by Naomi Foyle
“And this”—Jake passed him another sheet of paper—“is your teaching schedule.” He pointed at the top of the list. “The kindergarten is two hours every morning, it’s a blast. These are a few privates, after-school stuff with kids, a pain to get to, but good cash. And there’re always more jobs coming up. With the current situation, people aren’t staying as long as they used to. The social scene ain’t what it used to be. Still, you can rack up some won pretty quick if you want to.”
Damien gazed at the numbers. Math had never been his strong point, especially when stoned, but according to Jake’s figures, it seemed he’d be working twenty hours a week for about two thousand pounds a month. “Looks great to me.” Slowly, his mind worked back through the conversation, the way it often had to do after a puff. Something was puzzling him. Oh yeah. “What do you mean: ‘the current situation’?”
“You know”—Jake yawned—“climate change. All that Hammer mumbo-jumbo. Some people think we only got until December; they want to travel, not teach Korean businessmen how to place an order at McDonald’s.”
The dope rush had subsided, leaving Damien with goosebumps and a slight case of muscle tremor. He rubbed his arms. “So what do you think?”
“About what?”
“You know, the Hammer.”
“Ah, yes, the mighty Lucifer’s Hammer.” Jake eyed up a chunk of hash, sliced it neatly in two and placed the larger piece on the scales. “Do I believe that a dense metal asteroid is currently traveling toward us at enormous speed from the Oort cloud, at an angle to the sun that makes it invisible to even the most sophisticated astronomical instruments?” He removed a pinch of hash from the lump he was weighing and shrugged. “Nah.”
“But what if it were true?”
“It ain’t true. The world was going down the drain at the Millennium, and the 2012 Solstice too, as I recall. Sheesh, they couldn’t even pick a new date.”
Damien’s teeth were starting to chatter. Man, this stuff was strong. “The websites go over all that, Jake. Maybe the Mayans got the year a bit wrong. Or we miscalculated their calendar.”
“Dames: the whole scene’s just a bunch of freaks waving The World is Gonna End Tomorrow placards. Tomorrow comes: world still here. Still, at least they can re-use the placard.”
Damien sat up. Some people needed a little persuading. “Jake, meteors have slammed into Earth over and over again during its history. We’re due a big one, and we’re not prepared. The Hammer would make the 2004 tsunami look like a spilled paddling pool. Only people way up a mountain or deep inland would stand a chance. The astronomers were all talking about it until four months ago, then the head of the Royal Astronomical Society got the sack. The government didn’t want her to tell us the truth, because—”
Jake cut him off. “Because there’d be nothing they or anyone could do about it. So why freak out until it happens? Or doesn’t happen.”
Damien gave up. If people didn’t want to face the truth, you couldn’t make them. “Okay, so there’s no Hammer. But what about global warming? Every year we get more hurricanes, floods, earthquakes, epidemics. I mean, how long before bird flu takes off?”
“Life’s a gamble. So long as I’m living high up a hill, I’ll take my chances.”
Damien’s muscles were shivering now. He reached over and rummaged in his backpack for a sweater.
“You cold, buddy?”
It was now or never. He pulled on his V-neck. “No—kind of. Look, Jake, I gotta ask you something.”
Jake put the knife down. “Shoot.”
“Your contacts here . . .” Christ, there was no point pussyfooting about. “—could anyone get me some Canadian papers?”
“Canadian papers?” Jake raised one eyebrow, a neat trick. “You mean The Globe and Mail?”
“No. I mean a passport. And a SIN card.”
Jake raised both eyebrows now. “Okaaaay. So why would you be in the market for those, exactly?”
Damien took a deep breath. “Britain is fucked, man. Police state, rains all year round, stabbings on the Tube every week, no room to move, and everything costs a fucking arm and a leg. If there’s going to be floods and plagues, it’ll get way worse.”
Jake shrugged. “So go live in Europe. You Brits are lucky, you can teach English there.”
Damien shook his head. “Europe’s just as crowded. Any diseases, they’d spread like wildfire. And Russia’s got nukes pointing at every major capital. I’m telling you, it’s no time to move to Poland and drink cheap beer.” Jake opened his mouth to protest, but Damien rolled on, “Look, my UK passport expires soon. To get a new one, I’d have to virtually sign my DNA away—isometrics, eyeball prints, blood test, face-scanning. I don’t believe in that shit.”
