Silver Stallion (14 page)

The villagers had almost forgotten the war. They were too busy these days to wonder what was going on outside their county. Yonsil's mother, who grew lotus root at Mudfish Pool, had given birth to her third daughter, but nobody bothered to go to see her because the birth of a girl was never worth a congratulatory visit at a busy time like this. But Old Hwang was never so busy as to forget the existence of the war. He doubted that the
bengko
army would requisition crops from the farmers as the Japanese had done in another war years ago, but he would have to warn the farmers to hide away some of the crop this year, for nobody knew what might happen in wartime.

The villagers did not know what was going on at the Chestnut House either, nor did they care enough to find out. But Old Hwang could not ignore Ollye's existence. Ever since he had heard of her secret visit to the snake hunter's shack, he suspected that OUye was conspiring with the two whores. Although he was somewhat relieved when the two women left Kumsan, he knew the matter would not be settled for good until he paid them back for the riverside hut. He was not a bit happy, suspecting that Ollye might join forces with the outsiders—perhaps even to fight him. He wanted to summon Ollye and ask her what business she had discussed with the prostitutes, but the whole month which had passed made him hesitate to resume communication with her. And he feared that he might not like what Ollye had to tell him.

Then the boatman reported the shocking news that Ollye had made two secret night trips to Cucumber Island in the past week, and the old man was sure that she had not gone to the islet for any reason he would approve of. He had to know what had impelled her to go among the Americans, whom she had every reason to fear, when she had not ventured out of her house for more than a month. When outrageous rumors about Ollye and the Yankees started to circulate, the old man found it impossible to regard those tales as baseless slander, although reason suggested that those far-fetched stories had probably been invented by imaginative villagers for idle amusement. Ollye was easy prey, she could be wantonly disparaged, for she had been already victimized and condemned to shame. The old man understood that perfectly well, but… he could not help suspecting that there must be a fire if there was so much smoke.

Led by the village chief, Old Hwang strolled along the barbed-wire fence, closely observing Camp Omaha—the large tents with their flaps rolled up, huge wooden crates lining the main road which crossed the camp, Quonset huts painted sand color, the Korean flag and the American flag and the United Nations flag drooping side by side, lifelessly, on the tall pipe poles, scattered bunkers for heavy machine gun emplacements, ugly dark green plank tables and benches in the mess hall, a jeep with a tall radio antenna, and lots of soldiers everywhere.

“I didn't think there were so many
Migook
soldiers at this small camp,” Old Hwang muttered, his hands clasped behind him as he watched the
bengkos
moving around inside the fence.

“Hundreds of them live here,” Pae explained. “In fact, so many soldiers stay here that they have to dispose of their leftover food and garbage by the truckload every day.”

With a frown, the old man looked around at the soldiers setting out chunks of turf atop the sandy soil around the Quonset huts, at the soldiers raising a telegraph pole near the main gate, at the soldiers playing basketball, a cloud of dust rising all around them like an early morning river fog, at the soldier with stubbly chin drawing something in white paint on the wider flap of a tent, at the two helmeted soldiers standing guard by the entry gate, at a barefoot soldier crossing a patch of grass with an armful of folded blankets, and at a soldier scraping his mess kit into a garbage can. The old man was frustrated because there were too many soldiers for him to do anything about, because the army camp was too big for him to do anything about, and because the world had grown suddenly too big and too complicated for him to do anything about.

Many of the soldiers were naked to their waists, shiny dog tags dangling over chests that were as hairy as beasts'. Watching the half-naked
bengkos,
Old Hwang recalled the savage Japanese who used to strut around the town with nothing on but loincloths. Savages, savages, the old man thought with a sigh. A gentleman was never supposed to expose any more than his face and hands in public under any circumstances, but the world was obviously full of savage nations.

Old Hwang hoped the war would be over soon one way or the other, so that Sokku would not have to be dragged away to fight side by side with these naked barbarians. But Sokku would surely be drafted if the war lasted many more months. The townsfolk said even boys of sixteen or seventeen had been conscripted, and a lot of those untrained students had been killed at Pohang in August. The Hwang family would end if Sokku were to die. The family was in decline and the old man had hoped Sokku would be able to rebuild it. The villagers would be shocked speechless if they were to find out his situation. Rich Hwang—why he could not even pay back the prostitutes for their riverside shack, and he had been deeply indebted to the miller for several years. If he lost his only son, what would be left of the Hwangs?

