Bloody Seoul

by Sonia Patel

  Finally they land on one and he plucks it out. MARLBORO.

  Dad lights it, takes a drag, and exhales twin smoke rings. “Got a surprise for you,” he says.

  That’s the last thing I expected him to say. I feel a tingling all over because the last surprise Dad got me was my knife, and it just happens to be my most prized possession. “Really?” I ask, my voice flat though inside I’m a twittering canary.

  He nods.

  He takes another draw and releases three rings this time. “Don’t you want to know what it is?” He doesn’t look at me.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  He turns his head to me and smiles. “A brand spanking new Genesis coupe. It’s parked downstairs. Tsukuba red. I know you like red.”

  My jaw drops. I’m speechless.

  This is how he shows me he cares.

  Exactly ten seconds later, I get a grip and bow my head. “Thank you, Dad. I’m grateful,” I say. And I really am. How could I not be? I mean, it’s not even my birthday. Or any special occasion. It’s a just-because gift. A sleek sports car just-because gift.

  “It’s got massive horsepower. Eight hundred. Drove it home myself.”

  “I can’t wait to drive it,” I say. I light up a Dunhill and take slow draws delighting in the buzz. I exhale clouds of smoke. I’m floating away with these clouds…

  But then a sinking feeling. What have I ever done to deserve something so expensive?

  “Let’s take it for a spin later. What do you say?” Dad asks, his eyebrows raised.

  “Sure, Dad,” I say, my voice strangled now because I’m submerged in an ocean of guilt.

  He half smiles and looks back at the view.

  I stare at the cigarette between his fingers. “How’s business?” I ask.

  “Fine.”

  Must be. A new Genesis coupe—and I’m certain he’s souped it up—is like, what? Forty-nine million won? At least.

  Suddenly it hits me.

  With Kang Dong-geun out of the way, is Dad making even more money now? Is that why he splurged on a new car for me?

  I stub my cig, then scratch my head. “Anything new?”

  “No.”

  I look at him, but I can’t find any evidence of lingering regret over a recent murder in his expression—every facial muscle is relaxed, his skin is smooth and taut, his eyebrows are straight, and his lips are slightly curved up at the ends.

  The rain decides to take a break. Dad turns back to the delicate mist hanging over the city. But I’m stuck with an image of Kang Dong-geun’s mutilated body dangling upside down in some vacant building. Blood draining, a slow drip, drip, drip…like the last bits of rain on the balcony’s top rail.

  I grab my bowl and down the rest of the makgeolli. I need a smoke. I reach into my jacket for my Dunhill tin.

  Dad and the weather are calm, but I’m not. Not anymore.

  My hands tremble. I fumble with the lid. When I finally pry the tin open, I drop the cig I pick and three more roll out.

  Great, four.

  I feel around on the chilly tiles until I find them. I put three back and slip one between my lips. I whisk the lighter off the table, but it takes me a few flicks to get the flame to catch. I light up and inhale. I try to hold it in for a few seconds but end up coughing out a pathetic mess of smoke.

  And what’s on my mind.

  “What did you do to Kang Dong-geun?” I spit.

  I hold my breath as my completely unboss-like delivery prods Dad’s low-key vibe.

  He squints at me, his jaw tight. “Nothing,” he says in an almost playful voice. He wags his finger. “Come on now, Rocky, you know you’re not supposed to ask me about work.”

  “But I heard—” I start.

  He shows me his palm. “Stop,” he orders. Two lines appear between his brows. He cracks his knuckles, then his neck. “We’re not talking about that.” He takes his last sip of makgeolli.

  No sense arguing. My arm cogwheels out with the bottle, and I refill his bowl.

  He returns the favor. I count the seconds it takes him to refill mine. Four. Uh-oh.

  He takes a drag and exhales a thick stream. He waves the hand holding his cigarette. “You just focus on your studies,” he says. “Keep up those top marks.”

  I fight back. “Dad, why can’t I help you now? I don’t need school to be a good boss. I—”

  He cuts me off. “I’ve told you how many times now?” He rolls his eyes. “No boss talk, no TSP talk—until I say so.” He pauses. “All you need to do right now is study.” He chuckles. “You’re the smartest person I know. Who else can memorize The Netter Collection before the age of twelve? What other students don’t have to go to cram school and still be number one?” His expression hardens again. “You’d certainly be a great surgeon like your mother wanted,” he mutters.

