Seoul Crybaby

February 18, 1954

The last day of my life begins with beauty. I wake up and find a note on my pillow.

Going to find Song-ha with Joseph. See you in Seoul.

I rip the note to shreds. The white paper pieces flutter limply to the floor. He won’t find his daughter. He won’t see me again. I think about his hopeful, expectant face. That hope will shatter and stab him in the heart. He will flail, confused, grasping at his spurting heart, and fall. I can’t bear to watch that happen. That’s why I’ve made my decision. I can’t face him. I choose instead to vanish from this world.

I go to the desk. Outside, a fuzzy ray of sunshine reveals the blue light of dawn. I find a fountain pen and several sheets of paper. There are enough pages for me to write down my truth. It has to be longer than a will but shorter than an official report. I am running out of time but I may be able to finish it if I concentrate. After all, I’m not writing about my entire life, just about that one horrific moment in time. I press the pen on paper and the ink spreads like a bruise.

Dear Min-hwan, whom I have always respected and loved, I begin. The letter fills with script that looks like me—trying to look beautiful but nervous and wobbly and about to fall over. But I have to hold myself up and pull out the words so that I can leave something behind. It’s terrible that this is all I can do for him. I write carefully, trying not to cry on the letter so the ink doesn’t spread. My writing, as skinny as the bones of my arms and legs, smatters onto the white paper.

“Alice, what are you doing? We have to get going!” Hammett is busy with the reporters back at the barracks.

“How is she?”

Hammett takes my arm and pulls me aside. “She has a high fever again. I don’t think she slept at all. I think we should cancel but she’s insisting we continue. She really might come down with pneumonia if we keep to this schedule. And she has to go back to Tokyo tomorrow.”

“Maybe the schedule was too ambitious for a bride on her honeymoon.”

“Is she really a newlywed, anyway? Staying apart from her husband … I’ll take care of the rest here. Go on to Seoul for the farewell reception.”

I head to the airport. As I put the bags in the helicopter, an MP brings over a smaller bag. “This was in the truck.”

Marilyn’s makeup case. I thank him and get on the helicopter. A few others join me in the helicopter, looking tired: a couple of USO staff, a female singer with a fractured leg, a photographer. The last two days’ bustle seems to have drained them of their vitality. I open my handbag to check on my letter. It still smells of ink. I take out the postcard Ku-yong drew for me before I left Seoul. Now I see that I look cross and pathetic in the picture. I let out a laugh. I don’t want to admit it, but the flyer advertises his affection for me quite well. It brings him closer to his goal. He’s such a talented artist. The war has ruined him, but he’s trying to create again. Ku-yong’s feelings towards me seem sincere, and perhaps if I’m honest I’m also interested in him, despite what I told him. Maybe I avoided getting involved because I was jealous; I was envious that he has managed to maintain a will and a passion for life. I think Ku-yong will recover. He might be the person who will mourn me the most when I’m gone from this world. Could it be that a man who hasn’t even kissed me is the one who understands me best? Just like a book I haven’t read could be a masterpiece that will bring me to tears.

Finally the helicopter gets ready for take-off. I never dreamed that Marilyn Monroe’s blonde hair would be fluttering here, the Korean military’s last line of defense, and I never imagined that I would be reunited here with the two most important men in my life. Who knows who they really are? I still can’t believe they are both alive. They’ll regret returning here and seeing me. The helicopter launches noisily with a swirl of dust. I lean against the window and look down. I’m lifted away from the ground. I imagine that life will feel as far away in the moment of death as the earth is now, and I’m suddenly afraid. But it might be better this way. If death is just a moment, like take-off, you would only have that moment for regrets.

I smell Seoul as soon as we land at Yoido Airport. The city isn’t interested in someone who leaves and is even less interested when that person returns. Seoul doesn’t expend energy by investing in someone’s life. Although it was reduced to ash at each regime change, Seoul rose up quickly because it didn’t expect much from humans. It always regains its pride on its own. I’m relieved that I’m safely back in Seoul, the perfect city in which to spend my last moments. I feel the wind in my hair as I send off my final farewell to Yu-ja and Mrs. Chang and Ku-yong. As I stand there in the dust kicked up by the wind, two black sedans race towards me and screech to a stop. Two agents, the same ones who questioned me two days ago, get out of the first one. Four Korean men emerge from the other car.

