Festival for Three Thousand Women (20 page)

When Bobby, after nearly an hour of altogether pleasant chatter, said that he wanted to eat, Robert pulled a can of army peanut butter and C-ration crackers from his dictionary bag and Allen laid a pack of cigarettes on the floor. “In that case maybe we'd better smoke a joint,” he said, and he nodded toward Miss Moon as if asking Bobby's permission.

Bobby didn't know what Miss Moon would think about the joint, and he was really more interested in the peanut butter, so Allen struck a match, and just as the first of the crackers was spread, the joint came by. Bobby had often wondered, during his months alone, what the difference was between acting the part of a conservative man in the world and acting the part of a liberal one. What did those words mean? This joint, as an example, sticking to his fingers and sending little alterations into his bloodstream, was it serious business? Or was it just another means of passing time, a good way of making army peanut butter taste wondrously good? He really had no idea. Still, he passed the joint on to Mac and ate three of the crackers straight away. And when the joint got to Miss Moon she dug down in her bag, laying a pack of cigarettes on the floor. “Please,” she said, “no need to share. Have one of mine.”

When they left the inn it was eight o'clock and they'd all pretty much resigned themselves to letting Mac spend his money on taking them out for the night. As they hailed a taxi and all climbed in, Miss Moon was happy as a lark, chirping away. She was free of the farmer and free of the Love tearoom with all its saxophone-dominated songs, of dimly lit days and nights of murderous repetition. She had discovered an unexpected opportunity and would take advantage of it if she could, of that there was no question.

Arriving at Itewon was like coming into Las Vegas after months on the surrounding desert, a sensation that heightened the sparkle in Miss Moon's eyes and made Bobby's friends leap from the cab in order to form a corridor down which she could walk. Above them and along the strip there were neon cowboys and flashing dice and strolling hoards of GIs and Korean girls and hawkers and transvestites and pimps.

“Isn't this great?” said Mac. “What did I tell you?”

“It's obscene,” said Robert, but he swung his dictionary bag easily and seemed expansive in the chilly air.

Robert and Mac walked ahead but Allen stayed back with Bobby and Miss Moon. It was clear that without her presence he would have been satisfied to stay in the inn and smoke.

“Now what?” he said to Mac. “Just walking into one of these places has got to cost a bundle.”

But Mac patted the pocket of his worn-out corduroy coat and put a finger to his lips.

“If we get separated we'll reconnoiter here,” he said. He spoke like a platoon leader, in contrast to his long hair that was pulled straight back from his forehead and fell down his back like Beethoven's. His was a military approach to carousing.

“Remember, Mac,” said Allen. “Your're the one with money. Stay with us or give us our share now.”

Since there were crowds all along the street, Bobby had expected that Miss Moon would take his arm, but she seemed captivated and completely unafraid. And though he had trouble believing it, the bar Mar chose for them was called the Lucky Seven Club, where the lights were low and the music was psychedelic.

“Christ, man, you're not taking her in there, are you?” said Allen. “She just got into town.” Mac was far enough through the door not to hear, though, and Miss Moon was oblivious to Allen's protectiveness.

Once inside the bar it became obvious that finding a place to sit was going to be impossible, and Bobby was beginning to agree with Allen—why not just get something to eat and then go on back to the inn to sleep? This was the military's world and they didn't belong here. Suddenly, however, someone pulled on his arm and he turned to see another American staring at him. The man was wearing jeans and a sweater and it took Bobby a moment to realize that this was Ron, Gary Smith's buddy, in whose hooch he'd slept the night that Cherry left town.

“Bobby, I can't believe you're here.” Ron nodded off toward the corner of the bar where he and some friends had a table. “Come. Please. Join us,” he said.

It was noisy in the bar but when they got to the table people squeezed together. Ron was with three other military guys, none of whose names Bobby caught.

Miss Moon took a seat at the head of the table, between Ron and Bobby, and when Bobby told everyone that they'd only come to Seoul that day and that Miss Moon had never been there before, they all became gentlemen, each trying to outdo the other. But something else happened when they sat down as well. A certain line of contact, a certain channel, seemed to have opened up between Miss Moon and Ron, though as with Ron and Miss Kim so many months before, they had no common language.

