Honolulu (17 page)

“Yes,” I agreed, “every week my husband used to gamble away all his-”

I stopped before I said too much, but not before catching Chang’s attention. “You married, eh?”

“Widowed,” I said, too quickly.

“He Korean too?”

I nodded. His eyes held me in an odd, gentle way, as if this meant something to him, then he said, “Anybody get rough with you-husband, pimp, anybody-you let me know, I take care, okay?”

“But I’m not a-”

“You just let me know, ‘ey?” He gave me a paternal pat on the arm and walked away. I sighed and chose not to argue the point. Chances were that he would not have believed me, no matter how many times I assured him I was not a prostitute-even more so in light of what I would shortly be asked to do.

One afternoon in July, a madam named Mrs. Miyake-who with her husband ran a brothel in a nearby lodging house-came to May with a problem. I was sewing in the parlor when Mrs. Miyake, standing with May on our lanai, told her how she had recently been approached by a Korean man perhaps fifty years old who was looking for something called a “kisaeng. ”

This single word of Korean stood out sharply amid a babble of English I had only been half listening to. I put down my sewing.

When Mrs. Miyake admitted to the customer she had never heard the term before, he explained that what he was looking for was similar to a geisha. “Ah, yes, we have geisha,” she affirmed, but the man insisted he did not want a Japanese girl; she had to be Korean, schooled in Korean ways.

“Jin’s a civilian,” I heard May tell the madam.

“May I speak with her myself?”

I could almost hear May shrug: “It’s a free country.”

By the time they walked in I was already on my feet and declared, “No!”

The madam said, “Jin-san, hear me out-”

“I am not Jin-san, and I am not a prostitute!”

“Mr. Lim does not want a prostitute,” she replied. “He wants a kisaeng.”

I knew the difference, but I was surprised that she did. “No bed work,” she explained. “He has had that with a number of my ladies. What he wants is not sexual release, but elegance, sophistication, entertainment.”

This was, of course, what a certain level of kisaeng had always been: an entertainer, or “skilled woman.” Evening Rose had been of this highest grade, but that was back in the days of the royal court, and since annexation most kisaeng in Korea were either concubines or prostitutes.

May was wary. “This joker ain’t some kind of screwball, is he? He doesn’t want to dress up like the emperor while she licks sake off his toes?”

“No, no. None of my girls has ever had a problem with him.” To me she added, “It is much the same as when Japanese men go to a teahouse to drink and flirt with geisha, but do not always take them home. This is all he wants.”

“But I am not even pretty enough to be a kisaeng,” I objected.

“Under all that makeup, who will know? The important thing is, can you serve wine without spilling it?”

“Yes, but-”

“Do you know any Korean songs?”

I knew some taught me by Evening Rose, but I lied and said, “Just folk songs,” not wishing to give her more reason to pursue this silly notion.

“Then you are the closest thing there is to a kisaeng in Hawai’i,” Mrs. Miyake said. “And since this man has been away from Korea for fifteen years, he will scarcely notice the difference.”

May noted judiciously, “Talking takes longer than doing. I usually charge double when there’s no nookie.”

“He is willing to pay a higher rate.”

I glared at May. “Please do not help!”

“Honey, trust me, you need an agent.” She turned back to Mrs. Miyake. “Two bucks for the first hour, time and a half after that.”

“I am sure that can be arranged.”

Had I heard this correctly? “Two … dollars?”

May asked the madam, “What kind of split did you have in mind?”

“Three ways. You and I and Jin.”

May shook her head. “Two ways, me and Jin. I take ten percent off the top, the rest goes to her.”

Mrs. Miyake said in exasperation, “And how do Iprofit from this?”

“By keeping a good customer happy, so he’ll keep coming back to your gals when he wants nookie.”

The madam sighed heavily. “All right, but I have to charge you for the room. And for incidentals-makeup, clothing, wine …”

May nodded. “Fair enough.”

Both women now turned to me.

“What do you say, hon?” May asked. “Two bucks for pouring a little tea and singing a song. Not bad for a night’s work, and a pretty good start on that steamship ticket for your sister-in-law.”

I found this all quite absurd. To be a kisaeng was, in my mind, to be Evening Rose: elegant, poised, beautiful. I was none of these things, hence I could not be a kisaeng. But still … two dollars was a great deal of money. And for Blossom, I would do almost anything.

