“Yes.”
“How small?”
Through the Nurse, I tried to describe the size of Miss Ku’s calluses but I wasn’t communicating very well. In frustration, the headmaster called for one of his students. A girl of about thirteen trotted over and bowed.
“Myong-chun,” the headmaster told her, “hold out your hands.”
Obediently, she did. The soft skin was distorted by hard lumps at the tips of her fingers.
“Myong-chun is one of our best students,” the headmaster said. “She has been studying the kayagum for six years. How did this woman’s hands compare?”
I studied Myong-chun’s calluses carefully, trying to remember every detail of Miss Ku’s hands. I had seen them in dim light, in the teahouse in Itaewon. Still, I remembered because the ugliness of the calluses had contrasted sharply with the general softness and beauty of her skin.
“The woman we are looking for,” I said, “had calluses on her fingers about twice as big as those of Myong- chun.”
The Nurse translated. The headmaster told Myong-chun to return to her studies. The girl bowed and scurried off.
“Then the woman you are looking for,” the headmaster told us, “is a serious student of the kayagum. Ten years, at least. If she studied that hard, and if she’s as beautiful as you say, she shouldn’t have difficulty finding employment.”
“Where?” I asked.
The headmaster rubbed his chin. “It is difficult to say, but most young women employ the same method to find a job.”
“What’s that?”
He answered using a Korean term that I was unfamiliar with. The Nurse, also, had trouble translating it. After a little discussion, we figured it out.
Miss Ku, like most young female musicians in Seoul, would’ve used a talent agency. An agency organized for the purpose of finding jobs for kisaeng. Kisaeng are the Korean equivalent of Japanese geisha girls, but theirs is an even more ancient art. They play the kayagum, sing, dance, and beat drums, and they have been entertaining royalty for uncounted centuries. Now, of course, they’re reduced to performing for tourists. And Japanese businessmen here on sex tours.
Without prompting from me, the Nurse asked the headmaster for a list of agencies. He said there were only three major ones. He didn’t have their addresses but he gave her the names. The Nurse produced a small notebook from her purse and, her face crinkled in concentration, scribbled down the name of each agency.
We bowed to the headmaster and thanked him.
Ernie complained about being hungry, so we stopped in a noodle shop with a picture of three frolicking eels over the door. I don’t like seafood much, especially if it looks like a snake, so I ordered plain rice with bean curd soup. Ernie and the Nurse both asked for noodles with eel flesh. When the steaming bowls were delivered, they dug in with zest.
Halfway through the meal, the Nurse pointed with her chopsticks into Ernie’s bowl. “Your fish not done.”
“No sweat,” he said.
“No. I send back. Make them cook more.”
She started to call for the waitress but Ernie stopped her. “It’s okay,” he said.
A lot of people stared at us, checking out the Nurse carefully. I didn’t want to ruin her good mood but I couldn’t resist asking, “Aren’t you embarrassed to be seen downtown with two foreigners?”
“No,” she said. “Not at all.”
“But all the women are looking at you,” I said.
“They’re looking at Ernie, too,” she said.
“Yes. They are.”
“That’s because they’re jealous.”
Ernie kept eating.
“They’re jealous because you have an American boyfriend?”
“Sure. American man good. Have money. Most don’t beat up wife.” She waved her chopsticks in a circle above her head. “They’re all very very jealous.”
She smiled and grabbed Ernie’s hand. He jerked it away and reached across the table for more soy sauce.
The first talent agency we visited had closed down. The second allowed us to look through their files, but there was no hint of anyone who matched the description of Miss Ku.
We only had one left.
It was already late afternoon by the time we found it, in the Myongdong District of Seoul, not too far from the huge Cosmos Department Store. Finding the address was not easy, even when we knew we had the right block, because all the buildings were high-rise and there were so many shops and neon signs and barkers with megaphones on the streets that it was difficult to locate the little bronze plaques that gave the names and numbers of the various office buildings.
Finally we climbed a narrow stairway into a foyer with an ancient elevator. The Nurse scanned the directory and pointed.
Heing Song Ki Huik.
The Shooting Star Talent Agency, I told Ernie.
“Rising or falling?”
“We’ll see.”
Upstairs, in the receptionist’s office, the Nurse did all the talking, explaining who we were, what we were after.
Ernie strolled around the small room, studying the publicity photographs of beautiful Korean women in the traditional chima-chogori, embroidered silk dresses. A row of celadon vases sat on pedestals spaced every few feet.
The receptionist was a good-looking young woman and seemed amazed to see foreigners in her office. Soon, she disappeared into a back office and returned with a middle-aged woman in a neatly tailored business suit. She smiled and shook all our hands.
I explained again what we were after and, once again, the Nurse translated. The woman in the business suit shook her head.
“The personal histories of our clients are confidential.”
“We don’t want a personal history,” I said. “We only want to find out where she’s working now.”
“What’s her name?”
“Miss Ku. But it’s probably an alias. If you allow me to look at your booklet of publicity photos, I’m sure I can identify her.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s for client use only.”
The Nurse started to argue with her but the agency owner cut her off.
“You must understand, our ladies are very beautiful, and sometimes people of low education bother them. Old boyfriends. Or Japanese tourists, or-”
Something smashed. Green bits of porcelain exploded into the air. We all swiveled.
It was Ernie. He stood serenely in front of the publicity photos and reached for another frame. With a deft flick of the wrist he hurled it at the next vase in the row.
“Yoboseiyo!” the woman screamed. “Weikurei?” You! What are you doing?
She rushed toward him. The receptionist stood up, eyes frightened, curled fists in front of her mouth.
As calmly as if he were playing Frisbee in a park, Ernie grabbed another picture frame off the wall and hurled it at the lacquered vases. More pottery smashed to the floor. The agency owner grabbed him by the arm and jerked back.
“Tangsin weikurei?” What are you doing?
That was all it took for the Nurse. Someone attacking her Ernie. Her calm face flickered into a mask of rage. She charged forward and belted the elder woman in the ribs. The owner screamed, clutched her side, and stared at the Nurse in amazement. Before she could react, the Nurse belted her once again, this time in the jaw.
