Bloody Seoul Page 12

  She flings her arm so that her sleeve barrels back down, then she launches up to a stand.

  I stand, slower. Smooth my suit.

  She spins her pencil around her thumb.

  I count the spins.

  On number four (four!), she stops. She holds the pencil close to her body with both hands. She’s gripping each end so tight her hands shake a little. The pencil snaps and so does she.

  “Whatever,” she grumbles, “I don’t cut anymore.” She glares at me, pulling her shoulders back to stand taller. “I’m done hurting myself because of assholes like you. Go ahead and harass me. I don’t even care if the entire school keeps doing it next year. I only have one more year to go in this hell hole before I’m out of here. My parents won’t like it. But I’ll be moving onto bigger and better things than all of you pathetic bully losers with nothing better to do than kick people when they’re down.”

  I’m speechless.A pathetic bully loser…

  22.

  Dad stomps out of the penthouse without one word to me, slamming the front door shut like an angry exclamation point. It must be in bold and italics. I’m sure it punctuates a long and very thorough string of profanity. I’m hunched over in the living room, hands in my pockets—my body literally a question mark to an ongoing mental inquiry. Why would you punch me? Why are you such a traitor to the TSP code? Why why why?

  My chest burns.

  But guess what, Dad?

  I straighten up into my own pissed-off exclamation point, only I’m making a quiet declaration with mine.

  I’ll have my eye for an an eye.

  I light up a Dunhill and smoke it fast and hard, pacing. I ash my cig on the spotless hardwood floor as I go because, hey, trashing Dad’s little castle just about covers my eye. I thrust the glowing end of the butt on the wall and twist, smiling inside at the burn mark it leaves on the ivory paint. I let it fall and immediately grab a nearby glass vase. I toss and catch it a few times, then grip it tight and draw my arm back.

  But I can’t throw it like I want to because Ha-na pops into my head, and I suddenly feel ridiculous.

  I set the vase down, take three deep belly breaths of the silent and still penthouse air. I touch my tiger tat, my dragon, and then my tiger again. I prowl the penthouse, mostly because I don’t know what else to do with myself. So, yup, I’m a tiger. I get fully into character, like Mom used to do when she was rehearsing. I prowl. And I hunt.

  I end up in Dad’s den, ready to strike. I canvass his territory, low growl as I slink past and touch all the artifacts of his bachelor bosshood. Rows and rows of neatly lined books. A mini-bar with bottles of all shapes and sizes. His collection of rare and costly whiskey and cognac. My fingers touch the level mark of the liquid in each dark, translucent bottle. An antique globe next, I spin it. Then a glass display case with ancient weapons and a few torture devices.

  I get to Dad’s desk and pounce onto his oversized leather chair, knees first. It swivels. I make it swivel more. Three times. Then I recline with my feet crossed on his desk. I touch my face, another of Dad’s relics—the face his double-crossing fist smashed in. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore.

  There’s a stainless steel pocket flask next to his desk lamp. I snatch it and inspect my eye on its polished surface—the big ass blister has transformed into a sloppy, colorful mess. Like a five-year-old drew a green circle, then fingerpainted a bunch of purple and blue inside, sort of staying in the line.

  I bring the flask closer to my eye. Trace the purple parts of my bruise…

  Dad did this.

  I think of Mom.

  She used to say she was still wearing makeup from a fight scene in the movie she’d done earlier that day.

  Messy makeup is an easy pill to swallow when you’re a little kid, much easier than a serrated your-family-is-totally-fucked-up one. Makes sense that I grew up addicted to it. Well, it does to me, I mean don’t all kids want to believe more than anything that their family is okay?

  I hold my palms open, imagining a smooth capsule in the left and a spiky one in the right. I can’t pull my eyes away from my right hand. I bring it to my mouth…

  It wasn’t makeup, it was…

  I swallow it. It hurts going down, like a thousand needles piercing my throat.

  Dad beat Mom.

  I toss the flask over my shoulder, it lands on the chair. I wrap my hands around the edge of the desk. There’s an official-looking document under my right hand. My fingers rake the sheet towards me. I crumple it into a tight wad.

