James Hausman
Ki-jo was on his way to the US 8th Army Command in Yongsan. The sky hung thick with gray cloud, looking ready to break and pour at any moment. He passed the main gate and drove onto the headquarters grounds.
The jeep was bound for the old residence of the Japanese military commander. In 1957 the place was in use as the 8th Army Club, and the granite sentry box that had once guarded the residence gate had come through the war and still stood. Ki-jo passed it, stopped the car in front of the club, and went inside.
As he had been told beforehand, he made his way into the performance hall. It was still morning, and the place was empty save for a single table at the center with its lamp lit. A large American sat there, cutting into a steak.
Ki-jo approached and offered a greeting. Hausman, knife and fork still in hand, spoke without getting up.
"Sit down."
A steak had already been laid at the place where Ki-jo sat.
"You're not late. It ought to still be warm. I didn't know how you take yours, so I had it cooked to my taste. Rare."
A steak, first thing in the morning...
Ki-jo took up the knife and fork and cut. The moment the blade pressed in, blood welled from the beef.
"Caught your show yesterday. What was that troupe called again?"
"The O Show, sir."
"Right. The O Show. That circus act was worth a look."
Hausman drank from the wine in his glass. Cheongsan Heungeop's Eighth Army show troupe was still short of members, and Ki-jo had brought circus performers into it so the American soldiers would have something to enjoy.
"And I liked that your outfit has so many girl singers. For young soldiers, nothing beats a woman."
With the Korean Sisters as the marquee act, Ki-jo had debuted Patti Kim, Yoon Bok-hee, Lee Geum-hee, and Hyun Mi early, building a lineup of women who could truly sing.
"Eat."
He said it to Ki-jo, who had yet to take a single bite. Ki-jo speared a piece, brought it to his mouth, and chewed. The meat was not bad. Years later the Dragon Hill Lodge would stand where the 8th Army Club stood now and grow famous for its steaks, and the club's steak was already excellent. But his stomach was off. After one piece he lifted his water glass and rinsed his mouth.
James Hausman was a dangerous man. He had Kim Chang-ryong's temperament and a power greater than Frank's. It was Hausman who had raised Kim Chang-ryong like a son, and Hausman who, after the April 19 Revolution, had brushed aside the Democratic Party cabinet and weakened its footing. He had known of Park Chung-hee's May 16 coup in advance, and though he was in Korea to watch May 18 with his own eyes, he backed the rise of Chun Doo-hwan's regime. Until he left the country in 1981, he wielded enormous influence over Korea's military and its politics. His opinions went straight into American policy on the peninsula, or American policy was carried out through him.
Some even said he was the one who had ordered the Hangang Footbridge blown ahead of time during the Korean War. That, though, was only one American officer's testimony, and it had never been confirmed for certain.
When Ki-jo still would not touch the steak, Hausman asked.
"Steak not to your liking? Want me to have them cook it a little more?"
"No, sir. I drank too much yesterday. My stomach's unsettled."
At the excuse, Hausman grinned.
"Koreans drink that red broth the morning after. I know. But this is America. There's no spicy soup here."
He was nailing the Yongsan compound down as America, laying his thinking out without a shred of restraint.
"I'll have the wine instead."
"Hm. Wine's red too, so it stands in for the red broth? Have a glass anyway."
Hausman filled Ki-jo's glass to the brim. Ki-jo drank and watched him put away an enormous steak.
"Hah..."
Having eaten even the potato on the plate, Hausman let out a sigh and wiped his mouth with his napkin. Then he held out his empty wineglass. Ki-jo filled it to a reasonable level. Hausman gulped the wine down and turned to him.
"I'm from New Jersey. Maybe that's why I like a New York steak."
"Nothing beats what you ate as a child."
Ki-jo had only been humoring him, but the line seemed to please Hausman. He grinned.
"That's it exactly. A man can't go against his roots. Same for you. I've served in Korea and in Japan, and the people of those two countries couldn't be more different."
"Different how?"
