The Starlet and the Spy Read online

  “I’ve started to. On postcards this big.” He shows me with his hands. “I draw the stream I can see from my room. I don’t have interesting ideas like before; I just draw what I see—reality.”

  His answer lands like a punch. I was certain he wouldn’t be drawing, either. I turn to look at him. He rubs his peanut-shaped face with his wool gloves, his white breath hanging in the air. He resembles his own cartoon character. As I was familiar with his cartoons that ran in newspapers and magazines, I recognized him instantly when I met him for the first time. Ku-yong, who studied art in Japan, wasn’t famous, but he enjoyed a quiet fan base of passionately devoted readers—I was one of them. Truth Seeker, the main character of his editorial cartoons, was a sly and honest thinker, just like him, and Dandy Boy, the main character of the adventure cartoon serialized in a youth magazine, was a stubborn dreamer whose future seemed precarious, just like his. He was the rare artist who loved his work without being taken over by it. It’s entirely because of the war that someone like him now does odd jobs wearing cotton work gloves instead of handling sharp pen nibs.

  The war broke out during a brutal, broiling summer. Every day until I crawled home, exhausted, in the evening, I was shut inside a small room, drawing dozens of Stalin portraits for the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, while downstairs Ku-yong drew propaganda posters exhorting the People’s Army to launch a full-scale offensive. We were two loyal dogs with a talent for drawing; I was the female on the verge of starving to death, repenting for my consorting with American imperialists, and he was the quiet male bringing me balls of rice and water. I didn’t feel well and spilled as many tears as I shed drops of sweat. People think communism was what treated me poorly, but in reality it was myself. I would drink from the cup of water I washed my brushes in as I willed the awful summer to pass. At that point I didn’t know the half of it. When the recapture of Seoul by the southern forces was imminent, Ku-yong was taken north before I was, but he managed to make a dramatic escape and reach safety. Eventually, the South determined that he had collaborated with the enemy and took him into custody. His talents were highly valued, however, and he was thus assigned to the psychology unit of the army headquarters and began to draw cartoons for the Ministry of National Defense. Whereas he once conveyed the grand news of victory for the People’s Army, he now began to depict women being violated by the Chinese Communists in a new, realistic, graphic style, broadcasting the tragedy of war. Ku-yong told me later that he could smell ink even in his sleep; even fermented soybeans would smell like paint. He returned to Seoul after the South retook the capital and decided he was done with art. This decision was as logical as the laws of nature in which spring followed winter. It also revealed his respect toward his newly recovered freedom.

  Last year, when I bumped into him in Chong-dong, he explained bluntly why he had stopped drawing: “You see, it’s a waste of time for me to sit inside a room all day.”

  Oddly enough that comment made me feel at ease. At first, even acknowledging his existence reminded me of that demonic summer, which made me want to avoid him, but his loneliness and his reclusive tendencies pulled me in. After all, he was a colleague from a wretched phase in our lives. We had both exhausted our God-given talents in this godforsaken land.

  “Ae-sun—I mean, Alice—I think I’m going to make art again.”

  I have nothing to say to that. I should be applauding him for starting over, for overcoming his wounds and his helplessness, but I turn away, my hands laced together. It shouldn’t be a surprise to him that I’m this ungenerous; I’m dismayed that my friend is no longer defeated or despairing. I feel instantly alone. I’m disappointed with myself.

  “Shall we walk toward Chonggyechon?” he asks. “We can get something to eat on the way.”

  That’s such a long, dirty walk, especially in these worn shoes. But I don’t voice my feelings. What made him change his mind? I feel as if I’ve been punched twice today: Hammett’s words to me in the office are still buzzing in my ears, and now even Ku-yong is irritating me. I could make excuses and tell myself I wasn’t such a great artist anyway, but I’m enveloped by a strange guilt.

  We pass Supyo Bridge and the shacks balanced on either side of Chonggyechon. Built from rough pieces of wood, the shacks appear to have been made with the remnants of Noah’s ark. It’s as if Noah and his descendants managed to survive by eating the animals they saved. The evening is filled with the smell of food and filth, along with the sounds of clean laundry being ironed, beaten by sticks, and of babies crying. A worker cleaning his tools at a hardware store spots us and smiles slyly. We must look like pathetically destitute lovers out on a date.

