The Spirit of the Dragon

by William Andrews

  Over the next several weeks, I started to eat and sleep again. I went out of the apartment for walks to regain my strength. I gave away Young-chul’s clothes and sleeping mat, but I kept the altar to him under my window. The ache of losing my prince never left me. After a while, I realized it never would. I would carry the ache with me for the rest of my life and would have to find a way to bear it.

  When eventually I felt strong enough, I called Mr. Saito on a pay phone to tell him I wanted to go to America to find Hisashi. He said he’d take care of everything. He asked me when I wanted to go.

  “As soon as I can,” I answered.

  They said the airplane was a DC-4, and I was to sit in the first-class section all the way to Los Angeles. The pretty stewardess in a blue dress showed me to my seat. It was made from leather—the first time I’d ever sat in a leather chair. All the others in first class were men wearing crisp dark suits and carrying expensive briefcases.

  I thought it was a little silly to fly to America in an airplane, but Mr. Saito had insisted. “You shall fly first class,” he’d said. I didn’t know what first class meant, but it sounded expensive. Anyway, I wasn’t going to argue with him. I’d never flown in an airplane before, and in my life, I’d never had anything labeled first class.

  As I sat in the leather chair, the big airplane roared to life, its huge propellers turning so fast they were a blur. The airplane rumbled down the runway, and just like that, we were airborne. I looked out the window at the city of Seoul. Here and there were construction sites. As Mr. Saito had said, the city was beginning to rebuild. I saw Mount Bukhansan standing like a soldier guarding the city. After a few minutes, the city gave way to granite-topped mountains and valleys filled with rice paddies in tight geometric patterns. From high above my country, I saw that it was indeed beautiful. This was where I’d grown up. In my youth I’d been happy here. But ever since I’d married Hisashi, my countrymen had rejected me. And they’d rejected my son for being half Japanese and drove him to his death. I was angry at them. Even so, deep in my soul, I was sad to be leaving.

  We landed in Tokyo three hours later. The businessmen filed out of the airplane, but the stewardess said I should stay on board. “This airplane goes on to Hawaii,” she said. I stayed as a new group of well-dressed men boarded and took their seats. Soon, the airplane was flying again over the Pacific Ocean on its way to Hawaii. We flew into the night. I tried to sleep, but I was too excited. The thrill of flying in a modern airplane to America and the hope of seeing Hisashi again kept me awake all night. I studied a book I bought on how to speak English. I’d heard American soldiers speak the language and I knew a few words. I’d heard that it was difficult to learn, but I was determined.

  I changed airplanes in Honolulu and then flew on to California. I was amazed at how long the flight was. I asked the stewardess, “How fast does the airplane go?”

  “Over two hundred miles per hour,” she answered. I thought she had to be wrong. How could something as big as an airplane move so fast? I shook my head and looked at the blue-gray ocean below.

  We landed in Los Angeles in the afternoon. I walked down the airplane stairs and set foot in America. The sun was warm and the sky was blue. A gate attendant led me inside the terminal building and showed me where to pick up my luggage—a large suitcase I had bought in the Itaewon market. There, a man dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform met me. “Good day, ma’am,” he said in Korean. “I am Sung-ki. I am here to take you to your apartment.”

  Sung-ki drove me into the city in a tan Ford sedan. I sat in the back as he drove. The road was jammed with cars. They sped along the highway as if they were late to something important. They honked their horns when the traffic stopped. Sung-ki expertly steered the car through the traffic toward an area with many buildings. One was the tallest I’d ever seen. It was white with a peak like a mountaintop. “That is Los Angeles City Hall,” Sung-ki said.

  I saw palm trees for the first time. I almost laughed aloud at the odd-looking trees with long narrow trunks and fronds like wings high in the air. They swayed gently in the warm breeze.

