“I figured we were probably in San Francisco, but I wasn’t sure,” said Jasmine. “I had a feeling we were in the States, but I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.” She pinched her lower lip with her thumb and index finger. Her brow knitted as if she were trying to solve a difficult problem in her mind.
“Wow,” said Cho, otherwise speechless.
The Chosun women had, from their earliest memories, been told that America was the world’s most evil empire and its citizens the most bloodthirsty, oafish, inhumane people on the planet. Americans ate their own children and routinely shot their elderly in the back of the head. America was a land of chaos and confusion, ruled by an inferior species of protohumans. The fact of their brutishness was even reflected in Chosun vernacular, referring to Americans, as a matter of semantic routine, as Mee-guk nom, or American bastards, rather than as Mee-guk saram, or American people. To think that all around them was a vast colony of these violent, maniacal, shifty psychopaths was harrowing. How could they live through it?
GI, CHO, AND Jasmine had finished making the morning meal and met several of the women who lived and worked in the brothel. They had come from all over the world, though mainly from Asia. Most were Korean, but there was one from Laos, two from Thailand, a couple from the Philippines, and one from somewhere in Africa—Gi had not heard of her country before and Jasmine said that she spoke French. Many of the women had the English language in common, and the ones who did not got by using hand gestures. Jasmine knew a little English, but the Chosun women did not.
After breakfast, Gi took some food up to Il-sun.
“I’ve brought you a bowl of soup,” she said, smiling, as she entered her room.
“Thanks, Gi, but I’m not hungry.” Il-sun managed a weak smile. She looked a little pale.
“But you need to eat. For the baby.”
“My stomach hurts.”
“Are you alright? Should I get the doctor?”
“No, I’ll be fine. It’s only a bit of morning sickness. Leave the soup. I’ll eat it in a little bit.”
“Would you like me to sit with you?”
“No, I think I’ll try to sleep.”
“Are you sure?”
“Really, Gi, I just want to be alone.” Il-sun’s tone had become exasperated, and the sting showed on Gi’s face. “I’m sorry. I’m just not feeling good. We’ll talk later, okay?”
“I understand,” said Gi, trying to sound upbeat. “I’ll check on you later.” With that Gi turned and left. Reluctantly she went back downstairs.
Inside the lounge several women were sitting around a television set, watching with numb disinterest. Gi pulled up a chair and joined them, though no one greeted or even acknowledged her. She had never watched television before—her songbun had not allowed for it. Everything on the television was in English, and therefore incomprehensible. The images, however, were fascinating. The programs seemed to be depicting characters going through various dramas and shenanigans, some humorous and some serious. Absent from the shows were the poverty, depression, inhuman aggression, and deceitfulness that she knew to be rampant in America. Doubtless these were propaganda shows, depicting life in the United States in a far better light to try to fool their citizens and their enemies.
After a while, Gi closed her eyes and focused solely on the language. English was fast, loud, and punchy. It seemed a rather insensitive language without much nuance. All the same, she let herself be bombarded by it, allowing her mind to try to make sense of the sounds. At first it was meaningless and random, but eventually she started to discern repeating rhythms and consonant/vowel relationships. Silently she mouthed what she was hearing. It felt funny, like putting shoes on the wrong feet. It was not a musical language, but she listened to it as if it were, guessing at the meaning by the pitch, intensity, and tone.
Different women came and went from the lounge all day, but Gyong-ho stayed, fascinated by the content the television offered. Even Jasmine and Cho eventually went their own ways, to do what, Gi did not know. After a full day in front of the television, Gi had acquired a few English words, such as go, meaning to start something; hi Al, a greeting; and turbo- chopper, meaning something that cuts vegetables. Absorbed in the process of learning, she had been able to escape her imprisonment for an entire day. That night, she went to bed clinging desperately to a feeling of mental satisfaction.
