All Woman and Springtime

by Brandon Jones

  Gi ached to soothe the deep wound that had caused Il-sun to be this way. She no longer desired Il-sun, as she once had, but she still cared for her deeply. Il-sun had nursed her back from a wretched state, and Gi wished she could do the same for her; but her friend was unapproachable and incoherent.

  One evening in early August, Daisy was sitting at the bar, weaving back and forth on the stool, her eyes dull and droopy. Uncle Lyong walked in with several of his men. They had come for an evening of enjoyment after some tense business dealing. Uncle Lyong might have owned the whole world, by the look of his arrogant stride. His face was an unpleasable mask, cut in two by a sour grimace. When he came in, he ignored Daisy completely, as he had for months. If he even recognized her, it did not show. He found his favorite new consort and then went to sit for a game of cards at one of the tables. Something snapped in Daisy then, and she got up with a wild look in her eyes.

  “You’re my man, Gianni,” she screamed, pointing at Uncle Lyong. The whole bar fell silent—no one ever dared to speak in a raised tone to Uncle Lyong, and it was especially inappropriate to point at him. She walked up to him, shaking her finger in his face. “You owe me, Gianni!”

  Uncle Lyong stood, and everyone instinctively backed away from him. He turned to her, his eyes burning with fury, and the back of his hand made a sharp, loud sound on her face. He was a strong man, and he had cocked his arm wide, releasing it with tremendous force. Daisy spun from the impact and hit the floor. Her gums had been made soft by the hiroppong, and she spit two teeth into the palm of her hand. Il-sun gaped silently and then began to sob.

  Uncle Lyong disappeared with his consort. Mrs. Cha stood over Il-sun, cold and triumphant. “You got what you deserve, cunt.” Il-sun looked up at her with fear and hatred. “I have no more use for you. Get out,” Mrs. Cha said with quiet command in her voice, pointing at the door. “Get out now, or I’ll have Asshole throw you out. And never come back!”

  “No!” shouted Gyong-ho.

  Il-sun picked herself up off the floor. The room was silent. Even the customers, who did not fully understand what was going on, knew enough to keep quiet. Il-sun walked to the door with her head down. Before pushing it open she looked into the palm of her hand at her teeth. She then turned her hand sideways and allowed her teeth to fall to the floor. The clatter they made split the dead quiet like thunder. Such small teeth, such a loud sound. She pushed the door and walked out of the brothel.

  The door swung shut behind her and chatter erupted. Business went back to normal. Gi ran to follow Il-sun, but was brought up short by Mrs. Cha’s loud, raspy voice.

  “Not you, Toby,” she said in English. “I like having you around.”

  76

  GYONG-HO WORRIED CONSTANTLY ABOUT Il-sun, who was now on her own and fending for herself on the streets of an unfamiliar, foreign city. How long could she live out there? Even though they had drifted far apart during the last year, Gi felt stripped of something crucial. One thing that had been getting Gi through the numbing nights and days had been the hope that Il-sun would shed the persona of Daisy, and they would be close once again. Hope had been a distraction from the raw endlessness of this life of subservience. Dispossessed of that hope, Gi found herself on the precipice of despair—the future was a bleak promise of only more of the same. But she thought of her life, of everything she had been through, and as difficult as it was, she could not give in now. She stepped back from the brink, not with the question “Why?” but with “How?” How would she escape this life? How would she foil her captors, find Il-sun, and resuscitate her? These thoughts gave her a singular focus, a reason to live yet another day. She knew that the DMZ had been just a mental barrier, and so was her captivity: a problem to be solved, fear to be acknowledged and defused.

  Cho was broken. She slouched, mumbled to herself, and smoked constantly. She saw clients—she was now a bargain price like Gi. She ate sparsely and looked dangerously thin, even for someone from North Korea. But still she lived. Some part of her, too, was fighting to get through it, and Gi felt proud of her for that.

  Faces came and went. Girls were moved from place to place to keep them unsettled and too disoriented to escape. Gi could not explain why Mrs. Cha would not part with her or Cho; they had been at the brothel longer than any of the other girls. Maybe she needed someone familiar to care for. Her grandson had left for college, and perhaps, like everyone, she craved stability. Or maybe no one else wanted two skinny whores from North Korea.