  Dad beat Mom!

  I shut my eyes and press my palms onto my ears, shaking my head. No! Bury it again!

  Dad beat Mom!

  I can’t, and I’m breathing faster. I touch my injured eye with my index finger. Press it. Hard. Harder. Harder still. A sharp pain sends a shock wave through my body. But it’s not as bad as the knowledge that my own Dad could do such a thing to Mom and me.

  My cell vibrates. It’s a text from Braid, the tenth today. Hello?

  I ignore it like I’ve ignored all nine others. And the five each from Strike and Patch.

  Maybe I should stop being such a hermit. Maybe I should tell them what happened.

  Maybe…I should…blah blah blah.

  I seize a heavy paperweight and hurl it. It slams into the sliver of wall between two bookcases, leaves a cracked dent, and lands on the floor with a thud. Something from the top of the right bookcase drops to the floor, a slightly more muffled thud.

  I look.

  It’s actually two things. A black velvet pouch and a small white envelope.

  I cross the room in a fog, stand over the fallen items, chin tucked. The envelope is addressed to my dad, but I don’t recognize the return address.

  1233-33 Yeonhwa-ri, Baengnyeong-myeon, Ongjin-gun, Incheon, South Korea.

  Postmarked…I do the math…ten years ago. I pick it up and have a look inside. No letter, no nothing. I stuff the envelope into my pocket and scoop up the pouch. It’s weighty. I untie the satin ribbons at the top. Peek inside. There’s a tangle of a gleaming gold chain. I lift it. My eyes bulge at what’s on the end of the chain—one of the TSP medallions I’ve been coveting. It winks at me with all its diamond eyes. Without thinking I put the necklace on. It feels more like a neck shackle than boss jewelry, but I keep it on. I lift the medallion and tuck it inside my shirt, letting the metal brand my skin with cold.

  Whose is it? Not Dad’s. He never takes his off. It’s probably Older Uncle’s, the one I tried to snag from his portrait when I was younger.

  Good hiding place, Dad.

  I stand on my tiptoes and slide the empty pouch back on top of the bookshelf. I reach into my pocket for the envelope, read the return address again. Who sent Dad a letter from Baengnyeong Island? What did the letter say?

  I go to put the envelope back on the bookshelf, but I stop and stare at it. Baengnyeong Island. From what I know, Dad and his brothers were born and raised there. It’s one of a group of remote islands in the Yellow Sea that makes up Ongjin county, and it’s a four-hour boat ride from its mother city of Incheon. It’s actually closer to North Korea than South.

  Dad told me that growing up, his parents made him and his brothers study Christianity in the hopes that they would someday become good Christian ministers like their father. But there were rumors that behind closed doors, their father practiced extreme discipline methods. Often without reason. And so the Yi brothers spent their time gallivanting around the island doing anything to avoid their father and “the good Christian life.” Eventually they learned that the monetary fruits of being a Christian minister were few, and they weren’t interested in spiritual fruits. So instead they dabbled in gambling. To their surprise, it paid off bigtime. Aspirations for greater wealth lured them into other sinful pursuits…

  Yi Nam-il, Older Uncle. Yi Dae-sung, Dad. Yi Man-sik, Younger Uncle. Three Yi brothers. Three Star Pa.

  I stuff the envelope in my pocket and light up. I pace and rapid smoke, pressing
the medallion against my chest. This time it scorches.

  I kill people who fuck me over! Anyone who fucks me over.

  I touch my bruised eye, then my cheek. Dad’s a loose cannon.

  I have so many questions. Years of questions…

  I read the return address again.

  1233-33 Yeonhwa-ri, Baengnyeong-myeon, Ongjin-gun, Incheon, South Korea.

  Who sent this from the island? What was it?

  Maybe it’s only a weird coincidence.

  No more questions!

  I slip the envelope under the pouch and push both a little further back on the top of the bookshelf. I head out of the den. But I stop at the door. I can’t walk out, not yet. I press the medallion against my chest once more. No doubt the envelope was with it for a reason. I pivot, zip to the shelf, and retrieve it. I trace the return address.

