Seoul Survivors (8 page)

Jake flicked a bit of tobacco out from between his teeth. “Me neither, buddy, but it's not up to us peons to decide these things, is it?”

“Canadians don't have to give blood to get a passport, do they?”

Jake made a mock salute. “Land o' the free, buddy, home o' the brave. Unless you're a First Nations brave, of course. Then it's the reservation for you, second-class citizenship, fracked land and nuclear waste.”

Damien ignored the history lesson. “Well, I'd rather have a Canadian passport. And a Social Insurance Number. I've done the research, Jake. If the oceans keep rising, or the Hammer hits and there's another tsunami, central Canada's going to be one of the safest places on earth.”

Jake snapped his fingers beneath Damien's nose. “Dude-ski, wake
up
! How many times do I have to tell you? The Hammer is a magnet for internet loonies, that's all. So basically you're saying that you wanna live in Armpit, Saskatchewan to avoid getting sneezed on in the odd queue for the off-license? Not sure you've really thought this through.”

How to explain without explaining; that had always been the question. “Look, there's some personal stuff going on for me too,” he muttered. “I could do with some space to chill out after Korea. I just thought you might know some bloke who could sort me out.”

Jake held his gaze. “Dames: are you in some kind of trouble?”

Damien ran his hand through his hair. “Not really—I mean, not yet. I don't want to go into it, Jake, it's not important. I just don't want to go back to England, okay?”

“Not even for the World Cup? I thought you'd be sprinting right back for that.”

Damien snorted. “Especially not for the World Cup. We're shit, remember? We're going to get eliminated in the group stages and the whole country's going to sulk through the knockouts and disgrace ourselves as hosts, then we'll spew up spite and recrimination for the next four years. No thanks.”

“Hey, don't be so negative, Dames. It's a common coping mechanism to deal with fear of failure, but it deprives you of the healthy chance to hope. You guys got a good team this year. You just had injury problems in the run-ups. But with the schedule re-jigged to July now, you've had extra training time. Best chance since '66, I reckon.”

“Germany and Brazil have also had extra-training time, Jake—and it's
always
our best chance since '66, but we never do better than abject humiliation in the quarter-finals—or semi-finals, if we're extremely unlucky. Please don't kid yourself on my account, okay?”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “An Englishman who doesn't want to watch the World Cup at Wembley: this has got absolutely nothing to do with kiddie-fiddling, right?”

“Jake,” Damien exploded, “fuck,
you're
the one working at a bloody kindergarten!”

“Whoa!” Jake flashed him a grin. “I'm just winding you up, buddy, relax. Look, your business is your business. You wanna live in Canada, that's great. I'll talk to Sam when he gets back, he knows everyone. Just don't mention this conversation to anyone.
Comprendo?
”

“
Comprendo
.” Damien was exhausted. He pushed his chair back from the desk, got up and flopped down on the sofa. “Thanks, Jake.”

“Anything for a skunk-buddy.” Jake pulled open a drawer. “Look, here's my agent's business card. Takes ten percent for the first six months, but he's always good for a morning job. Wish I could give you the
hagwon
. That was ideal.”

Damien placed his arm across his eyes. His brain felt like it was squeezing itself out of his head through his sinuses. He had to make an effort to stay in the room. “What's a
hagwon
?” he asked.

“Cram school—early mornings and late afternoon. I got caught in the office by immigration. Luckily I was just doing some photocopying, or I coulda been deported. Jeez, that was a pisser to lose, thirty thou an hour. Still, you got a good week there. Especially for a kiddie-fiddler.”

Jake chortled, but Damien could barely hear him. Somewhere in the darkness in his head a little girl was sobbing, desolate, frightened, alone.
Where's Damien? Where's my mum?
But he didn't have to listen. He rubbed his face vigorously—he was rubbing her out and she was fading away. She wasn't crying anymore. She was silent now. And his eyes were wet and his stomach felt like it had been vacuumed into an enormous black hole.

“Damien, you okay?” Jake sounded sharp, anxious. “What's the matter, buddy?”

“Huh?” Damien jerked to attention. Christ, he had to snap out of this. He hauled himself back up to a sitting position and reached for his jeans. “Fuck, I gotta get up. Can I check my email?”

“Sure. Help yourself to cake.” Busy again with the hash and his scales, Jake nodded at the laptop.

