February 16, 1954
“Still, it was really amazing. We had to wait two weeks for the landmines to be cleared in Wonsan Harbor, and once we landed, Bob Hope and the beautiful ladies welcomed us with open arms!” The driver chatters on excitedly.
“My buddy from high school got a Bronze Star Medal. He said the only reason he survived was because of his helmet,” the military policeman sitting next to me chimes in.
“Let me guess—that’s where he kept Marilyn Monroe’s picture?”
“Bingo! He survived the battle of Changjin, but as soon as he got home he died in a car accident.”
“What? That idiot should have gone everywhere with that helmet on.”
It’s unbearable. The driver keeps taking both hands off the wheel in excitement. We’re on our way to meet Marilyn and nobody is in his right mind. The caravan of cars heading to Yoido Airport begins to speed up competitively. A military truck carrying American soldiers with mass erections kicks up dust to overtake our jeep. Our vehicle charges towards the truck as if it’s stealing Marilyn from us. I can’t help but get a little excited myself. Things aren’t looking good.
As I feared, the usually deserted airport is roiling with humanity. National and international press, American soldiers who have lost their minds, even houseboys—how did they manage to get here? My body reacts instantly upon spotting the single-minded crowd. I grow sweaty and I can’t breathe and my hands and feet are stiff. One soldier is so touched that I am a woman, just like Marilyn, that he tries to give me a big embrace. I falter and push through the crowd, looking for Hammett. As the person tasked with all the preparations, Hammett hasn’t lost his mind yet.
“You’re late!” Hammett says. “Did you talk to the band? Did you check with Taegu Hospital? It’s so cold—I hope it’s warmer in Taegu. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
My hands are covering my ears. “I really don’t feel well. I don’t think I can go.”
“Now, now. She’s landing at any minute! She’s probably flying above Suwon right now.” Hammett isn’t listening to me.
If I foam at the mouth and collapse right this moment, all these men would gratefully step on me to get a better glimpse of Marilyn. My hands still covering my ears, I turn towards the American embassy staff but Hammett grabs me, an expression of slight concern on his face. “Did someone come see you before you left the base?” he whispers.
“Who?”
“Well, the head office was asking about you. About an English-speaking woman who came south from Hungnam on the Ocean Odyssey.”
Now I am twice as sweaty and nearly panting.
Hammett flashes me a reassuring smile. “It’s not a big deal. I’m sure they’ll call again if it’s something important.”
Why are they asking about me? What about the Ocean Odyssey? Just thinking about that time is exhausting; my memories of the war are landmines. I’m already nauseated from the racket. The world spins. I turn towards the jeep to sit and take a breath, but suddenly a roar shakes Yoido.
Everyone is craning up. When the four-engine fighter carrying Marilyn appears in the air people are practically rioting. As the aircraft lands, assaulting our eardrums with a boom and causing dust to swirl, I stare down at my feet with my hands over my ears, worried I will be trampled. Hammett grabs me as I’m about to faint and drags me to the front of the crowd. A soldier hits my head with his camera for blocking his view and I respond, “Fuck you.” I’m barely standing on my feet. It’s so loud I can’t hear myself breathing. The ramp is rolled up to the plane. Yoido erupts with cheers and applause. The plane door opens and my eardrums are about to burst.
I see her.
I smile.
I, who didn’t really care about seeing her in the first place, find myself shyly smiling at her.
She smiles wider, brighter, more beautiful, like a star.
She stands on the ramp and waves, sweetly responding to the hundreds of American soldiers going crazy. She doesn’t forget to kindly greet the cameras pouring light on her. I come to my senses. Marilyn herself is modifying the image I had of her.