“He has wonderful-looking skin, doesn't he?” Miss Moon told Bobby. “Ask him what he does to make it so smooth.”

Bobby was embarrassed by the question, but Miss Moon insisted.

“What?” said Ron.

“She wants to know about your skin… How you keep it looking so smooth.”

Ron gave Bobby a long look, but in a moment he took Miss Moon's arm, pulled her sleeve back to her elbow, and laid his own arm down next to hers. “Look,” he said. “Don't they make a nice match?”

Ron and his friends were celebrating the departure of one of them for home the next day, and they wouldn't let Mac pay for anything. They ordered beer and told the waiter to bring chips and peanuts and cheese. The friend who was leaving seemed shaken by the fact, and was determined to go out smashed. Ron, however, immediately became involved in an eyes-only conversation with Miss Moon, and after a while the two groups went back to talking among themselves. Allen wasn't much of a drinker, and now that Miss Moon was out of his domain he wanted to go out and find a place to light another joint. Mac and Robert kept watching all the Korean girls, commenting on them as they moved in and out of the circles of light.

“Now that we've got a home base,” said Mac, “how about taking a little stroll, stretch the old legs a bit?”

As soon as he spoke, Robert was ready and Allen, too, saw this as his chance for another smoke. Bobby was reluctant to go with them, but Ron had heard and prompted him.

“You go on,” he said. “I'll take care of Miss Moon.” And when Bobby told her what they were thinking of doing she mimicked Ron's tone exactly. “Please go,” she said. “I've got to learn to take care of myself sometime. It might as well be now.”

So when his three friends finished their beers, they all got up, Robert tucking his dictionary bag under the table when Ron told him it would be safe.

The question now was whether they would take their walk inside the bar or out. Allen wanted to lead everyone toward the door, but Robert was immediately waylaid by a pretty young girl and Mac was looking around to see if she had a friend. “Why don't you guys check out the street?” he told Allen. “Robert and I will join you soon.”

When Allen and Bobby found an empty side street, Allen said that he had made up his mind to extend his stay in Korea for a third year, though he still had half a year to go on his present stint. Bobby had never even considered not going home when the time came to do so. “Extend?” he said to himself. It was an idea that immediately took the form of a possibility in his mind.

When Allen had finished half a joint and they were back on the sidewalk again, they found Mac and Robert in front of the bar, arguing with two girls. Robert had retrieved, from the bottom of his amazing dictionary bag, a portable typewriter he'd been wanting to sell, and he was letting one of the girls know how much it was worth.

“All right,” he was saying, “let's go down there, then. If the guy's open we'll see how much he'll give us for it.”

“I thought you were going to pay for everything,” Allen said to Mac, but then he looked at Robert. “Good Christ,” he said quickly, “it's your Olivetti,” and he reached over and took the typewriter out of Robert's hands.

The girl looked from one man to the other. She was about sixteen and was having trouble maneuvering in her high-heeled shoes.

“Let's go back inside,” Bobby said to Mac. “I want to see how Miss Moon's getting along.”

Mac looked at the two girls, but then he said OK, and as they left Robert and Allen were arguing, the typewriter being pulled back and forth between them.

When they got to the table, Ron and Miss Moon were gone, but Ron's friends stopped Bobby's rising alarm by pointing and having him turn around. Miss Moon and Ron, of course, were dancing. The music was slow and the two were pressed together just like all the other couples on the floor.

When the song ended, Ron came back and sat down beside Bobby.

“Look,” he said, motioning to Miss Moon standing a few steps away, “I'd be happy to take care of this girl. She needs someone right now. She doesn't want to go back to her village and she's not for you, right?”

Bobby looked at him and thought of Cherry. What he was after now was the cultivation of a life of his own, not a dependency on the part of Miss Moon. “She just arrived,” he said. “She doesn't know a thing about cities. It was a complete accident, even, that we came all the way out here.”