67
THE NEXT MORNING THE doctor came back to check on Il-sun. He took her temperature, felt her pulse, and looked into her throat. Gi noticed the Blue Talon tattoo on his lower arm; apparently he was property, too. The doctor gave Il-sun another pill, saying, “For baby.” He left without making eye contact, and Gyong-ho’s feeling of uneasiness returned. This time, however, she said nothing because Il-sun was so happy for the attention. It helped Il-sun feel that everything was going to be alright, and Gi did not want to ruin that for her.
A few hours after the doctor had left, a loud groan from Il-sun’s room called the other women to her bedside. Il-sun was doubled over in pain, her face pale and dotted with beads of sweat.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jasmine.
“Cramps. Horrible cramps,” Il-sun replied through gritted teeth.
“Find someone who can get the doctor,” Jasmine said to Cho, her face grave. Cho disappeared without a word. Gi held Il-sun’s hand. The pain seemed to come in waves.
“It’s probably just part of morning sickness,” said Il-sun in a moment when the pain abated. The other women did not say anything, giving each other furtive, doubtful looks.
Cho had been gone for an interminable quarter hour, and then returned with Mrs. Cha. The room turned icy cold in her presence, her eyes fierce coals that looked capable of emitting rays of death. She stood at the foot of the bed, an improbable midwife. Il-sun gave a loud shriek of pain, and a pool of deep-crimson blood appeared between her legs. She looked up, terror-stricken and pale. Gi squeezed her hand, tears streaming down her face.
“The bleeding will stop soon,” said Mrs. Cha flatly. “There is no need for the doctor.” Then she turned and glided out of the room.
As the truth of what happened dawned on her, Il-sun began to sob. The baby had lifted her above her situation. It had given her a ray of hope and something to live for, and now it was taken away from her. The stark reality of her life clicked into place, like a sticky tumbler in a lock finally releasing, opening her awareness to the undeniable truth: She was a prisoner in a foreign country, being forced into prostitution, with no way of escaping. She wished she could die. Maybe she would bleed to death.
Another wave of painful contractions came over her and she expelled more thick clots of blood and tissue. The baby had come out. It was little more than a couple of centimeters long, with discernable arms and legs. She could not bear to look at it. Her tears stopped and her face became hard and stoic.
“Take it away,” she said.
“Il-sun—” said Jasmine tenderly.
“Just take it away!” she shouted.
Gi reached down and scooped the fetus into her hands. It was small and nameless—qualities she could relate with. It was not fully formed, like her, and she envied it that it would never know the suffering that this world could provide. She took it into the bathroom, cradling it in her palm. Here, in her hand, was an ending that never had a beginning. There was a complicated mix of feelings, and Gi took a minute, looking at the fetus, to unknot them. She was sad, for Il-sun’s pain more than for the baby. She had enjoyed the bonding that Il-sun’s pregnancy fostered between the women, and she knew that she would miss that. The baby had been an avenue that Gi could have taken into Il-sun’s heart, but now that would never be. And in there, too, was an uncomfortable sense of relief: She would no longer have to compete with this child for Il-sun’s affection. She hated herself for feeling that way, but it was an undeniable truth.
Gi had lived through a time, in the gulag, when life was especially cheap. She had watched impassively as girls perished,
or were maimed or . . . forced into intercourse—now she knew what that was. She tried to feel something deeper for the small body that was in her hand, but it was not there. She knew that she was supposed to be torn with grief. Why would it not come? It was just another life, only this one would not be lived. It was probably better this way. “We all loved you very much,” she said, wishing that she could feel those words—she really wanted to. It seemed that there needed to be ceremony. Then she lowered the body into the toilet, and flushed. Il-sun wailed loudly in the other room.
68
THE NEXT MORNING BRITNEY came to their suite looking put out.
“Mrs. Cha wants me to get you girls ready for work,” she said.
“Today?” asked Gi. Il-sun’s miscarriage had been such a trauma that she had thought the whole world would need to rest from it. Apparently not the flesh industry.
“Yes, today,” Britney replied.
“I don’t feel good,” said Il-sun.
“What, do you think you’re better than the rest of us, princess?” said Britney rudely.
“No, it’s just that—”
“Mrs. Cha said all of you were going to work today, and I’m not gonna argue with her. Neither are you, so get ready.”
