Festival for Three Thousand Women (17 page)

Bobby was near the Pusan-chip and would have bought the cigarettes there had the place been open. Way down here there were fewer students searching and he couldn't see any teachers on patrol, but there weren't any shops either, so he soon doubled back and came out in the center of things, where some students were questioning a farmer, asking his name and his place of origin. As he walked uptown he saw the Goma streak by, Mr. Nam behind him, and when he reached the tearoom he found that it was open again and went inside.

“Hello,” he said. “Things are a mess out there.”

“Ah,” said Miss Moon.

Bobby sat near the door and Miss Moon stood by him, not even asking if he wanted coffee. The cigarettes were plainly visible on the counter and Bobby nodded in their direction. “So how much are they?” he asked.

“Why?” said Miss Moon. “You don't suppose the spy would be so stupid as to buy them here, do you?”

“No,” Bobby said. “But when they were talking about it at school I realized that I didn't know the price either. I don't smoke, you know.”

“I know that,” she said, looking at him.

“So?” he asked.

“So what?”

“So how much are they?”

Miss Moon laughed, and right then the Goma came in. Bobby scowled. He couldn't even find out the price, let alone buy the things. He wondered if the rules required him to ask the price and buy the cigarettes at the same place, but he had no time to think. Here came the Goma, closing in.

“Any luck yet?” Bobby asked. “Any sign of the spy?”

The Goma was clearly frustrated, and he would have answered had Miss Moon not been laughing so hard. As it was, however, he just looked at her.

“What?” he asked. “What's so funny?”

Though Bobby knew Miss Moon had guessed he was the spy, he still had no idea she would give him away. But she stood up straight, pointed down at Bobby, and said, “It's him. He's the spy this year.”

“Ha,” said the Goma. “He can't be the spy, he's one of the teachers.” But even as he spoke, his scab moved wider with his mouth. “Ho, ho,” he said. “How do you know?”

“The cigarettes,” said Miss Moon. “He wanted to know how much they were.”

Did the spy have to admit it when he was caught? Certainly not to these two. Bobby was furious with Miss Moon and he said, “I only asked because I was curious. How the hell should I know what the stupid things cost?”

He frowned at them, but the Goma threw his head back like a colt.

“Ha!” he said. “Ha! Ha!”

“I am not the spy,” said Bobby.

“Be right back,” said the Goma, heading for the door.

He was going to sell the information. He would win the bet and sell the spy's identity to the students, just like he'd done in the past.

“This isn't fair!” Bobby said to Miss Moon. “You were supposed to be my friend!”

But she only looked at him strangely, then moved away a split second before the door flew open and the second-year students ran in. Mr. Pak, one of Bobby's favorites, was in the lead. “Did you ask the price of cigarettes?” he commanded.

“I didn't know how much they were,” Bobby said. “I was only curious, it being such a big deal and all.”

He realized then that he had never had a chance to survive the day uncaught. The whole town was geared up to inform on anyone.

“Are you,” asked Mr. Pak, “a North Korean spy?”

“Take it easy,” said Bobby. “It's only a game.”

“Yes or no,” Mr. Pak asked, raising his voice.

Korean students weren't supposed to speak to their teachers this way. Anyone else would have beat him for it.

“Yes,” said Bobby. “Good job. You've caught me.”

He thought the whole thing would end then, and he had just begun to worry about Mr. Kwak and the Lees again when all the students jumped him, throwing him out of his chair and pinning him to the floor, messing up his Robert Hall and giving him a rug burn too.

“Call the judges!” they yelled.

“Hey!” Bobby said. “Ouch! Hold it!”

But the students wouldn't let him speak, and once they had him pinned, a couple of them came forward with a rope.

“Tie him up quickly,” said Mr. Pak. “Hooray for the second-year students. Hooray! Hooray!”

This was getting bad. Bobby hadn't thought he'd be caught and he certainly hadn't expected to be treated roughly if he were. He decided to be quiet until the judges arrived. Surely that would bring an end to it.

When the judges came, though, so did the rest of the student body, jamming the tearoom to its walls. Headmaster Kim, the main judge, had of course chosen Bobby, but he too looked at him harshly, as if trying to discern his true identity. After a moment of this examination he stood up and pronounced the second-year students the winners. They picked Bobby up and pulled him out the door. It appeared that he would now be the victim of a procession, all the way to school.

