Festival for Three Thousand Women (11 page)

Bobby wanted to object, but Mr. Nam astonished him by handing a book to the Goma, who was still slumped against a bookcase at the rear. All right, Bobby thought, if Nam can be democratic, I can too. He looked down at the title to see what Mr. Nam wanted them to learn. “American English Hollywood Style,” said the print on the cover of the book.

“Mr. Nam…,” Bobby said.

“I know, I know,” said Nam. “But give it a chance.”

When he spoke he looked at the Goma again and Bobby knew he was trapped. He opened the book at random, and as he turned the pages he discovered that the book was essentially a collection of old American slang phrases, each one followed by a Korean explanation and by stick-figure drawings depicting the social situations in which the phrases could be used.

“Okeydokey,” said Nam. “Here's one, page twenty-six. What do such phrases mean?”

Everyone turned to page twenty-six, and Nam, before sitting down again, patiently found the correct page for the Goma. There were three English phrases on page twenty-six, in the middle of a sea of tightly typed Korean. All the expressions were wrong and Bobby looked up, hoping someone would come to his aid. No such luck. “Explain please,” said Mr. Nam, “each expression in turn.”

Mr. Kwak had a faintly bemused smile on his face, but the others looked at Bobby as Nam did. “Nothing unreasonable going on here,” their expressions seemed to say.

Bobby read the first phrase out loud, and to his surprise they all repeated it in unison: “Please may I have intercourse with you?”

He had them repeat the phrase one at a time, skipping the Goma, and reasonable renditions of “Please may I have intercourse with you?” rang around the table like a song. These folks had had language classes before.

“All right,” he said, “what does this expression mean?” There was a moment of hesitation, but then, to his surprise, Miss Lee raised her hand.

“Yes?” Bobby said. “Miss Lee?”

“It is a polite method of asking for conversation,” she said in good English.

Bobby's eyes lit up. “Yes!” he said. “That's right!”

“What, then, is the difference between ‘intercourse' and ‘speak?'” asked Mr. Soh.

“Ah,” Bobby responded, “there's a big difference. Once they were similar but now they are not. Now we say speak every time.”

“Except when being formal,” said Mr. Nam.

“No, Mr. Nam. ‘Please may I speak with you' is now accepted in informal and formal situations as well, you can be sure.”

“What about when addressing the president of the United States?” Mr. Kwak wanted to know. His enigmatic smile was still there, but Bobby couldn't read his intentions.

“When addressing the president of the United States one should never say, ‘Please may I have intercourse with you,'” Bobby answered. Then he added, “Of this I am sure.”

All five of them were taking notes, and even Mr. Nam seemed willing to alter the wording of his phrase now that Bobby had told him he should. Bobby could see, out of the corner of his eye, that the Goma was working his mouth a little too, turning it in completely unaccustomed ways.

Miss Lee got up to bring everyone tea and they went on to expression number two: “I always was born with a silver spoon in my mouth.” Bobby read the phrase to them and they repeated it heartily. Maybe this isn't going to be so bad, he thought.

“This one comes a little closer to real usage,” he said. “Except for that word ‘always' in there. It means that the speaker was born rich, that he has always had money.”

“Ah ha,” said Mr. Nam. “You said ‘always.'”

“Yes,” Bobby answered, “but to say ‘always was born' gives the impression of repeated action and we are only born once. It is an occurrence that ends once it has happened.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Nam, “but we can be reborn,” and Mr. Kwak nodded, conceding, for Bobby, that point.

What was Bobby to do? If Nam was trying to draw him into religion, he would not be drawn. He looked at Mr. Lee, the only one as yet not to speak, but Mr. Lee shook his head. “Too deep,” his expression seemed to say, his face froglike in the warming room.

Bobby took another breath and said slowly, “Perhaps we can be reborn and perhaps we cannot, but the expression in question has nothing to do with that. It has to do with whether or not the speaker was born rich, and one can only be born rich once. Thus, no ‘always.'”

The English he had used was pretty complicated, but no one seemed lost. Mr. and Miss Lee both nodded as if accepting the logic of the point, and Bobby stared at Mr. Nam, a bluff, hoping he'd shut up once he saw the challenge in his eyes. No such luck.

