All Woman and Springtime

by Brandon Jones

“What are the options?” asked Cho, frustrated by his elusiveness.

  “Okay, I’ll spell it out. Have you bumpkins heard of the Internet?” He said the word Internet in English. They had not, so they shook their heads.

  “The Internet is an information system that reaches around the world that people access using computers. You do know what computers are, don’t you?”

  They nodded.

  “When you connect to the Internet, anything you want to know, you simply type it in and the information just pops right up, complete with pictures, sounds, and video.”

  The women looked incredulous. If such a thing existed, surely Chosun, the most advanced, sophisticated society in the world, would have it.

  Mr. Choy chuckled woodenly. “I have seen this before with you Northerners. You think your culture is so superior, with your Great Leader and all, that you don’t believe in anything you haven’t seen before. I’ll show you tomorrow. Anyway, there is a lot of money just floating around the Internet—people buying things all over the world. If there’s one thing that’s certain, sex sells. Men all over the world will pay good money to watch a pretty young girl take her clothes off. It’s called a strip show.”

  “So all we have to do is take our clothes off for this . . . Internet?” asked Cho. Gi and Il-sun looked terrified.

  “That’s one option,” Mr. Choy replied. “Of course, that doesn’t pay as well as other things you could do.”

  “Such as?” Cho’s frustration was apparent.

  “Well, men will pay more if you’re willing to do things for them, like if they ask you to touch your tits, and you do it for them in real time, right there on the Internet. Then, of course, you get paid more.”

  “Real time?” Gi was unaware that there could be a distinction between real time and any other time. Could there be artificial time?

  “It’s an Internet saying. It means it’s happening right now and streaming on the Internet live.” Mr. Choy could see that the women were still confused. “You’ll understand it when you see it. But the fastest way to pay us back,” he paused to make sure they were listening, “is to see private clients.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Il-sun, her face losing its color.

  “You know what it means,” snapped Cho severely. She folded her arms across her chest. Il-sun looked stung, and hung her head. Gyong-ho was confused. “So how much time, if we see ‘private clients’?” Cho asked.

  “Could be as little as six months, if you work hard.”

  “And if all we do is take our clothes off?”

  “Quite a lot longer,” Mr. Choy said enigmatically.

  Cho looked away thoughtfully. Then she turned back to the two men and asked, “Do you have a cigarette?

  Mr. Lee reached into his pocket, withdrew a half-empty pack and handed it to her, along with a book of matches. Cho tapped the pack to remove a cigarette and lit it. She took two deep drags. Everyone stood in silence as the women absorbed the information.

  “And what happens if we refuse?” Cho’s arms were still folded across her chest, her clawlike hand clutching her cigarette.

  Mr. Choy took on a hard, stern look, the hint of a dangerous rage rippling across his eyes. It was a look that said his friendly, accommodating exterior was a thin crust over a far more volatile core. He smiled wryly and said, “If you refuse to work for me, I will have no choice but to hand you over to the American army, who will rape, torture, and kill you. Of course, the choice is yours.”

  AS DUSK GAVE way to night, the alleyway below came to life. Bright lights lit up the walls of the building next door and flooded the apartment with a red glow. The street outside, which had been relatively quiet during the day, teemed with vehicles. Loud music was emanating from somewhere nearby, a driving bass line and pounding drums causing the apartment to pulse and vibrate. For Gyong-ho, the sound was overwhelming and made her anxious.

  The activity within the building increased after dark as well. The gate guarded by Razor opened regularly, hinges squeaking, and closed with a bang. Voices drifted up and down the hallway and doors slammed. Male laughter cut through the thin walls. In the apartment next door there was a rhythmic slamming of something hard against their adjoining wall. A woman groaned loudly over and over again, sighing and calling out. A man grunted wildly into the night.

