Seoul Survivors (34 page)

“Wha—?” She turned to him, giggling.

He placed his finger on her lips. “
Father traveled, hers as well . . . Europa . . .
”

His voice was a little thin at first, but he hit all the notes, and he remembered the whole thing, word for word. Sydney smiled and laughed as he swept her round the flat, waltzing to Thomas Dolby's epic tale of childhood lovers, cruelly parted by the vagaries of war and the demands of the three-minute pop song: Europa, who disappeared, became a famous model and film star, and then vanished again as her bodyguards dragged the narrator away from her car . . .

By the end, he was full-throated, and Sydney was roaring along to the chorus “
We'll be the pirate twins again . . . EUROPA!
”

“Yeah?” she asked as he finished, pulling him back down onto the bed mat.

“Yeah.” Burying his face in her hair, he tumbled after her.

After Damien left, Sydney put on the new Burned Forest CD. Damien had taken the refrigerated condom down to the lab, so she chucked out the one in the ashtray, then filled the kitchen sink and washed the breakfast dishes in a haze of cello, chainsaws and birdsong. What a night. What a morning. Gorgeous sex. More gorgeous
sex. Damien singing that funny song—she'd thought he'd written it for her, but he'd said no, it was by some British guy, had been a hit when he was a kid. She'd asked if he was a good singer then too, hoping to hear about the choir, but he'd shrugged, said “nothing special,” and then changed the subject back to breakfast. That had been fun too: they'd made rice and pine nut porridge from a packet and then he'd stewed some plums she'd thought were too hard to eat. His mum used to make stewed fruit, he'd said. It was easy; he'd just added water and a bit of sugar. She'd suggested Da Mi's honey, but he didn't like it. Usually he ate toast and Marmite with cucumber in the mornings, which sounded
horrible
, but he'd called that anti-British prejudice. He'd promised to make her some one day, and then she'd never eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches again.

She put the leftover stewed plums in a bowl in the fridge, then she made another pot of coffee, sat by the window and lit a cigarette. Jin Sok had left a pack in the flat, and she liked to smoke one occasionally. Outside it was windy, gray and cold. Inside, she was enclosed in a warm bubble all her own.

Telling Damien must have been the right thing to do. Of course, she hadn't mentioned Hugh Grant; that might have offended him. No, her strategy had been perfect: he had ended up donating, and she was feeling happier than she could ever remember—better than the calm glow she experienced after a session in the Chair. She was more tingly, more promising. Maybe the Chair had helped her relax enough to go with the flow with Damien, but still, no matter what Da Mi said, there was no substitute for real-time, real-life, real-body pleasure.

She hoped he did want to take a holiday. They could go somewhere warm, Vietnam or Thailand, maybe. Her mind drifted with the cigarette smoke into thoughts of sun, sand and sex, but as she took the final drag she shivered, and not from cold.

It was stupid to pretend that everything was hunky-dory. Pretty soon she'd have to face Da Mi, having broken the very first promise she'd ever made to her. And if she didn't have the guts to confess, she would have to keep on lying, or at least not telling the truth, and that would be a real strain.

She stubbed out the butt. Everything had happened so quickly, she told herself sternly; no wonder she felt mixed-up. After all, it had never been her intention to tell Damien about VirtuWorld, never—but she hadn't expected his refusal to play along, even when backed into a corner; and she hadn't expected to feel guilty about misleading him.

Maybe she should have told Da Mi she was feeling queasy; she could have had a few sessions in the Chair to help her keep to the plan. But if she'd confessed her doubts, Da Mi might have given up on her; to be honest, after that scene with Jae Ho she was amazed Da Mi still wanted her on the project at all. No, it was much better that she'd kept quiet, wasn't it? Shouldn't she be allowed a secret of her own?

But having a secret from Da Mi felt . . . wrong, somehow. She wished Damien would hurry up and come back. Now he was gone, everything felt infected with uncertainty.

