Seoul Survivors (10 page)

Damien sauntered down the concrete steps that cut through his new 'hood: Tae Hung Dong, or Well Hung Dong, as Jake called it. It was amazing how good the Dong looked after dark, especially if you'd just smoked a quick joint. The daytime monotony of apartments and rubbish was now overwritten by a maze of neon signs and eerily illuminated windows; the cop box on the corner was a cube of sterile incandescence, and the butcher's, hung with flayed carcasses, burned like an Amsterdam brothel. Next to the video store, its postered window glowing like a paper lantern, the late-night open market gleamed with food: fish, meat, poultry on ice trays; mountains of nectarines, plums, cherries, watermelons; crates of
pak choi
and eggplant, plastic bags full of bean sprouts, peeled garlic cloves and brown, holey slices of what Damien now knew was lotus root. Everything was shimmering; even the pools of vomit on the steps were almost throbbing with light.

It was stupidly hot, though. His damp shirt clinging to his skin, Damien emerged onto the main road at the foot of the Dong, turned left alongside eight blaring lanes of traffic, and made an effort to speed up. It was the opening night of Azitoo, Jake and Sam's bar, and Jake's band, Mama Gold, was due on at half-ten. Also, Sam would be there. Jake had sent an enigmatic text, giving the impression that his cousin had some news about the passport. As Damien headed toward Shinch'on traffic circle, all the underlying anxiety of the last two weeks started churning in his stomach. It was hard to feel Zen when his entire future probably rested on the outcome of tonight.

It was also hard to get anywhere quickly.
Dukbogee
stands blocked every pavement corner, their stoic vendors hawking rice noodles and hot sauce to queues of nightcrawlers. Trendy boys in trim jackets and drainpipes, spiky hair gelled forward, sideburns neatly trimmed, elbowed past him; gaggles of girls in tight dresses and rhinestone jewelry teetered in front of shop windows, clutching each other's arms for support. Sucked in to the swell of the crowd, Damien kept pace with the bare legs of a mini-skirted belle. She was on her own: Jake would have tried to catch up, chat her up, but he kept his distance. He did a lot of looking these days, but he
was pretty sure talking—especially the kind which might lead to touching—would not be a good idea.

He had quickly realized most Korean girls were afflicted with a fatal fondness for sentimental gifts, not to mention dreams of wedding shops. Soft-skinned and dewy-eyed they might be, but most of the girls lived at home, didn't do one-night stands and at heart were little kittens you could crush with just one flippant remark, never mind an inevitable decision to leave the country. Plus, no matter how good their English was, they didn't understand the word “over.” Jake had dumped his latest ex in order to concentrate on his band and bar, and for the last two weeks she'd been messaging him twenty times a day.

Of course there were loads of Westerners in Seoul, but most of them were Canadian—and after just a fortnight in Seoul, Damien had realized that the only problem with his climate change-savvy, international terrorism-conscious survivalist life plan was that he just didn't fancy female Canucks. The ones he'd met at Jake's friends' parties were card-playing, skinny-Minny, PC intellectuals who hung out in packs, discussing nuclear power, racism and their grade-school teachers in Elbow or Cold Turkey, or wherever. Even if one was cute—okay, the redhead—there was no getting close to her. And if by some minor miracle you did manage to peel her away from her game of Kaiser, she'd force you to listen to Arcade Fire or Joni Mitchell all night, and then hold a conference call about the contents of your bookshelf the next day. There was no mystery or edge to Canadian girls, that was the problem; though to be fair, the Americans and Aussies were worse.

What he needed was some moody French bird. Or a quirky Icelandic maiden. But then again, in Damien's experience even the simplest of holiday flings had the potential to turn into long-drawn-out battles for emotional supremacy. Sometimes even that was worth it for the sex and general sense of drama, but he had other priorities here in Seoul, and tonight's was meeting Sam.

He reached the traffic circle, a massive roundabout overhung by the technicolor hoardings of the Grand Mart Cinema. Opposite stood Elegance Department Store, its pristine façade tied up in a neon red ribbon. Behind it, Shinch'on jigsawed out into a pell-mell, hugger-mugger zone of night spots: Hofs for beer, smoked fish and peanuts,
norebangs
for Korean Karaoke; jazz rooms; coffee shops; Web Space Cafés; theme bars named after such luminaries as Kenny Rogers, the Eagles, Coldplay, The Rolling Stones. And
now there was Azitoo, which, according to Jake, didn't mean anything at all.

