He waited until the traffic cleared and performed a U-turn on Reunification Road. We were heading back north and now I knew for sure that the first kisaeng houses north of Seoul were in Byokjie. When we reached the Byokjie intersection, we turned east on the road heading toward Uijongbu. It took us about a half hour to finish mapping the few remaining kisaeng houses in the area. All of them were shuttered and closed but I was able to read their names on the signposts. None of them were called the Forest of Seven Clouds, or anything close to it.
We returned to Tongil-lo, turned right, and continued north toward the Demilitarized Zone. After passing Bong-il Chon again, we were able to mark the positions of about a half-dozen more kisaeng houses along the road, none of which was named the Forest of Seven Clouds. We came to the turnoff for Kumchon. Kumchon is the largest town between Seoul and Munsan, and the county seat of Paju, the agricultural county through which we were now traveling. We’d reached about halfway along our planned route.
“There must be plenty of kisaeng houses over there,” Ernie said.
“Must be. Let’s try it.”
To be fair, Ernie and I were using the term kisaeng very loosely. During the Yi Dynasty, girls of intelligence and beauty were taken from their families and taught the gentle arts: calligraphy, the playing of musical instruments, dancing, drumming, even how to write a form of short lyric poetry called sijo. Once trained, they were sent off to the royal or provincial courts to entertain aristocracy. Sometimes they were even transported to remote military outposts. The advantage they received over normal women was education. The disadvantage was that they were forced to leave their families and never marry; their lives were unbearably lonely. Some of the greatest Korean poetry has come from kisaeng, usually dealing with longing and loss.
The women we were seeing in the modern, so-called kisaeng houses were, for the most part, poorly educated country girls. And their work was only one step above that of common prostitutes. Still, they were called kisaeng, women of skill, and that gave them status. A rock upon which to rebuild their pride.
The town of Kumchon sat two kilometers west of Tongil-lo. Already we’d seen two or three signs pointing up gravel roads that led into the hills, advertising establishments with elaborate Chinese characters in their names. Characters like “dream” and “cloud” and “flower” and “palace” and “peony.” Kisaeng houses all. But not the one we were looking for.
When we reached the outskirts of Kumchon, Ernie slowed the jeep to about five miles an hour. A two-lane road passed through the center of town. Shops framed of weathered wood lined either side of the road and farmers pushed carts laden with sacks of grain or piled high with glimmering winter cabbage. Old men in jade-colored vests and billowing white pantaloons, holding canes and wearing the traditional Korean horsehair stovepipe hat, strolled unconcerned across the road, expecting vehicular traffic to make way for their venerable personages. It did. Even impatient young truck drivers refused to honk their horns at the elderly. The entire city of Kumchon reeked of fresh produce and raw earth.
“Like going back in time,” Ernie said.
On the shops, handwritten signs advertised their wares: hot noodle eateries, fishmongers, silk merchants, porcelain vendors, even a little shop with a glowing acetylene torch advertising ironworks. One of the names of the shops was slashed with red Chinese characters: Kongju Miyongsil. Princess Beauty Shop. It caught my eye:
We reached the end of town which tapered off into smaller buildings and then empty lots and finally we were cruising, once again, through endless fields of fallow rice paddies. No signs for kisaeng houses out here. After about a half mile, we turned around.
It was almost ten in the morning and I realized that Ernie and I were two hours AWOL, although I didn’t mention this to him. In fact, I tried to banish the thought from my own mind, but without much success.
As we were driving back through Kumchon, I noticed that someone had switched on a light inside the Princess Beauty Shop.
“Pull over,” I told Ernie.
“Why? No kisaeng houses around here.”
“No. But that beauty shop’s open. I want to ask some questions.”
“What beauty shop?”
“Never mind. Just find a place to park.”
He did. At the edge of town near an eatery that catered to cab drivers. We chained and padlocked the jeep’s steering wheel and hoofed our way into downtown Kumchon.
I rapped twice on the door of the Princess Beauty Shop and entered, poking my nose in first.
“Anyonghaseiyo?” I asked. Are you at peace?
One young woman sat in a chair with a pink cloth draped over her body, her hair in curlers, gaping at this strange creature-me- who’d just entered her world. A middle-aged woman wearing a white beautician’s smock stood behind her. In Korean, I said, “Sorry to bother you. Do you think it would be too much trouble if I use your telephone?”
Involuntarily, both women glanced at a counter in the waiting area. On a knitted pad sat a clunky black telephone. Telephones are status symbols in Korea. Not everyone has them, not by a long shot. The phone company, which is a government monopoly, demands a costly security deposit-often well over a thousand dollars- before it will entrust anyone with phone equipment. But it figured that a going concern like the Princess Beauty Shop would have a telephone because they had to be able to make appointments with the wealthy ladies who were their clients.
The two women sat in stunned silence. Another two women in the back room had apparently heard my voice. Both wore beautician’s smocks and peered out through a beaded curtain. Ernie entered the beauty shop and this gave the women even more to gawk at.
I strode over to the phone saying, “I’m sorry but I have to make a call to Seoul.”
The eldest beautician started to say something in protest, but I pulled out a five hundred won note, a little more than a buck, and laid it on the counter next to the phone. That shut her up. Pretending to ignore her, I dialed the number for the 8th Army exchange.
Ernie strolled around the shop, smiling, studying the color photographs of beautiful women with beautiful hairdos. I stared at the photos, too. Korean women of unearthly beauty. I listened to clicking sounds and various pitches of dial tone.
Phone systems in Korea in the seventies are primitive. Lines are easily overloaded, and it isn’t unusual to wait twenty minutes just to be able to get through to the 8th Army operator. As I waited, I watched the beauticians. The two young ones had emerged from the back room and pretended to be busy preparing their work areas. Ernie smiled at them. They smiled back. Amongst themselves they whispered.
I held the phone slightly away from my ear, listening.
“Muol hei?” What are they doing?”
“The big one wants to use the phone.”
“I can see that. What are they doing here in Kumchon?”
“Who knows?”
And then the clicking grew louder and suddenly, above the static, a Korean-accented woman’s voice said in English, “Eighth Army Operator Number Thirty-seven. How may I help you?”
I gave her the number to the CID administrative office and waited. In Korean, I said to the beauticians, “Miguk kisaeng dei dei ro yogi ei wassoyo?” Does the American kisaeng sometimes come in here?
The women’s eyes widened and they stared at one another.
Staff Sergeant Riley’s voice came over the line.
“Sueno?” he asked, after I’d identified myself. “Where in the hell are you?”
“On our way to Seoul,” I said. “But first we have to pick up Corporal Matthewson.”
“You found her?”
“Just about.”
“‘Just about’? What is that supposed to mean?”
“We have a solid lead.” About as solid as a whiff of perfume in a windstorm.
“The first sergeant has a case of the big ass,” Riley said. “So does the Eighth Army PMO.”
“Stall’em for us, Riley. We almost have her.”
“I don’t know if I can do that. The Second ID honchos have been teletyping messages down here like mad. Apparently, you-or somebody who looks like you-was spotted at a student demonstration in Tongduchon.”
