Yin Yang Tattoo (8 page)

I was instantly filled with dread that I should be elsewhere. I had an idea I was in Seoul but no clue what day it was, nor even what time of day. Long seconds passed before I noticed the afternoon glare leaking through the crack in the heavy curtains. It wasn't morning, and I hadn't screwed up. Not yet, anyway. A guilty conscience is a terrible thing.

Ten minutes in the shower and a routine check of the camera bag later, I was in the taxi line in front of the hotel, ignoring attempts by Deluxe Taxi drivers to draw me their way. At the regular taxi rank I waited while the short line was whittled away by arrivals of ‘normal' cabs. When I managed to prise some expenses money out of Lee I would happily leave the regular cabs behind, but right now the costly privilege of overstuffed seat covers and sickly air fresheners could wait.

In light traffic the Shilla Hotel was only ten minutes away, but Seoul's hellish three-hour rush hour was well under way, and my taxi driver edged impatiently through a rolling nose-to-tail jam. Threading through this were motorcycles laden with gigantic cargos, some of them terrifying, like three large household LPG tanks held crosswise on the rear seat with springy cables made from strips of car tyre. Even with loads so heavy they made the bikes' front wheels skim the tarmac, they wove embroidery trails through the traffic fabric, drawing horn blasts and verbal outbursts as they progressed. Compared to Seoul traffic, the manic motorists of Rome are positively meek.

The road skirted south of Nam San, two thousand feet of rock and flora that leaned over downtown Seoul, its dash of natural greens and browns a welcome relief from the city's man made landscape of concrete and glaring glass.

I hardly put money in the taxi driver's hand before John Lee locked onto my forearm and hauled me towards the hotel.

‘Hurry – the reception is starting.'

I squinted through the lobby crowds at the bank of clocks above the front desk. New York, London, New Delhi, Singapore – Seoul.

‘You said 6:30. It's only 6:15.'

‘Mr Schwartz is looking for you.' It was delivered thick with reproach. Typical. I arrive fifteen minutes early, and because the PR flunky has his knickers in a knot, it's my fault.

While we weaved through a moving forest of dark suits, red ties and highly-polished slip-ons, I slung one camera around my neck and another on my shoulder, zoom lenses already attached. Ahead of us burnished steel doors swept open almost on cue, and along with half-a-dozen businessmen we swept into the elevator. It was decked out in the standard deluxe hotel interior of stainless steel and badly-lit photographs of Mr and Mrs Stylish suffused with joy at the delights laid on by various hotel outlets. I had just enough room to attach flashguns to cameras. At least I didn't have the worry of what film to use. On a job like this, shooting digital was the only sensible option.

The doors slid open and Lee bowed his apologies to the six silent Koreans as we pushed on towards the function suite.

A herd of Press photographers and television cameramen stood to one side of the wide entranceway, corralled behind thick red ornamental ropes. Some of them trained cameras towards the guest arrivals, impatience all over their faces. Lee led me straight past them, and twenty pissed-off stares followed me.

Eyes still on the media pack, I ran chest-first into a brick wall. A Korean brick wall in a cheap blue suit, who didn't move a millimetre when I hit his outstretched hand at full chat. Built like a rhino and twice as ugly, he wore the miniature radio earpiece beloved of security forces and pub door hardmen the world over.

‘
Where's the Yankee bastard going
?' he growled in Korean, painting grins on every last face in the Press corral.

A flash of embarrassment darkened Lee's face before he pulled out a security pass and looped it around my neck, where it immediately became entangled with my cameras. A new wave of Press Corps grumbling followed us into a function suite bigger and considerably more crowded than a football field.

