Marilyn and Me. Ji-min Lee
his—watch that I gave to her, which she tucked in the innermost pocket of her clothes. It had been our only keepsake. That small watch is probably ticking away with difficulty just like me, cherishing time that can’t be turned back.
“Where is it? Where do we need to go?” I spring to my feet.
Yu-ja tries to calm me down. “I don’t know all the details. I’m supposed to meet her this evening at the dance hall. Why don’t you come with me? There are too many orphans, and the records are so spotty it’s hard to find them. The lady managed to get in touch with a nun who saw a girl that fits her description somewhere in Pohang.”
But Yu-ja is unable to convince me to wait and has to run after me without putting the finishing touches to her makeup. Next to fresh, fashionable Yu-ja I look even more grotesque. Yu-ja is a young female cat who’s just learned to twirl her tail, and I’m an old, molting feline who can barely remember the last time she was in heat. I’m not yet thirty but I feel like an old hag who has forgotten everything.
We go down the stairs. Yu-ja tugs my arm at the entrance to the obstetrics clinic; a young girl is squatting in the cold hallway, wearing a quilted skirt, a man’s maroon sweater, and a black woolen scarf wound around her face. Her gaze is feral, sad, and cold, a dizzy tangle of defensiveness and aggression. Yu-ja pulls me along. “She’s a maid for some rich family in Namsan,” she whispers. “Did you hear what happened? The master of the house raped her and now she’s pregnant. Then he and his wife accused her of seducing him, beat her, and threw her out. Apparently she has eight younger siblings back home. She was here yesterday too, asking for help to get rid of it. So many maids are in her situation. I feel bad for them. They try to get rid of it by taking quinine pills—it’s so dangerous.”
We step into the street and the wind delivers a hard slap. The maid’s rage and despair scatter in the wind. This city poisons girls and women, young and old. Girls with tragic fates are merely a small segment of the people who make up the city. The light they emit in order to hide their shame turns the city even more dazzling at night. The streetlights go on and the light seeps into my heart. It has taken in yet another unforgettable gaze.
It’s still early but the dance hall is crowded.
The dancers are gyrating enthusiastically, as though it’s the last dance of the night. This is a sacred place for the wild women of these postwar times, these women who rightfully intimidate men. Of course, men dance too, but women own this place. A rainbow of velour skirts and nylon dresses twirl like flower petals. There are café madams, owners of downtown boutiques, restaurateurs, dollar exchangers, rich war widows, wives of high-level officials, teachers, concubines, college students—I am taken aback that these are all women who have lived through the war. Maybe they hung their grief and pain on the heavy, sparkling chandelier. I’m jealous of these women whose desire to dance is so intense, who look as if they would keep dancing no matter what. Having learned the futility of life, they move lightly without any regrets. I can’t do that. My breath catches in my throat as I watch them dance, skin to skin. The sight calls to mind images of the masses, moving with a single purpose. As I stand there, dazed, Yu-ja pushes me towards a table in the middle of the room. The chairman’s wife and the wives of business and political leaders, all in fox stoles, greet us.
“I understand you’re fluent in English and you studied in Tokyo,” the chairman’s wife says. “My son is preparing to study in America. I would ask you to tutor him if you weren’t a woman.” She laughs. The other wives look askance at my whorish hair and my tattered black lace gloves. By the time their eyes settle on my worn stockings, they are concluding I am not who I purport to be.
I cut to the chase. “When can I see Chong-nim?”
The chairman’s wife gestures at me to be patient and pours me a beer. “The nun I met at the single mothers’ home told me about a girl who fits that description. Something about a pocket watch? I put in a special request to find her. You can go to this address and ask for Sister Chong Sophia.” She smiles as she hands me a card.
I bow in gratitude. She takes my hand. She’s drunk. Her eyes betray a hollow elegance unique to a woman of leisure.
Meanwhile, Yu-ja is craning to find someone. “Look who’s here!” she says, clapping and springing to her feet.
The band is now playing a waltz. Perfume ripples and crests against the wall. Beyond the couples moving off the dance floor is Park Ku-yong, who scans the room until he spots Yu-ja. He waves and comes towards us. Alarmed, I try to duck under the table as Yu-ja grabs me and pulls me up. Ku-yong is wearing a black, faded university uniform and an embarrassed expression, as if he is fully aware that he doesn’t quite belong. His footsteps, however, are as assured as ever, obliterating the rhythm of the waltz as he walks towards us. I glare at Yu-ja and pinch her hand.
At our table, Ku-yong bows and the women welcome the opportunity to tease me. “Oh, you must be Miss Alice’s boyfriend!”
Ku-yong smiles in embarrassment. I can’t in good conscience make him stand there like this so I quickly say my goodbyes and take my leave. Yu-ja laughs and wishes me luck. She’s certain that this man has feelings for me. She might be right, but I haven’t confirmed it. I want to avoid the chronic mistake of a lonely woman, confusing a man’s kindness for love. Any special feelings he might have for me are more likely sympathy.
“You came all this way but you’re not even going to dance?” This is Ku-yong’s attempt at a joke, but I look away.
I can’t dance with him. You don’t dance with a man who regards you with sympathy. You can drink with him and even sleep with him, but you can’t dance with him. That would be insulting to the beautiful music and the sparkling chandelier.
Ku-yong and I walk apart from each other like an old-fashioned couple who keep a decorous distance in public.
Worried that his gaze might land on my body somewhere, I shiver for no reason at all. “What are you doing here?”
“I was at Yu-ja’s clinic last week with an unwell coworker. She told me I would see you today if I came by. I’m glad I did.”
I look down at his shadow stretched out next to me. He’s probably not eating well either but his shadow is sturdy. His interior is likely hollow, though. What once filled his soul has probably leaked away. I know because that’s what happened to me. We were artists once, but now we barely remember how to hold a pencil. I make a living with my clumsy English skills while he is stuck doing manual labor at the US military ammunition depot in Taepyongno.
The silence makes me uneasy. “Marilyn Monroe is coming to Korea,” I blurt out. It’s never advantageous to talk about a prettier woman than oneself but I am curious about his reaction.
Ku-yong widens his already big eyes and raises his arms in a silent cheer. That’s the power of Marilyn. “Can you believe she’s married? You’ll have to find someone yourself, don’t you think?” He glances at me.
I’m charmed by his effort to link Marilyn’s life to mine. I let out a laugh. “Gentlemen prefer blondes, which you know I’m not.” No gentleman likes prematurely gray hair washed with beer. But I also can’t stand gentlemen. The two men I loved were gentlemen and they both disguised their true selves with well-tailored suits and nice manners. The man who ruins a young lady’s reputation is often a gentleman who walks her home at night.
“Alice, have you been drawing?” Ku-yong asks suddenly.
I glance up at him. Mediocre people like us don’t dare talk about war or art, the great subjects of humanity. If there is anything we learned, it’s that you avoid war and art to the best of your ability if you want to live your life to its natural end. “No. And you?”
“I’ve started to. On postcards this big.” He shows me with his hands. “I draw the stream I can see from my room. I don’t have interesting ideas like before; I just draw what I see—reality.”
His answer lands like a punch. I was certain he wouldn’t be drawing either. I turn