Festival for Three Thousand Women Read online

  Mr. Soh was translating for him when five or six others moved forward and the woman told Bobby to speak again.

  “Please accept my condolences,” he repeated.

  “You see. What did I tell you? Perfect Korean!”

  They all agreed and said that they were glad to meet him and thanked him for honoring the dead woman with his attendance at the funeral.

  “That was fine,” said Mr. Soh, “you are doing well.” The other teachers had drifted away, but Mr. Soh led Bobby around to the smallest room of the house where they removed their shoes and crawled in through a rice-paper door. “Here she is,” said Mr. Soh. “Headmaster Kim’s uncle’s wife’s cousin.”

  A photograph in a dark frame was propped on an altar in the center of the room. Candles circled the photograph, and behind it, in a wooden box, was the actual body of the cousin herself, a woman in her late sixties.

  Mr. Soh knelt on a cushion in front of the photograph and bowed. “She was a Christian,” he said, “but a Buddhist too. Auntie wants us to honor both religions.” Mr. Soh was a shirttail relative of Headmaster Kim, and when he pulled Bobby up to the coffin they both gazed down at the woman, who reclined there in a way that seemed nearly casual, though at the same time her face was so unrestful that Bobby thought that she might, at any moment, sit up. It was a thought he’d had at other funerals, and it made him remember his grandmother. Would she die while he was away? Should he have stayed at home, where he could see her again and again before the end of her life, where he could watch her in her coffin, waiting for her to make a move?

  Mr. Soh’s aunt opened the outside door, chasing such thoughts away. “Hurry, Junior,” she said. “There is food and drink in the other room. Take your friend in there. There is a chair. We’ve even found a chair for him.” She turned to the women in the yard behind her. “Foreigners use chairs,” she let them know.

  Once outside again Mr. Soh led Bobby over to another door, where they crawled into the main room of the house. This room wasn’t any larger than the first, but it was a little better looking, with a thick yellow ondol floor. Korean floors are heated by charcoal fires from under the house, and though the floor at Bobby’s inn was faulty, hot in one place and cold in another, this one was evenly heated and soothing under their hands and feet. The teachers who’d come with them on the bus were already in the room, spaced around a long low table. Headmaster Kim was there, seated next to a very old man, and next to the old man, with a soft cushion upon its seat, was a high, stiff-backed chair.

  “I know that your aunt is trying to be kind, but I don’t want the chair,” Bobby said softly, but since the old lady was standing in the doorway, he smiled over his shoulder at her and sat down. Everyone was staring up at him and soon the headmaster said something that included his name. An introduction, apparently, to his uncle.

  “Nice to meet you,” Bobby said.

  “She was right,” said the old man. “You speak Korean well.” He then handed Bobby a full bowl of a rice wine, called makkoli. The old man said, “Drink it, it’s good.”

  Bobby was too aware of his high position in the room to relax, but he put the bowl to his lips and took a small sip.

  “Not that way,” said the old man. “Drink it all.” He pantomimed drinking out of a bowl, then sat up straight, staring and waiting.

  “You must drink everything and give him back his bowl,” Mr. Soh said. “It is the Korean way.”

  Though Bobby did not want to, he drank all the makkoli, which was chalky and sour and strong. He handed the bowl back to the old man and filled it from a large copper pot, just like he’d been told to do in training. Bobby wasn’t much of a drinker but he told the old man that the wine was good. He was trying to think of something else to say when suddenly Headmaster Kim sat up straight and spoke for him, turning to look down the table at the other guests. “I-don’t-speak-English!” he said. A stream of wine was running from the corner of the headmaster’s mouth as he spoke and the others laughed. “I-don’t-speak-English!” they echoed.

  Just then the old woman came back into the room so Bobby took the opportunity to stand up. Mr. Soh came to his aid.

  “Auntie, he wants to sit on the floor,” he said. “He’s cold up there and wants to be closer to the heat.”

  “Ah ha, he’s cold,” said the aunt. She looked at the old man harshly, as if the whole idea had been his, and then she said, “Chairs defeat the purpose of a Korean floor.” Bobby quickly sat down with the others.

