Festival for Three Thousand Women (18 page)

“Where did these come from?” Bobby asked, but Mr. Lee, who was looking at the oranges too, wasn't asking any questions. “Never mind,” he said. “Let's have one.”

So they sat down on the steps of the bar, and Bobby pulled the strings apart and handed oranges all around. When Mr. Lee dug his thumbnail through the outer skin of his orange a line of juice came up and hit Bobby in the eye.

“These are good,” said Judo Lee. He pulled out a couple of bank notes and pointed at a candlelit shack across the street. “Ah, Goma,” he said, “run over there and buy us some
soju,”
and the Goma was gone in a flash, everyone's servant, hurrying to bring them back a bottle of the acid drink.

By the time the Goma returned, Bobby had started his second orange and Mr. Lee his third. They were wonderful, juicy and full and sweet. And when Mr. Lee popped the cap on the
soju
, they drank as they ate, listening to the faint sounds of women talking inside the bar.

Mr. Lee and Bobby ate and drank for another half hour without saying a word, until the bar's door opened and some early customers came out, walking down the steps and past them into the night.

“Good-bye!” the bar hostesses called. Then they waited until the customers were out of sight before looking down.

“Oh,” they said. “Good evening, gentlemen. Are you coming inside?”

It was such a clear night, the moon hovering high above the bar, that Bobby hoped Mr. Lee might say that they were not. But to his surprise Mr. Lee didn't answer. Rather, as if he had not seen the customers or heard the greeting, Mr. Lee began to sing. He had an orange peel in his hand, and he looked up at the moon and sang a song that made Bobby feel even sadder than he had before. Bobby couldn't understand the lyrics, but one of the women stepped down from the doorway and was soon singing along with Mr. Lee, her voice winding around his like a delicate vine.

Finally Mr. Lee shook himself free of his melancholy and smiled at his singing partner.

“Yes,” he said, in answer to the woman's question of a long moment before. He took Bobby's arm and shook it slightly. “Yes,” he said, “we are coming inside.”

Ah, I am a man of profound intuition! I knew all along that there was something about our American that did not meet the eye, but until today I had no proof with which to justify my belief.

But today, today I was so proud! Imagine, unbeknownst to everyone, and in the face of all that silliness from Mr. Kwak and Mr. Lee, our American agreed to be the spy! And he succeeded beautifully, looking spylike and strange, and pretending to be irritated when he was caught. What an actor, what a commendable man!

I must admit, though I disagree with the headmaster on many things, choosing Mr. Bobby as the spy was a stroke of genius, and though I know he only agreed to do it out of loyalty to the school, another good thing to come of it is that Mr. Nam will now have to shut up, no longer calling the man a liar. “One man's lie is another man's joke,” I told Mr. Nam, but I wish now that I had not waited until today to say it.

After the spy-catching-day formalities ended, I made my first move toward the friendship that I now know will come to exist between Mr. Bobby and me. He was tired and dozing at his desk, so I took him a bowl of makkoli and smiled, thus clearing the way for our relationship—younger brother, older brother—to begin. And I am now looking forward to him making the next move.

Imagine how much I have learned in this, my last year as the vice-headmaster of our school. I have learned that the world is large, but that the five relationships can encompass it all. I have learned that strangeness of face dims with time, and that fat can fall away from a man's bones like the shell from a nut.

Oh, I am a happy man today!

Written at my desk, late in the evening, as I look around at the dim, empty teachers' room and imagine myself retired.

 

 

Nine at the beginning means: To go out the door in company produces deeds
.

 

T
he events of the days surrounding Bobby's betrayal of his Korean friends had so overwhelmed Bobby that when summer vacation finally came he didn't travel as he'd thought he would, but simply stayed in town for a long, quiet rest.

During the final weeks of school he led a circumspect life, stacking his books over onto Mr. Kwak's empty desk, but otherwise ignoring Mr. Kwak's departure as completely as he could. Mr. Lee and Miss Lee would be transferred too, everyone said, but while they were still around, Bobby maintained a respectful distance: that of a contrite friend awaiting acceptance once again. Mr. Lee understood his intentions and continued throwing him good-naturedly around the gym. Miss Lee too smiled at him, though she did no more than that.

In September Bobby began to feel run down. His mammoth weight loss had until then given him only cause for joy. Now, though, when the grandmother stopped by his room, Bobby occasionally joined her in her coughing fits. And if he exerted himself too much, his lungs felt sore. By November he was forced to give up judo, and in December he made arrangements to travel to Seoul, where there was a Peace Corps doctor, to find out what was wrong.

On the evening before his departure, Bobby stopped by the Pusan-chip to pay his tab. It should be noted that Miss Kim, the girl who had worked in the Pusan-chip when Bobby arrived in town, had moved away to marry a farmer's son and that during the fall and early winter the owner had been running the place alone. All the regular customers hoped that she would find a helper soon, and a common subject of discussion was whether Miss Kim's eventual replacement would be prettier or uglier, whether she would have a good singing voice or a bad one, and whether she would have a good sense of humor. Miss Kim, everyone agreed, had been wonderful and they were lucky to have had her for so long.

So when Bobby opened the door that night, he was surprised to find that Miss Kim's replacement was at hand, and that she was none other than Miss Moon. He had been going by the tearoom periodically ever since spy-catching day, but it had not reopened, and no one had been able to tell him why.

The bar was empty, except for Miss Moon, the owner, and the Goma, who sat in the corner staring at his English book.

“My God, Miss Moon,” said Bobby.

“Close the door,” said the Goma.

The owner greeted Bobby in her usual way, and Miss Moon bowed slightly before turning to the makkoli pots and preparing to bring him a drink.