Shaking his head, Hwang said to Pae, “Take me to the place they call Texas Town.”

“Oh, it's right down there.”

The shanties had been built in haste. The whole town could be moved to a new location in an hour. The place looked as dull as a country market by daylight. At the entrance stood a big plank sign saying “Welcome to Texas Town” both in English and Korean with a gigantic picture of a reclining naked woman displaying her huge breasts, nipples and all, like pink watermelons for sale. Some shanties had similar but smaller signs mounted on their roofs. These signs showed
bengko-looking
women with blue eyes and golden hair, their loins barely covered with slips of cloth the size of handkerchiefs. The roofs and walls of the shacks were mostly built from the wood of used ammunition boxes and still bore black stencilled English letters and numbers. The walls were papered inside with old Korean newspapers and Yankee comic books, creating a motley collage of columns of printed letters, colorful pictures and bubbling word balloons. Thin black electric wires hung like clothesline between one shack and the next, the whole cobweb of lines converging and running back to Camp Omaha. Electric bulbs hanging inside and outside the shacks were painted yellow or red. There were many nails on every interior wall used as hooks for hanging up scanty female clothing in cheap, bright colors. On the washlines behind some shacks, enticing underwear and bras made of transparent or suggestive black material hung like the banners of sin. The latrines, each used by four or five shanties, emitted the stench of gasoline or kerosene, which the U. N. ladies had poured into the pits in order to kill maggots. The zigzag alleys were littered with waste paper, crushed beer cans, and dark patches of sand stained by urine. Around the shanties stood metal ammunition boxes used as substitute safes or miniature ice boxes or even as dressers for storing clean clothing and underwear. Dented helmets were used as washbasins, and cans of all sizes were used as dishes and containers for miscellaneous items.

Venturing into this bizarre landscape, Old Hwang watched the strange Yankee wives, many of whom had their hair either dyed yellow or permanented into small close curls to imitate
bengko
women. Others let their hair cascade loose over their shoulders. Some had on black glasses or heavy bracelets or extremely short pants so as to stand out from the other girls who dressed, behaved and painted themselves like nobody the old man had ever seen before. Idling in the shanties or playing strange card games as they sat out front on benches, the girls glanced indifferently at the two uninvited inspectors from West County and resumed what they had been doing. They knew Old Hwang and his companion were not prospective customers.

“They say there are at least fifty of these women here,” Pae explained, alternating a worried glance at the old man with a curious leer at the girls.

They turned a corner and found three Yankee soldiers and two laughing girls around a plywood table drinking beer outside a shanty whose sign pictured a tall cactus.

“It really worries me, sir, to think of the village children who come here and watch these things,” the village chief said.

“The children?” the old man said. “Do the children come here?”

“Yes. They come almost every day to snoop around the camp and this place,” Pae said. “Some of them come to beg the
bengko
soldiers for C-ration cans and chocolates. Other boys come to watch the whores play with the foreign soldiers.”

“We should tell them to stay away,” the old man said “This is not a place for children.”

“I doubt if the children will listen,” Pae said.

“I'll tell the boatman not to let any child use the boat to get here.”

“I already tried that, sir, but it didn't work. The boys swam across the river and got here anyway.”

Hwang felt disappointed and depressed for he was unable to do anything to fix the deplorable situation. As time passed he had to admit that he was losing more and more of whatever power he had possessed. He could not help noticing that he was gradually being shunted aside.

A woman with round flat face and puffy eyes, who was sitting on a rolled straw bag before her shack and washing peaches in an LMG ammunition can, was apparently amused by two country gentlemen in proper ramie attire snooping around the brothel. With an easy grin she came over to the awkward visitors.

“Want to have a good time?” she asked. Her hips were as fat as a sow's. Then she bit into a juicy peach. “The girls here seldom play with natives, but I don't mind making you happy as long as you pay me enough. Which one of you wants to have me first? I guess I have to serve the older one first because Confucius tells us to respect our elders. Right, old man?”

Two women who had been playing flower cards on a plank bench laughed, glancing at the old man with his prim aristocratic horsehair hat and his single crippled follower.

