The Starlet and the Spy Page 9

  But life was persistent. On our first day in the East Sea, a child was born in the nurse’s cabin. Two additional miracle babies were born before we finally entered Pusan harbor on Christmas Eve. But Pusan was overflowing with refugees and we weren’t allowed to dock. We were instead sent to Koje Island.

  I couldn’t believe I was back in the South. Chong-nim, gripping my hand, looked out at the blue sea, her eyes sparkling. Heat radiated from her frozen blue cheeks. I would have given up trying to return if it hadn’t been for her. I took out my most precious treasure, the Citizen watch with his initials, Y.M.H., engraved on it. I gave it to Chong-nim and said, “Don’t ever lose this. If someone tries to take it from you, you scream as loudly as you can.” Chong-nim tied it to the inside of her blouse, nodding.

  The broadcast system began to play Christmas carols, and I started to cry. I had survived. Misery was my fate, but life was still beautiful; my fate was just part of my life. The war hadn’t destroyed everything. War had killed the love and hope and warmth within me, but it had also spared me. I covered my face with my hands, sobbing out the last bit of love to shore up the life remaining inside. I wiped away my tears and looked at my hands, those malicious hands that had killed the thing most precious to the man I loved.

  JOSEPH HOLDS BOTH OF MY HANDS. I BALL THEM INTO fists. I don’t want him to see the red scars beneath my black lace gloves.

  “Alice,” he says gently, “I had no idea what you went through.”

  Now I’m the one who’s calm. I feel better, even though I haven’t told him everything.

  “Did you find your mother? She lived in the North, didn’t she?”

  “She passed away,” I reply, my face stone.

  “I see. I’m sorry.” Joseph sounds sad. He thinks my mother died during the war.

  In fact she died before the war broke out. When I learned this my heart shattered, but I later decided it was better that way; at least she didn’t have to live through the war. I cried and buried her in my heart.

  “I was surprised by your countrymen,” Joseph says. “They were studying in makeshift tent schools, making roofs out of powdered milk cans that they pounded straight. Everyone had such a strong will to live, from the youngest to the oldest. It wouldn’t have been easy to live through that all by yourself. Why didn’t you ask your uncle for help?”

  “He was ashamed of me. Some people didn’t lose a thing during the war, and those people don’t understand anything. But others did help. The woman I board with—I met her on Koje Island. My friend who’s a nurse—I met her in Pusan and lived with her for a while. And of course, if Hammett hadn’t given me a job, I might have had to sell my body to survive.”

  Joseph looks at me with concern. “And . . . the girl?”

  “I—I lost her. At the camp. It was too chaotic. It’s all my fault. I didn’t realize I could lose a child that easily.” I search around for excuses.

  Joseph places my hands gently in my lap, one on top of the other. “Don’t, Alice. Don’t do that. Remember you have more people on your side than you think.”

  Damn. Does he know that I tried to end my life? I must have underestimated his talents for gathering information. He embraces me as if he knows. I turn my head to the side, rejecting his kindness. I haven’t been fully honest with him yet. I don’t deserve such sympathy.

  “Is that so? It’s nice of you to say that,” I say snidely. “Don’t worry, I won’t think of you as one of those many people who care about me.”

  Joseph frowns. His eyes, the color of black tea, tremor slightly. What is he thinking? “That girl, Chong-nim—you said she could be in an orphanage in Pohang?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me help you find her.”

  “Really? Would you?”

  Joseph nods. “I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll let you know tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thank you!” I leap up and kiss him on the cheek. I’m surprised by how rough it is. I step back.

  We both blush. More than anything, we are surprised by the other’s coolness. Were we always so detached? We both quickly hide our disappointment. Was our passionate affair four years ago such an obvious mistake? We look sadly and embarrassedly at each other. Perhaps we could have become true lovers if we’d met in a different time and place. Even though we thought we had loved each other, “we” never existed; everything had been based on falsehoods. Any emotion, even if it had been real, doesn’t matter now. We fold up that foolish, innocent time and store it in our hearts. If we take out that memory on a gray afternoon in the future, we would feel embarrassed but would perhaps feel less lonely. After all, the memory of a betrayal is still a memory.