The women took showers and spent time doing their hair. Britney brought them clothes, makeup, and hair products. The shoes that they had brought with them from South Korea had disappeared when they were released from the container, probably thrown out with the rest of the fouled items that were found inside. They had been barefoot since their arrival, and it looked like that was not going to change. The clothes that they were given were ill-matched and fit poorly; but then, they would not be in them long enough for it to matter. It was a far cry from Mr. Choy’s standard. Once they were ready, Britney led them down the stairs and into the bar. Mrs. Cha met them at the bottom of the stairs appearing regal and fierce.
“Alright, let me have a look at you,” she said, glaring down her nose. She inspected each woman up and down and front to back. Her brow was pinched, as if she were assessing the work potential of oxen. She had a habit of clicking her tongue when she was in thought, which sounded to Gi like mild disapproval. She looked cursorily at Gyong-ho, and said dismissively, “Well, we’ll see how you do.” Gi had a feeling she was not really speaking to her, so remained quiet. Mrs. Cha paused at Il-sun.
“What have we here? Aren’t you a pretty one.” She circled around Il-sun as if zeroing in on a kill, examining her with an appraising eye. “I think you’ll do well, even if you turn out to be a lousy lay.” Mrs. Cha reached out with one hand and grabbed hold of Il-sun’s face by the chin. She turned Il-sun’s head from side to side. “But you won’t be a lousy lay, will you? What is your name, dear?”
Il-sun’s hatred showed on her face. She knew that the miscarriage had been ordered by Mrs. Cha—Gi had been right to be suspicious. Now she was being forced to prostitute herself only a day afterward. She was still having light cramping and spotting, but it did not matter to Mrs. Cha.
“I asked you your name,” Mrs. Cha said, raising her voice.
There was a pause, and Il-sun stared back into Mrs. Cha’s eyes. “Daisy. My name is Daisy.”
“My name is Daisy, ma’am,” Mrs. Cha corrected.
“Ma’am,” Il-sun repeated.
“Better. Okay, this is how it works: You girls mingle with customers at the bar. I know you don’t speak English, but it doesn’t matter because those men aren’t here to talk. Just be pretty, smile a lot, and do whatever they want you to. When a man wants to go with you, he pays me or the bartender. You take him up to your room and fuck him. It’s that simple.
“Sometimes men will leave cash tips for you. You’re not allowed to have cash, and you will hand it over at the end of your shift. If I catch you hiding money, I will have your fingers cut off. I’ve done it before. I may be a bitch, but I’m not a crook. Those tips are yours and I’ll keep an accurate log of how much you’ve made. Just ask the other girls here, and they’ll tell you that I deal fairly that way. You can use your money to pay for things like cigarettes, or clothes, or whatever. We keep a shopping list and I have my boys go out a couple of times a week to buy things.”
“Why can’t we keep our own money, if it’s ours?” asked Jasmine.
“Girls started thinking they could buy things like bus fare and plane tickets. We can’t have that.” She began to pace. “You’re allowed two drinks while you’re working to help calm your nerves. I don’t want you getting sloppy drunk and making asses of yourselves. It’s unprofessional. If you keep the customers happy and behave yourselves, I think you’ll find it’s not such a bad life in here. If you don’t behave, I will make your life a living hell. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison.
“Now, get to work,” said Mrs. Cha.
Suddenly the room felt very large and Gi felt terribly small. Smoke was rising in thick plumes from cigars and cigarettes, and it lingered on the air as a dense haze. There was a collection of young Caucasian American men at the bar and another group sitting around one of the tables playing a game of cards, and Gi shuddered. Jasmine had tried to allay her concerns about Americans, telling her that men were men, no matter where they came from; but she could not overcome a lifetime of belief that Americans were evil monsters, that they were imbued with an inhuman propensity to violence and dishonesty. She knew that Cho had had to service Americans in Mr. Choy’s sex shop, but Gi had been spared—they did not frequent the club where she worked.