Damien headed down into the underpass. As he crossed the concourse, a blonde girl covered in gold make-up, her hair a Medusa tangle of metal-tipped braids, glowered at him from a VidAd screen. The camera zoomed out as she tweaked a button on her GrilleTex
^TM
jacket and her face and hair turned a cool silvery blue.
Chill out . . . with OhmEgo
the slogan urged before the girl's sly grin faded and a tofu ad took her place.

He emerged in front of Elegance slathered in sweat. If he could afford temp-control clothing he'd've got himself a whole new wardrobe, but his wages were accounted for already. What he really wanted to find out tonight was that the passport and SIN card would only cost a few million so he could get to Canada as soon as possible. Then he'd be well chilled.

Her black crêpe dress slicked to her skin, Sydney pranced up the street.
Her
street. In
her
new neighborhood.

“Freedom!” She waved to the night sky, then spun round to hug Jin Sok. “Yeee haaaa!”

Jin Sok's deep laughter echoed off the buildings. “You never stop moving, Superwoman. Come, now I show you Gongjang, best late nightclub in Seoul.”

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “I thought that was the club we just left?” Everywhere Jin Sok took her was the best of its kind in Seoul. Tonight they'd started at a Japanese restaurant in Apkuchong after the shoot, then gradually crossed the city back to her home turf.

“No, Smartie Girl, that best club in
Shinch'on
.” The photographer grabbed her waist and guided her past a dim strip of closed boutiques and restaurants. A few brightly dressed clubbers were eating fish sticks at an
o-dang
van on the corner, steam from the hot pots blurring their faces. Otherwise, the neighborhood looked deserted. It was nearly two a.m., after all.

“Are you sure—?”

“Shhh.
Politzi.
” Jin Sok placed his finger sternly on his lips and she rolled her eyes, but let him lead her silently past a row of walled houses, their demure gardens just visible behind iron gates. They crossed a quiet road and he pulled her around an island of discarded electronics and a broken fridge toward a gray building: offices or apartments, it was hard to tell. A sickly pool of light spilled through the glass doors of the lobby.

A young Korean wearing an earphone headset materialized from nowhere. Jin Sok slipped him a couple of
man won
bills and after glancing up and down the road, the bouncer ushered them inside. Sydney's heels clicked on the steps leading down to the basement.

“Gongjang mean factory,” Jin Sok told her. “Music factory. Art factory. Sex factory. You like.”

She grinned at his imperious tone. “Is that an order?”

“Wha—?”

“Never mind.” Some things just took too long to explain.

Jin Sok held open the metal door at the foot of the stairs and Sydney stepped across the threshold into the finger-pattering thump beats of the summer's top Afro-dustrial dance track. The intertwining rhythms tugged her into a small room crammed to capacity; her hips already in synch with the music, she inhaled the warm, close crush of flesh. The DJ was scratching on a stage beside the bar; a cluster of girls perched on a cable bobbin beneath a dead tree twitched painted toes in time to the music. Beside them, a group of Korean guys were banging their beer bottles against the top of a red metal barrel. Everywhere drinkers and dancers were haloed by blue bulbs, blue candles, the glow of the drinks cooler and a blank green television screen. Around them all, wispy white, spray-painted clouds drifted between the pipes and metal plates that bulged from the sky blue walls.

“You dance, I get drinks.”

His palm between her shoulder blades, Jin Sok pushed her into the bubbling vat of bodies. Fans blew over her from every corner of the room; the DJ began dispensing an aural massage of electronic pings and whistles. Jin Sok was right: Gongjang was blue heaven, the best nightclub on the planet, a compact box of elation, sweat and sound.

Azitoo was a windowless basement, packed solid with Koreans, Westerners and young Japanese, all grooving to the mellow harmonies of Mama Gold. Damien ordered a beer from a bloke who might have been Sam and leaned against the bar, watching Jake in action.

