by Naomi Foyle
“Gongjang mean factory,” Jin Sok told her. “Music factory. Art factory. Sex factory. You like.”
She grinned at his imperious tone. “Is that an order?”
“Wha—?”
“Never mind.” Some things just took too long to explain.
Jin Sok held open the metal door at the foot of the stairs and Sydney stepped across the threshold into the finger-pattering thump beats of the summer’s top Afro-dustrial dance track. The intertwining rhythms tugged her into a small room crammed to capacity; her hips already in synch with the music, she inhaled the warm, close crush of flesh. The DJ was scratching on a stage beside the bar; a cluster of girls perched on a cable bobbin beneath a dead tree twitched painted toes in time to the music. Beside them, a group of Korean guys were banging their beer bottles against the top of a red metal barrel. Everywhere drinkers and dancers were haloed by blue bulbs, blue candles, the glow of the drinks cooler and a blank green television screen. Around them all, wispy white, spray-painted clouds drifted between the pipes and metal plates that bulged from the sky blue walls.
“You dance, I get drinks.”
His palm between her shoulder blades, Jin Sok pushed her into the bubbling vat of bodies. Fans blew over her from every corner of the room; the DJ began dispensing an aural massage of electronic pings and whistles. Jin Sok was right: Gongjang was blue heaven, the best nightclub on the planet, a compact box of elation, sweat and sound.
Azitoo was a windowless basement, packed solid with Koreans, Westerners and young Japanese, all grooving to the mellow harmonies of Mama Gold. Damien ordered a beer from a bloke who might have been Sam and leaned against the bar, watching Jake in action.
The trio of bass, guitar and synthesizer ran smoothly through a repertoire of songs about the ex-pat experience, from the jaunty licks of “I Guess You’re Going to a Nori Bang” to “I Love You, Lee Sung Hee,” a ballad in honor of the legendary Korean-American soft porn star. “Lee Sung Heeeeeee, do you like kim cheeee?” the lead singer crooned.
Finally the band took a break and Jake sidled behind the bar.
“Hey, Day.” Jake’s mid-western drawl was as fake as his sideburns. “Great to see ya. And congrats on the footie. Going well, hey, buddy?”
“We won our first game one-nil—against Japan. Now there’s only, oh, Argentina and Portugal to go.”
“Dames. You could still top the group. So, you gonna join us on back-up for a number, give us some of that old Brit-pop cool?”
Damien shook his head. “I don’t sing, mate.”
“Shame—with your looks you’d be a major hit with the girlies. But here, lemme get you a vodka martini. Some James Bond fan might go for you then.”
His gold lamé shirt winking in the lights, Jake reached for a bottle of Smirnoff. “So, I talked to Sam,” he said quietly, shaking the drink and nodding at the other bartender who was standing sentinel at the till. Skinny, with a square jaw and conservative brush-cut, Sam looked nothing like Jake, until he threw his cousin a conspiratorial grin and above his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyebrows rose in that same wicked ghost of a Groucho Marx wiggle.
Damien cast a sidelong glance down the bar. Beside him, two Korean girls were swapping photos on their MoPhos; behind him the crowd chattered and guffawed.
Jake cracked open a beer. “Hey, relax. Sam and me, we know everyone here.”
Damien took a sip of his drink. It was a strong one. That helped. “Okay. Shoot.”
“Bad news is,” Jake said softly, “the price is sky-high. There’s a big demand right now for Canuck papers. Guess you’re not the only one thinking ahead. And to work in Canada, you’re right, you’ll definitely need a SIN card as well as a passport.”
Damien nodded. He had done the research online, and this was not unexpected news. All Canadians were assigned a social insurance number and issued a SIN card that wasn’t nearly as fun as it sounded. You couldn’t open a bank account without one, and employers needed to report the number to the tax department. Some hotels and minicab companies hired illegals without cards and paid them in cash, but he didn’t want to be hanging out with dodgy folk, always looking over his shoulder. Plus, a SIN card also entitled you to government benefits if things got tight.
“That’s okay. I knew that.”