“Miss, can we talk in the car?” The agents aren’t as coercive as last time, but they seem anxious.

I enter the car. The agents get in the front seats and the Korean driver sits next to me.

“Where’s Joseph?” I ask.

“He’s handling a personal matter. We’re trying to reach him now,” one of the agents explains. “We just learned that Lim Pok-hun is in Seoul. It seems he entered via an island off the western coast last week. We aren’t sure if she’s with him—”

I cut in. “Who? Seoul Crybaby?”

The agent sighs in irritation.

The driver quickly explains in Korean. “Yes. Without any proof that Lim has her under his protection, we can’t put our men in danger and go along with the plan. He finally contacted someone on our side today, but this whole thing seems like a setup to ambush us. We need to be sure that it’s not another Northern agent pretending to be him. You’re the only one who knows what he looks like. Please, we need your help.”

This is a significant wrench in my plan to kill myself today. “How could I possibly help?” I switch to Korean, too.

“We’re supposed to meet him at Chungang Theater. We’d like you to be at the ticket booth to identify him. We won’t put you in danger. We promise.”

So it can get dangerous. Now my interest is piqued. “And if I don’t cooperate?”

Their faces fall in unison. This might be my last official duty. I can already tell I have no choice in the matter.

“Okay. But are these two going to be there? They don’t blend in.” I point at the agents in the front seats. They look confused; they don’t understand Korean. “Please give this to Joseph,” I say to the agents in English, and take the letter out of my handbag. The white envelope is addressed to Yo Min-hwan.

I’ve only encountered Lim Pok-hun twice, but I’ve turned out to be a strong influence in his life. I am an undeniable goddess of misfortune. He eluded capture once. Now it seems he’s found a way to escape his former masters. He’s persistently lucky. What will happen when we meet again? I head to the theater to confirm our odd bond.

The first time I encountered Lim was at the Art Association offices in Chongno. One of my Tokyo art school classmates dragged me there. He never liked me; he introduced me to the others as a complete reactionary from a family that had sponged off the American military government for generations. I scoffed at them, never imagining that in due course, as corpses began rolling around the city center, they would try to reeducate me and force me to take up the brush for their purposes. They assigned me to the portrait division where I was to draw Stalin and Kim Il Sung from morning to night. My reward for offering my artistic talents and labor to the Party was a ball of cooked rice. Stalin was my closest friend during that terrible summer. I’d never drawn anyone’s face as carefully as I did his—his jowly neck, his thick mustache, his flat eyes that had already transcended humanity. I never did like portraits or the sycophancy inherent in them. An artist poured all of her soul into a work; that meant that the subject of a portrait could only be the artist herself. I had secretly laughed at portrait subjects who were satisfied with their exaggeratedly perfect faces. That was how I drew Stalin’s face, scoffing at him all the while. But he was grander than I expected, this politician who devoted himself to revolution. He shared his soul with the masses, attempting to stake a place for himself in the history books, conscientiously building his ambition. I devoted myself to his portraits despite myself, creating uniquely florid paintings.

One night in July, I was coloring Stalin’s hair with quiet acrimony when someone spoke to me.

“Why are you drawing Comrade Stalin so ornately? He looks like an American movie star.”

I raised my head and saw a stick-skinny man with a half-moon scar under one eye standing over me.

“Comrade Kim Ae-sun, I heard you were good. This, however, is a disappointment.”

He already knew who I was. Having worked for the Americans, I was a target. I recognized him as a northern agent who sometimes stopped by the offices.

“Do you know where Yo Min-hwan is?” He spoke in smooth Seoul diction, though his enunciation was a little too careful.

“No,” I replied feebly. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.” Why was he looking for Min-hwan, anyway? He wasn’t that useful to the North, despite his time working for the Americans.

He stared at me and I didn’t avoid his gaze, too depressed to even lie. He sneered and turned to leave. The pistol on his hip caught the light and glinted, glaring at me until he left the room.