“Don't tease him too much, Sis,” said the one in a thin orange-colored blouse. “Maybe he really wants to have a good time. He must have all the equipment he needs to play with, even if his instrument is a little rusty. Why don't you help him rub the rust off his tool?”

Then, out of nowhere—the old man really could not tell from where it was coming—a scream rang out: “That's him! That's the old cock!”

It was Yonghi.

“That is the old cock that took my house away and wouldn't even pay for it!”

Surprised by the sudden verbal attack, Old Hwang turned to see Sister Serpent wagging her fist at him. Her face and hair were covered with soapsuds—she had been washing her hair—but the old man instantly recognized her.

“I told you girls about this fucking dotard, didn't I?” Yonghi was furious. “I told you about the bastard who wouldn't even let me get on the boat, and look, that old cock is here!”

Sundok, who had been laundering her brassiere, dashed forward to join Yonghi. “What is that son of a bitch here for?” she said, drying her wet hands with her apron. “Does he want a girl, or what?”

Neither Hwang nor the village chief had had a chance to defend themselves as the other prostitutes joined in the barrage of accusations.

“So that's the old guy who stole your house, ha?” a snub-nosed girl scoffed. “Why don't you kick him in the balls, Sister Serpent? He doesn't look like much of a man, anyway.”

“A big man indeed—stealing a house from a whore,” said a tall slim girl with her dark glasses stuck in the waistband of her skirt. “This is for you,” she added, making an obscene gesture with her hand.

“But why is he here, anyway?” said another. “He's got your house already. What does he want next?”

“You want me, old man?” said the tall slim girl. She lifted her skirt to show her red panties to Old Hwang. “Short time or long time?”

Several girls laughed.

Old Hwang, finally recovering from his amazement at the bombardment, cleared his throat several times in succession and then addressed Yonghi. “I have no intention of stealing anything from you. I asked you to wait because I don't have that much money now.”

“And I trust your words as much as I do a cat sitting in front of a fish,” Yonghi snorted.

There was no point in arguing with these filthy creatures, the old man thought as he turned to leave. But he could not help noticing Pae's disappointed expression. And the old man thought it was all getting to be too much for him to handle.

FOUR

S
quatting on the walnut stump before the Chestnut House, watching the village which loomed bluish in the moonlight, Mansik wondered about his mother's recent behavior. He was not sure what exactly was happening to her, but there was no doubt that some change was taking place in her life. Why did she leave home secretly at night, and where did she go?

She had sneaked out of the house again tonight. Pretending to have fallen asleep early, Mansik had been waiting for her to make a move to confirm his suspicion. He became alert a little past nine when he heard his mother quietly rise from her bed in the next room.

She crawled to the children's room and listened through the paper door to the sound of their breathing. When she was sure that Mansik and Nanhi were sound asleep, she stepped down into the yard and noiselessly approached the twig gate. Mansik crawled to the door and watched his mother through a chink. She looked up and down the path before skulking out of the house.

Mansik quickly slipped out of the room; he had gone to bed with all his clothes on. There was a half moon in the sky over the Three Peaks and he heard the faint sound of music wafted by a breeze from the islet. Mansik saw his mother hurry to the ferry. He followed her down to the tobacco-curing shed, but he could not go any farther because the rice paddies provided no concealment. He did not need to shadow her any more, for he had a fairly clear idea where she was heading.

This was the third time that Mansik caught her sneaking out of the house at night. He was awakened the first time at midnight by the dogs barking somewhere in the distance. A while later he heard someone cautiously open and close the twig gate of his house. Suddenly frightened, recalling the night a month earlier when the two
bengkos
had attacked his mother, he crept to the door and peeked out. The boy was so relieved to see it was only his mother that he did not even wonder why she had been out of the house in the middle of the night. He went back to sleep and completely forgot next morning to ask his mother why she had gone out and scared the dogs.

The next time, however, he was stricken with an uncanny premonition when he heard the dogs barking. He was wide awake and very alert by the time his mother came up the footpath to the house. He watched her through the chink of the door as she tiptoed to her room, carrying what looked like a bundle of clothes. He had an urge to open the door and ask her where she had been, but somehow his whole body stiffened in fear and his throat was paralyzed. He feared that she might give him an answer that he was not yet ready to hear.

