First, the puffed face of Kim Ji-na. It meant only one thing. She was pregnant. Second, the claim that Corporal Greene had stolen her money. Most GIs, once they pay, never ask for their money back, especially if they know they are leaving forever and leaving the Korean woman with child. They’re soft hearted, these Americans. Most of them anyway. And third, the beating Ji-na had received. The wounds to the nose and eyes probably were self-inflicted, to gain sympathy from whoever would listen. The nails bent back and broken, most likely as a result of holding onto Corporal Greene and begging him not to leave. Whatever damage Greene had caused to the body of Kim Ji-na was probably in self-defense as he tried to flee. And finally, the claim that he had left her early, before the day of his flight out of the country. Why hadn’t he stayed with her until the very end? Because he’d seen the need in her, a need that he could not meet, and he’d fled in fear, in fear of having his young life held back by the needs of a young Korean business girl who was now with child.
The reason Kim Ji-na wanted to see Corporal Greene wasn’t to recover her money. The real reason was that she wanted to beg him not to leave her. And if he was going to leave her anyway, despite her pleas, Kim Ji-na knew that her life was over. At least a life that would have any shred of self-respect. And Kim Ji-na, like so many of these young cast-off country girls who find their way to Itaewon, wasn’t tough enough to live a life without self-respect. So, if Kim Ji-na had to leave her life behind, she would force Greene to leave his behind as well.
When she reached the old wooden armoire, Kimiko slid open drawers. There, beneath a folded silk comforter, sat the pile she’d knew she’d find. Stacks of blue money. MPC. Military Payment Certificates printed by the U.S. Army so they wouldn’t have to pay their troops in greenbacks. Kimiko pulled out the stack and counted it. Over four hundred dollars. Two months’ pay for a corporal. What Greene had left with Ji-na to get her by until she could give birth to their child. That’s why he’d been pulling extra duty at night, probably being paid to do so. Put the baby up for adoption, that’s what he would’ve told Kim Ji-na. I have to return to the States. Return to my family. I have to continue with my education. Get on with my life. Kimiko had heard it all before. In tearful conversation after tearful conversation, until she’d grown weary of the whole repetitive drama.
Kimiko thought of leaving some of the money but decided against it. No sense letting the Korean National Police divide it amongst themselves. Instead, she stuffed the bills into the deep folds of her skirt pockets.
Kim Ji-na continued to stare forward, as if gazing longingly into a better world where a crust of rice wouldn’t be the biggest treat of the day. The sharp chopping knife, blade smeared with blood, lay by her side.
Apparently, she’d waited until Greene fell asleep. He’d probably woken with a start, feeling the blade chop into his heart, and then passed out again in shock.
How had Kimiko been so certain that Ji-na would go through with it?
Intuition. She’d seen so many country girls ruined by GIs. Some of them killed themselves; only a few of them had the courage to take the GI with them.
Kim Ji-na had that courage.
Across the street, a rooster crowed.
Kimiko scooted closer to Kim Ji-na and once again touched her cheek.
“In prison,” Kimiko whispered, “you’ll never have to worry about hunger again. They’ll feed you every day.”
Ji-na didn’t answer.
Being careful not to disturb the carnage surrounding her, Kimiko backed quietly out of the hooch.
Outside, Kimiko strode through the dark alleys of Itaewon. The bundle of cash in her skirt swung impatiently against her thigh. She thought of Corporal Greene and Kim Ji-na and the baby that would be born in a few months. She wanted to cry but she knew she wouldn’t. Those tears had been shed many years ago. There were no more left. But even if there were, what good would they do?
Marley’s Ghost
by John C. Boland
“I saw Vlad in New York. He looks better.”
“Did you speak?” Charles Marley asked.
“Of course not. No point in opening old wounds.” Oleg sipped tea, glanced at the wintry bustle on Connecticut Avenue, and steered the conversation back to his book. “The work on my memoir is three-quarters finished, more than three-quarters. But the publisher has lost enthusiasm. There are too many memoirs from the period, they say.”
“There have been others,” Marley agreed.
“If pages full of lies are a memoir, then you are both right.” Oleg squeezed the cup onto its saucer with a rattle. He settled back. It was warm in the hotel dining room, but he wore his expensive overcoat on his shoulders to prevent its being stolen. He had held his cup the same way, Charles Marley thought, and to the publisher’s dismay, Oleg had probably held tightly to his better secrets as well.
After both men had been silent for a minute, Oleg said, “We were onto him early. I’m speaking of Vlad. You only received from him what we intended for you to have.”
“He was never productive,” Marley agreed. The words triggered an unwanted thought that if Vlad had been productive the intelligence service might have taken better care of him. He said, “Is Vlad in your book?”
“No, I would not embarrass you, my old friend.” Sighing, Oleg added, “Besides, this publisher wants tales of adventure, when I am not giving away the dirty little secrets. Vladimir Davidovich was nothing, there was no excitement in capturing him. He was a coward who finally told us everything he knew. Where is the value in such a story? In our time, Charles, we seldom encountered adversaries worthy of us. Don’t you agree?”
“When you saw Vlad, where was he?”
Oleg raised his hands. “Near my publisher’s building. Let me tell you, I was surprised. A taxi had brought me from the train station and when I got out almost the first thing I saw was this bony rat’s face from the old days. He did not notice me. He was operating a vendor’s cart, and a policeman was arguing with him.” Between his fingers, Oleg laughed. “Still getting into trouble, after all these years.”
For a moment, Marley dropped his gaze to his cup. The coffee had gone cold. He thought he could leave.
Oleg shook a finger at him. “Your people were always so sanctimonious about our handling of social parasites. Well, what did you expect? We produced so many of them! Vladimir Davidovich is proof that some people will end at the bottom of whatever society adopts them. Don’t you agree?”
The thought of being locked in a warm taxicab repelled Marley, so he walked to his hospital board meeting. For the first block he managed to focus his mind on the frozen Washington sidewalks. Ribbons of ice curled across the pavement. The streets in Moscow had always been cleared, even after an unexpected October snowfall. Politics might thaw, but not the streets. And the politics hadn’t changed much. Even in a thaw, Marley reflected, we needed something to occupy us, so we went on recruiting. He had met the young graduate student from the Moscow Conservatory four months after the Berlin Wall fell, in the apartment of a journalist. Innocent and fun, the evening had had no agenda except a well-lubricated celebration. Vladimir said it was as if all Europe’s windows had opened at once. “Fresh air makes us giddy,” he said.
I was giddy too, Marley thought. But my job was to muck around. It wasn’t just habit that kept me doing it. We still had to know what was going on in the ruling cliques, how far Gorbachev would go, which way the Army would march. Had the arrests steered off a KGB coup? Important questions. What we thought we could do with the answers wasn’t clear, but I never saw our section as a headless body going on without a purpose. The purpose was as important as it had ever been. It was only after the fact that you knew how things turned out.