The women were running out of food. They had at first been too scared, and then too proud to ask for more provisions. There was plenty of water to drink, and they knew that they could hold out for a few weeks, albeit miserably, if they had to. They still had a bag of rice and a shallow, lightweight aluminum pot to cook it in. Everything that was heavy or sharp had been removed from the room. Gi could not blame Mr. Choy for taking precautions, but she thought it wholly unnecessary. She did not think even Cho had the heart to inflict more violence.
At around midday, Mr. Choy and Mr. Lee arrived with two bouncers. Mr. Choy looked rough, with dark circles under his dull eyes. His skin was a grayish color, and he walked as if the percussion of his feet on the floor hurt his head.
“I finally found a buyer for you,” he said with a ragged voice. He scratched at his face and then looked under his fingernails as if expecting to find something there. There was nothing. “An old business colleague of mine. I got a pretty good price, too. All in all a good return on my investment. Now you are going to go on a little journey, and you’ll be out of my hair forever. Just in time, too. I need to make room for Gianni’s next shipment. He has two new cuties for me, and they need your apartment.”
“Where are we going?” asked Jasmine.
“You’ll know when you get there.”
“How is Kang?” Cho burst out suddenly, like a cork giving way under pressure. She had been trying to hold the question in, but she no longer had the strength. She looked as if she might cry.
“Oh, you care about him now, do you? You should have thought about that before you reshaped his skull,” Mr. Choy said venomously. “Kang is alive. Barely. They say he is going to have permanent motor damage, though it’s too early to know how bad. He’s in and out of consciousness. Are you satisfied?”
Cho hung her head, holding back a wave of tears. She did not want to give Mr. Choy the satisfaction of her regret. She wished it had been him. She wondered if she would feel bad if she had smashed his head instead.
As they walked out of the apartment, Gyong-ho reached for her portrait of the Dear Leader—she did not want to be without him. But then she thought of the new Chosun girls who would be arriving. She thought about how confused and frightened and alone they would be, so far from home. They needed him more than she did, she decided, and left the portrait where it was. Maybe it would offer some comfort.
Mr. Choy made the women walk in single file down to the street, flanked by the bouncers. At the curb was the dented minivan in which they had arrived in South Korea from the DMZ.
“This is where we say good-bye,” said Mr. Choy with melodrama. “I know how much you’ll miss me. I’ll completely forget you in a couple of weeks, but you’ll remember me forever.”
That statement made Gyong-ho seethe. She knew it was true, that he would always be a scar on her soul that she would feel and remember every day. She also knew that he would forget them, like a man forgets a thousand other little business decisions made in the construction of the big picture. That he knew it too, yet still inflicted his abuses, put the final punctuation on his evil. He was a man festering with hate, and his very cells lacked the organelles of compassion that, collectively, gave a person conscience. Gyong-ho had suffered torture, humiliation, subservience, and sexual abuse, and yet had never, until now, felt hatred. She could see that all of her previous abusers had, in some way, been victims themselves, acting through the pain that the world had dealt them, and she could forgive them. But Mr. Choy was not a victim and she could not forgive him.
Hate burned like acid, corroding her innocence even more than the sexual acts he had forced her to commit. Hate demanded vengeance and retribution, the million acts of which cascaded through her imagination in images of violence and pain. With every drop of hate that condensed inside her, something else, pure and wholesome, was squeezed out. It was an infection that she had caught from him, making her blister inside—she would never again be free of it.
She locked her eyes on his, and he was momentarily transfixed. Coming from such a meek and broken girl the power of her gaze took him by surprise. Maybe, if he had not been coming down from amphetamines, he would have been immune to it; but he was weak and depressed and exhausted. He was blindsided by her stark, wordless honesty and became lost in her eyes. They were terrible, beautiful eyes. She released the essence of her soul with full force into her eyes and showed him the hate he had bequeathed her. For one crystal clear moment he could feel the horror of what he was spreading in the world. He stepped back, as if punched. She had infected him with something too.
