by Sonia Patel
BLOODY SEOUL. Copyright © 2019 Sonia Patel. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas, El Paso, TX 79901; or call 1-915-838-1625.
FIRST EDITION
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Patel, Sonia, author.
Title: Bloody Seoul / by Sonia Patel.
Description: First edition. | El Paso, Texas : Cinco Puntos Press, [2019] |
Summary: Supremely loyal, sixteen-year-old Rocky expects to take over his father's notorious gang, Three Star Pa, one day but after catching his father in a lie, discovers they are not as alike as he believed.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018038398| ISBN 978-1-947627-20-8 (hbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN 978-1-947627-21-5 (pbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN 978-1-947627-22-2 (e-book)
Subjects: | CYAC: Conduct of life--Fiction. | Loyalty—Fiction. | Fathers and sons—Fiction. | Gangs—Fiction. | Bullying—Fiction. | Seoul (Korea)—Fiction. | Korea—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.P377 Blo 2019 | DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018038398
Cover and interior art by Zeke Peňa
Book design by Rogelio Lozano / Loco Workshop
FOR MAYA AND JOAQUIN
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Acknowledgments
1.
There are times when I just have to walk.
Not stroll. Not stride.
Just walk—walk the crowded streets of Seoul.
Today I went out again, I had to. It was right after supplemental class ended. 5:59 p.m.
My boys had wanted to hang out at the internet café, hit up some first years for all their money. Come on, boss, let’s do this.
Not today, I said and turned away. I started walking, hands in my pockets. Time slowed.
I crossed the campus courtyard. A bright tiny bird was perched on a ginkgo tree, singing a wild song. Its crazy melody drowned out the popular girls gossiping in a tight huddle under the shade of the tree’s branches. I passed by, turning my head back to catch one more glimpse of this gorgeous flash of yellow. The bird cocked its head to the right, one eye glaring at me.
The popular girls stopped their chatter and stared at me too. Clink of bracelets and some giddy exhales as they turned in my direction. Cheeks flushed in delicate splotches. Hungry eyes stretched, reaching for a bite of my shoulders, my back.
I came to the school gate, breathed in spring the way I used to breathe in my mother’s jasmine perfume. Then my soles hit the city sidewalk. I did a little slouch before I disappeared into the busy line of pedestrians.
It was almost twilight. The sun was already going down between the tall buildings. Charcoal gray clouds dotted the orange, pink, and purple of the sunset.
My mind was feasting on sounds and images. A rain of cherry blossom petals, the skyscraper forest, the rustle of papers being blown along, the distant laughter of children, the hum of car engines.
I wove through the people all stealth, not bumping anyone or anything.
Up ahead—the three towers of the Raemian Caelitus, luxury residential skyscrapers that overlook the Han River. One of them is the thirteenth tallest building in Seoul.
Yeah? And so?
I crossed the intersection. There were three buildings on my right, two regular and one high rise. On the next block, it was just red brick buildings. Six on the right, six on the left. Same number, even number.
Perfect. Nice.
The next section of sidewalk was broken. I stepped between the cracks, thinking about English class. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Don’t want to do that, right?
An old woman with gray hair is shuffling slowly in front of me. A few wisps of hair are out of place on one side of her head. She’s bent over at the waist and sways a bit with each step. On her next step, her shoe scrapes the sidewalk and she stumbles. I move forward quick, grab her shoulders, hold her upright. I wait until she regains her balance before I let go.
She totters around to face me with an unhurried, gummy smile that intensifies all her wrinkles. Cataracts cloud her eyes, but gratitude cuts through the milky lenses. “You’re an angel,” she says, pointing at me with her crooked finger.
She reaches for my hand. “Thank you,” she says when she gets a hold of it. She flips it over to pat the back. Her eyes get stuck on a ferocious black tiger surrounded by flames, its eyes glowing orange. That’s my right hand. She peeks at my left where the head of the fierce red dragon is breathing fire on a black heart. She looks back at me, her smile gone. She backs away, then takes cautious steps to turn around, hobbles off.
My right hand drifts to my belt, to the sheath where I keep my knife. I wrap my fingers around its heavy stainless steel handle. My index finger traces each of the three stars carved into it.
I get back to walking, breathing in and out, keeping track.
I end up at the Han. I always end up at the Han. A different part, but always this river.
On my left is the Banpo Bridge. It pierces the twinkling skyline while the lazy river lies under it almost still, like a sleeping sea snake. There’s no one else nearby. Just the way I like it.
The tips of my loafers touch the bottom rail of a metal fence. On the other side, a thin border of overgrown grass and wildflowers. I peer over the vegetation at the Han below. It sloshes, whispering a watery lullaby.
It’s time for my kind of nightcap. I take my Dunhill International cigarette tin from my jacket, the one I’ve had since I was six. It was my mom’s. I didn’t fill it with Dunhills until two years ago when I started smoking. I’ve tried other brands but Dunhill is the best. I prefer its slower burn, gives me more time to enjoy the spicy sweetness of the tobacco. More time to think, to remember.