It was Mr. Pak's privilege to lead the spy up the street, but someone else quickly produced a sign that said, “Imbecilic North Korean spy dog,” which was hung over Bobby's neck sandwich-board style. And as they moved along, everyone, all of the students, all of the Goma's entourage, and even passersby skipped and danced and sang, like extras in an extravaganza.

What followed once they got to school was a good many speeches. Everyone lined up in the yard, the headmaster presented the second-year students with a scroll, and Mr. Pak, on their behalf, challenged the other classes, vowing that his group would redouble their efforts, repeating the victory again when they were third-year kids.

Finally, things appeared to wind down. It was usually Judo Lee's job to call the students to the kind of smart attention necessary for dismissal, but Mr. Nam did that, barking at them until they were standing as straight as rods. Then they were gone, home free for the rest of the day.

After the students left, the teachers came around to congratulate Bobby, and the headmaster himself opened a little pocketknife and cut his ropes away. Mr. Soh loaned Bobby a comb, and even Mr. Nam, who had spent the whole day in pursuit of the Goma, smiled and shook his hand.

In other years there had been pots of makkoli in the teachers' room, and after the successful completion of spy-catching day the teachers had all gotten drunk. This day, however, though the makkoli pots were full, everyone reentered the room cautiously. To be sure, some of the teachers would have immediately become as rowdy as possible, but most of them were quiet and surprisingly circumspect, walking past the dissidents on tiptoe, then rolling their chairs over to the unlit stove.

Bobby's desk, of course, was right in the middle of the action, but he was not about to move away. He sat down and looked straight at Mr. Kwak. “I was the spy,” he said. “You probably noticed that.”

When Bobby finished speaking, Mr. Kwak immediately smiled, looking at him ironically, and Miss Lee did too. Only Judo Lee continued looking down.

“I'm sorry,” Bobby said. “It was a special request of the headmaster and I could not find any way to refuse. It was a last-minute thing, an emergency.”

Mr. Kwak nodded. “These things happen,” he said. “Our loyalties are constantly at risk.”

Bobby was feeling terrible, but before he could speak again the school secretary came in and said that the headmaster wanted to see the Lees and Mr. Kwak in his office. Her voice carried none of the weight of the announcement, but when the three stood up, the effect on the room was tremendous. Mr. Lee led the way, never looking back, and the others marched behind him, their dignity contained in the crispness of their step.

Bobby put his head on his arms, across the place on his wrists where the ropes had burned his skin. It was hopeless, he thought. He had done the wrong thing, realizing it, as usual, too late. When would he learn to stand up for his beliefs, to do the right thing? His friends were in the principal's office, and this idiot Nam was standing above him, waiting for an opportunity to speak. He might have stayed there for hours, but when someone tapped him on the shoulder he looked up into the kindly eyes of the vice-headmaster, the moral leader of the school. He had carried a full bowl of makkoli across the room and was trying not to spill any of it as he waited for Bobby to take it from his hands.

The day went on forever. The entire week did. On the way home from school a few people nodded to Bobby, saying what a good job he'd done as spy, and when he left Policeman Kim's house again, he discovered everyone was talking about it, and he knew his place in the town had been enhanced by what he had done. His immediate problem, however, was this: today he had his judo lesson and he had betrayed the toughest man in town, and the very one who would, if he showed up, now have an opportunity to pound him mercilessly, all in the name of sport. Of course, Bobby didn't think that Mr. Lee would show up, but for him to stay away was impossible. So at a little after five, with his judo gear under his arm, he walked into the gym. Judo Lee was already dressed and waiting, preparing, Bobby feared, to teach him the lesson of his life.

“Change your clothes,” said Lee, whose center of gravity right then seemed about two feet off the ground.

“I didn't think you'd come,” said Bobby. “I'm very sorry about everything.”

“You're late. Change quickly.”

