Her face was confused, squinting in the dark, and then her eyes zeroed in on Ming.
She bowed to him, placing both hands demurely in front of her waist. “Ming Sonseing-nim.” Honorable Teacher Ming.
Ming bowed in return and motioned toward me, speaking in his broken English. “This is Agent Sueno, from Eighth Army. Maybe you talk to him, about your case.”
Ming smiled so broadly I could see his back molars.
Madame Hoh stared at him. She was no youngster, pushing forty, and they looked like hard years. Her cheeks were puffed, as were the wrinkles surrounding her eyes. There was suspicion in them, and a hardness. It was clear she wasn’t pleased with Ming.
She motioned for us to sit. We did. She adjusted her long silk gown and sat on the straight-backed chair opposite us.
“My case,” she said, using English, “is closed.” She stared directly at him. “You knew that, Mr. Ming.”
“Yes, but it has never been resolved. Agent Sueno here would like to re-open it.”
I held up my hand. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then what do you want?” Madame Hoh snapped.
I sat back. She was obviously irritated and immediately seemed to realize she’d over-reacted. Her shoulders relaxed and she tried again, this time speaking more softly.
“My case was closed long ago,” she said evenly. “I have no money to pursue it further.”
“I just have a few questions,” I said. “I won’t take much of your time.”
Just then one of the hostesses approached and whispered in Madame Hoh’s ear. I figured it was a pre-arranged move, designed to interrupt long-winded talk and induce customers to order more scotch, or the expensive appetizers these joints served. But instead of pressing us for our order, Madame Hoh rose and bowed again and said, “Excuse me for a moment.”
We both nodded and she scurried off.
I turned to Ming. “I thought you said she wanted to pursue her claim?”
He shrugged. “She did. Before.”
“How long ago was that?”
He thought for a moment. “Three, maybe four years.”
“So maybe now,” I said, “she doesn’t want to be bothered.”
Ming looked abashed. “Maybe not,” he said. “I am sorry,” he said, more than once.
“Tell me about her,” I said.
Her claim, Ming told me, had to do with American GIs. There’s a surprise, I thought. The woman, who he called Madame Hoh, had been a girl at the time, during the worst days of the Korean War. For some reason on which Ming wasn’t clear, a small contingent of American soldiers had been sent to the remote village where Madame Hoh lived with her family. There had been a misunderstanding between the villagers and the soldiers, according to Madame Hoh. The GIs had reacted viciously. People had been murdered. Madame Hoh had been left an orphan. Because she’d been young, and her memory of the events wasn’t clear-and because she was afraid of Korean officialdom-Madame Hoh had never given Mr. Pak at the Sam-Il Office all the details he needed to pursue a claim. A claim had been filed earlier, according to Madame Hoh, shortly after the war, but for some reason known only to the relevant authorities, it had been suppressed.
Ming leaned across the table. “Madame Hoh knew she didn’t have enough evidence to reopen the claim at this late date,” he said, “but she also believed a detailed claim had once been filed. If Mr. Pak could find that claim and reactivate it, then she’d have a chance at receiving compensation from the Eighth Army Claims Office.”
“How much?” I asked.
Ming widened his eyes and rolled his neck. “Who knows? Madame Hoh claimed that the actions of those GIs ruined her life and the lives of many people in the village. If true, it could’ve amounted to one of the largest claims ever paid out by Eighth Army.”
“What happened to the file?”
“That’s what caused Mr. Pak so much trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“Yes. As soon as he made an inquiry at Eighth Army Claims Office, he received a visit from the Korean National Police. They wanted to know who had told him about this incident and who had told him about the file.”
“Did he tell them?”
“No. He refused to reveal the identity of his client.”
“The KNPs didn’t like that.”
“No. Mr. Pak was forced to drop the inquiry. Everything calmed down after that.”
“How did Madame Hoh react?”
“She’s a strong woman. She said nothing, only thanked him for trying. And one other thing,” Ming told me. “One of our contacts at Eighth Army told us of a secret file. A file that contained Madame Hoh’s claim, along with others.”
“Secret? You mean it’s not kept with the other files at Eighth Army Claims?”
Ming shook his head vehemently. “No.”
“Then where is it?”
“That’s what we don’t know.”
I sat back, taking this all in, studying Ming’s smiling face. “Why are you taking the risk,” I asked him, “of telling me about this and introducing me to Madame Hoh?”
He grinned, the sickly grin of someone who’s just swallowed a medicine that upset his stomach. “We hope that because you’re from Eighth Army, you can find the file and re-open it. Then the KNPs will have no choice but to go along. Where you Americans lead, they follow.”
“But if something goes wrong?”
“Then Mr. Pak will send me out in the field somewhere far away, and he will bow deeply to the KNPs and tell them how sorry he is.”
“And maybe a little money will be handed over to ease hurt feelings.”
“A good relationship with the KNPs,” Ming said, “is very important.”
We finished our drinks.
Ming glanced back at the hallway where Madame Hoh had disappeared, then turned back and rubbed his hands nervously. Suddenly, he leapt up from his chair, bowing again, and said, “She’s angry now but I’ll fix it up. You don’t worry. I’ll fix everything.”
With that, he scurried off to the back and disappeared into the same dark hallway.
I sat alone. None of the hostesses approached me, no one asked if I wanted anything to drink. In Mia-ri a man alone was an odd sight, especially an American man alone. Not only did the hostesses ignore me, they didn’t even look at me.
I wondered why this Madame Hoh would’ve pursued a claim aggressively in the past, been denied, and then apparently changed her mind to the point of seeming aggrieved that Ming would bring the issue back to life. The more I thought about it, the more I believed there had to be a good reason and the more uncomfortable I felt.
Did this have anything to do with the man with the iron sickle? Why did Ming, and his boss Mr. Pak, bring me out here? Just to reopen a case they thought they might make some money on? At the moment, I had no answers.
The back hallway remained dark.
The only sound out here in the main ballroom of the Inn of the Crying Rose was the tinkling of ice cubes dropping into crystal tumblers and the gurgling of scotch being poured. The only smell was the pungent tang of stale Korean tobacco. Still, no one looked at me. I might as well have been invisible. What would Ernie do in a situation like this? Probably throw something, smash a mirror. Instead, I rose and walked toward the back hallway. As I did so, the hostesses and even the customers, studiously averted their eyes.
I entered darkness.
A dark hallway stretched back toward one naked bulb. The reek of ammonia led to the co-ed byonso. I walked past it and found a hallway leading to the left. At the end was another doorway with no lettering on it. I tried the knob. It opened.
A single green lamp illuminated a small wooden desk in the corner. Taking up most of the room were two stiff-backed couches on either side of a short coffee table. In the center of the table sat a hexagonal box of wooden matches and two large glass ashtrays. I sniffed the air. No smell of fresh smoke.