The movie playing at Chungang Theater is an American film called Unknown Island. The man-eating dinosaur on the poster resembles a toy baring its teeth, no matter how generously I look at it. What kind of terror could this ridiculous monster unleash on humans? This is a silly movie for this postwar city, which has realized the immortal truth: man is the enemy of man. I enter the ticket booth, which reminds me of a prison visiting room. I’m relieved that I can’t be seen from the outside, but that means I can’t see out very well, either. A mirror is next to the ticket window to allow me to watch the customers while keeping the interior dark. The movie will start soon but not many people are lining up to buy tickets. The Korean agents are disguised as civilians and loitering in front of the theater, one dressed as a chestnut peddler and the other sweeping the sidewalk. They glance at me as people walk by. The ticking of the clock grows louder and louder. I am aware of every sound from the street. What if I don’t recognize him after all?

It’s ten to five and the movie theater is still mostly empty. A few couples, a group of women, and a few middle-aged men enter the theater. I count the seconds, looking at the clock anxiously. This mission is tilting towards failure. Maybe I should give up and go watch the movie myself. I’m about to get up when a bony hand slides money in the ticket window.

“I would like one ticket, please.” The man sounds proper and formal, as though he’s reading from a textbook.

I take the money and glance at the mirror as I hand the ticket over. I pause, holding the change in my palm. He’s wearing a dyed military cap and it’s hard to see under the brim, but I detect a small, half-moon scar. It’s him. I duck my head, waiting for him to leave. He moves away from the window but his footsteps boom in my ears as I put the “Sold Out” sign on the window with shaking hands. The agents see that and move quickly. The one disguised as a chestnut peddler yanks off his own hat and glances at his colleague. My part is done. Now I need to get to the car parked on the other side of the street. My legs are quaking. I come out of the ticket booth. I have to get out of here. But something holds me back. I’m curious. Finally, something real is going to happen in the theater. Genuine violence and flight, not just a story, directed and produced. Someone might die. A movie is just death made into art; the actors who kiss and dance onscreen are ghosts. They end up as particles of light in the darkened theater and vanish. I don’t have any reason not to follow my instincts. I am the heroine of this movie. I am the one who knows the face of the enemy. I head to the dark hallway. I hear the thudding soundtrack of the movie. I push the heavy doors to go inside. I stop short; I can’t see anything. The theater smells like mildew. I step forward cautiously. Then there’s a crash.

“What’s that?”

“Get him!”

“Over there!”

I turn my head and something dark smashes into me. I fall on the grimy floor. I hear running and get up quickly to chase after the footsteps. There is shouting and a clatter of feet outside the theater. I see someone dash away and I follow quietly. When I reach the end of the corridor, I don’t see anyone. I’m about to turn around when I realize someone is standing behind me. I open my mouth to scream and a hand claps over it. I can’t breathe. The cold, hard muzzle of a pistol digs into my back. He drags me to the back of the theater, his arm around my neck. He opens a door to the outside. It smells like oil paint. We are in the workshop where theater posters are painted; the space is covered by a makeshift tin roof stretching from the building to the wall. On the wall is a half-painted poster for an upcoming movie.

“It’s been a long time, Kim Ae-sun,” Lim says.

“I can slip you out of here,” I say quickly.

Lim pushes me towards the wall. I bump into the poster and get blue paint on my shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“Why? You feel guilty for what you did on that ship?” Lim glances anxiously around, the gun still pointing at me.

“Why are you running away?”

He looks hounded, like a fleeing animal. I realize something: someone who holds all the cards would never be this nervous.

“Where is that woman?” I ask.

He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand holding the gun.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” I surprise myself with my guess. But I think I’m right. “Seoul Crybaby isn’t alive anymore, is she?”

Lim glares at me with a bitter half-smile.

“I’m right, aren’t I? Did you kill her?”

“No. I really did try to help her.”

“What happened?” I’m shaking.

“She was broken. She didn’t even want to go back home. She just kept crying. I couldn’t do anything. I needed her so I could get out.”

“And?” Please, please, I think.

“She hanged herself.” Lim’s face darkens.

My hands fly up to my neck. This unknown woman’s despair and sorrow spread through my body. I can imagine her clearly. She is beautiful and innocent, but everyone has the urge to debase an innocent woman. She is moaning, shedding tears, I can feel it all inside me. As I imagine her last moments I become infected with her grim courage. I hear rushing footsteps in the corridor. Lim grabs me by the throat. I don’t know what he’s planning to do with me, or how he means to escape this time, but I struggle. As I fall I grab the shelf to steady myself. Lim lunges to stop all the paint cans from falling, dropping the pistol and letting go of me.

