The Starlet and the Spy Read online

  I ran to the Central Post Office and mailed the mean-spirited letter, intended purely to make life difficult for Min-hwan, to shake him from his moral high ground, not understanding the destruction it would unleash.

  Seoul Crybaby

  February 18, 1954

  THE LAST DAY OF MY LIFE BEGINS WITH BEAUTY. I WAKE up and find a note by my pillow.

  Going to find Song-ha with Joseph. See you in Seoul.

  I rip the note to shreds. The white paper pieces flutter limply to the floor. He won’t find his daughter. He won’t see me again. I think about his hopeful, expectant face. That hope will shatter and stab him in the heart. He will flail, confused, grasping at his spurting heart, and fall. I can’t bear to watch that happen. That’s why I’ve made my decision. I can’t face him. I choose instead to vanish from this world.

  I go to the desk. Outside, a fuzzy ray of sunshine reveals the blue light of dawn. I find a fountain pen and several sheets of paper. There are enough pages for me to write down my truth. It has to be longer than a will but shorter than an official report. I am running out of time, but I may be able to finish it if I concentrate. After all, I’m not writing about my entire life, just about that one horrific moment in time. I press the pen on paper and the ink spreads like a bruise.

  Dear Min-hwan, whom I have always respected and loved,

  The letter fills with script that looks like me—trying to look beautiful but nervous and wobbly and about to fall over. But I have to hold myself up and pull out the words so that I can leave something behind. It’s terrible that this is all I can do for him. I write carefully, trying not to cry on the letter so the ink doesn’t spread. My writing, as skinny as the bones of my arms and legs, smatters onto the white paper.

  ALICE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WE HAVE TO GET GOING!” Hammett is busy with the reporters back at the barracks.

  “How is she?”

  Hammett takes my arm and pulls me aside. “She has a high fever again. I don’t think she slept at all. I think we should cancel, but she’s insisting we continue. She really might come down with pneumonia if we keep to this schedule. And she has to go back to Tokyo tomorrow.”

  “Maybe the schedule was too ambitious for a bride on her honeymoon.”

  “Is she really a newlywed, anyway? Staying apart from her husband . . . I’ll take care of the rest here. Go on to Seoul for the farewell reception.”

  I head to the airport. As I put the bags in the helicopter, an MP brings over a smaller bag. “This was in the truck.”

  Marilyn’s makeup case. I thank him and get on the helicopter. A few others join me in the helicopter, looking tired: a couple of USO staff, a female singer with a fractured leg, a photographer. The last two days’ bustle seems to have drained them of their vitality.

  I open my handbag to check on my letter. It still smells of ink. I take out the postcard Ku-yong drew for me before I left Seoul. Now I see that I look cross and pathetic in the picture. I let out a laugh. I don’t want to admit it, but the flyer advertises his affection for me quite well. It brings him closer to his goal. He’s such a talented artist. The war has ruined him, but he’s trying to create again. Ku-yong’s feelings toward me seem sincere, and perhaps if I’m honest I’m also interested in him, despite what I told him. Maybe I avoided getting involved because I was jealous; I was envious that he has managed to maintain a will and a passion for life. I think Ku-yong will recover. He might be the person who will mourn me the most when I’m gone from this world. Could it be that a man who hasn’t even kissed me is the one who understands me best? Just like a book I haven’t read could be a masterpiece that will bring me to tears.

  Finally the helicopter gets ready for takeoff. I never dreamed that Marilyn Monroe’s blond hair would be fluttering here, the Korean military’s last line of defense, and I never imagined that I would be reunited here with the two most important men in my life. Who knows who they really are? I still can’t believe they are both alive. They’ll regret returning here and seeing me. The helicopter launches noisily with a swirl of dust. I lean against the window and look down. I’m lifted away from the ground. I imagine that life will feel as far away in the moment of death as the earth is now, and I’m suddenly afraid. But it might be better this way. If death is just a moment, like takeoff, you would have only that moment for regrets.