  Il-sun, Gyong-ho, and Cho were exhausted from lack of sleep. The women bedded down in the small European-style bed, Cho and Gi on the outsides with Il-sun in the middle. It was a tight fit, even for three small women, and they lay with their arms around one another for lack of anywhere else to put them. Gi enjoyed the closeness with Il-sun and was comforted to inhale her sweet scent. She had not showered—none of them had because they were afraid to ask to leave the apartment—and there was an earthy pungency to Il-sun’s sweetness that Gi liked. She smelled real and alive, almost animal. In spite of her exhaustion, Gi could not sleep. Chosun nights were quiet and dark, even in the city, and the constant intrusion of sounds was too much for her. The apartment felt vulnerable without portraits of the Great and Dear Leaders to protect them.

  As Gyong-ho lay there with her eyes closed, she listened with wonder to the sound of traffic. She could hear layers of traffic, in an endless radius, like floating in a vast sea of motors and tires and horns. It was as spectacular as it was terrifying. Finally, about an hour before dawn, she fell into a fitful sleep.

  40

  MR. CHOY AWOKE AT eleven, the whore still passed out in his bed. At least she didn’t puke on the satin sheets, he thought to himself. His mouth was dry and tasted like gin, so he put on a silk robe. His apartment was long, and each footfall jarred his aching head as he padded his way to the kitchen at the other end. It was very modern, crisp, and clean—almost industrial—made of stainless steel and glass, exposed iron beams and concrete. The length of the apartment offered large picture windows with a spectacular view of downtown Seoul. Business was good. He poured himself a tall glass of orange juice from a carton, and drank it back in one lift of his arm. The fog on his brain lifted a little.

  Training day. That’s what he always called the day after a new shipment of girls arrived. It meant a lot of work, and probably some kicking and screaming. You never can tell how a girl will take to the business, he thought. Some take to it like fish to water, others never get the hang of it. Most of the girls Gianni delivered were inexperienced and naïve. A lot of the younger ones were still virgins, and he doubted whether some of them even knew what sex was. But what could he expect from Northerners? He much preferred dealing with career sluts, girls who came to the business on their own, but the profit margin was lower. They always demanded payment. It was worth putting up with a little kicking and screaming from the North Koreans.

  He wished Gianni would stop getting them so young, but the price was right and he normally had good taste. With the exception of the twisted, scrawny one. What was the story with her? It doesn’t really matter, he thought. There is a niche market for girls like that. “Never neglect your niche market, and be prepared to diversify,” his business professor used to say.

  A groaning sound came from his bedroom, and a moment later the naked, bedraggled whore came shuffling into the kitchen. Her black hair was a chaotic, lopsided nest and there was a pained look in her makeup-smeared eyes. He was confused for a moment—he thought he had come home with the tall one with the flower tattoo. Not that it mattered.

  “Put some clothes on and get out of here,” Mr. Choy said dismissively.

  “I need some money,” she replied through the agony of her hangover.

  If I were a different sort of man, I would have hit her for that, he thought. I shouldn’t have to pay her—I’m her boss. But I never hit women, unless I have to. I respect them, as long as they know their place. “I was too drunk to get it up,” he said, wondering if it was true.

  “I need money for the bus.”

  Mr. Choy rolled his eyes and went to a desk. He got a handful of won from a drawer and shove
d it into her fist. “Don’t spend this on drugs,” he said, though he doubted she would follow his advice—he would not have. She turned and went back to the bedroom, presumably to retrieve her clothes.

  He turned his thoughts back to the new Chosun girls. He was not looking forward to training day. It was sometimes such a struggle. It might be quicker if he just beat the girls into submission, but he preferred subtle manipulation to violent coercion to get his way. It took longer, but girls always performed better if they felt they had some control over their situation. Not that he was above violence, if it was necessary—that was what Mr. Lee was for. But he felt that if the girls reached the conclusion on their own that whoring was their best option, and they believed that they could work their way out of it if they did what was asked of them, then they ended up being better prostitutes; ergo: more profit over a longer term. It was a simple business strategy, and yet he was astounded at how few men in his position understood that, preferring to bludgeon their whores to exact the desired behavior. Then again, he had studied business at the university.

  The Northerners were particularly easy in this regard. They were already so disoriented and fearful of “imperialists” and Americans that controlling them was a simple matter of telling them that they would be turned over to the American army for torture if they disobeyed. It was an extremely effective lie. Truthfully, if they were to escape they would be welcomed as defectors by the government; but there was not much danger of their finding that out, being under lock and key.