I pick it up from the ground. I stand up.

“Give it here. It’s not a toy.” Lim’s face is tense.

I realize I’m aiming the pistol at him. It’s heavier and harder than I expected.

“Kim Ae-sun. Give it to me.”

I stare at him. I’m possessed.

He looks more and more uncertain and horrified. “What are you doing?”

I turn the gun around slowly. The muzzle is now pointing at me. The gun isn’t picky about who it wants to aim at. I grope at the trigger. It’s surprisingly hard to find.

“Don’t. I don’t know what this is about, but you’re going to make this worse for me than it already is.” Lim is sweating. He inches forward as if approaching a wild beast.

I finally find the trigger. I slip my finger through with anticipation, as if I’m a bride sliding on her wedding ring.

“Alice!” Joseph is standing at the door.

I pull the trigger.

The gun goes off. There’s a bang and then a sharp pain. I fall down. Darkness swoops over me. I hear more gunshots and footsteps.

“Are you okay?” It’s Joseph.

The darkness pressing down on me lifts a little. Light begins to filter through.

Joseph picks up the poster that fell on top of me and helps me up. The agents are chasing after Lim. I try to look up but my head is too heavy. Something sticky is coursing down my scalp. It doesn’t smell like blood—I know that smell all too well. I touch my head and my palm comes away stained yellow. The paint drips down the back of my neck. I’m an instant blonde. The bullet must have missed.

“What are you doing?” Joseph is holding me, looking teary. What an honor. This kind American intelligence officer is about to shed tears for me. “And what did you mean by that letter?”

I smile at him.

He shakes me hard, angrily. “What is going on? Alice! Get a hold of yourself!”

“Where’s Min-hwan?”

“Looking for his daughter. When he went to the orphanage he discovered it wasn’t her. It was Chong-nim.”

“What? You found her?” My heart starts to pound.

“No. I’m sorry. Chong-nim had been moved to a different orphanage. She was gone by the time we got there. It’s clear she’s not his daughter. But why would she have his watch? He was certain it was Song-ha because of that watch.”

Everything turns fuzzy. Joseph’s face doubles and overlaps with itself. It feels like blood and oil are gushing out of every pore of my being. My legs shake. I think I’m going to vomit. Every time Joseph tries to get me up, yellow paint gets on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. He’ll never find his daughter. I killed her.”

“You’re not in your right mind,” Joseph says, shaking his head. “You haven’t been in a long time.”

I’m not sure myself if what I’m saying is really true. But I know it’s highly likely. Because the truth tends to be what people don’t want to believe is true.

Dear Min-hwan, whom I have always respected and loved,

I think I’m still dreaming. I can’t believe I fell asleep in your arms last night. You vanished from my life years ago. It’s been difficult. It was hard to even utter your name. After I heard you were purged, I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid your soul would come back, that your ghost would haunt me. But a part of me was relieved that you died. I’m sorry to say this but I was glad I didn’t have to see you again in this lifetime. Of course, all of that doesn’t matter anymore. I won’t be able to escape you now. You’ll probably want to go back to how things were, when we were in love and were bound up, however painfully, in each other’s lives. But we can’t. It was a miracle that I saw you again, but I can’t bring myself to face you, and that’s why I’m writing to you. All of this, all of your tragedies, began with a damn letter, so it’s only fitting that we end it this way.

Joseph and I humiliated and betrayed you. You say you want to forget about all of that but you shouldn’t. That is the kind of thing that can’t ever be forgotten. I think our lives are influenced by truly unforgettable events. I think I did it because I sensed we were going our separate ways. I couldn’t stand it, so I simply lost my mind for a moment. That’s probably when the insanity inside of me began to emerge. I thought I was going to suffocate when you refused to see me. I wrote that letter out of a foolish sense of revenge. I wanted to shock your wife and create divisions in your family. That was all. So I wrote to her saying that we wanted to officially get married and that we should negotiate the terms. It was a stupid, terrible, mean thing to do. I never imagined it would bring your wife to see me.

You said that after the war broke out you went to find your wife at her parents’ home but she wasn’t there. That’s because she was in Seoul.