  Ku-yong takes me to his favorite bar. A Homecoming poster is stuck to the greasy wood-paneled wall. Clark Gable’s and Lana Turner’s nice smiles are incongruous with this place. The barmaid’s son, playing marbles in front of the furnace, greets us spiritedly and shows us to a fairly clean table. The barmaid, who was serving liquor up in the loft, quickly slips down the ladder. I must be hungrier than I realized; before the mungbean pancakes arrive at our table, I empty half a pot of makkolli. Ku-yong keeps pouring me more. By the time he starts to irritate me, I realize I’m drunk. I loosen my grip on my cup.

  “I hope great things happen for you this year,” he says, smiling and tearing a piece of pancake for me. Affection lingers in his eyes.

  I’m confused. I hope he’ll stop at sympathy. Affection disarms you. I don’t want any of it. I prefer to be honestly misunderstood than insincerely understood. “You’ve somehow managed to find hope for yourself, so you’re all set,” I say tartly.

  He doesn’t deflate. That alone makes me feel trapped.

  “Ae-sun—I mean, Alice,” he begins. I can tell from his voice that he’s been considering what to say for a long time. “I hope you’ll find peace. I’ve been living the last few years like an idiot. I don’t regret it, of course, but I want to have a different life. I hope you’ll be able to forget the past, too. This isn’t you. We both know it.”

  I stare resolutely at the table, refusing to meet his eye.

  “Be with me. In whatever way that may be. Ae-sun—I mean, Alice . . .” Ku-yong isn’t even embarrassed. He’s as earnest and frank as his cartoon characters.

  I must have sensed that something like this would happen. That must be why I came along. I decide to save him by putting a firm end to this ridiculous melodrama. “You can’t be with me, Ku-yong. You can’t understand my pain. Do you know why? I’ve killed. I’ve killed a child. And then I went insane and tried to kill myself. I failed at doing that so I went crazy. I’m fine now, but you never know when I’ll lose my mind again.”

  The boy, who was eavesdropping, scampers off in shock. Ku-yong stares down at the floor uneasily. He doesn’t even attempt to take in what I’m saying. “Stop with the bitterness and mockery. That’s not you.”

  For some reason this makes me sad. “Let go of your expectations. Don’t waste whatever remaining love you have for humanity on me.”

  “You’re so frustrating, Ae-sun! Look around. People are living, they’re being strong, they’re as good as new. Why do you keep insisting on staying in the past?”

  I lose my confidence for a moment. “Why do you want to take on my nightmares I don’t want to remember?” I ask. “What do you know about me, anyway? Do you remember the state I was in when we bumped into each other last year? You looked at me like you’d lost all hope for me.”

  In fact, Ku-yong regarded me with shock, like a burn victim seeing himself in the mirror for the first time. Anyone else making that expression would have infuriated me, but oddly enough I stared at him with the same expression on my face.

  “Don’t you remember?” I ask him. “I looked just like Seoul—hopeless, though nobody wanted to say that out loud. I was at my worst in Pusan, but I wasn’t much better back here. I tried, though. I tried to be ordinary and be one of those people. But it didn’t work for long. One day I was walking downtown and
I passed the bombed-out fire station. All the windows were gone and you could see the darkness inside. It was like an enormous skull with two eye sockets. It began to laugh, its jaw juddering. I jumped onto the first streetcar that came. But it started to fill up and I was stuck among people and I couldn’t breathe, and I was sweating and my ribs felt like they were breaking and I could hear a horrible noise and everything turned dark. I started to smell blood, and every time people brushed against me I felt like I was being torn to pieces. I sank down, below people’s legs. I was curled up like that on the floor, screaming for help. Do you know what they did? In order to gawk at me properly, they managed to move around in an orderly way in that overcrowded car. Watching a crazy woman is more entertaining than a fire, isn’t it? As soon as I felt people’s eyes on me, I turned mute. The heel of my shoe had broken off, and I was foaming at the mouth and it got all over me, and nobody came to help. Finally a woman with a child on her back elbowed her way through from the end and took off the cloth that was holding her child to cover my thighs. Menstrual blood was streaming down them. I saw relief in people’s eyes, glad that they weren’t me. A few men leered, peering overtly between my legs. I accepted it then, that I always was and still am someone who makes people uncomfortable. Look at this, Ku-yong.” I show him my right hand.

