by Sonia Patel
All the buildings are one or two stories. We pass by a coffee shop and two family restaurants. A karaoke bar. An admin building. Convenience store. A church. A funky-looking dive restaurant. A gas station.
We settle on the dive because the sign in the window says they only serve buckwheat dumplings, a local speciality. It turns out to be a tasty choice.
Stomachs full, it’s road trip time. We head east, north, then west. Every kilometer of the scenic drive is a strange juxtaposition of conflict and peace. The pristine north facing beaches are all blocked off by high razor wire fences. A couple of marines jog towards us. They hop onto the grassy shoulder, trampling over purple wildflowers.
No other cars on the road. Ahead, soaring pine trees…
I’m tired. My eyes start to close, but then the car hits a pothole. I’m wide awake. I crank down my window for some fresh air, poke my head out a little. The breeze refreshes me like a cold shower on a steamy day. The turbulent ocean with all its agitated whitecaps is mesmerizing.
I reach into my outer jacket pocket for the envelope. It’s wrinkled, and I smooth it out on my lap. I trace the return address. 1233-33 Yeonhwa-ri, Baengnyeong-myeon, Ongjin-gun, Incheon, South Korea.
Strike’s dangling his entire head and both arms out of his window. He pulls himself back in, claps, and says, “Alright boys, it’s game time.”
Braid groans.
Strike cranes his neck for a better look at the sky. Then he punches Patch in the arm. “Every time you see one of those birds,” he says pointing to an elegant Chinese egret, “you’re allowed to punch the guy next to you.” He holds up a finger. “But, if it’s a false alarm, he gets to punch you back. Harder.”
“Brilliant,” Braid mumbles.
The Chinese egret’s white plumage gleams in the blue sky. I can’t help but marvel at its long wingspan and strong flight.
Meanwhile Patch punches Strike.
“That’s a false alarm, buddy,” Strikes says and goes to punch back.
Patch grabs Strike’s fist, then points to the same egret.
Strike shakes his head. “No dummy, it has to be a different one.”
Patch is silently cracking up.
“Hey! You knew that. You just wanted to punch me!” Strike fake whines.
My backseat boys point and punch, but Braid and I can’t be bothered. We keep our eyes on the open road. I don’t know what Braid’s thinking, but I’m lost counting the center dashes as my hopes, expectations, and fears compete for attention.
We arrive. Yeonhwa-ri. I check the map on my cell.
“Turn left up there,” I say.
“You got it, boss,” Braid says.
We pull up in front of a small white house with green trim. 1233-33. It’s got a tiny, well-manicured front yard. There’s no car parked in the driveway. The curtains are drawn. Everything is still and quiet.
“Wait here.” I jump out of the car, then up the two steps to the door. I knock three times. Wait. No answer. Knock three more times. Wait. Still no answer. I walk around the side of the house to the back. Knock on the door there. Nothing.
“We’ll try again later,” I tell my boys. “Let’s drive.”
Braid nods and pulls out onto the empty road.
I light up a cig, inhale nice and slow, and exhale a smoky pattern that reminds me of large boulders. I wonder if the American made it to the cliffs. They looked magnificent in the tourist brochures back at the car rental. “Let’s check out Dumujin,” I say.
We get there just as a tour van full of mainlanders departs.
Braid parks. “Glad we missed that zoo.”
Strike slams the door behind him. He tilts his head back to examine the sky. “I say we’re still allowed to punch if we see a—”
Braid cuts him off. “No.”
Strike crosses his arms and drops his shoulders in a sulk. “Whatever.”
We get to a decked walkway. Huge stunning rocks jut out of the sea. Gusts whisper secrets in a language we can’t understand. The ocean glints here and there in the splendid sunshine as if it’s winking a morse code message.
Dumujin. A fitting name. The enormous rock formations do look like broad-shouldered, brave generals putting their heads together for a discussion. I can’t help but imagine my boys and me doing the same thing someday when we lead TSP.
A flock of gulls beat their wings and wheel overhead like they own the sky. The sea roars and crashes into the cliffs, sending white, salty spray that we breathe in.
