted questions. Questions she didn’t want to answer.
Yun-ji set to work making a sign anyway. It would be good for her to go. And good for her son to feel what a protest looked like. Maybe he’d be carrying his own little sign in there, too.
Hooker Hill
Snow.
It was everywhere.
Moon knew where Joe and Billie would be. They’d invited him to go into Itaewon with them to celebrate New Year’s Eve. But, like always, he told him he was busy, that he was going to be with his family. They’d mentioned some big party at the top of Hooker Hill. It was in the heart of the foreign district. Moon had never been there, but he knew about it. The ex-patriots, soldiers, and English teachers called it Hooker Hill because of the long cobblestone street leading to the top that was lined with whore houses. Or massage parlors, as most Koreans referred to them.
Moon was no stranger to “massage parlors.” Often, when he was entertaining clients, he would take them to gentleman clubs, and, over the course of the night, certain events would transpire in back rooms that were viewed as one of the perks of doing business in Korea.
But Hooker Hill. No. That was strictly for the foreigners.
Yang galbos.
That’s what the girls who worked those places were called: Whores who catered to dirty foreigners. No self-respecting Korean would be seen dead in one of those places.
By the time Moon made it to the base of the hill it was nearly 11:00, the streets covered with white. He was feeling good. Strong. Invigorated by the cold. There was a crowd gathered. All of them in winter coats, hats, and gloves. Another candlelight vigil.
For the dead girls.
The spot was no coincidence.
They knew the soldiers liked to frequent the hill.
Moon stood with the crowd as they chanted.
Try the killers in our courts!
We will never forget!
Each person held a small candle cupped in their hand, and, as Moon made his way through a crowd that resembled a glowing white beehive, somebody began tugging at his sleeve.
Yun-ji.
Moon smiled. “Hi, Yun-ji. Nice candle.”
Yun-ji didn’t quite know what to say this.
“Do you want one? We have extras.”
“No, no. I have, um, some business to attend to.”
“Where? Up there? What kind of business could you...oh.”
Moon blushed. “It’s not what you think. I’m looking for Joe and Billie. I have something I need to tell them.”
“At this hour?”
Moon shrugged. He didn’t have to explain himself. It was a holiday. He was free to do what he wanted. And holding a candle wasn’t on the list. One more or one less candle wasn’t going to bring those girls back. And it certainly wasn’t going to bring justice to anyone.
“I am sorry about the girls,” Moon said. “It’s a horrible thing. I can’t imagine how their parents are handling it.”
Soo, who’d been standing beside Yun-ji and chanting along with the crowd, accidently bumped Yun-ji and wax spilled over the side of her candle, dripping onto her mittens.
“They murdered those girls,” Soo said, leaning over, not bothering to apologize. “And they got away with it because they’re Americans.”
Moon thought about Billie and Joe, how they lied about their degrees, how nothing bad would probably happen to them because of it.
“It was a horrible accident. For everyone involved. That’s all I know.”
Soo couldn’t understand how he could keep calling it an accident. Didn’t he care? Or did he only care about Americans? She turned away from him and started chanting along with the others again.
“Justice! Justice! Never forget! Never forget!”
Moon momentarily placed his hand on Yun-ji’s jacket, then turned, and began pushing his way through the crowd again. Yun-ji thought about following after him to see if he was really going to talk to the American teachers, but Soo was grabbing her and pointing at something up ahead.
“Isn’t that him? Your soldier?”
He was wearing a hat, but it was definitely him.
Shaun.
He was nodding his head about something. Then patting another soldier on the back, the two of them making their way up the hill together.
He looked drunk.
Wasn’t that why people came here?
To get drunk and have sex with prostitutes?
; “You have to talk to him, Yun-ji.”
“No. I don’t.”
Yun-ji pulled her coat tight against her. Sure, she could run after him and show him her belly, but what would be the point of that?
He probably didn’t even remember her.
Yun-ji ignored Soo and let herself be swallowed up by the chants that echoed up the snow-covered cobblestones and bounced off the shop doorways.
U.S. Go Home! U.S. Go Home!
Shaun Howell heard the chants loud and clear. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he walked up the hill. They weren’t all bad. Some of them didn’t believe everything they read. Some of them appreciated the fact that without the Americans being there, they’d be an inkblot on the world map after China finished with them. And some of them remembered the Korean War. Some of them knew what a different place Korea would be had it not been for the U.S. and the sacrifices he and his brothers had made for them.
Some of them remembered.
But not nearly enough.
He had a bottle of soju tucked inside his jacket. Soon the MPs would be out, dragging them back to base before midnight, thanks to the protestors and the orgy of hate that had erupted across the country.
He and his friend came upon the little shops lining the hill with the women parading back and forth in their high heels and tight dresses.
“Hi, I like you! You want fun?”
Shaun had heard it all before. And he knew some of the girls, had been with his fair share of them. They were good to him and his boys. Sure, they were using them. He realized that. But wasn’t everybody using everybody anyway? So what was the harm in it?
One of the more brazen girls ran out and playfully snatched the baseball hat from Shaun’s head. She held it out in front of him as she backed her way up the hill.
“You want? You want? Yeah? Then you pay! Hahahahaha!”
Shaun wasn’t in the mood. And he knew the trick, had seen it work on a few of the other guys. They got you to chase them into the shop where the girl would disappear behind a curtain and when you asked for the girl, the madam would come out and demand money to see her.
They could be tricky.
All Koreans could be tricky.
Shaun lunged for the hat, snatching it from the girl’s hand.