Her coffee tasted bitter now; maybe she should have a honey drink. She wasn't very good at having two a day.
It's funny
, she thought,
how when something's bad for you, jangles your nerves or destroys your lungs, you want it all the time, but when something's good for you, you just use it 'til you feel okay, then you coast along until you feel like shit again and you're desperate for a fix.

The CD ended and the sound of traffic reared up from the street. Across the road, the branches of a ginkgo tree were scraping against each other in the wind. With a bouncy burble, her MoPho startled her out of her trance. Private number? Who could that be?

“
Yoboseyo?
”

“Sy-duh-nee?”

With a weird thrill, she recognized the coarse, lilting voice. “Jae Ho?”

“I am fine.” He laughed. “How are
you
?”

“Very good, thanks,” she replied coolly, though her pulse was racing. Why was Jae Ho calling her?

She opened her mouth to reel off a list of all the great things that were happening for her, but he cut in crisply, “Sy-duh-nee, I finish new painting. Painting of Canada supermodel. I want you see. You come today?”

A painting of her? She should just tell him to fuck off.

But why let him think he could still upset her? “You can invite me to the opening,” she said.

“No, no. Opening many months. I want you see now.” His voice softened. “Is my sorry, Sydney. I make you very beautiful, big meaning in picture. Best painting. My masterpiece.”

She thought of the drawing in her junk drawer, the painting at Gold Pig bar. Was he really obsessed by her image? And was he really sorry about how he'd treated her?
Good
. So he should be.

“I don't need your sorry, Jae Ho,” she said tartly. “I'm fine. Everything's great.”

“Good, good. So you come?”

Suddenly she wanted to do it. To show Jae Ho how well she was doing, how good she looked, how she didn't need
him
to be happy. And, yes, to see this painting of her that all of Seoul might be talking about one day. “Maybe,” she replied.

“Seven o'clock you come. Corner building, Gongjang Street. I meet you on step.”

“Seven? I don't know.” She might be with Damien again then. “What about now?”

“Now, no. Now I in Insa Dong. Seven only time today.”

“Look. I said
maybe
, Jae Ho. I'll see how today goes,” she declared. If she showed up, she showed up. If not, let him sweat it out.

“I hope. I wait. I very glad see Sy-duh-nee again.” Jae Ho rang off, and Sydney put the MoPho down. She had handled that well, she thought. She stood up and stretched.

Actually, it was nice to hear Jae Ho was sorry for his bad behavior. If the painting really was a masterpiece, she might possibly even forgive him. She was going to be a major celebrity in Seoul and it would be impressive to have a famous artist as part of her set. And forgiveness, Da Mi always said, was a balm for the soul.

Now, where was her Gotcha? Da Mi would probably call as soon as Damien left her office. She would need to act as though she was hanging on the end of the line for news, excited and surprised.
If
she and Damien went on holiday, she could tell Da Mi that she was just having a little goodbye fling with him.

“Mr. San-duh-man is the lover of Dr. Kim,” Older Sister announced knowledgeably. She was shelling peas in the kitchen. It was Monday, two days after Su Jin's funeral.

So Ra scraped a long carrot peeling into a bowl. “I doubt it,” she snorted. “He's not the kind of man who sits in the corner while his wife runs everything.”

“You know nothing about men!” Older Sister scoffed. “He couldn't take his eyes off her.”

“I didn't like the way he looked at her,” Chin Mee offered, shyly looking up from her own bowl of peas. “There was a mean feeling in his eyes sometimes, don't you think, Mee Hee?”

Mee Hee stopped peeling the potato in her lap. “Not
mean
exactly,” she said, tentatively. Who was she to judge the feelings of Mr. Sandman?

“But upset about something, yes?” Chin Mee insisted.

“Maybe,” Mee Hee agreed. “Well, yes. In China I thought he was a happy man, but here he is quieter, withdrawn. Troubled, perhaps.”

“Exactly!” Older Sister crowed, then, with a glance at the kitchen door, lowered her voice. “He resents her power and her beauty, the way we all love her. He wants to master her, to possess her. And she lets him take control, in the bedroom only, while she dominates him in front of all of us.”

