by J. M. Lee
“Where to?” Kim asked, looking panicked.
“They say the police are cracking down to the east. We need to go west. Crossing the desert to Tucson will be better.”
We left in a hurry, leaving behind a mess. We walked along the street. Kim took out a peso he had kept hidden in his shoe, allowing us to take a bus. We left the city and rode along the back of trucks or a donkey-pulled cart. We walked on unpaved roads westward.
Three days later, we came upon an old wooden sign.
Welcome to Altar
We were 100 kilometers from the border. Altar was teeming with migrants trying to get into America through the Sonora Desert, which abutted Arizona; this was the largest, harshest border in the world, complete with intense heat, snakes, and scorpions. The eighty-kilometer trek across the desert didn’t allow access to water, shade, or roads. Half a million migrants attempted to cross here, and most of them perished or were caught and deported. Kim and Jang were paralyzed by fear; they wanted to find a coyote to identify a safer route. I told them I would cross alone.
“Gil-mo, forget what Jesus told us,” Kim advised. “He was a crook.”
I ignored him. I began my preparations. I would need to drink two gallons of water every eight kilometers. If I brought too much water, I would be slower and become more dehydrated, and if I had too little I would die of thirst. I bought provisions. I estimated the coordinates based on the map and decided to walk with the sun on my right shoulder. The hot white mounds were gently sloped, and the sand underfoot grabbed my ankles. Sweat evaporated before trickling down, the salt clinging to my skin. I walked toward the center of the desert; it sucked every bit of moisture from my body. My legs felt detached from the rest of me; my head burned. The length of my gait was thirty-eight centimeters; after four thousand steps I took a sip of water and ate a cookie. I was dizzy and parched; the heat was exhausting. My body ached. The sun toasted me then peeled my skin, layer by layer. I kept forging ahead, one step at a time.
At night, the roiling sand cooled. I walked on, looking up at the stars. I could hear them singing, filling the quiet desert. Father had told me people became stars when they died. I stared up at the faces of the dead. The sky spun, dunes rose and fell, and sand blew into my mouth. A lizard skittered across the sand. Stars twinkled above and bones of the perished sparkled below. I lay next to the bones and talked to them, but they replied that they were resting, sleeping, never to wake. I lay in the sand bed with the wind as my blanket.
A large city appeared. The enormous skyscrapers of the American city I saw online, the wide boulevards. Someone beckoned at me, his hair dusty, his face worried. He came to me stiffly and looked at me with lifeless eyes. I knew him. Father, you said heaven was quiet and bright. This must be it. The sun is so bright. The world is all white.
But my son, this isn’t heaven. It’s the desert.
Father, I met Jesus. He dipped me in the river and promised me he would take me to America.
Father’s lips cracked. He disappeared into the sandstorm. Sand, wind, and the sun rushed toward me, baking me. I saw Yong-ae’s face. I saw heaven. I calculated the 9999th prime number. Numbers told me where to go. They ordered me to put my foot forward, then the other foot. Soon, I couldn’t take another step. The last step I took went into nothing. The sun spun once in the sky. Everything turned black.
I opened my eyes. The sun was waning. Sand flitted around, twinkling. I smelled something odd. A donkey approached me. Its eyes were gentle, and its coat glistened gold. It showed me its back. Where do you want to go? it asked.
Can you take me to America?
It nodded its thick, stout head and grunted. It began walking through the desert, across the vast sea of sand. Its legs weren’t long but it trudged on steadily. The wind erased the footprints we left behind.
I came to. I saw a black stretch of tar ahead. Asphalt. The road heading to Tucson. A giant red Coca-Cola truck sped by with a roar, sand swirling behind it. It was November 18, 2007. I had crossed time and space to arrive in America. Jesus was right. I followed the North Star, walking along with Father and the donkey. I rested during the day to be able to walk at night. He hadn’t lied. He had pulled me through the guts of the desert.
Angela stares at me. “This story is different from everything else you’ve told me,” she says slowly. “You’re acknowledging that you committed a crime.”
