– 24-
We were in the jeep now, following Miss Lee and Mr. Fancy Suit west out of Tongduchon into the rugged hills dividing the Eastern and Western Corridors. These roads were two-lane affairs with plenty of mud and gravel interspersed at inconvenient spots, just waiting to toss unwary motorists into a ditch. Every couple of miles or so, another small farm village with straw-thatched homes pressed right up against the edge of the road. Only occasionally did we see a streetlamp. Ernie wanted to turn his high-beams on, but didn’t dare because he didn’t want to be spotted by the couple in the Hyundai sedan ahead of us. So far, he was doing an excellent job, keeping their brake lights visible as they swerved around bends.
Ernie was the best driver I’d ever seen. He could wend his way through the manic Seoul traffic like a shark slicing through tuna, all the while seeming completely unconcerned; leaning back in his seat, fingers touching lightly on the bottom of the steering wheel, appearing for all the world to be a Zen monk in a trance. But when he put on speed he was fearless, absorbing road conditions and traffic like a UNIVAC computer processing data.
The brake lights ahead of us flashed red and then stopped. A turn indicator blinked. The guy veered left.
“Where the hell is he going?” Ernie asked.
“Off the beaten track,” I replied.
The road between the Eastern and Western Corridors was heavily traveled, but as far as I knew, there wasn’t much on either side except rice paddies and hills. I’d never noticed a cross street until now.
We turned left and followed for about a half-mile and the road narrowed, barely wide enough for two cars and no white dividing line down the middle. Ernie downshifted. “Slope,” he said. The engine growled as we rolled steeply downhill.
The forest around us was pitch black. Drooping branches of evergreen trees reached out to grab us. After a few minutes, Ernie said, “How long since we passed a village?”
“At least three miles,” I replied.
“We’re out in the boonies now.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Since leaving Camp Casey we’d climbed mostly uphill, winding through country roads. I figured we’d been traveling almost a half-hour and were about halfway to the Western Corridor. But now we were descending into some sort of valley. The road twisted and turned, leaving us blind to anything more than a few yards ahead. Ernie switched on his high beams. “I don’t give a shit,” he said.
He was right not to; it didn’t matter if they realized we were behind them now. Out here, there was no way to blend in with the traffic because there wasn’t any. Suddenly, just within visibility, a yellow sign loomed indicating a sharp turn in the road with a red arrow pointing to our right. Ernie slammed on the brakes, downshifted once again and, expertly maintaining traction, took the corner.
As we pulled out of the turn, he listened for a moment and said, “What’s that?”
To our left was the sound of water rushing over rocks.
“Whitewater,” I said. “It’s a river.”
“So if I hadn’t made that last turn, we would’ve crashed over an embankment.”
“Like they told us in driver’s ed classes, this ain’t the States.”
“Who needs the States?” Ernie said. “Boring.”
Now the road ran evenly along the edge of the river. Up ahead, through trees, I spotted lights. “We’re almost there,” I said.
Ernie slowed. A few yards on, we passed a sign. It was composed of a huge slice of tree trunk, varnished and carved with giant Chinese characters and smaller hangul lettering.
“What’s it say?” Ernie asked.
Only a dim bulb illuminated it.
“I can only make out the Chinese characters,” I said. “One says ‘chamber,’ and the other says ‘heaven.’”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Ernie rolled slowly into a half-acre gravel parking lot strewn with Korean-made sedans, almost all of them black. Beyond that, lit up like a Macy’s Christmas display, was a traditional Korean building with a large wooden entrance gate, stone stairway and tiled roof with shingles upturned at the edges.
“Freaking Disneyland,” Ernie said.
“Better than that,” I replied. “It’s a kisaeng house.” A place where businessmen could relax with beautiful, elegant hostesses to attend to their every need.
“Nice,” Ernie said. He switched off the jeep’s headlights and found a place to park away from the other vehicles. “Far enough from Seoul that the wife can’t find you, but close enough that you can drive up here in less than an hour.”
We climbed out of the jeep and stood in awe of the glimmering edifice.
“Must be expensive,” Ernie said. He patted the envelope with what was left of our expense account.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said. “We’d run through that before we sat down. Besides, a class joint like this doesn’t allow Miguks.” Americans.
“Good,” Ernie replied. “I’m glad they maintain high standards.”
We walked through the parking lot, hoping we could spot the sedan that belonged to Mr. Fancy Suit. But we hadn’t been able to make out his license number, and all the vehicles looked alike. Ernie placed his palm on the hoods of a few of the cars. Most of them were cold. Finally he found one that was still warm.
“This must be it,” he said.
I pulled out my notebook and jotted down the license plate number.
Then we looked at the entranceway. Inside, gorgeous women in traditional Korean gowns, chima-jeogori, flitted back and forth on seemingly urgent errands.
“You think they’ll like us?” Ernie asked.
“I’m sure they’ll be charmed,” I replied.
We trotted up the stone steps.
When we entered, a woman in a beautifully embroidered white silk dress almost dropped the silver tray she was carrying, which would’ve been a shame, because balanced atop it was a bottle of Johnny Walker Black scotch, a bowl of ice with tongs, and four crystalline shot glasses.
“Andei,” she said, her mouth falling open. Not permissible.
I smiled at her and waved, and we were just about to search the private rooms that stretched down the hallway when Mr. Fancy suit, accompanied by three other Korean men in suits, stepped out of what looked like an administrative office. They walked right past us, as if we weren’t there, and Ernie and I watched them go. The four of them trotted down the steps and Mr. Fancy Suit turned to the other three, bowed, and said some words of farewell. Then he hurried across the gravel lot and climbed into the still-warm sedan that we’d surmised was his. He started the engine, backed out a few yards, and sped off into the night. The other men walked back into the kisaeng house.
“Excuse me,” I said to them in English.
They were grim-faced and businesslike. A couple had huge calluses on their knuckles, as if they’d spent years practicing martial arts.
I continued to speak in English. “The woman who came with that man. Miss Lee. I’d like to speak with her.”
No hint of understanding on their blank faces. I started to repeat myself in Korean, but one of them put out his hand, the palm flat toward me, to indicate that I shouldn’t speak. Then he moved away, but as he did so, he crooked his finger for me to follow. In Korean custom, it’s an insult to do that to an adult. An adult should be beckoned by waving your hand palm downward. Still, I overlooked it and followed the three men down the hallway. Ernie followed a few yards behind, and I motioned for him to wait here.