“Ah,” Nam said quietly, “but when one is reborn one is reborn with abundance, and abundance means ‘rich' so ‘I always was born with a silver spoon in my mouth' means to be reborn, resplendent in the riches of God.”

Bobby looked down at the Korean surrounding the expression in the book. Surely nothing like what Nam had said was represented there. What should he do? He had wanted this class to be his first real teaching success. The final expression leapt off the page as if mocking him, but he plunged ahead heedlessly out of his depth.

“Beat me daddy eight to the bar,” he said, but this time there was only scattered repetition, for Mr. Nam and Mr. Soh were silent at the other end of the table.

“What the hell does this mean?” Bobby asked, and Mr. Kwak laughed. “It was apparently used when asking someone to dance,” he said. And then he added, “I only know this, however, because I read a little ahead.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Bobby, but though he'd spoken under his breath, that was too much for Mr. Nam.

“Jesus Christ?” Nam said. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, Mr. Nam,” said Bobby. “I don't mean a goddamn thing by it.” Nam leapt to his feet pointing down. “Jesus Christ! Goddamn!”

“Oh, shit,” Bobby said.

Mr. Nam pulled at his collar with the hand that wasn't pointing and began to gag. He jumped up and down, his finger slicing the air like a concert master's.

Bobby tried to apologize for the language he had used but Mr. Nam would not quit. He stood there sputtering Bobby's obscenities back at him and then, plugging his ears against Bobby's attempts at reconciliation, he ran around collecting the copies of his book and bolted from the room. A moment later Mr. Soh ran out after him.

The rest of them sat there staring at each other. Bobby had wanted the evening to go so well. The expression on his face was one of desolation, and in a moment the three remaining teachers began touching him, bringing their chairs closer and telling him not to worry.

“Never mind,” said Mr. Lee. “Nam is always like that,” and Miss Lee nodded too, assuring Bobby that indeed he was. Then Mr. Kwak spoke.

“Now that that is over, what the three of us would really like is simply to discuss things with you.” His tone was soft but there was an urgency in his voice that made Bobby think that everything, thus far, had gone according to his plan. “You know, we are Koreans,” Mr. Kwak continued, “and there is much that we would like to say but cannot because we are afraid. Mr. Lee and Miss Lee, for example, would like to tell you about themselves. They both understand the English we have used and can make themselves understood when necessary.” Mr. Kwak paused to see if Bobby was listening, if he had gotten over the shock of Mr. Nam's leaving, and then he added, “Do not misunderstand. We need not speak in English. As a matter of fact, we are all proud of your magnificent ability in Korean. But if we call it an English class, don't you see, that will make things easier all around. As for the real language of our discussions, it should be the truth, whatever the tongue.”

Mr. Kwak stopped speaking and waited, but Bobby was stunned. Mr. Lee and Miss Lee both seemed to have transformed themselves from hopeful English students, from wide-eyed physical-education teachers, into conspirators, and Bobby didn't know what in the world to say. Peace Corps volunteers weren't supposed to be political, but then these people weren't asking him to be political, were they? They were only saying that they wanted to dispense with form and to talk openly.

Miss Lee had brought cake with her and she placed a fat piece in front of each of them, giving the Goma one from the portion she had brought for Mr. Soh and Mr. Nam. She looked at Bobby and said in a quiet, offhanded way, “You know, Mr. Lee and I are lovers.”

It was only the second time Bobby had heard Miss Lee speak in English and he was sure she was mistaken in her choice of words. Perhaps “lovers,” like “intercourse,” had gone around the bend and come back with its meaning trimmed. Lovers meant friends perhaps, or maybe it meant that they were engaged.

He sat up and said, “What do you mean, exactly, when you use the word ‘lovers.' Maybe you mean close friends?”

Miss Lee was still for a moment, but then she gave him a quizzical look. “Forgive me,” she said. “Lovers. Mr. Lee and I are lovers.” She emphasized her words carefully, and then Mr. Lee, hoping to make everything clear, closed his right fist and ran his left index finger in and out of it quickly, in an incredibly obscene way.

Bobby could feel himself growing red. “OK,” he said. “I get it. Wow.”