“I believe you know our new girl,” said the owner.

It was the owner's habit, early each evening, to visit other nearby bars in order to chat and gossip for a while, but tonight she had a stew on the fire and could not leave until it was done. Bobby therefore looked around at the Goma, sensing that he should not focus too much attention on Miss Moon. The Goma had been avoiding Mr. Nam for months by then, and he was never without his English book. For all Bobby knew, he really had been studying the thing. When the Goma saw Bobby looking at him, he smiled.

“Can you really read that book?” Bobby asked.

“You bet,” said the Goma.

Miss Moon, whose job was to entertain, came over and sat down. Bobby noticed a tragic air about her, but since the owner's eyes were on them, he continued talking to the Goma while trying to read something in Miss Moon's downcast eyes.

“Do you know what the words mean?” he asked. “Do you know what the meaning is of the things you say?”

“Sure,” said the Goma, “Enough's as good as a feast.”

Bobby hadn't seen the Goma in weeks, but for him to actually learn anything from Mr. Nam's book seemed impossible. Bobby didn't think he could even read Korean well.

“What if I spoke to you in English?” Bobby asked. “Would you understand?”

“Beats me,” the Goma said.

Bobby turned on his stool and, switching to his native tongue, said, “How are you today, Goma? Are you feeling fine?” He knew the question, in just that form, was right out of Mr. Nam's book, and he waited for the Goma to give him the book's response.

“Cool as a cucumber,” the Goma said.

“Isn't it wonderful how the weather has cleared?”

“Yessiree, Bob. Not a cloud in the sky.”

Bobby paused, trying to remember what else was in the book. Those two questions had been on the first page, but he did know one line from somewhere farther back.

“How about it, Mack?” he said. “Lend me a sawbuck till Saturday night.”

“Not a chance, pal,” said the Goma. “You're barking up the wrong tree.”

It was incredible but it appeared that the Goma really had memorized Mr. Nam's entire book, questions and answers both.

“This is wonderful, Goma,” said Bobby, speaking Korean again. “You should be proud.”

“Piece of cake,” said he. “Like taking candy from a baby.”

By this time the owner's stew was sufficiently cooked so she slipped into her overcoat, telling Miss Moon she wouldn't be a minute, that she only wanted to say hello to a friend. And the moment the door closed, Miss Moon began to cry.

“You will want something more to drink,” she said.

“You just disappeared,” said Bobby. “You didn't even say good-bye.”

He had worried, since she was already crying, that his comment might make her cry harder, but instead she stiffened, standing and going back by the makkoli pots.

“That tearoom was always losing money,” she said. “Did you expect it to stay open on your thirty won a day?”

“No,” said Bobby. “But we were friends. And you left so abruptly.”

He was completely at a loss. Miss Moon seemed so different now. She was thinner and her face carried its more tragic lines so forthrightly.

“Come,” she said. “Buy another bowl of wine. I am here to drink with you.”

Miss Moon filled Bobby's bowl, though he had barely touched it, and poured a large one for herself. “How about that little twerp?” she asked, pointing at the Goma.

Bobby was taken aback. Miss Moon had always been unfailingly kind to the Goma.

“Sure,” Bobby said. “If he wants a drink let's give him one.”

But when she called his name, even the Goma came on careful feet, seeing the change in her and on his guard for some trick. Would she throw the bowl of makkoli in his face, perhaps? Everyone was mean to the Goma. Until now Miss Moon had been a rare exception.

Some ten minutes went by without anyone speaking. The Goma turned his back so that if she did take a swipe at him he'd be able to dodge, but Miss Moon was content to gulp what she had poured for herself and then shove her bowl across the bar. But as the silence continued Bobby did observe that some of Miss Moon's old facial qualities were beginning to return. There, in the corners of her eyes, was the softness that she used to exhibit when listening to the Love Tearoom's serious songs. There, where the smooth skin of her chin began its gentle descent, was a tremor so slight that it spoke volumes, as if it were the hiding place of her real and former self.

But they really didn't talk at all. And when the owner came back she was followed by some of the regular customers, and by Mr. Soh, who had been looking everywhere for Bobby.

“Ah,” he said. “Headmaster Kim is having a party and he hoped that I would be able to bring you along.”

“What? You mean right now?”

“Yes,” he said. “The vice-headmaster's retirement is near.”

Bobby looked around the bar a moment but then stood to go with Mr. Soh. Since it was early he promised himself that he'd leave the headmaster's party before curfew, and come back down here later to find out what was really going on.

“You realize,” said Mr. Soh, “that I'm talking about a party at Headmaster Kim's house. A thing like that doesn't happen every day.”

Headmaster Kim had a substantial house, built like Policeman Kim's but larger and better appointed. The teachers were gathered in the living room, around a low table, the vice-headmaster at one end, the headmaster at the other. When he and Mr. Soh walked in, everyone moved around to make room for them. Bobby looked for Mr. Nam and then sat down away from him, up next to the vice-headmaster, of whom he had recently grown fond. There were many bottles of scotch on the table and mountains of food.

“What a glorious time we are having and how wonderful that you have come!” said the vice-headmaster. “Soon I shall retire, but I will always remember this day!” He grabbed a glass and poured it half full of warm scotch, splashing it at Bobby.

“I would like to propose a toast,” said Headmaster Kim. “To our vice-headmaster, who has been in the business of educating boys for thirty years.”

Everyone held their glasses high while the vice-headmaster bobbed his head in thanks. For his part, Bobby lowered his glass until the brim of it was below the table's edge. Then he quietly placed it on the floor. Unfortunately the vice-headmaster saw him and was very quick to lower his own glass, pouring part of its contents into Bobby's.