Festival for Three Thousand Women Read online

  Festival for Three Thousand Maidens

  Richard Wiley

  Dzanc Books

  1334 Woodbourne Street

  Westland, MI 48186

  www.dzancbooks.org

  Copyright © 1991 Festival for Three Thousand Maidens by Richard Wiley

  All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Published 2012 by Dzanc Books

  A Dzanc Books rEprint Series Selection

  eBooks ISBN-13: 978-1-938604-15-7

  eBook Cover Designed by Steven Seighman

  Published in the United States of America

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For my first family,

  Kenneth, Alice,

  and Tad

  Thanks to John and Kay Duncan for answering my questions about Korea, to John Cushing, Dan Denerstein, Charles DeWolf and Joe Nowakowski for their stories, and to that preternatural group, K-3, for being what they were.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The chapter headings in this book have been selected (nearly) at random from the I Ching, the ancient Confucian Book of Changes, which is called Yuk Kyong in Korean. In the old days when someone wanted to consult the I Ching, yarrow stalks were cast, and the caster, by using the arrangement of broken and unbroken lines that he found in the stalks was able to form one of sixty-four hexagrams that could be read as an oracle. Once the hexagram was secured, one merely had to look it up in the Book of Changes and read what was written, taking from it bits of wisdom that might shed light on the original question, the situation at hand.

  Since I didn’t have yarrow stalks, I used U.S. pennies for my castings. I kept the essence of each chapter firmly in mind and then asked the following question: “What could I write at the beginning of this chapter that would shed light on the events within?” Thus my chapter headings were secured. The actual chapter titles, above the hexagrams, are merely the names of the hexagrams from the I Ching.

  Only once did I have to cast my pennies twice, and only once did I come up with the same hexagram for two chapters. When that happened, I cheated a bit, simply choosing a hexagram that I liked, something I remembered reading when glancing through the book at my leisure.

  PREFACE

  The vice-headmaster’s retirement party is held in a judo hall, where there are flowers at the entrance, big round displays of them, with Chinese slogans running down their ribbons, expressing good luck. The floor of the hall is covered with sheets and the windows are opened to allow a breeze.

  The vice-headmaster comes in from a side door, superbly dressed and wearing a horsehair hat. His face is well shaven and the troublesome hairs of his nose and ears have been trimmed back. The vice-headmaster’s family takes up the entire front of the hall, and when his other guests are settled, he kneels beneath a photograph of the founder of the judo hall, and the headmaster comes from that same side door in order to begin his speech. The headmaster does not speak of the vice-headmaster as an individual, but speaks instead of the five Confucian relationships: a man to his king, a man to his son, a man to his wife, a man to his younger brother, and a man to his friend. Outside of these five relationships, the headmaster asks, what is there left to contemplate? He says that, current trends in the society notwithstanding, there is little room for the man himself, alone and untethered to others, nor should there be an accommodation for anything unconcerned with the betterment and maintenance of these five relationships. The headmaster says that for a man to succeed in life he must remember the hierarchy of attachments. He also says that the vice-headmaster’s life has been exemplary.

  The headmaster speaks for an hour and all the while the vice-headmaster remains motionless, his demeanor unchanged. The back of the judo hall holds a table that is covered with food and beer, but even when the long speech is finished no one moves, and when the vice-headmaster stands, everyone looks forward to his reply.

  “I would like to sing a song in honor of Mr. Bobby, our American friend who is now gone,” says the vice-headmaster. He then removes a folded fan from his belt, holding it to his lips as if it were a microphone.

  “Gone are the days

  When my heart was young and gay,

  Gone are the friends

  From the cotton fields away,

  Gone from the earth

  To a better land I know…

  Here the lyrics desert the vice-headmaster, forcing an embarrassed silence, until Mr. Nam’s voice is heard, coming from the middle of the room. Mr. Nam knows the chorus of the song well, and as he sings the vice-headmaster remembers the lyrics again and lets his voice trail after Mr. Nam’s, like an echo.

  “I’m coming (I’m coming), I’m coming (I’m coming),

  For my head is bending low.

  I hear their gentle voices calling

  Old Black Joe.”

  When the song ends the vice-headmaster stands, silently leaning forward. He then remembers himself and, nodding toward his eldest son, gives instructions that his guests should move toward the food and drink at the back of the room.

  Part One

  When the headmaster announced today that an American teacher would be joining our staff, there was, on the face of it, a good deal of happy anticipation, but there was skepticism as well. The skepticism came about, I believe, because we have always been a self-contained group, each understanding the weaknesses of the others and content to pass our days without ruffling feathers. In other words, we all have our niches, and we aren’t at all sure there is an extra niche for the American.

  But during the morning meeting, particularly when the headmaster was in the room, happy anticipation was the face we gave our fears. Think of it, we all gushed, an American teaching in our school! Since my job as vice-headmaster seemed to call for it, I asked, “What does the American look like,” but what I really wanted to ask was, “What in the world will we do with him, how will we relate to him except as an outsider, and how will we communicate except in Korean?”

