Marilyn and Me

  You said that after the war broke out you went to find your wife at her parents’ home but she wasn’t there. That’s because she was in Seoul.

  My uncle and his family left the city as soon as the war began. The wealthy Koreans reassured the other citizens and exhorted them to protect the city, but then they left on their own private trains. My uncle wanted me to come along but I insisted on staying. I had to wait for you. If you decided to forgive me, if you said you would go north with me, I would have gone. But I couldn’t find you and the war was growing more serious than I expected. Seoul fell in a mere three days to the People’s Army and the Han River bridge was bombed. We were isolated. We couldn’t withdraw any money because the presidential emergency order froze all bank accounts. Who knew where they had been hiding, but boys ran out into the streets, shouting, “Hooray for General Kim Il Sung!” I was home alone, growing worried and flustered, when someone knocked on the front gates. It was a lady in a beautiful blue hanbok holding the hand of an adorable girl wearing a navy blue sailor dress. Your wife and your beloved daughter Song-ha.

  Your wife possessed a noble, elegant disposition. I could tell right away. She wiped her brow with a white handkerchief and explained that she had received my letter. I stood frozen in place as she told me calmly that she had decided she would settle this matter once and for all and got on a train to Seoul. She didn’t tell anyone her plans—she wanted to protect your dignity and her pride. She brought Song-ha, hoping she could appeal to my humanity. But as soon as she arrived at Seoul Station, she faced hordes of people fleeing the city. She rushed to your place but you weren’t there; even the owner of your boarding house had left. She waited for a while in that empty house before coming to see me.

  In a melodrama, the wife and the mistress would fight, but we didn’t have even that luxury. I’d searched for you everywhere but had no idea where you were. I had to invite her to stay with me. She didn’t know anyone else in Seoul. And she had run out of money. She declined over and over again but there was no other solution. We started living together, as wife and as concubine. Every day, we sat together listening intently to the radio for news. The militia came and took all of our rice and claimed the house as their office. We were relegated to a corner room upstairs. When I complained, a young man politely apologized, but it was clear that the liberation they were carrying out wouldn’t protect us. We had to try to leave Seoul. I had heard you could hire someone to row you across the river from Mapo or Sogang. We fled, taking turns carrying Song-ha on our backs, but bombs rained down on us and we had to turn around before we even reached Ahyon-dong. The rotting corpses piled in the streets were a problem, but hunger was an even bigger issue. I had been taken to the Art Association and was assigned to draw portraits of Stalin there every day, but at least it meant I could bring back some barley. Your wife carried Song-ha on her back and made meals for the militia. She was a good woman. She was dignified, even when she had to live under the same roof as her husband’s mistress, unable to leave because of the war. She pretended not to notice as I scurried about, flustered and guilty, wondering what she was thinking. We suffered through that ridiculous situation without speaking. One day, I came home late after a long day at the Association. She told me to take off my soiled blouse so she could wash it for me. I snapped at her, telling her it was fine and she should stop. Her face remained composed as she said she didn’t consider me her husband’s mistress, but as a nobody, and that it helped her live through this time. I asked her how she was able to do that, and she said it came from years of an unhappy marriage. To protect herself from unhappiness, she chose not to see it. I was stunned. I always thought of her as a pitiful, sad woman, but in reality she was strong, much stronger than me. She was spending lonely, uneasy days with me, protecting herself from grief in her own way. And the source of that strength was Song-ha. She was quiet and lovable, just like you. I tried to avoid her out of guilt and jealousy, but ended up completely charmed by her. She was darling, she was smart, and she was impressive, trying not to cry when bombs began dropping. When I asked her, “How much do you like your father?” she would primly turn away and take out your pocket watch to show me. I can’t forget that pale, plump face. We survived thanks to that dear girl. Around August, Song-ha fell sick. It could have been malnutrition—there was a severe food shortage. Our next-door neighbor went to get food from a farm in Kyonggi Province but he got caught in a bombing campaign and his legs were blown off, though he managed to survive. I sliced the belly of Song-ha’s stuffed bear and shook out the stuffing—millet—to make porridge. Your wife fell ill from overwork. The People’s Committee trampled through the house for what they called training and ended up burning part of it down. In the middle of the night, I snuck outside and dug up a piece of gold my relatives had buried before they fled. I sold it on the black market and bought canned food. I went to Dr. Han Mi-ja, who lost all three sons to the militia and was guarding the empty Seoul Clinic by herself. Thankfully, when I explained that they were your family, she welcomed them. We spent each day terrified as flyers fell from the sky, announcing that Seoul would soon be bombed and we should leave. I was tormented by your family’s suffering. It was all because of my mischief. If you came back to me, I vowed, I would send you back to them. I would return you to where you should have been all along. Thankfully Song-ha got better. Your wife also felt energized after a few days’ rest in the clinic. That cruel summer was beginning to wane. It was September; the war would soon be decided one way or another.

