Bloody Seoul

by Sonia Patel

  I slip on a slick patch—the only remaining evidence of the earlier downpour—as I round a corner. There’s a low growling behind me, and I quick look over my shoulder. Seoul’s sharp claws reach out…

  I keep running.

  Until I’m not. I look down. My right foot is on a boardwalk and straight ahead, the Mapo Bridge. Seoul slinks away as if I’ve thrown it off my track. Maybe I’ve disappeared into another dimension.

  I walk, a little more steady. My heart slows, my breath eases, and the sweat dries up. I scan the Yeongdeungpo side in the distance. The highest dusk sky is purple, it blends gradually into blue, light blue, tangerine, and red-orange. The clouds are thin, frayed tufts emerging from the cityscape. The highrise lights sprinkle bright dots on the silky black Han.

  Lights, so many lights. So many people awake. Seoul never sleeps.

  Cars speed by.

  So many people…

  But I’m alone.

  There are government-issued signs with quotes at regular intervals on the handrails.

  How are you doing?

  Have you been eating alright?

  Isn’t it nice walking on a bridge?

  My gut twists, and I shout answers in mind.

  Shitty!

  No!

  Hell no!

  I remember the girl, Woo-jin’s victim, who killed herself here. She must’ve read these lame questions. Did she have the same answers as me? Did she feel alone, forsaken, like me? Is that why she jumped?

  I want to pound all these signs.

  I pass by some government-issued photos of happy babies and kids and families alongside the quotes.

  I go slack for a second, then everything slumps. My shoulders. My eyes. My thoughts.

  There’s a bench up ahead. I could use a rest.

  Part of the bench is already occupied by a bronze statue of two people. How come I’ve never noticed it before? I get closer. The boardwalk creaks under my cautious steps. I’m in front of it now. A glum teen boy slouches, staring at the nothingness that is his life. A smiling older man, maybe his dad or grandfather, has one hand on the boy’s back, and the other hand is pinching the boy’s cheek.

  The boy’s hands dangle between his knees.

  My hands hang limp by my side.

  I turn away, keep walking.

  A young couple, arm-in-arm, passes by, laughing. The girl puts her head on the guy’s shoulder.

  Then a family of four approaches. “Happy birthday, son,” the dad says. The mom rubs her son’s back and the little sister cheers.

  More people come and go, but I’m alone. And lonely. I can’t brush it off, I stare at the pavement. I don’t want to see any more faces. Feet, on the other hand, are ok. They aren’t in love or cheerful or proud, they just do their job. Though mine are more unsure tonight.

  I stop at the railing, excited voices behind me. My hands drape over the railing and I lean… on it…over it. The hypnotic Han beckons me.

  Rocky…

  I lean over a little more…

  “Rocky!”

  My head cogwheels. It’s Ha-na standing under a street lamp. Her beautiful eyes are wide and shiny under the bill of a camo print baseball cap with a Korean flag patch. I instantly picture her as a ROK marine. It almost makes me smile.

  She crosses her arms, and the sleeves of her jean jacket pull up a little at the wrist giving me a glimpse of her scars.

  She looks down and sees what I see so she drops her arms and clasps her hands behind her back.

  Without a word I look back at the inviting Han.

  Her footsteps.

  One, two, three.

  Sidelong glance.

  She’s reaching for my shoulder. “Rocky?” she whispers.

  “What?” I snap.

  Her hand retreats. “Did you eat yet?” she asks.

  Have you been eating alright? Did she read the sign? I don’t look at her, only shake my head.

  “I’m meeting my parents for some dinner. Do you want to join us or something?” she asks.

  I shake my head. Please go away.

  She comes closer. “Are you sure?” she asks.

  “I’m sure!” I roar, then regret, but can’t muster the energy or will to retract.

  She backs away. “Ok, ok,” she says, her voice brittle. She starts to walk away, but then she stops and looks over her shoulder. “Please take care,” she mumbles.

  Her footsteps fade. I watch the big Indian flag printed on the back of her jacket get smaller and smaller. It disappears. She disappears.