Jake flicked a bit of tobacco out from between his teeth. “Me neither, buddy, but it’s not up to us peons to decide these things, is it?”
“Canadians don’t have to give blood to get a passport, do they?”
Jake made a mock salute. “Land o’ the free, buddy, home o’ the brave. Unless you’re a First Nations brave, of course. Then it’s the reservation for you, second-class citizenship, fracked land and nuclear waste.”
Damien ignored the history lesson. “Well, I’d rather have a Canadian passport. And a Social Insurance Number. I’ve done the research, Jake. If the oceans keep rising, or the Hammer hits and there’s another tsunami, central Canada’s going to be one of the safest places on earth.”
Jake snapped his fingers beneath Damien’s nose. “Dude-ski, wake up! How many times do I have to tell you? The Hammer is a magnet for internet loonies, that’s all. So basically you’re saying that you wanna live in Armpit, Saskatchewan to avoid getting sneezed on in the odd queue for the off-license? Not sure you’ve really thought this through.”
How to explain without explaining; that had always been the question. “Look, there’s some personal stuff going on for me too,” he muttered. “I could do with some space to chill out after Korea. I just thought you might know some bloke who could sort me out.”
Jake held his gaze. “Dames: are you in some kind of trouble?”
Damien ran his hand through his hair. “Not really—I mean, not yet. I don’t want to go into it, Jake, it’s not important. I just don’t want to go back to England, okay?”
“Not even for the World Cup? I thought you’d be sprinting right back for that.”
Damien snorted. “Especially not for the World Cup. We’re shit, remember? We’re going to get eliminated in the group stages and the whole country’s going to sulk through the knockouts and disgrace ourselves as hosts, then we’ll spew up spite and recrimination for the next four years. No thanks.”
“Hey, don’t be so negative, Dames. It’s a common coping mechanism to deal with fear of failure, but it deprives you of the healthy chance to hope. You guys got a good team this year. You just had injury problems in the run-ups. But with the schedule re-jigged to July now, you’ve had extra training time. Best chance since ’66, I reckon.”
“Germany and Brazil have also had extra-training time, Jake—and it’s always our best chance since ’66, but we never do better than abject humiliation in the quarter-finals—or semi-finals, if we’re extremely unlucky. Please don’t kid yourself on my account, okay?”
Jake narrowed his eyes. “An Englishman who doesn’t want to watch the World Cup at Wembley: this has got absolutely nothing to do with kiddie-fiddling, right?”
“Jake,” Damien exploded, “fuck, you’re the one working at a bloody kindergarten!”
“Whoa!” Jake flashed him a grin. “I’m just winding you up, buddy, relax. Look, your business is your business. You wanna live in Canada, that’s great. I’ll talk to Sam when he gets back, he knows everyone. Just don’t mention this conversation to anyone. Comprendo?”
“Comprendo.” Damien was exhausted. He pushed his chair back from the desk, got up and flopped down on the sofa. “Thanks, Jake.”
“Anything for a skunk-buddy.” Ja
ke pulled open a drawer. “Look, here’s my agent’s business card. Takes ten percent for the first six months, but he’s always good for a morning job. Wish I could give you the hagwon. That was ideal.”
Damien placed his arm across his eyes. His brain felt like it was squeezing itself out of his head through his sinuses. He had to make an effort to stay in the room. “What’s a hagwon?” he asked.
“Cram school—early mornings and late afternoon. I got caught in the office by immigration. Luckily I was just doing some photocopying, or I coulda been deported. Jeez, that was a pisser to lose, thirty thou an hour. Still, you got a good week there. Especially for a kiddie-fiddler.”
Jake chortled, but Damien could barely hear him. Somewhere in the darkness in his head a little girl was sobbing, desolate, frightened, alone. Where’s Damien? Where’s my mum? But he didn’t have to listen. He rubbed his face vigorously—he was rubbing her out and she was fading away. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was silent now. And his eyes were wet and his stomach felt like it had been vacuumed into an enormous black hole.