Braid leans over the wooden railing, points to the ocean. “Bet it would look even more awesome from out there,” he yells loud enough to cut through the pounding waves. “Let’s hire a boat next time?”
We approach the end of the walkway. That’s when I see a man standing with his back to us. His elbows are propped on the railing and his fingers are interlaced behind his head. The ends of his shoulder-length black hair blow about in the vigorous wind.
His hands…
On the man’s right—a ferocious black tiger surrounded by flames, its eyes glowing orange. Left—a fierce red dragon breathing fire on a black heart.
25.
Scant clouds drift our way, a few raindrops sprinkle. The man looks at the sky, holding out his palm. Then he stuffs his tatted hands into the pockets of his jeans. His orange and black North Face windbreaker flutters in a gust. He rocks back and forth on his heels.
He turns around. His face.
With his dark, crusty hard skin, three day stubble, and crows feet, he’s a taller, weathered version of my dad. Of me, even.
Younger Uncle strolls towards us in a slight leanback. Neck down, he’s the opposite of a smooth, slick city gangster. He looks like a rugged outdoorsman.
A huge wave pummels the rocks.
He doesn’t say anything. Another wave washes over the rocks and along with it a sense of familiarity washes over me. His vibe…
Besides my dad and me, I didn’t think anyone else had that intense yet calm and in control vibe. Older Uncle didn’t. He was jolly.
Our eyes connect, mirroring each other with their icy cold blackness.
A shiver down my spine, but I play all cool.
When he stops in front of me, I bow.
He glances at my hands. Then he holds out his hand for a shake, his expression stoic. We shake hard. It’s a strange thing—shaking hands with someone who could be your future self.
He says, his gruff voice matching his unrefined demeanor, “The last time I saw you, you shot me with your gun.” Then he winks. “Your toy gun,” he adds with a chuckle.
My mouth is dry. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I count the lines on his face instead.
“Yi Kyung-seok,” he says reaching for my shoulder. “It’s been way too long.” He pulls me in for a hug.
I don’t lift my arms. I stand there like a statue while he embraces me. This has happened before…
He let’s go and pats my shoulders…“Rocky.” he says, letting his voice trail off. He smiles. “Your mother certainly picked the perfect nickname for you. You haven’t even blinked.” He pauses, rubs his chin with his index finger and thumb as he studies my face. He shifts in place and widens his stance, crossing his arms high and tight.
I still don’t speak or move.
He draws his face back, raises an eyebrow, and says, “I’m an extremely busy man. Are you going to talk or what?”
Strike snickers. I flash him a dirty look.
My flesh and blood is standing before me, but I can’t think of a single thing to say.
His expression softens. “So who are your friends?” he asks.
“This is Braid,” I say pointing with my chin to the right. Then to the left. “This is Strike. And that’s Patch.”
My boys bow.
He offers each of them a shake, grinning. He looks back at me. “You boys hungry?” he asks.
We all nod.
26.
Rain hammers the roof of the rundown restaurant with a
vengeance, like it wants to break through the shingles and wash us off the face of the earth. But I stop hearing it when the unmistakable aroma of gimchi calls to me. I inhale deeply, the scent is a little milder, a little sweeter than the Seoul versions I’m used to. Younger Uncle, my boys, and I head to a tiny table near a large window and settle down. A group of marines—seven of them—are scarfing down their meals one table over, and suddenly I don’t feel so tough anymore. These ROK marines in their stiffly starched uniforms embody a stalwartness I can’t imagine possessing, but I’d never admit that to anyone. I touch my knife, trace my stars, my name, as my eyes trace their standard-issue assault rifles.
A server takes our order, then scurries into the kitchen.
The screen door creaks open. An elderly couple hobbles in. The old man’s hands tremble as he closes an oversized umbrella and props it against the door. They go straight to a table at the back. Maybe that’s their table, their perk: no intimidation required. I doubt the old man in his faded t-shirt and slippers is a boss.