“You have an active imagination, Older Sister. I think it might be
you
who wants to be dominated in the bedroom,” So Ra teased. The other women laughed, and for a moment Older Sister glowered. But then, a sly grin on her face, she split a pod expertly with her thumbnail. The bright green peas pattered into the bowl between her thighs.

“Yes! It's been far too long—where are the babies they've been promising us? And where are the men we get to marry in the end?”

These were the big questions that Dr. Kim had left unanswered. Everything was happening according to plan, she had said yesterday at breakfast, right before she left. Soon they would be mothers and wives, soon—but no one knew exactly when. So Ra and Chin Mee laughed as Older Sister squeezed her left breast, claiming it was full
of milk for pea soup. But Mee Hee's stomach ached, and she looked away.

That afternoon the doctors moved her
yo
back into her own house. After dinner she declined So Ra's invitation to play Flower Cards and hastened down the path back to her own home. Walking into the stillness inside was like drinking a glass of warm
bancha
, so ordinary, but deeply reviving too.

The wildflowers in the vase on the living room shrine were wilting, so she threw them out. It was too dark to pick new ones; she would do that in the morning. She lit a candle and sat in an armchair, letting her mind drift, relishing the quiet touch of the air on her skin. She needed calmness around her, and she needed to be home, so that Tae Sun could join her again.

He knocked softly, as usual. It was late, just past ten o'clock, and he had a bunch of fat pink flowers. “To welcome you home,” he said bashfully.

For a terrifying second she thought he might kiss her, but he just handed her the bouquet, then stepped neatly into the room.

She recognized the flowers from the DVDs. “Peonies?” she gasped, then, embarrassed, buried her nose in the plump blossoms. Strangely, they had no scent. Still, no one had ever given her such a gift.

He regarded her benevolently. “When the babies come, they will be everywhere. I wanted you to have some now, to help you focus on the future.”

Of course. How stupid she could be.

“They're Dr. Kim's favorite flower,” she said. “I must put them with her photograph.” She ducked in a little bow and retreated into the kitchen.

She expected him to wait in the living room, but he followed her and hovered at the door. “You have to cut the stems, you know that, don't you?” he said as she laid the flowers on the counter and carefully removed the paper wrapping.

She laughed. “Even we peasants know that.”

“Oh, I didn't mean—”

Startled by his flustered tone, she turned to look at him. His face was crimson.

“I just thought . . .”

She was mortified. He had given her such a present and already she had insulted him. “Please, Tae Sun, I was only joking!”

“You must forgive me. I can be so arrogant.” He shook his head, his eyes downcast, their delicate lashes sweeping his cheek.

“You're the kindest person I've ever met. These are the most beautiful flowers anyone has ever given me.” Trembling, she gathered up the peonies in her arms. Anxiously glancing over the blossoms, she saw him smile at last.

“Is this the right one?” He pointed to a large ceramic vase he had given her just after Su Jin had left. She nodded and he lifted it down and filled it with water while she took the carving knife from the drawer and sliced the six peony stems diagonally on the wooden chopping board. He set the vase on the counter between them and she carefully arranged the flowers inside it.

“Once, my husband gave me a red rose,” she said quietly. “When he was courting me. He bought it in Pyongyang. My mother showed me how to cut the stem. Otherwise, I used to pick wildflowers and grasses. I love having flowers in the home.”

“When the babies come,” Tae Sun said firmly, “you will have the best flowers here, every day. Dr. Kim will see to that—and if she doesn't, I will.”

His hands were resting on the counter near the vase, his fingers thin, yet capable and strong. He cared for her, for her safety and her happiness. Why did she dare to want anything more? “The babies,” she said, “when are they coming? Does Dr. Kim know?”

“You mustn't lose faith in Dr. Kim, Mee Hee. She wants everything to happen as quickly as possible. As do I.”

For a long moment, Tae Sun gently held her gaze. Something in her loosened and her body slowly flooded with warmth. Surely there was no mistaking his meaning?