  I SMELL SEOUL AS SOON AS WE LAND AT YOUIDO AIRPORT. The city isn’t interested in someone who leaves and is even less interested when that person returns. Seoul doesn’t expend energy by investing in someone’s life. Although it was reduced to ash at each regime change, Seoul rose up quickly because it didn’t expect much from humans. It always regains its pride on its own. I’m relieved that I’m safely back in Seoul, the perfect city in which to spend my last moments. I feel the wind in my hair as I send off my final farewell to Yu-ja and Mrs. Chang and Ku-yong. As I stand there in the dust kicked up by the wind, two black sedans race toward me and screech to a stop. Two agents, the same ones who questioned me two days ago, get out of the first one. Four Korean men emerge from the other car.

  “Miss, can we talk in the car?” The agents aren’t as coercive as last time, but they seem anxious.

  I enter the car. The agents get in the front seats and the Korean driver sits next to me.

  “Where’s Joseph?” I ask.

  “He’s handling a personal matter. We’re trying to reach him now,” one of the agents explains. “We just learned that Lim Pok-hun is in Seoul. It seems he entered via an island off the western coast last week. We aren’t sure if she’s with him—”

  I cut in. “Who? Seoul Crybaby?”

  The agent sighs in irritation.

  The driver quickly explains in Korean. “Yes. Without any proof that Lim has her under his protection, we can’t put our men in danger and go along with the plan. He finally contacted someone on our side today, but this whole thing seems like a setup to ambush us. We need to be sure that it’s not another northern agent pretending to be him. You’re the only one who knows what he looks like. Please, we need your help.”

  This is a significant wrench in my plan to kill myself today. “How could I possibly help?” I switch to Korean, too.

  “We’re supposed to meet him at Chungang Theater. We’d like you to be at the ticket booth to identify him. We won’t put you in danger. We promise.”

  So it can get dangerous. Now my interest is piqued. “And if I don’t cooperate?”

  Their faces fall in unison. This might be my last official duty. I can already tell I have no choice in the matter.

  “Okay. But are these two going to be there? They don’t blend in.” I point at the agents in the front seats. They look confused; they don’t understand Korean. “Please give this to Joseph,” I say to the agents in English, and take the letter out of my handbag. The white envelope is addressed to Yo Min-hwan.

  I’ve encountered Lim Pok-hun only twice, but I’ve turned out to be a strong influence in his life. I am an undeniable goddess of misfortune. He eluded capture once. Now it seems he’s found a way to escape his former masters. He’s persistently lucky. What will happen when we meet again? I head to the theater to confirm our odd bond.

  THE FIRST TIME I ENCOUNTERED LIM WAS AT THE ART Association offices in Chongno. One of my Tokyo art school classmates dragged me there. He never liked me; he introduced me to the others as a complete reactionary from a family that had sponged off the American military government for generations. I scoffed at them, never imagining that in due course, as corpses began rolling around the city center, they would try to reeducate me and force me to take up the brush for their purposes. They assigned me to the portrait division, where I was to draw Stalin and Kim Il Sung from morning to night. My reward for offering my artistic talents and labor to the party was a ball of cooked rice.

  Stalin was my closest friend during that terrible summer. I’d never drawn anyone’s face as carefully as I did his—his jowly neck, his thick mustache, his flat eyes that had already transcended
humanity. I never did like portraits or the sycophancy inherent in them. An artist poured all of her soul into a work; that meant that the subject of a portrait could only be the artist herself. I had secretly laughed at portrait subjects who were satisfied with their exaggeratedly perfect faces. That was how I drew Stalin’s face, scoffing at him all the while. But he was grander than I expected, this politician who devoted himself to revolution. He shared his soul with the masses, attempting to stake a place for himself in the history books, conscientiously building his ambition. I devoted myself to his portraits despite myself, creating uniquely florid paintings.

  One night in July, I was coloring Stalin’s hair with quiet acrimony when someone spoke to me.

  “Why are you drawing Comrade Stalin so ornately? He looks like an American movie star.”