  A Living Ghost

  February 17, 1954

  DID YOU SLEEP WELL, MARILYN?” I OPEN THE DOOR TO her room, which is pungent with Chanel perfume.

  She is disheveled, in pale blue pajamas—perhaps silk—and a fur coat. Fuzzy green slippers are on her feet. I’m disappointed. I glimpse crystal glasses and Lucky Strikes strewn on the floor around her bed. I’m concerned she might have taken cold medicine in addition to the pills I gave her yesterday.

  “My face is always puffy in the morning,” she tells me. “You look like you haven’t slept a wink yourself.”

  Women with anxious nerves recognize each other.

  “I met an old friend last night,” I explain.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Perhaps I’ll see him again tonight. I’m looking for a little girl, and the orphanage she’s supposed to be at is near here.”

  Marilyn purses her lips and shows interest. “An orphan girl?”

  “Yes, I came to know her during the war. She’s the granddaughter of the woman who saved my life.”

  “I do hope you find her and take her from the orphanage. I spent some time in one myself when I was a girl. I was very lonely.” Marilyn picks up a Zippo lighter from the floor.

  I remember reading about her unhappy childhood.

  “The only good thing about the orphanage was that I could see the studio where my mother worked from the window.” Marilyn slides her first cigarette of the day between her lips, embodying regret and pleasure. She is able to talk about her misfortune calmly. She was once a sad girl and now is the most beloved woman in the world. Without her beauty this transformation might not have been possible. A woman’s beauty is powerful enough to change her fate, though it becomes useless as she grows old.

  “You’re scheduled for a special photo shoot this morning.” I hand her a baseball jacket and cap. “Here, this should fit you.”

  Today’s schedule begins with a commemorative photo with Korean baseball players. It was my idea; it would be a perfect photo for a magazine cover.

  I head to the field first. Two Korean players are waiting for her in clean striped uniforms with their team’s name on it: GOLDEN DRAGONS. I tell them Miss Monroe isn’t feeling well and ask for their patience, but they don’t seem all that enthused. Maybe they’re not fans of hers. We wait for a long time, shivering in the cold, and members of the press begin to grumble. It seems she’s notorious for tardiness. I think about her complicated expression last night, the way she was intoxicated by her reflection in the mirror. A woman in front of a mirror always hesitates, unsure of her own beauty. Maybe Marilyn is more concerned about that than the rest of us precisely because she is so stunning. You can’t enjoy anything lesser once you’ve tasted the real thing. Since she knows the peak of beauty, she might always be yearning for it.

  She finally appears on the field and everyone suppresses their annoyance. She walks toward us, swinging her baseball cap mischievously. She must have needed all this time to conceal her sickly aura with makeup. Somehow her bright smile looks pitiful. How long has she spent alone in front of a mirror, learning how to paint her face so beautifully? I wonder how much time she spends taking off her makeup. Does she wipe her lipstick off while avoiding her own tired, lonely reflection, the way other women do?

  I introduce Park and Ki
m, the baseball players, and Marilyn shakes hands with them happily and links her arms through theirs. She takes the bat, ready to hit. Lights flash and pop. I ask the officer watching from the sidelines about Joe DiMaggio.

  “He’s the best right-handed batter ever,” he exults. “That Yankee Clipper has a phenomenal swing.”

  I imagine Joe DiMaggio as a majestic sailboat, a man fated to embark on a lonely voyage. Marilyn is smiling, the bat resting on her shoulder. What is it like to have a husband? What is it like to have as your protector a man who is like a sailboat or a tank or a bomber?

  “He’s the best player in the world,” the officer continues. “It’s too bad we can’t watch him play anymore.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t play anymore?”

  “No. He retired.”

  “What does he do now?”

  The officer nods at Marilyn. “Now he’s Mr. Marilyn Monroe.”