Inside the tin is my parents’ old wedding photo. It fits perfectly inside the lid.
My mother is so beautiful. She’s smiling the way she used to smile at me. A news guy on TV once said she was the country’s most promising ingénue. A true rising star. I imagined throngs of fans chanting her name. Gil Bo-young! Gil Bo-young!
My dad. Yi Dae-sung. My older uncle used to say I’m the spitting image of Dae-sung, his middle brother. Mom said the same thing. She used to stroke my cheek and whisper, “My little Yi Kyung-seok. My little Rocky. Your eyes are icy cold black like your dad’s. They make you dangerously handsome, just like him.”
She’s the one who gave me that nickname. Rocky. “The look on your face never changes. It’s steadfast. Like a rock.”
&n
bsp; I light up, take a few sips until the cherry is established, then a long draw, exhaling a smoky cloud through my mouth and nose. Nice dizzy feeling.
Car horns beep overhead on the bridge. There’s a traffic jam on the top tier.
I take one last drag and crush the burning stub on a trashcan.
Behind me, children laugh and squeal. I look over my shoulder. A brother and sister exchange fake scowls. They’re holding hands with their grinning parents.
Suddenly I just can’t get enough air. I grab at my tie, then at the collar of my white dress shirt. I open my mouth and try to gulp down some oxygen. But the air won’t go in.
I quick take off my jacket and tie, pull open the collar of my shirt, busting the top button, and double over.
Finally, I can get a few full breaths.
When I bend down to grab my tie, my father’s face is staring back at me from the Han’s mirror surface.
Yeah, it’s me, not him, and I am the spit image.
I slip out of my dress shirt. My tatted up chest and arms burst out of my undershirt.
I have hardly any untouched skin. Just like my dad. But I’m most proud of my dragon and tiger because they’re exactly like his.
My dad’s a walking masterpiece. When I was little, I’d climb the step stool in his bathroom. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he’d lean towards the mirror to shave. I’d adjust my towel. Pretend to shave. My precious few minutes to view his vivid koi, warrior, flowers, waves…
I’d frown at my pale yellow-white skin. Plain and boring but with so much potential. Like a sheet of Dad’s parchment stationery waiting to be inked. Maybe, I thought, when I grow up I could be a walking masterpiece too.
My reflection copies the slow stroke of my sideburn.
I thump my right fist over each of the three blank spaces across my chest. I’m saving those areas for three black star tattoos. Only Three Star Pa members are allowed that signature ink.
My dad won’t let me talk about gang stuff yet, though, not until I’m done with university.
But I’ve got my own plans.
Whether my dad likes it or not, I’m going to take over TSP ASAP. I will be the big boss sooner rather than later.
My mom didn’t want me to have anything to do with Three Star Pa.
Well, she’s not around to stop me, is she?
2.
So high up should only be for gods. On second thought, people talk to Dad like he’s a god, one they fear. An angry, vengeful god. Maybe we do belong in our penthouse that’s closer to the clouds than any other top floor in Hongdae.
Raindrops pop on the tiled edge of the balcony.
I sink deeper in the loveseat, cradling my small ceramic bowl. I take two quick sips of the sweet, tart, and creamy makgeolli, then make one vigorous swirl. The tiny, milky whirlpool of liquor looks like today’s weather in a bowl.
Dad’s bowl is empty. He downed it before he went inside to answer a call.
The ethereal clouds continue to sprinkle their blessed holy water. The city below is cloaked in a thick gauzy veil of fog.
I breathe in a deep, long stretch of heavy air. Can I inhale all the fog?
It suddenly lifts.
Deep breath, fog’s death. English class. My way.
The light rain stops too.
I rest my head on the back cushion and close my eyes. Nessun Dorma shrouds me in its sound, a sad richness that descends like an operatic fog. The two Spaniards go first—Plácido Domingo followed closely by José Carreras. Then the Italian enters with his solo and my eyes spit out tears. It happens every time. I open my eyes to the heavens crying with me.
How can a voice be so fearless yet so lonely?
I slip my hand in my pocket, clutch my handkerchief. It’s super soft, like my fingers are wrapped around a cloud. It’s plain and white, but Mom was supposed to embroider it, the way she did for Dad.
She removed the handkerchief from the embroidery hoop. She smoothed the cloth, then held it up. “What do you thi…” she started to ask but stopped when she looked at me. She leaned over and dabbed my wet cheeks with Dad’s gift. “Oh, if Pavarotti knew his voice is the only thing that can move my little Rocky.”
I liked the way the bumpy stitches of the willow tree kissed my skin.
A few tears run down my chin. The rain starts coming down in sheets. The heavens are sobbing…
Dad’s penetrating voice interrupts from the other room. I let go of my handkerchief and rip my hand out of my pocket. In nothing flat I wipe my cheeks with the backs of my hands.
“I told you to take it easy on him!” Dad yells.
I look over my shoulder. He’s pacing and waving an arm.