“So. You have two options,” Jake continued. “You could get a fake birth certificate and apply for the SIN when you arrive, or, for a slightly higher price, my guy here will ask his hacker contact in Canada to find you the name and number of a deceased personage whose relatives have not informed the SIN registry of their loved one’s passing. My guy will then make you up a SIN card, and a passport with the same name.”
Damien’s online researches had indicated that these were two secure routes into the SIN database. The Canadian government hardly ever checked it for fraud, apparently. He didn’t want to have to jump through hoops when he arrived, though. “Option two, definitely. How much does your guy want?”
“Going rate is twenty million.”
Damien wished he could whistle better. “Fucking hell.”
Jake shrugged. “It’s a good deal. Option one is eighteen point five. I guess he pays the hacker the extra.”
Damien jabbed at the lemon peel in his drink with his straw. “I’m going to need some set-up money too.”
“No problem. The passport comes with a visa stamp, any date you want. Just overstay, and buy it when you can afford it.”
As always, there was something reassuring about Jake, with his solid build and dark, hush-puppy eyes. But Damien needed to be in Canada before the Hammer’s big date with Earth. And even if Jake was right and the Mayans were wrong, overstaying didn’t exactly appeal.
“I dunno—what if I got picked up after my UK passport expired? I’d be fucked.”
Jake took a thoughtful slug of his beer. “Sam?” He turned to his cousin. “Five months: you gotta save four million a month, plus live. Possible?”
Sam nodded. “Sure, top earner in Seoul make six million a month. Okay, no sleep, but OxyPops cheap. We keep eye open for jobs for you.”
“You’ve got your key-money too,” Jake reminded him. “That’ll tide you over when you get there. Rent’s cheap in Winnipeg.”
Damien clunked his glass down on the bar. “All right: I’ll give it a go.”
Sam stuck his hand out. “Damien, Jake very rude. I Sam.”
“Great,” Jake cut in, as Damien shook Sam’s hand. “Now you’re all cozy here. When you’ve got the cash, give me a photo. Turnaround is pretty quick, three or four days.”
“If you need,” Sam added, “I get you University London MA. Help you get good jobs, very quick. Small investment; big profit. Think about it.”
The Korean girls were poring over a magazine. Jake lit a cigarette and took an order from a beefy Aussie in a Hawaiian shirt.
The knot in Damien’s stomach loosened a fraction. “I got a line on a hagwon job,” he told Sam. “How much is a CELTA certificate?”
“For you, two hundred thou. Come tomorrow with cash, I get by Wednesday.” Sam gave him a thumbs-up and returned to the till. Damien raised his glass to Jake, who toasted back, draining the rest of his beer.
“And now, if you’ll excuse me, Day,” he said, checking his hair in the mirrored tiles behind the bar, “my public awaits.”
The Korean girls screamed and whistled as Mama Gold launched into a rocking rendition of “Ajumma’s Umbrella.” Sam put another martini in front of him. Damien reached for his wallet, but the Korean shook his head.
“Jake buy tonight. Don’t worry, me and Jake, we look after you.”
Sipping his drink he scanned the crowd, checking out the talent. Beside him the Korean girls tittered and he made out the words “Hu-gee Grant.” Christ, was he going to have to pretend to be an aging ponce to get laid here?
No, what he needed in Seoul was not sex, but a fifty-hour work week. In fact, he decided as he finished his drink, it was time for a little self-discipline. Time fo
r a personal vow. Until he got that Canadian passport in his hand, Damien Meadows was flying solo. No chat-ups, no snogging and definitely no shagging. There would be strict limits on alcohol and drug intake too, both of which had in the past led directly to serious cash flow crises and the inadvertent acquisition of mentally deranged girlfriends.
The crowd was going crazy for Mama Gold’s big number: “Are You Married? Why Not?”
Sam leaned over to him. “Damien, you want some E?”
“Nah, thanks, Sam. Taking a break from the old chemicals for a while.”
Sam looked disappointed. “Is present—I bring back with me from Canada. Good times. We go Hongdae after, dancing.”
A bit of clubbing, one last E for the road. Why not?
“Okay,” he agreed. “If you’re having one too.” He could start that new austerity regime on Monday.
