The following is a rough-draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim. If you haven't read my previous novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, be warned that there are spoilers and you may be missing some context.
Berlin bar. Photo credit: www.inyourpocket.com.
Thursday, June 2, 1988
The live music washed out onto the street and swept me up like a riptide, pulling me inside. A blend of folkish oompah and New Wave syncopated rhythm with a heavy bass was just what I needed after a long and stressful day.
The band comprised three men and a woman, all of them not much younger than me. Where my ear picked up a tuba, clarinet, and accordion on the sidewalk, my eyes saw three synthesizers that bore my name and an electric drum kit that took up far less space than a traditional drum kit. Space for the quartet was at a premium and had them compressed into a corner by the resto-bar’s front windows, which were open and allowed the cigarette smoke to vent into the evening air. Tables were filled to capacity but I was able to make my way past the standing crowd and carve out a cramped space at the bar. I ordered sausages and potatoes, and a pint of Berlinerweisse ale.
Charles had left me in my Bleibtreustrasse hotel just before the dinner hour. By the time I had showered and removed scruff from my face, I was famished. I had eaten so little through the day that I feared that I would pass out, but my legs were able to carry me several blocks north of Kurfurstendamm and onto another boulevard, Kantstrasse, which teemed with restaurants and nightclubs. The nightlife of West Berlin was a stark contrast to the quiet, almost antiseptic life of East Berlin. I was thankful for the live music that seemed to pump more life into me with every note of the synthesized tuba. Each keyboardist created sounds that mimicked several instruments and it felt as though the music was almost too large for the venue, but the patrons seemed to be enjoying the performance. People from a wide range of ages were bobbing heads and tapping feet as they engaged in lively conversation. Plenty of drinks were going around, with servers carrying four or more steins of beer in each fist and navigating the crowds with the skill of prize fighters.
My own stein came to me before my food, and despite having an empty stomach, I consumed the cold ale with as much gusto as the revelers around me. With my back to the bar, I scanned the room and took in the life around me. And yet, as observant as I was, I didn’t notice the person who approached me from my right. I blamed the fact that most of the patrons and the band were more to my left. But when I heard the voice, I nearly jumped with surprise.
“We meet again,” came the young woman’s voice. “I didn’t recognize you at first. You’ve shaved and aren’t wearing your glasses.”
It was Gwen. Her blond hair was now unbraided and had been styled with lots of hair spray so that it stood high on the top of her head and flowed over her shoulders, and down her back. She had changed into a black cotton dress that was cut to show ample cleavage. Bright powder-blue eyeshadow and fuchsia-pink lipstick accentuated her face. She was dressed to enjoy the town. And just as my eyes were noticing her, her eyes were taking me in.
“Wait, did you have a baby since I last saw you? You’re so slim.”
The initial shock of being surprised by her gave way to my training. In Ottawa, I knew how to blend into a crowd at a protest and later deny it, if I was recognized in another setting. Almost the same thing had happened to me almost a year ago, when I marched with some Greenpeace protesters along Wellington Street and down Elgin Street. I had shared a bottle of water with a fellow who seemed overcome from the summer heat, and I stayed with him until paramedics were able to treat him from heat stroke. During the protest, I was wearing a wig of dark, curly hair, and had dark Ray Ban sunglasses covering my eyes. But later that evening, when I was with Kristen on the rooftop of the Hard Rock Café, in the Byward Market, that same man came up to me and thanked me for my help. Even though he had suffered heat exhaustion and my wig was significantly different from my natural hair, he remembered me.
“You have the same sunglasses,” he said, despite my denials, “I’ve never seen that style of Ray Bans.” The leather blinders on the sides had helped provide more shelter for my eyes but were a distinct style. “You’re also the same build as the guy at the march.”
“It’s a coincidence,” I said, “but it wasn’t me.” The only difference in my voice, in confronting this stranger, was that I had hidden my Scottish accent, as I always did when I engaged protestors.
“Nah, it’s you,” he said, “that tiny mole above your lip is a giveaway.” He winked before turning away. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” And with that, he was gone, leaving me to explain everything to Kristen.
Earlier today, when I first met Gwen, I was the East-Londoner, Alexander James Carson. Tonight, I was Roland Axam. I could be myself, let my natural brogue come through. “Em, ‘scuse me? You must be confused. A baby? It should be clear that I cannae a bairn.”
My reaction and accent gave her pause, but she moved her face in closer to mine, where her eyes scanned my face.
“It’s you, the guy I met at Checkpoint Charlie. It’s those deep-dark-brown eyes. And that mole on your lip. You can’t fool me. What was with the disguise?”