  We went into a residential area. People were everywhere—on the sidewalks, in cars, and staring out windows. Most of them were white people, but some were Asians. “Many Koreans live here, and more are coming every day,” Sung-ki explained. “They call this Koreatown. Our civil war displaced so many of our people that thousands are moving to America. That is what I did,” he said with a grin.

  He stopped in front of a three-story building where Mr. Saito had leased an apartment for me. The driver got my suitcase out of the trunk and carried it inside. A woman stood behind a counter in the lobby. “This is Suk-bo Yi,” Sung-ki said.

  “Anyohaseyo, Miss Yi,” the woman said with a bow. “I am Mrs. Park. I have your apartment ready for you.”

  Sung-ki gave me my suitcase and bowed. He handed me a business card. “I have been instructed to be available to you to help in any way,” he said. “Call the number on this card to reach me.”

  I took the card and returned his bow. “Kamsahamnida,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Park showed me to the apartment. It was on the second floor and much larger than the one Young-chul and I had in Seoul. It had its own bathroom, a separate bedroom, and it was furnished. There was a kitchen with a table, and a main room with chairs and a bookshelf. A box with knobs and a rectangle of gray glass sat against one wall. “What is that?”

  “It is a television,” Mrs. Park answered. “In America, you must have a television. It is quite the invention. When you have unpacked, I will show you how it works.” I’d heard of televisions before, but I’d never seen one. I hadn’t expected to have one in my apartment.

  Mrs. Park left and I looked out the window at the street. Cars raced by in both directions. All along the street, construction booms raised steel beams high above the ground. It reminded me of the construction going on in Seoul, only this was much more impressive and widespread. I had heard that America had become a world power, and here in Los Angeles, I saw that it was true.

  Dozens of people crowded the sidewalks. Some were Asians with black hair, and some wore traditional clothing. I saw they all stepped aside to let the white people by.

  As I stood at the window looking at Los Angeles, I thought it might have been a mistake to come here. I was tired from my journey, and a little unsettled at being in such a strange place. I didn’t know how to speak English. I didn’t know anyone except Hisashi, and I didn’t know where he was. I looked at the people on the street again. One of them could be my husband. For the first time in twenty years, I was near where he was. He was somewhere out there, my Hisashi, my beloved, and I was determined to find him.

  After I’d unpacked, Mrs. Park showed me how to use the television, and I watched it for a little while. The device was fascinating. There were five channels with different programs on each one. There was a variety show, a movie, someone reading what appeared to be the news. I took out my English book and tried to understand what they were saying. But I was tired from traveling, and in the morning, I had to start trying to find Hisashi. I turned off the television and went to the bedroom.

  The bed was high off the floor on a spring frame and had a mattress. I crawled under the blankets and tried to sleep, but the bed was too soft. I got up and pulled the mattress and blankets onto the floor. I pulled the blanket to my chin and fell asleep.

  The next day, I started my search for Hisashi. I didn’t know where to begin. I walked the streets of Koreatown, but I never saw him. After a week of searching for him on the streets, I concluded that I’d need help to find him in a big city like Los Angeles.

  Back at my apartment, I remembered the driver Sung-ki who had picked me up at the airport. I remembered he said he would help me with whatever I needed. I got his card, then went to the lobby and used Mrs. Park’s telephone.

  “Anyohaseyo,” he answered. “You are talking to Sung-ki.”

  I told him I was the wo
man he picked up at the airport for Mr. Saito, and I asked him if he could help me with something important.

  “Are you at your apartment?” he asked. I told him I was, and he said he’d be right there.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sung-ki and I sat in the lobby, and I told him I wanted to find Mr. Saito’s son, Hisashi. He listened carefully and asked a few questions. When I was done, he said, “Most Japanese live north of downtown in Little Tokyo. I do not like to go there, but I will see what I can do.”

  I thanked him and he left. I went to my apartment and studied my English language book.

  Three days later, after searching the streets all day for Hisashi, I came into the lobby and Mrs. Park stopped me. “There is a message for you,” she said. She gave me a piece of paper. It was a message from Sung-ki. It read, I have found Hisashi. Call me.