11 / The American
At the end of Mee Hee’s second week at the hotel, a weaguk saram arrived. He was the first foreigner she had ever seen. His hair was not quite yellow but a sandy-brown, and his eyes, Su Jin reported, were blue like the sky on a spring morning. She had just returned from the market as he arrived, and was soon sitting cross-legged on Mee Hee’s bed, telling her and Older Sister exactly what had happened.
“His name is Mis-tuh San-duh-man.” She enunciated the English words slowly but proudly. “Dr. Dong Sun told me. He’s a friend of Dr. Kim’s. He’s American but he speaks Korean. And he’s a born capitalist.”
“What does that mean?” Older Sister harrumphed. She had made it clear that she thought Su Jin talked a lot about things she didn’t know much about, and maybe Su Jin did. But Mee Hee liked that about her.
“I’m telling you,” Su Jin hissed, “after he got his keys, he went through the hotel register to see how many rooms were being used. There was one empty, and he’s asked Dr. Dong Sun to rent it out as storage space.”
She flicked her hair triumphantly, but Older Sister pursed her lips. “Sounds like common sense to me.”
“It must be costing a lot to feed us,” Mee Hee offered shyly. “If he helped the doctors bring us here, he must be looking for ways to pay the bills.”
“We’re going to be making his fortune!” Su Jin glared at Older Sister. “He’s come to inspect his merchandise, that’s what I think.”
And indeed, over the next forty-eight hours the American poked his big nose into every aspect of the hotel operation, from the kitchen to the laundry to the medicine dispensary. None of the other women had ever seen a waeguk saram either, and they chattered about him endlessly behind his back: how old was he; was he Dr. Kim’s lover; did you see the way he reprimanded the cooks for idling when there was work to be done? In his presence however, even Su Jin was struck dumb by his beaked profile, his sharp gaze and his basic but snappy command of Korean.
Finally, with the occasional help of Dr. Dong Sun as translator, Mr. Sandman gave a short talk in the lobby. He introduced himself as the Company Director of VirtuWorld, the project they had graciously agreed to be a part of. He explained that Virtu meant goodness and innocence, and expressed the hope that their terrible experiences in the North would help them embrace the close-knit life of caring and sharing he and Dr. Kim had planned for them all. He now wanted to play for them a special dee-vee-dee, narrated by Doctor Kim, to explain the ideals of VirtuWorld.
A new dee-vee-dee? Nothing could have excited the women more. Hushing and shushing each other, they sat enthralled as Dr. Kim’s familiar face appeared on the screen, welcoming them all, at last, to VirtuWorld. Mee Hee watched with her hand over her mouth as Dr. Kim took them on a guided tour of this magical land, all castles and towers, silks and fine foods, fairies and princesses. VirtuWorld would be like an island in Seoul, she told them, where people would go to escape from the stresses and pressures of life. It would be a place of peace and plenty, where nothing evil ever happened, where all suffering would be eased. On this island lived special, fairy children who would enchant the people and soothe their fears. Of course the children were not really fairies, but flesh and blood humans, growing from babyhood to adults as the years went by—and this was why they, the sisters, were so important. They had all been hand-picked by Dr. Che to be mothers to these precious fairy children. So that the boys and girls wouldn’t have to work every day, and would have time for a real childhood, there would be many of them, at least two sets of twins for each woman, born three years apart. Although everyone would grow up together, of course, each mother would always be able to see and to hold and love their own children.
Of course they could choose not to be a part of this wonderful opportunity, in which case, jobs would be found for them in China’s South Korean communities, but Doctor Kim very much hoped they would all want to stay. She would come to meet them all in their new home in the mountains of Kyonggi Province, south of Seoul, where she would explain the simple—painless—scientific procedure by which they all would become pregnant with their first sets of twins.
“Please,” she implored, “come to South Korea. Let me take care of you.”
As the screen filled with an image of Dr. Kim’s gentle face, the quiet sound of restrained weeping spread throughout the room. Her own yearning lodged in her throat, Mee Hee turned to her sisters for reassurance: this paradise being offered to them—was it really real? Would someone please hold her hand, embrace her, say yes, we are saved now, truly Mee Hee, saved. But Little Sister, her eyes closed, was clutching the cross she wore around her neck. The Buddhists were chanting inaudibly, their lips moving in time with their nodding heads. Su Jin sat behind them by herself, an expression of fierce concentration on her face.
