Festival for Three Thousand Women (2 page)

It was an inauspicious beginning but Bobby could not be bothered by that. Later, he tried to tell the Goma to leave so that he could lie down on his bedding and sleep. He had intended to write his grandmother, but such an activity would put off sleep for too long, and he wanted to be fresh for his first day of teaching come tomorrow. The Goma, however, seemed content to stay where he was, and though Bobby tried several of his memorized Korean sentences, nothing he said could make the boy leave.

“Go!” he said, finally. “Get out of here now!” This was a single line of street Korean that a favorite teacher of his had taught him, and the Goma jumped.

“OK, fatso,” he said, “have it your way.”

Bobby understood only the tone of what the Goma said, but when the kid was halfway around the inn's courtyard, Bobby nevertheless stuck his head back through the door of his room and called after him, wanting to make things right. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said, and though he could not be sure, he thought he heard the Goma belch out of the darkness from the other side of the inn.

Nine at the beginning means: When ribbon grass is pulled up, the sod comes with it. Each according to his kind
.

 

A
s it happened, Bobby Comstock's first day at Taechon Boys' Middle School was a Friday, and not much was going on. When he and Mr. Soh walked through the school gate the students crowded around them, and there was an interminable welcoming meeting in the teachers' room—run by the vice-headmaster, Headmaster Kim was gone—but Bobby hadn't understood what was said, and by the time he met his first class he was already tired from being so much on stage, and ready for a nap.

Still, he tried to teach well; he made the students laugh with various contortions of his cheeks and tongue, and by the end of the day he wanted only to go back to his room to sleep. After all, he had just arrived, and his internal clock was racing; not only was it way after midnight in America, but the discovery that the teachers all brought their lunches to school had shocked him. Mr. Soh, to be sure, had found a lunch for Bobby, but by quitting time it was the idea that he would soon be alone in his room and could open up the lid of his Peace Corps trunk that drew him.

Mr. Soh, however, had other ideas. “Come,” he said. “You may have noticed that Headmaster Kim was gone today.”

It was five o'clock and they were walking across the playground on their way back into town.

“What's wrong?” Bobby asked. “I hope the headmaster isn't ill?”

“No,” said his fellow English teacher, “but Headmaster Kim's relative has died and we must now attend the funeral.”

Mr. Soh had learned his English during the Korean War, and it wasn't as bad as Bobby had thought on the train. Mr. Soh could, after all, speak fairly well, but he had a difficult time understanding anything Bobby said to him. He'd been a KATUSA during the war, a Korean Attached to the United States Army, and he still hated the North. Other than English teaching, he liked to say, anticommunism was his consuming passion.

Parked outside the school gate was a small Volkswagen bus, one that Mr. Soh had been able to borrow. Inside the bus several other teachers sat, the vice-headmaster among them, but Bobby didn't recall any of their names.

“Hello,” they all said, “sit near the driver,” and when Mr. Soh got into the driver's seat, Bobby slipped in behind him, smiling at everyone, determined to try to act pleased with the prospect of attending a funeral on his second night in town, though the seat was too small and he had his fat knees up under his chin. And, indeed, though the village of Taechon was primitive enough in itself, with no truly paved streets, they were soon climbing into the hills on pathways so rutted that it seemed the little bus might fall over onto its side. The afternoon sun had already fallen behind the edge of a hill, but when Bobby noticed a slim moon hanging opposite it, his spirits did rise. He opened the window slightly and breathed in the cool country air. This was no time for fatigue. The people around him would be his friends and coworkers for the next two years. He could sleep later, when the time for camaraderie had run its course.

Mr. Soh spent part of the journey teaching Bobby how to say “Please accept my condolences” in Korean, and when they finally parked the bus he had it down. Mr. Soh waited until the dust had settled before opening the door, and when they got out the teachers led Bobby quickly into the rice fields, along a narrow path. “Please watch your step,” someone said. “The fields are thick with fertilizer.”