This morning when he went to his mother's room for breakfast, Mansik noticed a strange smell. He could not tell where the smell was coming from—her clothes or the room itself—but he recognized the sour odor of wine and vomit. But his mother had never touched a single drop of rice wine even when her husband used to drink it at home. During breakfast, she tried to avoid Mansik's eyes and he recalled that she had been nervous for the past several days.

Mansik also found that the rice jar in the kitchen was half full. Lately their meals had consisted of nothing more than a handful of boiled wild greens with little grain. Suddenly there was plenty of rice to eat. The side dishes were remarkable too; for the first time in years, Mansik enjoyed such delicacies as acorn curd, buckwheat jelly and even cow tripe. His mother would have had to go to Central Market to buy such things and Mansik was not sure when she had managed to find time to go to town and where she got the money to buy them.

After lunch—they never missed the noon rice these days—while Mansik was looking for a coil of hemp string, he accidentally discovered four
bengko
C-ration cans in the straw basket hanging on the kitchen wall. Unlike rice or relishes, the discovery of the
bengko
things in the house prompted Mansik to ask questions.

“Where did you get the rice and the Yankee cans, Mother?”

Ollye was embarrassed. “Well, you know,” she mumbled, “I got them—somehow. I can explain everything to you, but not now. Don't ask me anything, because you're not ready to understand me.”

Squatting on the walnut stump before the Chestnut House, Mansik tried to guess how his mother had gotten hold of rice and the
bengko
cans. He feared she might have stolen them. If she had earned them doing some proper job in town, his mother would have told him about it. Mansik had a strong suspicion that his mother worked at the
bengko
town on the islet. What did she do there in the middle of the night to be paid with rice and cans? He was glad that they did not have to go hungry any more, but he was not sure if he should be happy.

A chill streaked through his body and gooseflesh bristled up on his arms and shoulders as he felt a foreboding. Something ominous, something like a hovering shadow, was approaching, and he looked up in fear, in apprehension, sensing imminent danger. He saw a boy coming from the direction of the log bridge. The boy stopped short, startled, as Mansik slowly rose to his feet, staring.

Mansik did not recognize the boy at first because the moon was behind him. When the boy started to move again Mansik knew he was Kangho. The lanky boy had sloping shoulders and chopstick legs that were easily recognizable even at a distance. Kangho turned into the footpath and stopped a few paces away from Mansik. They stood facing each other. They said nothing for a moment. The noise of the brook sounded loud in the silent dark. Mansik wanted to say something about this surprise visit by his friend, but he was too startled to decide what reaction he ought to have. The best Mansik came up with was the simple question, “Are you Kangho?”

“Yes, it's me,” said Kangho in a flat emotionless voice. He did not seem to have decided what attitude and tone of voice he should assume either.

For want of anything better to say, Mansik asked another stupid question, “What are you doing here?”

Kangho said nothing; perhaps he had not been prepared for that question.

Mansik rephrased his question. “Why did you come to see me?” He did not want to drive his friend away with unnecessary antagonism.

“I've been to the ferry on an errand for my father, to see the boatman,” Kangho explained. “My father wanted the boatman to come to the mill first thing in the morning and pick up the rice the villagers contributed for him.”

Kangho paused to study his expression. Mansik was puzzled as to what the boatman or the rice had got to do with Kangho's visit.

“As I was about to cross the bridge on my way home,” Kangho went on, “I spotted you sitting here and decided to come to see you and say hello.”

“We haven't talked to each other for such a long time,” said Mansik. He thought his own remark incongruous and wondered if he had intended it to sound like an accusation. He thought he had better say something else, something more friendly. “How are the boys?” he said.

“Well, fine,” said Kangho. “They're fine.”

Mansik was nervous, afraid that their conversation would peter out and Kangho would leave. Mansik had to keep the conversation alive somehow. “The harvest season is over and I guess you boys have to prepare for the Autumn War with the Castle village boys,” he said.

“Sure. The war will be on soon.”

“Going on expeditions, too?”

“Oh, yes. We're going to the dumping place tomorrow,” Kangho said.

“Dumping place? What dumping place?”

“Lots of Yankee have arrived on Cucumber Island, you know, and they built a whole new village there. There's a great big dumping place at the southern part of the island where the
bengkos
dispose of their garbage. The Yankee trucks come to unload their garbage at this place twice a day and that's where we're going tomorrow.”