Her sisters had suffered so much, as had she. Mee Hee gazed again at Dr. Kim’s noble features. This fine lady had saved their lives, plucked them like grains of rice from the mouth of death. Perhaps there was a God, as Little Sister said, who called some people to him early and asked others to keep living, to keep trying to be strong. Or perhaps, as the Buddhists argued, it was her karma to have left home, to start afresh with all her sisters, to help Dr. Kim. She couldn’t say if she believed any of these explanations; she just knew she was alive, not buried in a shallow grave beside her son. And if she didn’t keep living, who would care that he had ever existed? No, she thought, as she sat in the darkened room, I have to have more children now, to tell them about their older brother Song Ju, to make sure he will not be forgotten once I myself have gone.
Mr. Sandman clicked the lights back on and passed around a photo of the village in Kyonggi-do. The women gasped over the picture: a place they already knew in their hearts, a plateau between two green mountains, on which stood a large hall with a tiled roof, surrounded by clusters of small thatched houses. The sisters would be moving there as soon as they were well enough to travel, Dr. Dong Sun announced.
Then Mr. Sandman held up a black booklet with South Korea stamped in gold on the covers: their new passports. Their own photographs would be inserted beside false names. Mr. San-duh-man said they must be sure to memorize these names—this was a private enterprise, so no one in the government knew of this project.
Finally, as a special gift, he gave each of them a framed, signed photograph of Dr. Kim. As the women were exclaiming how beautiful she was, Mr. Sandman said goodnight and they applauded loudly as he and the doctors left the room.
Her sisters sat discussing the village—how cozy it was, how much like their old homes in the North, what a perfect place it would be to bring up children. Mee Hee fingered the carved wooden frame of her photograph of Dr. Kim. One of the houses was for the doctors, Mr. Sandman had said; they would be living in the village, staying forever, to help the women with their pregnancies, and to give birth, and then to look after all the children as they grew. She tried to catch Su Jin’s eye. Perhaps they could share a house together too.
But Su Jin, a stony frown on her face, was scratching a mosquito bite on her ankle. A droplet of blood rose up beneath her one long fingernail an
d as it smeared darkly across her leg, a sharp, bony fear nudged Mee Hee beneath the ribs. Why wouldn’t Su Jin look at her? Why did she argue so much with the others? Why was she the only one who wasn’t happy?
Then Su Jin looked up, stuck out her tongue at Mee Hee and started chatting to Younger Sister. Mee Hee exhaled, and pressed the photograph of Dr. Kim to her chest. Why did she have to worry so much about everything? She needed to be calmer, more accepting and peaceful. She was going to place the framed picture on her bedside table, she decided, so that the doctor’s tranquil face was the first thing she would see in the morning, and the last thing at night.
12 / Gongjang
Sydney danced until she was gasping for a drink, then she stepped up, panting, to the bar, where Jin Sok was talking to two stylishly dressed Korean men.
“Sy-duh-nee my new model,” he told his friends proudly. “She live in Hongdae now. Soon be very famous. Sy-duh-nee, this Park Song P’il, owner Gongjang. This Han Jae Ho, very big artist in Korea.”
Song P’il was a wiry man with a deeply etched face and bright eyes. He was wearing a tight purple top and natty leather braces, and moved oddly, like a bird. Jae Ho was more solid and composed. Over a white T-shirt flecked with black paint he wore a blood-orange linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, smooth forearms. Beneath his thick, spiky hair his dark eyes openly roamed over her.
“Pangapsumnida,” she said. Pleased to meet you. She offered her hand to Jae Ho. The artist lifted it to his lips and kissed it. The gesture was arch, but his mouth was full and sensual.
“Ooh, gentleman,” Jin Sok teased. Flustered and flattered, Sydney pulled her hand away. Song P’il peered alertly at her then, with a fetching grin, he reached behind the bar and began rapidly flicking a light switch. The blue bulbs above the DJ broke into a strobe, sending the dancers into audible convulsions. The bouncer appeared at the door. Song P’il bowed, and ducked out of the club.