Several days later, I heard that Sunyoung was sentenced to life in prison and that Guard Lee was scheduled to be executed. That was all anyone heard. Their names were never to be mentioned again—that was the strict order from the hotel manager at the morning meeting. I wouldn’t see Sunyoung again in this life.
In the late spring and early summer, the dancers and officers sometimes went out on weekends for recreation. It was a mid June morning when a group of us took the hotel bus for the annual trip to Mt. Taesong Resort. The bus drove through hills for the better part of an hour, and out the window we saw grazing deer and the waterfall on Lake Mich’on. As usual, we first stopped at the Revolutionary Patriot Memorial on the mountain in order to pay tribute to national heroes. It was my fourth visit to the memorial since I’d joined the hotel, but the imposing red granite busts of the martyrs still frightened me.
Arriving at the resort, we saw that several couples were having wedding pictures taken. One bride wore a purple hatibok with white azalea flowers spread all over the skirt. She posed with a big smile, holding her husband’s left arm tightly. He had a small build, and the wide skirt of her hanbok overwhelmed him.
“Wow, their first child will be a girl,” Youngmi snapped, as we looked at that couple from the bus.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Haven’t you heard that if the bride smiles on the wedding day, the couple will have a daughter? Look at her! They’ll have a dozen daughters.” She pouted, her lower lip sticking out slightly.
“But on a day of celebration, smiling looks much better than a serious face.” I wasn’t buying it.
We watched them jealously for a while. The weather was good, and people walked, smiled, and played games in groups everywhere. It was on that day that I first met Seunggyu. He was a friend of Jongmu, the hotel manager’s son.
As soon as we got off the bus, we sat down on an empty patch of grass and opened our lunch box, prepared by Cook Kim at 5 A.M. According to his logic, people like us, who use our knees and jump around all the time, should eat plenty of protein. His main dishes always contained small anchovies, black beans, and egg roll with rice and kimchi.
“Does he think we’ll jump around today too?”
The dancers grumbled about Cook Kim’s lunch. Most of them hated anchovies because you could see their eyes.
“Jia, here you go.”
I finished off my anchovies at every meal, so the others called me “anchovy girl” and often gave me theirs. I liked Cook Kim’s way of frying them with sugar and millet jelly; they were crispy, like a snack. My grandmother would cook them that way, and my sister and I quarreled over who could eat more.
We had almost finished the lunch when Jongmu and Seunggyu came and joined us.
“Why did you guys wear your military uniforms? You’re screwing up the relaxing atmosphere,” the oldest dancer, Myungha, said, poking fun. Jongmu, a soldier, was like a member of our family. He always boasted that he was the only male dancer and that he had to take care of more than 50 women.
“We had an unexpected training program. You should appreciate it—people will assume we’re bodyguards, protecting the pretty women.”
“Then don’t sit down next to us, stand up and concentrate on your duty,” Myungha teased.
“Oh, not you, sister. You don’t need our protection; no one would want you.”
“You birdbrain—” She shook her head and we all laughed.
“By the way, this is my friend, Seunggyu,” Jongmu said. “We train together, so I dragged him here.” Jongmu patted his friend’s back and gave me a smile. I knew Seunggyu by sight; I had run into him several times in the hallways behind the stage.
Seunggyu just nodded his head slightly. A dapper figure, he had big eyes, like a cow, with long eyelashes and no eyelids. I couldn’t believe such a pretty face could endure military training.
We sang and danced casually; some dancers tried to copy the moves of others, and the laughter and chatting never stopped. Director Park brought her husband, who looked much older than she, and their daughter. As a couple, they looked more like father and daughter; his good smile and humor must have attracted her.
“I brought paduk. Let’s play,” Director Park’s husband, Sangwoo, said. He took the folded paduk board and two small jars with black and white pieces out of his big backpack. He proudly unfolded the board. “I bought this one when I went to China. It’s portable. So convenient!”
Seunggyu stood up and said, “That’s for old people. It’s a waste of time. You comrades go ahead, but think about it: we’re outside to enjoy the sun and fresh air, not to stare at a small square board.” He seemed to be talking in my direction, and, dusting off his backside, he suddenly fixed his eyes on me. “Hey. Let’s go on some rides.” He smoothed his crinkled uniform.
I looked around at the others and back at him again, but his eyes didn’t move. Sangwoo said, smirking, “Jia, he is asking you out. You shouldn’t turn him down, he’ll lose face.” People chuckled.
Seunggyu blushed up to the tips of his ears and shot a fiery glance at Sangwoo. “She’s the only one who looks active. That’s all. That’s why I’m asking her.” His face reminded me of a red carrot. “Are you coming or not? If you want to go, let’s go right now before more people rush over there.”
We went on the rides and walked around the zoo, the fountain, and the botanical garden. It had been announced that outdoor swimming would not begin until the next weekend, but the area was already packed with people. It was difficult to enjoy those places in a crowd, and I was tired of walking and standing in long lines.
Seunggyu wasn’t very talkative. “I’ve seen your performances several times,” he said finally.
I looked at him with wide eyes, but he was watching some wolves, lazily napping in their cage.
When we got back to the grass, the others were gone. I looked around and saw that the bus wasn’t there either.
Seunggyu laughed. “Look! The old people left early to take a nap! Let’s go back. I’ll take you home.”
The next day, when I showed up in the practice room, dancers rushed up to me in excitement and asked about what we did, where we went, and how Seunggyu treated me. I might as well have been an exotic animal at the zoo. I just joked with them, “Cook Kim was smart—he must have known I actually would use my legs a lot yesterday. All I remember is how much we walked.”
They giggled. “You can take all of our anchovies at lunch today,” one said. “We’re sure he’ll make them again for you.”
After our day out, Seunggyu often came to my performances and waited to take me home. Having somebody wait for me gave me a warm feeling. Since Sunyoung’s arrest, I had become more reserved. I no longer intended to open my heart to others. When each day’s activities are all arranged for you, you simply wake up, go through the motions, and prepare for the next day; you don’t have to think about anything else. I tried not to notice the emptiness growing inside me.
When Seunggyu came along, the road I had been walking alone was no longer empty. His confidence about life became mine as well.
At the hotel, I was happy, and there was nothing to worry about. Sunyoung’s story was fading into the past. I danced for myself, striving to be as professional as the other dancers, and sometimes I even got the main part in a performance. After four years at the hotel, I had grown fond of everyone. It didn’t take much effort to perform the same dances for guests and sell the same items at the souvenir shop. I practiced hard, every day. I was satisfied with everything around me and was becoming concerned only for myself.