Younger Uncle watches the old man help his wife sit down. “This place used to be packed with locals and tourists,” he says. He drapes one arm over the back of his chair and pivots his body towards the marines. He points to them with his chin, says, “You see more of them out and about these days. The military wants to reassure everyone that things are all good. Especially after the crisis last week…”
“Crisis?” Then I remember what the guy on the nightly news said. “You mean the ROK naval patrol ship that disappeared?”
Younger Uncle nods. “It’s still a mystery, but everyone around here thinks North Korea sunk it. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
I glance at the marines, grateful for their amphibious training. We’re safe from an attack…
Our naengmyeon arrives. My boys attack their noodles, slurping the long strands and the frigid broth.
I take a bite. I like the chewy texture of the sweet potato starch. And the broth isn’t salty or meaty. It’s subtle. Refreshing. Pure and clean.
Younger Uncle stirs his soup with his chopsticks. “Seems like the North doesn’t follow an eye for an eye,” he mumbles.
“Eye for an eye?” I ask, taken aback for a second that he’s not talking about TSP.
“The law of retaliation,” he says. “You shouldn’t injure another person more than they’ve done to you. It should be the same or less.”
I nod, thinking about Dad, not North Korea. “You mean like the TSP code,” I say straining to keep my voice even. “My dad doesn’t follow it either.”
Strike swallows his bite. “Does that make your dad like…North Korea?”
Younger Uncle almost chokes on his sip of water. He coughs, thumping his fist on his chest. He adjusts himself on his chair. “I meant more like the way South Korea is approaching the conflict. The military is setting up a special forces brigade—an “amputation unit”—to send a powerful message to the North Korean leaders. But they won’t actually cut off anyone’s body parts.” He stops, gulps some water. “Unless of course the North hurts or kills one of our leaders. Then I’m thinking it’s an eye for an eye. An arm for an arm. A head for a head.”
“Makes sense,” Braid mumbles, his mouth full of noodles.
I’m still stuck on my dad and TSP’s code. I open my mouth to bring it up again, but Younger Uncle speaks first.
“Wish we could all get along,” he says, releasing a slow breath. He lifts some of the noodles with his chopsticks and stares at them. “This particular naengmyeon is a classic North Korean dish.” He releases the noodles. “The owner of this restaurant is from there. Defected to the island years ago.” He stirs the soup. “He told me this is an old family recipe. The secret is the sand lance fish sauce. In his village up north, it was mostly the elderly that ate this.” He pauses to suck down some noodles and broth. Shakes his head, smiling. “His recipe amazes me. See, after the war, this style spread to the island, then Incheon, and eventually Seoul and the rest of the peninsula. Soon everyone, north and south, young and old, was enjoying this dish.” He takes a big bite, chews, and swallows. “The noodles connect us all. We’re not that different.” He lays his chopsticks down and interlaces his fingers on the table. “The problem isn’t most people North or South. It’s some of the leaders, they’re just like a gang. Only thinking of themselves and how they can gain wealth and power. How they can hold onto it.”
I nod. My thoughts roam free on the open plain of Younger Uncle’s words. The problem isn’t Ha-na, it never was. She never was. The problem is my mini-TSP gang and especially me as the boss.
I think about my dad.
The problem isn’t most people in Seoul, it’s TSP and especially my dad and uncles as the bosses.
Younger Uncle turns to Patch, slaps his back. “Good?”
Patch nods vigorously. He pats his belly and shows Younger Uncle his empty bowl.
Younger Uncle looks at Braid and Strike. They’re done too.
“It was delicious,” Braid says, licking his lips.
Strike, with his sleepy eyes and satisfied smile, slides down in his chair. The boys relax while Younger Uncle and I finish up.
After his last bite, Younger Uncle tucks his long hair behind his ears. He looks at me. “You know, Rocky, I knew it was you even before I turned around.”
“How?” I ask.
“I felt it in my bones,” he says with a serious expression.
“You felt it in your bones? Yeah?”
