by Naomi Foyle
The kyopo politely refused. “I’ve got my own drink,” she told Sydney, then bowed to the ajummas and padded over to the lockers.
“My na-muh Myo Hae Gee.” The ajumma patted herself on the chest.
“Myo Hae Gee,” Sydney repeated. “Irrem Sydney.”
“You eat lunch?” Hae Gee asked.
“No, no food, no sleep, very weak,” Sydney explained. The ajummas exchanged puzzled glances, so she flexed her biceps and her meager store of Korean: “Kang!” That meant strong, didn’t it?
“No strong girl,” Hae Gee contradicted, patting the table “You eat lunch here.”
Here was where the ajummas always sat in the locker room, counting money, watching TV or tucking into the feasts they prepared with the rice cooker and microwave in the corner by the door. Right now, the smell of stew was hanging in the air, and suddenly, Sydney was ravenous.
“That’s a good idea, Sydney.” The kyopo had returned with her purse. “I’m Dr. Kim Da Mi—please call me Da Mi.”
Da Mi’s purse was the latest Prada, Sydney noticed with a twinge of envy as the nude doctor sat down and launched into a spirited exchange with the ajummas. As surreptitiously as possible, Sydney took a professional gawk at her new friend. Da Mi sure looked great for her age: her heart-shaped face was framed by a glossy bob, and had only a faint whisper of creased skin around her eyes. Her neck was slightly more wrinkly, but her breasts were still firm, though too small for her to have had surgery. Unlike most Korean women, she had a bit of muscle tone in her arms. She was clearly what Jin Sok called a “Super Power Lady.”
The Ssirûm wrestler held out her bowl to Hae Gee, who filled it with rice and ladles of dwen chan chigae. Sydney tried not to giggle. It was pretty funny, eating spicy tofu stew with two ajummas in their underwear and a woman wearing only gold earrings and a jade bracelet. But in the bathhouse Korean women, whether young or old, saggy or scrawny, Botox Betties or Silicon Sallys, were relaxed about their own bodies—and other people’s bodies, too. Once, a teenage girl had sidled over to Sydney as she sat on the edge of the hot pool and gently stroked her thigh. It hadn’t been a come-on; she was just amazed by the way Sydney’s legs turned strawberry pink and clotted cream in the heat. Gentle touching between Koreans of the same gender was common, Jin Sok had told her that. Skinship, it was called. Even straight men sometimes held hands in the street.
The older ajumma passed Sydney a bowl of stew. Da Mi made a regretful face and patted her tiny belly, saying something apologetic in Korean, and Hae Gee nodded wisely and fetched a cup of hot water.
“I have a delicate stomach.” Da Mi took a small vial out of her purse. “This is my medicine.” She opened the vial and sprinkled a dash of amber powder into the water. The concoction fizzed up with a sweet, light, flowery smell.
“Is it an Oxy-product?” So many people were into that now. Johnny practically lived on the stuff.
“Those products can be dangerous, Sydney, very over-stimulating. This is effervescent pollen, rejuvenating for us older folk.” Da Mi lifted the cup to her lips. “I have something else that would be good for you, but eat your lunch first.”
Hae Gee brought over some banchan dishes from the fridge: kim chi, sweet radish and green beans marinated in sesame oil with little dried fish. Sydney ate obediently until Hae Gee tried to pour her another mug of makkoli. Alarmed, she put her hand over the top.
“Go on,” Da Mi urged, “it’s raising your blood sugar levels. I couldn’t have prescribed anything better myself.”
So Sydney had another half-mugful of wine. As the meal ended she admired Da Mi’s Buddhist bracelet, and Hae Gee asked excitedly if she meditated.
She shook her head. “But I love the temples,” she added brightly when she saw the ajumma’s disappointed face. She did like the Buddhist chants and lanterns, the colorful temples and the sexy monks, but meditation seemed a real time-waster. Why would you want to blank your mind when life was so full of things to do and see and say and think?
“No more hot box,” Hae Gee said firmly as the ajummas heaved to their feet and began clearing the table.
With a stab of alarm Sydney realized that she meant the sauna. “But I love—”
“Don’t worry,” Da Mi soothed. “You’ll just have to promise to eat properly in the future.” She took a small corked blue bottle out of her purse. “Now. This is honey, a blend of rare Himalayan orchid and Australian poppy—it’s just the thing to calm fragile girls.”