  My hand trembled as I dialed Sung-ki’s number. He answered on the second ring and I told him I got his message.

  “Hisashi does not live in Little Tokyo,” he said. “He lives here, in Koreatown. He works in a restaurant named Silla near where you live.” He gave me an address and I wrote it down.

  Before I hung up, Sung-ki said, “Miss Yi, I went to the restaurant to be certain it was him. Are you sure you want to see him? I only ask because I don’t think he would want to be seen by you.”

  I started to ask why, but I already knew. “I understand,” I said. “Thank you, Sung-ki.” I took the address of the Silla restaurant and went to my apartment.

  I bathed and put on my nicest dress. I put my hair up and pinned it with the silver hairpin. I looked in the mirror. I was twenty years older than the last time Hisashi had seen me. There were lines on my face that hadn’t been there before. My hair wasn’t as thick as it once was. I looked like someone who’d been through many hardships. I worried that Hisashi wouldn’t like the way I looked.

  I left the apartment and headed to the Silla restaurant about six blocks away. The streets and sidewalks were crowded with cars and people going home. The restaurants were filling up. Soon, I was on the right block and my heart beat fast. Every nerve in my body tingled. I saw the sign for the restaurant. It was between a small food market and a furniture store. It had windows to the street so I could see inside. It was nearly full with diners. Two waitresses moved from table to table, taking orders and then disappearing behind swinging doors to the kitchen. I didn’t see Hisashi.

  I checked the address Sung-ki had given me. I was at the right place. As the waitresses went in and out of the kitchen, I peered into it to see if Hisashi was working there. I didn’t have the right angle and couldn’t see anyone.

  I held my breath and went inside. A young waitress wearing too much makeup said, “Anyohaseyo.” She nodded at an open table. “You may sit there,” she said in Korean.

  I didn’t go to the table. The waitress looked at me. “You don’t want that table?” she asked. “There is another one close to the kitchen.”

  “I would like the one near the kitchen, please,” I said. The waitress showed me to the table and gave me a menu. It was in Hangul, but I couldn’t focus on the words. I looked into the kitchen as the swinging doors opened and closed. I only caught brief glimpses of the people inside, and I couldn’t see if one of them was Hisashi.

  The waitress came to my table with a pad and pencil in her hand. “What would you like, ma’am?” she asked.

  I hadn’t read the menu. “Bibimbap,” I answered.

  “Beef or vegetable?” the waitress asked.

  “Vegetable,” I said, trying to see into the kitchen as the other waitress went through the doors.

  “What do you want to drink?”

  “Tea, please. Bori cha.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the waitress said. She took the menu from me and went into the kitchen to give them my order.

  I sat at the table, afraid that Hisashi might come out and see me. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if he did. I tried to calm myself, thinking he would probably not recognize me. The waitress came with my tea, and I asked if they had a Korean newspaper to read while I waited for my bibimbap. She got a newspaper from the counter and gave it to me. I pretended to read it as I stole glances into the kitchen.

  I heard a plate break in the kitchen. “Ah!” a man’s voice said. I could tell by the gruff tone it wasn’t Hisashi. “Look what you have done! Stupid wae-won!” the man said.

  Wae-won—Japanese bastard. I went to the kitchen door. My waitress came to me and said, “Do not worry about that, ma’am. Please sit. It is just our cook yelling at the dishwasher.” She gave me a reassuring smile.

  “Is your dishwasher Japanese?” I asked.

  “Yes, he is. And you know how they are,” she said with a look.

  My heart stopped. It had to be my husband, Hisashi—a dishwasher in a Korean restaurant.

  The waitress delivered my order of bibimbap and I poked at it with my chopsticks. I still couldn’t see well enough into the kitchen to see if the dishwasher was Hisashi. But I heard the cook yell at him. “You are worthless,” he said. “I should replace you with a good Korean worker.” Then, “What are you looking at? Get back to work, you wae-won.”

