“What’s your name?” I asked.
She shook her head and her black hair fluttered like a raven’s wing. “Not important.”
“You’re not Korean,” I said. “You’re Chinese.”
“Many Chinese in Korea. Since the revolution.”
“Why do vou work for Herbalist So?”
“Who?”
“So Boncho-ga.”
“Oh. Because he is a very kind man.”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Then why did he hit me over the head?”
“He did not hit you over the head. Those boys did.” A disapproving expression crossed the soft features of her face. “They are very bad.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Very bad.”
I pushed myself up. Ernie rose too, still swiveling his head around, looking for a monster to leap out of the dark so he could bust him in the chops.
We followed the beautiful Chinese woman through the carved opening in the stone, into the darkness that led to Herbalist So.
17
Wemade two turns, doubling back on ourselves through narrow passageways. It was cold down here and getting colder. I admired the goose-bumped flesh on the arms of the Chinese girl and wondered how she could stand the frigid temperatures.
Our path was lit by small oil lamps flickering out of indentations carved in the granite walls. Whoever set up this operation had little faith in electricity.
Mining must’ve gone on down here at one time or another. At the opening to an old shaft I spotted rusty rails and what appeared to be a cast-iron mining car. Probably an antique.
A shroud of smoke drifted close to the floor, snaking its way into the dark shaft.
At another carved opening, this one covered only with a beaded curtain, the Chinese girl bowed and motioned for us to enter. I nodded to her and watched as she trotted back into the darkness.
“Nice can,” Ernie said.
I grunted. He never lets up.
The beads clattered as we pushed through. This chamber was even darker than the hallway. In- side, there were no lamps. Instead, the sparse flames of stone stoves sputtered beneath thick earthen pots. The room was filled with the pungent aroma of herbs. Some tangy, some sweet. All types of herbs. Seared, boiled, roasted. I felt as if I had stepped into the den of some long-lost medieval alchemist.
Along the walls were plain wooden cabinets, each lined with hundreds of square panels. A wooden knob poked out of each little panel and every one was marked in black ink with a Chinese character. I couldn’t read all of the characters but most of them had the radicals for “wood” or “plant” or “horn.” The collection of herbs in the wall of tiny drawers was vast. It must’ve taken years to accumulate.
Something moved.
At first I thought it was nothing more than a shawl draped over the back of a chair. Then I realized it was a man, hunched over one of the small pots.
“Good evening, Agent Sueno,” he said.
His voice resonated with venerable authority. To my amazement he even pronounced my name correctly.
Ernie stepped toward one of the stoves and grabbed a pair of metal tongs.
“Ah,” the man said, “and Agent Bascom. So good of you to join us.”
Ernie spat on the floor.
I decided to answer in Korean. And not politely.
“Wei uri chapko deiri wasso?” Why did you drag us here?
The man known as So Boncho-ga, Herbalist So, stood up. He was tall for a Korean, with a back that was crooked only when he leaned over his pots.
Bulging eyes glistened in the dim light like eggs swimming in water. From a tangled bush of gray hair, a bronze forehead slanted downward, lined with deep wrinkles, making the skull that housed his brain seem as solid and as secure as the steep flight of stone steps which led to his kingdom.
He reached forward with a pair of rusty tongs that were almost as crooked as his fingers and moved a steaming pot from one fire to another. When he looked back at me his full lips moved, enunciating the English as if he had been born a first cousin to the House of Windsor.
“You employ our mother tongue well,” Herbalist So said. “Even the indirect insult. Quite admirable.”
He puttered amongst his pots for a moment or two, finished some obscure chore, stepped forward, then turned his full attention toward me.
“Are you familiar with Chinese medicine, Agent Sueno?”
I could’ve tried to hard-ass him. Make him answer my question. But I knew the door behind us was barred and I doubted that there was any other way out of this damp cave. Besides, his boys probably weren’t far away. I had to go along with him. For now.
Ernie still stood motionless. I didn’t know how long that would last.
“I know that a lot of Koreans believe in Chinese medicine,” I replied.
“Oh, yes. They certainly do. And for good reason. There are many secrets locked in these herbs. Secrets that I have spent my life trying to unravel.”
“But it’s only a hobby for you,” I said. “Not your main line of work.”
He chuckled at that.
“Yes, you’re right. Not my main line of work. It was at one time, though. When I was young. Even our Japanese overlords believed in Chinese medicine. They had no objection to us plying our trade as long as all prescriptions were written in their foul language.” He turned, spat on the floor, and stared directly at Ernie.
Ernie tightened his grip on the tongs. Herbalist So looked back at me.
“This chamber.” He waved his arm. “It was carved out of natural formations that were discovered when dropping a new well in the area behind Itaewon. The local chief of the partisans decided to use it for his headquarters.”
I stared at him, trying to discover the source of the pride that rang in his voice. I said nothing.
“Yes. That’s right. The chief of the partisans was my father.”
With a damp cheesecloth he wiped residue dripping from an earthen spout.
“We held classes down here. I was one of the students. The Japanese had forbidden us Koreans to speak or read or write our own language. Everything had to be conducted in Japanese. To keep our own culture was risky, but we did it. After four thousand years of Korean history, did they really think their brutal methods could turn us into second-rate Japanese?”
I didn’t have an answer for him.
“Of course not,” he said. “Have you been to south post on your own compound lately? The old prison there?”
“Yes. I’ve seen the bullet holes in the wall,” I said.
“The Japanese executed many Koreans. Some of them just before you Americans arrived, after their Emperor surrendered. The Imperial Army from your compound made a final raid on Itaewon and the surrounding areas. With the thought that our misery was almost over, my father was careless. They caught him, up above. Two days later they executed him. The following day an American troop ship landed at the port of Inchon.”
One of the pots started to bubble. He rushed toward it, lifted it with a thick pad, and with a charred stick rearranged the glowing coals beneath.
I could see more clearly now and I searched the walls. They were mostly carved stone but there were some spots that were darker than others. My bet was that there were back entrances. If these chambers had been used by_armed men resisting the Japanese, they would’ve had more than one means of escape. There had to be ventilation. The smoke from the pots drifted back to the entranceway, toward the old mining shaft we had seen on the way in.
“After the war,” Herbalist So said, “we Koreans had nothing. The Japanese, yes, set up some industry. But its purpose was to export raw materials back to their heathen islands. The rest of our economy was utterly devastated. Still, we started to rebuild.”
“And then the Communists came south?”
He looked at me sharply, wondering if I was mocking his slow tale. I kept my face unrevealing.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Armies paraded up and down our peninsula. First the North Koreans, then you Americans, then the Chinese. We were poor before, but after our own civil war we were desperate.”