  This is the only time he brings up Mom—when he avoids discussing the gang with me. And I hate how he refers to her. Always “your mother” or “she.” Never “my wife,” or “my dear,” or “Bo-young.” Always in a matter-of-fact or angry voice. Never tender, never loving.

  Annoyance churns in my gut, bubbles into hot fury, and I erupt. “Don’t you miss her? I mean, she was more than my career counselor!”

  Dad doesn’t say a word.

  “Did you even love her?” I snap.

  Nothing.

  I cross my arms and sit back, shaking my head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Maybe I’ll just quit school now. I’m the only Yi descendent. I will take over—”

  “No!” he bellows. “You will keep going with your education until I say you’re done!”

  Now the veins in his neck are throbbing.

  This time I can’t not argue. I use a different tactic. My next words barrage him like machine gun fire. “Older Uncle is dead. You banished Younger Uncle. There’s no one else.”

  Dad’s face goes from pale to fiery red in six seconds, as fast as I know my new Genesis coupe can go from zero to one hundred kilometers per hour. His knuckles are white from how tight he’s squeezing his fists. He gets up in slow motion. Without warning, he smacks the makgeolli bottle. It flies off the table and smashes into the far wall, then drops to the floor. It doesn’t shatter. I watch the pearly alcohol trickle out. I’m itching to count the seconds until it’s empty, but Dad’s hovering over me like a raging bull. His heavy, hot breath scalds my face. He goes to say something, but groans instead. He raises his fist, his chest heaving.

  Panic propels my blood in scared, stiff spurts through my body. I don’t dare move, and I’m not sure if I’m breathing. Somehow I keep my eyes dead center on his.

  I count how long we stay like this.

  One, two, three, four.

  Four. Again.

  Shit.

  He raises his fist and punches the wall above my head. “Ungrateful little shit,” he growls. He glares at me for another second, then storms back inside.

  I turn around to look at the wall. Four small splotches of blood.

  8.

  I linger in the classroom doorway, quietly beating the outer wall. Four dropped cigarettes. Four second makgeolli pour. Four second staredown. Four blood splotches…

  Around and around it goes, the four fours of yesterday. Death squared is holding me hostage, and there’s no escape in sight. My eyes dart around the classroom, searching for a sign, something that offers liberation.

  There’s nothing!

  I start to sweat. But then—the wall clock. Bingo. I focus on the second hand. If I enter when it gets right to twelve, I’ll escape misfortune. It doesn’t matter how I know this, I just know this. And I can’t mess it up.

  A bit earlier or later and…

  I’m not going there.

  Second hand at nine.

  My hands in my pockets.

  At eleven.

  I lift my chin.

  Twelve.

  I swagger in, exhaling relief.

  A strong formaldehyde smell shoves itself up my nose. I get a littl
e dizzy, but I don’t let it show.

  We’re dissecting frogs today. That means I get to use a knife, or rather a tiny scalpel, to cut once living flesh for an entire hour and a half.

  Everyone else is already at their lab tables, gawking at the pale, slimy frogs supine on their stainless steel dissection trays, as if they’re napping.

  I scan the room for an open table. There’s only one at the front. Next to Ha-na.

  Ugh.

  I look to the right. Should I strong-arm the wimpy boy out of his table? Straight ahead of me. Charm one of the popular girls? They’d give it up easily to me. The table, that is.

  Well, that too.

  Not that I’ve ever had sex. Or a girlfriend. But only my boys know that.

  The teacher calls the class to order.

  Too late.

  The table next to Black Coolie it is. I stroll over, making sure not to step on the grout lines.

  I slide on the latex gloves.

  Ha-na’s eyes are glued to her frog. Her gloves lay in wait on the table. Her hands are under the long sleeves of her uniform jacket. She’s scratching her arms. Her hair’s out of her face. Tied in a high messy bun.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen her entire face without a bunch of frizzy hair in the way. She looks different with her naked face.

  My cheeks get warm.

  She’s actually kind of pretty.

  Her dark skin is flawless. Gleaming obsidian eyes. Sharp, good nose. Full lips tinted strawberry tangerine.