He nods once before leaning back with his hands behind his head. “It started early this morning when the sky was red. I stood in my yard, the same way I do every morning, and let my bare feet sink into the dewy grass. I pushed my hands into my hips, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. But when I opened I felt an ache in my knees and shoulders. A little while later it started to rain.” He smiles at me. “My bones told me today was going to be special. Something important was going to happen. All I could think was maybe my biggest wish, to see you again, would come true. Then I heard footsteps on the walkway. I felt a few raindrops and got a twinge in my bones…”
I suck down the last few drops of the precious broth and cross my arms tight, shaking my head. “Sounds like you have arthritis, and it was flaring up. That’s what happens to some people with the pressure changes in the weather right before rain—they feel it in their bones alright.”
Everyone laughs.
Younger Uncle punches my arm. “Ok, ok, you got me. I guess you turned out way smarter than me!”
I wait for the laughter to die down. “But for real, how did you know it was me?”
Younger Uncle smiles. “Remember it’s a small island. Everyone knows everyone.”
“And?”
“The guy at the car rental place is a friend of mine,” Younger Uncle says. “He called me to ask if a Yi Kyung-seok was my relative. He said it wasn’t the surname. It was because this particular Yi had those,” he says pointing first to my dragon and then to my tiger. “Let’s be honest. It’s not every day two people with the same surname have the exact same tats in the exact same place.” He looks into my eyes. “And the same chilling eyes.”
27.
Strike delivers the punchline to a joke about excrement, and it triggers a chorus of guffaws in which Younger Uncle is the loudest. But I’m quiet. Doesn’t seem right for me to be clowning around, not with all the serious questions whizzing around in my head. I touch my brow, it feels funny and tingly inside. The strange feeling jumps down and turns into a quiver in my gut. What is it? Nervous energy?
Maybe a cigarette will help. I light up and smoke while Younger Uncle and my boys keep going with their merriment. My eyes wander and come to rest on the only decoration in this bare bones place—an old painting hanging near the entrance to the kitchen. Five men dressed in traditional attire are dancing. At the bottom, there’s a row of seated women, singing, I think. I remember a book on ancient Korean culture I’d read in Dad’s den. There was a section on music, how peo
ple used to sing to turn their sorrow into joy. Come to think of it, my boys and I do that in noraebangs all the time. I smile inside, picturing myself belting out a tune right here, right now. Since I’m not about to do that, I settle on trying to be optimistic. I mean, the good news is I did find Younger Uncle.
I tilt my chair back and squint as I study this man.
Yi Man-sik. My younger uncle. A light in the darkness of my life? I take a drag and turn my head to the side to exhale curly wisps. Yes. A light in the dark.
He and my boys are in the thick of their crude humor. The old man stands and helps the old woman up. They shuffle to the door, peeking at Younger Uncle and my boys who are in stitches. When they get to the door, the old man doesn’t bother to open the umbrella. It’s sunny now.
I check my pocket watch. It’s been almost an hour of nonstop good times for Younger Uncle and my boys and they aren’t even drinking soju.
This is good. This is how things should be. Everything is ok.
The weird sensations are gone. It’s only my calm heart beat.
Everything is ok.
Their laughter fizzles out.
Then Strike’s eyes sparkle, he ducks his head. Younger Uncle, Braid, and Patch follow suit. Strike touches his cheek and whispers something about a father kissing a mother on the cheek…
His voice fades, but his lips are still moving because I’m suddenly in my head.
Mom touches her cheek and winces. She looks at Older Uncle. “You know he’s the one that always tells me, ‘When trouble comes, it’s your family who supports you.’” She moans, then winces again, holding her cheek.
Older Uncle nods. “That’s how it’s supposed to be. He’s forgotten something more important than the code—his family.”
How could Dad forget about his family?
Nothing’s ok anymore. It feels like every cell in my body drank a pot of coffee followed by a soju chaser. I want to run. I want to hide. But the same old tired questions colliding in my head are ropes that tie me to the chair. Where’s Mom? Why did she leave? How could Dad be so cruel to Mom, me, and basically anyone that doesn’t do what he wants? Why did Dad banish Younger Uncle? Why did Older Uncle have to die so young?