Of the other papers, one was a note in Russian from Pavel Ostapenko to Gavril Ilitch Isaev, introducing Wilfred as the trusted friend, legal adviser, and man of affairs of Pavel’s cousin, Sergei Dmitrivitch Malinin, explaining young Seryozha’s nonappearance in Seoul, inviting Isaev to come to Mi-san for a few days and drink the health of Pavel’s newly married daughter, and cordially hoping that the news from Isaev’s traveling son, Petya, was good.
The third paper was written in English by Wilfred and signed by Seryozha. It ran:
Dear Mr. Isaev. Since it is impossible, for reasons explained by my father-in-law Mr. Ostapenko, for me to proceed to Seoul in person to discuss with you the final settlement of the transaction that took place between you and my father in , I am placing my Power of Attorney in the hands of my father’s friend and legal adviser Mr. Wilfred Chew of the Middle Temple, London, and should be much obliged if you would consider him as my father’s agent in my stead, and either place in his hands the two hundred yen which you most kindly invested for my father on his last visit to Seoul and the interest accumulated during the interval, or else (and this would give me much pleasure) come yourself to Mi-san thus killing two birds in one bush, namely settling the financial transaction in person and enjoying my father-in-law’s unstinted hospitality.
The fourth paper was a greasy and laconic memorandum of receipt in Russian. Anna had translated it for Wilfred as simply, “Received from Sergei Dmitrivitch Malinin on , two hundred yen for safe keeping. Gavril Ilitch Isaev.”
Seoul looked excited and glittering in the morning light. The sight of large, efficient-looking buildings and large efficient-looking English and American tourists made Wilfred strut, feeling himself a man of the world returned at last to his world.
He found his way, without difficulty, in a rickshaw to the Isaevs’ hotel, a transformed Japanese inn. Like all Japanese houses lived in by non-Japanese, it had lost its light, kite-like look—it was an architectural bird with clipped wings. Wilfred strolled up the steps, an upslanting cigarette in his mouth, and found Isaev in the hall, reading a Russian newspaper.
It was Wilfred’s misfortune always to remember people much better than they remembered him. He remembered Isaev as a human frog, a squatting pyramidal person with a moist shiny skin, and an immense slit-like mouth always gasping obscurely for air. Olga, Isaev’s wife, was not present, yet Wilfred remembered her with an equal exactness—a padded person, plump breasts padding her neat dress, secret cushions padding her neat hair, puffed smiles padding her cheeks. On her devolved all the acquiescences that Isaev never uttered; his attitude was a chronic No and hers a constant Yes. Wilfred had counted on laying his business before man and wife together. To find only Isaev present set him back a little, but he began with his usual affability, “We have met before, Mr. Isaev. My name is Chew, Wilfred Chew, barrister, of the Middle Temple, London. I hope I am fortunate enough to find a room disengaged once more in your comfortable hotel.”
Isaev nodded uncertainly. All Chinese looked alike to him. His spectacles were made of very thick convex glass. He had a very thick and conspicuously shiny face; everything about him was thick and shiny. Attention was called to his surface in every way. Somehow Isaev could scarcely be imagined as hollow like other people; there could hardly be room for a brain between the thick walls of that skull, or space in that square inflexible breast for a heart to bound or flutter. His nose was a simple mass of shiny flesh, pierced by only the smallest and most rudimentary nostrils. He held his head back to look at Wilfred over his newspaper, under his spectacles, and across his wide sallow polished cheekbones.
“We have a room,” he said in English. “How long for?”
“I have business in Seoul that should not keep me long. My business, as a matter of fact, Mr. Isaev, is with you. Can you spare me half an hour now? Excellent. We have, as I mentioned above, met before. … I was in Seoul only a few weeks ago, acting as secretary-companion to an English baronet. Sir Theo Mustard—you may have heard of him. However, in order to give our acquaintanceship a more personal flavor, allow me to hand you this note—a letter of introduction from Mr. Pavel Ostapenko of Mi-san.”
Isaev took the letter with distaste and, holding his head up and the letter down, read it across the intervening area of his face.
“I hates Pavel Ostapenko,” he said, simply, when he had finished it.
“Really!” exclaimed Wilfred, pleasantly. “Well, I can understand that there might be room for more than one opinion about his peculiar personality. He is a man of very strong character and such men commonly make a strong impression one way or the other. However, his letter will at least show you that I am no man of straw, being recommended by a substantial member of the community such as Mr. Ostapenko, you will admit, is, though his personality may not have a universal app—”
“His daughter is a bitch,” said Isaev in the same flat remote voice.
“Well well,” said Wilfred, still courageously bright. “As to that, again, there might be a difference of opinion between friends on the subject of Miss Ostapenko, who is, like her father, an individuality both marked and—”
“She is a bitch.”
“You really think so? Well, your decided and original views on Miss Ostapenko’s charm will no doubt add interest to the news I believe Mr. Ostapenko gave you in his letter. Miss Ostapenko was married only two days ago to my young friend Saggay Saggayitch Malinin. The name Malinin is, I believe, famil—”
“This bitch treated my son very bad,” said Isaev.
“Indeed I am deeply sorry to hear it,