  Marilyn holds the bat and twists, wobbling adorably like a boat without an oar. She doesn’t seem all that familiar with the game of baseball. She manages to graze the ball with her bat and it floats for a moment before falling to the ground and rolling toward me. I pick it up and slide it into my pocket.

  “Have you always liked baseball?” I ask her after she’s done.

  She pauses before confessing, “No, I didn’t even know Joe was a baseball player. What about you? Do you like baseball?”

  “I used to go to games with my friends. I actually went to watch a game on the day the war broke out four years ago.”

  It was Sunday, June 25, 1950, and I was headed to Tongdaemun Stadium for a game. I would have gone with Joseph and Min-hwan had our friendship continued, but I was alone that day. I eventually left and plodded home. On the streetcar people whispered that battles had broken out near the 38th Parallel. As we neared Chungjongno, I saw Yonhap Sinmun’s extra that the Korean Army had fought off the People’s Army in northern Kyonggi Province. Even so, it just seemed like the beginning of summer. I didn’t realize the war had begun or that the time of farewell had drawn near.

  “I understand Americans love baseball,” I say.

  “Yes, that’s true. Hollywood stars aren’t the only stars we have,” Marilyn says.

  “I still don’t understand what’s so interesting about that game,” I tell her.

  Marilyn crinkles her nose and nods. “Me neither, to be honest.” She takes off her cap and fluffs up her blond hair. Her golden helmet glints in the sunlight. “The baseball diamond is clearly not a girl’s best friend.” She winks and I laugh.

  In the afternoon, people grow impatient as they clamor for Marilyn, so we barely manage to eat lunch before we are ordered to the next stop. A helicopter is already waiting at the airport to take us to the marine camp in Pohang. Hammett waves me over to the aircraft. We can’t hear each other over the roar of the engine and the wind from the blades. He asks how the visit with Joseph went.

  I just smile.

  “He’s on assignment, but he did want to see you, Alice. Give him a break.” Hammett seems a bit wary now that he knows I am aware of Joseph’s real identity.

  I don’t really care. I just hope Joseph will find Chong-nim. “Yes, it was great to see him again. He told me he’d get me a wonderful present, too.”

  In the last few years I had given up on my life. Looking for Chong-nim is the least I can do. Perhaps I’m doing it for myself; maybe I could believe in myself again if the child who believed in me is by my side.

  We arrive in Pohang and it’s a similar situation as our last stop. Hundreds of soldiers are here to see her. Marilyn waves from the top of a tank as it circles the camp, more authoritative than the commander of the UN forces. The soldiers let out a thunderous cheer. A marine with a camera is sprinting after her as if he were a movie director. He stumbles and rolls in the dirt. They are all behaving as if none of them has a girlfriend back home. If their girlfriends came here and saw them, they would set everything on fire, enraged by their betrayal. Excited soldiers pack the area from the outdoor stage all the way to the bottom of the hill. Their stomping shakes the ground and their wolf whistles leave my ears ringing. The band and singers warm up as Marilyn gets ready in the dressing room backstage. She takes off her bolero to reveal bluish goose bumps on her shoulders and arms; she’s wearing only a silk dress.

  Betty feels her forehead and shakes her head. “She’s going to catch pneumonia!” she shouts.

  Everyone freezes. Of course, it’s out of concern for Marilyn, but everyone is more worried about what might happen if she doesn’t go onstage. Marilyn gets up cheerfully, but her shoe strap snaps off. Everyone stares at her bare foot, mortified, as if it’s her nude body. People begin rushing around to find replacement shoes. The performers’ feet are too big and the women in uniform are all wearing muddy boots.

  “Take them off, Alice!” Betty pushes me into a chair and rips my shoes off. My navy-blue shoes from relief supplies flown in from the West. She shoves them onto Marilyn’s feet. I flush.

  “I can tap in these,” Marilyn says, trying them out.

  Thankfully they go somewhat with her dress. I am suddenly barefoot and the one person who is displeased; somehow, a star with diamonds as her best friend has taken my only pair of shoes. I’m annoyed by them all. They’re the ones who gave us the relief goods in the first place, and now they’re snatching them away. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m embarrassed that my worn stockings are on view.