  “But don’t you find it tiring to sit cross-legged?” the old man asked.

  Mr. Soh translated, but Bobby ignored him. He had already composed something else to say. “This makkoli is very good,” he answered.

  “Our cousin made the best makkoli in the area. This makkoli is inferior. It is paradoxical, don’t you think, that we must drink inferior makkoli at her funeral?”

  Mr. Soh again helped with the translation, but he was irritated. It was he who had bought the makkoli, driving up and down the mountain late the night before, after Bobby’s arrival.

  The old woman and two younger ones came back into the room, carrying large plates of rice and various side dishes of kimchi and dried fish. One heaping plate of beef was placed directly in front of Bobby.

  “That’s pulgogi,” said Mr. Soh. “It’s our best dish.”

  The meat was delicious, but Bobby tried to eat slowly, mindful that they were all watching. And though Mr. Soh still sat next to him, he was now leaning the other way. His English was drowning in the wine but his Korean was riding above it, joining the voices of the others in shouts and epitaphs and snatches of song.

  Bobby had begun to drift a little, amazed to be involved in something so foreign to what he knew, but he was jarred when the old man gave him a strong nudge. Headmaster Kim was sitting with an empty bowl in his hands, staring, so Bobby finished his drink and handed his own bowl past the old man. The headmaster bowed while Bobby filled it, then handed it back after he’d quickly drained it all. Now bowls were being exchanged all along the table, makkoli drunk and spilled on the floor and down the shirts of all the men. The old man pinched Bobby’s sleeve and asked, “How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-three,” Bobby answered, happy to have understood.

  “He’s twenty-three!” the old man announced. “He’s the youngest among us, he’s everyone’s younger brother!” and though Bobby understood the words, he also remembered having been told in training that being the youngest among Korean men was no honor.

  The old woman came back again and sat down at the far end of the table.

  “Good,” said the old man, “the women are here. It is now time to begin our singing.”

  “The foreigner should sing first,” the old woman told him. “It is the polite thing to do.”

  But the old man frowned. “No, the foreigner should sing last,” he said. “That is the polite thing to do. Where did you learn your manners? You sing first, set the proper tone.”

  Bobby had only a vague idea of what was going on but he put it together when the old woman picked up her chopsticks and began beating on the table in front of her.

  “Auntie is going to sing,” said Mr. Soh, but the old man told him to shut up.

  “‘A-ri-rang, a-ri-rang, a-ra-di-yo,’” crooned the old woman. “A-ri-rang, co-o ge-e rul nomu gan da.’”

  After she’d sung the first line of the song the others joined in. They were all beating on their bowls or on the table itself, swaying with the music.

  “‘Na dul po-ri-go ka shi-nun-nim-u-u-un, shim-ni-do mo-ca-so pal pyong na da.’”

  When the old woman finished, everyone applauded. “That was ‘Arirang,’” said the old man. “It is the greatest Korean song.” He eyed the old woman again and then turned to Mr. Soh. “Now the foreigner should sing,” he said. “Tell him to sing something we all know. How about ‘Delilah!’ We’d love to hear that one.”

  But before Mr. Soh could speak or Bobby could respond, Headmaster Kim came alive
again. “No!” he said, “I’ve got it. ‘Love Potion Number Nine!’ Tell him to sing ‘Love Potion Number Nine!’”

  Bobby looked at them all and thought of America, the home of such songs, a million miles away. His vision was blurred as he picked up his chopsticks and lightly hit the edge of his wine bowl the way the old woman had.

  “I took my troubles down to Madam Ruth…’” he said softly, but the old man took hold of his arm.

  “You mustn’t talk,” the old man explained. “Sing. This is singing we are talking about here and this is the time for a song.”

  Bobby smiled at the old man, almost rolling his tongue around inside his mouth like he’d done with the students earlier in the day. He would never sing such a song in America, but what the hell… No one knew him here. He took a deep breath then and really did begin to sing, the lyrics unleashed from some dormant depository in his brain.

  “‘I took my troubles down to Madam Ruth.…’”

  “Cha-cha-cha,” said the old man.

