Festival for Three Thousand Women (3 page)

Bobby looked at them all and thought of America, the home of such songs, a million miles away. His vision was blurred as he picked up his chopsticks and lightly hit the edge of his wine bowl the way the old woman had.

“I took my troubles down to Madam Ruth…'” he said softly, but the old man took hold of his arm.

“You mustn't talk,” the old man explained. “Sing. This is singing we are talking about here and this is the time for a song.”

Bobby smiled at the old man, almost rolling his tongue around inside his mouth like he'd done with the students earlier in the day. He would never sing such a song in America, but what the hell… No one knew him here. He took a deep breath then and really did begin to sing, the lyrics unleashed from some dormant depository in his brain.

“‘I took my troubles down to Madam Ruth.…'”

“Cha-cha-cha,” said the old man.

“‘You know that gypsy with the gold-capped tooth…'”

“Cha-cha-cha.”

“‘She looked at me and she made a little sign. She said what you need is…'”

“‘Love Potion Number Na-a-a-a-ine,'” sang everyone in the room.

Something in Bobby broke loose then and he laughed, the flesh around his neck and shoulders moving with the laughter and the song. Music was the international language and he sang loudly, proud of every word.

“‘She jumped down turned around and gave me a wink… She said I'm gonna mix it up right here in the sink…'” About half the people in the room were singing along now.

“‘It tastes like turpentine, it smells like India ink…

“Cha-cha-cha,” said the old man.

“I held my nose, I closed my eyes…'” Bobby bellowed acappella, holding his nose and closing his eyes.

“‘I took a drink…'” sang the old man, and they all continued.

“‘I didn't know if it was day or night…'”

“CHA-CHA-CHA.”

“‘I started kissing everything in sight…'”

“CHA-CHA-CHA.”

Bobby and the old man were watching each other and singing high up in their lungs. The table was bouncing up and down and everyone was swaying.

“‘But when I kissed the cop down at Thirty-fourth and Vine… He broke my little bottle of…'”

“‘Love Potion Number Naaaine,'” they all sang loudly.

“‘Love Potion Number Naaaine,” they sang a bit softer.

“‘Love Potion Number Na-a-a-a-ine!'” This last line they sang quite softly, holding the final note until finally everyone had to take another breath.

“CHA-CHA-CHA!” they all screamed, then they threw their chopsticks up into the air and fell, drunk and laughing, across the floor.

The old man recovered first. He sat up, patted Bobby's arm, then filled two bowls with wine.

“Congratulations,” said Mr. Soh, “you've made a great impression on my uncle. He now wants to give you something.”

“I will compose a poem,” said the old man. “Everybody listen. I will compose a poem for our younger brother.”

Everyone was leaning forward, red-faced. They tried to remain quiet but could not.

“Shut up!” the old man ordered. “Have you no respect for age?” He quieted and looked at Bobby again. “This is a summer poem, in honor of the coming winter,” he said. “Its purpose is to tide you over until we meet again.”

Bobby was swaying back and forth, smiling as if he understood. His cheeks were burning and his mouth was wet and he could see only the old man's thin face, beside him like a crescent moon.

“All right, I've got it,” the old man said. “Everybody listen.” He was quiet again, but then he erupted in a strange, monotonous tone, his stark voice tearing at the momentary calm:

“Flies on the table—
We sat drinking makkoli—
With flies in it.”

The old man leaned over, his eyes inches from Bobby's. Everybody in the room was waiting for his reaction.

“Flies on the table, we sat drinking makkoli, with flies in it,” said Mr. Soh.

Bobby stared at them all and then swallowed and tried to think of a Korean word to say. Mr. Soh was breathing heavily at his side, but though Bobby looked at the table and smiled, no words came. Finally the old man poked him and Bobby looked up one more time.

“Please accept my condolences,” he said.

The dinner ended when one of the women flung the paper doors aside, driving them all out into the night. Those who lived nearby walked to the edge of the courtyard and stepped onto the small footpaths, staggering into the darkness. But for some reason Bobby stumbled over to the room containing the dead woman's body once more. He slid the door open and climbed in and crawled across the floor to the table-altar and took the photograph down, trying to look at it in the bit of moonlight that had followed him in. And he slipped the photograph inside his jacket when he heard the others calling his name.