“Anything special about the dumping place?” asked Mansik, intrigued.

“Yes, but we didn't know it until Jun found out that the Castle boys made secret trips there every day.”

“Secret trips?” said Mansik, wondering if his mother had gone there tonight.

“Those boys did not want anybody besides themselves to know about this place, but we found out about it and now everybody in West County knows what nice things you can find in the garbage.”

“What kind of nice things can you find in the garbage?”

“Oh, this and that. Sometimes you can find unopened cans containing slices of peaches in sweetened water or candies or powdered milk. You can find chocolates and chewing gum, too.”

“Sounds like fun,” said Mansik, recalling the unopened
bengko
cans his mother had hidden in the kitchen.

“It is fun. So we keep going there. If you pick through the garbage carefully enough, you can sometimes find some pretty cellophane papers in various colors. And razor blades. And cardboard boxes and envelopes, too. Once or twice a week, the
bengkos
throw away lots of leftover chicken pieces, and on those nights, many families in West County have a feast. Even some grownups come to the dump at night secretly when the
bengkos
dispose of chicken and other meats.”

“Don't the
bengkos
stop you if you take those things?” Mansik said.

“Of course not. They don't mind anybody taking them, because they are throwing them away. No Yankees guard the dump.”

“Must be great fun to go there.”

“It is,” Kangho said. “Will you come along with us tomorrow?”

Mansik was tempted by the spontaneous invitation, but on second thought, he knew it was impossible for him to join the boys now in any kind of expedition.

“I don't think I can go,” he said.

“Why? Don't you want to play with us?”

“Well, I don't think it's a matter of what I want to do,” Mansik said. “You see, nobody'll want me to come along. What would Chandol or Toad say if I just showed up uninvited?”

“Since when have you ever needed an invitation to come to play with us? We're friends and you can come to play with us whenever you want to.”

“That's what you think but the other boys would think differently. Things have changed, you know.”

“You've become a very strange boy,” Kangho said. “What good does it do you if you stay away from everybody? You shouldn't avoid us like this.”

“You think
I
am avoiding you?” said Mansik, his voice turning sarcastic.

“Well, I haven't come to see you for quite some time,” Kangho admitted. “I don't understand myself how come I have been that way to you, but it just happened, you know. Anyway I came to see you tonight.”

“Do you think they really won't mind if I come?”

“Uh? Oh, sure. Of course they will be glad to have you back. So, are you coming tomorrow?”

After a short pause, Mansik said with a sigh, “No. I can't go.”

“It's up to you whether you come or not. If you decide to come, you will find us around noon on the southern shore of the island. You can't miss the dump if you just walk down the shore along the reeds. I hope I will see you tomorrow.”

Kangho turned to leave.

“Thank you,” Mansik said to Kangho's back. He spoke in such a soft voice that Kangho did not hear him.

Seated on the sand at the edge of the reeds, Mansik hurled a pebble into the river. The stone landed on the surface with
a plop
and sank into the water. He sighed and glanced over at the cow browsing through the grass on the opposite nverbank. The brass bells on the cow's collar jangled as the animal waved its head this Way and that to drive away the flies. He picked up a withered twig and nervously snapped it into little pieces.

Mansik was waiting for the boys to come across the river but he was not sure what attitude he should assume when they did come. He had had little sleep the night before trying to decide whether or not he should join the boys for the raid on the dump. He finally made up his mind to come, for this was a chance he could not afford to lose, perhaps the last and only chance for him to end this depressing life, confined to the small sunny yard, ambling back and forth, doing nothing, day and night, and day and night again, and then again day and night, with no friends to play with, not even one. If he were to be accepted back by the boys … If they would really welcome him back as Kangho had said they would … He wanted to be one of the boys again. He knew nobody would expect him unless Kangho had told them about last night, and he was not sure how they would react to his appearance, uninvited. But he had to take the chance.

When Mansik went to the ferry, everything—the shallow rippling water, the blueness of the river and the sky, the boat bobbing at the end of the rope, the dazzling golden sand on the opposite shore—everything looked new and foreign to him, because he had not seen them for so long. The boatman apparently felt the same way about Mansik.

“Haven't seen you for quite a long time,” said the boatman with a knowing smile, squinting at the lone passenger on his boat inquisitively. “Going somewhere?”