“Do you believe everything you hear?”
“That’s not an answer,” Riley growled.
“How about the ration control records? The ones that were classified?”
“Smitty says he should have them by tonight. But what do I tell the First Shirt?”
“No time now. Got to run. Tell them we’ll be back as soon as we can.”
He started to say something more but, quickly, I hung up.
I noticed that the Division hadn’t messaged 8th Army about the shooting incident at the Tongduchon Market. Nor had they mentioned the fire at the Turkey Farm. Division was being, as usual, selective in their outrage.
I turned back to the beauticians, flashed my best smile, and bowed. “Thank you for the use of your phone.”
The eldest woman nodded.
One of the younger beauticians blurted out, “Ku yoja arrassoyo? ” You knew that woman?
I didn’t like the use of the past tense but I kept my face as impassive as I could. Ernie stood still, sensing that I’d just been stunned by something the young beautician had said.
“Of course, I knew her,” I replied.
“Then you know what happened?”
All the women waited for my response. They were testing me. I decided to take a chance.
“You mean at the Forest of the Seven Clouds?”
They all exhaled together.
“Yes.”
“I heard something about it. Can you explain?”
“No. We don’t know either. All we know is that many powerful people were angry and the women who work at the Forest of the Seven Clouds haven’t been in here to have their hair done since then.”
How long ago, I thought, but I didn’t want to show my ignorance. They might stop talking. So I said, “Can they go that long without a hairdo?”
One of the youngest of the beauticians giggled, modestly covering her mouth with cupped fingers. “It’s only been three days,” she said.
I grinned. “Yes. Only three days. So no one from the Forest of the Seven Clouds has been in since that time. Not even the American woman?”
They shook their heads sadly. The youngest one piped up again. “Her hair was lovely. Gold with just a little red. And each strand so thin.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together as if caressing silk.
“Where is the Forest of the Seven Clouds from here?” I asked.
“Not far. Usually they take a taxi.”
The youngest one piped up again. “Kisaeng are rich.” Another beautician elbowed her to be quiet. The young one pouted.
I bowed once again to the women. “Thank you so much for your help.”
On our way out, Ernie grinned and saluted them. They waved back, the youngest beautician saying, “Bye- bye.”
We were halfway back to the jeep when Ernie asked, “What’d they say?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute.”
An empty kimchee cab was cruising down the road toward us. I waved him down. When I opened the door and started asking him questions, his face drooped in disappointment. Obviously, he thought that Ernie and I were two GIs stranded far from our compound and a fat fare was in the offering. When I asked him for the location of the Forest of the Seven Clouds the disappointment on his face became more profound. He wasn’t working us for a tip. Most Koreans, especially those who live in the countryside, don’t think that way. They’re not born to hustle. They’re born to be polite. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a one thousand won note. Two bucks. He shook his head. Not necessary, he told me.
Then he explained that the Forest of the Seven Clouds was one of the highest-class kisaeng houses in the entire Paju County region. It was situated by itself on the side of a hill overlooking the valley. He pulled out a pad of brown pulp paper and a pen and sketched a quick map for me. I took the map and thanked him and tried once again to offer the thousand won note. Again, he refused. I told him that his time was valuable and so was his information and asked him not to embarrass me by not accepting my gift.
Reluctantly, the young man pocketed the money.
The narrow road was bordered by rice paddies. The fog had lifted but no sun came out, only a cold gray overcast that shrouded the world. We were traveling east. A few farm families pushing wooden carts were traveling west, pushing their wares toward the markets of Kumchon.
I studied the cab driver’s map. The roads were clear enough but his handwriting was difficult for a foreigner like me to make out. We came to an intersection. Ernie slowed. The signpost pointed off to the right toward the village of Chuk-hyon. The map, although indecipherable by itself, clearly showed the same name, now that I knew what I was looking for. We turned right. After a hundred yards, the road curved left, up towards hills, and then we were rising rapidly.
As we rounded a bend in the road, off in the valley below, three white cranes rose from the muck and winged their way gently into the dark sky.
Just the fact that the Forest of the Seven Clouds was so far from Seoul made it more high class. In order to have the time to drive all the way out here, you had to be a powerful boss who didn’t worry about punching the clock.
The remoteness also had another advantage, at least from Jill Matthewson’s point of view. There were no American military compounds within miles. And I’d be willing to bet that they’d never seen a GI up here in the entire history of their establishment, with-I was hoping-the possible exception of Corporal Matthewson.
The time was just after eleven but already fancy sedans covered about half the parking lot. Must be nice to take that much time off work, to drive out in the country and be catered to by beautiful women. Maybe Ernie and I were in the wrong line of work. Ernie’s thoughts must’ve been similar to mine.
“Assholes ought to be shot,” he said. “Making all that money, having all that fun, and not having to do any freaking work.”
The “assholes” he was referring to were a group of suit-clad Korean businessmen piling out of three sedans that had just pulled up, in a small convoy, to the front of the Forest of the Seven Clouds. We huddled once again as outcasts at the edge of the tree line, our jeep parked out of sight some fifty yards beyond the entrance road. As the men strode through the lacquered wooden gate a bevy of beautiful young women clad in traditional silk gowns bowed and cooed. The businessmen nodded to the women and strutted like peacocks through the carefully raked garden and into the inner confines of the Forest of the Seven Clouds.
The parking lot grew quiet again. Three uniformed chauffeurs lit up tambei, cigarettes, and stood leaning against one of the cars, smoking, and chatting with one another.
“Jill Matthewson worked here?” Ernie asked me.
“The women at the Princess Beauty Shop didn’t say so exactly but they said there was an American kisaeng who worked here, and she’d take a taxi into Kumchon to have her hair done.”
“Living the high life,” Ernie said.
“Maybe. But they also implied that something had gone wrong and she wasn’t here anymore. And none of the women who work here had been seen in three days.”
“What could go wrong out here?”
Ernie indicated the pine-covered forest and the fresh air and the snow-covered peaks above us.
“Let’s find out,” I said.
We strode out of the trees, across the parking lot. The chauffeurs stopped talking and stared at us. I nodded and said, “Anyonghaseiyo?” Are you at peace?
Dumbfounded, they nodded back.
Inside the main gate, Ernie and I made our way through the garden and at the entrance, I started to take off my shoes. The varnished floor was elevated, in the traditional Korean manner, about two feet off the ground. At least a dozen pairs of elegant men’s shoes sat neatly arranged beneath the platform. Ernie grabbed my elbow.
“Let’s keep ’em on,” he said.
Horrors! In Korean culture about the grossest thing a person can do is step onto an immaculately clean ondol