My uncle and his family left the city as soon as the war began. The wealthy Koreans reassured the other citizens and exhorted them to protect the city, but then they left on their own private trains. My uncle wanted me to come along but I insisted on staying. I had to wait for you. If you decided to forgive me, if you said you would go north with me, I would have gone. But I couldn’t find you and the war was growing more serious than I expected. Seoul fell in a mere three days to the People’s Army and the Han River bridge was bombed. We were isolated. We couldn’t withdraw any money because the presidential emergency order froze all bank accounts. Who knew where they had been hiding, but boys ran out into the streets, shouting, “Hooray for General Kim Il Sung!” I was home alone, growing worried and flustered, when someone knocked on the front gates. It was a lady in a beautiful blue hanbok holding the hand of an adorable girl wearing a navy blue sailor dress. Your wife and your beloved daughter Song-ha.

Your wife possessed a noble, elegant disposition. I could tell right away. She wiped her brow with a white handkerchief and explained that she had received my letter. I stood frozen in place as she told me calmly that she had decided she would settle this matter once and for all and got on a train to Seoul. She didn’t tell anyone her plans—she wanted to protect your dignity and her pride. She brought Song-ha, hoping she could appeal to my humanity. But as soon as she arrived at Seoul Station, she faced hordes of people fleeing the city. She rushed to your place but you weren’t there; even the owner of your boarding house had left. She waited for a while in that empty house before coming to see me.

In a melodrama, the wife and the mistress would fight, but we didn’t have even that luxury. I’d searched for you everywhere but had no idea where you were. I had to invite her to stay with me. She didn’t know anyone else in Seoul. And she had run out of money. She declined over and over again but there was no other solution. We started living together, as wife and as concubine. Every day, we sat together listening intently to the radio for news. The militia came and took all of our rice and claimed the house as their office. We were relegated to a corner room upstairs. When I complained, a young man politely apologized, but it was clear that the liberation they were carrying out wouldn’t protect us. We had to try to leave Seoul. I had heard you could hire someone to row you across the river from Mapo or Sogang. We fled, taking turns carrying Song-ha on our backs, but bombs rained down on us and we had to turn around before we even reached Ahyon-dong. The rotting corpses piled in the streets were a problem, but hunger was an even bigger issue. I had been taken to the Art Association and was assigned to draw portraits of Stalin there every day, but at least it meant I could bring back some barley. Your wife carried Song-ha on her back and made meals for the militia. She was a good woman. She was dignified, even when she had to live under the same roof as her husband’s mistress, unable to leave because of the war. She pretended not to notice as I scurried about, flustered and guilty, wondering what she was thinking. We suffered through that ridiculous situation without speaking. One day, I came home late after a long day at the Association. She told me to take off my soiled blouse so she could wash it for me. I snapped at her, telling her it was fine and she should stop. Her face remained composed as she said she didn’t consider me her husband’s mistress, but as a nobody, and that it helped her live through this time. I asked her how she was able to do that, and she said it came from years of an unhappy marriage. To protect herself from unhappiness, she chose not to see it. I was stunned. I always thought of her as a pitiful, sad woman, but in reality she was strong, much stronger than me. She was spending lonely, uneasy days with me, protecting herself from grief in her own way. And the source of that strength was Song-ha. She was quiet and lovable, just like you. I tried to avoid her out of guilt and jealousy, but ended up completely charmed by her. She was darling, she was smart, and she was impressive, trying not to cry when bombs began dropping. When I asked her, “How much do you like your father?” she would primly turn away and take out your pocket watch to show me. I can’t forget that pale, plump face. We survived thanks to that dear girl. Around August, Song-ha fell sick. It could have been malnutrition—there was a severe food shortage. Our next-door neighbor went to get food from a farm in Kyonggi Province but he got caught in a bombing campaign and his legs were blown off, though he managed to survive. I sliced the belly of Song-ha’s stuffed bear and shook out the stuffing—millet—to make porridge. Your wife fell ill from overwork. The People’s Committee trampled through the house for what they called training and ended up burning part of it down. In the middle of the night, I snuck outside and dug up a piece of gold my relatives had buried before they fled. I sold it on the black market and bought canned food. I went to Dr. Han Mi-ja, who lost all three sons to the militia and was guarding the empty Seoul Clinic by herself. Thankfully, when I explained that they were your family, she welcomed them. We spent each day terrified as flyers fell from the sky, announcing that Seoul would soon be bombed and we should leave. I was tormented by your family’s suffering. It was all because of my mischief. If you came back to me, I vowed, I would send you back to them. I would return you to where you should have been all along. Thankfully Song-ha got better. Your wife also felt energized after a few days’ rest in the clinic. That cruel summer was beginning to wane. It was September; the war would soon be decided one way or another.