  AS AUTUMN APPROACHED, tension began to build in the brothel. The bouncers paced nervously, and Mrs. Cha was more serious and grim than usual. Unsmiling men held meetings in a private room, after which they would leave without satisfying themselves on the girls. More bouncers fortified the brothel, and all the customers who entered were subjected to thorough body searches. Bit by bit Gi was able to piece together what was going on from scraps of conversations that she overheard. Apparently the Japanese counterpart to Blue Talon was trying to muscle in on their territory. Old agreements had been breached and now the more powerful Japanese were attempting to take over. Blue Talon expected to be attacked, but they did not know when or how. Uncle Lyong was in hiding, being an obvious target for assassination. Already two of his generals had been gunned down.

  Gi caught herself thinking fearfully, They are going to attack us! It reminded her of the days back in Chosun, when there was constant fear that the Americans were going to launch an offensive. But then she had to consider whether or not she was even a part of “us.” Who was she and where did she belong? She used to be Chosun, living her life for the glory of the Dear Leader’s republic. Now the Dear Leader was a faint shadow in her life, powerless over her since she had crossed the DMZ. Chosun was no longer the mightiest of nations but an imaginary fortress across a wide, bumpy sea. But she was also not a member of Blue Talon—she was a possession. She was not any part of “us.” What did it matter if the Japanese attacked and took over ownership of her? Either way she was only a possession. To her, us was Cho, Il-sun, and Jasmine. Us was the orphanage mistress and her sister, the angel who saved her from the gulag. Us was her grandmother, mother, and father. Us was all the seamstresses, orphans, prisoners, and whores.

  “And we want our lives back!” she said aloud.

  “What was that?” asked Cho.

  “I said, we want our lives back, Cho. This isn’t who we are.”

  TIRES SCREECHED ON the street below; then came a sound like a heavy rock falling hard onto a wooden floor. Then another rock. Then a whole load of them falling in succession. Glass shattered, men shouted, and a scream pierced the afternoon. Gi had just finished dressing and her client was still lying on the bed. There was a dreamlike quiet that followed. She descended the stairs. Everyone in the bar was cowering under tables and in corners. Mrs. Cha made a frantic waving gesture at her from across the room. The door to the front room was propped open by the body of Asshole, who lay unmoving in the doorway in a red pool growing on the floor around him. Tires screeched again outside and a car sped away. Gi stepped over the body in the doorway and into the forbidden front room. The windows were shattered and men were sprawled every which way. Everywhere there were holes and shards of glass. She stood in the front room for a moment, comprehension coming to her in waves. She looked back into the brothel, and then out to the street. She knew that within a minute Mrs. Cha would recompose herself and that an opportunity would be lost. She thought of Il-sun, then she thought of Cho.

  “I’ll come back for you, Cho,” she said under her breath. She stepped over the broken glass and onto the street.

  PART IV

  77

  GYONG-HO HAD NOT WORN shoes for over a year, and her feet were cold on the wet sidewalk. She ran blindly from the brothel, not bothering to look back. She did not know where she was going, and she did not care, as long is it was far away. She found a quiet boulevard and followed it in a straight line. After eleven blocks, she slowed to a brisk walk.

  At first glanc
e Seattle was the same as Seoul, full of cars and random noise. She had never been on her own in a foreign city, and the adrenaline of leaving the brothel gave way to fear. People stared at her when she walked by, and she realized that she must look as strange to them as they looked to her. She was not dressed for the autumn chill in the air, wearing only a thigh-length skirt and thin, short-sleeved top, and it must have seemed odd that she was walking down the street barefoot. She was afraid that her Blue Talon tattoo was too conspicuous, and she did her best to conceal it against the buildings she passed. She wanted to find some way to cover it as soon as possible, but her first priority was to get as far as she could from Mrs. Cha and Blue Talon.