  I know that by admitting such concerns I am unmasking myself as one of the skeptics. And though I am sure Headmaster Kim knows what he is doing, the announcement made me nervous and oddly sad, as if the end of our natural order of things were at hand.

  Ah well, the headmaster said that the American will be staying for two years, a period of time that extends beyond my own retirement and hwangap, so when the American leaves, I’ll be gone too—he back to his own place, me off to grow my beard.

  When the American arrives, however, I have resolved to look into his face in the hope that I will see some inroad there, some path. If I do, one of these days I shall speak to him. If I do not, I shall not. If I were a younger man I might look upon this arrival with a feeling more akin to pleasure, but since I am not young, my further resolution is this: I shall comport myself like a yangban when this American is about. After all, if I have lived my life in a dignified manner until now, what other choice do I have?

  Written at my desk, long after the other teachers have left for the day.

  The Wanderer

  Six in the second place means: The wanderer comes to an inn, he has his property with him. He wins the steadfastness of a young servant.

  Bobby Comstock had spent most of the days of his life going from hungry to stuffed, and when he and Mr. Soh, an English teacher who’d been sent to Seoul to bring him down the coast, stepped onto the platform at Taechon village, he was not only hungry, but nervous as well. Would they like him? Would they be offen
ded by how fat he was? He was met by a line of dignitaries, neatly dressed men, all bowing down. Bobby had studied Korean during his training course, but it had been far easier to feel sure of himself in a classroom in America than on the cold station platform of this dark little town. Still, he was about to speak first, about to introduce himself, when Mr. Soh shouted in his ear, frightening his nervousness away. “This is Mr. Bobby from America!”

  Mr. Soh then turned Bobby in the direction of the tallest man in the group. “Mr. Bobby, this is Headmaster Kim!”

  “Hello there,” Bobby said, “Anyanghashimnika.”

  Bobby and Mr. Soh were the only people to get off in Taechon, and when the train pulled away, the dignitaries ushered them out onto a dark, poorly lit street. There was a cart man nearby, and Mr. Soh told him to get Bobby’s trunk from the platform and follow along.

  Headmaster Kim said something and Mr. Soh translated.

  “You must be tired,” he said.

  It was only nine o’clock but Bobby’s greatest desire, quite suddenly, was to be alone, so he said slowly in Korean, “I am tired, yes. Tired from my long trip. Tired from all those weeks of study in America.”

  Headmaster Kim nodded, but he had something else on his mind. They had been walking up the dim street—the town seemed completely closed though Bobby did notice the sign for a tearoom or two—and had come to a shabby building at the edge of town. “I do not yet have a home for you,” said the headmaster. “No one who will take you in. I will soon find someone, but in the meantime I must put you up at this inn.”

  The headmaster was anxious; the agreement had been that all Peace Corps volunteers would live with Korean families, but Bobby was relieved. This would give him time to himself, time to get used to his teaching load and to begin his further study of Korean, before having to worry about a family.

  The inn they had chosen for him was one of two in the village and after he agreed to stay in it, Headmaster Kim and the others bid him good night. Mr. Soh stayed until Bobby was shown to his room, a rectangle so small that he would have to sleep diagonally on the floor, but then Mr. Soh hurried away too, leaving Bobby in the hands of a boy who worked at the inn. This boy had a dirty face and cold sores so crowded his upper lip that from a distance he looked like Charlie Chaplin. The boy was called ‘Goma,’ a word that means midget in Korean, and after Mr. Soh left he brought Bobby a bowl of cold rice and sat in the corner of the room.

  “I’m not hungry,” said Bobby, looking at the rice.

  “I’ll take it,” said the boy. “Hand it over.”

  The single bulb that lit the room was no more than forty watts strong, but the Goma’s scabby lip was highlighted in it. Bobby tried to speak to the boy while he polished off the rice.

  “How many people live in this town?” he asked. His Korean was halting, but he was sure the sentence was correct.

  “Search me,” said the Goma.

  “Where’s the toilet? How many rooms are there in this inn?”

  He had used a high-class word for toilet and the Goma laughed. “No such room,” he said. “Only a stinking hole in the floor.”

  Bobby hadn’t understood the boy’s responses but he smiled anyway, and just then his Peace Corps trunk was delivered by the cart man.

  “What’s that?” asked the Goma.

  Bobby opened the trunk and looked at his clothing folded there. Underneath the top layer were a few gifts he had bought, little things to give to people he happened to meet, and he pulled out a fingernail clipper, handing it to the boy.

  “This is something small I brought you from America,” he said.

  The Goma took the fingernail clipper in his filthy hands, and while he examined it Bobby took out a photograph of his grandmother, the woman who had raised him since the early death of his parents, and a sack of chocolate-chip cookies. He had told the Goma he wasn’t hungry, but when he saw the cookies his hunger came back. He ate ten of them and then handed one to the Goma, carefully tucking the remaining thirteen back into his trunk. The Goma put the cookie and the fingernail clipper in the left front pocket of his awful pants.