We followed the movements of the UN forces by clandestinely listening to a shortwave radio. Seoul continued to be bombed. A rumor circulated that if the South Korean army took control of Seoul again, people who had worked for the northern regime would be targeted. In any case, we waited for you to find us. The bombings grew more forceful and we heard that the UN forces had landed in Inchon. The People’s Army became more desperate. After Chusok, everyone was wondering and whispering about the state of the war. Battles began erupting in the streets. We heard that public figures were tied together and dragged up north through the hills of Miari. People were getting slaughtered. We were told that in the countryside, Americans, supposedly on our side, had shoved civilians in a tunnel and killed them all, including the children.

On September 22, rumor had it that American soldiers were spotted near Yongdungpo. I hurried home in the middle of cleaning up in the office. The yard usually bustled with military exercises but it was empty that day. My heart pounded with a strange premonition. I ran to the Seoul Clinic, worried about your wife and Song-ha. I had just turned down the alley towards the clinic when I heard gunfire. I sank to the ground; a woman was crying, running towards me in stockinged feet, screaming, “She’s gone crazy, she’s gone crazy! Dr. Han attacked the soldiers with a kitchen knife, screaming to bring her sons back …” I staggered to my feet and ran into the yard, shaking. It smelled like gunpowder. Dust was flying. People were lying under the ginkgo tree. Even though I saw blood seeping through their clothes I didn’t realize they were dead. There was more gunfire. People’s Army soldiers were pointing guns at a dozen people standing before them. They were shooting each of them, as if doing target practice, without even the consideration of blindfolding them. A woman with a baby on her back tried to flee, but slumped over after a loud bang. I rubbed my eyes hard and looked carefully. Terrified sobs echoed in my ears. I spotted your wife at the end of the line, hugging Song-ha tightly, her back turned towards the soldiers. I cried out and she looked up. She didn’t have any fear in her eyes, only love. She was holding Song-ha ever tighter, to give that young life as much love as she possibly could to the very end. I ran forward, screaming. Your wife pushed Song-ha, who was crying and clinging to her, towards me. Gunfire. Your wife blocked the bullets with her thin back and collapsed. I struggled to pull Song-ha out from under her. There was more gunfire. I felt a sharp pain in my side and lost consciousness.

I opened my eyes. It was dark and everything smelled of blood. I must be in hell, I thought. I couldn’t move. It was as if I had sunk into a swamp. When I finally managed to move my head and looked around, I had to bite down on my tongue so as not to scream. The squishy, heavy swamp was made up of bodies. Above my head was the sky, blue and round. I was near the top of a pile of corpses, thrown into a dry well. I wasn’t dead. I pushed against the bodies and pulled my upper body out with all my might. Below me was a boy in a school uniform and an old man. Between them was Song-ha. I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out. Her blue sailor dress was soaked in blood but I saw her eyebrows squirm. She let out a deep breath. I heard men above. They hadn’t left yet. I put a hand against her mouth and curled around her. I trained my ears to the outside. They were walking around the well. I felt Song-ha’s wet breath against my palm. She was alive. I kept still until it became quiet, my head against someone’s bloodied, torn-up behind. I stayed like that for a long time. When I looked up again the sky was purple. I couldn’t hear anything outside. I tried to step on the tangle of corpses to climb up. I couldn’t stand. I kept slipping. I shook Song-ha. “Song-ha,” I said. She didn’t wake up. I looked down at my palm where I’d felt her breath. She had vomited a clump of blood. “No, Song-ha, open your eyes. You’re just sleeping. Wake up. It’s morning.” I kept shaking her. I started to scream for help. “Help, we’re alive in here!” My voice circled the well, unable to break out. I tried to climb up with her in my arms but I couldn’t make any progress. I kept shouting and crying. The corpses beneath my feet began rising up and saying, “You’re the only one who survived. You’re the only one.” Their laughter began spreading outside the well. “Shut up,” I shouted. I put my hands over Song-ha’s ears so she couldn’t hear them. She was getting colder. I took my blouse off and draped it over her. A warm corpse, whose head was leaning against my ankle, whispered, snickering, “What’s the point of surviving?” All the ghosts agreed and laughed at me. I called for help all night long. I lost consciousness near dawn, watching the lights of a jet descending like a falling star. The next day neighbors hauled me out of the well. When I emerged with Song-ha on my back, people stared at me, their mouths hanging open. Overnight my hair had turned entirely gray. My nails were all broken. I was drenched in the blood of dead strangers. I put my hands to my mouth, then began to strangle myself until I fainted. I was holding Song-ha’s pocket watch in my hand.