I found myself asking, “Is he … he’s not from Waialua, is he?”

“No, he’s lived here in Honolulu for quite some time.”

I considered this a moment, then said firmly, “I will not touch him in any way.

“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Miyake agreed.

It was absurd, but it was done.

A meeting was arranged for that Saturday evening, which gave me several days to prepare-as best as I was capable of preparing. Using May’s battered old teapot I practiced pouring tea in the ritualized but graceful manner I had seen Evening Rose do so. I also practiced pouring wine into wine bowls and then handing them to a (nonexistent) man. As for my musical performance, I knew that while urban kisaeng like Evening Rose often recited sophisticated p ansori, those from rural regions merely performed local folk songs, so in the mornings I practiced a few that I remembered from my childhood. I soon learned that Westerners found Korean songs to be somewhat discordant, as my efforts brought May loping out of her bedroom to complain, “Jesus H. Christ! Do you call that yowling singing or is Little Bastard getting laid again?”

“Do I complain,” I asked sweetly, “of the music made in your bed?”

May muttered a vulgarity and withdrew back into her bedroom. I gathered I had won the argument.

I made certain the room Mrs. Miyake was providing in her lodging house was appropriately decorated with folding screens, mats, serving table, a porcelain tea set, and a pair of wine bowls. I attended to my wardrobe myself. Because kisaeng wore only the lushest fabrics and most brilliant colors, I selected my brightest Korean dress-of red and blue silk and ramie-to wear that evening.

As the day drew nearer, however, I grew increasingly anxious that this man would laugh me out of the room before I’d even had a chance to open my mouth. How could anyone mistake such a homely country girl for an elegant kisaeng?

On Saturday afternoon one of Mrs. Miyake’s girls, Shizu-who had some training in hair styling-washed and rolled my hair, pinned it up in a semi-pompadour, then decorated it with lovely porcelain combs. All the while she chattered about men she had known and men she wished to know-“You see this new movie man, Douglas Fairbank? Ooh, he one sexy haole”-punctuating her conversation with a sweet infectious laugh. Shizu was happy with the end result, and I was impressed as well-not just by the elegant upsweep of my hair but by Shizu’s amiable presence. For the first time I did not feel wary or hostile toward a Japanese person, and at the end I bowed to her and said, “Kansha suru “-Japanese for “thank you,” words I certainly had had no occasion to utter in Korea.

I walked carefully back to May’s, terrified to do anything that might injure the delicately assembled hair piled high on my head. Once home I sat down at May’s vanity as she helped me apply my makeup. I was afraid to look into the mirror, afraid I would see how ridiculous I looked and call off the entire charade. I had already scrubbed my face with astringent and moisturized it with cold cream; now, as I had seen my teacher do so often, I applied a coating of white pancake as a foundation, dabbing it on evenly with a sponge, followed by a layer of white powder, which I brushed smooth so that my skin shone like a china doll’s. May then tortured me by plucking my already-sparse eyebrows with tweezers and reshaping them with a black brow pencil, giving them a more graceful arch.

She followed this with what she called “the latest thing from the mainland,” something called “mascara,” which involved the fiendish application of hot wax to the tips of my eyelashes. “Oh, stop pissing and moaning,” May chided. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you that beauty hurts like a sonofabitch?” Indeed she had not. Thankfully the application of black kohl powder to accentuate my eyes was painless. Then there was the matter of my mouth, and heaven knows there was no shortage of bright red lipstick in May’s cosmetic case. She traced what she called a “Cupid’s bow” on my lips.

When we were finished, I stared in wonder at the girl who looked back at me from the mirror. With her white porcelain skin, ruby lips, and kohlrimmed eyes, I would have thought I was looking at one of the women from the little pleasure house in Taegu. But then I blinked, and raised a hand to my mouth, and the woman in the mirror did the same. I smiled in unexpected pleasure; she smiled back. I felt as if I were a puppeteer manipulating a marionette, my thoughts the strings that animated it to do my bidding. But Iwas the marionette, as well as the puppeteer, and it was quite a wonderful feeling! For the first time in my life I truly felt pretty. I could have cried tears of delight but for the fear I would destroy my carefully applied kohl and mascara.

