Neatly tended ferns, shrubs, small persimmon trees. In a pond beneath a tiny waterfall, goldfish splashed.
We followed the maid to the main entrance of the home and slipped off our footwear, leaving our big clunky leather oxfords amidst a sea of feminine shoes spangled with sequins and stars and golden tassels.
The maid led us down a long wood-slat floor corridor. Oil-papered doors lined either side. Finally, we heard murmuring-the sound of prayer. Women knelt on the floor of a large hall, praying. When we entered, they turned to look at us. I couldn’t spot Miss Choi anywhere.
“They’re all mama-sans,” Ernie said.
“Hush.”
Most of the women were middle-aged and matronly. And extremely well dressed. Expensive chima-chogori, the traditional Korean attire of short vest and high-waisted skirt, rustled as they moved. The dresses were made of silk dyed in bright colors and decorated with hand-embroidered dragons and cranes and silver-threaded lotus flowers.
The far wall was covered with a huge banner: the Goddess of the Underworld, wielding a sword and vanquishing evil.
“Wasso,” one of the women said. They’ve arrived.
Then all the women rose to their feet and started rearranging their cushions into a semi-circle. Miss Choi Yong-kuang, smiling, appeared out of the milling throng. She wore a simple silk skirt and blouse of sky blue-less expensive than what most of the other women wore, but on her it looked smashing.
After bowing and shaking our hands, Miss Choi turned Ernie over to a small group of smiling women. They pulled him off to the right side of the hall. Miss Choi led me to the left side and sat me down cross-legged on a plump cushion. Low tables were brought out piled high with rice cakes and pears and sliced seaweed rolls. These were set in front of a long-eared god made of bronze who sat serenely on a raised dais in front of the banner of the Goddess of the Underworld. Incense in brass burners was lit and then an elderly woman dressed in exquisite red silk embroidered with gold danced slowly around the room, waving a small torch. Miss Choi whispered to me that she was the mistress of this home.
“Why’s she waving the torch?”
“Chasing away ghosts.” Embarrassed, Miss Choi covered her mouth with the back of her soft hand.
Gongs clanged, so loudly and with so little warning that I almost slipped off my cushion. Then sticks were beaten against thin drums. I glanced behind me and discovered that three musicians were hidden in shadows behind an embroidered screen.
The ambient light in the hallway was switched off and now the only illumination in the room was the red pinpoints of light from the smoldering incense and the flickering candles lining either side of the long-eared bronze god.
More drums and now clanging cymbals. Then silence. Breathlessly, we waited for what seemed to be a long time. Finally, the clanging resumed with renewed fervor. A woman dressed completely in white floated into the center of the kneeling and squatting spectators. A pointed hood kept her face hidden in shadows.
“Who’s she?” I asked.
“The mudang,” Miss Choi answered. “Her name is Widow Po. Very famous.”
Miss Choi Yong-kuang is an educated and modern woman. Still, there was reverence in her voice when she spoke of the Widow Po.
Across the room, Ernie reached toward one of the rice cakes on the low table in front of him. A middle-aged woman slapped his hand.
The mudang continued her dance, eyes closed as if in a trance. The musicians handled the percussion instruments expertly, keeping the rhythm. Finally, when the first beads of perspiration appeared on the mudang’s brow, other women rose to their feet and began to dance. Soon about a half dozen of them were on the floor, swirling around like slightly overweight tops.
One of the women yanked on Ernie’s wrist, trying to coax him to his feet. He hesitated, holding up his open palm, and then pointed to one of the open bottles of soju dispersed amongst the feast for the gods. She understood, grabbed the bottle, and poured a generous glug into Ernie’s open mouth. Rice wine dribbled out the side of his mouth and onto his white shirt and gray jacket. Ernie didn’t mind. He motioned for another shot and the woman obliged. Then he was on his feet, dancing as expertly as if he’d been attending ancient Korean séances all his life. Arms spread to his sides, gliding in smooth circles like some pointy-nosed, green-eyed bird of prey.
The Widow Po danced toward Ernie. When she was close enough, she grabbed his wrist and started twirling Ernie around faster. Soon the other women took their seats as my partner, Ernie Bascom, and the mudang, Widow Po, swirled around the entire floor. The rhythm of the cymbals and drums grew more frenzied. The Widow Po reached down, gracefully plucked up an open bottle of soju, and once again poured a healthy glug down Ernie’s throat. One of the women in the crowd stood and pulled off his jacket. The Widow Po’s hood fell back. She wasn’t a bad looking woman, at least ten years older than Ernie but with a strong face and high cheekbones. The blemish was the pox. The flesh of her entire face was marked by the scars of some hideous childhood disease.
Ernie didn’t seem to notice. Especially when the Widow Po started rubbing her body against his.
The matronly women in the crowd squealed with delight. Even the modest Miss Choi covered her face with both hands, attempting to hide her mirth.
Ernie motioned for more soju and the Widow Po obliged but then, after another glug had dribbled down Ernie’s cheeks, the Widow Po suddenly stopped dancing. The music stopped. Ernie kept twirling for a few seconds and then stopped dancing himself. He glanced around, confused.
The Widow Po stood in the center of the floor, her head bowed, ignoring him. Sensing that his moment in the spotlight was over, Ernie grinned, grabbed the half-full bottle of soju off the low table, and resumed his seat on the far side of the hall.
No one moved for what seemed a long time-maybe five minutes. Finally, the Widow Po screamed.
The voice was high, banshee-like. The Korean was garbled, as if from a person who was ill or in great pain, and I could understand none of it. The attention turned to one of the women in the crowd. She was plump, holding a handkerchief to her face, crying profusely. The Widow Po approached her, still using the strange, falsetto voice. Finally, the crying woman burst out.
“Hyong-ae! Wei domang kasso.”
That I understood. Why did you leave me, Hyong-ae?
The Widow Po and the crying woman went back and forth, asking questions of one another, casting accusations, arguing. I leaned toward Miss Choi with a quizzical look on my face. She explained.
“Hyong-ae was her daughter. She died in a car accident last year. Now she’s blaming her mother for buying her a car.”
“The Widow Po is playing the part of her daughter?”
“Not playing. Hyung-ae’s spirit has entered her body.”
I stared at Miss Choi for a moment, wondering if she believed that. She blushed and turned away from me. I left it alone.
The crying matron and the Widow Po screamed back and forth at one another. The mom saying now that Hyung-ae, when she was alive, wouldn’t let her rest until she bought her a car. Hyung-ae countering that a mother should know what is best for her child. They were bickering like any mother and willful young daughter and yet it was eerie. How did the Widow Po know so much about other people’s lives? I didn’t bother to ask Miss Choi about it. I knew her answer. The Widow Po was possessed by the spirit of Hyung-ae.
Suddenly, the Widow Po let out a screech of pain. She knelt to the floor, hugging herself, and remained perfectly still for a few minutes. Without a cue, the musicians started again and then the Widow Po was up and dancing and a few minutes later she yelled again. This time an old grandfather took possession of her body. Another woman in the crowd spoke to this ghostly presence, giving him a report on the welfare of the family. When she was finished, the old man scolded her for not forcing his grandchildren to study hard enough.