60
MR. LEE SLICED HIS way through the city in the minivan, the four captive women subdued and sullen, crammed together on the bench seat in the back. After an hour of driving through traffic, well into the outskirts of the city, they came to an area dominated by warehouses and industry. Smoke belched from factories, and the view was overwhelmed by large, blocky buildings with iron beams and no windows. The van pulled into one of the many indistinguishable tin-clad structures.
Inside the warehouse was a semi truck with a twenty-foot steel shipping container strapped to its bed. There was a long ramp leading from the ground to the bed of the truck, and men were scurrying about, stacking boxes at its side.
“Get out,” Mr. Lee ordered, and the women piled out of the van. A short, thin man with a permanent stoop scurried up to Mr. Lee.
“Everything’s ready, sir. Just like you asked.” The man’s voice was high and nasal. He oozed sycophantically, carrying himself in a way that reminded Gyong-ho of a dog humping the leg of his master.
“Is there enough food and water? One of them died last time,” said Mr. Lee.
“Yes, sir. I remember,” the man said, lowering his head and raising his left hand. His little finger had been amputated at the second knuckle. “I’ll never make that mistake again.”
“Good. Let’s have a look,” said Mr. Lee, walking to the ramp in the back of the truck. He and the man disappeared into the shipping container. A minute later they reemerged. “I think that should be fine,” said Mr. Lee. The man looked relieved, unconsciously rubbing the knuckles of his left hand.
“Okay, girls, listen up,” Mr. Lee said. “You’re going inside that container, and you will be in there for a couple of weeks. There should be enough food and water, but use them conservatively or you will die. Do you understand?”
The women nodded.
“Alright. Put them inside,” Mr. Lee commanded.
PART III
61
IL-SUN VOMITED INTO THE bucket. She had been doing that on and off for days, and Gyong-ho assumed that it was due to the constant pitching and rolling of the shipping container. They were at sea. Gauging by the alternating light and dark that filtered in through the small vent holes at the top of the container, the ship had sailed for two days before docking again; and Gi had hoped, in spite of what Mr. Lee had said about how much time to expect inside, that they would be released soon. For a little more than a week, by Gi’s count, the ship sat at dock. By day she could hear the rumble of heavy machinery, and by night a ghostly quiet. Then, once again, they took to the sea.
Each day, under the sun, they baked inside the hot steel box, and each night they froze. They were shut into a special compartment at the end of the container, their quarters cramped and unyielding. The air in the small room became thick with the odor from their unwashed bodies, and from the waste barrel that was lashed to the back of the container. The waste barrel’s vent to the outside seemed to do little to eliminate the smell. They made a great effort to conserve their water, drinking only when the thirst became unbearable, and only enough to moisten the insides of their mouths. Even so, their water barrel was emptying at an alarming rate. The constant and unpredictable movement caused by the churning of the sea brought on bouts of nausea in all the women, especially when the seesawing became particularly intense. It was constantly dark, the only light coming from the vent holes and a single flashli
ght with failing batteries. The vent holes served to keep them from suffocating but did little to circulate the stale air. Darkness and uncertainty and the unceasing bombardment of foul smells made time come to a near standstill. There was nothing to do to absorb the impact of time, and it thrummed endlessly onward. Their food was a salty assortment of nuts, crackers, dried fruits, and packaged goods—all things to compound their thirst—and the women cursed whomever had provided for them. After the first week their bowels had become solidified, painful rocks in their bellies.
Shortly after they set sail, Cho got her period. Nothing was furnished for this inevitability, another ignorant oversight of the men who provided for their journey. It was decided that they would relegate one of their precious blankets to the job of absorbing the expelled blood, adding to the already pungent atmosphere. A few days later, Jasmine had to sit with the blanket bunched between her legs.
“I suppose you’ll be next,” Cho said to Il-sun, trying to bring levity to the situation, as well as to alleviate her own embarrassment.
