They did not know, but they nodded anyway.
“I’m Cho. Nice to meet you.”
“Everyone goes by fake names,” said Britney rudely. She clearly felt superior, or was trying to establish a pecking order with her at the top, or both. Cho felt hurt, but she masked it as irritation and turned coldly away from her. Britney blew a large bubble with her chewing gum, and it popped loudly. The
Chosun
women had never seen a person do that before, and they were impressed in spite of themselves.
“Britney, maybe you can tell us. Where are we?” asked Jasmine, trying to smooth over the turbulence that had appeared between Britney and Cho.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what city, what country. Where on the fucking planet are we?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“That is what I mean,” said Jasmine, enunciating especially clearly. Relative to Britney’s lazy speech, it made Britney sound all the more unsophisticated, deflating her air of superiority.
“Honestly, since I’ve been here, I haven’t been outside much. Just a couple a times to do tricks here and there, but I was always with a chaperone. But I do know that we’re in a city called
Seattle,
in the United States.”
Gi dropped the pot of water she had been carrying from the sink to the stove. It landed with a loud clang on the floor, and water drenched her feet and lower legs. “What?” she said, panic rising from her abdomen into her throat.
“We’re where?” asked Cho, her jaw dropping.
“Seattle, in the United States.”
“But that’s not possible!” exclaimed Gyong-ho.
“Well, you’re here. You can believe it, or not,” said Britney, some of the superiority creeping back into her voice.
“I figured we were probably in San Francisco, but I wasn’t sure,” said Jasmine. “I had a feeling we were in the States, but I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.” She pinched her lower lip with her thumb and index finger. Her brow knitted as if she were trying to solve a difficult problem in her mind.
“Wow,” said Cho, otherwise speechless.
The
Chosun
women had, from their earliest memories, been told that America was the world’s most evil empire and its citizens the most bloodthirsty, oafish, inhumane people on the planet. Americans ate their own children and routinely shot their elderly in the back of the head. America was a land of chaos and confusion, ruled by an inferior species of protohumans. The fact of their brutishness was even reflected in
Chosun
vernacular, referring to Americans, as a matter of semantic routine, as
Mee-guk nom,
or American bastards, rather than as
Mee-guk saram
, or American people. To think that all around them was a vast colony of these violent, maniacal, shifty psychopaths was harrowing. How could they live through it?
G
I
,
C
HO
,
AND
Jasmine had finished making the morning meal and met several of the women who lived and worked in the brothel. They had come from all over the world, though mainly from Asia. Most were Korean, but there was one from Laos, two from Thailand, a couple from the Philippines, and one from somewhere in Africa—Gi had not heard of her country before and Jasmine said that she spoke French. Many of the women had the English language in common, and the ones who did not got by using hand gestures. Jasmine knew a little English, but the
Chosun
women did not.
After breakfast, Gi took some food up to Il-sun.
“I’ve brought you a bowl of soup,” she said, smiling, as she entered her room.
“Thanks, Gi, but I’m not hungry.” Il-sun managed a weak smile. She looked a little pale.
“But you need to eat. For the baby.”
“My stomach hurts.”
“Are you alright? Should I get the doctor?”
“No, I’ll be fine. It’s only a bit of morning sickness. Leave the soup. I’ll eat it in a little bit.”
“Would you like me to sit with you?”
“No, I think I’ll try to sleep.”
“Are you sure?”
“Really, Gi, I just want to be alone.” Il-sun’s tone had become exasperated, and the sting showed on Gi’s face. “I’m sorry. I’m just not feeling good. We’ll talk later, okay?”
“I understand,” said Gi, trying to sound upbeat. “I’ll check on you later.” With that Gi turned and left. Reluctantly she went back downstairs.
Inside the lounge several women were sitting around a television set, watching with numb disinterest. Gi pulled up a chair and joined them, though no one greeted or even acknowledged her. She had never watched television before—her
songbun
had not allowed for it. Everything on the television was in English, and therefore incomprehensible. The images, however, were fascinating. The programs seemed to be depicting characters going through various dramas and shenanigans, some humorous and some serious. Absent from the shows were the poverty, depression, inhuman aggression, and deceitfulness that she knew to be rampant in America. Doubtless these were propaganda shows, depicting life in the United States in a far better light to try to fool their citizens and their enemies.
After a while, Gi closed her eyes and focused solely on the language. English was fast, loud, and punchy. It seemed a rather insensitive language without much nuance. All the same, she let herself be bombarded by it, allowing her mind to try to make sense of the sounds. At first it was meaningless and random, but eventually she started to discern repeating rhythms and consonant/vowel relationships. Silently she mouthed what she was hearing. It felt funny, like putting shoes on the wrong feet. It was not a musical language, but she listened to it as if it were, guessing at the meaning by the pitch, intensity, and tone.
Different women came and went from the lounge all day, but Gyong-ho stayed, fascinated by the content the television offered. Even Jasmine and Cho eventually went their own ways, to do what, Gi did not know. After a full day in front of the television, Gi had acquired a few English words, such as
go,
meaning to start something;
hi Al,
a greeting; and
turbo- chopper,
meaning something that cuts vegetables. Absorbed in the process of learning, she had been able to escape her imprisonment for an entire day. That night, she went to bed clinging desperately to a feeling of mental satisfaction.
