Dubrovnik’s body was shipped back to the States. It was over. All killings had been accounted for. Nothing left but to burn incense at their graves.
The blue silk of her dress hugged the curves of her body like wet paper clinging to a baby’s cheek. Her face was a smooth oval with shining black eyes and full lips and I recognized her immediately. The wife of the late Lee Ok-pyong.
We stood at Gate 4 on the edge of 8th Army’s Yongsan Compound near the district of Seoul known as Samgak-ji. She had asked the security guards at the gate to phone me at the CID headquarters. When I received the mysterious call I hurried out here.
Holding a black patent leather handbag in front of her waist, she nodded to me, sort of a half bow. Then she spoke in Korean, telling me that she wanted to talk.
Signing her on compound would be a hassle; she’d have to give up her Korean National Identification Card, and it would be a long walk back to the CID office. Instead, I gestured toward Samgak-ji. She nodded again and we strode about a half block down the road until we found a tea shop that was open. Once we were seated, she ordered boli cha, tea made from barley, and I ordered the more expensive ginseng version. The pigtailed teenage waitress brought us our drinks. When she left, I sipped my tea and waited for Mrs. Lee to begin.
She kept her head bowed for what seemed a long time. I spent the time admiring her. She was a goodlooking woman, a widow now, no children. Her perfume smelled of orchids. Probably, she’d be remarried in no time. But why had she come to visit me? Finally she spoke, using a measured and simple Korean that I could follow.
“I am sorry for having been angry with you. At the time, I blamed you and your friend for my husband’s death. For having destroyed our tranquility. Now I realize that the fault was with this man Sergeant Two.”
“Sergeant Dubrovnik,” I said.
She nodded. “Yes. And also my husband was much to blame. He hoped to make enough money so we could go into business for ourselves. Maybe buy a little tea shop like this one.” She looked around at the sturdy wooden furnishings, then turned her moist eyes back to mine. “But he wasn’t a criminal. This was the first time he’d ever done anything like that.”
I nodded. Waiting for her to tell me why she had come. Was it just to apologize for being rude to a cop? If I wasn’t used to that, I’d have to get out of the business.
She lowered her head once again, thinking over what she would say next. “I have a job, on the American compound where my husband used to work. In the same office.”
The Port of Inchon Transportation Office. That wasn’t unusual. The Foreign Organization Employees Union is the most powerful union in the country. When one of their members dies an untimely death, they take steps to provide as best they can for the surviving family members. There’s no welfare in Korea. No food stamps and no social security. The only thing the union can do is use its influence to land a job for an able-bodied member of the surviving family. In this case, Mrs. Lee herself.
A handkerchief emerged from her handbag and Mrs. Lee dabbed her eyes.
I knew it was coming now, the reason she’d gone to all the trouble to find me. I was prepared for a surprise, but this one took me completely off guard.
“I want you to meet with me,” she said. “I want you to tell me everything about the case, about what happened to my husband.”
“We can talk about that right here,” I said.
“No. You have to get back to work and there are too many people around.”
I studied the layout of the tea shop again to make sure I hadn’t missed something. There were about a half dozen customers, two waitresses, and one young man behind the serving counter; none of them within earshot of our conversation.
She looked boldly into my eyes. “I want to meet you,” she said. “So you and I can be alone.”
I’m dumb but not that dumb. As coolly as I could, I agreed.
For the next two weeks, all my off-duty time was spent with the Widow Lee. She had to work in Inchon and I had to work about thirty miles away in Seoul. Some nights we met in between at a Korean-style inn with a warm ondol floor in the city of Kimpo right near the airport that services the capital city. We’d lie together and hear the big jets fly over us and listen to Korean music, and when we found time, eat Korean food. She seemed desperately in need of someone to be near her.
For me it was as if someone had lifted a weight off my shoulders. The weight of living in a world in which no one cared about me. Not personally. I was a soldier. Only that. A number on a military clerk’s morning report. But now I was a person. A person who was close to someone who laughed when I was happy and shed tears when I was sad.
She taught me more Korean. Together we translated an ancient poem. It told of two lovers who were “as happy as two goldfish in a pond.”
That was us.
She told me about her job. She filled out the bills of lading for the imported American goods that were transported from the Port of Inchon to the Main PX in Seoul. The same thing her husband had done. Gradually, she started to tell me of the mistakes her husband had made. Before she could go on, I changed the subject. I wanted to talk about the goldfish. The next time we met, she brought up her job again.
Ernie clicked his fingernail against my coffee cup.
“Wake up,” he told me. “We have to go to work here in a minute and you’re still sleeping.”
We sat in the 8th Army snack bar on Yongsan Compound, wearing clean white shirts and ties and jackets, having one last cup of java before heading up the hill to the CID office to begin our regular workday.
“And you’re developing bags under your eyes,” Ernie continued. “The Widow Lee is putting you through one serious workout.”
“Can it, Ernie.”
“Oh. That much in love, are we?”
I pushed my coffee aside, placed both my hands on the small Formica covered table, and stared him straight in the eye. “So what if I am?”
Ernie’s eyes widened and he leaned back. “Easy, pal. I didn’t know you were taking this so seriously.”
“Yeah. I’ve been taking it seriously. I’ve been taking her seriously. The last couple of weeks have been about the best couple of weeks of my life.”
“Okay. Fine. So what’s bothering you?”
“What’s bothering me is that I don’t know what to do.”
“Hey, relax and enjoy it. Just don’t get married.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Ernie’s eyes crinkled in puzzlement, something that doesn’t happen to him much. He has the world figured out. Or at least he thinks he does.
“Then what are you talking about?” he asked.
“I’m meeting her tonight at the same yoguan in Kimpo. Drive me out there in the jeep. Hang around. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”
Before he could ask more questions, I rose from the table, strode out of the big, fogged-glass double doors of the snack bar, and marched up the hill to the CID office.
That night the Widow Lee and I went to the best restaurant in Kimpo. I ordered kalbi, marinated short ribs braised over an open charcoal fire. When we were finished, we walked arm in arm back to the yoguan. After we hung up our coats and relaxed, she pulled a wad of paperwork out of her purse. She sat next to me on the warm floor and held my hand and spoke earnestly to me for what must’ve been almost an hour. Most of what she said, I didn’t listen to. The bills of lading she handed to me, those I did pay attention to. Duplicates. With differing amounts of product listed on each.