The Starlet and the Spy Read online

  Betty interrupts. “Marilyn, that’s enough. You have to change at the very least.”

  Marilyn rubs her hot forehead and agrees. “Have you seen my small makeup bag?”

  “It’s probably in the dressing room,” I tell her.

  We help her back to the room so she can change into a sweater and a pair of slacks. She looks at herself in the mirror as she changes, as if disappointed that there is only one. Betty and I are too tired to be impressed by her physique; we pack up while glancing at her voluptuous curves.

  “I can’t find it,” Marilyn says, alarmed.

  Betty goes outside to search, and I dig around the messy dressing room. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “We’ll find it.”

  Marilyn nods, biting her lip. She’s wrapped a blanket around herself. She’s trembling. “I don’t know if I can sleep after such an exciting day.”

  “It was wonderful. You were beautiful,” I say sincerely, though she might be tired of all the praise.

  “I’ve never sung in front of so many people,” Marilyn confesses shyly, blushing. “I’ve never gotten so much applause.”

  “Really? You must experience this all the time.” I’m genuinely surprised.

  “No, today was very special,” she says dreamily, hugging her knees. “I felt alive. I’m never going to forget it.”

  “Maybe it’s because they’re soldiers,” I offer. “Soldiers are always more passionate.”

  She doesn’t hear me, perhaps still luxuriating in the cheers.

  The passionate applause rings in my ears, too. My heart aches for the soldiers who won’t be able to fall asleep tonight, thinking about her beautiful form.

  “Do you have jewelry or money in the bag?” I ask.

  Marilyn looks distracted, and I see a familiar anxiety flash across her face. “No—I have some medicine in it, that’s all.”

  “Something you need for sleeping?” I ask cautiously, acting on my hunch.

  Marilyn nods. I open my handbag, take out a small coin purse, and fish out a few phenobarbital pills. She laughs with delight, then leans close and whispers confidentially, “Alice, do you have trouble sleeping, too?”

  I can tell I’m blushing. I think I understand how men must feel when they encounter her breathy voice. I can even understand their wives’ jealousy. “Sometimes. I get these from a friend who works at a clinic. She doesn’t like that I take them.”

  “Thank you, Alice. Truly.” Marilyn gives me a hug and takes the pills from my hand. These sleeping pills are a better friend than diamonds for those of us who want to forget their past.

  Our eyes meet and she smiles. We are instantly closer.

  She takes out her earrings and stretches her legs. “The actresses from the airport were so elegant and beautiful. I want to see their movies.”

  “They are true actresses. You’re filled with energy when you watch their plays. It’s amazing.”

  “Do you enjoy plays, too?” Marilyn asks.

  “I used to see a lot of them a long time ago. Ibsen and Shakespeare and Chekhov.”

  “You like Chekhov, too! My acting teacher, Michael Chekhov, is Anton’s nephew. I really respect him.” Marilyn springs up with delight.

  I’m surprised she has an acting teacher. “He must be wonderful,” I say.

  “I learned so much from him,” she says. “Like the limits of my acting.”

  “Limits?”

  “He said I’m so sensual that it’s hard for me to show audiences something more than that.” She says this lightly, but I feel immensely sad for her because I know it’s true.

  I can’t think of what to say, so I just blurt out whatever pops into my head. “I don’t know. Just because you’re an actor doesn’t mean you need to play every part equally well. Isn’t it true that an actor is best at one kind of role? Like it is for writers—even if they write a lot, there is just one story they want to tell.” Am I really telling her that her fate is to play coquettes for the rest of her life?

  Marilyn lowers her eyes. Her lashes look like the wings of a descending bird. “I suppose that makes sense. You sure know a lot about actors and writers.”

  “I used to be in love with a writer,” I confess without realizing it. I’m honest only to someone I will never see again.

  “Really! Alice, how exciting! Do tell me about him.”