There was no changing room in the practice hall, so Bobby turned his back, stepped feebly out of his clothing, and then wrapped the heavy judo-bok around him, his white belt tied at the middle like a handle. Mr. Lee was waiting in the center of the mat, and he bowed and advanced quickly, his hands held like a gunfighter's but his eyes vacant, focusing, Bobby was sure, on his betrayal earlier in the day.

“Balance is everything,” said Mr. Lee, sweeping Bobby's ankle away and letting him fall down on his side. “In judo you should never commit yourself.”

Bobby stood again and Judo Lee came in with an ankle sweep on the other side. Bobby countered nicely by leaving his feet altogether, jumping up into the air.

“Move laterally,” said Mr. Lee. “Don't jump around so.”

He pulled Bobby into a right hip roll, and when Bobby countered he changed direction instantly and sent him sailing, feet up by the ceiling, head down over the mat. But Mr. Lee didn't let go of Bobby's clothing, and when he hit he was horizontal again and slapped the mat with his left arm and side, just like he'd been taught to do.

“Good fall,” said Judo Lee. “It is necessary to learn to take defeat well.”

Mr. Lee was tough, but Bobby was five years younger, so the next time Mr. Lee came at him Bobby spun hard to his right, coming up behind Mr. Lee and grabbing him in a bear hug. Both of Mr. Lee's arms were inside his grasp.

“Ha,” Bobby said, lifting his opponent off the ground.

“Ha, yourself,” said Judo Lee. The moment Bobby pulled, he jumped, throwing himself up over Bobby's head, breaking Bobby's grip and landing on his feet behind him, just like the hero in a Chinese movie. Judo Lee reached down and grabbed both Bobby's ankles, pulling them away and letting him crush his face into the floor.

“None of this is any good,” he said. “You are not staying low, and you have not yet learned where you are supposed to be.”

When Bobby stood he had a bloody nose, but the lesson went on. They moved into the knife defense, Mr. Lee forcing Bobby's arms just to the breaking point before releasing them unharmed. “Like this,” he said again and again. And when the lesson ended an hour later, they were both lying on the mat, Bobby exhausted to the point of nausea but Judo Lee tired too, sweat dripping from his big round face.

It was their usual custom to repair to the tearoom after their lessons. Mr. Lee wouldn't take money for what he taught, so Bobby bought the tea and they generally sat quietly, idly watching Miss Moon and resting. Today, however, Bobby was shy about mentioning the tearoom, and if Mr. Lee had not lingered at the door, he would have gone home alone, humbled somehow by still being in one piece.

Mr. Lee did wait for him, though, and as they walked up the street he said, “Miss Lee and I were simple. Kwak was too.”

Bobby wasn't sure what he meant by “simple,” so he waited, hoping for a little expansion and also a clue as to just how badly he had fared in the eyes of this excellent man.

“Headmaster Kim, though, is not simple,” Mr. Lee continued. “He will let the Ministry deal with me and Miss Lee, but he fired Kwak immediately, right after school.”

“He can't do that!” Bobby said, surprised and truly indignant. “Mr. Kwak's the best English teacher he's got!”

“Sure,” said Judo Lee. “But Kwak was hired here. So he can be fired here too.”

They didn't speak again, but when they got to the tearoom they discovered that it was closed. And this time not only were the lights out, but the sign was down.

Bobby wanted to talk more about Mr. Kwak, but Judo Lee brushed his concern aside. He rattled the tearoom door, then threw up his hands. “I'm not in the mood for tea anyway,” he said. “Tonight let's drink. Come, I know a place where you have never been.”

Bobby wanted to know what had happened to Miss Moon, but he quickly followed Mr. Lee off into the night, walking down an unfamiliar road to the Moon-Hwa-chip, the fanciest bar in town. Before they got there, however, the Goma came out of an alley and fell in behind them. He was carrying something and was acting unusually subdued, and Bobby remembered that the Goma had been the one to turn him in to the students. What the hell, he thought, why not let the Goma profit from this awful day?

When they stepped into the lighted circle made by the Moon-hwa-chip's electric sign, Bobby saw that the Goma was carrying a sack of oranges, big ones in a thin string bag.

“These are for you,” the Goma said.

He handed Bobby the bag, which weighed at least twenty pounds. No one had broken the seal since it had been packed in California. These were American oranges. It was a terrific gift.