  We followed the movements of the UN forces by clandestinely listening to a shortwave radio. Seoul continued to be bombed. A rumor circulated that if the South Korean army took control of Seoul again, people who had worked for the northern regime would be targeted. In any case, we waited for you to find us. The bombings grew more forceful and we heard that the UN forces had landed in Inchon. The People’s Army became more desperate. After Chusok, everyone was wondering and whispering about the state of the war. Battles began erupting in the streets. We heard that public figures were tied together and dragged up north through the hills of Miari. People were getting slaughtered. We were told that in the countryside, Americans, supposedly on our side, had shoved civilians in a tunnel and killed them all, including the children.

  On September 22, rumor had it that American soldiers were spotted near Yongdungpo. I hurried home in the middle of cleaning up in the office. The yard usually bustled with military exercises but it was empty that day. My heart pounded with a strange premonition. I ran to the Seoul Clinic, worried about your wife and Song-ha. I had just turned down the alley towards the clinic when I heard gunfire. I sank to the ground; a woman was crying, running towards me in stockinged feet, screaming, “She’s gone crazy, she’s gone crazy! Dr. Han attacked the soldiers with a kitchen knife, screaming to bring her sons back …” I staggered to my feet and ran into the yard, shaking. It smelled like gunpowder. Dust was flying. People were lying under the ginkgo tree. Even though I saw blood seeping through their clothes I didn’t realize they were dead. There was more gunfire. People’s Army soldiers were pointing guns at a dozen people standing before them. They were shooting each of them, as if doing target practice, without even the consideration of blindfolding them. A woman with a baby on her back tried to flee, but slumped over after a loud bang. I rubbed my eyes hard and looked carefully. Terrified sobs echoed in my ears. I spotted your wife at the end of the line, hugging Song-ha tightly, her back turned towards the soldiers. I cried out and she looked up. She didn’t have any fear in her eyes, only love. She was holding Song-ha ever tighter, to give that young life as much love as she possibly could to the very end. I ran forward, screaming. Your wife pushed Song-ha, who was crying and clinging to her, towards me. Gunfire. Your wife blocked the bullets with her thin back and collapsed. I struggled to pull Song-ha out from under her. There was more gunfire. I felt a sharp pain in my side and lost consciousness.

