by Martin Limon
Finally, the lane opened into an open space in front of a huge red gate. Behind the gate a large house loomed. Upturned blue tile pointed toward the sky. Clay figurines of monkeys perched on the ridges of the roof, frightening away evil spirits.
At the heavy wooden door, I paused and listened. No sound. It appeared to be a huge house and there was no telling how far the grounds extended behind this gate.
Ernie admired the thick granite walls. “Not our normal hangout.”
Once again, I checked the address against the embossed plate and then pressed the buzzer. A tinny voice responded.
“Yoboseiyo?”
In my most carefully pronounced Korean, I explained who I was and why I was here. The voice told me to wait. A few seconds later, footsteps. Then, like a secret panel, a small door hidden in the big gateway creaked open. An old woman stood behind, smiling and bowing. Ernie and I ducked through into a wide courtyard.
Neatly tended ferns, shrubs, small persimmon trees. In a pond beneath a tiny waterfall, goldfish splashed.
We followed the maid to the main entrance of the home and slipped off our footwear, leaving our big clunky leather oxfords amidst a sea of feminine shoes spangled with sequins and stars and golden tassels.
The maid led us down a long wood-slat floor corridor. Oil-papered doors lined either side. Finally, we heard murmuring—the sound of prayer. Women knelt on the floor of a large hall, praying. When we entered, they turned to look at us. I couldn’t spot Miss Choi anywhere.
“They’re all mama-sans,” Ernie said.
“Hush.”
Most of the women were middle-aged and matronly. And extremely well dressed. Expensive chima-chogori, the traditional Korean attire of short vest and high-waisted skirt, rustled as they moved. The dresses were made of silk dyed in bright colors and decorated with hand-embroidered dragons and cranes and silver-threaded lotus flowers.
The far wall was covered with a huge banner: the Goddess of the Underworld, wielding a sword and vanquishing evil.
“Wasso,” one of the women said. They’ve arrived.
Then all the women rose to their feet and started rearranging their cushions into a semi-circle. Miss Choi Yong-kuang, smiling, appeared out of the milling throng. She wore a simple silk skirt and blouse of sky blue—less expensive than what most of the other women wore, but on her it looked smashing.
After bowing and shaking our hands, Miss Choi turned Ernie over to a small group of smiling women. They pulled him off to the right side of the hall. Miss Choi led me to the left side and sat me down cross-legged on a plump cushion. Low tables were brought out piled high with rice cakes and pears and sliced seaweed rolls. These were set in front of a long-eared god made of bronze who sat serenely on a raised dais in front of the banner of the Goddess of the Underworld. Incense in brass burners was lit and then an elderly woman dressed in exquisite red silk embroidered with gold danced slowly around the room, waving a small torch. Miss Choi whispered to me that she was the mistress of this home.
“Why’s she waving the torch?”
“Chasing away ghosts.” Embarrassed, Miss Choi covered her mouth with the back of her soft hand.
Gongs clanged, so loudly and with so little warning that I almost slipped off my cushion. Then sticks were beaten against thin drums. I glanced behind me and discovered that three musicians were hidden in shadows behind an embroidered screen.
The ambient light in the hallway was switched off and now the only illumination in the room was the red pinpoints of light from the smoldering incense and the flickering candles lining either side of the long-eared bronze god.
More drums and now clanging cymbals. Then silence. Breathlessly, we waited for what seemed to be a long time. Finally, the clanging resumed with renewed fervor. A woman dressed completely in white floated into the center of the kneeling and squatting spectators. A pointed hood kept her face hidden in shadows.
“Who’s she?” I asked.
“The mudang,” Miss Choi answered. “Her name is Widow Po. Very famous.”
Miss Choi Yong-kuang is an educated and modern woman. Still, there was reverence in her voice when she spoke of the Widow Po.
Across the room, Ernie reached toward one of the rice cakes on the low table in front of him. A middle-aged woman slapped his hand.