Sydney glanced at the clock: noon. What the fuck, let Johnny sweat. “Wow. Sounds ace, Da Mi.”
The doctor rose gracefully and took her mug to the sink, rinsed it and filled it with hot water. In the light from the soft drinks dispenser, Sydney could see slight furrows in Da Mi’s forehead. They made the doctor look more intelligent, she decided.
“Not the purest water, but it’ll do.” Da Mi sat back down and drizzled a teaspoonful of pale runny honey into the mug, then she passed it to Sydney in the formal Korean way, holding her right elbow with her left hand.
The subtle flavor of the honey blossomed in Sydney’s mouth. She sat quietly, feeling her throat, chest and stomach glow as the drink slipped down her body.
“That’s magic.”
“Yes, in a way, it is.”
Behind them, the drinks machine softly rattled. The ajummas returned to the mog yuk tan, letting a warm billow of moisture into the locker room. Da Mi wiped the lip of the honey bottle with a tissue, re-corked it and returned it to her purse.
Everything seemed strangely normal, more than it had for months. “So you’re from the States, hey?” Sydney asked.
Da Mi set her cup gently on the table. She had perfectly manicured, taupe-colored nails. “I was brought up in Los Angeles. But I’ve been living in Korea for the last fifteen years.”
“That’s a long time.” Sydney toyed with her mug, trying to think of something to say next that wouldn’t be too dumb. Jin Sok had told her that kyopos had different reasons for returning to Korea: some were second-generation immigrants wanting to explore their roots; others were orphans who had been adopted by foreigners. Even though the term meant “one of our own,” they often found it difficult to be accepted by native Koreans. Jeez, she didn’t want to get into all that. “So you don’t miss America then?” she ventured.
“Not at all—but what about you, Sydney? Is that a Canadian accent I detect?”
“Yeah, I’m from Vancouver. Well, near there, anyway.” Sydney relaxed; Da Mi was so nice. And whether it was the makkoli or the honey, she was starting to feel a bit chatty. “I was working in Vancouver and met a modeling agent. He got me a contract here.”
“I thought you looked familiar—you’re in that lipstick advertisement, aren’t you?” Da Mi almost purred with approval.
Sydney rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s me: flavor of the month just because I’m blonde. Ajummas in the subways pull my hair out sometimes, you know.”
“Don’t take offense,” Da Mi chuckled. “They’d tuck your bra strap in too, if it were showing. Your hair is in wonderful condition. It’s just so unusual here. The color is natural, isn’t it?”
“Well, with highlights.” Sydney stroked her hair. She had an appointment with the stylist tomorrow. He’d probably scold her for not patting it dry the way he had told her to. “To be honest, Da Mi,” she confided, “modeling’s really hard work. I love it, but I have to look after every little bit of me, and I have to stay super-thin. That’s why I didn’t want to drink that makkoli.”
Da Mi tilted her head. “You look lovely. I wouldn’t want to see you get much thinner. It was good to see you have a healthy appetite.”
“Oh, I love eating! It’s the one thing I have in common with my boyfriend—my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, I mean.” Sydney blurted out a laugh, and the warmth in her chest flared like a sunburn.
Da Mi didn’t smile. There was a small, stiff pause. An unexpected lump swelled up in Sydney’s throat.
“Things aren’t goin
g so well?” Da Mi’s voice was cashmere-soft.
Sydney scowled down at her lap. Her right knee was throbbing, and her heart was juddering weirdly in her chest. What was wrong with her? She’d been wound up tighter than an OhmEgo halter-top for ages, and now she’d fainted. It was because Johnny was such a jerk. Like this morning, trying to bully her into going to Seoul Land. He thought she didn’t have any friends, didn’t he? Thought she couldn’t make it here on her own. But she could. Koreans were amazing: it was never any trouble for them to look out for her—to take care of her. Not like him.
“Hmm?” Da Mi prompted.
Sydney shrugged. “We got on okay at first,” she muttered. “He helped me start out here and stuff. But now I have the money for my own place, and my Korean friend is going to help me move. It’s just that I work for Johnny too, and he’ll be pissed if I go, so I haven’t told him yet. Plus some days I hardly eat, and I’ve got insomnia, and I look like shit.” Her lower lip trembled. Embarrassed, she wiped the tears away with the back of her hand.