  After a while the skyline of the core of the city came into view, a jagged crop of tall buildings huddled in the distance. The city seemed to funnel in that direction, and she needed a goal to keep her walking, so she headed toward downtown. Her feet began to hurt from the impact on the sidewalk and from the cold, but she did not dare slow down. She crossed a bridge and then found herself walking around a lake; and in spite of her desperate situation she had to admire Seattle for its beauty. Downtown was nestled between several low hills that were covered with houses and trees. The lake seemed to give the city a still center around which all its activity spun. The late-afternoon sun all but disappeared and the air became crisp, and she worried that she would not be able to find shelter. If not, she did not think she could live through the night.

  Finally she found herself among the high-rises, and she could no longer believe that America was a desolate place. Exhausted, she stopped on a busy corner and watched the throbbing of the city. Such an assortment of people wearing a variety of styles, going in every direction and at different speeds. It was a wonderful kind of chaos. She had nowhere to go and no plan for what to do next. She thought about her decision to bolt, and wondered if she had made the right choice—at least at the brothel there was food and shelter. Would they punish her if she went back? But then she thought about that life and her impulse to leave it, and she realized that she would rather die taking control of her own life than suffer endless, anesthetic indignity at the hands of others. She stood on the corner, shivering, counting the people walking by. I might die here, she thought to herself. Maybe that will be okay.

  A man shuffled along, pushing a wire mesh cart that was overflowing with random items. He almost walked past her, but then stopped and took a closer look. He was wearing a filthy yellow jacket and fingerless gloves.

  “Your lips are blue,” he said to her in a rough voice. He had a white beard and greasy hair. His eyes held the compassion of one who has suffered greatly over a long period of time. He looked down and saw that her feet were bare. “You don’t have any shoes on.” He said it as if he were filling in an equation: blue lips plus no shoes equals . . . He began rummaging in his cart and withdrew an old pair of sneakers and handed them to her. It was a generous offering, and she was thankful. The shoes were fetid, and many sizes too large, but none of that mattered. At that moment they were better than anything she could have wanted from the imperialist magazines she had looked through so long ago.

  “Thank you,” she tried to say in English. It was the first thing she had ever said aloud in the foreign language. It came out sounding more like “sank oo.” The man understood anyway, and nodded.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  Gyong-ho put the sneakers on her feet and walked behind him. She was grateful for the cushioned soles of the shoes, and the warmth they provided. As she walked, she noticed that the well dressed never looked at the wretched. It was like two parallel worlds coinciding but never intersecting. She followed the man for several blocks to an area of town that looked considerably older, with redbrick buildings and narrower streets. There was a line of people down one of the alleys, and the man joined the queue. “This is the food line,” he said. “They serve a cup of soup to the homeless every night. They also have a women’s shelter. They don’t let men stay here. It’s downright sexist, if you ask me, but I guess they don’t want no fornicatin’, it bein’ a church and all. Anyway, I’ll introduce you. They know me here.” The line moved quickly and soon they were at the door of the building. A man with a clipboard was writing names down as people entered. “They’ll want to talk at you while we eat; nonsense about God and stuff like that. Nothin’ comes for free, I guess,” he said in a whisper as they approached. “Hey, Rick!” he called to the man at the door.

  “God be with you, Sam.”

  “Hey, Rick, this is my good frien’, uh . . . what’s your name?”

  “Daisy.” It was the first name that came to mind, and Gi immediately regretted saying it.

  “Daisy what?” asked the man with the clipboard.

  “Daisy Smith, if it’s all the same to you,” said Sam hotly. “Nosy prat,” he added under his breath.

  “Right,” said the man, writing the name on his clipboard.

  “She’ll be need’n a place to stay tonight, too, I imagine.”

  “She will have to speak to Donna after the sermon, then. Let’s keep the line moving.”

  Sam and Gi received foam cups full of soup and a dry roll each, and sat down at a long table. A man was droning on in the background about a man named Jesus Christ. The food was not very flavorful, but the room was warm. Gi scanned about, hoping to see Il-sun, but she knew it was unlikely she’d find her so soon—it had been about two months since Il-sun had been cast out, and there was no telling how far she had gone in that time. After the lecture was finished, Sam brought her to a tired-looking woman with droopy eyes.

  “Donna, this is my good frien’ Daisy Smith. She needs a place to stay.”

  “We’re pretty full up, Sam.”

