a piece of sizzling meat through the mix of coarse salt and sesame oil, and added it to the leaf with some diced spring onion. Next, she carefully folded the leaf until it was a tightly-packed bite size and placed it, loose ends down, on my rice. I picked up the package in my chopsticks, popped it in my mouth, and met her enquiring look with enthusiastic nods. It had my approval, and she was visibly pleased.
When she got over the initial surprise that I could converse in Korean she chatted incessantly, telling me she was single and that all her free time was spent at a nearby church where the minister was a very great man. She loved her church which was like a second family to her. She repeated this several times in slightly different language, as if unsure that I could grasp its importance.
I was glad when at last she left me alone. I felt for the lonely soul, her peasant roots and sad looks condemning her to a lowly job and a solitary life in a society where women who failed to marry and to breed barely merited inclusion on the social register.
My thoughts turned to Jung-hwa. She would be nearly forty now. I wondered if she had children, and what life was like with a bastard like Schwartz for a husband. Better than anything I ever offered her, was the obvious answer. When I picked up the beer bottle it came off the table too quickly; I had already drained it. Shameless drunken escapism screamed loud, and I was in Itaewon to wash away fears old and new. I called for the bill, tipped the waitress generously, and hurried out in search of a glimpse of my past.
Â
On that first night in the Cowboy Club, the sexy Miss Kim surprised me. We danced and drank and talked and laughed and danced some more. I remembered the tease and the seeming promise of the slow numbers, âCareless Whisperâ and âMidnight Train to Georgiaâ, songs that today still take me back to that dingy club all those years ago, still inspire a memory-driven stirring of the loins.
The surprise was in her refusal to come home with me. She took no offence at the request, but no matter how hard I pushed the point, she held her ground. At three in the morning, I walked her to a cab. She lived with her family so I couldnât have her phone number, but she did take mine after a little persuasion and promised to call. As she waved at me through the back window of the taxi, I almost believed her. Then she was gone, without so much as a goodnight kiss. Bobby and I eventually rounded off the night at the infamous Flower Shop. Not many flowers, but a great deal of money changed hands in the Flower Shopâs back rooms. We each took a shop girl through the back for a short time . How short was immaterial, since I was so drunk that when I awoke the next morning I would never have recalled even being there if not for the wilted carnation pinned to my shirt pocket. I couldnât remember a single thing about the whore I had been with, but clear and sharp was the memory of Miss Kimâs amused expression when I forced my telephone number on her as she clambered into the back of the taxi.
One morning a few days later, the phone woke me early. On the telephone her English became even more self-assured, and we talked and laughed like old friends. She agreed to meet me that Friday night.
The NFL was an Itaewon institution, one of the earliest American-run discos with decent music, cold beer and hot and cold running local women. Local men who made the mistake of trying to climb the club steps were politely turned away by the ever-smiling Amerasian bodybuilder who reigned supreme at the door.
The club belonged to a football-mad American soldier-turned-civilian whose Korean wife handled the minefield that was licensing and local government and police corruption. She did such a good job that prosperity grew unimpeded for years until she caught her husband with another woman. Divorce negotiations started out nasty but soon fell away, and within days the
When she got over the initial surprise that I could converse in Korean she chatted incessantly, telling me she was single and that all her free time was spent at a nearby church where the minister was a very great man. She loved her church which was like a second family to her. She repeated this several times in slightly different language, as if unsure that I could grasp its importance.
I was glad when at last she left me alone. I felt for the lonely soul, her peasant roots and sad looks condemning her to a lowly job and a solitary life in a society where women who failed to marry and to breed barely merited inclusion on the social register.
My thoughts turned to Jung-hwa. She would be nearly forty now. I wondered if she had children, and what life was like with a bastard like Schwartz for a husband. Better than anything I ever offered her, was the obvious answer. When I picked up the beer bottle it came off the table too quickly; I had already drained it. Shameless drunken escapism screamed loud, and I was in Itaewon to wash away fears old and new. I called for the bill, tipped the waitress generously, and hurried out in search of a glimpse of my past.
Â
On that first night in the Cowboy Club, the sexy Miss Kim surprised me. We danced and drank and talked and laughed and danced some more. I remembered the tease and the seeming promise of the slow numbers, âCareless Whisperâ and âMidnight Train to Georgiaâ, songs that today still take me back to that dingy club all those years ago, still inspire a memory-driven stirring of the loins.
The surprise was in her refusal to come home with me. She took no offence at the request, but no matter how hard I pushed the point, she held her ground. At three in the morning, I walked her to a cab. She lived with her family so I couldnât have her phone number, but she did take mine after a little persuasion and promised to call. As she waved at me through the back window of the taxi, I almost believed her. Then she was gone, without so much as a goodnight kiss. Bobby and I eventually rounded off the night at the infamous Flower Shop. Not many flowers, but a great deal of money changed hands in the Flower Shopâs back rooms. We each took a shop girl through the back for a short time . How short was immaterial, since I was so drunk that when I awoke the next morning I would never have recalled even being there if not for the wilted carnation pinned to my shirt pocket. I couldnât remember a single thing about the whore I had been with, but clear and sharp was the memory of Miss Kimâs amused expression when I forced my telephone number on her as she clambered into the back of the taxi.
One morning a few days later, the phone woke me early. On the telephone her English became even more self-assured, and we talked and laughed like old friends. She agreed to meet me that Friday night.
The NFL was an Itaewon institution, one of the earliest American-run discos with decent music, cold beer and hot and cold running local women. Local men who made the mistake of trying to climb the club steps were politely turned away by the ever-smiling Amerasian bodybuilder who reigned supreme at the door.
The club belonged to a football-mad American soldier-turned-civilian whose Korean wife handled the minefield that was licensing and local government and police corruption. She did such a good job that prosperity grew unimpeded for years until she caught her husband with another woman. Divorce negotiations started out nasty but soon fell away, and within days the
Similar Books