  It was an inauspicious beginning but Bobby could not be bothered by that. Later, he tried to tell the Goma to leave so that he could lie down on his bedding and sleep. He had intended to write his grandmother, but such an activity would put off sleep for too long, and he wanted to be fresh for his first day of teaching come tomorrow. The Goma, however, seemed content to stay where he was, and though Bobby tried several of his memorized Korean sentences, nothing he said could make the boy leave.

  “Go!” he said, finally. “Get out of here now!” This was a single line of street Korean that a favorite teacher of his had taught him, and the Goma jumped.

  “OK, fatso,” he said, “have it your way.”

  Bobby understood only the tone of what the Goma said, but when the kid was halfway around the inn’s courtyard, Bobby nevertheless stuck his head back through the door of his room and called after him, wanting to make things right. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said, and though he could not be sure, he thought he heard the Goma belch out of the darkness from the other side of the inn.

  Peace

  Nine at the beginning means: When ribbon grass is pulled up, the sod comes with it. Each according to his kind.

  As it happened, Bobby Comstock’s first day at Taechon Boys’ Middle School was a Friday, and not much was going on. When he and Mr. Soh walked through the school gate the students crowded around them, and there was an interminable welcoming meeting in the teachers’ room—run by the vice-headmaster, Headmaster Kim was gone—but Bobby hadn’t understood what was said, and by the time he met his first class he was already tired from being so much on stage, and ready for a nap.

  Still, he tried to teach well; he made the students laugh with various contortions of his cheeks and tongue, and by the end of the day he wanted only to go back to his room to sleep. After all, he had just arrived, and his internal clock was racing; not only was it way after midnight in America, but the discovery that the teachers all brought their lunches to school had shocked him. Mr. Soh, to be sure, had found a lunch for Bobby, but by quitting time it was the idea that he would soon be alone in his room and could open up the lid of his Peace Corps trunk that drew him.

  Mr. Soh, however, had other ideas. “Come,” he said. “You may have noticed that Headmaster Kim was gone today.”

  It was five o’clock and they were walking across the playground on their way back into town.

  “What’s wrong?” Bobby asked. “I hope the headmaster isn’t ill?”

  “No,” said his fellow English teacher, “but Headmaster Kim’s relative has died and we must now attend the funeral.”

  Mr. Soh had learned his English during the Korean War, and it wasn’t as bad as Bobby had thought on the train. Mr. Soh could, after all, speak fairly well, but he had a difficult time understanding anything Bobby said to him. He’d been a KATUSA during the war, a Korean Attached to the United States Army, and he still hated the North. Other than English teaching, he liked to say, anticommunism was his consuming passion.

  Parked outside the school gate was a small Volkswagen bus, one that Mr. Soh had been able to borrow. Inside the bus several other teachers sat, the vice-headmaster among them, but Bobby didn’t recall any of their names.

  “Hello,” they all said, “sit near the driver,” and when Mr. Soh got into the driver’s seat, Bobby slipped in behind him, smiling at everyone, determined to try to act pleased with the prospect of attending a funeral on his second night in town, though the seat was too small and he had his fat knees up under his chin. And, indeed, though the village of Taechon was primitive enough in itself, with no truly paved streets, they were soon climbing into the hills on pathways so rutted that it seemed the little bus might fall over onto its side. The afternoon sun had already fallen behind the edge of a hill, but when Bobby noticed a slim moon hanging opposite it, his spirits did rise. He opened the window slightly an
d breathed in the cool country air. This was no time for fatigue. The people around him would be his friends and coworkers for the next two years. He could sleep later, when the time for camaraderie had run its course.

  Mr. Soh spent part of the journey teaching Bobby how to say “Please accept my condolences” in Korean, and when they finally parked the bus he had it down. Mr. Soh waited until the dust had settled before opening the door, and when they got out the teachers led Bobby quickly into the rice fields, along a narrow path. “Please watch your step,” someone said. “The fields are thick with fertilizer.”

  Bobby nodded, but he had begun to wonder how he should behave at this funeral. Was he to act sad, as he would in America? He was not unfamiliar with funerals, but he nevertheless wanted to ask someone, to settle a few points before they arrived. And though the turns of the path and the way the others kept their eyes on the ground made him hold his tongue, he soon began experimenting with a downcast expression around his eyes.

  When they entered the yard Mr. Soh cleared his throat. “We are here,” he said quietly, and an old woman who’d been tending the fire stopped what she was doing and hurried over to them. Ignoring the teachers completely, she got down on her hands and knees and began bowing in front of Bobby.

  “Do what she does,” Mr. Soh said, so Bobby dropped to the ground too, the flesh on his back and arms bouncing with the impact.

  “Thank you for honoring us with your attendance at this funeral,” said the old woman.

  “Please accept my condolences,” said Bobby.

  He had delivered the sentence well, and the old woman rolled out of her bow, looking up. “What did you say?” she asked.

  “Please accept my condolences,” Bobby said again.

  “Well, I never…!” said the old woman. “Hey everybody! Junior’s friend speaks perfect Korean! Come listen.”