“We are all ready, you know that, Tae Sun,” she murmured, her own face flushing now. Beneath her blouse, her breasts were full and glowing. She could feel his eyes absorb her, her readiness, her longing. For a moment she almost felt beautiful.

He paused. “Mee Hee, if I tell you something, can you promise to keep it a secret?”

“I would be honored to receive your trust.” Her heart was thumping now, like a wooden spoon in
pajon
batter. No, she wasn't beautiful, just foolish and lovesick. She wondered that he didn't rush over to take her pulse.

But he continued gravely, “Dr. Kim has found a wonderful young woman who will be the natural mother of the children, and the
Queen of VirtuWorld, but she is still waiting for the chosen King to offer his . . . contribution.”

The sound of water dripping into the sink was as loud as a clock. Mee Hee nodded and lowered her eyes.

Tae Sun leaned over and tightened the tap. “It's complicated, but in fact there are two men involved,” he continued. “The younger one will be the biological father, and the older one will act as the Queen's consort. However, neither of them has yet firmly committed to their role. If Dr. Kim can't convince them by the end of this week, Dr. Dong Sun and I are going to ask her to reconsider Mr. San-duh-man for the job. He was our first choice, and we know you and your sisters like him very much.”

A worried expression was tautening Tae Sun's features now. He stared out the window at the blackness of the pine trees in the night. How selfish she was, only thinking of herself, when he had so many problems. “Mr. San-duh-man would make an excellent King,” she said, reassuringly.

“He's a good candidate, yes, healthy and strong. Dr. Kim says he has some problems that his children might inherit, but Dr. Dong Sun thinks that we should be able to successfully treat these issues.”

“He would be a wonderful father,” Mee Hee said firmly. Then she stopped herself. How could she sound so confident? Was she the one making these difficult decisions? “I mean, we would all welcome him, if he were to agree. But I'm sure Dr. Kim has very good reasons to prefer the other men.”

“The older man is very famous; he would help bring respect to all of us at VirtuWorld. And the other man is the choice of the young Queen's. She would have to be persuaded that Mr. San-duh-man is better for the job.”

Mee Hee tried to imagine the lives of these foreigners, offering themselves and their sons and daughters to VirtuWorld.
Why?
she wondered.
Didn't they want to take care of their own children?
But she didn't know how to begin to ask Tae Sun about them. She would only reveal her ignorance, her naïve assumption that everyone in the world was just like her.

“I wish I could meet her,” she said, timidly. “Do you think we could be friends?”

“You miss Su Jin, don't you?” Tae Sun said, quietly.

For a moment it felt like the walls had moved closer in around them, as if they were listening hard for Mee Hee's answer. An image of the grave mound in the woods rose in her mind. Su Jin was there
now, resting in the soil, her body buried in a place Mee Hee could visit, bringing flowers, or stories, of babies, of doctors, of marriages. She would always keep Su Jin company, always pray that her friend's spirit was now journeying in a place of peace and beauty. But until Mee Hee herself joined her own parents and her lost little boy, God, or Dr. Kim, had given her someone else to love.

“I have my sisters.” she quietly replied. “And you . . .”

Stepping forward, he took her hands in his.

“However you want me, you will have me always, Mee Hee,” he said.

Beside her, imperceptibly loosening their petals, the peonies drank the water he had poured for them. The blossoms, like her heart, were full and heavy and yet at the same time light and open and bold.

“Always?” she whispered.

He released her hands, stepped back. “Please be patient with me, Mee Hee. Dr. Kim is deciding everything this week. We must wait. There must be no gossip, no complications, no questions about our dedication to VirtuWorld above all else.”

“Dr. Kim has given us each other. I would do anything for her, you know that, Tae Sun.”

Fishing in his pocket he brought out a small white plastic packet. “This is food for the flowers. Sprinkle it in the water whenever you change it. Then they'll last for weeks.”

Fingering the packet as if it were a sachet of priceless unguent, she tripped after him out into the living room. At the door, he kissed her goodbye, running his hands gently over her shoulders and letting his lips linger at the corner of her mouth.