She looks even more sensual wearing a flight jacket and fatigues and military boots than she does in a dress. Her military shirt can’t hide her voluptuous bosom. She’s so dazzling it hurts my eyes. She puts her weight on one foot and pushes her curves out towards the crowd. She puts her hand to her lips and the officer standing behind me groans, calling on God. I take in her blonde hair, thick, bright, moving with the breeze. Her face appears more natural than it does in the movies, but the color of her hair doesn’t. What would she look like if her hair were a different color, without that overdone icing? In movies, important events and conflicts begin with blondes. Brunettes can seduce and ruin men, too, but blondes can do that without even trying. I’m feeling a little jealous. I feel a little betrayed as the lovelorn GIs, whom I normally consider to be equivalent to insects, call her name. But I follow suit and call out, too. Welcome, Miss Monroe! Welcome to Korea, which has turned into a mass grave from three years of bloody battle!
I watch as Marilyn finishes shaking hands with the military brass and speaks with reporters. The publicist who accompanied her from Japan finds me. “Please get these trunks to the helicopter. Don’t lose them!”
I am about to get the MPs to move them to the helicopter, but I realize I’m holding two feminine brick-colored leather trunks. “Didn’t Miss Monroe’s husband come, too? Mr. Joe DiMaggio?”
“No, she came alone.”
“Aren’t they on their honeymoon?”
“Yes, but Mr. DiMaggio decided to stay in Tokyo.”
I’m suddenly curious about this Joe DiMaggio. Some nerve to send his wife to these soldiers during their honeymoon. Especially when his wife is Marilyn Monroe. I have a lot of respect for this famous professional baseball player, although I think he’s made a fatal mistake. I guarantee he’ll regret this day for the rest of his life.
“Whew. I like your gloves!” Marilyn deigns to notice as she grabs my black-lace-gloved hand to hop into the helicopter. My glove looks so filthy and her hand is so cold.
The men—the USO staff, the photographers, the officers—are fussing over seat assignments and lose the opportunity to display their chivalry to Marilyn.
Hammett introduces me to Marilyn, who flashes a golden smile. “A lovely name, Alice. Nice to meet you.” Her husky voice melts in my ears. It’s overly sweet, like in the movies, and fragile, like a cookie dunked for too long in a cup of tea.
I stare in a daze as Marilyn shakes hands with the men crowding the doorway. It’s as if I’m in a movie myself. I feel self-conscious, but then the fact that I will never be more than a supporting character around Marilyn brings me back to earth.
Marilyn sneezes and the men fuss, looking incredibly sad and concerned. I push through them and settle her in her seat.
“Are you all right? Aren’t you cold?” I hand her a blanket.
She shivers and holds it close. “It’s colder here than in Tokyo.”
“Yes, spring comes sooner to Tokyo. Would you like coffee? You have to finish it before we take off, though.” I hand her the coffee I’ve brought.
She’s pleased, wrapping her hands around the tin cup. “Have you been to Tokyo?”
“Yes, I studied there. Before the war. I mean—before liberation. I mean—anyway, it was a long time ago.”
“Oh! Joe is in Tokyo right now. My husband,” she explains, showing me her wedding ring.
“It’s beautiful.” Making a fuss in these situations is expected in the world of women but I can’t start doing something I’ve never done just because I’m with Marilyn Monroe. I praise the craftsmanship of the ring, but she doesn’t seem to expect a girlish, fake gesture. “It would have been nice if he came with you,” I say, not really meaning it. If he did all those soldiers would be beaten to death by baseball bat.
“He’s so tired. The flight to Tokyo was so long! He actually wanted a small wedding. He’s probably resting at the hotel right now. It’s a wonderful place. It’s in … Gin—what’s the name—”
“Oh, Ginza? The Imperial Hotel? He won’t be bored there.”
Marilyn looks anxious somehow, and the word “wedding” seems to stick awkwardly to her mouth. It’s as alien as pronouncing “ammonite” or “Rio de Janeiro” is for me.
“We’re going to Taegu, an important southern city. The best actresses of Korea will be waiting to welcome you at the airport.”
Marilyn is surprised. “Actresses?”
“Yes, Choi Eun-hee and Paek Song-hee.”
Marilyn falls silent at the unpronounceable Korean names.
“They’re wonderful actresses, just like you.” I flinch as I finish that sentence. I don’t recall Marilyn’s actual acting skills—I only remember her breathy voice and her curves—but I give a bald lie.
