Black Flower (30 page)

An advance element of Zapata’s peasant troops marched into Mexico City on November 26. It was a quiet entrance, with no sound of victorious trumpets and no showy parade. Zapata’s troops met little resistance as they seized the agencies necessary for maintaining order, such as the police station. Pancho Villa, who advanced from the north, entered Mexico City on December 4. The former bandit and the former peasant had much in common, such as the fact that they both had so little education that they were nearly illiterate. Yet they were both geniuses of guerrilla warfare, and they were both very popular with the people, and their first meeting began with stammered words of mutual respect. These two shy, rustic leaders denounced Carranza’s craftiness and congratulated each other on their accomplishments. Two days later, the northern troops and the southern troops held a large-scale joint victory parade.

Among the northern troops marching down the Paseo de la Reforma was an Asian soldier, drawing the attention of the crowd. It was Kim Ijeong. As part of Pancho Villa’s ever-victorious División del Norte, Ijeong had finally entered the center of Mexico. After three years of revolution, he was twenty-five years old. Pancho Villa’s army was loved and welcomed by the people wherever it went, and Ijeong received similar treatment as part of that army. There was nothing wrong with being that sort of revolutionary. It was an existence that crossed back and forth between life and death. On occasion he longed for women, and at these times he thought of Yeonsu, but now that he had joined the insurgency he was not free to move about as he pleased.

Unlike Emiliano Zapata, Pancho Villa began a reign of terror as soon as he entered Mexico City. The capital was quickly plunged into chaos as arrests and executions were carried out according to a list that had been drawn up in advance. Blood begat blood. The soldiers had to learn how to murder without question, like Mafia hit men. Day after day they held pistols to the chests of those who could not fight back and pulled the trigger. It was like drawing faces on pieces of wood and using them for target practice. Ijeong, too, pulled the trigger without thinking. Every time he did so, something in his heart collapsed a little. The landowners must die, he thought. He believed that the hacienda system, which filled only the bellies of the large landowners, had to be abolished immediately. The same went for the filthy slavery system under which people were bought and sold. Strangely, though, the ruling class was not easily caught. After Ijeong had shot a number of men, he found out that they were petty farmers and poor people no different from him. It didn’t matter whom they supported; they were drafted and joined the war, sometimes on Huerta’s side, sometimes on Villa’s side, and sometimes on Obregón’s side. Ijeong blindfolded them and put a bullet in their heart. Orders were orders.

Yet Ijeong loved Villa. Villa, who had beaten to death a foreman who was raping his younger sister and then fled the hacienda to become a bandit. Like Zapata, he was illiterate and impulsive in all he did. By his very nature, he hated nations, institutions, and laws. He was not an anarchist, but ultimately he acted like one. He had no interest in founding a nation. That was precisely what made Villa so attractive. He hated the landowners and the learned, and put that hatred into practice. He had crossed the line once and killed hundreds of Chinese for no reason, but people still loved this impulsive and whimsical man.

Ijeong sometimes wrote in a journal: “Can a nation disappear forever? What if it can? Since the start of the revolution it has been just as if there was no nation in Mexico. Everyone prints their own currency and kills those who use different money. Butchery leads to butchery. The powerful are all advancing on Mexico City. Here is both the start and end of this long revolution. Tens of thousands have already died. Has all this happened because of the former nation, or because of a lack of a nation? We had the Korean Empire, but we were not happy. And now it is the same with Mexico. From somewhere comes the stench of blood. The stronger nations, Japan and the United States, start wars and support civil wars in order to rule the weaker nations.”

Miguel, a Mexican soldier with whom Ijeong was close, was a curious anarchist. Chewing on cheap cigars like gum, he always said things like this: “Nations are truly the root of all evil. Yet the nations do not disappear. If we drive out those caudillos and accomplish the revolution, other caudillos will seize control of the government. So what can we do? We can only shoot them all to death. If the revolution is to continue, that is the only way. A permanent revolution, that’s what it is.”

“Then will you shoot Villa if he becomes president?” Miguel flashed a smile at Ijeong’s question. “That is my belief. Politics and convictions are different.” In contrast to the young Marxists who served as staff officers under Zapata, those who followed Villa had more diverse backgrounds and views. Among them were anarchists who had come from Russia and Spain, and romantic Trotskyites from Germany. Ijeong was confused. What was clear, though, was that none of the nations that Ijeong had passed through, not even Villa’s camp, was the ultimate form of government he desired.