  “‘You know that gypsy with the gold-capped tooth…’”

  “Cha-cha-cha.”

  “‘She looked at me and she made a little sign. She said what you need is…’”

  “‘Love Potion Number Na-a-a-a-ine,’” sang everyone in the room.

  Something in Bobby broke loose then and he laughed, the flesh around his neck and shoulders moving with the laughter and the song. Music was the international language and he sang loudly, proud of every word.

  “‘She jumped down turned around and gave me a wink… She said I’m gonna mix it up right here in the sink…’” About half the people in the room were singing along now.

  “‘It tastes like turpentine, it smells like India ink…

  “Cha-cha-cha,” said the old man.

  “I held my nose, I closed my eyes…’” Bobby bellowed acappella, holding his nose and closing his eyes.

  “‘I took a drink…’” sang the old man, and they all continued.

  “‘I didn’t know if it was day or night…’”

  “CHA-CHA-CHA.”

  “‘I started kissing everything in sight…’”

  “CHA-CHA-CHA.”

  Bobby and the old man were watching each other and singing high up in their lungs. The table was bouncing up and down and everyone was swaying.

  “‘But when I kissed the cop down at Thirty-fourth and Vine… He broke my little bottle of…’”

  “‘Love Potion Number Naaaine,’” they all sang loudly.

  “‘Love Potion Number Naaaine,” they sang a bit softer.

  “‘Love Potion Number Na-a-a-a-ine!’” This last line they sang quite softly, holding the final note until finally everyone had to take another breath.

  “CHA-CHA-CHA!” they all screamed, then they threw their chopsticks up into the air and fell, drunk and laughing, across the floor.

  The old man recovered first. He sat up, patted Bobby’s arm, then filled two bowls with wine.

  “Congratulations,” said Mr. Soh, “you’ve made a great impression on my uncle. He now wants to give you something.”

  “I will compose a poem,” said the old man. “Everybody listen. I will compose a poem for our younger brother.”

  Everyone was leaning forward, red-faced. They tried to remain quiet but could not.

  “Shut up!” the old man ordered. “Have you no respect for age?” He quieted and looked at Bobby again. “This is a summer poem, in honor of the coming winter,” he said. “Its purpose is to tide you over until we meet again.”

  Bobby was swaying back and forth, smiling as if he understood. His cheeks were burning and his mouth was wet and he could see only the old man’s thin face, beside him like a crescent moon.

  “All right, I’ve got it,” the old man said. “Everybody listen.” He was quiet again, but then he erupted in a strange, monotonous tone, his stark voice tearing at the momentary calm:

  “Flies on the table—

  We sat drinking makkoli—

  With flies in it.”

  The old man leaned over, his eyes inches from Bobby’s. Everybody in the room was waiting for his reaction.

  “Flies on the table, we sat drinking makkoli, with flies in it,” said Mr. Soh.

  Bobby stared at them all and then swallowed and tried to think of a Korean word to say. Mr. Soh was breathing heavily at his side, but though Bobby looked at the table and smiled, no words came. Finally the old man poked him and Bobby looked up one more time.

  “Please accept my condolences,” he said.

  The dinner ended when one of the women flung the paper doors aside, driving them all out into the night. Those who lived nearby walked to the edge of the courtyard and stepped onto the small footpaths, staggering into the darkness. But for some reason Bobby stumbled over to the room containing the dead woman’s body once more. He slid the door open and climbed in and crawled across the floor to the table-altar and took the photograph down, trying to look at it in the bit of moonlight that had followed him in. And he slipped the photograph inside his jacket when he heard the others calling his name.

  Those who remained included the old man, the headmaster, and those who had come on the bus. The old woman was pulling on the old man’s arm. “Piss on the curfew,” she said. “Our cousin does not die every day. Stay and drink. Stay and sing. We must keep her company.”

  But the old man jerked away, hopping into the side of the house. “Let’s go, Junior,” he said, and the old woman, sensing defeat, fell to the ground in front of Bobby again.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “Thank you for honoring us by coming to the funeral of our cousin.”

