Thirteen Specimens (15 page)

     To his relief, the building housing Bank of America was just around the next corner, but the tourist center had told him it was located on the 9
^th
floor and this made him leery as he walked toward the looming structure. In the elevator up, he stared at his own reflection in the mirrored walls, crosshatched into many diced pieces. A security guard at a desk let him past, and just inside the office he met with another lovely young woman with more smiles of apology. He sensed a slight degree of amused bewilderment from her and a male colleague as she explained that this bank only served businesses, not individuals. Hearing his plight, she suggested a bank down the street, but her tone sounded dubious about his chances of success.

     Ford rode down to the street again, feeling bitter and defeated. That was it, then, wasn’t it? He would not have enough money to buy new tickets to and from Vietnam, or to properly vacation there, paying for the hotel room An was booking for him, gifts for her, meals for her, taking her whole family out for dinner as he’d planned. Should he use what money he had left to remain in Seoul, in the guest house, until it was time for his flight from Korea to Chicago to Boston...or should he try to exchange that flight for an earlier flight, and just go home now? Either way, he would have to abandon his goal, his dreams.

     He sketched the beginnings of an email to An in his mind; words like, “I’m so sorry, em...” and, “I tried...”Anyway, was it for the best? Would An have turned out to be so different in every way, in matters large and small, that her initial exotic appeal would warp into frustration, exasperation? Was his experience with this country a portent of that? She and he as lost with each other as he and all these pretty bank workers? His one-time future ba xa an embodiment of all Asian people, another race from his, with whom he could only exchange politely mystified smiles?

9: Horror...wood

     When Ford realized where the bank was that the woman had suggested to him, he wanted to laugh. It was on the other side of that dug-up abyss of a street. Of course it was! Where else would it be, except maybe on the moon? Should he even bother trying? The day had declined toward late afternoon. It might be closing time, soon. But, zombie-like, he walked down the street far enough that he could go around the immense trench, cross and double back toward the bank.

     He took a number, waited to be seen, at a service desk changed the last of his money into
won
. Whatever he had left prior to leaving the country he’d trade for dollars again at the airport. Before he made this exchange, however, he had counted what he had remaining and was dismayed to find himself $100 shorter than he had thought. How had that happened? He supposed he hadn’t been calculating the exchange rate accurately, or hadn’t been keeping a close enough eye on his expenses (he knew it hadn’t been stolen anywhere; he’d been careful to wear a money belt, advised to do so in travel guides to Vietnam). He felt more dismal than ever. As he was given his
won
, he asked the person at the desk if he could use his debit card to withdraw money from his US account. This seemed to cause some nervous concern or confusion, and a handsome young security guard was beckoned over to talk with the man at the desk. The guard indicated for Ford to come with him to a row of ATM machines. Ford wanted to explain that he had tried half the ATMs in Seoul, with no luck. The man disappeared into a room behind the machines, then shortly came back. Ford had the odd notion that the guard with his little holstered toy-like pistol, as cute as he was, had done something to unlock or bypass one of the ATMs in some way. He inserted Ford’s card, touched the keys the screen prompted him to...and Ford heard a familiar, whirring sound that made his chest lock up in anticipation. A moment later, the machine began spitting out money. Ford wanted to grab the cute guard and kiss him.

     As soon as he left the building, it looked like the guard locked the door behind him. Was it closing time, or did they just want him out? He was too happy to be paranoid. He would celebrate, find himself a nice restaurant to have dinner in. His step was lighter (however agonized his feet had become). In keeping his eyes open for a place to eat, he saw signs advertising a DVD store. Why not? He could finally enjoy himself a little before he made it back to the inn. He went inside, found he had to climb a flight of stairs to reach the store, but knew he was in the right place from the wall of the landing above, covered in a montage of Korean movie posters (or Korean versions of posters for American movies). The shop itself was tiny, a single tall shelf stuffed with DVDs facing a counter at which stood a very attractive woman with her brownish-dyed hair tied back in a long ponytail, who gave him the obligatory courteous smiles but who seemed a little uneasy to find such an unexpected customer in her shop. Ford wondered if he could presently be the only Caucasian man in all of Seoul (with its ten million citizens, according to his guide). He jokingly thought that maybe he himself should have bought one of those wooden, full-sized masks that he’d seen for sale in the street the other day, and worn it to give himself narrower eyes, darker skin, in an effort to better blend in with the masses.

     He found a DVD of a horror movie he had heard about, starring a Taiwanese actress he’d seen in an English-language action film – so gorgeous that he had
yearned
for her almost painfully while watching that film. Later, on the web, he had found and printed out numerous sensuous and even nude pictures of her. At the moment, however, he couldn’t recall her name. To make conversation, feeling as uncomfortable as the proprietress, he pointed to the box and asked her the actress’s name. “Oh...Hsu Chi?” the woman said.

     “Yes...yes...that’s her,” Ford said. “I like her.” He then asked her if this DVD would be compatible with an American player. The woman didn’t speak English, as it turned out, made some kind of apology in Korean. Ford replaced the movie, told her maybe he’d come back, and descended to the street. In just these few minutes, evening had begun to encroach.