If they could have seen Il-sun’s face, the other women would have watched her turn white. The silence that followed spoke volumes.
“You will be getting your period, won’t you?” asked Jasmine.
Again, Il-sun responded with silence.
“You’re not pregnant?” asked Cho, shocked.
Il-sun broke down, sobbing. Jasmine put her arm around her and squeezed, and no one spoke for several minutes. Finally, the crying subsided enough for Il-sun to squeak out a few words.
“I haven’t had my period, and I’m usually very regular. My breasts keep getting bigger, even though I haven’t eaten much. I get sick every day,” she said through her tears.
“But how? I thought you said they weren’t making you pull tricks,” Jasmine asked.
Silence.
“Mr. Choy?” asked Jasmine.
“No,” replied Il-sun, almost inaudibly.
“Gianni?” asked Cho, incredulity, and perhaps jealousy, in her voice.
Il-sun nodded, even though the other women could not see her, and sobbed with renewed vigor.
Gi felt as if someone had hit her over the head. Gianni had made love to the beautiful Il-sun; and Il-sun had allowed it, even welcomed it. She thought back to the night at the orphanage when she had wrapped herself around Il-sun, not even fully aware of what she was doing, and she cringed. Maybe if she had read John and Daisy she would have known better what to do, and Il-sun would have acquiesced. She had lain with a man, when lying with a man was an optional, innocent thing to do. She was ahead in the race for experience, and in some small, competitive way, Gi felt jealous of that too. On top of it all, she felt jealous that Il-sun was now going to be a mother. Her child would be supreme in her affections, and there would be yet another layer between herself and Il-sun.
And then she hated herself for these feelings. Il-sun was in pain, facing the onerous task of raising a child in the uncertainty of her situation. They had no idea where they were going, though they knew it was far, far away. Would she be able to care for herself, let alone a small child? Would she be bringing the child into a world of happiness, or a world fraught with pain and hardship? There must be a million uncomfortable questions boiling inside Il-sun’s mind, and she needed support. Perhaps, Gyong-ho thought, I can be a second parent, like a father, to the child. Maybe this is how I can be close with Il-sun.
Il-sun’s pregnancy gave the women an excuse to feel happiness, which they clung to after so many days—about two weeks since they left Seoul, by Gi’s best guess—in the dark privation of the container. It helped them take their minds off their thirst and hunger. They enjoyed doting on Il-sun, and insisted on increasing her comfort, even at their own expense. Gi vowed to drink less water so that Il-sun could take extra. Il-sun was given a blanket to cushion the rough wood floor, and they insisted that, for hygienic reasons, she sleep farthest away from the waste barrel. Il-sun tried at first to protest the added luxuries, but Jasmine reminded her that it was for her baby, the uncounted fifth person in the room, and she gave in.
The journey continued, seemingly without end, and the monotony of it chipped away at their sanity. Each of them went through phases of babbling, giggling, crying, and testiness. The constant darkness caused them to have vivid hallucinations, and at times it became difficult for them to distinguish between dreaming and waking. For a whole day Gyong-ho insisted that Foreman Hwang had come into the container demanding that they mend his torn trousers. For hours she would not believe that it did not happen. Finally she realized the absurdity of what she was saying and fell into a sullen quiet.
Even Gyong-ho had lost count of time, though she knew it had been weeks, and they were scraping the bottom of the second water barrel. The women felt weak and had no energy left for talking. Their tongues were as good as cemented to the roofs of their mouths for lack of saliva, their heads ached from dehydration, and their lips were cracked. They remained lying down, in spite of the painful sores that had developed where their bones rubbed away their skin against the floor. Gi would have been happy to let herself slip from life, but the thought of Il-sun and her unborn baby kept her from giving over to death completely. Of the women, she was the only one who maintained enough will to live to continue going to the water barrel. So she brought water to the others, keeping them just barely alive. She gave Il-sun twice the amount of water—it could have been counted in drops—and made sure she ate at least a little. The others had stopped eating completely. She knew that in a matter of days they would all be dead.