  I want to disappear.

  Time drifts by like the black river with its twinkling surface.

  I realize I’m still here. But if I hoist myself onto this flat part of the railing—

  Rocky…

  It’s Mom’s voice this time.

  Rocky, don’t give up. We’ll be together soon.

  I let go of the railing and step back. Sorrow punches through my chest, I press one hand on it and sob.

  “Boss!”

  “Hey, boss!”

  I stop crying and pull out my handkerchief to quickly wipe my face. I suck in my snot as I look. Braid, Strike, and Patch are running towards me, waving. Soon they’re standing in a semicircle behind me.

  “How did you know I was here?” I whisper.

  Braid coughs. “Ha-na called,” he says. “She was stressing about you.”

  All those prank calls, and she returns the favor with a call of concern. I’m the lowest of the low.

  He steps next to me and looks at my face. “So…what’s up, boss?”

  I frown and turn my head further away, but Strike and Patch are standing on the other side of me. I have no choice but to look straight ahead at the Han.

  “We were gonna go grab some food. Wanna come, boss?” Strike suggests.

  Again with eating?

  My fists clench, but I don’t say anything.

  They don’t say anything else either.

  We all gaze at the Han for awhile. And then awhile longer.

  Finally my mouth decides to give up the silent treatment. It opens, and the words convulse out. “I need to—get—out of—this—city.”

  My boys listen with their eyes.

  “My mom, she…” I can’t finish because my eyes threaten to unleash again. I blink fast and hard. I want to tell them everything, but I’m all choked up. I close my eyes. My life flashes, everything old, everything new. It passes through me like a category five hurricane. The powerful winds and waves leave me in ruins.

  I rip my eyes open. My hand is on my chest, my heart is barely beating underneath. The muscles on my chin tremble as fresh tears spill down my face, a few onto my lips. I lick the salty pain.

  Braid edges closer. “She what?” he asks, his voice gentle.

  Strike rests his elbow on the railing and his chin on his palm. “Boss?”

  “She’s…” I start, then seal my lips.

  My boys wait.

  “She’s a refugee,” I manage to whisper. In L.A., instead of here with me. “My dad thinks he killed her.”

  Two sharp inhales on either side of me and one forehead smack.

  I glance to the right, then left.

  Braid’s got this piercing stare. Strike’s forehead is on the railing. Patch is shaking his head, one hand on his brow.

  “You can’t tell anyone. Her life, my life, depends on it,” I say. “Swear it,” I demand. “On your life.”

  They look at me but don’t say anything. Their huge, dark eyes speak of understanding. And though I’ve always known their loyalty is unwavering, I’ve never shared a secret this big.

  I become a rock, a shouting rock. “Swear it on your life!”

  Braid pulls out his pocket knife and slices his palm. A red line dribbles. Strike pulls out his knife, a second slice, a second red line. Then Patch. A third.

  Braid holds up his bleeding palm, motions to Strike and Patch to do the same. “On our honor, on our blood, on our life, we swear it,” he recit
es like a sacred oath.

  Strike nods. “We swear it.”

  Patch nods.

  Bloody allegiance.

  I’m touched, but I remain stone-cold. All I do is give them one hard nod before I turn back to the river and slam my fist on the railing. “Fuck Three Star Pa. Fuck being boss. Fuck my dad. Fuck meth. Fuck money. Fuck this city,” I bellow.

  “Bo—,” Braid starts, then stops. “Rocky,” he says instead, “I’m sorry, man.” He looks at Strike and Patch.

  They nod.

  “We’re sorry,” Strike says. “It’s so fucked up.”

  Braid slides closer. “We got your back, man. No matter what.”

  “No doubt,” Strike says.

  Patch nods and thumps his chest.

  I look at my boys, at their worried expressions and their sliced hands. Why are they still standing beside me? How can they still give a shit about me?

  Braid puts his good hand on my shoulder. “You ok?” he asks. His forehead is puckered, and his lips are a thin line.

  Strike steps closer and lays his good hand on my other shoulder. “Yeah, Rocky,” he says. “You ok?”