One day, Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata invited diplomats to the presidential palace. The great powers, including the United States, Germany, Great Britain, and France, were summoned by the revolutionary leaders. Some attended, some did not, using illness or a holiday as an excuse. Ijeong stood guard outside the palace with the other soldiers. The revolutionary troops were a little timid before the splendor of the capital. The guerrillas in their old uniforms looked shabby before the vast Zócalo. When cars carrying the diplomats began to stream into the presidential palace, Ijeong watched them with indifference. One of the cars, a new model Ford, stopped. The passenger door opened and a man stepped out, then the car went on to the palace.

It was Yoshida. Dressed in a formal swallow-tailed coat, he approached hesitantly and held his hand out to Ijeong. Ijeong shifted his rifle from his right hand to his left and shook his hand. “It’s been a long time. I never thought I would see you here,” Yoshida said. He glanced at Ijeong’s uniform and comrades. “You’re a Villista.” Ijeong’s comrades stared at him with wonder as he spoke in Japanese. “Did you know that Villa killed some two hundred Chinese in Torreón for no reason at all?” Ijeong nodded. “And yet you are a Villista.” Ijeong spoke in Spanish. He could not talk about Villa in Japanese. “Sometimes he just goes out of his head. There is no reason for him to dislike the Chinese. He is just hotheaded, and that’s what is so attractive about him. But what are you doing here?”

“I went to the Japanese consulate and turned myself in. The consul said that he was sorry, but he had no way to arrest and take me into custody. He asked me if I would like to work for him, so I settled down there.” Yoshida held his arms out and smiled. “What do you think? Not bad, eh?” Then he lowered his voice. “We do not think Villa and Zapata will last long. Consider this carefully.”

Ijeong nodded expressionlessly. “That does not matter to me. After all, I am an outsider.” “You mean a mercenary?” Ijeong shook his head. “I volunteered, but my situation is no different. It is good to see you.” Yoshida’s face clouded over. “We probably won’t see each other again, will we?” Ijeong moved his rifle from his left hand back to his right hand. Their replacements were coming. Ijeong signaled to his men to withdraw. “Probably not, but who knows what might happen?” Yoshida grabbed Ijeong as he turned to go. “Oh, by the way, you’re Japanese now, too. As such, your actions should be reported to us. You probably knew this, but all of the Koreans living in Mexico became Japanese citizens in 1910. So if you need a passport, if you are treated unfairly—anything—come to the Japanese embassy. It is the legation’s duty to protect our citizens abroad.”

“I did not know. But I never agreed to become Japanese.” Yoshida laughed. “Since when does an individual choose his nation? I’m sorry, but our nation chooses us.” Yoshida clapped Ijeong on the shoulder and went into the presidential palace.

I
GNACIO
V
ELÁSQUEZ
had a dream. A white, winged horse flew down from the heavens through the clouds. The heavenly horse was so dazzlingly beautiful that it looked like it belonged to God. On it rode a young man he assumed to be an angel, and he was smiling at Ignacio. The angel spoke to Ignacio, who had bowed down and was praying. “Can you give your life for the Lord?” Ignacio was overcome with emotion and bowed to the floor. “Of course. If the Lord desires it, how could I cling to this petty life? Give me the order. The army of the Lord will march forth.”

When Ignacio woke from his dream, his sheets were soaked with sweat. It was no ordinary dream. He went out to his prayer room and knelt down. “Lord, just say the word. I offer up this body to you.” He tended to some business on the hacienda and read the newspaper that had been brought to him by an overseer. The state of affairs in Mexico was critical. Things had been changing so fast since Porfirio Díaz was ousted that no one could see what was coming. “Pitiful atheists!” Ignacio ground his teeth. They had not stopped at overthrowing the leader but had begun to attack the landowning class, the Church, and the clergy. Ignacio mustered the hacienda’s soldiers. Among them marched Choe Seongil in smart leather boots. Ignacio told his men that the moment of the decisive battle was approaching. Not all of the overseers and foremen sympathized with Ignacio. Some of them were already leaning toward the revolutionaries. What was so wrong with tearing down the landowning class and the Church? But Ignacio trusted steadfastly in their loyalty. At least one of them would faithfully live up to his expectations: Choe Seongil, the thief of Jemulpo, who had transformed himself into Ignacio’s most fanatical henchman. Whenever he appeared on the hacienda, all of the laborers grew nervous. His nickname was the Executioner. He overturned altars to the ancestors and took the whip to those who attended Baptist services.