Just when Gi was about to give up, the last warm spoonful of water sloshing in the barrel, the sea calmed and their boat stopped. She assumed that she was hallucinating when the sounds of machinery pierced the quiet of their container. Then the room spun about in a dizzying way and landed on solid ground. Gi slipped in and out of consciousness, events unfolding in a dreamlike way. There was the sound of a truck, and of her mother singing to her, and then she was under the sky in the DMZ. She could hear the boxes being removed from the other chamber of their container, and muffled voices. She heard a padlock click, and cool, fresh air filled the space around her. There was more light than she had ever seen before, and the sound of retching as their foul air was breathed in by the person who opened the door. Then the foreman and Gianni stood in the doorway, kissing; but that was impossible and she blinked it away. It was a man with an electric prod and she screamed, but only dust came out of her cracked mouth. She blinked and it was a man, but his hands were empty.
Il-sun was being helped to her feet and led out the door. Gi forced herself up for fear that they would take Il-sun away and she would never see her again. When she stood, however, the ocean moved through her and she could not keep her balance. She did not have the strength to stand on her own. Jasmine and Cho were led away, and then a man came and helped her walk out of the squalid room.
Voices shot through the air in a torrent of unintelligible language, and the light was painfully bright. They were again inside a metal warehouse. The women were made to lean against a corrugated tin wall, while a man with shears cut their putrid clothes from their bodies. In places the cloth had to be painfully ripped from the flesh. The man choked from time to time as he did his job, the stench of their fouled bodies nearly overpowering him. Once the women were naked he appeared with a hose and doused them with a pressurized stream of water. The water stung like needles, but they ignored that, trying to capture the liquid in their hands so they could drink it. Realizing that his efforts to clean the women were going to be thwarted by their efforts to drink, the man reduced the pressure and let them drink their fill from the hose. Once their thirst was quenched, he shot them again with the water, this time to less resistance.
Once they were thoroughly soaked, another man handed them a bar of soap, but they were too weak to effectively scrub themselves. Someone barked orders, and there was some arguing; then two men appeared with rags and roughly scrubbed the women. Gi was
deeply embarrassed by having her naked body so thoroughly handled by a strange man, but she lacked the strength to protest. Besides, she was relieved to be rid of the filth. They were once again hosed off and stood shivering, dripping dry against the wall.
A well-dressed Korean man walked in and stood in front of the women, looking at them with a hard, cold stare. He seemed displeased. He was in his sixties, with mixed silver and black hair. His face, when he was younger, would have been square and strong but was now well padded, with a slight sag in his skin. His eyes were hard slits and his mouth was set in a grim expression. His lower lip protruded slightly, with a fullness and femininity that was at odds with his otherwise wholly masculine appearance. He carried himself with power, and everyone shrank in deference to him. His stare bore into Gyong-ho, making her squirm. After a moment he turned on his heel and walked away.
62
GYONG-HO AWOKE IN A strange room with her head pounding. She tried to sit up, but collapsed back on the bed, too dizzy to get up. She had to blink several times to clear her vision. Gray light was pouring in from a window, diffused through gauzy white curtains. It was an overcast day.
After the well-dressed man had walked away from them in the warehouse, Gi’s legs buckled and she collapsed to the floor. It was the last thing she remembered. She had been unconscious since then and had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there.
She felt an agonizing thirst and tried to call out to get someone’s attention, but it came out as a mute wheeze. Even so, she heard footsteps coming toward her, and a young woman appeared. The woman put her arm under Gi’s head to lift it off the pillow and then raised a glass of water to her lips. The water had lemon in it, and she gulped greedily.
“Thank you,” she tried to say, but it sounded like babble, even to her own ears. The woman pressed her finger to her lips.
All Woman and Springtime Page 24