That’s what really happened. Now I wash my hair with Crown beer, because it never recovered its color. Everything else changed. I spent each day in the camps, on the wharf in Hungnam, in Pusan as a refugee, with the awareness that only I had survived from that well. People called me insane but I couldn’t even truly go crazy. I just trembled when there were too many people. I tried to kill myself but that was just a shrewd ploy; I didn’t have the courage to actually go through with it. I would have continued to live meaninglessly in this way if I hadn’t seen you again. But yesterday, when I was with you, I realized that people find ways to continue on despite their pain. You still had hope, not realizing that it was baseless. I have wrestled with whether to keep this secret to myself, but I decided to come clean for you, for me, for your wife and Song-ha. I don’t think I can continue on with this by myself. I think it’s time. Death won’t save me, but maybe it can spare your life.

I can no longer imagine how life could be beautiful. I just pass the time surviving, without living. I don’t have any attachment to this life, and I won’t dare hope for your forgiveness. I’m just satisfied that I saw you again. You loved me when I was at my most beautiful. Without seeing you again, I wouldn’t have remembered that I was once cherished. I knew love and felt happiness at one point. Thank you for that. What would have happened if there hadn’t been a war? Would we still be together? It’s not all because of the war, of course. They say the war was the greatest tragedy of our era, borne from ideological conflict. But, for me, war was the thing that caused me to kill the child of the man I loved. Min-hwan, please don’t ruin your future by hating me. Please don’t pity me. I couldn’t vanquish the war inside of me, and in the end I lost. I wish you a very happy life. I have found my last duty. I’m ready. I feel at peace with my decision.

Joseph glares at me with exasperation. “It was a tragic accident. You didn’t kill his daughter!”

“I could have kept her alive. She was alive when I found her.” I sound vacant even to myself.

“That’s nonsense. You’re just feeling guilty. What’s the point of bringing that up right now?” Joseph shakes me. I’ve never seen him this angry.

“They wouldn’t have come to Seoul if I hadn’t sent that letter. It’s my fault.”

Joseph rips the letter out of his pocket and waves it violently in the air. “Are you trying to martyr yourself for that?”

“I’m the one who ruined their lives. I have to pay for it.”

“And what precisely will change if you die?”

“At least I don’t have to face him.” I feel nauseated. I grip my chest and vomit. Thick green stuff spills out of my mouth.

Joseph looks down at me quietly, his pretty tea-colored eyes cold. “Do you still not understand what kind of man he is? Betrayal is a two-way street. It’s just that each person finds out at different times.” He kneels and picks the gun off the ground. “Like you said, I knew the war was imminent. So did Min-hwan. I can’t tell you how he knew, but I can tell you that he loved his family more than he loved you. He asked me to help take his wife and daughter to safety. He disappeared so suddenly because he was supposed to go to Japan with them. But his wife had left her parents’ house before I could get to her. They were fated to miss each other. Do you get it now? He left you first.” Joseph brushes his knees as he stands up.

The other agents return and report that they lost Lim. “He ran out the back before we could catch him. Now we’ve lost Seoul Crybaby, too.”

“That woman?” I ask. It seems Lim’s luck has held once more. “Don’t look for her.” Her famously weepy voice shakes my soul and grows louder. I speak on her behalf. “She doesn’t want to come back. Ever. Not to Seoul—not to goddamn Seoul.”

Luxury cars are lining up in front of the Bando Hotel. Foreigners, women in fur coats and gowns and men in tails, are entering in pairs as if waltzing.

“Will you be okay, Alice?” Joseph sounds worried. “Go wash up and rest. You may have to cut your hair and use something strong to get the paint off. Here, give me your scarf.” He takes my scarf off my neck and puts it over my head.