Those who remained included the old man, the headmaster, and those who had come on the bus. The old woman was pulling on the old man's arm. “Piss on the curfew,” she said. “Our cousin does not die every day. Stay and drink. Stay and sing. We must keep her company.”

But the old man jerked away, hopping into the side of the house. “Let's go, Junior,” he said, and the old woman, sensing defeat, fell to the ground in front of Bobby again.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Thank you for honoring us by coming to the funeral of our cousin.”

They all began bowing to the old lady, backing out of the yard. Mr. Soh went first, brandishing a big flashlight and shining it back and forth along the path. The night was gray, then black, then gray again as clouds moved across the moon. It was cold and all the men soon pulled their heads into their overcoats and became silent.

Bobby could feel the dead woman's photograph pressing into his flesh, and wanted to turn around and take it back. He had no idea why he'd taken it, yet even in his drunkenness he was sure that they would miss it soon, that someone would come along, asking for its return. He turned around to look at the others, to try to make some excuse, but when he did so he slipped off the path. Quickly his legs disappeared into the muck, one to its knee, the other all the way up to his crotch. He shouted and tried to pull himself free, but it was no good. The Koreans gathered around. They pulled him from the muck laughing, all of them staggering about but somehow staying on the path.

“He's too drunk,” said the old man. “We must carry him.” He was gesturing wildly but no one wanted to get close to Bobby's legs, and in another few strides they were on the dirt road, standing beside the dark bus.

“I am sorry,” said Headmaster Kim, but when Mr. Soh opened the bus door he climbed on quickly, sitting down in the seat Bobby had previously used, the one directly behind the driver's.

Bobby sat opposite Headmaster Kim, and the old man squeezed onto the seat with him, moving quickly past his knees so that he could sit by the window. “Koreans can hold their liquor,” he chuckled. “You fell off the path. Phew! Your leg smells like ox shit.” The Koreans all smiled, but the old man leaned into Bobby then, helping him pull his pantlegs away from his body with his strong old fingers.

Mr. Soh started the engine and drove off while everyone was talking, but as soon as his driving got bad they all sat still. Mr. Soh, with his hat pulled down over his ears, gripped the wheel with both hands and bit his lower lip. The van careened off the mountain road and onto the flat one that led into the village. Once they were on level ground again Headmaster Kim stood and took off the baggy farmer's pants that he was wearing, holding them up in the aisle of the bus like a surrender flag.

“Here,” he said in English. “Dry pants…” He tossed them to the old man, who immediately began plucking at Bobby's belt. “No time for continuity of dress,” he said. “Not where ox shit is concerned.”

Bobby held the pants away from him for a moment, ready to argue, but then he stood up awkwardly from the seat and, head bent along the roof, stripped his heavy trousers away. When he let go of them they slumped beside him in the aisle. He quickly slipped into the headmaster's baggy pants and felt them blow against his legs in the breeze that came from the door. And when he sat back down again he saw his knees next to the old man's. His soiled trousers still had not completely fallen but had turned in the aisle and were inching forward, up next to Mr. Soh now at the front of the bus. Bobby looked at Headmaster Kim to thank him, but the headmaster was asleep, his naked legs moving with the bends in the road.

Suddenly, as Mr. Soh turned a corner too abruptly, the bus rolled into a stack of discarded boxes and stopped. Bobby's trousers fell, wounded in the aisle. Mr. Soh smiled and opened the door. Somehow they were in front of the inn.

“Good-bye,” said the old man.

Bobby stood and tried to think of something appropriate to say, but finally he just climbed down out of the van, pulling his filthy trousers behind him. Headmaster Kim's was the only voice he recognized as Mr. Soh searched for reverse. The headmaster had woken from his doze and was sitting up a little. “I am sorry,” he said, and then they backed out of the debris and sped away into the night.