There were hardly any Koreans left at Buena Vista hacienda. Many of those who had left when their contracts expired were unable to find jobs elsewhere and returned to the haciendas, but not to Buena Vista. Because Ignacio and Choe Seongil were still there, the freed laborers avoided the place. Some of them left for the sugar plantations of Cuba, others for big cities like Mexico City, Veracruz, and Coatzacoalcos. Choe Chuntaek and the whalers from Pohang settled in a fishing village near Coatzacoalcos. They borrowed nets and boats and caught fish, and the women took the fish they caught and sold them at the market.

Among those who left for Veracruz was the Stone Buddha, Bak Jeonghun. After he had gained his freedom, he remained on the hacienda for three years and saved his money, then went off to Mérida. Jo Jangyun had asked him to stay with him there and help with the branch office, but Bak Jeonghun chose to go it alone: “I don’t think I’m the type of person who gets along with a large number of people.” As soon as he arrived in Veracruz he went into a barbershop near the piers to ask for a job. An old Negro barber tilted his head. “Where are you from?” “I’ve come from Mérida.” “Have you ever cut hair before?” “No. But I am good with knives and scissors.” The barber took hold of Bak Jeonghun’s hands and looked at them carefully. “You’ve done hard work on the haciendas, I see. But why do you want to learn to be a barber?” Bak Jeonghun had his reasons. Cutting hair was something you could do without talking. The life he dreamed of was one where he quietly clipped with his scissors, went home, ate dinner, and went to sleep. He said that he didn’t need much compensation, he only wanted to learn the work. The old Negro, who was from Cuba, willingly took him in. Thus began Bak Jeonghun’s life as a barber. In only three months, he learned everything the barber could teach him. He was especially good at shaving, and he soon had regular customers of his own. The people of the port knew him as the mute Chinese. He ate and slept in the back of the barbershop and took care of the cleaning and odd jobs.

He received his first monthly wages on the first day of his fifth month on the job. As soon as the workday ended he walked outside and down the street. He had been eyeing a Chinese restaurant there, and he pushed aside the curtain, went inside, and sat down. A woman came out to take his order. She spoke clumsy Chinese, but her scent reached him first. Bak Jeonghun lifted his head and looked at her. Her face was familiar. The woman did not recognize Bak Jeonghun, but she sensed something in his look. He remembered who she was from her aristocratic profile. The girl who had sat quietly in a corner of the
Ilford
a long time ago.

Yeonsu was the first to speak. “Have you come from Mérida?” she said in Korean. Bak Jeonghun nodded. Yeonsu glanced back at the owner before speaking again. “Where do you live?” Bak Jeonghun told her about the barbershop. She lowered her voice and asked, “Have you heard anything from Mérida?” “I worked on the hacienda until 1913. Then a few months ago I came here. That is all. There was talk of everyone leaving for Hawaii, but that came to nothing, and after that everyone scattered to the wind.” Yeonsu’s face grew red and she wiped the table with a cloth. As she did so, she kept glancing around at the owner. Bak Jeonghun realized that she could not talk freely. Yeonsu lowered her voice and asked, “Do you know a man by the name of Kim Ijeong? He worked in the galley on the
Ilford
and he was briefly at Yazche hacienda . . .” Of course Bak Jeonghun remembered the young boy whom Jo Jangyun had named. “He was sold to Chenché hacienda, where I was, and went on strike with us. On the day the strike ended, he borrowed some money from my friend Jo Jangyun and ran off to the north. We wondered about him from time to time. Ah, now that I think about it, the two representatives from the United States, Bang Hwajung and Hwang Sayong, I think they said that they saw him in the state of Chihuahua. He was about to cross the border, so he is probably in the United States now.” Yeonsu’s face grew dark. “I am embarrassed to ask, but my father, the one called Jongdo . . .” Bak Jeonghun shook his head. “I don’t know. Ah, you had a younger brother, didn’t you? I heard that he is doing well. I heard that he worked as an interpreter and these days has been put in charge of management, bringing laborers to the haciendas and receiving a commission. He is probably still in the Yucatán.”