I look at my reflection in the car window. Bright yellow hair pokes out from under the scarf. It’s funny and terrifying at the same time. I kiss him on the cheek. “Good night. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

“Alice,” Joseph calls as I’m about to get out of the car.

“Go finish your assignment. I have to clean this up.” I point at my hair and smile.

Joseph nods sorrowfully. “Okay. Sweet dreams.”

I watch Joseph’s car get smaller in the darkness, then go into the hotel. It’s crammed with excited people hoping to attend Marilyn Monroe’s farewell reception. I find a newspaper next to an ashtray and hide behind the paper as I step into the elevator. It lifts up into the air with a baritone groan. I’m riveted by the article in front of my nose, reading it over and over again. A maid has killed her employer’s children. The young maid had been raped by her employer and, after miscarrying the baby, she had pushed his children over a ravine to their deaths. The maid explained calmly that she was glad. I remember the raging, despairing girl I had seen hunched in the cold corridor of the clinic. The world hadn’t granted her any kindness or peace. It weighs heavily on me. I’m not sure I can stand straight. The elevator stops and holds me still but I’m already free-falling into the girl’s deep, troubled eyes.

Thankfully I make it to the room without encountering anyone. Open suitcases are strewn about near the bed. I stagger towards the vanity. Marilyn’s makeup bag is wide open. I sit down and take the scarf off my head.

I’m looking at a blonde Alice. The yellow paint is drying, crusted on my hair, and it smells awful. It has covered nearly all of my head. My blondness isn’t fatally seductive; it’s slightly sad. I look like an actress now; I decide that I will act the part of a woman who is betrayed by a man and chooses a tragic end.

I rummage through the bag for lipstick. I find a tangle of perfume and makeup and high-end brushes made of weasel fur. I take out a red lipstick and smear it on crookedly. It’s bold and beautiful. But now I don’t like how my face looks. I find two boxes of Coty powder. One is the real thing and the other, as I expected, is filled with phenobarbital pills.

I take them out and move to the bed. The small messengers of death are snug in my palm. They’ll coast through my bloodstream, singing and dancing all night long, until I fall asleep. Around their last dance, my soul will say goodbye to my body. I spot a glass of whiskey next to the bed. I drink some down. My mouth is on fire. I bring the pills to my lips.

“Alice?”

I flinch and drop the pills, and they thud onto the floor like bullets. I turn around. Marilyn is standing right behind me, looking surprised. Our mouths hang open as we stare at one other.

I recover quickly. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was trying to clean up but I made more of a mess.” I kneel on the floor, trying to hide my flustered state, and pick up the pills.

Marilyn hurries to bend over and help. Hunching over in her sparkling white dress, she looks like a pretty trumpet-shaped shell. She keeps stealing glances at me.

I put the pills back into the sweet-smelling Coty box.

“And your hair!” Marilyn exclaims.

“What do you think? Do you think I look a little more like you?”

She tugs at me and drags me to the mirror. It looks like I’m wearing a broom. Or maybe the sun. Marilyn opens her mouth and closes it, studying me quizzically, before bursting into a gale of laughter.

I laugh along awkwardly. Now we’re both holding our bellies.

She loops her arm through mine. “Well, here we are, two fake blondes.” She smiles as she picks the yellow paint flecks off my shoulder.

Suddenly I feel a tingle on the tip of my nose. I burst into tears. Marilyn stares at me in shock as I laugh and cry.

I shouldn’t frighten our treasured guest. I try to explain. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s nothing. I had an accident. It was because of a man.”

Her clear eyes sparkle. “Oh, no. A man causing trouble again?”

I laugh, disarmed by the girlish expression on her face, unbefitting her generous chest. “Yes, as usual. Today was really tough. Do you have days like that, when you’re fed up because of a man? When you feel so lonely? I thought maybe I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep without some pills, but now, thanks to you, I think I’ll be able to. Thank you, Marilyn.” I pull her into a hug. She’s befuddled.

She has rescued me from my despair. Having betrayed the man I loved and having been betrayed by him, I was about to succumb to a misfortune of my own making. I am honored that the person who saved me is the most beautiful woman in the world. Somehow, tonight, beauty is what ends up saving my life.