Damien powered up and accessed his new Hotmail account. He'd shut down the old one before he left, and his Facebook and Twitter profiles too. Three emails. Spam, Hotmail admin, and Mum, replying to his apology. He'd bet his first month's wages in Seoul that she wasn't worried about him.

Yup, no “how are you,” no “I'm sorry I couldn't help you with the money.” Just a memo to say she and Gordon were going to Paris for a week. He was about to click “Delete” when something stopped him. Sure, she was a shit mum, but she'd already had one kid disappear.

He pressed “Send” then headed to the kitchen for some cake. Now he wasn't a missing child anymore, maybe Jessica would leave him alone.

“Hey, Johnny.” Sydney padded up behind him at his desk and tickled his ribs. “Can I have my pay for last night? I want to go to the gym.”

“The gym?” Johnny swiveled round, his face scribbled with annoyance. “C'mon doll-face, I told ya three times: I'm going to China tomorrow, today's Independence Day, and I'm taking you to Seoul Land to celebrate. You need to have some fun, go on a few rides, eat a little junk food for a change.”

For fuck's sake.
Sydney put her hands on her hips and stuck out her chin. “I'm not
American
, Johnny. And I have to stay in
shape
. I can't spend the whole day pigging out. We can go when I get back. Now, can I have my money,
please
?”

Johnny lifted his right eyebrow. Not a good sign, she had learned. “Of course, baby,” he crooned as he fished his wallet out of his pocket. He pulled out a crisp
man won
note and she stuck out her hand, but he waved it aside and tossed the bill on the floor. “How's that for starters?”

Her heart racing, her hands balled into fists, Sydney glared down at the note, inches from her bare feet. Did he want her to hit him? Would that give him the excuse to punch her out he'd obviously been looking forever since she signed that six-month contract with OhmEgo?

“Never mind. I'll use my card. Then I think I'll take
myself
out to lunch,” she sneered as she kicked the bill away with her toes.

His face morphed like a rubber mask: one weird expression after another. His breathing was shallow; his eyes glinted like chips of glass in his head.

Jeez, this was getting freaky. She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.

“Ah, baby, it was just a joke,” he called after her, but she had grabbed her jacket and gym bag, slipped into her sandals and was halfway down the stairs.

Out in the July sunshine she marched up the road, glancing over her shoulder as she reached the corner. No, he wasn't coming after her. Feeling light-headed, almost dizzy, she stopped for a
moment, sitting down on the brick banquette surrounding the New York Deli. Everything was happening so fast: first the fantastic news about the contract, then the trip to Hongdae with Jin Sok to celebrate. The place was a revelation of twisty back alleys filled with nightclubs, groovy art galleries and cheap student apartments: before she knew it she was toasting her decision to move there. It had barely taken a week to find a studio apartment. Like a total hero, Jin Sok had lent her the key-fee; she'd signed a lease yesterday, and she was moving out tomorrow, as soon as Johnny was safely on his flight.

She couldn't wait. Johnny had been all over the place lately: half the time shouting or pulling mean stunts like the one with the money; the other half whistling to himself, chucking her cheeks—which she hated—and bragging about taking her to Thailand when he got back. He'd said the other day he knew he'd been distracted lately, he hadn't been making a fuss of his little girl and he was going to make it up to her, show her the five-star treatment: fancy hotels, jewelry shopping, the works. It would be just like it was in Vancouver again. Maybe a month ago she'd have given him a second chance, but right now she'd rather shove toothpicks under her toenails.

Today was the last day she would ever have to spend with him—and she wasn't going to do it on his schedule. She stood up and headed up the hill to the Hyatt Hotel. She'd been using the health spa there religiously since meeting Jin Sok—she was blonde, and she'd soon discovered that in Korea that meant she could be bouncing with puppy fat and still get work, but if she wanted the big contracts with the sexiest designers, her stomach had to be flat as a pancake—and not a buttermilk one, either.

But after her battle of wills with Johnny she couldn't summon up the energy to work out. She got undressed, stuffed her bag of gym clothes into the locker and passed through the smoky glass doors into the women's
mog yuk tan
instead. It was nearly empty: just the two matronly, half-naked
ajummas
cleaning off their massage tables. Both wore only black bras, big flowered panties and flip-flops. One had the physique of a
Ssirûm
wrestler, with large breasts resting on her swollen belly and narrow eyes sunk in a fleshy face. The other, slightly younger, was almost as generously figured, but softly pretty still, her tightly permed hair tied up in a ribbon. She often spoke or giggled to the other, who responded in monosyllables with an air of great finality. They both knew secrets about green mudpacks and
the cosmetic benefits of mashed hardboiled eggs that Sydney kept meaning to explore, but she couldn't be bothered today.