  My dad and uncles and grandparents are from the island. My grandparents died years ago, but maybe I have other relatives there as well?

  My roots.

  A flutter in my belly becomes a hungry spasm.

  Who sent this from the island? What was it?

  Whoever, whatever, I need to know. I have to know.

  I have to go to the island. I’ve been wanting answers, and this could be a start.

  My skin prickles. I tap the medallion three times before pulling out my cell and sending a group text.

  Pack your bags, boys…

  23.

  The ferry glides over the ocean, over all the different blues that could spill from a box of colored pencils. The panorama of the sky and horizon offer even more. Every shade of the rich primary color stretches and blends in front of me. But four unlucky blues dominate—cobalt, denim, baby, and teal.

  I take a deep breath of the cool, salty air and light up a faithful Dunhill to forget the chromatic misfortune. I close my eyes when I take my first soothing drag. Open and release a smokey stream.

  Better.

  But then the ferry rams through an unexpected set of choppy waves and I stumble, almost dropping my cig. I grab the railing for balance, holding the cig close to my chest until we’re over the last rough peak.

  Soon everything is calm and steady again. I take a long draw, tilt my head back, and exhale a cloud into the cloudless sky.

  Mom used to say a plain blue sky, even if it’s the most gorgeous azure or cerulean, is boring. A silvery cloud or two makes the perfect sky more like real life—imperfect.

  Imperfect.

  Everyone’s imperfect. Everything’s imperfect.

  I stare back at the ocean, at the billions of drops, the drops that become waves.

  A wild wind sweeps over the water’s surface.

  I’m a drop, Mom’s the wind. She left me behind, and I’m waiting for her to rush back over me, form me into a wave so I can travel faster. Maybe catch up with her…

  A tap on the shoulder. I turn.

  “Excuse me,” a young foreigner says in Korean, lowering his heavy backpack onto the deck. He rakes his fingers through his blond hair, then hunches over a pocket-size book, Basic Korean Phrases. He lifts his head and asks in broken Korean, “Do you have a cigarette, please?”

  Not bad. I pull out my tin, hold it open for him.

  He takes a cig and puts it between his dry, cracked lips. He pats his pockets, then shrugs.

  I offer him a light, which he accepts with a grateful smile. He takes a few short draws until it’s lit. “Gamsahamnida,” he says.

  I nod.

  He faces the ocean and sucks the smoke deep into his lungs. He exhales, then grins so big I think maybe it’s his first smoke in a few days.

  For a couple of quiet minutes, we both gaze out at the glistening water, enjoying our Dunhills.

  Halfway through his cig, he whips out his phrasebook, runs his finger down a page, and asks “Sorry, do you speak English?”

  “Yes,” I answer in English.

  “What’s on the island for you?” he asks in American English.

  “Answers. I hope.”

  He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything at first. Another couple of inhales and exhales before he says, “Cool.”

  “And you?” I ask, glad to have this opportunity to practice speaking another language.

  “I want to check out the rock formations at Dumujin,” he says. He flicks his wrist about as he talks. “Oh, and, you know, it’s the frontline. What’s that like, right?” He smiles, it’s a nervous smile.

  “I was wondering that myself,” I say, trying to imagine being only seventeen kilometers away from North Korea all the time, being able to see the North Korean coastline on a clear day…

  I shudder inside.

  The American finishes his cig. He thanks me one more time, then hoists his backpack onto his shoulder. One warm smile and chin up later he heads below deck.

  The wind picks up, forcing the waves to do the same. A spray of cold sea. I shiver. Fuck this. Time to go inside.

  My boys are chilling in a corner booth, devouring chocolate-glazed donuts and playing a card game—Mighty. I slide in next to Braid.

  “We’ll deal you in next round, boss,” he says over the loud constant drone of chattering and the engine.

  I nod. I look around at the crowd of mostly mainland Seoulites and some Europeans, Americans, and Japanese. What’s on Baengnyeong Island for all these people?

  There are also five ROK marines in camo. Their faces are as stone-cold as mine.