I donned my blue and red dress and walked the short distance to Mrs. Miyake’s boardinghouse. Along the way my dramatic appearance elicited a number of startled and admiring stares from male visitors to Iwilei, and this time, I must admit, I found the attention flattering. At Mrs. Miyake’s I was told my “client” was waiting and I was handed a tray bearing a carafe of rice wine and a small bowl. I carried the tray down the hall to the room, opened the door with one hand while balancing the tray with the other, then entered.

The man was sitting on a mat in front of the low tea table, and as I entered he looked up and smiled at me. It took all my experience as a Korean woman, trained not to betray her emotions to a man, to hide my recognition-and my shock.

It was Mr. Lim, who had been at the immigration station the day I was cleared to enter Hawai’i. The same Mr. Lim who had been engaged to marry Sunny, and who left the docks empty-handed when she balked and fled back to Korea.

Aigo, I thought as I lowered the tray onto the table. My hands trembled a bit as I transferred the wine from the tray to the table. When I was done, I stood up straight and bowed in greeting. “My name is Gem, and I am honored to be meeting you,” I said in Korean, struggling to keep the nervousness from my tone.

He bowed in return. “I am Third Son, of the Lim clan of Youngnam.” His eyes met mine, intently, and I forced myself to meet his gaze directly, as any good kisaeng would. But my skin was cold and clammy beneath my powdered face. Did he remember me? Did he recognize me as the bride of Mr. Noh?

But he just smiled and said quietly, “You are very beautiful.”

I smiled in relief. “Thank you. You are very handsome.”

This was not quite the case, but neither was he as bad-looking as Sunny had seemed to think. He was in his early fifties, I judged, his complexion far from fair, his skin leathered by years in the sun. Beneath his deep tan he bore the pocked scars of smallpox, like freckles that had deepened and pitted his face. His hair, it was true, was thinning and gray. But his smile seemed to reflect genuine pleasure at being here with me; and as I had never had a man express any pleasure at being in my presence before, I was disposed to think favorably of Mr. Lim.

I spoke the dialogue I had rehearsed many times over the past several days. “Would you care for some wine?”

“Perhaps a little.”

I filled his bowl to the rim. “A half-cup of wine brings tears,” I said, quoting an old proverb, “a full cup brings laughter.” This had nothing to do with getting tipsy, as you might think, but with the generosity extended to a guest.

Mr. Lim seemed delighted by my erudition. “Indeed so. Thank you.”

He took a sip of the wine, his eyes never leaving me. I was hardly accustomed to such attention from a man and was a little flustered, though I tried not to show it. “And how long has Third Son of the Lim clan been in Hawai’i?”

“Too long, alas. I came here fourteen years ago, dreaming of riches. I was told Hawai’i was a golden mountain just waiting to be scaled. I found only a mound of red clay to be shaken off my boots.” I laughed appreciatively at his wordplay. “And how long have you been a kisaeng?”

I replied, not entirely dishonestly, “I began my studies three years ago, with one of the most refined and sought-after kisaengs in the city of Taegu.”

He nodded, impressed. “Your own refinement does her proud.”

Suddenly I was blinking back tears from my kohl-rimmed eyes.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked quickly.

“No, no, not at all. Pay it no mind.”

“But something is wrong, I can see it. How have I offended you?”

In order to allay his fears, I admitted that the woman I had studied with in Taegu was arrested by the Japanese last year.

“Oh-I am so sorry,” he said.

“I’m sure she is all right,” I lied.

He asked me what things were like back in Korea: Had the Japanese truly committed all the depredations he had heard about? I reluctantly confirmed that they had, and told him some of what I had seen. He asked me about Taegu, and I did my best to describe it from my last visit. He drank it all in like a man thirsty for home, parched for the sights and sounds of his native land.

I brought in some sweet rice cakes Mrs. Miyake had gotten from Kim Yuen Tai’s store. Mr. Lim could easily have purchased them himself, and in truth they were a little dry and lacking in flavor; but they were apparently made far more delicious being served by a kisaeng and he expressed delight with them. Afterward, I sang him a song I remembered from flower picnics when I was a girl:

My fresh fragrant lily,
In deep valley blooming alone.
And oh! Lovely girls of sweet sixteen
Are blooming in their rooms unseen.