“Oh, dear.” Da Mi’s small breasts rose and fell as she gave a sympathetic sigh. “It sounds very stressful. Here”—she picked up Sydney’s mug and pressed it into her hands—“have a little more of the honey drink. It’s very soothing.”
Sniffling, Sydney took another gulp of the mixture. Who cared about the calories? She did feel less tense now, warm from the honey, and the ache in her knee was subsiding.
“Sydney,” Da Mi said firmly, “I’m not a GP, I’m a research scientist, but I’m telling you, you must eat sensibly. Don’t worry about putting on a pound or two.”
“But if I want to get work I have to fit into Korean sizes, and they’re all so tiny.” Sydney heard herself whining, but Da Mi shushed her kindly.
“Oh now. Your look is very exotic here. I’m sure the designers would alter the clothes for you. And there’s plenty of other work available for foreigners in Seoul.”
On the wall behind Da Mi there was a poster of a Korean palace, its tiled roof framed by cherry trees in blossom beneath a bright blue sky. Sydney stared up at it. Blue sky thinking. That was one of Jin Sok’s top English phrases. Why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy being made a fuss of here?
“I’m sorry, Da Mi. I’m just on edge today,” she confessed.
“Have a little more of the honey drink, sweetie. And do talk about it, if you want. I know it can be lonely when you’re new to a country.”
Sydney tipped back her mug, draining the last slither of the warm liquid. The humming in her body rose like a chorus. Go on, it seemed to be singing, you know you want to. “The thing is, Da Mi—” She hesitated, but then it all poured out of her: “This is just about the most important day of my life. I’ve never really had a proper job before, y’know? I was a waitress for a bit, and then I got into—well”—she tossed her head—“escort work, which is how I met Johnny. I know that sounds sleazy, and I guess it was, kind of. The other girls were nice, and I never got into the drugs, but most of the guys were real losers, and I don’t want to go back to that kind of work ever. So now I’ve got this amazing chance, an exclusive contract with OhmEgo, and Johnny’s being totally horrible to me.” She felt the tears rising again, and with them a hard tinny voice in her head. What the fuck did you do that for? it berated her. Now Da Mi knows you’re a slut, she’s going to pick up her Prada purse, make some lame excuse and leave.
But Da Mi was still there. “Oh dear,” she tutted. “What’s been going on, sweetheart?”
Sydney rubbed at an invisible spot on the table with her finger. The doctor couldn’t possibly understand her life. She was just being nice to her because she’d fallen. But at the same time, Da Mi was listening to her like no one had done in months. Jin Sok was great, but all action and jokes. Annie and the other agency girls hardly even said hi anymore. Yeah, even if she never saw Da Mi again, she needed to talk now. What did she have to lose?
“We had a fight before I came out,” she whispered. “It was scary, actually. Since I got the contract, it’s almost like he wants to hit me sometimes.”
“Oh, now, that is not good. No, I don’t like the sound of that at all.”
Sydney looked up, surprised. Da Mi actually sounded mad. She was frowning and tsking, her eyes flashing, her lips pursed. Then, with a tiny shake of her immaculate bob, her expression melted into one of pure concern. She reached out and placed her small hand on Sydney’s wrist. “Darling, do you need a place to stay?”
“No!” Sydney jerked her arm away. Jeez, what was she doing, spilling her guts to a total stranger? “We’re definitely breaking up—I’m leaving tomorrow when he’s on a business trip. I don’t care if that’s mean. I don’t care.” It was such a relief to have finally said it, she was buzzing. She set the mug back down on the table. The echoing ring lingered in the air.
“He’ll get over it,” Da Mi said briskly. “He must meet lots of pretty girls in his line of work. And your future should be yours to choose. Goodness, it’s actually all very exciting, isn’t it? OhmEgo’s a very up-and-coming label. You’ll be a Korean celebrity in no time!”
Da Mi still liked her. Was on her side, even. Wow. For a moment, she felt light and wavy, a silk scarf blowing in a breeze.
Nice as she was, though, the doctor wasn’t an industry prophet. Sydney wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “It’s just a foot in the door, that’s all. I’m taking a big risk, really. What if I fall flat on my face?”