Another song came to an end and I turned toward the band, joining in the applause. “I dinnae ken you, lass,” I said over my shoulder, “I havenae been tae Checkpoint Charlie. I only just arrived.” My food arrived at the bar and I turned back to her. I ordered another Berlinerweisse before looking her in the eyes. I hoped my resolve showed on my face but her eyes didn’t leave it.
“It’s you. I know it’s you.”
“Believe what you want, lass, but I’m right starving.” Without another word, I turned to my plate and began to eat, offering her no more attention than if she had walked away. But I could sense her presence, still feel her examining me.
“There’s that iciness again,” she said. “You blew me off this afternoon and you’re doing it again. Asshole.”
I didn’t take the bait. Rather, I behaved as though I had forgotten she was even there. My attention appeared to be solely on my dinner. The sausage was hot and flavourful, and the potatoes melted in my mouth. One thing that I told her rang true: I was starving. By the time my second stein arrived, my dinner was half-finished. The music had restarted and I tapped my foot to the beat as I wolfed down my plate. And though I was feeding myself and moving to the music, my brain was looking for my next move, should Gwen decide to make a scene. Would she draw attention to us? Would the patrons even care? I wanted to blend into the crowd, not stand out. I had wanted to relax and enjoy the show but that was now out of the question as long as Gwen stayed with me. Facing the bar and my meal, I could sense that Gwen was still standing to my left. With my plate now empty, I held my beer and turned to my right, toward the band, eliminating Gwen from any line of view. But my ears were sensitive to any noise from behind me. If Gwen moved, I’d be on guard.
I was hoping that my movements would convince her that I had dismissed her for the stranger that she was. I wanted to make her believe that she had made a mistake, that she had misidentified me. With maybe a few more minutes, perhaps a couple of more songs from the band, and she would move on. But the band had different plans.
The latest song ended, the woman in the band spoke to the crowd and I heard “Fünfzehn Minuten,” and the quartet left the stage area. Canned music came through the overhead speakers and I recognized the Kraftwerk song, “Radioactivity.” Though heavily synthesized, it was a sharp departure from the live performance. It was clear that the band was taking a fifteen-minute break. In the relative quiet, it was going to be up to me to make the next move. I turned back to the bar and waived down the barman for my bill. When he handed me the slip, he remained with me as I studied it. I discovered that there was an added amount for the entertainment, but I was happy to pay it. I handed him my Deutschmarks and turned to go, but he yelled at me and compelled me to remain as he counted out my change. As little as it was, he wasn’t interested in keeping any tip.
When I turned to leave, I could see that Gwen was still close by, even though she was no longer looking at me. More patrons were milling around their tables and I had to squeeze past a loud-talking man and Gwen to move forward. But as I moved close, she couldn’t help but say something.
“What were you doing in East Berlin in that ridiculous disguise? Are you a spy?”
“I hope you find your friend,” I said, avoiding eye-to-eye contact. I hustled past her and other patrons, and made my way onto Kantstrasse.
You’ll never see her again, Roland, I told myself as I made my way back to my hotel. On each street corner, I stopped and looked behind me to see if I was being followed but everyone on the street moved with purpose, in an orderly fashion, as I expected Berliners to behave. Gwen was likely still at the resto-bar. If she was following me, she wasn’t your everyday tourist. Either way, I’d have to let Charles know. As random as these two encounters were, they had to be reported.
My mole. It was benign, something that I’ve had on my face for my whole life but never gave much thought to, except when I would sometimes catch it with my razor while shaving. Then, it would bleed like a sonofabitch and take forever to quell. It wasn’t large or widely pronounced, but it did catch some people’s attention. This was the second time a stranger had pointed it out: how many times had it betrayed my disguises?
“Some day,” I told it aloud, “I’m having you removed.”
***
Friday, May 8, 1998
“You can hold my hand if you want.”
I wasn’t scared but had some apprehension. An elective surgery, no matter how minor, still came with its risks. I had never met the doctor before the operation. The cost of the surgery was only thirty-thousand won: about twenty-five American dollars or twenty English pounds. A dinner out with Kristen, in Ottawa, would have cost more. And I would have given anything to have been with her, right now.
Of course, if Kristen were still alive, this would have been moot. I wouldn’t be in South Korea, let alone being offered the hand of a Korean woman.
Kyung-hee Lee had just returned home after a nine-month work-exchange programme in Perth, Australia. She and I had met, shortly after I began work at the hagwon, through Linda, one of the other teachers. On her return, she had tried to reach me at my former place of employment but learned that the hagwon had gone out of business. But Kyung-hee was a friend of Mrs. Kim, a former hagwon student and a high-school teacher who had helped get me the job at Jeonju University after Kwon’s business failed. I was taken completely by surprise but was overjoyed when I saw Kyung-hee saunter into my office like she had been here many times. Her visits were now frequent and the other teachers welcomed her like an old friend.