  I ate a few bites and drank some tea. The waitress came and said, “You haven’t eaten much. Don’t you like the bibimbap?”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I decided I am not hungry. I would like the check, please.”

  The waitress scribbled something on her pad and gave me the bill. I went to the counter and paid her. Before I left, I asked, “What is your dishwasher’s name?”

  “Hisashi,” she said, and then went back to work.

  I left the restaurant and walked the streets of Koreatown for two hours. I was shocked that my husband was a lowly dishwasher. I couldn’t understand why he was in Koreatown and not in Little Tokyo. But I had found him! My husband, my beloved Hisashi. I had to talk to him. I had to tell him I still loved him.

  I went back to the restaurant just before it closed. I stood in the shadows and watched as the last customers left and the waitress locked the door from inside. She went to the kitchen. Five minutes later, the lights went out and a fat man and the waitresses went out the front door. A man who looked like Hisashi followed them. It was him! Hisashi! My heart beat fast and I thought I would cry. The waitresses went on their way as the fat man locked the door. Hisashi stared at his feet and waited. The fat man poked his chest, scolding him for something. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then, the fat man shoved Hisashi aside and walked away.

  Hisashi started to plod along the sidewalk. He never looked up. I followed him, and the cars, the street, the shops and restaurants all seemed to disappear. The only thing I saw was the back of the man in front of me. For so many years, I’d dreamed of seeing him again. Here he was only a few steps away. I wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him I was here with him. I wanted to tell him he didn’t have to be a dishwasher anymore and he could come home with me.

  Finally, I couldn’t wait any longer. I gathered my courage and went to him. “Hisashi,” I said. He kept walking as if he hadn’t heard me. I put my hand on his back. “Hisashi, it’s me, Suk-bo.”

  He stopped, but did not face me. He kept his eyes on the sidewalk.

  I stepped in front of him. “Hisashi,” I said. “Look at me.”

  He lifted his eyes. His face was as thin as the starving people I knew in the slums of Seoul. His once sparkling eyes were dull and lifeless. His hair was greasy.

  I didn’t care. I threw my arms around him and hugged him. “Hisashi,” I cried, “I have found you.”

  He didn’t return my embrace. I stepped away. I looked at him through my tears. I thought perhaps he didn’t recognize me. “Hisashi, it is me, Suk-bo, your wife.”

  He stepped around me and continued walking with his head down. I followed him. “Don’t you remember me? You scared me when I was picking strawberries in the woods behind my house. We were married in Sinuiju. I had a baby named Young-chul while you were in Tokyo.”
I took the hairpin out of my hair and showed it to him. “You gave me this.”

  He glanced at the hairpin as he walked. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  “I have come all the way to America to find you,” I continued. “Your father and sister are concerned about you. We want you to come home.” He said nothing, but I could see his chest heave with crying.

  “Hisashi,” I begged, “say something.”

  “Please,” he pleaded. “Leave me alone.” I was stunned. I thought he’d be thrilled to see me after all these years. I’d dreamed that we could be together again, so I could nurse him back to health. We could go to Tokyo where his father and sister would help. I envisioned that someday he’d be well again and it would be like it was before. But he’d said, Leave me alone. He was still rejecting me, and though I knew he might do so, and though I thought I was prepared for it, it shattered my heart. And so, I went back to my apartment, crying all the way.

  THIRTY-THREE

  That night after I stopped crying, I tried to think of a way to reach Hisashi. It would take much more than just talking to him on the street. I pushed away my sadness and gathered my resolve. I would have to spend a long time in Los Angeles—maybe the rest of my life. If that’s what it was going to take, then that’s what I would do.

  The next day I sent a letter to Mr. Saito telling him I’d found Hisashi and planned to stay in Los Angeles indefinitely. He replied saying he’d pay for the apartment and anything else I needed. In the letter was a name of someone to contact for a job.