  They all began bowing to the old lady, backing out of the yard. Mr. Soh went first, brandishing a big flashlight and shining it back and forth along the path. The night was gray, then black, then gray again as clouds moved across the moon. It was cold and all the men soon pulled their heads into their overcoats and became silent.

  Bobby could feel the dead woman’s photograph pressing into his flesh, and wanted to turn around and take it back. He had no idea why he’d taken it, yet even in his drunkenness he was sure that they would miss it soon, that someone would come along, asking for its return. He turned around to look at the others, to try to make some excuse, but when he did so he slipped off the path. Quickly his legs disappeared into the muck, one to its knee, the other all the way up to his crotch. He shouted and tried to pull himself free, but it was no good. The Koreans gathered around. They pulled him from the muck laughing, all of them staggering about but somehow staying on the path.

  “He’s too drunk,” said the old man. “We must carry him.” He was gesturing wildly but no one wanted to get close to Bobby’s legs, and in another few strides they were on the dirt road, standing beside the dark bus.

  “I am sorry,” said Headmaster Kim, but when Mr. Soh opened the bus door he climbed on quickly, sitting down in the seat Bobby had previously used, the one directly behind the driver’s.

  Bobby sat opposite Headmaster Kim, and the old man squeezed onto the seat with him, moving quickly past his knees so that he could sit by the window. “Koreans can hold their liquor,” he chuckled. “You fell off the path. Phew! Your leg smells like ox shit.” The Koreans all smiled, but the old man leaned into Bobby then, helping him pull his pantlegs away from his body with his strong old fingers.

  Mr. Soh started the engine and drove off while everyone was talking, but as soon as his driving got bad they all sat still. Mr. Soh, with his hat pulled down over his ears, gripped the wheel with both hands and bit his lower lip. The van careened off the mountain road and onto the flat one that led into the village. Once they were on level ground again Headmaster Kim stood and took off the baggy farmer’s pants that he was wearing, holding them up in the aisle of the bus like a surrender flag.

  “Here,” he said in English. “Dry pants…” He tossed them to the old man, who immediately began plucking at Bobby’s belt. “No time for continuity of dress,” he sa
id. “Not where ox shit is concerned.”

  Bobby held the pants away from him for a moment, ready to argue, but then he stood up awkwardly from the seat and, head bent along the roof, stripped his heavy trousers away. When he let go of them they slumped beside him in the aisle. He quickly slipped into the headmaster’s baggy pants and felt them blow against his legs in the breeze that came from the door. And when he sat back down again he saw his knees next to the old man’s. His soiled trousers still had not completely fallen but had turned in the aisle and were inching forward, up next to Mr. Soh now at the front of the bus. Bobby looked at Headmaster Kim to thank him, but the headmaster was asleep, his naked legs moving with the bends in the road.

  Suddenly, as Mr. Soh turned a corner too abruptly, the bus rolled into a stack of discarded boxes and stopped. Bobby’s trousers fell, wounded in the aisle. Mr. Soh smiled and opened the door. Somehow they were in front of the inn.

  “Good-bye,” said the old man.

  Bobby stood and tried to think of something appropriate to say, but finally he just climbed down out of the van, pulling his filthy trousers behind him. Headmaster Kim’s was the only voice he recognized as Mr. Soh searched for reverse. The headmaster had woken from his doze and was sitting up a little. “I am sorry,” he said, and then they backed out of the debris and sped away into the night.

  Though the inn was behind him and the night was cold, Bobby turned into the marketplace, through the broken stalls and down a rutted pathway. He hadn’t gone very far before some street children came out of the doorways where they slept and began following along. He took the dead woman’s photograph from his jacket, wiped the front of it on the headmaster’s pants, and tilted it up so that he could see her face. She was proud in the photograph, nearly arrogant, nothing like his grandmother at all. Bobby stopped at the center of a small bridge. Below him was a dried-up streambed, and as he looked down, the children shuffled in around him, plucking at his jacket and trying to get a look at the photograph. To Bobby’s surprise the Goma from the inn was among them. “Hello,” the Goma said softly. “Hey you, OK.” It was, so far as he knew, the standard American greeting, and when Bobby looked at him, his scab mustache parted in a smile.