Marilyn gives me a faint, routine smile at this insulting comparison to Korean actresses.
To hide my embarrassment I offer her another cup of coffee, but she turns it down. A hefty nurse officer with a mustache named Betty rushes in and shouts that we need to leave. She orders the photographers off and yells at me to sit down, citing the safety rules of the aircraft. The helicopter finally lifts off, pitching and rolling, and Marilyn asks, “By the way, Alice, your English is so good. Where did you learn it?”
I know my answer will be buried by the noise of the propeller, but I still raise my voice to shout, “From Joseph! His name was Joseph!”
The name of the second man I loved. The propeller shreds that name and scatters it into the blue sky.
“Look, they’re like peas boiling in a pot!” Marilyn laughs as Betty points out the welcoming masses gathered at Taegu’s Tongchon Airport.
The khaki balaclavas on the soldiers’ heads do make them resemble peas. Marilyn sniffled during our flight but seems more sprightly now.
The roar from Tongchon Airport is similar to that of Yoido Airport. I place a hand on my chest and breathe, trying to keep calm. I desperately wish that the black terror that overcomes me every time I gaze upon a mass of humanity would bypass me today. I pray I can avoid the shame of fainting flat on my back in front of Marilyn Monroe and all these people.
I’m still trying to tame my nerves when Marilyn opens the door and enters the crowd. Her name roars up to the sky. Camera flashes tumble forward like an avalanche as Marilyn smiles confidently, smothered by sharp white shards of light. She leans forward to wave at someone far back in the crowd and sighs erupt from all over. Koreans in the crowd are jumping up and down, also excited to see Choi Eun-hee and Paek Song-hee. It’s chaos. I fight my way through and introduce the actresses to Marilyn. Marilyn greets them in a friendly way and links arms with them. She seems so alien next to the hanbok-clad actresses, but her warm, friendly demeanor instantly wins everyone over. Though she doesn’t know much about Korea, she understands people; she doesn’t need to speak the language. Her attractive physicality renders my fumbling interpretation unnecessary.
While Marilyn gives interviews I rush to the camp with a USO staff member. We careen down the new road, kicking up dust, weaving around Quonset huts lined up below a pine forest. Soldiers gather for the performance with cameras hanging around their necks, as innocent and excited as if they are going home to see their mothers.
Who knows who wrote the sign hanging on the hospital entrance, WELCOME MARILYN, but you can tell how excited they were, judging by the energy in the letters. Patients who would normally be lying in bed are pomading their hair eagerly, the wards enflamed with joyous excitement.
“If you tell them Marilyn isn’t coming they’ll start rioting,” a Korean nurse officer says, shaking her head.
The other Korean nurses giggle and ask me if I’ve seen Marilyn Monroe and whether she is as pretty as she is in pictures.
“Did you choose a soldier to talk to her and take a picture?” I ask.
“Does it really have to be the most handsome one?” asks the nurse officer disapprovingly.
The nurses giggle again and let me peek around the curtain to see the soldier they have selected. He’s not just handsome; he’s the spitting image of Clark Gable.
“What’s the point of being handsome?” grouses the nurse officer. “Look what happened to him. It happened while he was shoveling shit.”
The Clark Gable lookalike was using gasoline to clean frozen pipes in the bathroom when he caused an explosion, giving him burns on the lower half of his body. Although he looks like a movie star, he can’t talk about that experience in front of a reporter.
“What about the soldier who cries every day? His twin brother died at Pork Chop Hill and his mother is very ill back home.”
The young soldier from Oregon isn’t as handsome as Clark Gable but he has a sob story that would inspire patriotism. He’s selected as the lucky fellow who will receive a kiss and a gift from Marilyn.
She arrives as I examine the makeshift stage improvised by the shabby hospital. I can tell from the roar. I peer out of the window to see the jeep carrying Marilyn barreling towards the hospital. Soldiers chase after it, waving. I wonder if they ran that excitedly when Commander MacArthur himself came for a visit. Marilyn is standing in the jeep, waving back, and the gloomy barracks now look like a movie set.