67
T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
THE
doctor came back to check on Il-sun. He took her temperature, felt her pulse, and looked into her throat. Gi noticed the Blue Talon tattoo on his lower arm; apparently he was property, too. The doctor gave Il-sun another pill, saying, “For baby.” He left without making eye contact, and Gyong-ho’s feeling of uneasiness returned. This time, however, she said nothing because Il-sun was so happy for the attention. It helped Il-sun feel that everything was going to be alright, and Gi did not want to ruin that for her.
A few hours after the doctor had left, a loud groan from Il-sun’s room called the other women to her bedside. Il-sun was doubled over in pain, her face pale and dotted with beads of sweat.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jasmine.
“Cramps. Horrible cramps,” Il-sun replied through gritted teeth.
“Find someone who can get the doctor,” Jasmine said to Cho, her face grave. Cho disappeared without a word. Gi held Il-sun’s hand. The pain seemed to come in waves.
“It’s probably just part of morning sickness,” said Il-sun in a moment when the pain abated. The other women did not say anything, giving each other furtive, doubtful looks.
Cho had been gone for an interminable quarter hour, and then returned with Mrs. Cha. The room turned icy cold in her presence, her eyes fierce coals that looked capable of emitting rays of death. She stood at the foot of the bed, an improbable midwife. Il-sun gave a loud shriek of pain, and a pool of deep-crimson blood appeared between her legs. She looked up, terror-stricken and pale. Gi squeezed her hand, tears streaming down her face.
“The bleeding will stop soon,” said Mrs. Cha flatly. “There is no need for the doctor.” Then she turned and glided out of the room.
As the truth of what happened dawned on her, Il-sun began to sob. The baby had lifted her above her situation. It had given her a ray of hope and something to live for, and now it was taken away from her. The stark reality of her life clicked into place, like a sticky tumbler in a lock finally releasing, opening her awareness to the undeniable truth: She was a prisoner in a foreign country, being forced into prostitution, with no way of escaping. She wished she could die. Maybe she would bleed to death.
Another wave of painful contractions came over her and she expelled more thick clots of blood and tissue. The baby had come out. It was little more than a couple of centimeters long, with discernable arms and legs. She could not bear to look at it. Her tears stopped and her face became hard and stoic.
“Take it away,” she said.
“Il-sun—” said Jasmine tenderly.
“Just take it away!” she shouted.
Gi reached down and scooped the fetus into her hands. It was small and nameless—qualities she could relate with. It was not fully formed, like her, and she envied it that it would never know the suffering that this world could provide. She took it into the bathroom, cradling it in her palm. Here, in her hand, was an ending that never had a beginning. There was a complicated mix of feelings, and Gi took a minute, looking at the fetus, to unknot them. She was sad, for Il-sun’s pain more than for the baby. She had enjoyed the bonding that Il-sun’s pregnancy fostered between the women, and she knew that she would miss that. The baby had been an avenue that Gi could have taken into Il-sun’s heart, but now that would never be. And in there, too, was an uncomfortable sense of relief: She would no longer have to compete with this child for Il-sun’s affection. She hated herself for feeling that way, but it was an undeniable truth.
Gi had lived through a time, in the gulag, when life was especially cheap. She had watched impassively as girls perished, or were maimed or . . . forced into intercourse—now she knew what that was. She tried to feel something deeper for the small body that was in her hand, but it was not there. She knew that she was supposed to be torn with grief. Why would it not come? It was just another life, only this one would not be lived. It was probably better this way. “We all loved you very much,” she said, wishing that she could feel those words—she really wanted to. It seemed that there needed to be ceremony. Then she lowered the body into the toilet, and flushed. Il-sun wailed loudly in the other room.
68
T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
B
RITNEY
came to their suite looking put out.
“Mrs. Cha wants me to get you girls ready for work,” she said.
“Today?” asked Gi. Il-sun’s miscarriage had been such a trauma that she had thought the whole world would need to rest from it. Apparently not the flesh industry.
“Yes, today,” Britney replied.
“I don’t feel good,” said Il-sun.
“What, do you think you’re better than the rest of us, princess?” said Britney rudely.
“No, it’s just that—”
“Mrs. Cha said
all
of you were going to work today, and I’m not gonna argue with her. Neither are you, so get ready.”
The women took showers and spent time doing their hair. Britney brought them clothes, makeup, and hair products. The shoes that they had brought with them from South Korea had disappeared when they were released from the container, probably thrown out with the rest of the fouled items that were found inside. They had been barefoot since their arrival, and it looked like that was not going to change. The clothes that they were given were ill-matched and fit poorly; but then, they would not be in them long enough for it to matter. It was a far cry from Mr. Choy’s standard. Once they were ready, Britney led them down the stairs and into the bar. Mrs. Cha met them at the bottom of the stairs appearing regal and fierce.
“Alright, let me have a look at you,” she said, glaring down her nose. She inspected each woman up and down and front to back. Her brow was pinched, as if she were assessing the work potential of oxen. She had a habit of clicking her tongue when she was in thought, which sounded to Gi like mild disapproval. She looked cursorily at Gyong-ho, and said dismissively, “Well, we’ll see how you do.” Gi had a feeling she was not really speaking to her, so remained quiet. Mrs. Cha paused at Il-sun.
“What have we here? Aren’t you a pretty one.” She circled around Il-sun as if zeroing in on a kill, examining her with an appraising eye. “I think you’ll do well, even if you turn out to be a lousy lay.” Mrs. Cha reached out with one hand and grabbed hold of Il-sun’s face by the chin. She turned Il-sun’s head from side to side. “But you won’t be a lousy lay, will you? What is your name, dear?”