“We were lovers when we lived in Seoul,” Miss Lee continued, “and we are lovers now. We will be lovers always, I think.”

“So why don't you get married?” Bobby asked.

“Because our families are against us,” Miss Lee said slowly. “Because Mr. Lee and I were sent to Taechon as punishment. We were banished for our activities when we were teaching elsewhere.”

“You were banished together?” Bobby asked. “That was awfully nice of them.”

“No, no,” said Mr. Lee. “Banish apart. Come together two years later, secret-like.”

“Mr. Lee changed his name,” said Mr. Kwak. “After two years in another village he changed his name and was able to secure his position in Taechon. “I was the intermediary. Miss Lee had been here waiting for him all along.”

Bobby looked at Mr. Lee. “What was your name before you changed it?” he asked.

“Mr. Lee,” said Mr. Lee, and Bobby's double take made everyone laugh.

“Mr. Lee changed his given name, not his surname,” said Miss Lee. “No need to change Mr. Lee. It is so common.”

Though only minutes before Bobby had felt terrible about the disruption of his class, now he was feeling fine. Mr. Kwak seemed to sense the return of his good mood, for when he spoke again he said, “Please, Bobby, do not get the wrong idea. None of us are criminals here. Mr. and Miss Lee were student leaders, and I am only a country man struggling along with my languages and my verse. We are not North Korean sympathizers at all. Like most Koreans we are in favor of reunification someday, but all we want now is a clear voice. My thoughts concern the tragedy of our land, and Mr. and Miss Lee demonstrated to demand open elections, nothing more. One man, one vote. Do you recognize that slogan?” He sat up a little and grew intent. “Even now,” he said, “even this conversation we could not have in Korean in any of the houses of this town. Any hint of curiosity about our brothers to the North, any comment concerning real elections with real candidates, would be dealt with harshly, to say the least.”

Mr. Kwak had raised his voice and he sat back down now, a little chagrined at being carried away. “As you can see,” he said, “this is something about which we care rather deeply.”

Bobby certainly believed that, but when he looked at the Lees, with their bright eyes and their good health, the consummate physical-education teachers, he had a hard time reconciling himself to the fact that they were dissidents and lovers. Only Mr. Lee's gesture seemed in favor of it.

“So what is this English class for?” Bobby asked. “What do you want me to do?”

“What
can
you do?” asked Mr. Kwak. “What do you think?”

“Nothing,” Bobby said. “The Peace Corps is just what it seems to be, nothing much, nothing special.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Miss Lee. “Some of us have wondered.”

Bobby leaned back and smiled, looking at the Goma to share the wonder of it with him. What could they possibly think the Peace Corps was? If they had any idea that it was the C.I.A., as some Koreans believed, then they'd never have told him anything like they had. Surely they didn't believe it was some kind of leftist organization. What else was there?

“No, no,” said Mr. Kwak, reading Bobby's smile. “We only want to get it off our backs. We know that you are what you appear to be. We only want a friend, an outlet. Otherwise everything stays bottled up.”

“Get it off your chests,” Bobby said, “not your backs.” It was the first English mistake he'd heard Mr. Kwak make.

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Kwak, “quite.”

Bobby didn't know what to do. They had been told in Seoul that they were to stay out of politics, that such involvement, in fact, was a sure ticket home. But was this politics? A couple of lovers who wanted free elections and an aging intellectual who wanted an outlet for his thoughts? No, this was not politics but ordinary human contact of the kind Bobby had rarely experienced at home.

“OK,” he said, “so what should we talk about?” For some reason the three of them laughed.

“About poetry,” said Mr. Kwak.

“About football,” said Mr. Lee, “and judo.”

“About Mr. Nam's funny book,” said Miss Lee, “and about the Christian movement in general.”

Bobby looked back at Mr. Lee. “I'd like to study judo,” he said. “I've been thinking of talking to Policeman Kim.”

“Talk to me,” said Mr. Lee. “I can teach.”

As suddenly as that the spirit of the little meeting had grown warm and humorous again, all three of them clearly glad to have said what they had, to have finally gotten what they had to say out in the open, off their backs or chests or whatever.