“Should I not?”
“I don’t know. I think I may have wanted you to be innocent somehow.”
TRAVELERS THROUGH TIME
I emerged from the desert and hitched a ride on a freezer truck packed with frozen sardines, then a refrigerated truck holding dead chickens, before getting in a container truck with thousands of boxes of canned tuna. Finally, I sat next to a bankrupt supermarket owner as he drove a rattling Ford sedan. I entered New York in an electrician’s truck with a broken air conditioner; I noticed how nicely people were dressed, and how busy they all seemed.
I began working at an upscale Japanese restaurant called Nozomi. My cooking skills came in handy. Nozomi was popular with Hollywood glitterati and politicians. The restaurant had two entrances; the main one was decorated with Italian marble and Indonesian volcanic rock, and was frequented by Wall Street fund managers, PR firm executives, investors, politicians, and actors. They arrived in expensive cars for their reservations, made six months in advance. The other door led into the alley, which reeked of rancid oil and garbage. Kitchen staff and waiters huddled out there, smoking. Tall gray buildings lined the alley, casting it in dark shadows all day.
My colleagues in the kitchen were all ages and from all backgrounds with one thing in common—we were all poor. We had all come here searching for something better. Ricardo came from Puerto Rico with dreams of buying a small food truck. Salim, a Pakistani, yearned to obtain a green card in order to give his children a decent education. They emptied trash, washed the floor, and wiped the trays clean.
I was promoted to a cook within six months of working at Nozomi. Wearing a white chef’s coat, I rinsed and made rice, fluffed it with vinegar, and trimmed raw fish. I rinsed rice, poured water on it, put it on the stove, and watched steam escape from the pot, smelling the sweet scent of rice. I scooped perfect, glistening rice into bowls. This was all I had dreamed of when I used to go hungry.
Beautiful customers laughed in the dim dining room. I watched them surreptitiously, dipping my fingertips in water and grasping a small mound of rice doused in vinegar. Exactly 328 grains. A few extra grains made it hard for the rice to spread easily in the mouth, and a few less made it less satisfying. I held a slice of fish in my left palm and smeared some wasabi on it. I put the ball of rice on top and pinched. I did this with the fewest movements; the longer it stayed in my hand, the more I touched it, the less fresh it became. Waiters glided around and people talked in hushed tones. Dishes clinked. People came in and left. At the end of the night, I went home through the alley door.
Every Monday when Nozomi was closed, I took out my favorite black-and-white-striped shirt to go see someone. I got off at South Ferry and walked past the Starbucks and the bodega to get on the Staten Island Ferry. It smelled of gas and water. Leaning against the railing, I watched the water slapping against the side of the vessel. Plump seagulls followed us, snatching crumbs thrown by tourists. I turned to look at the Statue of Liberty—she was 225 tons, 46 meters tall. Including her pedestal, she was 47.5 meters tall. Or 93.5 meters tall if you measured from the surface of the water. Over the last 120 years, she watched as travelers, immigrants, and fugitives stepped off old steamships from Ireland, Poland, or Germany onto the putrid docks with sea legs, their eyes dreaming of freedom and plenty. I wanted to be greeted with her torch but felt undeserving.
You’re an immigrant, too, she said gently. I welcome you.
But I’m not here legally.
Leaving someplace to go elsewhere is an issue separate from laws. Legality isn’t a factor for me. An immigrant is an immigrant. You can stay
here for as long as you want.
Time had dyed green her Grecian gown and crown. White clouds floated among buildings. Yong-ae was here somewhere. I knew she was. I looked for her on my way to the fish market on my bicycle, on my way home, on the train to South Ferry, among the crowds I watched on the morning news, on the stage of a small club in a back alley. I never spotted her, but I knew she was here somewhere. I knew she looked up at Lady Liberty from a café somewhere, the same Lady Liberty I was looking at now.
Do you know Yong-ae? I asked Liberty.
I’ll tell you if she comes here. I’ve seen everyone who has come to this city.
