Ernie pointed. 'The dumplings. Look at the goddamn dumplings!'
I studied the plate more carefully. The sliver of meat was raw flesh. Curled.
I opened more dumplings, pulling back the soft, doughy crust. Each dumpling contained a similar sliver of flesh. Soon I had all the slivers in a pile in the center of the table and I realized that they fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Using a pair of chopsticks, I twisted and turned until they formed an odd shape.
Brown and wrinkled, about the size of a silver dollar. A human ear. The ear of a little girl.
Slicky Girl Nam started to screech again. This time the old women joined her. So did Herman.
Ernie crept off behind the hooch and threw up.
I slumped down, staring at the tips of the chopsticks and then back at the ear. After a couple of minutes, I joined Ernie.
5
Mi-ja shivered in the cold chamber, her aching buttocks pressed atop the varnished wood plank floor. But none of it mattered now. The discomfort made no difference. All she could feel was the searing explosion of pain flaming from the side of her head. The side of her head where her ear had been sliced off.
How had it happened so quickly? Her life had been painful before, but nothing like this. Nothing like the nightmare that had befallen her without warning.
Across the room sat the man she had first seen in Mistress Nam's courtyard. He was naked now except for the white rag wound tightly about his head. His eyes were closed, and Mi-ja wondered if he wasn't asleep. But he couldn't be, because his legs were crossed and his back was ramrod straight.
She wriggled on the hard floor. As soon as she did, a bamboo rod snapped out of the darkness and bit into the flesh of her thigh. Mi-ja winced in pain but clamped her eyes tightly. She tried not to cry.
How long had she sat like this? It seemed like hours, ever since her ear had been sliced off. And every time she moved, the bamboo rod licked at her tender nerves like the flickering tongue of some ancient serpent.
Across the chamber, a supplicant knelt behind the man in the white rag. Mi-ja opened her eyelids ever so slightly and watched, fearing the bamboo rod but wary about what these men were about to do. The supplicant dipped his hand into a wooden bowl, brought his fingers out dripping with oil, and slowly rubbed the fluid over the bronze skin of the man in the turban.
Why were they doing this? Mi-ja knew about meditation, she knew about monks, but monks always wore gray robes and covered their bodies from neck to feet. These men seemed to enjoy their nakedness. And they seemed to enjoy caressing one another.
Mi-ja tried to push the pain of her severed ear out of her mind. She thought of the mountains. Of her home. Of her mother serving her every morning-when there was food. It was always the same fare: rice gruel, steamed mountain herbs, a sliver of mackerel flesh when her father's harvest was particularly grand. A simple breakfast, but hot and filling. Better than the nurungji, the burnt crust of rice at the bottom of the cooking pot, that she had to scrounge for in the home of Mistress Nam. The old woman never rose early but always slept late, her body reeking of perfume and sweat and cigarettes and rice wine. And if Mi-ja cooked for herself, the old hag would rouse herself and shriek out a tirade against wastefulness.
Mi-ja tried not to let her mind stray from the mountains. She thought of the stream near her village that ran gurgling and swirling over ancient rocks. She thought of how she used to squat on the flat stones every morning, beating her father's hemp tunic with amongdungi, a long wooden stick. And she remembered his baggy pantaloons and the soap sudsing in the clear water of the pond and her father's pleased expression when she knelt before him and presented him with a freshly pressed suit of clothes.
It had been a difficult life, but so much more filled with joy than life with Mistress Nam and the big American in Itaewon. But as bad as even that was, it now seemed idyllic compared to this dank and smelly chamber. Once again, Mi-ja fearfully studied the man across from her, his oiled skin glimmering in the guttering light of a single candle. What were they planning on doing with her?
Finally, the supplicant stopped rubbing his master with oil. He raised himself off the floor and shuffled across the meditation chamber toward Mi-ja. Instinctively, she scooted away. Like lightning summoned by an evil god, the bamboo rod snapped onto her flesh. Stinging pain flashed through her body. She froze where she was, hoping she wouldn't be hit again.
The supplicant knelt beside her, dipped his greasy fingers into the wooden bowl, and began to smear oil over Mi-ja's body. Fearing the rod, she did her best not to move, but the oil was slimy and cold and the smell of it disgusted her. What was it? Something familiar, she decided. Like the tiny bricks of hardened milk that Mistress Nam bought in the American PX. What did she call it? Butter, that was it. But the American butter had only a mild aroma. This vile potion reeked as if it had been rotting for months.
As the man's fingers slid over her body, Mi-ja's supple mouth twisted in horror. The bamboo rod snapped again-and again-but no matter how many times it bit into her flesh, Mi-ja could not stop quivering at the touch of his greasy fingers.
Finally, her body was almost completely lathered in grease. The supplicant's fingers paused for a moment, just below Mi-ja's navel. Then his hand slid lower until the tips of his fingers touched her in a spot where even Mi-ja knew no one was supposed to touch.
Mi-ja leapt back. The bamboo rod lashed out. She bit her lip, squirming, flinching at the lash of the pliant wood. Tears streamed down her soft cheeks. The supplicant seemed offended that someone had interrupted his work and paused for a moment. When Mi-ja stilled her shaking, he continued.
Soon, every part of her small, unblemished body reeked of the rancid butter. Then the supplicant paused and placed two fingers at the cleft between her legs. Without warning, he jammed them deep into her body.
Mi-ja screamed. She squirmed and kicked away from his pressing fingers. The bamboo rod snapped and sliced again into her flesh.
The pain slowed her for only an instant. The supplicant's breath came hot and close. In a language she didn't understand, he hissed into the gory wound that had once been her ear.
'You will be ready for our master soon, Little Sister. Ready to assist our Master Ragyapa in praising the Lord Mahakala. The Lord of the Demons.'
He reached for her. Mi-ja flinched backward. Again the bamboo rod lashed out, running its fiery tongue along her quivering flesh.
The slimy hand grabbed her arm, slipped, and grabbed again.
This time it held firm.
6
Herman and Ernie and I trudged up a short hill, the clang of unsyncopated rock music, the harsh barking of GIs, and the lilting laughter of business girls drifted through the walled lanes. Dok Yong Mandu Jip, the Virtuous Dragon Dumpling House, was stuck back in an alley in the maze behind the Itaewon bar district.
Flimsy glass panes rattled as Herman slammed open the sliding door.
Korean customers gazed up at us-openmouthed- from steaming bowls of noodles. With Ernie and me behind him, Herman must've looked as ominous as a Mongol horde.
We strode into the kitchen. It was tiny, with charred metal woks atop cement stoves filled with glowing charcoal. The odor of burning peanut oil seared into my nostrils. Half-moon dumplings sizzled in popping grease.
An old man looked up from the flames. Worry creased his wrinkled face.
'Koma oddiso?' I asked. Where's the boy?
The old man didn't answer. But his head turned slightly toward the back door.
The entire alley was a sea of mud. The boy stood next to his bicycle, tying his sheet-metal carrying box to the rack above the back tire. He swiveled when he heard our footsteps. The smooth, even features of his face bunched