“Don’t worry, Sydney,” Da Mi said firmly. “I’ll help you, no matter what happens. Here, let me give you my name-card.” She opened her purse again and handed Sydney a glossy business card.
Fuck Johnny. She’d made another amazing new friend. “Thanks, Da Mi,” Sydney said eagerly, examining the card. It was embossed with a glowing green spiral and lettering in English and Hangul. “Genetic Research International Productions,” she read, slowly. “So, what do you do there?”
The scientist snapped her purse shut. “Mainly I help people have children, but we also have more general research interests—some of our projects require test subjects or donors, and we pay well. You’d be very welcome to take part if you ever have time between your contracts.”
Sydney fingered the edge of the card. “I dunno . . . you’re a really smart scientist, you don’t want some dumb street kid hanging around. I mean, I never even finished high school.” Even as she said the words, she wished she could swallow them back down. What was getting into her today? Was that honey drink some kind of truth serum?
“Sydney, look at me.” Reluctantly, Sydney obeyed. The scientist’s voice was calm, her eyes mellow. “You’ve had some hard times, but they’re over now,” she said. “You’re smart and ambitious and lovely, and you’re clearly doing well for yourself. But you’re also a guest in my home country, and we Koreans, we look after our guests. Okay?”
Sydney flushed. Da Mi was super-nice, so why was she being such a dolt?
“Okay.” She nodded. “I mean, for sure. I’m sorry, I’m just totally stressed out today.”
“I know—and one of my jobs is to find a cure for stress, so how lucky is that?” Da Mi smiled. Then she popped Sydney’s empty mug into her own and got up, her black wisp of pubic hair level with Sydney’s face for a moment. “Now I’m afraid I have to get back to work. Are you staying?”
“No, I should get going too.” Sydney scrambled to her feet and followed the doctor back to the lockers. As she slipped back into her clothes, she realized how relaxed she felt—warm, floaty, even a bit taller. It must be good for you to be totally pathetic and unburden yourself to a stranger every now and then.
Da Mi did up the top button of her gorgeous Icinoo tunic. “Goodbye for now, Sydney,” she said. “And don’t forget to invite me to a top fashion house party!”
“Sure!” Sydney giggled, and leaned down to kiss the doctor goodbye. An electric shock sizzled between her lips and the doctor’s smooth cheek. Both women jumped.
“Koreans say that’s th
e sign of destiny bringing two souls together,” Da Mi said.
Sydney fingered her faintly burning mouth and watched the scientist pad to the door in her stockinged feet. What kind of shoes would she slip into outside in the hall: Manolo Blahniks? Jimmy Choos? Oh, she so had to introduce Da Mi to Jin Sok.
9 / The Hotel
For the first week in the hotel, Mee Hee lay curled up on her bed, almost too tired to breathe. She opened her eyes only to sip at her congee, gratefully swallowing the thin slices of vegetables swimming in the thick rice porridge or slowly chewing the shredded morsels of chicken or pork. The food was so delicious she could never speak while eating. Su Jin ate reverently in silence too, and it became their habit not to disturb each other for a long while after each meal.
As well as congee, the nurses also brought them fruit: apples, mandarin oranges, watermelon slices, and after Dr. Tae Sun removed her IV tube the cooks started adding banchan to her tray—little side dishes of odang, potatoes, bean sprouts, kim chi, seaweed. The nurses were Chinese, but the cooks were Korean, Su Jin said. Chinese food was very good, and congee was excellent for people suffering from malnutrition, but as they got stronger, it was important to keep their meals close to home, so they would not confuse their stomachs or their spirits.
When she wasn’t eating, Mee Hee slept, waking only to let the nurses wash her and change her sheets, or to see the doctors, who visited twice a day. Dr. Tae Sun came in the mornings, when Su Jin was out socializing or exploring the neighborhood. He would tend to her bruises, daubing them with ointment as she lifted her nightdress up over her ribs. He also gave her acupuncture to calm her nerves and improve her circulation, teasing her when her veins twitched. Once, he gave her a hand massage to finish off her treatment, kneading her palms and pulling her fingers, joking that he was going to take them away with him. Soon, his footsteps in the hall were a signal to sit up straight, plump the pillows, smooth her hair.