The mudang continued her dance, eyes closed as if in a trance. The musicians handled the percussion instruments expertly, keeping the rhythm. Finally, when the first beads of perspiration appeared on the mudang’s brow, other women rose to their feet and began to dance. Soon about a half dozen of them were on the floor, swirling around like slightly overweight tops.
One of the women yanked on Ernie’s wrist, trying to coax him to his feet. He hesitated, holding up his open palm, and then pointed to one of the open bottles of soju dispersed amongst the feast for the gods. She understood, grabbed the bottle, and poured a generous glug into Ernie’s open mouth. Rice wine dribbled out the side of his mouth and onto his white shirt and gray jacket. Ernie didn’t mind. He motioned for another shot and the woman obliged. Then he was on his feet, dancing as expertly as if he’d been attending ancient Korean séances all his life. Arms spread to his sides, gliding in smooth circles like some pointy-nosed, green-eyed bird of prey.
The Widow Po danced toward Ernie. When she was close enough, she grabbed his wrist and started twirling Ernie around faster. Soon the other women took their seats as my partner, Ernie Bascom, and the mudang, Widow Po, swirled around the entire floor. The rhythm of the cymbals and drums grew more frenzied. The Widow Po reached down, gracefully plucked up an open bottle of soju, and once again poured a healthy glug down Ernie’s throat. One of the women in the crowd stood and pulled off his jacket. The Widow Po’s hood fell back. She wasn’t a bad looking woman, at least ten years older than Ernie but with a strong face and high cheekbones. The blemish was the pox. The flesh of her entire face was marked by the scars of some hideous childhood disease.
Ernie didn’t seem to notice. Especially when the Widow Po started rubbing her body against his.
The matronly women in the crowd squealed with delight. Even the modest Miss Choi covered her face with both hands, attempting to hide her mirth.
Ernie motioned for more soju and the Widow Po obliged but then, after another glug had dribbled down Ernie’s cheeks, the Widow Po suddenly stopped dancing. The music stopped. Ernie kept twirling for a few seconds and then stopped dancing himself. He glanced around, confused.
The Widow Po stood in the center of the floor, her head bowed, ignoring him. Sensing that his moment in the spotlight was over, Ernie grinned, grabbed the half-full bottle of soju off the low table, and resumed his seat on the far side of the hall.
No one moved for what seemed a long time—maybe five minutes. Finally, the Widow Po screamed.
The voice was high, banshee-like. The Korean was garbled, as if from a person who was ill or in great pain, and I could understand none of it. The attention turned to one of the women in the crowd. She was plump, holding a handkerchief to her face, crying profusely. The Widow Po approached her, still using the strange, falsetto voice. Finally, the crying woman burst out.
“Hyong-ae! Wei domang kasso.”
That I understood. Why did you leave me, Hyong-ae?
The Widow Po and the crying woman went back and forth, asking questions of one another, casting accusations, arguing. I leaned toward Miss Choi with a quizzical look on my face. She explained.
“Hyong-ae was her daughter. She died in a car accident last year. Now she’s blaming her mother for buying her a car.”
“The Widow Po is playing the part of her daughter?”
“Not playing. Hyung-ae’s spirit has entered her body.”
I stared at Miss Choi for a moment, wondering if she believed that. She blushed and turned away from me. I left it alone.
The crying matron and the Widow Po screamed back and forth at one another. The mom saying now that Hyung-ae, when she was alive, wouldn’t let her res
t until she bought her a car. Hyung-ae countering that a mother should know what is best for her child. They were bickering like any mother and willful young daughter and yet it was eerie. How did the Widow Po know so much about other people’s lives? I didn’t bother to ask Miss Choi about it. I knew her answer. The Widow Po was possessed by the spirit of Hyung-ae.
Suddenly, the Widow Po let out a screech of pain. She knelt to the floor, hugging herself, and remained perfectly still for a few minutes. Without a cue, the musicians started again and then the Widow Po was up and dancing and a few minutes later she yelled again. This time an old grandfather took possession of her body. Another woman in the crowd spoke to this ghostly presence, giving him a report on the welfare of the family. When she was finished, the old man scolded her for not forcing his grandchildren to study hard enough.