  On the bandmaster’s cue, Marilyn runs onstage. I follow her, my feet cold and bare. I peek from behind the stage curtains as if I’m a child watching my first circus. The marines lose their minds. It’s as if they were seeing their guardian angel, the goddess of the ocean. A soldier hands over a giant poster of her and she autographs her own face. She says hello to the audience, and her innocent and seductive voice moves thousands of men. She begins singing, her voice as sweet and warm as cocoa. I watch with admiration as she embraces the world. I swing my hips like she does and try to follow the drummer’s beat. Roars of ecstasy slap the bottoms of my feet.

  As she embraces the sky and the wind, the music and the men, I am inspired. I want to be as alive as she is, living my life with physicality. I want to be deafened by applause I will remember forever. I want to look down at the men who dream of sleeping with me. None of that is possible, of course. These things are possible only for actresses, and that is why God has created them. From behind the stage I watch as Marilyn stands alone in front of more than ten thousand pining men. She is white and pure, like a lamb at an altar. Actually, she is a cunning sheep, having gone willingly up to that altar and enjoying her own sacrifice. Men drool, but she is the one who is actually satiated. She is no mere woman; she is an actress, smiling the most beautiful smile and stealing your soul. But what I really want is what an actress can never have: hope. I want love from just one man, the kind of love that takes over one’s soul. Maybe I’m being harsh, but I think this would be impossible for an actress whose value resides in being everyone’s object of desire. I watch Marilyn dance. Her star, though alone and far from the rest of us, shines so brightly that it hurts my eyes.

  After the performance and a visit to the barracks, Marilyn finally collapses. Everyone is relieved; she will now be able to rest. Her room is in a nearby officer dorm. Handsome army doctors are lining up in an effort to treat her, and a short man from the studio is busily turning away reporters.

  A houseboy tugs on my skirt. “Excuse me. Is Miss Monroe’s hair really blond? I heard it could be fake.”

  He continues to ask silly questions even though I rap him on the head with my knuckles for his foolishness. I tell him she is married, but he weepily refuses to believe me.

  I manage to shoo him away and go inside. Betty and another nurse officer are with her. For some reason, after having beheld Marilyn surrounded by men, seeing her among women feels unfamiliar to me. Exhausted, she is leaning sideways on the couch. Half of her makeup is washed off; her face is half blank. I can’t believe th
is tired woman is the Marilyn Monroe. I relate my encounter with the houseboy and everyone laughs except for her.

  “They are so smart, those boys. They don’t know the alphabet but they speak English so fluently,” Betty says with genuine admiration.

  “How did he know my color is fake?” Marilyn asks in a husky voice.

  I stare at her in shock, and she tells me calmly that she is actually a redhead. I want to tell her that my hair isn’t naturally wiry and strange like this, but I don’t.

  Betty jumps in to say knowingly that they use electric shock to bleach hair in Hollywood.

  “But now this is my real color,” Marilyn murmurs, sipping water with effort. “If Marilyn Monroe isn’t a blonde, everyone is going to feel betrayed.”

  I catch myself scrutinizing her hair as if I were tasked with detecting fake jewels. I grow embarrassed and turn away.

  Marilyn closes her eyes, her expression troubled and lonely. Maybe it’s not just exhaustion and a cold. Perhaps she’s realized she is all alone in a strange country. She might be realizing that she has to go to sleep alone tonight, though she is still ostensibly on her honeymoon. No amount of medication will help her sleep soundly when she is missing her husband.

  Captain Walker knocks and comes in to check on Marilyn. He conveys a rambling wish for her to feel better and cocks his head at me to follow him. Outside, he tells me that her health is the Information Service’s responsibility—hence mine. He is about to go on, but thankfully an MP comes over to tell me that someone is looking for me.

  Joseph. He’s back. With news of Chong-nim. Or with her. I dash outside. He’s waiting there, just like last night, the black car idling behind him in the fog. Yellow headlights illuminate his waist.

  “Joseph!” I call.