  The door slammed as the whore left his apartment. I hope she didn’t steal anything, he thought.

  41

  IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON when Mr. Choy and Mr. Lee arrived at the women’s apartment. They entered without knocking—Mr. Choy liked to be firmly in control. He knew his chances of getting them to comply willingly were better if they were on edge. He brought with him some takeout from a local restaurant—showing a kind side would make them more eager to please him. He wanted them to associate his presence with the smell of food. Just like training a dog, he thought. He knew that the women would have slept poorly, and they would be bored and nervous from being locked up for so long. They would welcome his visit just to break the monotony. So it was important to enter with a smile, show interest in their well-being, and downplay their captivity.

  “Good afternoon, girls!” he said cheerfully. He swooped into the apartment, Mr. Lee waddling in behind him, and placed the cardboard takeout cartons on the table. “I’ve brought food from one of my favorite restaurants. Dig in!”

  The girls looked at him, uncertainty and fear in their eyes.

  “Don’t be shy. It’s good, and I know you must be hungry.”

  “How much is this going to cost us?” asked the one with the long fingernails, looking skeptical.

  “No, no! It’s a gift from me and Mr. Lee. It won’t go on your tab. Think of it as a welcoming gift,” Mr. Choy replied, a syrupy smile dripping upward on his cheeks.

  The women timidly approached the table and peered into the cartons. There were noodles with chicken and vegetables, pork stew, kimchee and rice. The food smelled wonderful and their mouths were watering. Mr. Lee went to a cupboard and found three plates and some chopsticks, and handed them to the women. They dove into the food hungrily, sitting on the floor while Mr. Choy and Mr. Lee watched.

  “Were you comfortable last night?” Mr. Choy asked, wicking a note of concern into his voice, knowing full well that they were not. The women looked at him without saying anything. He knew that they would be afraid of voicing complaint, because doing so in the North would have landed them in trouble. “The bed was probably a little small for the three of you. Was it too small?”

  There was a long, expectant pause. Finally his eyes met the eyes of the prettiest girl, and she nodded.

  “Mr. Lee, they have insufficient bedding. Make a note: We need to bring them another bed and some more blankets.” Mr. Lee drew a small notepad and a pen from his pocket and began to write. “Is there anything else you need?” There was another long pause as the women looked at each other. “Anything at all? A fan, perhaps? It’s a little stuffy in here. Mr. Lee, put a fan on the list.” A fan was considered a luxury item in the North, available only to the elite. They never would have thought to ask for it, so by suggesting it he was reinforcing his generosity. How easy it must be, he thought, to be the Dear Leader.

  “We can’t afford these things, if you’re charging us for them,” said the one with the fingernails, frowning.

  “Don’t worry about that. Soon you’ll be making plenty of money. Really, you have no idea how easy it is here.” The women looked at one another, a shiver of fear passing through them. Seeing their reluctance, he said, “You have nothing to worry about. You’ll have more than enough food, a safe place to live, and the work isn’t very hard. I think you’re going to like it here. Trust me: I have helped a lot of girls in your same situation. Before you know it, you’ll be on your own and you can do what you like. In the meantime, enjoy yourselves! Have fun with it.”

  There was a long, quiet pause while he allowed what he said to sink in.

  “We need a chamber pot,” burst the one with the long fingernails, becoming bolder. “Since we can’t leave the room on our own. I had to bang on the door for fifteen minutes before Razor finally let me out last night.”

  “Okay, we’ll get you something.”

  “And we need another chair,” she said.

  “Alright, did you get that, Mr. Lee? Another chair. Anything else?”

  The women remained silent.

  “Alright. Mr. Lee, would you please go and collect the things on your list for these ladies?” Mr. Lee made a quick bow and left with his list in hand. “I have a treat for you,” he said after Mr. Lee made his exit. “I’ve hired, at my own expense, a beautician to come and give you all makeovers.”

  “What’s a makeover?” asked the pretty one.