Then this grandfather was gone and a few minutes later another spirit took possession of the perspiring body of the Widow Po.
The kut continued like this for over an hour. Ernie was growing restless but the women surrounding him read him like a book and kept pouring him small glassfuls of soju and stuffing sweet pink rice cakes down his throat.
Ernie must’ve already polished off a liter and a half of soju by the time the Widow Po growled.
Her eyes were like a she-wolf. She stalked toward Ernie. He stared up at her, half a rice cake in his mouth, dumfounded.
“Choryo!” she shouted. Attention!
Ernie didn’t understand but the women around him shoved him to his feet.
“Apuroi ka!” the Widow Po commanded. Forward march!
Again the women pushed Ernie forward and he marched to the center of the floor.
“Chongji!” the Widow Po told Ernie. Halt!
Ernie understood that one. “Halt” was the one Korean word that 8th Army GI’s were taught, so they wouldn’t be shot by nervous Korean sentries. Ernie stopped, standing almost at the position of attention, a half-empty bottle of soju loose in his hand.
Miss Choi leaned toward me. “The soldier,” she said. “The one I told you about.”
Ernie reached for the Widow Po, thinking she was going to start rubbing her body against his again, but she would have none of it. She slapped his hand away and stepped forward, her hands on her hips, screaming into Ernie’s face. The words were coming out so fast and so furious—in a deep, garbled voice—that I could understand little of it. Miss Choi translated.
“He’s angry. ‘Why have you kept me waiting so long?’ he says.”
“Who’s kept him waiting?”
“You,” she said. “Mi Pal Kun.” The 8th United States Army.
“Waiting for what?”
“To talk to him. To let him explain.”
“Who is he?”
Miss Choi listened to the rant for a few more seconds and then said, “I’m not sure. The name sounds like mori di.”
Mori means “hair” or “head” in the Korean language. Di meant nothing, unless the spirit was referring to the letter “d” as in the English alphabet.
Ernie was becoming impatient with being screamed at. He lifted the soju bottle and took a drink. The Widow Po slapped the bottle from his lips and it crashed against the belly of the bronze god. Then the Widow Po leapt at Ernie, throwing left hooks and then rights, punching like a man.
The matronly women bounded to their feet and grabbed the Widow Po and held her on the floor, writhing and spitting. Ernie wasn’t damaged badly, just a bruise beneath his left eye.
The Widow Po kept shouting invective in garbled Korean, her burning eyes focused fiercely on Ernie.
“What’s she saying?” I asked Miss Choi.
“He,” she corrected. “Mori Di, the spirit who possesses her. He says that you must start your work immediately. There must be no further delay.”
“What work?”
“I thought you understood.”
“No. The Widow Po is speaking much too fast for me to follow.”
“Mori Di was an American soldier,” Miss Choi explained. “He died more than twenty years ago. He wants you to start an investigation and find the person who did this.”
“Find the person who did what?”
“Find the person who murdered him.”
The Widow Po let out one more guttural screech and her eyes rolled up into her head until only the whites showed. Then she let out a huge blast of rancid air and passed out cold.
Ernie slapped dust mites away from his nose.
“This is bull,” he said.
I tried to ignore him. Instead I continued down the row in the dimly lit warehouse, shining my flashlights on walls of stacked cardboard. We were looking for the box marked SIRs, FY54. Serious Incident Reports. Fiscal Year 1954.
Exactly twenty years ago.
The NCO in charge of 8th Army Records Storage hadn’t been happy to see two CID agents barge in unannounced. He pulled his boots off his desk, hid his comic book, and had to pretend that he’d been working. When I told him what I wanted, he was incredulous.
“Nobody looks at that stuff.”
But when we flashed our badges he complied and escorted us into the warehouse. After he showed us where to look, the phone rang in his office. He used that as an excuse to hand me the flashlight and return to the coziness of his cramped little empire.
When we were alone, I turned to Ernie. “You sort of liked that Widow Po, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Ernie responded. “Nice body.”