A bright halo surrounds her as she walks into the dark hospital; a patient on the brink of death might think an angel has come to take him. Of course, that’s because of the flashes from the cameras that follow her around. She banishes the ominous smell of rubbing alcohol that floats around the hospital with her bright blonde hair, her pale forehead, and her red lips. The hospital soon descends into mayhem, crowded as it is with patients, army surgeons, nurses, and workers from the base. Marilyn makes her rounds from bed to bed, hugging the patients and wishing for their quick recovery. “God bless you,” she says in a kind, serious voice.
A weepy Italian American soldier from the 1st Navy Division clings to Marilyn, rubbing his lips against her cheek, and her touch is gentle, not even betraying what I assume would be displeasure. He was supposed to be transferred to a hospital in Tokyo yesterday but he had waited to meet her. The most sensual saint in the history of humanity smooths the soldier’s white sheet. The war is over but the soldiers are still here, country boys who came all the way here from America, not knowing what war really is. Marilyn speaks with the soldier who lost his twin and suffered a leg injury in a battle near the 38th Parallel. The cameras flash in a frenzy as Marilyn holds his hand. As they exchange pleasantries, the soldier looks around furtively and whispers something in her ear. His eyes dart before he fixes his gaze on the ceiling. Marilyn seems a little surprised, then kisses him on the cheek. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be back home soon.” She gives him the chocolates she brought as a present and the soldier says goodbye, looking pale.
We decide we need to start the show immediately when we see that the soldiers with casts on their legs are struggling and grunting like Frankenstein’s monster to gather around her. We quickly head to the plywood stage near the barracks. After a quick chat with the band that has already warmed up, Marilyn acknowledges the applause and sings George Gershwin and Buddy De Sylva’s “Do It Again.”
“Oh, do it again … waiting for you …” Her voice is sickly sweet and damp and overtly seductive. It makes your knees buckle. I look at her in surprise. Her first show in Korea is incredibly shabby but she herself isn’t. I was doubtful she could do anything worthwhile on that piece of plywood without any spotlights but she’s proving me wrong. She’s a well-trained actress, and though her voice isn’t that powerful, she’s embodying her appeal with every gesture. You can’t do that if you’re not smart. Does she hide her sensibilities behind the face of a dumb blonde? Her breathy tone is certainly exaggerated but she’s not your average actress. Her brilliance is unconstrained as she kisses and signs the cast of a soldier who is agog in her presence.
As soon as this small but moving performance is over, we move on by helicopter. Marilyn seems to have just noticed that she was singing in the cold on the opposite side of the earth. Her face is flushed. “Alice, aren’t we going to see any cities or towns in Korea?”
I can’t bear to tell her that the cities and towns have pretty much all burned down. “No, that’s what these shows are. You go from base to base. You must be tired. How is your cold? You should take something for it.”
“No, I’m all right. I smelled a lot of medicine at the hospital so I’m feeling fine,” she jokes, smiling.
I tell her about the Clark Gable lookalike. “When the toilet exploded it shot into the air. Like Dorothy’s house in Wizard of Oz. It spun in the sky.”
Marilyn laughs. “Oh my! Why didn’t I meet him? You know, Clark Gable is my idol. He’s my favorite!”
“Well, if the toilet is gone with the wind, how would Clark Gable feel?”
Marilyn laughs politely at my lame joke.
I ask her what the soldier whispered in her ear.
“Actually he said something odd. He said his dead brother keeps appearing in his dreams. And other dead comrades. I don’t know what he was talking about. He was a signal corpsman, I think.” She squints. “He told me that his dead superior’s voice once cut in during a communication, and he saw himself dead. For a while an Oriental man wearing a black hat was following him around. Could that be real?”
“I’m not sure. In the West, death holds a scythe, right? I wonder if he was talking about our death, who wears a black hat.”
“I wished him luck, and he did for me, too.”
I have nothing to say to that. For a soldier going mad, trying to avoid death, luck is valuable, but I don’t know that Marilyn needs it.