  He gazes sadly down at my pale hand, covered in my ripped black lace glove like a discarded dead fish in a fisherman’s net.

  “Sometimes it’s hard for me to hold someone’s hand, even when they’re right in front of me. I’m still—people are still hard for me.”

  Before he can take it, I withdraw my hand. I am treating this man who has feelings for me with the bare minimum of politeness. But he doesn’t realize that he’s the first person I’ve ever told any of this.

  Ku-yong gazes quietly at the space vacated by my hand. He takes something out of his pocket. It’s a smudged fountain pen and a yellowed postcard. He begins to draw as if he’s alone, his pen scratching like a broom. I haven’t seen him like this in a long time, hunched forward, head down, concentrating. I stare at him, mouth agape, content to watch. He’s looking at his old pen with affection, like he’s Jesus looking at a child.

  When he’s done he hands me the postcard with a smile. Fine slashes fill the paper, pouring down like shooting stars in the night sky. I laugh despite myself. He’s drawn a propaganda leaflet. And it’s me he’s drawn in it. I look funny and pitiful and cute, all at the same time. I’m wearing a dotted scarf on my head and shaking my fist, chanting slogans, and behind me is the sentence “Alice! Build up your battle experience to rescue your compatriots!” The propaganda posters and leaflets we were forced to make during the war were fierce, coarse, and foolish. This is different. This is special. I’m intrigued, though I am hardly the type to get provoked by these things. It contains irony and pathos. This is a superlative drawing.

  “Are you still—do you still care for him?” Ku-yong lobs the question he’s been wondering about. He remembers how restless and resentful I was that summer, pining by the window.

  “Not him. Them,” I cruelly correct Ku-yong.

  It’s a low blow to mention men I can barely remember anymore to a man who desperately wants to comfort me. The cheap, artificially carbonated liquor served by the surly barmaid burns, turning my mind blank and clear. Ku-yong’s eyes are as dark as ink as he forlornly twists the cap of his fountain pen. I feel torn and a little sorry.

  Adequately tipsy like the youth we are, we head back into the night. The dark night of this city, which doesn’t yet have electricity fully restored, makes the streetcar stop seem even more desolate. Ku-yong insists he will see me home. He’s gallant for a man who’s been refused. Maybe he’s reliving the sorrow of being turned down.

  “When will you get back?” he asks with concern, as though I’m going somewhere far away, although I’m just accompanying Marilyn Monroe to her performances for the troops.

  “It’s a four-day trip, so I should be back at the end of next week.”

  Ku-yong seems so distressed that I find myself wondering if I will indeed return safely in one piece.

  The streetcar barrels toward us, its headlights slicing through the darkness.

  Ku-yong puts a hand on my arm. “I’d like to see you when you’re back, Ae-sun.” His gaze arrests me for a moment.

  “Would you like me to say something to Marilyn for you?” I smile, but he doesn’t. The streetcar is nearing the stop, but his hand is growing heavier on my arm.

  He finally lets go and flashes a smile when I move to get on the streetcar. “Please convey my congratulations. And tell her that we are hoping for her happiness, for her to always be happy.”

  The streetcar takes off and he waves. His wet eyes sparkle as they are swallowed by the black street.

  I quickly find a seat so I don’t have to see him. But his form follows me, pasted to the window. I turn back and he’s still standing there, watching me, growing smaller. What a night. A strange night filled with memories creeping and advancing like fog. I’m not afraid of the regret and disdain settling wetly on my cheeks. I am leaving behind the man who is perhaps the last person to understand me. I desperately hope he won’t remember tonight as remarkable, as a night to be remembered. I hope we can all fall asleep peacefully—all of us, the beggar girl carrying her sibling on her back, the maid seeking abortion funds, lovelorn Yu-ja standing sentry at the dance hall, lonely Mrs. Chang who has to show her husband pictures of naked American women. Seoul adroitly hides its ruins in the darkness, and I, too, disappear into it. I enter the deep blackness of the city, which has chewed and swallowed all of humanity’s beauty—the past, the tears, the blood, the lovers, the diaries, the ribbons, the book pages—in equal measure.