  I opened my eyes. It was dark and eve
rything smelled of blood. I must be in hell, I thought. I couldn’t move. It was as if I had sunk into a swamp. When I finally managed to move my head and looked around, I had to bite down on my tongue so as not to scream. The squishy, heavy swamp was made up of bodies. Above my head was the sky, blue and round. I was near the top of a pile of corpses, thrown into a dry well. I wasn’t dead. I pushed against the bodies and pulled my upper body out with all my might. Below me was a boy in a school uniform and an old man. Between them was Song-ha. I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out. Her blue sailor dress was soaked in blood but I saw her eyebrows squirm. She let out a deep breath. I heard men above. They hadn’t left yet. I put a hand against her mouth and curled around her. I trained my ears to the outside. They were walking around the well. I felt Song-ha’s wet breath against my palm. She was alive. I kept still until it became quiet, my head against someone’s bloodied, torn-up behind. I stayed like that for a long time. When I looked up again the sky was purple. I couldn’t hear anything outside. I tried to step on the tangle of corpses to climb up. I couldn’t stand. I kept slipping. I shook Song-ha. “Song-ha,” I said. She didn’t wake up. I looked down at my palm where I’d felt her breath. She had vomited a clump of blood. “No, Song-ha, open your eyes. You’re just sleeping. Wake up. It’s morning.” I kept shaking her. I started to scream for help. “Help, we’re alive in here!” My voice circled the well, unable to break out. I tried to climb up with her in my arms but I couldn’t make any progress. I kept shouting and crying. The corpses beneath my feet began rising up and saying, “You’re the only one who survived. You’re the only one.” Their laughter began spreading outside the well. “Shut up,” I shouted. I put my hands over Song-ha’s ears so she couldn’t hear them. She was getting colder. I took my blouse off and draped it over her. A warm corpse, whose head was leaning against my ankle, whispered, snickering, “What’s the point of surviving?” All the ghosts agreed and laughed at me. I called for help all night long. I lost consciousness near dawn, watching the lights of a jet descending like a falling star. The next day neighbors hauled me out of the well. When I emerged with Song-ha on my back, people stared at me, their mouths hanging open. Overnight my hair had turned entirely gray. My nails were all broken. I was drenched in the blood of dead strangers. I put my hands to my mouth, then began to strangle myself until I fainted. I was holding Song-ha’s pocket watch in my hand.

  That’s what really happened. Now I wash my hair with Crown beer, because it never recovered its color. Everything else changed. I spent each day in the camps, on the wharf in Hungnam, in Pusan as a refugee, with the awareness that only I had survived from that well. People called me insane but I couldn’t even truly go crazy. I just trembled when there were too many people. I tried to kill myself but that was just a shrewd ploy; I didn’t have the courage to actually go through with it. I would have continued to live meaninglessly in this way if I hadn’t seen you again. But yesterday, when I was with you, I realized that people find ways to continue on despite their pain. You still had hope, not realizing that it was baseless. I have wrestled with whether to keep this secret to myself, but I decided to come clean for you, for me, for your wife and Song-ha. I don’t think I can continue on with this by myself. I think it’s time. Death won’t save me, but maybe it can spare your life.

  I can no longer imagine how life could be beautiful. I just pass the time surviving, without living. I don’t have any attachment to this life, and I won’t dare hope for your forgiveness. I’m just satisfied that I saw you again. You loved me when I was at my most beautiful. Without seeing you again, I wouldn’t have remembered that I was once cherished. I knew love and felt happiness at one point. Thank you for that. What would have happened if there hadn’t been a war? Would we still be together? It’s not all because of the war, of course. They say the war was the greatest tragedy of our era, borne from ideological conflict. But, for me, war was the thing that caused me to kill the child of the man I loved. Min-hwan, please don’t ruin your future by hating me. Please don’t pity me. I couldn’t vanquish the war inside of me, and in the end I lost. I wish you a very happy life. I have found my last duty. I’m ready. I feel at peace with my decision.

  Joseph glares at me with exasperation. “It was a tragic accident. You didn’t kill his daughter!”

  “I could have kept her alive. She was alive when I found her.” I sound vacant even to myself.

  “That’s nonsense. You’re just feeling guilty. What’s the point of bringing that up right now?” Joseph shakes me. I’ve never seen him this angry.

  “They wouldn’t have come to Seoul if I hadn’t sent that letter. It’s my fault.”

  Joseph rips the letter out of his pocket and waves it violently in the air. “Are you trying to martyr yourself for that?”

  “I’m the one who ruined their lives. I have to pay for it.”

  “And what precisely will change if you die?”

  “At least I don’t have to face him.” I feel nauseated. I grip my chest and vomit. Thick green stuff spills out of my mouth.

  Joseph looks down at me quietly, his pretty tea-colored eyes cold. “Do you still not understand what kind of man he is? Betrayal is a two-way street. It’s just that each person finds out at different times.” He kneels and picks the gun off the ground. “Like you said, I knew the war was imminent. So did Min-hwan. I can’t tell you how he knew, but I can tell you that he loved his family more than he loved you. He asked me to help take his wife and daughter to safety. He disappeared so suddenly because he was supposed to go to Japan with them. But his wife had left her parents’ house before I could get to her. They were fated to miss each other. Do you get it now? He left you first.” Joseph brushes his knees as he stands up.

