All Woman and Springtime

by Brandon Jones

  78

  “ALRIGHT LADIES, RISE AND shine! Up and at ’em; it’s seven o’clock,” a woman shouted into the dormitory. “Turn in your blankets and your pj’s and pick up your clothes.” Women groaned, and chatter picked up where it had left off the night before. Gyong-ho opened her eyes and blinked a couple of times to clear them. The woman in the bed next to her was staring at the foot of Gi’s bed. Gi looked down and saw that her foot and ankle were sticking out from under her blanket, her Blue Talon tattoo in plain view.

  “I’d keep that hidden if I was you,” she said. She was a blonde woman in her midthirties with dark bruises for eyes.

  Gi said nothing and pulled her foot back beneath the blanket.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t say nothin’,” said the woman.

  Gyong-ho watched the routine of the shelter unfold, and then joined the line of women waiting to receive their laundered clothes. Gi gave her numbered plastic chip to a woman behind a counter, and the woman handed over the mesh bag with her clothes in it. Gi noticed a strong disinfectant smell coming from the bag; they apparently did not use the same fragrant detergent that was used at the brothel. Noticing that Gi’s bag was particularly light, the woman said, “We have a free box, you know.”

  “A what?” asked Gi. She was glad that those words were easy to say. She was still timid to use the language.

  “A free box. We have a box full of clothes from Goodwill. You might find some warmer clothes to wear. It’s in that corner, over there,” the woman said, pointing.

  Gi went to the box and was happy to find an assortment of trousers, shirts, and sweaters. She found some things that looked like they would fit, including a pair of socks that would cover her tattoo. None of the shoes in the box were better than the ones Sam had given to her, but she was grateful to have shoes at all. The socks, anyway, would help her feet fit better in them. Without a second thought, she dumped her brothel clothes into the free box, and then went to the restroom to change out of her pajamas.

  Once she was dressed, the tide of women at the shelter pulled her toward the exit. Just before leaving she was given a plain biscuit that was still warm from the oven. She bowed in gratitude, and walked out into the sunlight. It was a relief to find that she had not been tricked into the gulag.

  During the day she wandered the city within a short radius of the shelter. She observed how people dressed and behaved, and made notes to herself on how best to blend in. She managed to go the whole day without so much as making eye contact with another person. The city was a wonder of abundance, and there were endless streams of well-dressed, well-fed people, carrying all manner of fascinating gadgetry. Could what she was told about America have been a lie? These people, though loud and lacking subtle manners, did not seem the monsters she had seen depicted on posters or heard about in the popular stories told back home.

  She stayed at the shelter for four nights in a row, and during the days she familiarized herself with the city. Her distance from the shelter grew each day as she became more comfortable exploring her surroundings and as she realized that it was unlikely that anyone from Blue Talon would recognize her in the anonymity of the city. She did not know how she was going to find Il-sun out of the millions of people around her, but she had not lost heart. On her fifth night she arrived late at the shelter; she had been spellbound by a group of Peruvian men playing pan pipes outside a shopping complex and could not tear herself away from the sound. The music was fascinating, the way each musician played only a small range of notes, but worked with the others to seamlessly create broad and beautiful melodies. It was music that fulfilled the Chosun ideal because each person perfected his own small part, but to a greater, communal end. The Dear Leader should love this music, she thought, but doubted that he would—it had not originated in Chosun, and was therefore, by nature, inferior. Or, perhaps, a story would be told of how Kim Il-sung himself had created this music, and given it as a gift to the Peruvians to teach them the superiority of Chosun socialism. Only now was Gi beginning to realize that she had never really believed such stories of his magnificence, but convinced herself of their veracity only out of self-preservation. Not believing could be fatal. By the time she arrived at the shelter, it was already full and they turned her away. Fortunately, Sam had shown up for dinner and told her she could stay with him under the freeway.