We get off the helicopter and get on a truck to head to the 45th Division, and we are stunned by the parade of military trucks zooming up from below the slope, kicking up dust.
An MP hurries us along, laughing. “Everyone in the surrounding villages is terrified, thinking war has broken out again. Ten thousand American navy men are on their way here, so the civilians are packing to flee!”
I can’t breathe. I can already smell their sweat, which reeks of Lucky Strikes and the ground beef that comes in one-gallon cans. The reason for this disturbance has her arms around the drivers’ shoulders, taking countless pictures with them. The overcast sky settles lower and lower and the wind is shifting gloomily. It looks like rain or maybe even snow.
In contrast to the first stage, on which the band members were afraid to step backward in case they fell off, this large stage is outdoors. Singers and dancers have gotten ready for the show in the makeshift dressing room hastily created with black velour curtains. On the stage an MC who looks like Fred Astaire is cracking jokes as the soldiers hoot and applaud. The audience’s voices billow louder. Their hollering dampens the band’s music.
As the makeup artist seats Marilyn at a small vanity, Captain Walker, who is in charge of the shows, enters, looking flustered. “That song wasn’t on the set list,” he says to me in a low voice. “‘Do It Again.’”
“Miss Monroe decides what she sings,” I tell him.
Marilyn asks what’s going on.
“We need to change the repertoire,” Captain Walker says seriously. “It’s a little provocative to sing ‘Do It Again’ in front of the boys, don’t you think? How about something more classic?”
I manage to swallow my laughter. Doesn’t he know that even “Ave Maria” is seductive when Marilyn sings it?”
“It is a classic. It’s George Gershwin,” Marilyn says calmly.
“We’re going to have to change it,” the captain insists.
Marilyn’s smile falls off her face as she turns away. She would be no different from anyone else if sensuality were erased from her voice. But the captain is being rude. You can’t ever be honest when you praise or criticize a woman. Women know whether they are beautiful or whether they are wise. We know this instinctively. I can see from Marilyn’s expression that she knows her own decadent, lewd appeal.
“How about this?” she offers. “I’ll change it from ‘Do It Again’ to ‘Kiss Me Again.’”
The captain frowns but acquiesces. “Please don’t make it too provocative.”
“Captain, it’s just a kiss.”
As they come to a meaningless agreement, an officer rushes in. “We need to get you on stage right now. We can’t keep them waiting. They’re throwing rocks out there!”
It’s true; the tenor of the shouting outside has turned into something more sinister. We have to raise our voices to hear ourselves talk. I take a peek. It’s really something. The MC is flustered. At the sight of the men, Marilyn flushes and looks uncertain. Though she receives five thousand letters a week from soldiers, she must not have imagined what it would be like on the ground.
“Here’s your dress,” I say, finding her costume from her trunk. I don’t want to be pelted by rocks. I take out a blue silk dress that sparkles beautifully like the night ocean reflecting stars. I furtively hold it up to myself as I bring it to her. If I put it on I would look both tragic and farcical. When she puts on the dress, the change is dramatic, with her pale skin, generous bosom, and curves on full display, and I find myself wanting to know more about her.
“Will you be okay? It looks like it will snow.” I’m suddenly worried.
The dress, with its plunging neckline, is so thin that it can’t hide the blue goosebumps on her translucent skin. She has thick makeup on but feverish heat seeps from her forehead and from under her nose. I worry she might collapse onstage.
“It’s fine. The show must go on.” She slides her feet into strappy sandals.
At this point, even tanks would be unable to control the soldiers. Finally the MC calls out her name and the place erupts in cheers. The earth shakes.
