Ping-Pong Heart

– 20-

“Where the hell is this address, anyway?” Ernie asked.

We were in the Taehyon-dong district of Seoul, which was packed with bean curd eateries, bicycle repair shops and small stationery stores on the main road, and homes stacked one atop another like tile shingles leading up the sides of the steep hills.

“Slow down,” I said, “I can’t read the signs.”

Behind us, impatient kimchi cabs and three-wheeled trucks honked as they swerved around us. Pedestrian crossings were packed with men pushing carts and old women balancing impossibly huge bundles atop their heads.

“How do people live in this mess?” Ernie asked.

“Pretty well, sometimes,” I said. “Behind those brick walls, some of those hooches are pretty luxurious.”

“Some,” Ernie said. “Most not.”

We turned up a narrow lane. The first few yards were paved until, about halfway up the hill, blacktop gave way to mud. The jeep’s four-wheel drive churned upward. Now most of the homes were held up by walls not of brick, but of splintered wood.

“Miss Kim always looks so nice when she comes to work,” Ernie said.

“Yeah,” I replied.

We marveled at how she’d managed it, emerging like a goddess from a soiled cocoon. Finally, we neared the address we were looking for-117 bonji, 227 ho. Walkways too narrow for the jeep split off the main path.

“Stop here,” I said. “Let me hop out and look around.”

I walked down one pathway, reading the numbers painted on wood, but they were wrong, so I doubled back and tried the pathway on the opposite side of the road. About three hooches down, I found it. I ran back and waved to Ernie. He inched the jeep as close to the wall as he could, turned off the engine, padlocked the steering wheel, and joined me at the mouth of the alley.

“How we going to work this?” he asked.

I studied him. “My God, Ernie, you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he said. But his shoulders had risen, his stomach was pulled in and his eyes darted from side to side like a schoolboy at his first dance.

“Okay,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re not nervous. I’ll do the talking.”

We marched through the muddy lane until we reached the gateway marked 117 bonji, 227 ho. The family name printed next to the number was Kim. Miss Kim’s family name, obviously, but that didn’t mean much. In Korea, roughly a third of the country is named Kim, from three or four ancient clans. Another third of the country is named Pak or Lee, and the final third shares about a hundred different names. Was this the right Kim? According to the five-by-eight card Staff Sergeant Riley had given me it was, but there was only one way to be sure. I pushed the buzzer. A few seconds later a woman spoke through the intercom. “Nugu seiyo?” Who is it?

I could tell from her voice that she wasn’t Miss Kim.

I leaned forward and spoke directly into the metal grate. “We’re from Eighth Army,” I said in Korean. “We’re looking for Miss Kim who works on the compound. My name is Geogie.”

I pronounced George the Korean way, dropping the hard “r” sound and abrupt consonant ending.

There was a long silence, as if the person on the other end of the intercom was stunned. “Wei-yo?” she finally said. Why?

At least we had the right place. I searched for the appropriate Korean words. “Because we need her at work. It is very important.”

Professional responsibility was ingrained in Korean culture. I knew Miss Kim possessed that national trait.

In the background, there was muffled speaking, as if a hand was being held over the intercom. Finally, the woman’s voice came back on. “Jomkkanman-yo.” Just a moment. Then the buzzer sounded. We pushed through the small metal door in the larger wooden gate.

She kept her head down, as if she were ashamed or had done something wrong. We sat in a well-appointed sarang-bang, front room, with tea placed before us on a low folding-leg mother-of-pearl table. The oil-papered floor was immaculate, and the flowered wallpaper made a fine background for three watercolors of sparkling seascapes. The paintings leaned forward from the wall at about a 45-degree angle, as was customary in Korea so those sitting on the floor could look up and have a better view. Miss Kim wore a long, green housedress made of felt over a white cotton blouse. Her hair was tied back in a bun and clasped with a jade pin. She looked gorgeous, which I’m sure wasn’t lost on Ernie. He kept reaching for his tea, nervously sipping tiny amounts and setting the porcelain cup back on the table.

“We want you back,” I told Miss Kim in English.

She didn’t answer.

“It came as a big shock when we found out you were gone,” I continued. I motioned toward myself and Ernie. “Maybe we did something wrong?”

I thought of Ernie following her on the bus, and the fact that we’d rousted Specialist Four Fenton for bothering her after she’d expressly asked us not to.

She shook her head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why have you left us?” I asked.

Ernie raised his eyes, also waiting for her answer.

She finally spoke. “He came here.”

“Came here? To your home?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“The man who was bothering me,” she said. “The man who used to wait for me after work and then walk beside me to the Main Gate.”

I described him. “Thin, reddish hair, sort of curly, cheap patterned suit?”

She nodded. “That’s him.”

“When did he come here?”

“The night you and Ernie talked to him.”

“How’d you know we talked to him?”

“He told me. He told me that you punched him. He told me that you think you’re tough.”

I was surprised for a lot of reasons. Usually, twerps who bother women back off immediately when they know someone is watching. And most GIs are afraid to venture out in Seoul any farther than the red-light district of Itaewon. They can’t read the signs, they can’t speak the language, and with everybody staring at them, they feel hopelessly out of place. Specialist Four Fenton had more resourcefulness than I’d initially given him credit for.

“Did you let him in?” Ernie asked.

She shook her head again. “No. We talked through the . . . What do you call it?”

“The intercom,” I said.

“Yes. We talked through the intercom.”

“What’d he say?”

“The same thing he said on compound when he walked next to me.”

We waited for her to elaborate, but when she didn’t, I figured she didn’t want to repeat the probable obscenities he’d used.

“What’d he say?” I asked. “Bad words?”

She shook her head vehemently. “He never said bad words.”

I was surprised. “Never? Did he ask you to do bad things?”

“Yes. Very bad things.”

“Sexual things,” I said.

“No.” Her face flushed red, but to her credit, she swallowed and kept talking. “He asked me to do worse things than that. In fact, I didn’t know the English word. I had to look it up.”

I gulped down some of my tea. Ernie didn’t want to ask, so I had to.

“What did he ask you to do?”

Miss Kim leaned forward, as if afraid to say the word out loud. “He asked me to spy.” She sat back up, straightening her lower back. We both watched as she paused, breathing out and breathing in. “He said that if I didn’t spy on you two, and tell him every day what you were doing, that he knew where I lived and he knew where my mother lived, and he’d be back.”

Then she started to cry. Ernie and I both fumbled around for a handkerchief, but neither of us had one. Finally, Miss Kim’s mother crouched into the room and slid a box of tissue across the floor. Miss Kim daintily snatched two or three sheets and dried her eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked.

“I was afraid.”

“But you kept coming to work.”

“Yes. My mother and I, we need the job.”

“But something changed.”

I waited. She blew her nose. Not a Korean custom to do such a thing in front of other people, but she was amongst Americans now.

“Yes,” she said, “something changed.”

“What?”

“He came back.”

“When?”

“Last night. Late. Just before curfew. He buzzed on the intercom. When I answered, he didn’t say anything.”

“How’d you know it was him?”

“His breathing. How do you say? Heavy.”

“Maybe it was someone else,” I ventured.

“No. It was him.”

“How do you know?”

“Only an American would do such a thing.”

She was probably right. I looked at Ernie. “It wasn’t me,” he said.

I turned back to Miss Kim. “Maybe it was the same guy who bothered you before. But please, come back to work. We need you.”

Ernie reached for her hand. “We’ll protect you,” he said.

She studied him above the wad of tissue, doubt in her eyes. She glanced at me and I nodded in affirmation. Then she bowed her head and continued to cry.