  I raised my head and saw a stick-skinny man with a half-moon scar under one eye standing over me.

  “Comrade Kim Ae-sun, I heard you were good. This, however, is a disappointment.”

  He already knew who I was. Having worked for the Americans, I was a target. I recognized him as a northern agent who sometimes stopped by the offices.

  “Do you know where Yo Min-hwan is?” He spoke in smooth Seoul diction, though his enunciation was a little too careful.

  “No,” I replied feebly. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

  Why was he looking for Min-hwan, anyway? He wasn’t that useful to the North, despite his time working for the Americans.

  He stared at me and I didn’t avoid his gaze, too depressed to even lie. He sneered and turned to leave. The pistol on his hip caught the light and glinted, glaring at me until he left the room.

  THE MOVIE PLAYING AT CHUNGANG THEATER IS AN American film called Unknown Island. The man-eating dinosaur on the poster resembles a toy baring its teeth, no matter how generously I look at it. What kind of terror could this ridiculous monster unleash on humans? This is a silly movie for this postwar city, which has realized the immortal truth: man is the enemy of man. I enter the ticket booth, which reminds me of a prison visiting room. I’m relieved that I can’t be seen from the outside, but that means I can’t see out very well, either. A mirror is next to the ticket window to allow me to watch the customers while keeping the interior dark. The movie will start soon, but not many people are lining up to buy tickets. The Korean agents are disguised as civilians and loitering in front of the theater, one dressed as a chestnut peddler and the other sweeping the sidewalk. They glance at me as people walk by. The ticking of the clock grows louder and louder. I am aware of every sound from the street. What if I don’t recognize him after all?

  IT’S TEN TO FIVE AND THE MOVIE THEATER IS STILL MOSTLY empty. A few couples, a group of women, and a few middle-aged men enter the theater. I count the seconds, looking at the clock anxiously. This mission is tilting toward failure. Maybe I should give up and go watch the movie myself. I’m about to get up when a bony hand slides money in the ticket window.

  “I would like one ticket, please.” The man sounds proper and formal, as though he’s reading from a textbook.

  I take the money and glance at the mirror as I hand the ticket over. I pause, holding the change in my palm. He’s wearing a dyed military cap and it’s hard to see under the brim, but I detect a small half-moon scar. It’s him.

  I duck my head, waiting for him to leave. He moves away from the window, but his footsteps boom in my ears as I put the SOLD OUT sign on the window with shaking hands. The agents see that and move quickly. The one disguised as a chestnut peddler yanks off his hat and glances at his colleague. My part is done. Now I need to get to the car parked on the other side of the street.

  My legs are quaking. I come out of the ticket booth. I have to get out of here. But something holds me back. I’m curious. Finally, something real is going to happen in the theater. Genuine violence and flight, not just a story, directed and produced. Someone might die. A movie is just death made into art; the actors who kiss and dance on-screen are ghosts. They end up as particles of light in the darkened theater and vanish. I don’t have any reason not to follow my instincts. I am the heroine of this movie. I am the one who knows the face of the enemy. I head to the dark hallway and hear the thudding sound track of the movie. I push the heavy doors to go inside and stop short; I can’t see anything. The theater smells like mildew. I step forward cautiously. Then there’s a crash.

  “What’s that?!”

  “Get him!”

  “Over there!”

  I turn my head and something dark smashes into me. I fall on the grimy floor. I hear running and get up quickly to chase after the footsteps. There are shouts and a clatter of feet outside the theater. I see someone dash away and follow quietly. When I reach the end of the corridor, I don’t see anyone. I’m about to turn around when I realize someone is standing behind me. I open my mouth to scream and a hand claps over it. I can’t breathe. The cold, hard muzzle of a pistol digs into my back. He drags me to the rear of the theater, his arm around my neck. He opens a door to the outside. It smells like oil paint. We are in the workshop where theater posters are painted; the space is covered by a makeshift tin roof stretching from the building to a wall. On the wall is a half-painted poster for an upcoming movie.