Two more sips, a quick swirl, then I set the makgeolli bowl on the table and launch up to the railing. Way down on the street the open umbrellas are like the multi-colored round beads in my old kaleidoscope. I aim a pretend kaleidoscope, the way I used to when I was little, and turn the end of the tube. The pattern shifts as people underneath their umbrellas walk.
Rainy day Seoul. I cross my arms, whip around, and lean against the slick metal bars. The lonely acacia wood loveseat cries out Why have you forsaken me? Just like the guy who hands out Jesus pamphlets in the Hapjeong subway station. My mother should be nestled there on the black cushions with my father next to her. They should be drinking their makgeolli and smoking their Dunhills. And me, I should be sitting cross-legged on the cool tile devouring some book. The Onkyo spinning the opera…
But that would have been ten years ago.
Dad barks, “You were only supposed to incapacitate him a bit. I do the rest! You know what this means.” The top buttons of his dress shirt are open. He strokes the three stars on the diamond encrusted medallion around his neck. It drags the chunky gold chain down like an angler’s line that’s hooked a huge Chinese seerfish.
I touch my bare neck, wishing for the weight of precious metal and stone. Only TSP bosses—Dad, Older Uncle, and Younger Uncle—get the chain and medallion.
Does Younger Uncle wear his chain like his ink? I have no idea. All I know is that Dad ousted him from TSP years ago and that we’re forbidden to talk about him. Or to him, wherever he is.
Older Uncle always wore his chain, even after he died. The bulky gold draped his portrait like a glistening garland. That is, until Dad caught me trying to pinch it.
Older Uncle’s portrait hangs to the left of where Dad’s smacking the wall.
Six years ago I pushed a chair in front of his proud smiling face and climbed up. I reached out for his boss gold. My fingers brushed the cold, shiny links. My eyes feasted on the sparkling white gems.
“Rocky!” Dad hollered.
I froze.
“Rocky, look at me!”
I cringed, then turned my head in slow motion over my shoulder.
“NEVER touch that!” He marched over and pushed me off the chair.
My body landed, butt first, on the floor. My head hit an end table, the cracking sound scared me, but I didn’t move.
Dad grabbed Older Uncle’s chain, medallion first. He shined it with his sleeve. Then he bowed to the portrait and whispered, “I’m sorry Rocky disturbed you, Older Brother. It’s my fault. I should’ve kept this hidden.” He stuffed the necklace into his pocket. “Consider it done.” He bowed one more time before he whipped his head to me. The muscles in his face tightened. “What?” he growled. “Can’t handle a little push?” He shook his head. “Just like your mom. Are you going to run away now too? You want to be with your mom? Good luck finding her.” He stared at me hard. “She left us!” he bellowed before he stomped away.
Dad stomps back and forth. “Stupid idiot!” he erupts. He swats an antique pottery vase. It flies across the room, hits the wall, and lands with a crash. One…two…three…four…five…six…seven large shards. And a bunch of little ones…
Older Uncle swept up the big pieces of the porcelain vase.
“I don’t know what to do,” Mom whispered, touching her
cheek that was purple and red.
“Dae-sung’s gone too far,” Older Uncle mumbled, brushing up the smaller pieces.
“I’m scared he’ll…” Mom’s voice trailed off. Her eyes grew wide. “And Kyung-seok…”
“Don’t worry,” Older Uncle said. “I’ll talk to boss two. I’ll make sure this never happens again. Business is business but family is separate. Family comes first. Family is to be protected at all costs. That’s the code. And we didn’t make it the first out of seven by coincidence.”
I touch my cheek.
Mom was an actress. She stayed in character, kept her makeup on for me sometimes because she knew I liked that. Still…
Did someone hurt my mom?
I’ve gone over it in my head so many times.
I hear Older Uncle’s voice again.
Dae-sung’s gone too far…
Did Dad hurt Mom?
Who, Dad? No way! Bury that! I shake my head. He hurts other people, not his family. Never his family. Pushing me off the chair doesn’t count. He was just being protective of Older Uncle’s necklace. And it’s not as if Dad bashed my head onto the table. That was an accident. Dad wouldn’t defy the first tenet of the very TSP code he helped establish.
The second tenet is an eye for an eye. Dad likes to talk about that one.
I rest an elbow on the slippery railing and prop my chin, wishing I knew the remaining five tenets. I asked Dad about them once. He scowled, then told me to mind my own business. I frowned inside and walked away, even though I really wanted to say, But Dad, the gang will be my business one day. I’m the sole heir of TSP, aren’t I?
I flick seven beads of rain. I am the sole heir. Why don’t I have the guts to say it to his face?
“Don’t do anything else. My knife will take care of him,” Dad orders. “It always does what I command, not like you,” he tries to mutter but his voice is thundering.
That’s why.
Dad does more pacing. “I’ll be right over.” He shoves his phone into his pocket, his arms into his jacket, and his feet into his Ferragamo’s. He rushes out without saying a word to me, slamming the front door behind him.
I jump.
I push my palm onto my chest. My heart pounds it like it’s mad at me.