The wind picked up. Shallow waves dotted the surface of the water. Seagulls cried overhead and the ferry followed the river. I thought back to the afternoons along the Taedong, that river teeming with gray mullet, the senior colonel waving at us from the deck of the USS Pueblo. I wondered about the statues of the Great Father and the Dear Leader, gleaming in sunlight—will they be pulled down one day, hanging from a big crane, their ankles chopped off and their waists severed? The engine groaned as the boat sliced through the water.
I got off the ferry and looked down into the water at the crushed plastic cups and pieces of Styrofoam floating around. I perched on a railing, my legs dangling in the water, and stared up at the Statue of Liberty; everything about her highlighted the beauty of the golden ratio. Her height, the distance between her shoulder and her hand holding the torch, the distance between her eyes and forehead, the length of her forehead and cheeks, the length of her lips and the width of her face, all of it. The water lapped my calves and toes. I fished my legs out and hugged my knees to my chest, looking into the blue-green eyes of Liberty. Her dress turned golden in the sunset. As night fell, the city lights glimmered on the river. I stuck out my hand to feel the water. I just had to figure out where Yong-ae was.
THE REASON WE NEED TO BE HAPPY
I returned to the apartment I shared with Ricardo after saying goodbye to the kitchen staff. We had been laid off last night. I picked up today’s Wall Street Journal.
Last Sunday, the American financial system was thrown into turmoil. Following the demise of Bear Stearns in March, Bank of America took over Merrill Lynch on Sunday and Lehman Brothers was shuttered after 158 years. The Federal Reserve and large investment banks are searching for emergency solutions for the economy. Citigroup, Credit Suisse, Deutsche Bank, and a dozen other investment banks were given $70 billion.
Jonathan Fox, head manager of ICP Capital, said, “Monday will be the market’s final judgment. The warning bells are ringing, and people are fleeing.” The crisis is compounded by the fact that Lehman Brothers and Merrill Lynch were the two pillars that supported Wall Street over the last century. Analysts are expecting the housing market to plummet.
Antonio Hardy, a ninth-year employee at Lehman, said he was planning to clean out his desk Monday morning. “We worked hard here. Now everything’s gone. I can’t believe it.”
I folded the paper and began to pack.
“What are you going to do?” Ricardo asked, looking stunned and weary.
“I’m going to go to a secondhand car dealership in Queens.”
“They’re hiring?”
“No, I’m going to make myself a job.”
We wandered among the dust-covered cars and settled on a small yellow truck, a roach coach with a stove. We pooled all of our savings. Ricardo liked the cheery yellow, and I was partial to the Coca-Cola logo painted on the side. It had sat in the lot for two months; it was covered in dust and the inside was caked in grease. Ricardo bought rubber gloves, washed the truck, and converted the workstation into a sushi bar.
Two days later, we prepared sushi the same way we had done at Nozomi. Ricardo drove around, picking out the freshest fish in the markets at dawn. I made perfect rice. Around noon, people poured out of buildings; they had at least survived the morning. Though layoffs were followed by more layoffs, people still had to eat.
Ricardo bantered with customers in front of the truck. “For the price of a McDonald’s hamburger and a Coke, try sushi made personally by Matsumoto Yoji, who was Nozomi’s star chef!”
Fund managers, investment bankers, accountants, and lawyers queued up. I made sushi after sushi. It became quiet again after 1:30. Nothing was left; neither rice nor fish. Ricardo grabbed a fistful of crumpled bills and grinned. “Matsumoto, if we keep going like this, we’re gonna be rich!”
“You be rich. I have to find Yong-ae.”
“How about you find her after you get rich?”
“Finding her comes first,” I told him. “After that I’ll worry about getting rich.”
Nights passed and mornings went by foggily. Yong-ae was nowhere to be found. Had she merely been a figment of my imagination? I looked out at the streets from inside the sushi truck, always searching for her. I looked for her in the early morning markets, on the Brooklyn Bridge, in the water below. I had painted her portrait on the side of the truck. I put her in a hat with a purple flower in it and a fur cape. Customers often asked who she was.