  “She doesn’t have a place to go. I’m sure you can find some room for her.”

  “Well, where did she stay last night? Maybe she can go back there?”

  “She can’t go back there! Boyfrien’ on drugs, waving his gun around! Termites eating her bones! No, she can’t go back there.”

  “Has she tried Central?”

  “No, she hasn’t tried frickin’ Central. That’s fifteen blocks from here. She’s here now, and she doesn’t have no clothes. She has shoes cuz I give ’em to her. Where’s your Jesus fucking Christ spirit?”

  “Calm down, Sam, or I’ll throw you out. It’s routine. I have to ask. We don’t have a lot of room, but I’ll see what I can do.” She disappeared behind a door for several minutes, then poked her head out. “Okay, Daisy, follow me. I’ll show you to a bed.”

  “Sank oo, Sam,” said Gyong-ho, and she bowed.

  “Yer welcome. See ya around, Daisy.”

  Gi followed Donna through the door and into a small waiting room. Donna handed her a clipboard and a pen.

  “Fill out this form the best you can. You can read, can’t you?” asked Donna.

  Gi nodded.

  “You’re not allowed to bring any possessions inside with you. If you have anything, we will keep it for you in the safe. We’ve had a problem with people spreading vermin, so you’ll have to hand over your clothes for washing, and we’ll give you something to wear until morning. You’re allowed five minutes in the shower. You won’t want more than that because it ain’t exactly hot. We’ll give you a pillow and a blanket, and feminine products if you need ’em. Wake-up is at seven, and you’re expected to be out of here by eight. We’ll give you a warm biscuit to eat on the way out. Once you’re inside, you’re not allowed to leave until morning. All the doors have alarms. Got it?”

  Got it must mean “do you understand,” Gi thought. She nodded. She began filling in the form, using Daisy Smith as her name. She had to think hard about what letter combination made the th sound, but then remembered the blue elephant on television singing a song about the friendship between the letters T and H. After handing the form back to Donna, she was led behind a locked metal door. As soon as she heard it click shut behind her, she heard every door that had ever clicked shut behind her a
nd she regretted her decision to stay. She was paralyzed by fear. What if this had been an elaborate trick to get her into the imperialist gulag? She was now locked in and being asked to strip. The walls were sterile and lit by anemic fluorescent lights. There were no windows, and now that she was inside, she would not be allowed to leave. The Chosun gulag was bad enough—the American gulag must be even worse. What horrible labor would they force her into? She could not take another step forward.

  “Don’t take all night, now. I have things to do,” said Donna. “Don’t be afraid, I won’t bite ya. Give us those clothes of yours. Shoes too. They look like they need a good washing. Here, you can wrap yourself in a towel and head to the shower, just inside that door. I’ll give you some pj’s when you get out.”

  Reluctantly Gi removed her clothes and wrapped herself in the thin towel Donna had handed her. Donna stuffed the clothes into a mesh bag with a number printed on the side, then handed Gi a small plastic chip with the same number on it.

  “You’ll get these back in the morning,” said Donna, indicating the clothes. “Show your chip at the counter tomorrow, and you’ll get these back, fresh and clean. Now you have five minutes in the shower, then it’s lights out.”

  Gi stepped into the shower room and stood under the water. The best she could say for it was that it was not cold, exactly. It was still better than any bathing experience she ever had in North Korea, using icy water and a small bucket. The soap smelled strong and antiseptic, and it burned her skin a little. Once she’d finished in the shower, Donna gave her a set of maroon pajamas and a pair of cardboard slippers. The cloth of the pajamas was surprisingly rough for being so thin. If this was the American gulag, at least it was clean.

  Donna led her into a large room full of single beds. It reminded Gi of the orphanage, the way the women slept side by side in rows, and she scanned the room hopefully for Il-sun. The lights were dimmed but never fully extinguished for the night; and although the women were not allowed to talk after nine o’clock, there was constant noise. Women belched and farted, tossed and turned on noisy spring mattresses, one woman hummed to herself incessantly, and at least two could not keep themselves from bursting out with meaningless babble. Even with all this, and with her fear that she had just landed herself in a gulag, Gi fell into a fitful sleep.