Ben Schwartz materialised from nowhere and as he fired off instructions without preamble, his appraising gaze swept back and forth across the room. He nodded respectfully towards Asian guests and flashed an outstretched hand, politician-style, in acknowledgement to Westerners. My job description for the evening held no surprises. I was to photograph the more obviously important people as they sipped cocktails, then make sure I got good shots of the speakers at the official announcement. Schwartz and Lee would help me identify the key faces, and I knew what that meant: every few minutes I would be dragged across the hall to catch another crucial spontaneous grip-and-grin. Photographing cloudless skies would be more interesting and a lot less demeaning.

The mostly male crowd worked hard at small talk and the giving of face. About one-fifth of them were Western businessmen and diplomats high on the social circuit, ever on the lookout for new friends on the inside track of Korea, Inc. The targets of their earnest gazes were all Korean, middle-aged or older, most of them trim, neat figures who contrasted sharply with their counterparts, many of whom looked damaged by life on the cocktail circuit.

I split from Schwartz and Lee and did my rounds. It was easy to identify the more important guests by the cut of their suits and the density of sycophants hovering in their proximity. The mere hint of a camera pointing in their direction had the also-rans jostling for positions closer to VIPs.

Bobby Purves arrived with a Westerner whom he introduced as Eric Bridgewater of the British Embassy. As I did my best not to recoil from Bridgewater's dead-fish handshake, Bobby gave me a lop-sided grin.

‘You ever find yourself in trouble over here, any trouble at all, pick up the phone, Alec, and whatever you do, don't bother calling Eric.' Bridgewater laughed politely, but made no effort to protest.

‘Nice to meet you.' He turned his back and addressed a couple of rotund Europeans in what sounded like native German. I grabbed Bobby by the elbow and took him a few paces into the crowd.

‘What do you know about K-N Group factories in Cholla-do?'

‘You're kidding, right?'

‘Tomorrow morning I have to go to Cholla Province to photograph a factory.'

‘You do know what ‘K-N' stands for?'

I didn't know. He helped me: ‘Kyongsang-namdo. K-N.'

The southern end of the Korean peninsula had a cultural divide going back centuries, and the rivalry between the Kyongsang provinces in the East and the Cholla provinces in the West was almost as fevered as the one between North and South Korea.

‘K-N is a Kyongsang company, and always has been. It has offices and businesses and factories all over the country, but there are
no
K-N factories in Cholla.' Shaking his head, he pushed through the crowd towards where Bridgewater held two wine glasses high.

The rumble of hurried foot traffic announced the opening of official events to the impatient hordes of Press photographers and cameramen. Company juniors herded them to a platform set up behind ranks of seats. On a raised podium facing the seats was a long table in front of a brightly-lit partition emblazoned with the K-N Group logo.

The formalities were blessedly brief. Schwartz played master of ceremonies, switching effortlessly from English to Korean and back again, welcoming all distinguished guests, many of whom he drew attention to by name.

Next up, a government Minister delivered a ten-minute address in a Korean monotone that made even the locals squirm with boredom. Schwartz made no attempt to translate, an apparent oversight that was only explained when the Minister repeated the monologue in stilted, uneasy English.

When Chang's turn came he spoke English, breaking his speech into short paragraphs, followed by pauses while Schwartz translated into flowing Korean. As an icebreaker it was inspired, drawing murmurs of appreciation all round. The speech itself was a stream of platitudes, and soon he wrapped up with the hope that his esteemed guests might remain and enjoy a celebration of cocktails and other delicacies. Cue enthusiastic applause and clinking of glasses which the security men took as their signal to move in and herd the still-grumbling Press pack towards the exits.

After another hour I needed a break. I intercepted a waiter and relieved him of two champagne goblets, which I downed in quick succession before tackling the cold meats and cheeses. When I had my fill I moved on. Cameras held to the fore in fake professional zeal, I zig-zagged to the exit and along the corridor to the toilets where I idled in a cubicle for ten minutes and wished I still smoked. I hadn't had a cigarette in years, but occasionally I would give almost anything for a smoke. This was one of those moments.