Snow flutters like white flower petals as Marilyn stands in the middle of the stage. Her blonde hair renders all other women meaningless—the brunettes and the redheads and the raven-haired. She pouts, sticks her chest out, and shimmies. I’m deafened by the roar. I realize I was worried for no reason. She has to stand on stage, no matter how feverish and ill she is; she has to be in front of an audience no matter how lonely, misunderstood, and rejected she might feel. Her fate might be to love all men while not receiving a single man’s love. I can’t criticize her; after all, I wasn’t able to love even one man. The chorus members in red jackets stand next to her as she gets into the groove. How does it feel to be up there? I’m terrified just seeing all these people in uniforms. Not because they’re testosterone-filled American soldiers but because they’re people. Marilyn is singing “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” from the movie. I wonder who her best friend is—a man who buys her diamonds? Except the man would leave and the diamonds themselves would probably be fake. A beautiful woman doesn’t have any friends, as neither men nor women want to be friends with her. Men want to fall in love and women want to judge, and everyone wants to blame the beautiful woman for being the seductress. She shouldn’t be sad that she doesn’t have any friends; if she had some, she’d eventually figure out that they’re actually her enemies.
The day’s excitement has settled a bit but it’s still festive in the cafeteria, where Marilyn is serving soldiers. She’s thrilled when a round cake with her name written in pink icing is brought out. The Korean cooks who baked it are introduced and she hugs them and takes a picture with them. Marilyn hasn’t changed out of her dress yet. I see that she’s perspiring. We’re all worried she is going to collapse but she keeps telling us she is fine.
“Alice!” she calls. “Come, meet the captain who speaks Japanese! Alice lived in Japan, too. When was it again?”
The captain who was chatting with Marilyn looks at me. “Konbanwa,” he says. He tells me in Japanese he was a Japanese interpreter during the Second World War. During the early days of the war, when interpreters were scarce, he helped Koreans communicate with the UN troops. He also speaks Spanish and had been stationed with the mostly Puerto Rican 65th Regiment. He raises his glass. “Salud!”
“Both of you speak Japanese so well!” exclaims Marilyn.
I don’t want to cause dismay when she finds out that Korea was a colony, so I don’t tell her that. She asks the captain about Tokyo. Her mind is on Tokyo. Of course, a wife’s heart is with her husband, but she looks so happy and free right now. It’s easy to forget she’s feeling unwell.
Betty interrupts. “Marilyn, that’s enough. You have to change at the very least.”
Marilyn rubs her hot forehead and agrees. “Have you seen my small makeup bag?”
“It’s probably in the dressing room,” I tell her.
We help her back to the room so she can change into a sweater and a pair of slacks. She looks at herself in the mirror as she changes, as if disappointed that there is only one. Betty and I are too tired to be impressed by her physique; we pack up while glancing at her voluptuous curves.
“I can’t find it,” Marilyn says, alarmed.
Betty goes outside to search and I dig around the messy dressing room. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “We’ll find it.”
Marilyn nods, biting her lip. She’s wrapped a blanket around herself. She’s trembling. “I don’t know if I can sleep after such an exciting day.”
“It was wonderful. You were beautiful,” I say sincerely, though she might be tired of all the praise.
“I’ve never sung in front of so many people,” Marilyn confesses shyly, blushing. “I’ve never gotten so much applause.”
“Really? You must experience this all the time.” I’m genuinely surprised.
“No, today was very special,” she says dreamily, hugging her knees. “I felt alive. I’m never going to forget it.”
“Maybe it’s because they’re soldiers,” I offer. “Soldiers are always more passionate.”
She doesn’t hear me, perhaps still luxuriating in the cheers.
The passionate applause rings in my ears, too. My heart aches for the soldiers who won’t be able to fall asleep tonight, thinking about her beautiful form.
“Do you have jewelry or money in the bag?” I ask.
Marilyn looks distracted, and I see a familiar anxiety flash across her face. “No—I have some medicine in it, that’s all.”
“Something you need for sleeping?” I ask cautiously, acting on my hunch.
Marilyn nods. I open my handbag, take out a small coin purse, and fish out a few phenobarbital pills. She laughs with delight, then leans close and whispers confidentially, “Alice, do you have trouble sleeping, too?”
I can tell I’m blushing. I think I understand how men must feel when they encounter her breathy voice. I can even understand their wives’ jealousy. “Sometimes. I get these from a friend who works at a clinic. She doesn’t like that I take them.”