  I’m already regretting it. “They say you should never even be friends with a writer because you’ll find yourself in their work.”

  “I always wish directors and writers would get to know me and write about the real me,” she says seriously.

  “But that can be dangerous. You’ll hate yourself when you see yourself in someone’s work. And he will end up hating the character while he is writing. That is a writer’s limit, isn’t it?” My tone is bitter.

  She smiles mysteriously, the kind of smile deployed by someone who doesn’t have enough time or experience to understand the person she is talking to.

  I smile awkwardly. My English isn’t the best, but it’s not that she can’t understand me. She might simply be the type who’s not convinced by anyone. We are both women who are partial to our own emotions; I can guess that much from my fellow comrade in phenobarbital.

  Betty walks in. “Alice, your boss is looking for you.”

  Marilyn nods for me to go. I quickly head outside. I was wondering where Hammett was. I haven’t seen him since the afternoon. Earlier I asked him to take me to the orphanage that might have news about Chong-nim, since we’re down in Taegu anyway. The card that the chairman’s wife gave me in the dance hall burns in my coat pocket. I need to speak to that nun. We must be going there now. My hands are clammy with anticipation. I might find out more about Chong-nim tonight.

  I run toward Hammett, who is standing under the security light in front of the building. “Hammett! Where were you today?”

  He turns around, his expression wooden under the yellow light. “Alice, remember I mentioned that people wanted to talk to you?” He sounds tense.

  “Is it the intelligence bureau? What is it about?” I’m nervous.

  Hammett holds my elbow, his grip firm. “Yes, but—before that you need to see someone else. You—it might be a surprise . . .” He trails off, looking hard into my eyes.

  “Who is it?” My voice trembles as I try to smile. I swallow. My heart is dancing with a premonition of sorts. I’m tense and calm at the same time, as if I have been waiting for this moment. I thought there was no longer anything that could possibly shock me, but who is it that wants to see me on this cold, dark February night? The wind stabs my lungs and digs in deep, but I’m okay. I feel hot. I hear footsteps—familiar, firm footsteps—now across from me under the yellow light.

  “It’s been a long time,” the man wearing all gray says to me, the light perched on his head like a hat.

  My mouth reacts before my head. “Joseph.”

  His face is bright under the light.

  Joseph.

  My English teacher, my second lover, the friend of my first lover, my sanctuary, my Bible, my regret, my riddle. He is standing here.

  “Alice,” he says, calling me by the very name he gave me.

  The Other Man

  August 1948

  ON AUGUST 15, 1948, THE AMERICAN MILITARY GOVERNMENT regime in Korea came to an end. That was when everything between Min-hwan and me ended, too. Nothing had changed from the outside; I was still a coquettish girl whose whereabouts after work were suspect, and he was still my secret lover. But invisible cracks had begun to form. The collapse of a relationship doesn’t begin on the day you part ways; it builds gradually, starting on the day you witness each other’s truths.

  As a parade was being held in the plaza of the capitol building to commemorate the establishment of the government of the Republic of Korea, I lay entwined in our bedsheets, reading a short story of his that had been published in a literary magazine. It was the first work of fiction he had produced in two years, during which time he had written
nothing but political critiques and published translations.

  She is ruled by animalistic instinct . . . It would be better if she were biased, but her intellect doesn’t reach that level . . . Her pathetic, immature nature . . .

  The story had nothing of the quality of his earlier work. It skipped equally over ideology and artistry, but I detected an element of honesty in it. I was embarrassed and angry; I had to put the magazine down several times. The story centered around a boring male labor activist who led a life on the lam, but I spotted myself in a dancer in a music troupe, whom he is trying to reform. The half page describing the dancer was all about me. The passage didn’t include identifying markers, so he could certainly insist that I wasn’t his inspiration, but I could tell that this was how he felt about me.

  Just as I cannot leave this place, the same is true with my relationship with her. She will twine herself around me and never let me go . . .