  I thought Dad and his TSP gangsters were badass…

  My eyes trace the Republic of Korea flag patch that’s stitched onto one of their sleeves. I pull my slouching shoulders back to sit taller. The dangerous border zone seems a little less dangerous with these bad boys nearby. And if the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea changes its mind about the armistice agreement today, at least there will be five more of our marines on the island.

  A touch of my brow, my subtle salute of respect and thanks to the ROK marines.

  Then I look back at my boys, clasp my hands on the table, and watch them play.

  Suddenly Strike’s eyes get huge. He clutches his belly and blurts, “Oh shit!” He grabs a barf bag just in time because all at once he gags and vomits. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth. “Never been on a boat,” he says folding the top of the bag.

  Patch slaps him on the back, shaking his head. He chuckles silently.

  Strike picks up his cards. “Where were we?” he asks. But then he heaves one more time. He rips open the bag and pukes again. With his chin still tucked, he asks, “Remind me again, boss, why we’re going to this far, far island?”

  I know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but it hits a nerve. I glare at him.

  His smile fades. He moves his jaw to the side.

  Braid scoffs and kicks him under the table hard enough that we all hear it. “You’re such a dumbass,” he says.

  “What?” Strike asks, crumpling the top of the bag, then dropping it under the table. He shrugs, palms out. “I’m joking around!”

  Braid and Patch frown at Strike.

  Strike stares at the table. “Sorry, boss. I just hope”—he stops and presses his fist onto his lips and holds his other hand up. He waits a few seconds like that. The nausea seems to pass because he lowers his hands—“just hope it’s worth it.”

  24.

  The pier juts out, desolate, into the cold waves. Above, gulls swoop and caw. I step onto the aging wooden planks splattered with dark bull’s-eyes in white, my senses naked without all the traffic, construction, and skyscrapers of Seoul. The Baengnyeong sun feels heavier, the breeze briny and sharp. I take a deep breath. A whiff of pungent sea, like cured fish. In the distance there are thickets of spruce trees. I imagine weaving, quiet, through the trunks, coming out onto a deserted beach.

  But the tranquil beauty that welcomes us is only half the story. There are also barbed wire fences and a line of ROK marines standing at attention. Not to mention the distant whistling of artillery fire. Is there anything more
extreme than the sights and sounds of the persistent North Korean threat?

  My boys disembark. We stand shoulder to shoulder with nothing to hide behind. The marines greet their comrades with sharp salutes, about-face, and march in formation. We follow them, from a respectful distance of course, down the long pier, our apprehension cloaked in our exaggerated swagger. We don’t speak.

  When they’re out of sight, we relax. Walk looser.

  Strike shoves Patch. “Hey big boy, go crouch over there,” he says pointing in front of us. He rubs his hands together. “Leapfrog time!”

  Patch jogs over and bends forward at the waist, pressing his hands onto his legs below his knees so that his back is flat.

  Strike looks at me. “Ready, boss?”

  I give a chin up.

  He dashes towards Patch, then vaults over, his legs spread eagle. He lands steady on his feet and quick turns to me, grinning. He stretches out his arms, bows. “What do you think?” he asks, not waiting for me to answer before he looks at Patch. “Your turn, big boy.”

  The two of them take turns the length of the pier, the way we used to across the courtyard at school. Back then it was as kids in our uniforms, today it’s as teenagers in fancy suits. I smile inside.

  Strike misses his next landing and wipes out hard. But he jumps up fast, like it’s nothing because it really is nothing for Mr. Grandmaster. “I’m ok!” he shouts, brushing off his suit.

  Braid and I catch up. There’s a red line on Strike’s chin.

  I point to it. “You’re bleeding.”

  Strike touches the cut and looks at the red smear on his finger. “So I am.” He looks back at me. “It’s what I get for questioning you, boss.”

  An eye for an eye. My boy.

  I grab a cig. So do my boys. We walk and smoke all cool with each other the rest of the way to the car rental.

  Braid drives us. We decide to stop in Jinchon-ri for a quick lunch. He parks, and we step out into the small town, our appetites piqued. No one else is around. A forlorn wind rushes by. It’s silent and eerie, a ghost town that reminds me of Nolda Land. We stroll down the narrow, uneven sidewalk lined with a few rusty cars.