We reached the end of town which tapered off into smaller buildings and then empty lots and finally we were cruising, once again, through endless fields of fallow rice paddies. No signs for kisaeng houses out here. After about a half mile, we turned around.
It was almost ten in the morning and I realized that Ernie and I were two hours AWOL, although I didn’t mention this to him. In fact, I tried to banish the thought from my own mind, but without much success.
As we were driving back through Kumchon, I noticed that someone had switched on a light inside the Princess Beauty Shop.
“Pull over,” I told Ernie.
“Why? No kisaeng houses around here.”
“No. But that beauty shop’s open. I want to ask some questions.”
“What beauty shop?”
“Never mind. Just find a place to park.”
He did. At the edge of town near an eatery that catered to cab drivers. We chained and padlocked the jeep’s steering wheel and hoofed our way into downtown Kumchon.
I rapped twice on the door of the Princess Beauty Shop and entered, poking my nose in first.
“Anyonghaseiyo?” I asked. Are you at peace?
One young woman sat in a chair with a pink cloth draped over her body, her hair in curlers, gaping at this strange creature-me- who’d just entered her world. A middle-aged woman wearing a white beautician’s smock stood behind her. In Korean, I said, “Sorry to bother you. Do you think it would be too much trouble if I use your telephone?”
Involuntarily, both women glanced at a counter in the waiting area. On a knitted pad sat a clunky black telephone. Telephones are status symbols in Korea. Not everyone has them, not by a long shot. The phone company, which is a government monopoly, demands a costly security deposit-often well over a thousand dollars-before it will entrust anyone with phone equipment. But it figured that a going concern like the Princess Beauty Shop would have a telephone because they had to be able to make appointments with the wealthy ladies who were their clients.
The two women sat in stunned silence. Another two women in the back room had apparently heard my voice. Both wore beautician’s smocks and peered out through a beaded curtain. Ernie entered the beauty shop and this gave the women even more to gawk at.
I strode over to the phone saying, “I’m sorry but I have to make a call to Seoul.”
The eldest beautician started to say something in protest, but I pulled out a five hundred won note, a little more than a buck, and laid it on the counter next to the phone. That shut her up. Pretending to ignore her, I dialed the number for the 8th Army exchange.
Ernie strolled around the shop, smiling, studying the color photographs of beautiful women with beautiful hairdos. I stared at the photos, too. Korean women of unearthly beauty. I listened to clicking sounds and various pitches of dial tone.
Phone systems in Korea in the seventies are primitive. Lines are easily overloaded, and it isn’t unusual to wait twenty minutes just to be able to get through to the 8th Army operator. As I waited, I watched the beauticians. The two young ones had emerged from the back room and pretended to be busy preparing their work areas. Ernie smiled at them. They smiled back. Amongst themselves they whispered.
I held the phone slightly away from my ear, listening.
“Muol hei?” What are they doing?”
“The big one wants to use the phone.”
“I can see that. What are they doing here in Kumchon?”
“Who knows?”
And then the clicking grew louder and suddenly, above the static, a Korean-accented woman’s voice said in English, “Eighth Army Operator Number Thirty-seven. How may I help you?”
I gave her the number to the CID administrative office and waited. In Korean, I said to the beauticians, “Miguk kisaeng dei dei ro yogi ei wassoyo?” Does the American kisaeng sometimes come in here?
The women’s eyes widened and they stared at one another.
Staff Sergeant Riley’s voice came over the line.
“Sueno?” he asked, after I’d identified myself. “Where in the hell are you?”
“On our way to Seoul,” I said. “But first we have to pick up Corporal Matthewson.”
“You found her?”
“Just about.”
“‘Just about’? What is that supposed to mean?”
“We have a solid lead.” About as solid as a whiff of perfume in a windstorm.
“The first sergeant has a case of the big ass,” Riley said. “So does the Eighth Army PMO.”
“Stall’em for us, Riley. We almost have her.”
“I don’t know if I can do that. The Second ID honchos have been teletyping messages down here like mad. Apparently, you-or somebody who looks like you-was spotted at a student demonstration in Tongduchon.”
“Do you believe everything you hear?”
“That’s not an answer,” Riley growled.
“How about the ration control records? The ones that were classified?”
“Smitty says he should have them by tonight. But what do I tell the First Shirt?”
“No time now. Got to run. Tell them we’ll be back as soon as we can.”
He started to say something more but, quickly, I hung up.
I noticed that the Division hadn’t messaged 8th Army about the shooting incident at the Tongduchon Market. Nor had they mentioned the fire at the Turkey Farm. Division was being, as usual, selective in their outrage.
I turned back to the beauticians, flashed my best smile, and bowed. “Thank you for the use of your phone.”
The eldest woman nodded.
One of the younger beauticians blurted out, “Ku yoja arrassoyo? ” You knew that woman?
I didn’t like the use of the past tense but I kept my face as impassive as I could. Ernie stood still, sensing that I’d just been stunned by something the young beautician had said.
“Of course, I knew her,” I replied.
“Then you know what happened?”
All the women waited for my response. They were testing me. I decided to take a chance.
“You mean at the Forest of the Seven Clouds?”
They all exhaled together.
“Yes.”
“I heard something about it. Can you explain?”
“No. We don’t know either. All we know is that many powerful people were angry and the women who work at the Forest of the Seven Clouds haven’t been in here to have their hair done since then.”
How long ago, I thought, but I didn’t want to show my ignorance. They might stop talking. So I said, “Can they go that long without a hairdo?”
One of the youngest of the beauticians giggled, modestly covering her mouth with cupped fingers. “It’s only been three days,” she said.
I grinned. “Yes. Only three days. So no one from the Forest of the Seven Clouds has been in since that time. Not even the American woman?”
They shook their heads sadly. The youngest one piped up again. “Her hair was lovely. Gold with just a little red. And each strand so thin.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together as if caressing silk.
“Where is the Forest of the Seven Clouds from here?” I asked.
“Not far. Usually they take a taxi.”
The youngest one piped up again. “Kisaeng are rich.” Another beautician elbowed her to be quiet. The young one pouted.
I bowed once again to the women. “Thank you so much for your help.”
On our way out, Ernie grinned and saluted them. They waved back, the youngest beautician saying, “Bye-bye.”
We were halfway back to the jeep when Ernie asked, “What’d they say?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute.”
An empty kimchee cab was cruising down the road toward us. I waved him down. When I opened the door and started asking him questions, his face drooped in disappointment. Obviously, he thought that Ernie and I were two GIs stranded far from our compound and a fat fare was in the offering. When I asked him for the location of the Forest of the Seven Clouds the disappointment on his face became more profound. He wasn’t working us for a tip. Most Koreans, especially those who live in the countryside, don’t think that way. They’re not born to hustle. They’re born to be polite. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a one thousand won note. Two bucks. He shook his head. Not necessary, he told me.