by Naomi Foyle
“Hey—this guy.” She peered closer. His name and nationality were written on the bottom of the picture. “Damien Meadows, UK—I’ve met him.”
“Really?” Da Mi reached for the photo. “Where?”
“In Hongdae—in a nightclub.”
“Sydney, that’s wonderful—he’s perfect. Very About A Boy. And”—Da Mi riffled through her briefcase again and pulled out a sheet from a file—“he apparently has real musical talent.”
She passed the paper to Sydney. It was a printout from an English newspaper website: a photo of a little boy in a white dress with a red tunic-y thing over it. Apparently, Damien Meadows, at the age of eight, had won a choirboy competition.
“No way! That’s so cute, Da Mi!”
The scientist took the sheet back. “Wouldn’t it be perfect if the Peonies had the voices of angels? Do you think you could find him again?”
“Yeah, sure—all the foreign hipsters end up in that club on a Saturday night.” Sydney tried to remember when she’d met the guy—oh, right, it was the night she’d met Jae Ho. Come to think of it, Damien had been into her. She giggled. “I think he liked me. I’m sure I could have his pants down around his ankles in no time!”
Da Mi indulged her with a laugh, but replied in a serious tone, “Sydney, I am extremely anxious that nothing further goes wrong with the selection of the King. If any of our competitors get wind of this, before you know it copycat VirtuWorlds will be springing up all over Asia. If you are able to contact Damien, I would prefer him to think of himself as simply an anonymous donor for an infertile ex-pat couple.”
Sydney saw tiny lines at the corners of Da Mi’s mouth and eyes. Jeez, it must be a nightmare, having to organize all this as well as the science stuff in the lab. And yeah, dragging some cowboy in off the streets was pretty risky; most guys in Seoul were just here to get paid and get laid. They couldn’t be trusted to share Da Mi’s vision of the Peonies.
“Anonymous donors usually don’t care about seeing the kids,” she offered. “It would hardly matter to him if he was helping make one kid or five hundred.”
Da Mi relaxed into the sofa. “I knew we’d see eye to eye on this.”
It was so good to make Da Mi happy. “Hey, you’re just trying to make something wonderful happen and all you need is a bit of raw material.”
“It will take him ten minutes—and he’ll be very well paid. I’m sure he’ll thank you for the opportunity. Now, here: I have a present for you.”
She handed Sydney a small package wrapped in gold tissue paper. Inside was a top-of-the-market, new-range Gotcha Watch: a sleek silver bracelet ridged with elegant buttons, its LED display embedded in a dark green comma-shaped face.
She was silent. She couldn’t even say thank you. Da Mi, with her perfect manners, filled in the gap. “I’m sorry if it seems extravagant,” she said, lifting the watch out of the box. “But Gotchas can be very useful. Look: it’s set up to one-button call my MoPho. You just press here—I don’t want you going into nightclubs without immediate back-up.”
Her mouth was dry; she was barely listening to Da Mi. “Where did you get it?” she whispered.
“I got it wholesale, actually. From a ConGlam contact. Why?”
ConGlam distributed Gotchas? It took Sydney a moment to find her voice. “I had one before,” she said at last. “With a matching EarRinger. Johnny gave them to me. He said they were exclusive to his supplier.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Da Mi, do you think he works for ConGlam too?”
Da Mi met Sydney’s gaze. “That is another thing I have to talk to you about, Sydney. After what you said about Johnny at the Hyatt, I was worried about your safety. I got a friend to look into him for me. It turns out he is doing some commercial fieldwork for ConGlam. No, wait—” She raised her palm as Sydney groaned. “That would explain how he got his hands on the Gotcha. But I can assure you he has nothing to do with VirtuWorld. The park is highly classified, and I have total access to the employment files.”
For the first time in weeks, Sydney felt a skewer of fear. “Jeez, Da Mi, do you think if he found out about my contract he’d try to hurt me?”
“He’s not bothered you so far, but on the other hand, he’s petulant, jealous and childish. If he does hear of your involvement with ConGlam, he might feel you’re treading on his patch. Honestly, darling, I’d feel so much better if you wore this.”
Sydney picked up the Gotcha again.