  I wonder how they taste…

  My eyes move down her physique, following the curves of her full bust, small waist, and broad hips. She’s curvy S-line perfection.

  If that’s fat…

  I imagine erotic stone sculptures of full-figured Indian women. I can’t help it. I can’t help that I’ve flipped through my dad’s book on the ancient Khajuraho temples once or twice. Or fifty times. And why wouldn’t I? I mean the Indian temple complex is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and I like architecture and history and…artwork that’s liberal. Sexual in nature even. Trust me, I didn’t need the descriptions under the photos.

  A celebration of the female form. A celebration of female power.

  I guess I don’t hate everything Indian.

  The room spins. I reel.

  High on lustful thoughts or the formaldehyde? I don’t know, but I need to settle down.

  I grip the edge of the table and stare at the dead frog. That sobers me up. Fast. And I’m glad my boys aren’t here to witness this…I don’t know what the fuck this is.

  Ok, Ha-na’s beautiful, it’s true. But still a weirdo black coolie.

  I clench my jaw and tap my scalpel three times on the tray.

  Beauty is not to be trusted.

  Beauty lets you down.

  Beauty leaves you.

  I realize I’m not thinking about Ha-na anymore.

  The teacher rambles on about frog anatomy.

  Mom waltzes onto the balcony. The train of her elegant gold chiffon and lace gown glides over the cool tile the way her hand glides over Dad’s cheek a second later. She must be a real angel. That’s what Dad says two seconds later. He captures her hands, but he can’t trap her eyes—they’re on me. Mom smiles, but her eyes are a little wet, a little sad.

  Mom’s sprawled out, naked, on her bed. Fast asleep at noon. Snoring soft. Her eyeliner and mascara have leaked black all over her face. There are big knots in her messy hair. I wonder if she’s cold. I grab her bathrobe and drape it over her body. That’s when I notice several yellowish-brown marks on her upper arm.

  My heart is throbbing…

  I’m squeezing the scalpel so tight my hand is shaking. Pins and needles prickle. I open my hand and the scalpel falls, clink, onto the tray.

  Ha-na peeks over. Our eyes meet. Hers are sad and shiny, like puppy dog eyes.

  Don’t. Trust. Those. Eyes.

  I look away. To the teacher.

  “Alright, class. Get to work,” he says. He points to the chalkboard. “When you’re ready to identify all of these organs, call me over.”

  I take a deep breath, release it slow, and get to work. I spread the frog’s limbs. Pin them to the dissection tray. Forceps. Gather the skin near the hind legs. Lift. Small cut. I move my forceps up the frog’s body to keep the skin separated from the muscle. Continue the incision, taking care to only slice through the skin. Then perpendicular cuts between the front legs and hind legs. Fold the flaps back. Pin them down.

  My steady hands and zoomed-in eyes perform their tasks with great skill even though this is my first real dissection. The worms in the park don’t count. I used to “operate” on them when I was a kid. I picture myself as a surgeon in a tense operating room. Scrubs and surgical mask. Bright lights. Everything blue, white, and sterile. My faithful residents and nurses assisting me. The reassuring beep of the machines monitoring my patient’s status.

  I frown inside. Shake my head. I’m not going to be a surgeon. I’m going to be the TSP boss.

  My body tenses and my hands tremble, but it doesn’t affect my performance. With precision I pick up the frog’s muscle near the hind legs and repeat the process of cutting, peeling, and pinning down that layer. Then I remove the fat bodies shrouding the organs. That’s when I see the eggs.

  All of a sudden it’s hard to breathe, like that time Patch sat on my chest when we were play-fighting as kids. My hands quiver like they’re having their own mini-seizures.

  My eyes wander. Most of the other kids are struggling to cut the skin or muscle. But not Ha-na. She’s done. She pinches her forceps together, then uses the end to push aside some organs for a better view underneath.

  Is she looking for the spleen? Wait a minute. You can’t let this loser beat you!

  The teacher’s heavy footsteps. They fade. When I look up, he’s left the room.

  I glimpse back at Ha-na. I smile inside. A sly smile. “Hey, Black Coolie,” I call.