“That’s Yong-ae,” I told them. “We’re connected.”
Nobody was interested in the mathematical principle behind our connection. “Okay, if I ever see her I’ll tell her you’re looking for her,” they told me.
People smiled when they ate my sushi. I could see their shoulders relaxing.
Two days later, as I made my 353rd sushi that day, happiness walked toward me. Her ankles were still pale, but she now had sunken cheeks and rumpled hair. Bedraggled pigeons fluttered up. She walked straight up to the truck, staring at the singer who had once mesmerized Macau painted on the side. She raised her sunglasses onto her head. “I’ve been watching from across the street,” she said. “I recognized you instantly.” The blue around her eye wasn’t eye shadow. She smiled, wincing.
I stared at her. What had happened to her?
Ricardo silently cleaned up and folded down the awning. He started the truck. Yong-ae and I sat side-by-side in the passenger seat. Streets passed quietly and slowly, muted. Ricardo let us out by the river. We could see the Statue of Liberty shrouded in vapor.
“So here we are, in the land of the free,” Yong-ae said bitterly. She pushed her damp salty hair away from her face, wincing.
“Who did that to you?”
“You don’t need to know,” she said tersely.
“He’s terrible.”
“How would you know?”
“He only gave you a bruise on one eye.” If she had another bruise, at least she would return to her beautiful symmetry.
Her long hair tickled my cheek. “Odessa became destitute,” she said suddenly. “His business collapsed. He left Wall Street, fleeing fraud charges. He escaped overseas.” She hesitated, then showed me her left hand. A gold ring. “It’s a wedding band.”
Was it time to congratulate her? Who did she marry? I had so many questions.
“I married Yun Yong-dae,” she spat out, finally. “I mean, Steve Yoon. He changed his name.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“I was undocumented, just like you. I needed to become legal. So I begged him to marry me. He’s become an American citizen.”
“How?”
“He knew he couldn’t apply for refugee status, since he had become a South Korean citizen. So he told them what he knew about the prison system and drug operations, some true, some not. It worked.”
I stared at her.
“He wanted us to get in with Odessa so he could help us climb the ladder, so to speak. I was supposed to get to know Odessa, introduce him as my uncle, help him get him a job at his company, so he could act like a real investor. But then the financial crisis hit.”
“So what is he doing now?”
“He spent all the money we brought from Seoul. All your money, that is.” She glanced at me. “I also took money from Odessa’s company. But it’s all gone. He stays in our old rental place in Queens, drunk. Whatever I bring home he drinks
up, then beats me, telling me to bring home more.”
I shook my head. “Why are you staying with him?”
“I have to stay with him until I get my citizenship.” She sounded forlorn.
Yong-ae came to visit me at the truck every day after lunch rush. Bruises moved from eye to cheek to lips to neck. “He thinks I’m seeing someone else,” she explained.
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want him to know. He’s going to try to use you again.” Her voice hardened.
I couldn’t just watch her suffer. “Why don’t I come over one night?”
She hesitated.
“If I’m there, he won’t beat you,” I reasoned.
“Do you think so?”
“He knows I can make him money,” I said. “Why would he do something I’d disapprove of?”
A few days later, I arrived at the decaying neighborhood they lived in. The buildings were run-down, and damp walls had dead, dry vines tangled on them. Their house was surrounded by a nice grove of cedars, though. The warden opened the peeling front door, assuming a cheerful expression. He looked older and worn. “Great to see you, Gil-mo!”
He led the way into the house. The crossbeams were exposed in their living room, and the furniture was old.
Yong-ae came out of the kitchen, drying her hands. She opened her mouth to greet me.
The warden cut her off. “What a great occasion this is! Let’s celebrate. We’re all together again.”
The kitchen table was draped in a white tablecloth and set with nice dishes. The warden heaved himself onto a chair. “Eat up, Gil-mo!” He served me some spicy chicken.
I took a bite, but I felt hungry and sad. Yong-ae brought some rice to the table.
“You’ll make us a lot of money, won’t you?” The warden grinned.