  Gi followed Sam to a culvert under two massive roads that were stacked on top of each other on skinny concrete pillars. It was a spectacular feat of engineering that it could withstand the forces of nature and gravity, and she felt a kind of fearful thrill as she stepped with Sam underneath it. She could almost sense all that heft pressing through the pylons and into the ground around her. The traffic overhead made a constant, fluctuating hum that, once her ears adjusted to the volume, was almost beautiful. Sam dug a spare woolen blanket out of his shopping cart and handed it to Gi. He then situated his cart between them and bedded down several meters away. Gi had assumed that, in exchange for helping her, he would want to use her in the way she had come to expect all men to want to use women; and she would have allowed it for his help. But to her surprise and relief, he turned away from her and almost immediately began snoring. He did not even try to touch her. This gesture of unconditional kindness made her cry the first of many healing tears.

  79

  THE NEXT DAY, SAM explained to Gi the layout of the city using a tattered and faded map from his shopping cart. Once he understood that she was looking for a lost friend, he helped devise a method for finding her. He had had tactical training in something he kept referring to as Nam—he could be very linear for a man whose imagination regularly bled into his sense of reality—and he came up with a sensible plan. He explained to her that racial lines were rarely crossed, even in the homeless community, so her best bet would be to first scour the city’s areas that were dominated by Asians. He circled the International District, as well as various streets and blocks throughout the city on the map.

  “Now you gotta be careful when yer lookin’ fer yer frien’,” he warned. “A lone prostitute workin’ the city is almost unheard of. Normally they get picked up by a pimp—always workin’ fer the man. Anyway, if a pimp picked her up, which is likely, and he sees you come nosin’ around, he’s likely to pick you up too; and then you’ll be right back where ya was. Pimps is mean sons-a-bitches.

  “The area you think you was livin’ before, that’s the University Distric’. If she was kicked out, she probably went to another part of the city, just to get away. But she mighta left a trail, so you could start there. That was a couple a months ago, you say? Well, she didn’t go to Wallingford or Fremont. Maybe Ballard or up north. She mighta gone up to Capitol hill, but she wouldna stayed there long. It’s gettin’ kinda yuppie. From there she coulda ended up in the Central Distric’, if she was picked up by a pimp, but I wouldn’t go there firs’, if you can help it. You don’t need to bother with Firs’ Hill or Queen Anne. Let’s see . . . If she’s workin’ the streets she might go downtown sometimes. It would be worth askin’ around at the market. The missions in Pioneer Square is a good place to find people on the run. Yer best bet is to ask around the International Distric’, see if any Korean girl matching her description came around lookin’ for help. It may seem like a big city, but people remember things like that. We’ll find yer frien’.”

  It took a few days, but Gi finally summoned enough courage to do as Sam suggested, and started her search in the University District to retrace Il-sun’s steps. She found the street where the brothel was, tucked on a forgotten block between two more upscale streets. Sam had lent her an oversize rain slicker with a hood to better conceal herself. Even so, she did not dare get too close for fear of being discovered. From a distance she could see that the windows had been boarded up, and it was difficult to tell if the business was still operating. She did not linger long enough to see whether or not customers came and went. She thought of Cho with a stab of guilt. Was she still in there, enduring endlessness
, talking to herself?

  She tried to imagine where Il-sun would have gone from there. When Gi walked out of the brothel, she had turned left. Was that a logical choice, or was it random? Gi had chosen left because that was the direction to the quieter intersection. She felt more comfortable where it was less busy. Il-sun, on the other hand, preferred crowds and activity. She would have been drawn to the bustling intersection, Gi decided, so that is where she went.

  Gyong-ho stood at the corner trying to look inconspicuous. She was alert to the danger of running into one of the bouncers, who might recognize her, but she did not see anyone she knew. In fact, nobody seemed to pay her any attention.