“So we do her a favor. That’s all. See if any GIs were murdered twenty years ago. Any GIs named Mori Di.”
I stopped at a row of boxes. There, up at the top, Fiscal Year 1954. Grabbing a handhold, I started to climb on the boxes below. Ernie helped hoist me up.
“You don’t believe any of that stuff, do you?” he asked. “Good show, but it’s all an act.”
I grabbed the box, blew dust off the top, and studied it. Bound with wire, no chance to check the contents up here.
“Pretty convincing act,” I replied.
“But still nothing more than an act.”
I slid the box down to Ernie. He broke its fall but it was still heavy enough to land on the cement floor with a thump.
“Wire cutters,” I said.
Ernie returned to the office and brought back a pair.
“The Sarge says we’ll have to rebind it ourselves.”
“Screw him.”
“That’s exactly what I told him.”
Ernie snipped the thick wire, pulled the top off, and then held the flashlight while I crouched down and thumbed through the manila folders.
I pulled a few out.
Fascinating stories. About GIs assaulting, robbing, and maiming other GIs. About GIs assaulting, robbing, and maiming Koreans. Very few about Koreans assaulting, robbing, or maiming GIs. The Korean War had ended only a few months before. The Koreans were flat on their back economically. GIs, comparatively, were as rich as Midas. Still, Confucian values dictated that the Koreans use their wiles, not their brawn, to obtain a share of US Army riches. I could’ve spent hours here studying these cases but we didn’t have time. We were on the black market detail and this was our lunch break. The CID First Sergeant would be checking on us soon.
Then I spotted a thick manila folder.
“What is it?” Ernie asked.
I pointed.
There, typed neatly across the white label affixed to the folder was a name and a rank: Moretti, Charles A., Private First Class (Deceased).
We’d found Mori Di.
That evening, Ernie and I repaired to Itaewon, the red light district in southern Seoul that caters to GIs and other foreigners. But this time we didn’t hit the nightclubs. Instead, we walked into the Itaewon Police Station. Captain Kim, the officer in charge of the Itaewon Police district, was waiting for us. I’d called him earlier that afternoon. Sitting behind his desk, he stared at us from beneath thick eyebrows. The square features of his face revealed nothing.
“No one remembers Mori
Di,” he told us. “Too long ago.”
“Surely you have records.”
“Most burn. Before Pak Chung-hee become President.”
There were serious civil riots in Seoul and other major cities of South Korea when the corrupt Syngman Rhee government was overthrown in the early Sixties.
“Still,” I said, “the murder happened only twenty years ago. There must be some cop somewhere who remembers the case.” I glanced at the notes I’d taken while reading Moretti’s case folder. “An officer named Kwang. A lieutenant. The given name Bung-lee. Most of the Korean National Police reports were attributed to him.”
Captain Kim nodded. He already knew this. For him, keeping cards close to his vest was a lifetime habit.
“Why,” he asked, “is the American army so interested in an old case?”
Ernie glanced at me but held his tongue. I hadn’t told Captain Kim that our interest was unofficial. If I had, he wouldn’t have cooperated at all.
“Long story,” I said. “Are you going to tell us how to find Lieutenant Kwang or not?”
Captain Kim sighed, reached into his top drawer, and pulled out a slip of brown pulp paper folded neatly in half. He slid it toward us, his fingers still pressing it into the desk. “Before you make your report, will you talk to me?”
“Yes,” I promised.
He handed me the slip of paper.
“You must be nuts,” Ernie said.
He was driving the jeep and we were wearing civvies, faded blue jeans and sports shirts. It was Saturday.
“On our day off,” Ernie continued, “chasing around the Korean countryside after some murder case that happened twenty years ago all because you’ve got the hots for your Korean teacher.”
“It’s not just that,” I said.
Ernie swerved around a wooden cart pulled by an ox. Rice paddies spread into the distance, fallow now after the autumn harvest.
“Then what is it?”
“You read Moretti’s folder.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, I told you what was in it. His murder was never solved.”
“He’s been dead twenty years. What difference does it make now?”
“He was a GI, Ernie. One of us.”