  The woman in the story was placid but lustful. Yet despite her many flaws, she was the woman the protagonist loved the most. She wasn’t respectable, but she was adored. That was true in real life, too. Min-hwan was my protector; our relationship emitted a strong whiff of incest. Once, Min-hwan had asked me about my father, and I told him he had been as kind as he was. He wrinkled his nose, looking hurt. I pretended I didn’t understand what I was doing, but of course I did. I could be the adult daughter he never had. I was the sole flaw in a man who acted as if he were a paragon of morality. I stayed by his side despite understanding this truth at the heart of our relationship. In a pitiable attempt at revenge against what I perceived to be his self-centeredness, I refused to worry myself with whether he would feel guilty about our love affair.

  To be sure, I was just one small part of all his concerns. Long before the Republic of Korea was established, Min-hwan quit working for the American military government. I never understood why he worked for the Americans in the first place, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t puzzled when he quit.

  “I guess you should have studied Turgenev, not Wordsworth,” I teased. “You would have been on the right side then.”

  “Learning a language isn’t something to joke about,” he admonished me seriously. “I chose to learn English as a rebellion against having to learn Japanese when they were in charge, but then I was drawn to it. I don’t think it’s necessary to speak many languages. It’s like believing in more than one God.”

  “What are you talking about?” I protested. “Knowing English guarantees your future.”

  “You say that because you don’t know what it’s like in America. They’ll teach you their language, but they’ll keep everything else for themselves.”

  I didn’t understand how he could feel so conflicted about America. He left his post as matter-of-factly as if he had concluded an experiment in which he was the subject. He quit working for the Americans, unwilling to compromise his beliefs any longer. At that time both the Left and the Right were stealthily gearing up for battle. With the victory of the right wing, the suppression of the Communist Party became more visible. Min-hwan’s fellow writers who belonged to the Workers’ Party of South Korea began to head north.

  “I’ll go with you,” I offered. Several of his friends were disappearing north with their mistresses, not fully understanding what their abandoned wives and children would face in the coming years.

  Min-hwan snapped at me for the first time. “Stop! This is the best place for you, even if it isn’t perfect.”

  “My mom is up north, I am not religious, and I’m not wealthy anymore. I could have a nice life up there. Why won’t you go with me? Is it because of your family?”

  Min-hwan sighed and looked at me pityingly for a long time. In the following years I would miss that gaze. I liked that dark, damp gaze so much that I would purposely bring out his sadness. I knew it was cruel. But I liked how solitary and bereft he looked when I mentioned his family, and so I tormented and teased him just to see that gloomy expression. I would take his family photo out of his notebook, put it on the table, and pretend to drop it.

  “Remember last year, when the women’s director in the military government talked about how patriotic groups were mobilized during Japanese rule to find people with concubines? I heard it’s the same now; they won’t hire officials with concubines. Your luck has run out,” I would tease, comparing myself to a concubine.

  He didn’t laugh and I didn’t, either. My teasing didn’t contain irony, the most important factor in creating laughter. His situation was so banal that even a cheap weekly magazine wouldn’t be interested in it as a story. Here he was, a well-educated man in an arranged marriage, who left his wife and child in his hometown to keep a young mistress in the city. I looked and acted the part of a modern woman, but my persistent innermost desires were far from modern. Although I shouldn’t have wasted time thinking about the aspects of his life I wasn’t privy to, I imagined his wife’s pale neck, his daughter’s chubby feet, and their tea table glowing with domestic harmony. His wife never came to Seoul, and he visited Chonju to see them only once a month.

  When he went home, I tagged along to Seoul Station to see him off, even though he hated it when I did.

  “Have a good trip,” I would say, pretending to weep. “Think about me from time to time.”