She squatted gratefully on a wooden stool in the shower chamber, directing streams of hot rushing water over her head and down between her shoulder blades and breasts. Koreans sure knew how to design showers. The mirror on the tiled wall fogged over, obscuring her puffy-eyed reflection. Soon, just keeping the nozzle aloft was too tiring; using the abrasive green mitt she'd bought at Tongdaemon Night Market, she made a half-hearted attempt at the obligatory exfoliation required before entering the sauna—it would be the height of folly to use the shared facilities under the watchful eyes of the mighty
ajummas
with your outer dermis intact. Only dirt held it together, after all—that was evident by the thick globs of black sludge the
ajummas
scraped off people with their strong-arm technique. There was even a special word for this gunk in Korean:
doh
.

Every so often Sydney indulged in the
ajummas
' full-length
doh
-elimination treatment, but today she was afraid she would slide off the massage table and break with a tinkle on the floor. Leaving her shampoo, soap and shower mitt in the little plastic basket by the showers, she took her towel into the sauna.

The cedar-paneled room was empty, so she took two of the beaded head rests for her head and her feet and stretched out on her towel. Privacy was heaven at first, but without the breeze of other women to-ing and fro-ing the dry heat soon parched her lungs and her brain began to shrivel up like a walnut. She'd hit her limit.

Sydney lurched for the door. She thought she was fine until she hit the vapors coming off the cold pool, then, bewilderingly, her vision checkered like the tiled walls, the whole bathhouse tilted crazily and the floor rushed up to meet her as she fell.

Her right knee was throbbing, and someone was splashing her face with cold water. Blinking, she tried to sit up, but her hands slipped on the wet floor. The
ajummas
were looming over her, grabbing her arms. She groaned. At least her head was all right. The rubber hoses by the pool must have broken her fall.

“Oh my goodness. Are you
okay
?” The voice was American; it belonged to a naked Korean woman who was hovering near the sauna door. She must be a
kyopo
, Sydney realized. “I think so.” Sydney struggled to her feet, helped by the two stout and formidable
ajummas
. Plastic sandals flapping sharply against their heels, they
led her through to the locker room, where they sat her down at a low table and fetched her a mug of cool water.

The
kyopo
woman was there too, joining in the general fluster of sympathy. She was middle-aged and petite, with small breasts and just a wisp of pubic hair, and she spoke Korean as if the language were a strange, hypnotic music. Listening to her, Sydney wished again that she could understand more than a fleeting word or two. As if sensing her awkwardness, the
kyopo
turned and winked.
Let the grandmothers have their way
, her smile seemed to say.

“You like
makkoli
?” The younger
ajumma
's soft moon face bore the sweetest expression.

“Oh, no, not in the morning, thank you,” Sydney stammered; she hadn't enjoyed the cloudy rice wine the first time she'd tried it. But the
ajumma
had already taken a white plastic bottle from the locker room cooler; beaming proudly, she shook out Sydney's water mug and filled it to the brim. Bracing herself, Sydney took a tiny sip, but to her surprise, the
makkoli
tasted delicious—much sweeter than she remembered, creamy and refreshingly spritzy. She downed the mug in a couple of swigs. The woman refilled it, and fetched out three more mugs.

The
kyopo
politely refused. “I've got my own drink,” she told Sydney, then bowed to the
ajummas
and padded over to the lockers.

“My na-muh Myo Hae Gee.” The
ajumma
patted herself on the chest.

“Myo Hae Gee,” Sydney repeated. “
Irrem
Sydney.”

“You eat lunch?” Hae Gee asked.

“No, no food, no sleep, very weak,” Sydney explained. The
ajummas
exchanged puzzled glances, so she flexed her biceps and her meager store of Korean: “
Kang!
” That meant strong, didn't it?

“No strong girl,” Hae Gee contradicted, patting the table “You eat lunch here.”

Here was where the
ajummas
always sat in the locker room, counting money, watching TV or tucking into the feasts they prepared with the rice cooker and microwave in the corner by the door. Right now, the smell of stew was hanging in the air, and suddenly, Sydney was ravenous.