“Damien, you okay?” Jake sounded sharp, anxious. “What’s the matter, buddy?”
“Huh?” Damien jerked to attention. Christ, he had to snap out of this. He hauled himself back up to a sitting position and reached for his jeans. “Fuck, I gotta get up. Can I check my email?”
“Sure. Help yourself to cake.” Busy again with the hash and his scales, Jake nodded at the laptop.
Damien powered up and accessed his new Hotmail account. He’d shut down the old one before he left, and his Facebook and Twitter profiles too. Three emails. Spam, Hotmail admin, and Mum, replying to his apology. He’d bet his first month’s wages in Seoul that she wasn’t worried about him.
Yup, no “how are you,” no “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you with the money.” Just a memo to say she and Gordon were going to Paris for a week. He was about to click “Delete” when something stopped him. Sure, she was a shit mum, but she’d already had one kid disappear.
Mum,
Arrived safe. Will let you know when I’m back.
Dx
He pressed “Send” then headed to the kitchen for some cake. Now he wasn’t a missing child anymore, maybe Jessica would leave him alone.
Part Two
CONTACT
8 / Naked Brunch
“Hey, Johnny.” Sydney padded up behind him at his desk and tickled his ribs. “Can I have my pay for last night? I want to go to the gym.”
“The gym?” Johnny swiveled round, his face scribbled with annoyance. “C’mon doll-face, I told ya three times: I’m going to China tomorrow, today’s Independence Day, and I’m taking you to Seoul Land to celebrate. You need to have some fun, go on a few rides, eat a little junk food for a change.”
For fuck’s sake. Sydney put her hands on her hips and stuck out her chin. “I’m not American, Johnny. And I have to stay in shape. I can’t spend the whole day pigging out. We can go when I get back. Now, can I have my money, please?”
Johnny lifted his right eyebrow. Not a good sign, she had learned. “Of course, baby,” he crooned as he fished his wallet out of his pocket. He pulled out a crisp man won note and she stuck out her hand, but he waved it aside and tossed the bill on the floor. “How’s that for starters?”
Her heart racing, her hands balled into fists, Sydney glared down at the note, inches from her bare feet. Did he want her to hit him? Would that give him the excuse to punch her out he’d obviously been looking forever since she signed that six-month contract with OhmEgo?
“Never mind. I’ll use my card. Then I think I’ll take myself out to lunch,” she sneered as she kicked the bill away with her toes.
His face morphed like a rubber mask: one weird expression after another. His breathing was shallow; his eyes glinted like chips of glass in his head.
Jeez, this was getting freaky. She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.
“Ah, baby, it was just a joke,” he called after her, but she had grabbed her jacket and gym bag, slipped into her sandals and was halfway down the stairs.
Out in the July sunshine she marched up the road, glancing over her shoulder as she reached the corner. No, he wasn’t coming after her. Feeling light-headed, almost dizzy, she stopped for a moment, sitting down on the brick banquette surrounding the New York Deli. Everything was happening so fast: first the fantastic news about the contract, then the trip to Hongdae with Jin Sok to celebrate. The place was a revelation of twisty back alleys filled with nightclubs, groovy art galleries and cheap student apartments: before she knew it she was toasting her decision to move there. It had barely taken a week to find a studio apartment. Like a total hero, Jin Sok had lent her the key-fee; she’d signed a lease yesterday, and she was moving out tomorrow, as soon as Johnny was safely on his flight.
She couldn’t wait. Johnny had been all over the place lately: half the time shouting or pulling mean stunts like the one with the money; the other half whistling to himself, chucking her cheeks—which she hated—and bragging about taking her to Thailand when he got back. He’d said the other day he knew he’d been distracted lately, he hadn’t been making a fuss of his little girl and he was going to make it up to her, show her the five-star treatment: fancy hotels, jewelry shopping, the works. It would be just like it was in Vancouver again. Maybe a month ago she’d have given him a second chance, but right now she’d rather shove toothpicks under her toenails.