  She stops her work. She remains still, forceps in hand, like an unsure rival surgeon. She doesn’t even blink. Her lips are slightly parted.

  “My cigarette wasn’t enough? You hungry again?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer my questions.

  The popular girls giggle. I look over my shoulder at them. I catch their eyes and point to Ha-na with my chin.

  Two of them, Mi-sun and A-ra, saunter over to Ha-na’s table.

  Mi-sun stands in front and leans on her elbows. She glares at Ha-na.

  A-ra stands next to Ha-na. “Answer him,” she orders.

  Ha-na doesn’t.

  Mi-sun and A-ra exchange glances.

  A-ra scoffs. “This beast doesn’t know her place,” she mutters. She looks at me.

  I consider making Ha-na eat an organ, but formaldehyde is toxic. I’m not trying to kill her, just make her life hell. Another tactic. I pretend to scoop out some frog organs and smear them in my hair. Then I say, “I think she needs a hair treatment, don’t you?”

  A-ra flashes me a devilish half smile and nods. She tugs at Ha-na’s bun with her gloved hand.

  Ha-na’s hair plunges down her back.

  Then A-ra sticks her hand in Ha-na’s frog and digs up a handful. She rubs the squishy organs between her gloves.

  Everyone in the class is chanting. “Coolie, Coolie…”

  A-ra takes her time to give a good show. She slowly lifts her hands above Ha-na’s head. As she lowers them down, the chanting gets louder.

  I’m almost expecting Ha-na to whip out her knife, or do something to defend herself. But she doesn’t.

  A-ra’s organ-filled hands settle on Ha-na’s head. She drags them down, leaving a lumpy film on the length of Black Coolie’s hair.

  Then I make the mistake of looking at Ha-na’s eyes—she’s crying.

  A-ra and Mi-sun are laughing. So is the rest of the class. But I’m not. My face is stony. My eyes are stuck on Ha-na.

  She removes her gloves. Then she moves quickly to the door, keeping her head down. A sec
ond later, she’s gone.

  Ten seconds later the teacher returns, and everyone stops laughing. He must have just missed Ha-na because all he says is, “Who’s ready to identify the organs? Raise your hands.”

  9.

  Strike elbows Patch. “Check out that hottie,” he says pointing to three o’clock.

  Patch presses his forehead on the large window-wall for a look. He turns to Strike, his eye bulging, his jaw dropped, and carves an hourglass in the air.

  Strike starts to smile but then draws his face back when Patch raises his eyebrow up and down. “Hands off, big boy,” Strike says, “I saw her first.”

  Patch shrugs, then hangs his head in mock disappointment.

  Strike looks at me. “Hey, boss, think your dad would get that pissed if I snuck down there for a quick digits mission?”

  All I do is stare at him.

  Braid’s mouth hangs open, a little gasp escapes. Patch swallows his lips and shakes his head.

  None of us say anything because what do you say when your boy is volunteering, not for a “quick digits mission,” but for a suicide mission? One thing’s certain, you don’t say, yeah, go for it! with high fives all around.

  See us being anywhere “down there” would set off an unfortunate chain reaction—TSP security would spot Strike immediately, report his presence to their big boss, and Dad would most certainly get “that pissed.”

  And then Strike might end up like Kang Dong-geun.

  “Down there” isn’t just anywhere, it’s the main room of my dad’s club—Club Orion. “Down there” is a huge space with a dance floor, DJ booth, sitting areas, and two full service bars. “Down there” is what everyone else in Seoul knows as the hottest nightclub in the city. But “down there” is a front. What most people don’t know is what’s in the back—secret rooms for TSP business.

  My boys and I aren’t allowed anywhere “down there.” Not in the front. Not in the back. Dad’s rule. He only lets us chill here in the VIP room that’s tucked away in an upstairs corner.

  Incidentally, my boys and I call it the VIP room, my dad calls it our “clubhouse.”

  I scoff inside.

  So babyish.

  But then I sly smile.

  Dad has no idea that I’ve spied on one of his secret “down there” back room meetings. It wasn’t easy. It took the cover of darkness and some serious ledge parkour to get to a small outer window. Never brought my boys, never would. It’s way too risky for them. I mean, my dad might pull a Kang Dong-geun on them, but not on his own son.