  The other agents return and report that they lost Lim. “He ran out the back before we could catch him. Now we’ve lost Seoul Crybaby, too.”

  “That woman?” I ask. It seems Lim’s luck has held once more. “Don’t look for her.” Her famously weepy voice shakes my soul and grows louder. I speak on her behalf. “She doesn’t want to come back. Ever. Not to Seoul—not to goddamn Seoul.”

  Luxury cars are lining up in front of the Bando Hotel. Foreigners, women in fur coats and gowns and men in tails, are entering in pairs as if waltzing.

  “Will you be okay, Alice?” Joseph sounds worried. “Go wash up and rest. You may have to cut your hair and use something strong to get the paint off. Here, give me your scarf.” He takes my scarf off my neck and puts it over my head.

  I look at my reflection in the car window. Bright yellow hair pokes out from under the scarf. It’s funny and terrifying at the same time. I kiss him on the cheek. “Good night. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  “Alice,” Joseph calls as I’m about to get out of the car.

  “Go finish your assignment. I have to clean this up.” I point at my hair and smile.

  Joseph nods sorrowfully. “Okay. Sweet dreams.”

  I watch Joseph’s car get smaller in the darkness, then go into the hotel. It’s crammed with excited people hoping to attend Marilyn Monroe’s farewell reception. I find a newspaper next to an ashtray and hide behind the paper as I step into the elevator. It lifts up into the air with a baritone groan. I’m riveted by the article in front of my nose, reading it over and over again. A maid has killed her employer’s children. The young maid had been raped by her employer and, after miscarrying the baby, she had pushed his children over a ravine to their deaths. The maid explained calmly that she was glad. I remember the raging, despairing girl I had seen hunched in the cold corridor of the clinic. The world hadn’t granted her any kindness or peace. It weighs heavily on me. I’m not sure I can stand straight. The elevator stops and holds me still but I’m already free-falling into the girl’s deep, troubled eyes.

  Thankfully I make it to the room without encountering anyone. Open suitcases are strewn about near the bed. I stagger towards the vanity. Marilyn’s makeup bag
is wide open. I sit down and take the scarf off my head.

  I’m looking at a blonde Alice. The yellow paint is drying, crusted on my hair, and it smells awful. It has covered nearly all of my head. My blondness isn’t fatally seductive; it’s slightly sad. I look like an actress now; I decide that I will act the part of a woman who is betrayed by a man and chooses a tragic end.

  I rummage through the bag for lipstick. I find a tangle of perfume and makeup and high-end brushes made of weasel fur. I take out a red lipstick and smear it on crookedly. It’s bold and beautiful. But now I don’t like how my face looks. I find two boxes of Coty powder. One is the real thing and the other, as I expected, is filled with phenobarbital pills.

  I take them out and move to the bed. The small messengers of death are snug in my palm. They’ll coast through my bloodstream, singing and dancing all night long, until I fall asleep. Around their last dance, my soul will say goodbye to my body. I spot a glass of whiskey next to the bed. I drink some down. My mouth is on fire. I bring the pills to my lips.

  “Alice?”

  I flinch and drop the pills, and they thud onto the floor like bullets. I turn around. Marilyn is standing right behind me, looking surprised. Our mouths hang open as we stare at one other.

  I recover quickly. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was trying to clean up but I made more of a mess.” I kneel on the floor, trying to hide my flustered state, and pick up the pills.

  Marilyn hurries to bend over and help. Hunching over in her sparkling white dress, she looks like a pretty trumpet-shaped shell. She keeps stealing glances at me.

  I put the pills back into the sweet-smelling Coty box.

  “And your hair!” Marilyn exclaims.

  “What do you think? Do you think I look a little more like you?”

  She tugs at me and drags me to the mirror. It looks like I’m wearing a broom. Or maybe the sun. Marilyn opens her mouth and closes it, studying me quizzically, before bursting into a gale of laughter.