“Thank you, Alice. Truly.” Marilyn gives me a hug and takes the pills from my hand. These sleeping pills are a better friend than diamonds for those of us who want to forget their past.
Our eyes meet and she smiles. We are instantly closer.
She takes out her earrings and stretches her legs. “The actresses from the airport were so elegant and beautiful. I want to see their movies.”
“They are true actresses. You’re filled with energy when you watch their plays. It’s amazing.”
“Do you enjoy plays, too?” Marilyn asks.
“I used to see a lot of them a long time ago. Ibsen and Shakespeare and Chekhov.”
“You like Chekhov, too! My acting teacher, Michael Chekhov, is Anton’s nephew. I really respect him.” Marilyn springs up with delight.
I’m surprised she has an acting teacher. “He must be wonderful,” I say.
“I learned so much from him,” she says. “Like the limits of my acting.”
“Limits?”
“He said I’m so sensual that it’s hard for me to show audiences something more than that.” She says this lightly, but I feel immensely sad for her because I know it’s true.
I can’t think of what to say so I just blurt out whatever pops into my head. “I don’t know. Just because you’re an actor doesn’t mean you need to play every part equally well. Isn’t it true that an actor is best at one kind of role? Like it is for writers—even if they write a lot, there is just one story they want to tell.” Am I really telling her that her fate is to play coquettes for the rest of her life?
Marilyn lowers her eyes. Her lashes look like the wings of a descending bird. “I suppose that makes sense. You sure know a lot about actors and writers.”
“I used to be in love with a writer,” I confess without realizing it. I’m honest only to someone I will never see again.
“Really! Alice, how exciting! Do tell me about him.”
I’m already regretting it. “They say you should never even be friends with a writer because you’ll find yourself in their work.”
“I always wish directors and writers would really get to know me and write about the real me,” she says seriously.
“But that can be dangerous. You’ll hate yourself when you see yourself in someone’s work. And he will end up hating the character while he is writing. That is a writer’s limit, isn’t it?” My tone is bitter.
She smiles mysteriously, the kind deployed by someone who doesn’t have enough time or experience to understand the person they are talking to.
I smile awkwardly. My English isn’t the best but it’s not that she can’t understand me. She might simply be the type who’s not convinced by anyone. We are both women who are partial to our own emotions; I can guess that much from my fellow comrade-in-phenobarbital.
Betty walks in. “Alice, your boss is looking for you.”
Marilyn nods for me to go. I quickly head outside. I was wondering where Hammett was. I haven’t seen him since the afternoon. Earlier I asked him to take me to the orphanage that might have news about Chong-nim, since we’re down in Taegu anyway. The card that the chairman’s wife gave me in the dance hall burns in my coat pocket. I need to speak to that nun. We must be going there now. My hands are clammy with anticipation. I might find out more about Chong-nim tonight.
I run towards Hammett, who is standing under the security light in front of the building. “Hammett! Where were you today?”
He turns around, his expression wooden under the yellow light. “Alice, remember I mentioned that people wanted to talk to you?” He sounds tense.
“Is it the intelligence bureau? What is it about?” I’m nervous.
Hammett holds my elbow, his grip firm. “Yes, but—before that you need to see someone else. You—it might be a surprise—” he trails off, looking hard into my eyes.
“Who is it?” My voice trembles as I try to smile. I swallow. My heart is dancing with a premonition of sorts. I’m tense and calm at the same time, as if I have been waiting for this moment. I thought there was no longer anything that could possibly shock me, but who is it that wants to see me on this cold, dark, February night? The wind stabs my lungs and digs in deep but I’m okay. I feel hot. I hear footsteps, familiar, firm footsteps, now across from me under the yellow light.
“It’s been a long time,” the man wearing all gray says to me, the light perched on his head like a hat.
My mouth reacts before my head. “Joseph.”
His face is bright under the light.
Joseph.
My English teacher, my second lover, the friend of my first lover, my sanctuary, my Bible, my regret, my riddle. He is standing here.
“Alice,” he says again, calling me by the very name he gave me.