“I know all that,” said Ron. “Why do you think I'm interested in her? I've got a hooch she can stay in. It's a good place, and for now I'll move back to the base.”

Ron was looking at Bobby as if he were Miss Moon's father. Bobby didn't know how they'd communicate, but he said, “Miss Moon isn't a child. She can make her own decisions.”

“Good,” said Ron. “Frankly, the only thing she was worried about was how you would react.”

Bobby looked at him again. How in the world could he know that? But Ron smiled and stood up, and then reached over and pulled a bottle of bourbon out from under the table. “I've got a case of this stuff in my hooch,” he said. “Why don't you take this one?”

So that, in a nutshell, is how Bobby lost Miss Moon, though, of course, she had never been his. He spoke to her briefly, but she was so calm and positive about staying with Ron that there was little he could do. He simply said good-bye and walked out of the bar with his bottle of bourbon and with Mac, who said good-bye too.

“I'm going back downtown,” Bobby said. “May I borrow enough for a taxi? I'll pay you back tomorrow.”

Mac was hoping that they'd all go down the street to one of the other clubs, but Bobby was tired so Mac quickly gave him the money for the cab. Just then Allen and Robert came back, with the same two girls trailing after them. “No one wants the typewriter,” said Robert. “Christ, it was ninety dollars when it was new.”

“I want it,” said Allen, “I keep telling you that.”

The two girls were getting restless. Apparently Mac had enough money for beer and taxis, but not enough to lend Robert what the girl wanted to keep him company throughout the night. Then they saw Bobby's bottle of whiskey.

“Hey,” said Robert, “where did you get that?”

But Allen was quick and took the whiskey out of Bobby's hand. “Loan me this,” he whispered, and when Bobby agreed, he turned back to Robert.

“OK,” he said. “I'll trade you this bottle for that typewriter. You can sell the bourbon in a minute out here.”

Robert protested for a bit, but soon the trade was completed and Mac decided that he'd stick around with Robert and the two girls after all.

Allen, however, now that he had the typewriter, and after he heard what had happened with Miss Moon, said he'd share the cab with Bobby and then asked if Bobby felt like stopping off somewhere to eat before going on in to bed.

As they were talking, a taxi stopped in front of them and they got in. Allen wanted to light the remainder of his joint, but Bobby pointed to the driver so he thought better of it and popped the whole thing into his mouth, chewing it slowly and swallowing hard. He held the typewriter on his lap and sat a little formally, staring out the window as they drove away.

When Bobby looked at his watch he realized that it was not yet eleven o'clock. Only last night he had been at Headmaster Kim's house, on another planet really, softly singing about the bald-headed bachelor and carrying on. He hadn't even understood Miss Moon's problem then, but now, twenty-four hours later, she was not only out of that farmer's life but out of his own as well. It made him wonder, yet again what he was to people that they could discard him so. Was he so incapable of closeness that he could move through the lives of others leaving no trail, not even so much as that of a slug through a garden?

Bobby looked over at Allen, to see if he might mention such a personal thought to him, but Allen was busy with his new possession. He had found a piece of paper on the taxi floor and had opened the typewriter and rolled the paper in.

When he saw Bobby looking, he smiled. “I keep a journal,” he said. “I write in it every day.”

Bobby scooted closer and peered at what Allen was writing. The paper was dirty and torn, but he had rolled its clean side into his new machine and had typed the date up at the top of the page. After that he wrote, “I met Bobby Comstock today, when I was standing in the
yogwan
hall with Mac and Robert. Bobby had this Korean girl with him whose name was Miss Moon. She was beautiful and shy and had never been to Seoul before….”

Allen looked darkly at Bobby, so he moved back across the seat, not meaning to intrude.

“I never miss a day,” Allen explained, “no matter what. You should try it sometime. Keeping a journal helps you to understand what life is all about.”

Nine in the fifth place means: Use no medicine in an illness incurred through no fault of your own. It will pass of itself
.

 

T
he next day Bobby discovered two things: Korea has a higher number of geniuses, per capita, than any other country in the world, and he had tuberculosis.