“In your chima-jeogori?”
“Yes. And my rubber sandals. The driver wasn’t able to leave the van, and the traffic was so heavy that he couldn’t turn around. Not in time, at least.”
“Where did you go?”
“I don’t know. I just ran. When night fell and I realized that I was safe, I started to beg. No one would help me, but one kind woman gave me some money. With that, I caught a bus and came here, to Mukyo-dong.”
“Why Mukyo-dong?”
“Because I knew there were real kisaeng houses here. Where the girls just served the men in the traditional way, not that other way. I thought maybe I could get a job.”
“And you did?”
“Yes. I found the Bright Cloud and knocked on the door, and by that time I looked horrible, but the woman who owns this place is kind. She took me in. She fed me. She took care of me.”
Tears came to her eyes.
“And you’ve worked here ever since?”
“Yes.”
“You took a big risk by trying to escape.”
“Yes.”
“What would they have done to you if they caught you?”
She hugged herself and shuddered. “I’m not sure.”
“The same thing they did to Miss Hwang?”
She stared at the far wall. “Yes, maybe.”
Inspector Gil Kwon-up, the man known as Mr. Kill, leaned closer. “What exactly did they do to Miss Hwang?”
– 8-
The elderly woman knocked and breezed into the room. Briskly, she replaced the cold pot of tea with a new one, dumped the cold tea in our cups into the old pot, and poured us steaming cups of fresh tea. I figured this was her way of letting us know that we’d been here too long. Already, male voices talked and laughed down the hall. After a few drinks, they’d be clapping their hands in rhythm and singing ancient Korean songs and, eventually, after even more cups of soju, they’d be dancing, with the girls or with each other.
Being a kisaeng was a legitimate occupation, like being a barmaid or a hostess in the States. As long as, that is, the girls weren’t required to sleep with the customers. Apparently, the Bright Cloud was on the up-and-up.
After the oil-papered door was slid closed, Mr. Kill turned to the young woman and said, “Tell us about Miss Hwang.”
She clenched her hands, staring straight ahead, and started talking.
“Of all the girls, she was the most beautiful. All the men wanted her to sit next to them. She was sweet and kind, and even though we had to do those things, sometimes the men would give her extra money. Later, the men in charge took the money away from her but they beat her less.”
“Less than the other girls?”
“Yes.”
“By the time you escaped,” Mr. Kill said, “Miss Hwang was already gone.”
“Yes. Gone.” We waited while she composed herself. “One night they took us to a warehouse.”
“Do you know where?”
“Not exactly . . . They kept the shades drawn on the van, but somewhere in Seoul.”
“You told me before there was much traffic and even though you moved very slowly, there was no honking.”
In downtown Seoul, in order to cut down on noise pollution, using a car horn is strictly prohibited. KNP traffic patrols enforce the rule with stiff fines. Hundreds of cabs and other vehicles jostle ruthlessly for position, but as odd as it might seem to the Westerner, none of them honk their horn. Try that in Manhattan.
“So you were downtown?”
“I believe so. We were led through the back door of a small warehouse. There were many boxes with printing I couldn’t understand. Finally, we reached a side room. There were foreign men there.”
“How many?”
“Six, maybe seven.”
“What were they doing?”
“Playing cards. Not huatu, foreign cards.”
“What did they look like?”
“Big. Ugly. Big noses.” She glanced at me, suddenly shy. “Their eyes were so enormous, I was afraid to look at them.”
“But you had to.”
“I kept my eyes down.”
“So you served them. Beer? Liquor?”
“Yes. Some of the girls were bold. They started to teach them to sing and after they had drunk much whiskey, they danced.”
“With the girls?”
“Yes.”
“Korean dances?”
“Yes. They taught them.”
“And you?”
“I sat still, hoping they wouldn’t notice me.”
“Did they?”
Her face was very red now. She swallowed hard. “Yes, one of them. He took me behind the boxes.”
Mr. Kill was silent for a moment. “And what happened to Miss Hwang?”
“One of the men wanted her.”
“Yes?”
She realized that her meaning wasn’t clear. “He wanted to keep her.”
“Keep her?”
“Yes. Later the girls told me that he offered much money. Or maybe he traded for her, I’m not sure.”
“Traded what?”
She shook her head violently. “Oh, I don’t know. They told us nothing. All I know is that after the party, Miss Hwang left with one of the foreign men. We never saw her again.”
Mr. Kill said very softly and very patiently, “Do you know what this man looked like?”
“Like a foreigner,” she said.
“Yes, but . . .”
“He had a big nose and big eyes.” She glanced our way. “Like them. I don’t know. I was afraid to look.”
Mr. Kill reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a black-and-white picture. It was the official police photo of the dead woman lying beside the Sonyu River, damp dress spread around her, eyes staring lifelessly at the grey sky. He slid it across the table. “Is this Miss Hwang?”
The girl glanced at it, nodded violently, and then she was crying. Mr. Kill glanced toward me.
I took a deep breath, looked at Ernie. He shook his head. I turned back to the girl, speaking in Korean. “Do you have any idea why this foreign man singled out Miss Hwang?”
“She was pretty.”
“Any other reason?”
“Her writing.”
“Writing?”
“She often did that at parties. She would pull out a writing brush and paper and either write Chinese characters, for good luck or happiness, or sometimes she would sketch faces. Make people laugh.”
This wasn’t unusual. The kisaeng were expected to use one talent or another to entertain their guest. Sometimes dancing, sometimes playing a musical instrument, sometimes other things.
“Did she do this at this party?”
“Yes. I didn’t see most of it.” She blushed again. Apparently, while Miss Hwang was putting on her show, this young woman was otherwise occupied in another part of the warehouse.
When I had no further questions, Mr. Kill policed up the photograph and slid it back into his pocket. As we were leaving, I slipped a ten thousand won note, about twenty bucks, onto the table. The small kisaeng didn’t even look at it. Her face was down, flushed red, her eyes moist.
Second Lieutenant Bob Conroy sat on a black vinyl divan in the dayroom of his BOQ, Bachelor Officer Quarters, while a couple of other young officers played pool on the table nearby. Stacks of legal documents were spread over the cigarette-burned coffee table in front of him. He looked up from his work when Ernie and I walked in.
We introduced ourselves and shook hands all around.
“When were you assigned to the Threets case?” I asked.
“Last night. After chow. Peggy Mendelson found me and handed me my orders.” He pointed at a sheet of paper stuck beneath a larger stack.
“The trial’s in two days,” Ernie said. “Do you think you’ll have time to prepare?”
Conroy stared at the paperwork wistfully. “There’s a lot to absorb.”
“Which is why you’re working so late,” Ernie said.
“Yes.”
“Any chance of a continuance?” I asked.
“Peggy told me to forget it. We go to trial in two days, by order of the commanding general.”
“All right then,” I said. We pulled up two straight-backed chairs and sat down opposite Second Lieutenant Conroy and explained to him everything we knew about the case. He didn’t seem too comfortable with the allegations of homosexual coercion.