  Patch pats my back. I look over my shoulder. He tucks his chin and lifts his eyebrows.

  I shake my head. “Not really,” I whisper.

  They don’t say anything else, but they keep their hands on me. For a long time we stand like that, staring at the world in front of us. The city. The river. The night sky.

  The night sky is full of sparkling stars. Three in particular are especially bright.

  My three boys. My three bright stars leading me out of the darkness of Three Star Pa. My boys, more like my brothers.

  I’m not alone, and in this moment, I’m not lonely. I’m safe with my bros. My family.

  Family is one of nature’s masterpieces.

  But I’m a piece of sh…

  No.

  A plain blue sky, even if it’s the most gorgeous azure or cerulean, is boring. A silvery cloud or two makes the perfect sky more like real life—imperfect.

  I dare to smile ever so slightly inside. You’re right, Mom.

  I’ve done stupid, cruel, and shitty things, but I’m not a piece of shit. What I am is imperfect. And what I can do is try to make things right, that’s what Younger Uncle tries to do every day.

  I fish for the gold chain and medallion in my pocket. I bring it out and trace the three glinting stars. Then I crumple it all together and grip the thick wad like it’s a baseball and I’m a pitcher. I extend my arm behind me, count to three in my head, then hurl the boss necklace at the batter—the Han. The river misses, and the necklace sinks into the depths.

  31.

  It’s the kind of summer morning when the breeze sleeps in. The grass doesn’t bend, the rose bushes don’t sway. I pass by a flourishing acacia tree, a thrush is perched on a low branch, singing. The leaves dangle stiff like they’re sculpted. The stuffy stillness permeates into my core, makes me stop. I wait in vain for a light wind’s embrace. No luck. Hands in my pockets, a comfortable slouch, I amble away on the walking path.

  Only a few people are out. Up ahead, the two sections of the World Peace Gate’s enormous roof remind me of wings. Wings on a giant bird taking flight into the majestic blue sky. I stretch my arms out, pretending they’re my wings. I close my eyes and drop my head back a little. Maybe I can soar with this great bird of peace.

  When I open my eyes, I’m at the Gate’s main entrance. I check my pocket watch, plenty of time until my bros get here. I look up, and my eyes land smack on Ha-na. I cringe.

  Damn it. Seriously?

  She’s cruising under the roof, sketchbook in hand. Her head is tilted back, and the long swell of her hair reminds me of midnight waves. Her eyes are glued to one of the gigantic animal paintings on the ceiling.

  She smiles to herself as she whisks her pencil off her ear and gets to work outlining. Soon she’s shading. Her smile fades, and her eyebrows furrow. More lines and shading. The tip of her tongue pokes out of the side of her mouth.

  I’ve never seen her with her sketchbook at school, but out in the world it seems to be her third arm.

  Her hand transcribes the world onto paper in an elegant waltz…Ha-na the artist doing her thing. I can’t help but smile inside as I imagine what her eyes capture—colors and shapes in exquisite detail, beauty in everything with no judgement. Everything equal. Everything indispensable.

  She pauses, twirls her hair around her pencil.

  Now it’s Ha-na the girl. Not a black coolie. Not a beast. Not ugly. Not fat. A girl. A human.

  A human who helped me like a guardian angel.

  I want to make things right. But if she’s not having my sorry, why would she let me make things right? Maybe I should just leave her alone, let her get on with her life in peace.

  I pivot on my heels and prepare to make my getaway. But my past cruelty binds my feet and demands to be reviewed, demands reparations for what I’ve done. Then it grabs my chin and yanks my face in her direction, makes me look at her.

  Should I try to make things right? Of course I should! No, I shouldn’t. Yes, I should! No. Yes.

  I stand there, literally stuck in indecision. It’s like someone poured cement that dried in an instant. All I can do is go for a cigarette. I light up and frantic smoke. One last puff before I toss the butt.

  Ha-na’s eyes dart from the ceiling to her sketchbook. Her pencil is going and going with a determination that impresses me but also make me a little sad because for a second her hand and pencil are like my feet on the streets of Seoul. They have to move. They have to go.