  What would Il-sun have done at the intersection? Maybe she stood at the corner in just the same way, wondering what to do. Once she collected herself, where would she decide to go? Gi looked up and down the street. Everything was confusing and foreign. Then her eyes landed on a colorful sign halfway down the block, around the corner and across the street from the brothel. The sign had English, Chinese, and Korean letters advertising itself as a pharmacy and convenience store. Il-sun would have been drawn there because of the Korean writing, Gi thought. She would have gravitated toward the familiar. Gi walked to the pharmacy. As she got near, however, she noticed the Blue Talon emblem painted in the corner of the window, and felt a prickling sensation on her tattoo. Il-sun would have noticed it too. What would she have done? She would have kept walking. It was the natural thing to do: Keep walking and hope not to be noticed. Gi walked past the pharmacy and to the end of the block. Now what? She would have been too agitated to stand still for very long, and, not speaking English, she likely would not have dared to talk to anyone to ask for help. Il-sun would have walked, but to where? There was nothing at the intersection that stood out. She had already spent the effort walking in this direction, so she would not have backtracked toward the brothel. Gi decided to keep walking in the same direction down the street.

  Gi allowed the exercise to clear her thoughts, hoping to see some clue about Il-sun’s next move. She started counting her steps, out of habit, but then stopped herself: Il-sun would not have counted steps. She wanted to see the street from Il-sun’s frame of mind. She walked for several blocks without seeing anything and began to feel discouraged. Perhaps it was hopeless to thread together a trail that was already months old. She was walking toward downtown—it seemed the natural direction to go—but had not yet made it as far as the lake when she came upon a shop window advertising a tae kwon do studio. The South Korean flag hung in the window, and there were posters on the wall written in Korean. If Il-sun had seen that, would she have gone inside? There were no Blue Talon emblems to be seen, but she still may have been wary of the Hanguk flag.

  A class was in session, so Gi waited on a bench outside until it was over. After the last of the students filed out of the studio, she took a deep breath, for courage, and entered. She was surprised to see that the instructor was a Caucasian man, and she nearly turned and left without saying anything. Il-sun may not have been comfortable approaching an American, but this was Gi’s only lead. She had to find out.

  “Anyang haseyo,” she said to him, and bowed. She hoped that, being a tae kwon do instructor, he could speak Korean.

  He looked friendly but perplexed and gave an awkward bow. Westerners always looked funny when they bowed. He could not speak Korean.

  “Hello,” she then said in English. She was becoming more comfortable with how the language twisted and formed in her mouth. “My name is Gi-Gyong-ho.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Erik,” he replied extending his hand. Gyong-ho grabbed his hand and shook it timidly. She realized she probably seemed just as awkward shaking hands as he did bowing. “How can I help you?” Erik had medium brown hair cropped short, a compact, well-defined body, and the grace of someone who had practiced martial arts for a long time. Gi hesitated for a moment, weighing the possible risks of talking with this man. Erik had a face that bore no malice, so she decided to trust him.

  “I looking my friend. She name Il-sun, or maybe she Daisy. She Korean like me. Maybe she stop here, two months yesterday?” In her nervousness she had spoken incorrectly, but he seemed to understand.

  “A girl did come by here several weeks ago.” Gi’s heart skipped a beat. “She didn’t speak English, but she seemed to be asking for help. I couldn’t understand her, so I took her to my teacher, Mr. Kim. Mr. Kim took her in for a few nights, but he had some problems with her. I don’t know what happened to her after that.”

  Gi’s heart sank. Il-sun could be trouble. The drugs had made her even more unpredictable than she was by nature. “You take me him?”

  Erik scrunched his face for a moment, then he understood and frowned. “Mr. Kim’s already upset that I passed your friend on to him. I don’t think he’ll be very happy if I bring him another homeless girl.”

  Panic rose from her belly to her throat. This was the only link she had to Il-sun, and if she lost it now she would not know what to do. She swallowed her panic and forced her thoughts to be clear. She remembered a television show in which a desperate woman was urgently trying to convey the importance of her struggle. What did she say?

  “It’s a matter of life and death!” Gi blurted, using the same inflection and strength in her voice as the woman on the television.