Today was the last day she would ever have to spend with him—and she wasn’t going to do it on his schedule. She stood up and headed up the hill to the Hyatt Hotel. She’d been using the health spa there religiously since meeting Jin Sok—she was blonde, and she’d soon discovered that in Korea that meant she could be bouncing with puppy fat and still get work, but if she wanted the big contracts with the sexiest designers, her stomach had to be flat as a pancake—and not a buttermilk one, either.
But after her battle of wills with Johnny she couldn’t summon up the energy to work out. She got undressed, stuffed her bag of gym clothes into the locker and passed through the smoky glass doors into the women’s mog yuk tan instead. It was nearly empty: just the two matronly, half-naked ajummas cleaning off their massage tables. Both wore only black bras, big flowered panties and flip-flops. One had the physique of a Ssirûm wrestler, with large breasts resting on her swollen belly and narrow eyes sunk in a fleshy face. The other, slightly younger, was almost as generously figured, but softly pretty still, her tightly permed hair tied up in a ribbon. She often spoke or giggled to the other, who responded in monosyllables with an air of great finality. They both knew secrets about green mudpacks and the cosmetic benefits of mashed hardboiled eggs that Sydney kept meaning to explore, but she couldn’t be bothered today.
She squatted gratefully on a wooden stool in the shower chamber, directing streams of hot rushing water over her head and down between her shoulder blades and breasts. Koreans sure knew how to design showers. The mirror on the tiled wall fogged over, obscuring her puffy-eyed reflection. Soon, just keeping the nozzle aloft was too tiring; using the abrasive green mitt she’d bought at Tongdaemon Night Market, she made a half-hearted attempt at the obligatory exfoliation required before entering the sauna—it would be the height of folly to use the shared facilities under the watchful eyes of the mighty ajummas with your outer dermis intact. Only dirt held it together, after all—that was evident by the thick globs of black sludge the ajummas scraped off people with their strong-arm technique. There was even a special word for this gunk in Korean: doh.
Every so often Sydney indulged in the ajummas’ full-length doh-elimination treatment, but today she was afraid she would slide off the massage table and break with a tinkle on the floor. Leaving her shampoo, soap and shower mitt in the little plastic basket by the showers, she took her towel into the sauna.
The cedar-paneled room was empty, so she took two of the beaded head rests for her head and her feet and stretched out on her towel. Privacy was heaven at fi
rst, but without the breeze of other women to-ing and fro-ing the dry heat soon parched her lungs and her brain began to shrivel up like a walnut. She’d hit her limit.
Sydney lurched for the door. She thought she was fine until she hit the vapors coming off the cold pool, then, bewilderingly, her vision checkered like the tiled walls, the whole bathhouse tilted crazily and the floor rushed up to meet her as she fell.
Her right knee was throbbing, and someone was splashing her face with cold water. Blinking, she tried to sit up, but her hands slipped on the wet floor. The ajummas were looming over her, grabbing her arms. She groaned. At least her head was all right. The rubber hoses by the pool must have broken her fall.
“Oh my goodness. Are you okay?” The voice was American; it belonged to a naked Korean woman who was hovering near the sauna door. She must be a kyopo, Sydney realized. “I think so.” Sydney struggled to her feet, helped by the two stout and formidable ajummas. Plastic sandals flapping sharply against their heels, they led her through to the locker room, where they sat her down at a low table and fetched her a mug of cool water.
The kyopo woman was there too, joining in the general fluster of sympathy. She was middle-aged and petite, with small breasts and just a wisp of pubic hair, and she spoke Korean as if the language were a strange, hypnotic music. Listening to her, Sydney wished again that she could understand more than a fleeting word or two. As if sensing her awkwardness, the kyopo turned and winked. Let the grandmothers have their way, her smile seemed to say.
“You like makkoli?” The younger ajumma’s soft moon face bore the sweetest expression.
“Oh, no, not in the morning, thank you,” Sydney stammered; she hadn’t enjoyed the cloudy rice wine the first time she’d tried it. But the ajumma had already taken a white plastic bottle from the locker room cooler; beaming proudly, she shook out Sydney’s water mug and filled it to the brim. Bracing herself, Sydney took a tiny sip, but to her surprise, the makkoli tasted delicious—much sweeter than she remembered, creamy and refreshingly spritzy. She downed the mug in a couple of swigs. The woman refilled it, and fetched out three more mugs.