“That's a good idea, Sydney.” The
kyopo
had returned with her purse. “I'm Dr. Kim Da Mi—please call me Da Mi.”

Da Mi's purse was the latest Prada, Sydney noticed with a twinge of envy as the nude doctor sat down and launched into a spirited exchange with the
ajummas
. As surreptitiously as possible, Sydney
took a professional gawk at her new friend. Da Mi sure looked great for her age: her heart-shaped face was framed by a glossy bob, and had only a faint whisper of creased skin around her eyes. Her neck was slightly more wrinkly, but her breasts were still firm, though too small for her to have had surgery. Unlike most Korean women, she had a bit of muscle tone in her arms. She was clearly what Jin Sok called a “Super Power Lady.”

The
Ssirûm
wrestler held out her bowl to Hae Gee, who filled it with rice and ladles of
dwen chan chigae
. Sydney tried not to giggle. It was pretty funny, eating spicy tofu stew with two
ajummas
in their underwear and a woman wearing only gold earrings and a jade bracelet. But in the bathhouse Korean women, whether young or old, saggy or scrawny, Botox Betties or Silicon Sallys, were relaxed about their own bodies—and other people's bodies, too. Once, a teenage girl had sidled over to Sydney as she sat on the edge of the hot pool and gently stroked her thigh. It hadn't been a come-on; she was just amazed by the way Sydney's legs turned strawberry pink and clotted cream in the heat. Gentle touching between Koreans of the same gender was common, Jin Sok had told her that.
Skinship
, it was called. Even straight men sometimes held hands in the street.

The older
ajumma
passed Sydney a bowl of stew. Da Mi made a regretful face and patted her tiny belly, saying something apologetic in Korean, and Hae Gee nodded wisely and fetched a cup of hot water.

“I have a delicate stomach.” Da Mi took a small vial out of her purse. “This is my medicine.” She opened the vial and sprinkled a dash of amber powder into the water. The concoction fizzed up with a sweet, light, flowery smell.

“Is it an Oxy-product?” So many people were into that now. Johnny practically lived on the stuff.

“Those products can be dangerous, Sydney, very over-stimulating. This is effervescent pollen, rejuvenating for us older folk.” Da Mi lifted the cup to her lips. “I have something else that would be good for you, but eat your lunch first.”

Hae Gee brought over some
banchan
dishes from the fridge:
kim chi
, sweet radish and green beans marinated in sesame oil with little dried fish. Sydney ate obediently until Hae Gee tried to pour her another mug of
makkoli
. Alarmed, she put her hand over the top.

“Go on,” Da Mi urged, “it's raising your blood sugar levels. I couldn't have prescribed anything better myself.”

So Sydney had another half-mugful of wine. As the meal ended she admired Da Mi's Buddhist bracelet, and Hae Gee asked excitedly if she meditated.

She shook her head. “But I love the temples,” she added brightly when she saw the
ajumma
's disappointed face. She did like the Buddhist chants and lanterns, the colorful temples and the sexy monks, but meditation seemed a real time-waster. Why would you want to blank your mind when life was so full of things to do and see and say and think?

“No more hot box,” Hae Gee said firmly as the
ajummas
heaved to their feet and began clearing the table.

With a stab of alarm Sydney realized that she meant the sauna. “But I love—”

“Don't worry,” Da Mi soothed. “You'll just have to promise to eat properly in the future.” She took a small corked blue bottle out of her purse. “Now. This is honey, a blend of rare Himalayan orchid and Australian poppy—it's just the thing to calm fragile girls.”

Sydney glanced at the clock: noon. What the fuck, let Johnny sweat. “
Wow
. Sounds ace, Da Mi.”

The doctor rose gracefully and took her mug to the sink, rinsed it and filled it with hot water. In the light from the soft drinks dispenser, Sydney could see slight furrows in Da Mi's forehead. They made the doctor look more intelligent, she decided.

“Not the purest water, but it'll do.” Da Mi sat back down and drizzled a teaspoonful of pale runny honey into the mug, then she passed it to Sydney in the formal Korean way, holding her right elbow with her left hand.

The subtle flavor of the honey blossomed in Sydney's mouth. She sat quietly, feeling her throat, chest and stomach glow as the drink slipped down her body.

“That's magic.”