Though the inn was behind him and the night was cold, Bobby turned into the marketplace, through the broken stalls and down a rutted pathway. He hadn't gone very far before some street children came out of the doorways where they slept and began following along. He took the dead woman's photograph from his jacket, wiped the front of it on the headmaster's pants, and tilted it up so that he could see her face. She was proud in the photograph, nearly arrogant, nothing like his grandmother at all. Bobby stopped at the center of a small bridge. Below him was a dried-up streambed, and as he looked down, the children shuffled in around him, plucking at his jacket and trying to get a look at the photograph. To Bobby's surprise the Goma from the inn was among them. “Hello,” the Goma said softly. “Hey you, OK.” It was, so far as he knew, the standard American greeting, and when Bobby looked at him, his scab mustache parted in a smile.

As Bobby looked at the woman's photograph he could see the hills beyond it, and he imagined the sea beyond the hills and America over there, somewhere beyond the sea. God, what a night this had been. At the funerals of his parents he had marched carefully past their caskets, head bowed, tears welling in his eyes. That was the way funerals were supposed to be anywhere in the world, any fool knew that. Yet tonight he had gotten drunk and sung unconnected songs, and now he was stuck with this goddamn photograph, staring at him from the bridge railing like the photograph of a judge. He should have taken it back but now it was too late. He had felt like an outcast in America to be sure, but what did he feel here, standing drunkenly in the market like he was?

The Goma tried to take his hand, but when Bobby pulled away he stood back, content to wait for a sign that Bobby was tired and finally ready to go home.

Nine in the second place means: If one is sincere it furthers one to bring even a small offering
.

 

T
he Monday after the funeral Bobby went to school tentatively, the woman's photograph in a paper sack next to his lunch. Headmaster Kim was in his office and the teachers were in the teachers' room when he arrived, so he went directly to the headmaster's door and knocked.

“Enter,” said Headmaster Kim.

“Good morning, sir,” said Bobby. “The photograph of your uncle's wife's cousin is in this sack.”

Headmaster Kim did not look up, but since Bobby had devoted most of his Sunday to learning his lines for this encounter, he knew they were correct.

“Pardon me?” said the headmaster.

“The photograph of your uncle's wife's cousin is in this sack.”

Although the words were right, the headmaster wasn't understanding. Bobby had practiced this sentence dozens of times on the Goma. What was the problem, then, with the headmaster?

Bobby removed his lunch and laid the sack on the desk, bowing so that the headmaster would think he was contrite.

“Oh,” said Headmaster Kim. “Thank you very much.”

He took the sack but did not open it, and Bobby realized that the headmaster thought it was a gift Bobby'd brought with him from America. Bobby bowed again and walked back into the teachers' room where the morning meeting was about to begin. Were some of the teachers looking at him strangely? Were these the teachers who had been at the funeral and were they now telling the others what he'd done? Was stealing a dead woman's photo some sort of sacrilege at a Confucian funeral? Bobby wished he were back in training where there were people who could answer questions such as these. He wished he hadn't taken the photograph, of course, and he wished he knew why he had. But when the meeting began he sat down at his desk, losing himself in the drone of language, letting it take him and letting it lessen the already abating feeling that he'd gotten off on the wrong foot.

The official name of the school was Taechon Boys' Middle School and, though it was essentially a nonacademic school—students here ended their education after ninth grade—there were three English teachers besides Bobby: Mr. Soh, Mr. Nam, and Mr. Kwak. Of the three, Mr. Soh appeared to be the only one who spoke decent English. Mr. Nam, however, would not admit that his English was bad, and Mr. Kwak seemed so embarrassed by the fact that he spoke so poorly that he would have nothing to do with Bobby, whose desk, in the teachers' room, was beside his own. Bobby's desk was at the edge of the English department, and the desk to his left marked the beginning of the physical education department, which had two teachers: Mr. Lee and Miss Lee. Miss Lee was the only woman on the faculty and Mr. Lee was its youngest man. He was a martial arts expert whose nickname was Judo Lee, and he seemed intent on becoming Bobby's friend.