     He ate in a branch of the American chain
TGIF
–
Thank God It’s Friday
– and smiled when he saw that the uniforms (multiple cute and funny buttons pinned on them) and decor (lots of American flea market-style junk all over the walls) were identical to what he was familiar with. It was someone’s birthday, and a number of the wait staff even assembled at the table to sing some kind of birthday song as they did in the States, though this one was in Korean and they played a guitar and tambourine. It felt good to be sitting down – his lumpy backpack off his shoulders and resting on the floor – and indulging himself with first one and then a second frozen mudslide. But Ford soon found himself a bit perturbed once more. He had been seated in a far corner, away from everyone else, and it almost seemed intentional, almost made him think it was because he wasn’t Korean. And though his waitress was naturally super-pleasant, the service was terrible. When he had finished, he seemed to wait an eternity for his check. Finally, his good mood lost, almost fuming, he got up and went to the front desk. His bill was produced and he paid, indignantly not returning to the table to leave a tip, not knowing or caring at that moment if tipping was expected.

     And so he began threading his way back in the direction he hoped the guest house lay. While he had been dining, night had truly fallen.

     He had almost forgotten to look, had given up on finding it...but in heading back, outside a shop he saw rows of plastic jack-o’-lanterns ranked along a shelf. Flaccid rubber masks, pitchforks and swords flowering from a bucket. Ford fairly broke into a trot to reach the gift shop, and plunged inside. The man who had followed him upstairs the first time opened his mouth as if to begin a greeting, but Ford passed right by him and danced up the steps to the second floor.

     There, he stood staring blankly at the empty spot where he knew the mask play visage had been hanging. The young man caught up with him, hovered at his shoulder. Ford turned to him, pointing at the gap in the rows of masks. “Someone bought it?”

     The man grinned awkwardly, looking at a loss.

     “It’s gone. Who bought it? The Hahoe mask.”

     “Hero?” The man looked like he would reach for a Spider-Man mask.

     “No, no, forget it. Thanks anyway.”

     “Trick-or-treat?” The man swept his hand through the air between them. “Trick-or-treat?”

     “Huh?” The motion caused Ford to look down at himself. He was wearing a black t-shirt, black denim jeans, those new black shoes. Was that what the man meant...that he was wearing all black? Was he asking if he were dressed to go trick-or-treating? It hadn’t been an intentional act to dress all in black today – it was simply his favorite color for
clothing. “No...no trick-or-treat,” he replied. He smiled at the man, nodding, moving back to the steps quickly to avoid another round of sales pitches. “Thank you,” he said as he departed, leaving the poor helpful worker more perplexed than ever, he was sure.

     So the mask was gone; but that still didn’t mean it was the same one he had seen on the figure. Certainly, there was more than one of that mask in Seoul...

     He resumed his achy tramping toward “home”, and considering how lost he had become during the day he found it surprisingly much easier to reach familiar streets than he had expected. When that spire on the high hill near the inn came into view, the needle of a giant compass, he knew he was okay. He moved from the great city canyons into the older, smaller side streets, colorful with lights and bustling with people.

     While he was walking, he half saw or heard something light fall to the pavement in front of him, almost striking his shoe. He stopped short and looked down. A toothpick? A toothpick...thrown at him from above. He turned around and looked up at a balcony behind him. Like many balconies he had seen here, it was filled with large potted plants. Had the toothpick been tossed from a window, or from up there, and had it merely been flicked into the street or purposefully thrown at him – in the first overtly hostile or contemptuous act he had experienced?

     He thought, then, that he could dimly make out a face, peeking down at him between some of the fronds of those plants. The face appeared to be contorted into a huge, toothless grin, and to be unnaturally dark in color. Ford’s breath froze into a chunk of ice, blocking his throat. But then the face was gone. Either it had withdrawn into the shadows, or he had been mistaken about seeing it at all.

     He briskly started away, but glanced back nervously at
the toothpick. Maybe not a toothpick? Maybe a splinter of wood...from a wooden mask.

10: Souvenirs

     When Ford had mounted the guest house’s stairs and arrived at room 201, he found that he didn’t have his key with him. He had thought he’d put it in his right front pocket; could it be locked inside his room? He returned downstairs and talked to the man on duty, the one with the swollen eye. The man immediately produced the missing key, attached to its green plastic tag, and passed it to him. “You left it on the desk, sir, when you went out this morning.”

     “I did?” Ford scrunched his face in confusion. He certainly didn’t remember doing that. An unconscious act, no doubt...unless he had dropped it and someone else had left it there.

     “So, tomorrow we call the embassy, and I will drive you there if your visa is ready.”

     “Yes...yes...great.” Ford was about to turn back to the stairs, but he could see that the man had been reading something on his computer – the news? – and this made him recall their earlier conversation. “Have there been any developments on, ah...about the girl...murdered over here?” He jerked his head in the direction of the factory.

     “No, sir.”

     Ford grunted, had begun moving away from the desk when the young man went on, “Well...there was another murder, not too far from here.” Ford halted, and seeing that the American wanted to hear, the desk man continued, “Nothing to be concerned about, sir. It was a cleaning woman, in a department store called
Migliore
.”

     Ford nodded slowly. Instead of saying he’d been there, he droned numbly, “I’ve seen it. That’s where that...HORRORWOOD thing is, right?”

     “Yes, sir. The woman was killed on that floor, where HORRORWOOD is, before it opened for the day.”

     Ford realized he was still nodding like an automaton, taking in this information. “How?” he asked.

     “Sir?”

     “How was she killed?”