Bobby nodded, but he had begun to wonder how he should behave at this funeral. Was he to act sad, as he would in America? He was not unfamiliar with funerals, but he nevertheless wanted to ask someone, to settle a few points before they arrived. And though the turns of the path and the way the others kept their eyes on the ground made him hold his tongue, he soon began experimenting with a downcast expression around his eyes.

When they entered the yard Mr. Soh cleared his throat. “We are here,” he said quietly, and an old woman who'd been tending the fire stopped what she was doing and hurried over to them. Ignoring the teachers completely, she got down on her hands and knees and began bowing in front of Bobby.

“Do what she does,” Mr. Soh said, so Bobby dropped to the ground too, the flesh on his back and arms bouncing with the impact.

“Thank you for honoring us with your attendance at this funeral,” said the old woman.

“Please accept my condolences,” said Bobby.

He had delivered the sentence well, and the old woman rolled out of her bow, looking up. “What did you say?” she asked.

“Please accept my condolences,” Bobby said again.

“Well, I never…!” said the old woman. “Hey everybody! Junior's friend speaks perfect Korean! Come listen.”

Mr. Soh was translating for him when five or six others moved forward and the woman told Bobby to speak again.

“Please accept my condolences,” he repeated.

“You see. What did I tell you? Perfect Korean!”

They all agreed and said that they were glad to meet him and thanked him for honoring the dead woman with his attendance at the funeral.

“That was fine,” said Mr. Soh, “you are doing well.” The other teachers had drifted away, but Mr. Soh led Bobby around to the smallest room of the house where they removed their shoes and crawled in through a rice-paper door. “Here she is,” said Mr. Soh. “Headmaster Kim's uncle's wife's cousin.”

A photograph in a dark frame was propped on an altar in the center of the room. Candles circled the photograph, and behind it, in a wooden box, was the actual body of the cousin herself, a woman in her late sixties.

Mr. Soh knelt on a cushion in front of the photograph and bowed. “She was a Christian,” he said, “but a Buddhist too. Auntie wants us to honor both religions.” Mr. Soh was a shirttail relative of Headmaster Kim, and when he pulled Bobby up to the coffin they both gazed down at the woman, who reclined there in a way that seemed nearly casual, though at the same time her face was so unrestful that Bobby thought that she might, at any moment, sit up. It was a thought he'd had at other funerals, and it made him remember his grandmother. Would she die while he was away? Should he have stayed at home, where he could see her again and again before the end of her life, where he could watch her in her coffin, waiting for her to make a move?

Mr. Soh's aunt opened the outside door, chasing such thoughts away. “Hurry, Junior,” she said. “There is food and drink in the other room. Take your friend in there. There is a chair. We've even found a chair for him.” She turned to the women in the yard behind her. “Foreigners use chairs,” she let them know.

Once outside again Mr. Soh led Bobby over to another door, where they crawled into the main room of the house. This room wasn't any larger than the first, but it was a little better looking, with a thick yellow
ondol
floor. Korean floors are heated by charcoal fires from under the house, and though the floor at Bobby's inn was faulty, hot in one place and cold in another, this one was evenly heated and soothing under their hands and feet. The teachers who'd come with them on the bus were already in the room, spaced around a long low table. Headmaster Kim was there, seated next to a very old man, and next to the old man, with a soft cushion upon its seat, was a high, stiff-backed chair.

“I know that your aunt is trying to be kind, but I don't want the chair,” Bobby said softly, but since the old lady was standing in the doorway, he smiled over his shoulder at her and sat down. Everyone was staring up at him and soon the headmaster said something that included his name. An introduction, apparently, to his uncle.

“Nice to meet you,” Bobby said.

“She was right,” said the old man. “You speak Korean well.” He then handed Bobby a full bowl of a rice wine, called makkoli. The old man said, “Drink it, it's good.”

Bobby was too aware of his high position in the room to relax, but he put the bowl to his lips and took a small sip.

“Not that way,” said the old man. “Drink it all.” He pantomimed drinking out of a bowl, then sat up straight, staring and waiting.

“You must drink everything and give him back his bowl,” Mr. Soh said. “It is the Korean way.”