“Cho and I have done this before,” Jasmine said with a resigned sigh. “Just follow our lead. You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.” She stepped toward the bar with more confidence than Gi knew she was feeling, and the others followed. As they approached, the other women at the bar gave them cold looks and condescending stares that seemed to say “This customer is mine, so hands off!” It was apparently a territorial business. They sat at the far end of the bar, Gi on the farthest stool.
Jasmine turned and leaned her back against the bar with a practiced look of boredom on her face. Soon a man with too many chins staggered over and stood next to her. His eyes were bloodshot and he reeked of alcohol. He said something to her in English, more loudly than he needed to in order to be heard over the soft music that was playing in the background. She batted her eyes and looked him up and down. She leaned in close to him and whispered something into his ear, and he chuckled. The bartender drifted over, sensing a deal about to be made.
“Vodka and tonic, please. Heavy on the vodka,” Jasmine said to him in Korean. The bartender nodded and busied himself making the drink. Jasmine’s client was feeling talkative, and she nodded and smiled at him as if he were the most interesting man in the world. Truthfully, she probably only understood a small fraction of what he was saying, but he did not seem to notice, or even care. Jasmine downed her drink in two large gulps, shuddered, and then said something to the man in English, nodding toward the stairs. He nodded back to her, paid the bartender, and followed her up the stairs.
Gi felt a knot in the pit of her stomach, and she sat hunched at the bar trying to be invisible. Il-sun sat next to her, watching the women in action, fascinated and frightened. Cho went upstairs with a client soon after Jasmine, leaving Il-sun and Gi alone at the bar.
“Something to drink?” asked the bartender.
“Champagne,” replied Il-sun.
“Fancy girl, are you?” he said sarcastically. “Girls don’t get champagne, unless you pay for it.”
“Okay. Whiskey.”
“Neat, or on the rocks?”
“I don’t know, just whiskey.”
“Neat, then.” He poured a glass and handed it to her.
Gi watched two more men enter the room. Asshole frisked them both, and they made their way to the bar. One of them noticed Il-sun and came directly over to her. He was in his late twenties, tall, thin, and wearing a dirty T-shirt and baseball cap. He smelled sour and unwashed. Il-sun stared i
nto her drink looking like she hoped he would disappear, but he did not. He said something to her that she did not understand. She looked over her shoulder and saw Mrs. Cha glaring at her—she had no choice but to be polite. She conjured a plastic smile and looked back into her drink. She took a sip, and then another. The man ordered a drink and leaned against the bar, staring at Il-sun’s breasts, which were still overplump from her pregnancy.
Mrs. Cha came and stood between them. She greeted the man as if he were familiar, and then turned to Il-sun.
“This is your first client, Daisy. Don’t disappoint me.” She said the words with a smile plastered on her face and a pleasant lilt in her voice, but her eyes were hard and threatening. Il-sun turned to the man and gave another forced smile. Mrs. Cha spoke to him again, saying something in English that caused them both to laugh. He handed her a small stack of green bills, which she counted with sharp movements. The bills sounded like a knife on a sharpening stone as they slid across each other in her hands. She nodded at the man and walked away.
The man threw back his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking expectantly at Il-sun. Il-sun glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Cha, and then smiled at the man again. She took a long sip of her whiskey, held back a cough as it burned its way down her throat, then stood up. He followed her across the room and they disappeared up the stairs.
Gi had not felt this alone for a long time. She hoped that nobody would notice her sitting there and that Mrs. Cha would forget about her. The room filled up around her, and the sounds of talking, laughing, and drinking got louder and louder. Cigarette smoke burned her nostrils and the air was heavy with the smell of men. Jasmine returned, and then left again soon afterward with another client. Cho came and went similarly. Gi was not sure which was worse, being alone in anticipation of her first client or enduring the dizzying cacophony in the now crowded bar. She wondered if eventually the sounds would make sense to her the same way the sounds of the garment factory had become a kind of music. She listened for patterns in the chaos: the wavelike rise and lull in chatter, the random clinking of glassware, the nonsense music coming from across the room drowned out and absorbed into the thrum.
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