“The design is based on comma jade.” Da Mi’s voice was melted caramel. “It was highly prized in Ancient Korea. Look, this button shows the time, and this one activates the phone. The Gotcha will call me directly—you can speak into it, and listen by holding it up to your ear. I think that earring design is a little intrusive, don’t you?”
Sydney slipped the Gotcha over her wrist. The comma was like one half of the Korean Eum-Yang: connecting her strength to Da Mi’s. Johnny didn’t know who she had on her side now. Let him try to hurt her—just let him try.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “I’ll never take it off.”
After an hour’s muggy bus ride and two hours at his evening hagwon job, Damien trudged back up to his flat, past ripe piles of rubbish, broken furniture and an abandoned refrigerator. Ajosshis and ajummas sat on the steps lining the steep road, cooling their weathered faces with bamboo fans while their grandchildren strutted around sucking on Freezies. The Dong had its own ways of dealing with the heat.
Back home, Damien had a cool shower, and took a beer, his laptop and his electric fan out on the roof. With no air-con, the flat was impossible—not that the patio was much better. But he had a lounge-chair to flop on and the sunsets were great, thanks to the pollution. Once it got dark, he’d surf the net, plug into the pre-match build-up.
In a previous life, this would be a dope-smoking occasion, but Damien no longer bothered with the odd toke, not even a free E. It was weird, but since dancing with that blonde model he’d been more relaxed than he could ever remember—as if her brief, melting appearance really was a sign from Jessica to tell him he was on the right track here in Korea, with his vow of clean living and punishing schedule. And if that was just superstitious nonsense, well, what was the point of getting to know her to find out the truth? Nothing about the blonde’s real life could be nearly as significant as her chance resemblance to his dead twin.
The sun was floating like a skinned peach in a bowl of pink and orange smog and the crescent moon was just visible, a pale lemon rind in the cocktail of the sky. Lying in the warm dusk, listening to the random sounds of the city, a breathy, early synthpop tune came to mind . . . Thomas Dolby? “Airwaves”? Then he was remembering a game he’d once played with Jessica, something she’d invented when they were banished to their room for squabbling over the radio. He was the moon and she was the sun and they were going to punish the people on Earth by leaving the solar system and rolling deep into space. Like footballs, he’d said; no, like bowling balls, she’d told him. They were going to knock down anything in their way—spaceships, comets, asteroids—until they found a planet that needed them, then they’d orbit it forever, feeding it sunlight and moonlight, so plants could grow, tides turn, and the people and animals could come outside from the caves where they’d been hiding. And then they’d open a disco, Jessica had said.
They’d danced around the room, clambering over the beds and climbing on chairs, singing The Human League and Thomas Dolby songs at the top of their lungs, leaving everyone and everything behind . . . He’d had a pure, high voice, better than hers—Mum had forced him to sing in the church choir and Jess had been so jealous when he’d won that award. After she disappeared he’d quit. He hadn’t sung again, ever. He’d tried a couple of times, but nothing came out except dust and creaking hinges. Mum had been really sad about that. Every now and then she’d ask him if he wanted to try again, but he’d always shaken his head. He couldn’t say anything, but Dad had understood.
But now, at last, being Jessica’s twin felt okay
again: not like being a freak with a fucked-up past, or walking around with no coat in a rainstorm, but like having a secret ally, someone not even death could snatch away.
“Dah dah dah-dah dah dah dah-dah dah dah daaaaah,” he ventured, under his breath. Not bad. Then the girl’s part—“I”—a high note . . . No, shut up, Meadows. It was bloody ridiculous, singing classic crap eighties pop duets to himself. As the moon bit into the darkening sky Damien fired up his laptop. Time to check into Hotel Reluctant Patriot for an hour or so.
He didn’t last long. The febrile pre-match hype and his long working day both conspired to fatigue his very soul. In a few hours all that hope and excitement would have turned to greasy ashes in the mouth of a once-proud footballing nation. And if he was going to wake up at five a.m. and work solidly until eight p.m., he should get some kip. He shut down the PC, reset his MoPho alarm, stretched out and closed his eyes.
The MoPho alarm warbled into his consciousness. He stretched, stiff from his night on the lounger, and powered up his laptop. Right, Meadows, he told himself, do your duty, be an Englishman for once. It’s time to join your countrymen worldwide in a ritual immersion in failure, self-castigation and utter loathing of the Yanks.