  Our survival depends on it.

  But we’re both safe from our respective demons now. Only I’m not sure if she knows she’s safe. I’m not sure if she knows that I will never hurt her, or anyone, again. Not on purpose, at least.

  My head spins.

  I should give it another go. I should try to make things right.

  Younger Uncle would. So I try to lift a foot, this time it budges a little. I drag myself towards her like I’m wading through thick sludge.

  When I’m finally standing in front of her, I pull my shoulders back and open my mouth. “Ha-na,” I say, “Can I talk to you?”

  She ignores me as she looks back and forth between the red phoenix and her sketchbook, shading.

  I reach out, slowly. “Ha-na?”

  She steps away just as my hand is about to touch her shoulder.

  I follow her, I reach out again and give her shoulder a gentle tap.

  She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t say anything. She keeps on drawing.

  I stare at my feet. “I can’t believe you helped me. I-I didn’t, don’t, deserve it,” I stammer, shaking my head. I peek at her.

  She’s engrossed in her work like I’m not even there.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I rub the back of my neck. I don’t know what else to say or do to make things better for her. I check out her drawing. I point to it and say, “Your phoenix is more beautiful than the one on the ceiling.” And I mean it.

  That’s when Ha-na stops drawing. She looks at me with a fixed expression. “You helped me once. I helped you once. Let’s call it even. You don’t have to talk to me now. You don’t have to be nice.” She takes three steps away and goes back to shading.

  “Wait, I-I…” I start. My head feels like the mayhem at primary school recess. I go to her and try again. “We’re not even. I know I can’t make up for all the—”

  She cuts me off with a groan and an eye roll. She thrusts her sketchbook and pencil at me. “Hold,” she demands.

  I do.

  She pushes her sleeves up to her elbows. Her gruesome scars clamour for me to leave her alone. “One cut for every single time you or anyone has been cruel,” she says. She pulls her sleeves down.

  I hang my head. “I’m so sorry,” I mumble.

  She grabs her sketchbook and pencil from me. “I know you think you’re sorry.”

  I look up. I a
m sorry. But I can’t get myself to say it again because her words are like a shrink ray, and I feel myself getting smaller and smaller.

  Her eyes become glazed with tears. She looks away and turns her back on me to resume her drawing.

  I count the cracks on the concrete tiles. But then it’s hard to count because everything’s blurry. Fuck!

  32.

  I sweep my finger over the dusty cover of the Onkyo, and it leaves a clear, straight path. That’s how long I haven’t played my beloved opera. I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. That’s how much things have changed. I wipe the hard plastic cover with a fuzzy cloth, three times, before I carefully lift it to lay the vinyl on the turntable. The stylus next, it bumps up and down on the rotating disc. The crackling sound…I love it.

  I step onto the balcony, and the cool air wakes me up like a splash of cold water. A second later Pavarotti’s voice announces the dawn. I watch the sun, a ripe glowing persimmon, rise in the blue gray horizon.

  I yawn big, my tight facial muscles pump my lacrimal glands, making my eyes water reflexively. I rub the involuntary tears away.

  Pavarotti sings sadness.

  Now different tears form and escape, melancholic ones. I brush them off my cheek too, but not before Mom’s in my head.

  Oh, if Pavarotti knew his voice is the only thing that can move my little Rocky.

  Another couple of mournful tears.

  Not the only thing, Mom.

  I look back at the empty black cushion on the acacia wood loveseat. You should be sitting there. Like you used to with your arms open, waiting for me.

  I rest my hands on the railing, a flood of bittersweet in my head.

  Mom the angel. Dad my hero. Opera. Makgeolli. Rain. Dunhills. Laughter.

  How could I have known that the us on this balcony back then was a lie?

  The front door slams, I check my pocket watch.

  Speak of the devil. He arrives at 6:11.

  I touch my knife handle, trace my stars, my name. The second to the last time.

  I slide my hands into my pockets and go inside. Will Dad talk to me today? He’s been ignoring me since the spa.