On one visit, Kyung-hee found me dabbing at my upper lip with a tissue and saw the spots of blood that were soaking in and spreading. “What happened?” was her worried question.
“Ach, I cut myself shaving, this morning. Every couple of months, I nick my mole and it’s a challenge to stop the bleeding. I had a scab on it for most of the morning but I accidentally knocked it and started it bleeding again. It’ll stop soon.”
“Does it hurt?”
“It stung when I nicked it but it doesn’t now. It’s just an inconvenience. Some day, I’ll have it removed.”
I could see the gears turning in her head. Kyung-hee loved to help whenever she could and her contacts seemed boundless. Before she left for Australia, she had helped set Tanya and me up with a family, the Chos, who wanted to expose their young sons to westerners and the English language. While Mr. Cho spoke very little English, his wife was quite fluent. On the occasional weekend, the Chos would take Tanya around the Korean countryside, where we would explore historic temples, palaces, and fortress towns, and we would eat at some small but amazing restaurants, in exchange for nothing more than our company. Mr. Cho did not ask us to teach either himself or his children. We were just his English companions. Tanya and I lost touch last December, when tension over the economy was beginning to hurt Kwon’s business. After Tanya and I broke up, contact with the Cho family also waned.
“I know a skin doctor,” said Kyung-hee. “I can call her. I think she uses lasers to remove… what did you call them? Moles?”
“Yes,” I said. “That would be great, thanks.”
Less than a week later, the appointment was set. Kyung-hee picked me up in her red Kia Avella, a three-door hatchback that was built under an agreement with the Ford Motor Company, which sold it as the Festiva, and drove me out to the Inhu-Dong neighbourhood, just south of the Chŏnju train station. The neighbourhood was undergoing rapid development, and her friend’s clinic was in a new building.
The clinic appeared to be closed when we arrived but Kyung-hee knocked on the blinded glass door, and we were led in by a middle-aged woman in a white lab coat. Though it was only mid-afternoon, there were no patients in the waiting room nor any receptionists behind the front desk. Several lights were turned off but we were ushered into a lit room that reminded me of a dentist office, with a reclining chair with a directed lamp and a large overhead arm with a medical tool on the end.
Kyung-hee quickly introduced us, speaking in Hangul to her doctor friend and then translating for both of us. The doctor prodded my mole with her fingertips and then looked at my right cheek, which also had a larger but less-pronounced mole.
“She asks if you’d like this one removed, too.”
Cutting the larger mole while shaving was an even rarer occurrence, but it did happen. And while it wasn’t dark like the one over my lip nor was it as noticeable, I figured, “What the heck, let’s get both done. When will she be available?”
“Right now,” said Kyung-hee, who then told her doctor friend that I agreed to both moles.
“Wait. What?” But before I could say more, the doctor gently led me to the chair and directed me to sit down. Fully reclined, she then placed a surgical mask over her face and wheeled an instrument table next to me, upon which some syringes and gauze were arranged. She offered Kyung-hee a mask and told her to sit in the standard chair that was on the other side of me. “We haven’t even discussed the fee,” I said as the overhead light was switched on, all but blinding me.
A quick exchange between the two let me hear “sam-cheon won.” Thirty-thousand won. Kyung-hee didn’t have to translate.
“That’s it?”
“Why? Is that too much? She is giving you a discount because she thinks you’re my boyfriend.”
“I’ll be your husband for that price. For how long has she been performing this procedure?”
Another exchange of words. “Ten years.”
I felt a bit better.
The doctor held a syringe with a long needle and spoke to Kyung-hee, who said, “She will inject you now so that you don’t feel pain when she uses the laser.” I must have made a face, which prompted her to add, “You can hold my hand if you want.”
I held my hand out for her to take. “You’re my girlfriend, after all.”
The anesthetic injection was expertly applied, as I only felt the tiniest of pin pricks. My lip went numb and felt as though it had swollen from a punch. The doctor then took a stylus-shaped tool from the end of the mechanical arm above us, and began to work on the mole. There was no pain, but a couple of times I saw small wisps of smoke, and when I inhaled through my nose I could smell the distinct odour of burning hair. One or two fewer whiskers to shave, I told myself.
The whole procedure took less than thirty minutes. As a way of covering the burned areas of my face, the doctor applied an ointment that quickly dried like wax. She told me, through Kyung-hee, to avoid showers for the next couple of days, and to take care when washing my face. I could shave but should avoid the areas around the wounds. In a couple of days, the ointment would dissolve on its own, and over time the skin would smooth out.
“If I had known the procedure was this easy,” I said to Kyung-hee as we left the clinic, “I would have done it years ago.”
Like, maybe ten years ago, when I was wearing disguises.
No comments:
Post a Comment