The headlines hit him like a lorryload of ice.
Shivering, he could do nothing but read helplessly on, devouring online broadsheets, racing through blog after blog. Jake texted, the hagwon rang, but he ignored his MoPho, ignored his growling hunger, his growing thirst, his need to piss until, at seven o’clock, he paced to the edge of the roof and stared out unseeing over the blaring, oblivious city, thinking, Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck!
And then, rubbing his sore shoulder and taking in a lungful of smog: “Snukes?” What the hell kind of kiddie telly word was snukes?
21 / The Beloved Leaderess
Her first morning in the village, Mee Hee woke early and stretched in the gauzy summer light. She gazed happily up at the rafters. There was so much space beneath the thatched roofs of the houses: a large maru room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and three bedrooms: one for each woman and a bigger one for the children later, Dr. Tae Sun had said last night. Or the women could share and let each set of twins have a room. Mee Hee and Su Jin had pulled their yos into one room within ten minutes of arriving at the house.
Now Mee Hee sat up, smoothed the sheets and bowed her head toward her photograph of Dr. Kim, which she had placed on a low table beside the yo. Last night she had decided that every day she would give thanks to the doctor for her beautiful new home. Now she prayed she would be worthy of the honor and luxury Dr. Kim was bestowing upon her.
Across the room, Su Jin stirred, blinking in the light.
“Good morning,” Mee Hee chirped.
“Nyuhhh.”
Su Jin often took a few minutes to fully awaken. Mee Hee got up and washed, then pulled on the pink linen trousers and shirt that had been waiting for her in the house. They were a traditional country design, cut for comfort. Su Jin had a set too, in beautiful spring green.
Su Jin sniffed, though, when she finally got up and dressed. “These aren’t very stylish, are they?”
“They’re lovely, Su Jin. Look at the care that’s gone into the stitching.”
“They make us look shapeless,” Su Jin complained, but she ran her hands over the fine weave and fingered the twisted cloth buttons.
“There’ll be lots of time to dress up later,” Mee Hee said dreamily. “Dr. Kim wants us all to be like princesses in her new world.”
Su Jin pointed her nose in the air and put on a haughty voice. “Princess Mee Hee! Princess Su Jin! You’ve been digging for carrots again—clean your fingernails at once!”
“Oh, Su Jin, she’s not like that.”
Su Jin sat down on her yo and began to brush her hair. “We don’t know what she’s like, do we?”
“We will soon. Dr. Tae Sun said she would visit this week.” Mee Hee picked up her photograph of the doctor. “She will probably look even more beautiful in real life.”
“She’s had a lot of work done on her,” Su Jin said knowledgeably.
“Work done?” Mee Hee frowned. “What do you mean?”
“She’s no spring chicken, is she? Dong Sun told me she’s nearly sixty, but she looks about forty, so unless she made those videos years ago, she’s had plastic surgery or Botox injections—or else she wears about eight layers of make-up.”
Mee Hee put the photograph back down on the table so it faced away from Su Jin. “It doesn’t matter. You can tell from her eyes how caring she is. Look what she’s done for us already. We should put your photo of her in the living room, with flowers and a candle.”
Su Jin gave her a saucy look. “That would make Dr. Tae Sun very proud of us.”
“Oh, you!” Mee Hee picked up a pillow and threw it at her friend and Su Jin squealed and tossed it back across the room. It hit Mee Hee on the arm and bounced off on to her yo.
“Stop it!” She stamped her foot. “We have to go for breakfast now.”
“You started it,” Su Jin said piously. “Give me five more minutes. I want to do my nails.”
“Okay, but give me your photo. It’s only right to show our respect, Su Jin.”
Rolling her eyes, Su Jin reached for her suitcase. The photo was down at the bottom, wrapped up in a bag of laundry she’d been too lazy to get done at the hotel.
“Our Beloved Leaderess.” She handed the photo to Mee Hee, then unzipped her make-up bag and took out a bottle of bright red nail polish. Her fingernails were growing well now, and she liked to do her toes too.