  “Hanguk women love them. The beautician will fix your hair, paint your nails, and do your makeup. Then she is going to dress you in some fancy clothes. You’ll be beautiful and glamorous.”

  42

  GYONG-HO HAD SLEPT FITFULLY for a few hours. When she awoke she did not feel refreshed. She washed her face and hands with soap and water and then dared to look out the window for the first time. Below was a narrow alleyway strewn with rubbish. There appeared to be some sort of shop below, but from the sharp angle of her vantage point she could not see what it was. The narrow bit of sky that she could see was blue and cloudless. The morning progressed with the same tense boredom that had dominated the previous afternoon in captivity.

  In the early afternoon, Mr. Choy and Mr. Lee arrived with food. Gi had never had food from a restaurant before, except for the unusual lunch from the previous day. It came in curious cardboard packaging, and there was enough to feed six people, even though only the three women were eating. It was still warm and flooded the musty apartment with comforting and delicious smells. The dishes were full of meat and alive with flavor. It was the best food she had ever eaten. So far, South Korea was full of contradictions.

  Mr. Choy was being overly friendly, which was in contrast to his businesslike detachment of the day before. This made Gyong-ho suspicious. He seemed interested in their comfort, and promised to bring them furnishings. She would have preferred to have photos of the Great and Dear Leaders to hang on the wall, but she had been afraid to ask. She felt a pang of sadness about the bed, because it would mean that she would no longer have an excuse to hold Il-sun while she slept.

  Later a young woman arrived carrying a plastic bin of supplies. She was short with long, black hair pulled back and secured with a stylish barrette. She wore tight blue jeans, a plain, light-blue blouse, and black, flat-soled slippers. She had a stony, expressionless face and spoke in monosyllables, and averted her eyes from theirs. She instructed the women to shower in preparation for their makeovers, and led them down the hall to the door just opposite the restroom. The ro
om was tiled from floor to ceiling, and there was a drain in the floor. Four showerheads protruded from one of the walls, each with corresponding controls. The women stripped, leaving their clothes and towels on a bench provided for that purpose.

  Having grown up in a girls’ dormitory, Gi was not typically bashful about taking her clothes off in front of other women; but in this circumstance, because of the trauma of their ordeal and the sense of exposure she felt in their new surroundings, she felt the need to cover her chest with her arms. She was now seeing her body as a thing to be viewed and judged. She became aware that there might be a good and bad when it came to bodies, and she was fearful that hers would not measure up. What was it that Mr. Choy said? “Well, you don’t have quite the looks that these two do.” She watched as Cho and Il-sun stepped up to the showers, bodies tapering gracefully from shoulders to waists, hips elegantly flaring, buttocks rising in smooth mounds, long, sculptural legs ending at dainty, perfect feet.

  She had appreciated the bodies of other girls, but never before as a comparison to her own. Her own legs were skinny and bony, her feet appearing too large. Her body twisted slightly to the left, and her left shoulder hung lower than her right. Her hips did not flare seductively, but came up straight from her sticklike legs. Her chest caved in, dented on the right side where a prison guard had slammed her with a rifle when she was nine. Her nipples had gotten larger in the last few years, but her breasts had not, remaining mere bumps protruding from her rib cage. With these observations came the thought that she may be somehow less desirable, less lovable, because of her body; and that made her profoundly sad.

  “Gi, get in here. The water comes out warm!” exclaimed Il-sun. She was the girl Il-sun, not the woman, calling almost playfully to her friend. It brought Gi out of her maudlin thoughts.

  Gyong-ho stepped into the shower. It was a thing of wonder. It was controlled by a knob at navel height, and as she turned it, water shot from the showerhead in fifty-two tiny streams. As she continued turning the knob, the water got progressively warmer. She had known about heated water for bathing, but she never believed that she would ever get to experience it like this. She turned the knob so that it was all the way to the hot side and stepped into the stream, allowing the heat and pressure of the water to loosen her muscles below her skin. Her body relaxed and the tension of captivity was momentarily forgotten. Il-sun passed her a bar of soap, which was super-bright white and lathered easily as she rubbed it with her hands. She reached up to work some of the soap into her dirty hair, but Cho stopped her.