The trio of bass, guitar and synthesizer ran smoothly through a repertoire of songs about the ex-pat experience, from the jaunty licks of “I Guess You're Going to a Nori Bang” to “I Love You, Lee Sung Hee,” a ballad in honor of the legendary Korean-American soft porn star. “Lee Sung Heeeeeee, do you like
kim cheeee
?” the lead singer crooned.

Finally the band took a break and Jake sidled behind the bar.

“Hey, Day.” Jake's mid-western drawl was as fake as his sideburns. “Great to see ya. And congrats on the footie. Going well, hey, buddy?”

“We won our first game one-nil—against
Japan
. Now there's only, oh, Argentina and Portugal to go.”

“
Dames
. You could still top the group. So, you gonna join us on back-up for a number, give us some of that old Brit-pop cool?”

Damien shook his head. “I don't sing, mate.”

“Shame—with your looks you'd be a major hit with the girlies. But here, lemme get you a vodka martini. Some James Bond fan might go for you then.”

His gold lamé shirt winking in the lights, Jake reached for a bottle of Smirnoff. “So, I talked to Sam,” he said quietly, shaking the drink and nodding at the other bartender who was standing sentinel at the till. Skinny, with a square jaw and conservative brush-cut, Sam looked nothing like Jake, until he threw his cousin a conspiratorial grin and above his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyebrows rose in that same wicked ghost of a Groucho Marx wiggle.

Damien cast a sidelong glance down the bar. Beside him, two Korean girls were swapping photos on their MoPhos; behind him the crowd chattered and guffawed.

Jake cracked open a beer. “Hey, relax. Sam and me, we know everyone here.”

Damien took a sip of his drink. It was a strong one. That helped. “Okay. Shoot.”

“Bad news is,” Jake said softly, “the price is sky-high. There's a big demand right now for Canuck papers. Guess you're not the only one thinking ahead. And to work in Canada, you're right, you'll definitely need a SIN card as well as a passport.”

Damien nodded. He had done the research online, and this was not unexpected news. All Canadians were assigned a social insurance number and issued a SIN card that wasn't nearly as fun as it sounded. You couldn't open a bank account without one, and employers needed to report the number to the tax department. Some hotels and minicab companies hired illegals without cards and paid them in cash, but he didn't want to be hanging out with dodgy folk, always looking over his shoulder. Plus, a SIN card also entitled you to government benefits if things got tight.

“That's okay. I knew that.”

“So. You have two options,” Jake continued. “You could get a fake birth certificate and apply for the SIN when you arrive, or, for a slightly higher price, my guy here will ask his hacker contact in
Canada to find you the name and number of a deceased personage whose relatives have not informed the SIN registry of their loved one's passing. My guy will then make you up a SIN card, and a passport with the same name.”

Damien's online researches had indicated that these were two secure routes into the SIN database. The Canadian government hardly ever checked it for fraud, apparently. He didn't want to have to jump through hoops when he arrived, though. “Option two, definitely. How much does your guy want?”

“Going rate is twenty million.”

Damien wished he could whistle better. “Fucking hell.”

Jake shrugged. “It's a good deal. Option one is eighteen point five. I guess he pays the hacker the extra.”

Damien jabbed at the lemon peel in his drink with his straw. “I'm going to need some set-up money too.”

“No problem. The passport comes with a visa stamp, any date you want. Just overstay, and buy it when you can afford it.”

As always, there was something reassuring about Jake, with his solid build and dark, hush-puppy eyes. But Damien needed to be in Canada before the Hammer's big date with Earth. And even if Jake was right and the Mayans were wrong, overstaying didn't exactly appeal.

“I dunno—what if I got picked up after my UK passport expired? I'd be fucked.”

Jake took a thoughtful slug of his beer. “Sam?” He turned to his cousin. “Five months: you gotta save four million a month, plus live. Possible?”

Sam nodded. “Sure, top earner in Seoul make six million a month. Okay, no sleep, but OxyPops cheap. We keep eye open for jobs for you.”

“You've got your key-money too,” Jake reminded him. “That'll tide you over when you get there. Rent's cheap in Winnipeg.”

Damien clunked his glass down on the bar. “All right: I'll give it a go.”

Sam stuck his hand out. “Damien, Jake very rude. I Sam.”

“Great,” Jake cut in, as Damien shook Sam's hand. “Now you're all cozy here. When you've got the cash, give me a photo. Turnaround is pretty quick, three or four days.”