Though Bobby did not want to, he drank all the makkoli, which was chalky and sour and strong. He handed the bowl back to the old man and filled it from a large copper pot, just like he'd been told to do in training. Bobby wasn't much of a drinker but he told the old man that the wine was good. He was trying to think of something else to say when suddenly Headmaster Kim sat up straight and spoke for him, turning to look down the table at the other guests. “I-don't-speak-English!” he said. A stream of wine was running from the corner of the headmaster's mouth as he spoke and the others laughed. “I-don't-speak-English!” they echoed.

Just then the old woman came back into the room so Bobby took the opportunity to stand up. Mr. Soh came to his aid.

“Auntie, he wants to sit on the floor,” he said. “He's cold up there and wants to be closer to the heat.”

“Ah ha, he's cold,” said the aunt. She looked at the old man harshly, as if the whole idea had been his, and then she said, “Chairs defeat the purpose of a Korean floor.” Bobby quickly sat down with the others.

“But don't you find it tiring to sit cross-legged?” the old man asked.

Mr. Soh translated, but Bobby ignored him. He had already composed something else to say. “This makkoli is very good,” he answered.

“Our cousin made the best makkoli in the area. This makkoli is inferior. It is paradoxical, don't you think, that we must drink inferior makkoli at her funeral?”

Mr. Soh again helped with the translation, but he was irritated. It was he who had bought the makkoli, driving up and down the mountain late the night before, after Bobby's arrival.

The old woman and two younger ones came back into the room, carrying large plates of rice and various side dishes of
kimchi
and dried fish. One heaping plate of beef was placed directly in front of Bobby.

“That's
pulgogi,”
said Mr. Soh. “It's our best dish.”

The meat was delicious, but Bobby tried to eat slowly, mindful that they were all watching. And though Mr. Soh still sat next to him, he was now leaning the other way. His English was drowning in the wine but his Korean was riding above it, joining the voices of the others in shouts and epitaphs and snatches of song.

Bobby had begun to drift a little, amazed to be involved in something so foreign to what he knew, but he was jarred when the old man gave him a strong nudge. Headmaster Kim was sitting with an empty bowl in his hands, staring, so Bobby finished his drink and handed his own bowl past the old man. The headmaster bowed while Bobby filled it, then handed it back after he'd quickly drained it all. Now bowls were being exchanged all along the table, makkoli drunk and spilled on the floor and down the shirts of all the men. The old man pinched Bobby's sleeve and asked, “How old are you?”

“I'm twenty-three,” Bobby answered, happy to have understood.

“He's twenty-three!” the old man announced. “He's the youngest among us, he's everyone's younger brother!” and though Bobby understood the words, he also remembered having been told in training that being the youngest among Korean men was no honor.

The old woman came back again and sat down at the far end of the table.

“Good,” said the old man, “the women are here. It is now time to begin our singing.”

“The foreigner should sing first,” the old woman told him. “It is the polite thing to do.”

But the old man frowned. “No, the foreigner should sing last,” he said.
“That
is the polite thing to do. Where did you learn your manners? You sing first, set the proper tone.”

Bobby had only a vague idea of what was going on but he put it together when the old woman picked up her chopsticks and began beating on the table in front of her.

“Auntie is going to sing,” said Mr. Soh, but the old man told him to shut up.

“‘A-ri-rang, a-ri-rang, a-ra-di-yo,'”
crooned the old woman.
“A-ri-rang, co-o ge-e rul nomu gan da.'”

After she'd sung the first line of the song the others joined in. They were all beating on their bowls or on the table itself, swaying with the music.

“‘Na dul po-ri-go ka shi-nun-nim-u-u-un, shim-ni-do mo-ca-so pal pyong na da.'”

When the old woman finished, everyone applauded. “That was ‘Arirang,'” said the old man. “It is the greatest Korean song.” He eyed the old woman again and then turned to Mr. Soh. “Now the foreigner should sing,” he said. “Tell him to sing something we all know. How about ‘Delilah!' We'd love to hear that one.”

But before Mr. Soh could speak or Bobby could respond, Headmaster Kim came alive again. “No!” he said, “I've got it. ‘Love Potion Number Nine!' Tell him to sing ‘Love Potion Number Nine!'”