  “It’s been a long time, Kim Ae-sun,” Lim says.

  “I can slip you out of here,” I say quickly.

  Lim pushes me toward the wall. I bump into the poster and get blue paint on my shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Why? You feel guilty for what you did on that ship?” Lim glances anxiously around, the gun still pointing at me.

  “Why are you running away?”

  He looks hounded, like a fleeing animal. I realize something: someone who holds all the cards would never be this nervous.

  “Where is that woman?” I ask.

  He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand holding the gun.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” I surprise myself with my guess. But I think I’m right. “Seoul Crybaby isn’t alive anymore, is she?”

  Lim glares at me with a bitter half-smile.

  “I’m right, aren’t I? Did you kill her?”

  “No. I really did try to help her.”

  “What happened?” I’m shaking.

  “She was broken. She didn’t even want to go back home. She just kept crying. I couldn’t do anything. I needed her so I could get out.”

  “And?” Please, please, I think.

  “She hanged herself.” Lim’s face darkens.

  My hands fly up to my neck. This unknown woman’s despair and sorrow spread through my body. I can imagine her clearly. She is beautiful and innocent, but everyone has the urge to debase an innocent woman. She is moaning, shedding tears—I can feel it all inside me. As I imagine her last moments I become infected with her grim courage. I hear rushing footsteps in the corridor. Lim grabs me by the throat. I don’t know what he’s planning to do with me, or how he means to escape this time, but I struggle. As I fall I grab the shelf to steady myself. Lim lunges to stop all the paint cans from falling, dropping the pistol and letting go of me.

  I pick it up from the ground. I stand up.

  “Give it here. It’s not a toy.” Lim’s face is tense.

  I realize I’m aiming the pistol at him. It’s heavier and harder than I expected.

  “Kim Ae-sun. Give it to me.”

  I stare at him. I’m possessed.

  He looks more and more uncertain and horrified. “What are you doing?”

  I turn the gun around slowly. The muzzle is now pointing at me. The gun isn’t picky about who it wants to aim at. I grope at the trigger. It’s surprisingly hard to find.

  “Don’t. I don’t know what this is about, but you’re going to make this worse for me than it already is.” Lim is sweating. He inches forward as if approaching a wild beast.

  I finally find the trigger. I slip my finger through with anticipation, as if I’
m a bride sliding on her wedding ring.

  “Alice!” Joseph is standing at the door.

  I pull the trigger. The gun goes off. There’s a bang and then a sharp pain. I fall down. Darkness swoops over me. I hear more gunshots and footsteps.

  “Are you okay?” It’s Joseph.

  The darkness pressing down on me lifts a little. Light begins to filter through.

  Joseph picks up the poster that fell on top of me and helps me up. The agents are chasing after Lim. I try to look up but my head is too heavy. Something sticky is coursing down my scalp. It doesn’t smell like blood—I know that smell all too well. I touch my head and my palm comes away stained yellow. The paint drips down the back of my neck. I’m an instant blonde. The bullet must have missed.

  “What are you doing?” Joseph is holding me, looking teary. What an honor. This kind American intelligence officer is about to shed tears for me. “And what did you mean by that letter?”

  He shakes me hard, angrily. “What is going on? Alice! Get a hold of yourself!”

  “Where’s Min-hwan?”

  “Looking for his daughter. When he went to the orphanage he discovered it wasn’t her. It was Chong-nim.”

  “What? You found her?” My heart starts to pound.

  “No. I’m sorry. Chong-nim had been moved to a different orphanage. She was gone by the time we got there. It’s clear she’s not his daughter. But why would she have his watch? He was certain it was Song-ha because of that watch.”

  Everything turns fuzzy. Joseph’s face doubles and overlaps with itself. It feels like blood and oil are gushing out of every pore of my being. My legs shake. I think I’m going to vomit. Every time Joseph tries to get me up, yellow paint gets on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry. He’ll never find his daughter. I killed her.”