  Colonial-Style Romance at the Bando Hotel

  July 1947

  I GOT OFF THE STREETCAR AND WALKED SELF-CONSCIOUSLY in the brown lambskin shoes I had received from my uncle for my twentieth birthday. My gait reflected who I was—light, carefree, and coquettish. Only the heel of my right shoe was worn, and from that you could deduce that I was stubborn and didn’t have a great sense of balance. My pale, goose-bump-covered calves were revealed all too easily each time the hem of my skirt fluttered. Even if you didn’t have an acute sixth sense, you would have guessed that I was on my way to see my lover. That was how carelessly I displayed my passion. I was firmly deluded in believing that the entire world was envious of my romance. I was still a young girl trying my best to look sophisticated. What I didn’t realize was that the world had no morals and wasn’t interested in one individual. And so, with a truly innocent smile on my face, I walked the streets of Seoul that were brimming with memories of colonization. To my eyes, the streets lined with gingko trees—an emblem of Tokyo planted here by the Japanese—were just a splendid sight.

  I WAS IN TOKYO WHEN KOREA WAS LIBERATED FROM JAPAN. On September 2, 1945, as Japan was signing the Instrument of Surrender on USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay, I was staring at a parcel that had just arrived. I had been planning to go look at the Missouri, which was supposed to be unfathomably vast, but the parcel distracted me. A few years later, I had a chance to see the Missouri as we were escaping Hungnam; the loud booms of the ship’s sixteen-inch artillery made me wet myself several times. Anyway, one of my father’s black frock coats was inside that parcel. It looked like a large dead black bird. Upon receiving the news of my father’s death, I’d written home, asking for an item from his closet. Father, a sad, elegant man much like a black bird, left eight frock coats behind. I stood in front of the mirror to try the coat on. Only then did his death sink in.

  The last time I’d seen him was at a teahouse across from Hwasin department store right before I left to study in Japan. He told me not to skip meals and to be sure to get enough sleep. He gave me some money. I said goodbye and left quickly. I’d spotted the dry patches under his eyes and knew he was sickly, but I pretended not to notice. I was embarrassed that people might think I was a mistress receiving money fro
m an old, ill lecher. I suppose it was true that I was his secret paramour—I had stopped being his daughter the moment my mother went back to her family home with me in tow. And I stopped being her daughter when she left me with my grandparents to remarry, joining the family that ran the Sariwon distillery. After that, my grandmother sent me to live with my uncle in Seoul, in Ahyon-dong. My mother had stormed out to escape her situation—the third concubine of the eldest son of a family once listed as one of the richest in Kaesong but now facing ruin—and stopped coming to see me.

  Whenever Father happened to be in Seoul, however, he came for a visit. I liked his Leica camera and his collection of French kaleidoscopes, which included blond erotic dancers performing acrobatics in black undergarments. The world I spied through that small hole was both breathtakingly filthy and beautiful. Hailing from a renowned family of interpreters, he pronounced French words however he wanted to but made them sound authentic. I’d inherited from him certain traits, such as a facility with languages, the disposition of a gambler who would bet a ninety-nine-room house on a single hand, and instincts that valued aesthetics over logic and reason. From my mother I’d inherited my tendency to daydream and my insomnia.

  I took off the frock coat and put it in my suitcase. I decided to leave Tokyo, where I had nobody, and return to Seoul, where nobody was waiting for me. Seoul welcomed me knowingly, both of us filled with hope and fear. I was qualified to work only as a private tutor or waitress, but neither fit my aptitudes. My uncle told me that everything remained the same, except the flag flying in front of the former Japanese Government-General of Korea building had changed from the Japanese flag to the American one. My uncle had been a pro-Japanese bureaucrat, but he seemed to be doing fine for himself. He showed me a souvenir: a US military flyer, written in Japanese, that had been dropped from a B-29 right after Korea’s liberation. “To the People of Korea,” it began, and explained that the benevolent American military would occupy our country to ensure our happiness, signed by a Commander Hodge. My uncle made strenuous efforts to cultivate ties with the US military government. He had at one point operated a movie theater in Suwon, so he was able to get me a job at the central film distribution office in the military government, the exclusive distributor of popular Hollywood movies. There, I discovered my talent. I discreetly consulted the dictionary to summarize the plots and translate titles. I handled a range of miscellaneous tasks, the most interesting of which was designing posters and leaflets. My art degree came in handy. I dreamed up the plots for movies I hadn’t seen and painted dramatic scenes, set in the American West, with dashing men and beauties.