Festival for Three Thousand Women (25 page)

“Hello?”

“Yes, this is Bobby,” he shouted. “In Korea.”

There was a short silence, but then she said, “Bobby dear, how wonderful. When are you coming home?”

“Soon,” he said, “next week perhaps.”

“Yes, dear,” said his grandmother.

It was so good to hear her voice that Bobby clutched the phone and shouted, “What's new with you, Grandma? How's Mrs. Nesbitt? How's everybody!”

“Everything's terrible, dear,” his grandmother said. “This war has everything quite confused.” As she spoke the line was suddenly distant, and it soon crackled so willfully that Bobby held his breath, hoping she'd speak again on her own. The next voice he heard, though, was that of the Korean operator, the man at the post office tuning in. “Hello America,” he said, and then the line went dead.

When the day of his departure arrived and Bobby was about to leave the house, the children presented him with their school photographs and the mother with a parcel of food for the train. The grandmother took Bobby into the main room again and put him on Policeman Kim's scale. In his seventeen months in Taechon he had lost ninety-seven pounds.

The family excused themselves from going to the station, saying that too many good-byes made a farewell hollow, so Bobby left them at the gate, waiting only until the station man arrived and loaded his trunk on the cart.

When Bobby got to the station all of the teachers were there. Judo Lee said that once he regained his strength he should continue judo, and Mr. Kwak gave him a set of books, an impossibly difficult history of the world, so that he could continue his study and become a well-rounded man.

Bobby saw the biting woman and slipped her fifty won, but the person he was happiest to see was the Goma, whom he hadn't met since the festival, but who, Mr. Nam kept saying, was doing very well. The Goma, according to Nam, had become such a serious Christian that even Mr. Nam's own good faith was constantly called into question.

When Bobby saw him, the Goma raised a hand and came over. He was wearing a well-tailored blue serge suit and was carrying a Bible and a tambourine. His hair was combed and his shoes were shined, and on his lip there was no sign whatever of his reliable old scab.

The Goma squeezed the Bible, holding it up as if to let Bobby know that the pages were tight, and then he gave Bobby the parting gift of a hand towel with an English slogan embroidered across its center.

“Good-bye, Goma,” Bobby said. “I hope we will meet again.”

“It is easier for a rich man to pass through the eye of a needle,” the Goma told him.

When the train arrived, Headmaster Kim came forward with one last gift, a second-class ticket to Seoul. “Go in style,” he said.

For once the train was on time, so Bobby climbed up into the second-class car and pushed the window open in order to lean out of it and wave. The Goma stood straight, clutching the instruments of his trade, but the rest of them bowed so formally that all the way out of the station Bobby could see nothing but the tops of their heads.

Thus his time in Taechon came to an end. He had infuriated the Peace Corps doctor by staying so long, but though he had not fulfilled his desire to see his Peace Corps term through, he nevertheless felt peace of mind.… Perhaps that, too, was caused by the T.B.

That should have been the end of it, but as Bobby settled back into the seat to rest he realized that he was not alone in the car. Gloria was there, far down at the other end and sitting low.

“Hey!” he said. “How did you get here?”

Gloria stood and moved down to Bobby's seat. “Big surprise, G.I.,” she said. “Travel all morning just to say so long.”

Smiling at him she sat down and opened the package of food that Policeman Kim's wife had made, seeing what they had to eat for the trip. Gloria wasn't anything like Cherry or, of course, like any other person Bobby had ever known. Gary Smith had been his friend, but he hadn't said good-bye, and Cherry was in America and Miss Moon in Seoul with Ron. And here was Gloria traveling all morning just to say good-bye.

When she got the package opened, she took the Goma's hand towel and placed the rice balls on it, all in a line. Beneath the rice balls Bobby read the towel's slogan, a fitting gift from the Goma and Mr. Nam:

“Sweet Home Sweet,” the towel said.

“OK,” said Gloria, “let's eat.”

Well, my retirement party was a success, and I have remained quiet for more than a month now, watching the hairs emerge from my chin and upper lip, waiting until it is long enough for me to be seen in town. Of course I understand that a beard is not an independent thing, and that to devote care to it for its own sake, without regard for the inner content of the man, would bespeak a certain vanity—nevertheless, I shall wait another week or two before I go to town.

It is wonderful, being retired; all my fears appear to have been unfounded. I walk the paths between the rice fields, and I look off at the mountains, and I crouch down where two paths intersect, sitting back on my heels to smoke. I wear rubber shoes all the time and I smile at my grandchildren when they come home from school.

Though I have not felt sufficiently bearded to be seen in town, I have allowed myself an occasional trip to the beach and it was there that I met Mr. Kwak recently. He is an interesting man. Mr. Kwak had news of Mr. Bobby, to the effect that Mr. Bobby is now doing fine. Apparently the fight against tuberculosis is quite advanced in America, for after only a month he is on his way to a full recovery… Even his skin, I was told, has bounced back, recovering from its shock and coming in to meet his flesh again. Those were Mr. Kwak's words, but I hope that they mean something less than they say. I hope, for example, that Mr. Bobby does not fully recover his girth and become impenetrable again. It was interesting watching him change as much as he did, and I do not want to believe that he could forget what he has learned and become again what he is not.

Since I am now old I have taken up, without embarrassment, the Confucian practice of consulting the
Yuk Kyung
, specifically the book of oracles. It is amazing how, by doing so, I am often able to shed light on my thoughts, pushing away the clouds. And it is a great entertainment for the children.

What I had in mind, by way of this, the first entry in my diary as an official old man, was to cast my yarrow stalks on Mr. Bobby's behalf. I thought of it as a personal way of saying farewell, and I would have kept what was written and sent it to him when I got the chance.

But though I tried three times, casting my yarrow stalks right here in the dust before me, nothing I got made any sense, and I believe it would be futile to try again.

So when Mr. Bobby writes to me, I will answer him by explaining, as clearly as I can, that a failed oracle means only that a man must cast his own stalks, using the yearnings of his own heart to influence the way they fall. It was stupid of me not to have realized that before.

And in the meantime, since Mr. Kwak has told me that he is writing to Mr. Bobby weekly, I have satisfied myself with asking Mr. Kwak to relay to him a message. I was very specific with Mr. Kwak, telling him that my message should be printed out in English. Had I been wise when Mr. Bobby was here I might have delivered the message personally, but I nevertheless know that when he gets the message he will think of me and he will understand. The message is this: The superior man reduces that which is too much, and augments that which is too little. He weighs things and makes them equal.

Actually, I got that message from the yarrow stalks a week ago when I was consulting the
Yuk Kyung
concerning myself, but I didn't tell Mr. Kwak that part of it. What Mr. Bobby doesn't know won't hurt him. And besides, the message is universal, don't you think?

Written in a hollow near my son's house, as I watch for the dust clouds of the approaching bus—evidence that my grandchildren are close at hand.

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