  He would give a dispirited laugh, and we would sit apart on a bench as we waited for the train. Day students in school uniforms and old-fashioned aristocrats wearing traditional hats and frightened country girls, who would eventually become maids or prostitutes, balancing bundles on their heads would stream past us. They were rooted in the reality of the train station, while we resided in the romantic realm. When the train pulled into the station, he would give my hand a hard squeeze, then go out through the gate without looking back. I would quietly stroke the place where he had sat, touching the guilt he left behind, feeding the fluttering in my heart.

  In an affair, guilt is an aphrodisiac. Were we really that sad and despairing? Did we suffocate each other, savoring those emotions? All I know is that we wanted each other until we grew tired, and we didn’t stop even when we did. He was by my side during that time of my life—a foolish time that everyone should experience at least once.

  And then someone else entered our relationship.

  Joseph, the man who named me Alice.

  But I still don’t know his real name.

  The Fateful Triangle

  May 1949

  MIN-HWAN DIDN’T GO NORTH. HE PUBLISHED A FEW articles, harshly criticizing the dogma of the US military government, and returned to his alma mater in Tokyo to compile an academic journal of English literature, which he had done when he was a student. Left behind in Seoul, I spent my days feeling anxious, not just because he wasn’t there but because I finally saw the state our society was in once I stepped back from our cocooned world. A man I’d studied with in Tokyo suggested I join the Korean Art Association, which had changed its name with the establishment of the Korean government. Everyone in the South seemed to be joining associations and leagues. I smiled awkwardly at him, and he advised me that I couldn’t remain politically and ideologically uninterested in today’s world. I asked him a silly question as a joke: Did people who love humanity go north and people who love art stay in the South? I wasn’t deeply committed to either and couldn’t easily make a decision. He laughed, sneering at me, not because of my lifestyle but because I wasn’t a great artist. It made sense; I looked down on him, not because of his unsavory character but because he was simply a bad artist.

  He wasn’t aware that I was secretly filled with strong artistic opinions and positions. I talked as if I weren’t quite sure of my talents, but that was out of modesty, a gesture of self-protection. Once, another artist saw a poster I’d drawn and demanded to know why I didn’t make true art. Of course, those posters were primarily functional, so it was hard to spot my artistic viewpoint, but I did create them. I liked my work. I was that rare propaganda artist who was politically naive. The slogans an
d symbols I worked hard at creating clearly and thoroughly served this or that ideology, but I didn’t subscribe to any of it. I was free. My work was the product of my artistic taste, one that valued a concise, economic line and a balanced composition. As an artist I hoped humanity could better itself. Earnestly I drew posters encouraging illiterate old folks living in the mountains to vote, worrying and experimenting and feeling delight. I waited anxiously for a version of myself that would someday become complete, as though I were an unknown, stuttering actress who hadn’t yet landed the perfect part.

  When he was away, I discovered in myself someone freer. That made me scared and anxious. While I missed him desperately, a part of me realized that life without him was possible. I blocked that thought as I waited impatiently for him to return. The night before he was due back, I went to his place with fresh-cut flowers to liven up his room. I had my keys in my hand when I noticed the front door was open a crack. I flung open the door and ran in.

  Two men were in the room. A leather suitcase lay on its side. Still in his travel clothes and with a brown jacket over his arm, Min-hwan was standing by the window, looking angry. He flinched in surprise when he spotted me. The other man, in a black suit, was seated in a chair, and he stood and turned to look at me, as embarrassed as if he had entered a funeral late. He quickly recovered his composure and smiled. Flustered, I studied this man’s face for a few minutes.

  He was tall and handsome, with very pale skin as if blood were leaching slowly out of his body. His brown eyes stood out against his pale complexion and black hair. I could sense a prickly, wild nature hiding behind his gentle demeanor. He had straight teeth, and his sharp eyes below his dark brows were observant. I walked forward hesitantly before stopping. He seemed neither Oriental nor white, but some new race God created for his own convenience.

  Finally Min-hwan broke the silence. “This is Joseph,” he said stiffly, gesturing at the man awkwardly.