  Erik seemed engaged in a turbulent inner struggle as he weighed Gi’s desperation against Mr. Kim’s anger. Finally he sighed and said, “Alright, I’ll call him and see what he says. Wait here.” He went to a phone behind a counter and dialed a number. After a moment he spoke into it, but Gi could not hear what he was saying. Then he looked up. “Mr. Kim would like to speak to you.”

  Gi took the receiver from him. “Hello?” She had never used a telephone before. There had never been anyone to call, and telephones were not so common in Chosun, especially for an orphan.

  “Hello. You are looking for Park Il-sun?” Mr. Kim’s voice was curt. He spoke Korean with a Seoul accent. Gi had expected puffs of air to come through the phone, like when someone whispers in your ear. She found it disorienting to talk with someone who was not in the room. But Mr. Kim had met Il-sun, and she used her real name!

  Gi swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Gi-Gi-Gyong-ho.”

  “I see. You sound Chosun.”

  “I am.”

  “And do you have a Blue Talon tattoo on your leg as well?”

  “I do.” Gi’s voice was shaking and she was near tears.

  “I can’t help you. Your friend was trouble enough. Don’t bring your problems to me.”

  “I’m truly sorry to bother you, sir. I don’t mean to be difficult, but I really need to find my friend. She needs my help. If you could just tell me where she went—”

  “I don’t know where she went. I got her a job at my cousin’s restaurant washing dishes, and he let her sleep in the storeroom. She was there less than a week. She was a lousy worker and she stole money from him. He had to kick her out.”

  “Could you tell me which restaurant?”

  “No! I told you, I can’t help you.”

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Gi said and hung up the phone.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” asked Erik.

  “No, thank you for your helping.” Gi bowed and turned to the door.

  80

  GYONG-HO LEARNED QUICKLY HOW to thrive on the streets. In many ways it was simpler than survival in North Korea. Food was easy—cast off but still edible from garbage cans and dumpsters. There were no strict rules of behavior that had to be adhered to, no pins that had to be worn or meetings that had to be attended. Hygiene was a more difficult issue to resolve, but as long as she went regularly to the women’s shelter she maintained a comfortable level of cleanliness. Whenever she could not sleep at a shelter, she stayed with Sam under the freeway.

  Days passed, and then weeks, and then months. Instead of being worn down by th
e passing of time, Gi felt as if she were being built back up by it. It was empowering to be on her own and making a life, even a meager one, in the city. She felt herself becoming stronger every day. She still searched for Il-sun at the various intersections and nodal points of the city. She inquired about her with all the homeless people and prostitutes she encountered, hoping for some clue. Nobody had seen her. Searching for Il-sun gave her purpose, even if she was starting to doubt that she would ever find her.

  Seattle was full of interesting shapes and colors. Some buildings were little more than boring block towers made of concrete and glass. Others were designed to pull the eye skyward and lift the soul. Some looked as though they had been made to intimidate the other buildings around them, with imposing height and darkened glass, their windows topped by sinister brows of stone. For Gyong-ho there was much time, and on nice days she enjoyed walking and looking at the sights.

  There was one marvel in the city that, for Gi, topped all other marvels, and she first happened upon it two months after her escape from the brothel. She often stared at it in wonder. It was, of all the buildings she had ever seen, a miracle of design. It was an intersection of mathematics and the human soul, and whenever she came near it, she was compelled to walk all around it to study it from every angle.

  It was not the tallest building, nestled as it was between skyscrapers, and somehow that made it all the more grand. It was made of triangles of glass and steel, and within its rigid physical confines it seemed to undulate and ripple. It reflected light off its many angled panes, like a polished and faceted gem. It was oddly geomorphic, being both a natural megalith and a microscopic crystal. It was the thousands of chemical bonds of a complex molecule contorted by nuclear masses and the sharing of electrons. It was a building that had struck a deal with gravity, neither boastful of its vertical conquest nor cowed by Earth’s constant tug. The sign on the door read Seattle Public Library.