Mee Hee went into the kitchen to shine up the glass and the frame. Then she set the picture on a cabinet in the living room, beneath a scroll depicting birds and bees hovering around a rhododendron bush. Today she would gather some flowers in the woods and place them with a bowl of fruit beside Dr. Kim.
It was a short walk down a grassy path to the Meeting House, where the women were gathering for breakfast, sitting around two long black tables set beneath a high timbered ceiling. The doctors were already there, each sitting at the head of one of the tables. Mee Hee stole a glance at Su Jin. Would she want to sit near Dr. Dong Sun? But Su Jin was scrutinizing the room, its empty bookshelves and large wall-mounted television screen. Without waiting, Mee Hee scurried to Dr. Tae Sun’s table. There were two places free near the top. She plumped herself down on a cushion and patted the other, saving it for Su Jin. The smell of newly cooked rice drifted out of the kitchen.
When all the women were present, the doctors stood up.
“Welcome Sisters,” Dr. Dong Sun greeted them. “This is your Meeting House. All our meals will held here together. In the evenings you can watch DVDs and relax, and during the day there will be pleasant tasks to accomplish—sewing, weaving and food preparation, and later, looking after the children together.”
“The fields outside are our garden.” Dr. Tae Sun beamed. “We will grow our own vegetables there. Some crops are already growing; later you can walk around and see them.”
“Soon we will organize kitchen, garden and craftwork committees,” Dr. Dong Sun continued, “but this week the village cooks are preparing your meals—and it smells like breakfast is ready, so enjoy!”
Soon the women were eating egg rice and kim chi and small chewy fish, chattering excitedly about their wonderful new home.
“Our houses are blessed,” Mee Hee said quietly, to no one in particular. “Good spirits look over them.”
“That’s why we placed hemp cloths over the beams in the maru rooms.” Dr. Tae Sun smiled at her from the head of the table. “To honor the Kyonggi-do god and ask his protection for you all.”
“There are no outhouses,” Older Sister announced. Her neighbors tittered at this coarse observation, but she continued in a louder voice, “so the outhouse gods cannot come and disturb our happiness!”
The women burst into laughter. As Mee Hee set down her chopsticks and pealed with merriment, she caught Dr. Tae Sun’s eye. He was
smiling at her with such fondness that for a moment it felt as if he, not Dr. Kim, had arranged everything—the trucks, the hotel, the ferry, the village—arranged it all to rescue her, to see her laugh until her stomach hurt, not with hunger, but with joy. Her face crimson, she looked away.
“Yes, there is an outhouse,” Dr. Dong Sun declared to the raucous room, “at the back of the vegetable garden. Make sure you always cough before you enter, to frighten the outhouse god away!”
The women laughed and talked on as the village cook and her helpers cleared the dishes and wiped the tables so they gleamed like ebony again. As the cooks refilled the teapots, Dr. Dong Sun stood up to make an announcement.
“Today is for relaxing. Tomorrow, though, you must wait here after breakfast,” he said. “Dr. Kim Da Mi is driving down from Seoul for a very special meeting with you all.”
There was a twittering rush of excitement as the news sank in. Mee Hee hugged Su Jin, but her friend was stiff in her arms.
“Aren’t you happy?” she whispered, suddenly frightened.
“Yes, yes,” Su Jin muttered. “Of course.”
Mee Hee let go of her friend. Then, without knowing how she had summoned the courage, she raised her voice. “We should decorate the Meeting House for her, with flowers from the garden.”
“What a wonderful idea.” Dr. Tae Sun applauded. “I hereby nominate Mee Hee as Head of the Flower Committee.”
“Oh!” Her hands flew to her mouth. What had she done?
“I second the nomination,” Dr. Dong Sun boomed. “Sisters, those who want to help Mee Hee plan for Dr. Kim’s visit can stay in the Meeting House. The rest are free to do as they please until lunch.”
Nearly half of the women stayed, but Su Jin gave her a peck on the cheek and disappeared.
The next morning the doctors were late for breakfast. The cooks served the food, but wouldn’t speak to anyone. One of them was crying. Mee Hee lowered her eyes. Maybe the woman was grieving someone? Perhaps the wildflower arrangements in each corner of the room would help her feel better. It had been wonderful to pick the bouquets of sweet-smelling plants, feel their stiff stems in her hands, stroke the shiny blades of long grass.