Back in the crowded reception I stayed well away from Lee, who stood next to the buffet with a fat European man who plucked relentlessly at the spread of food while talking non-stop.

Schwartz popped into view on the far side of the room, talking to a well-dressed woman with her back to me. Her immaculately coiffed black hair, perfectly straight and severely cut to hang just below her ears, showed signs of greying. Even Korean men dye their hair at the first hint of grey so I assumed she was foreign and even from this far across the room, I could tell she was an attractive thing. I plotted a course that might give me a better look.

The ever-shifting crowd forced me to change direction and move in closer. I was curious, but not curious enough to cop a fresh set of instructions from Schwartz, whose radar at that moment locked onto me. As he gently took the woman by the arm I looked in the other direction, listening to him call my name. Maybe he wanted me to photograph them, which would suit my current curiosity. With a camera in front of your face, a long rude stare becomes a badge of professionalism. I turned casually towards them with my camera held to my eye. Schwartz leered at me.

‘I think you know Miss Kim – Jung to her friends.'

He whispered an apology in her ear before retreating into the crowd.

‘Hi Alec.'

The pause stretched forever. I stood numbed, my ears filled with a rushing sound that drowned the conversational hum of the cocktail party. Standing maybe five foot four in low Italian heels and a shimmering grey two-piece suit, she displayed the effortless sense of style that I knew so well. As ever, her make-up was immaculate, and if it weren't for the grey in her hair, she could easily pass for ten years younger. I hadn't seen her in ten years. I realised I was still looking through the viewfinder of the camera. I let go and it bounced harmlessly on its strap. If it had broken into pieces on the polished floor I might not have noticed.

‘Jung-hwa.' It came out almost as a whisper. ‘What a surprise, I mean what a nice surprise. I – '

‘Didn't expect to see me?'

‘No, I didn't. How do you know Ben Schwartz?'

‘Very well.'

Cryptic. I raised my eyebrows in an unspoken request for more information. She obliged, and I instantly wished she had not.

‘We've been married for nine years.'

Schwartz chose this moment to return.

‘Darling, there's someone you really must meet.'

She took his hand and didn't look back. My Miss Kim.

‘You're as white as a ghost, Brodie.' Bobby Purves looked at me, curious, as Schwartz and Jung-hwa slipped through the throng. ‘You didn't know?'

‘
You
knew Jung-hwa was married to Schwartz?'

‘Of course I bloody did. Everybody here knows. I assumed you did too, and that's why you never mentioned it.' He started to say more, but swallowed his words. The look on his face was one of pity that made me feel very small.

I escaped a few minutes later. I hadn't been able to have another word with Jung-hwa, but after the way she had looked right through me, I wasn't even sure I wanted to try. At the hotel entrance there was a line of waiting taxis. Thanks to the quieter evening traffic, a few minutes later the cab set me down at a corner shop near the Hyatt, where I stocked up on cheap beer.

Back at the room I walked around in a near-daze, sucking from a bottle of OB. What a first twenty-four hours back in Korea it had been. I'm wined and dined by the K-N Group President and treated to a high class whore who entertains me with a night of sex and whisky. I find out I have to work with Ben bloody Schwartz, that my client company is nearly bankrupt – and that tomorrow I have to photograph a factory in a part of the country where K-N Group has never manufactured anything. On top of all this, from nowhere, my very own Miss Kim pops up wearing Schwartz's wedding ring and freezes me with a chill glance that belies the years we spent joined at the hip. It surely could not get worse than this. I looked at my watch. John Lee was picking me up in less than five hours.

Picture a major highway leading out of any capital city on a holiday Saturday. Hopelessly overcrowded, multiple lanes saturated with nose-to-tail traffic that alternates between dead stop and a fifteen miles per hour crawl. On Korean highways rolling jams hurtle along at eighty miles per hour, nothing but blind faith and two yards of Tarmac separating one car or van or truck or express bus from the vehicle in front, the one behind – and the ones on either side.