"Koreans are the crueler bastards. Brutal bastards—worse than the Japanese."
Having run Koreans down to Ki-jo's face, he laughed, loose and loud.
"That's a compliment. Means you and I understand each other."
Ki-jo could not laugh. Hausman, who had been laughing alone, smoothed his hair once and went on.
"Anyway. I've heard the rough outline of your story."
Ki-jo assumed he had read the report Frank left behind.
"I hear former commander Paik Sun-yup owes you a favor?"
Ki-jo was not sure how to answer. He had not exactly helped the man, but he had not failed to help him either.
"And that fellow Park Chung-hee—he's alive thanks to you, too."
That, too, was awkward to answer.
"Nearly got yourself killed by Kim Chang-ryong, didn't you?"
"I nearly did."
That much was certain, so he answered.
"Ha. That Kim Chang-ryong was a mad dog. A trained mad dog has its uses. Only, now and then it bites some child passing by."
Hausman seemed to have thought of the assassinated Kim Chang-ryong that way all along. Ki-jo was uncomfortable with the man treating him like a child and stepping over the line again and again. A scholar who had studied Hausman concluded that he played the blunt country hick on the outside while remaining a meticulous schemer within, and Ki-jo thought the judgment was right. Pretending not to notice a thing, Hausman kept shaking him.
"Inventive..."
He murmured it, looking Ki-jo straight in the eye.
"My predecessor's word for you."
So Frank had called him original.
"I like a creative man. But I'm not someone who looks at only one side's assessment. There was another record on you."
Another record?
Ki-jo wondered who else could have left a file on him.
"Kim Chang-ryong left a record on you. I was glad to read it."
If Ki-jo had Major General Martin and Frank on one side, Kim Chang-ryong had stood on the other. He had never imagined Kim would leave a record of him, or that Hausman would read it. The man was no one to take lightly.
"Suspicious."
Hausman produced another word.
"He judged you a suspicious sort of man."
For something left by Kim Chang-ryong, Ki-jo considered it fairly favorable all the same.
"The way I see it, you can't be ambiguous in Korea. If you like red, you wear red, plain as day. If you like blue, you put on blue..."
Hausman went on.
"You've used our money, haven't you? And you're sitting on quite a sum in that account..."
"Yes. I'm holding two million eight hundred thousand dollars."
"Two-point-eight? That's more than I had down."
"I put back the sixty thousand I'd first received from Frank."
"Why?"
"I earned that much, and I paid it back. If you need it, take it again."
Ki-jo had already made up his mind that his tie to the CIA Hausman moved in might be cut. If it came to that, he wanted the money settled cleanly. Whether or not Hausman read the intention, he shook his head.
"No. No. Keep holding it."
Then he stared hard at Ki-jo.
"Original, but suspicious, Mr. Lee Ki-jo. I'm not certain what kind of man you are. So I'd like you to show me a definite color."
"How would you like me to show it?"
"You're a businessman, aren't you? Withdraw ten percent of the money in that account and show me who you are."
Show him who I am, with two hundred and eighty thousand dollars? You're the original bastard...
Nothing came to him on the spot, but he found himself thinking that if a man were told to spend two hundred and eighty thousand dollars as he pleased in Korea, there was little he could not do. He looked Hausman full in the face—the man trying to test him with money—and answered.
"I understand."
"Good. I'll look forward to your ingenuity. You may go now."
Hausman smiled. It was a satisfied smile. He seemed to think he had shown well enough who the boss was.
As Ki-jo started to rise, Hausman stopped him.
"Hold on. Aren't you curious what becomes of this steak you're leaving?"
Ki-jo looked at the steak he had taken only one bite from.
"I know. Don't you?"
Ki-jo knew too, but he could not bring himself to say it.
"Some American mess cook will dump the meat in the trash. Then the Koreans outside the base will pick it up. Take it home, drop it in that red broth, and boil it—that the idea? Ha ha ha."
Ki-jo had no wish to yield to Hausman in his cruelty. He could not defy him either. His choice was to pay. He laid a ten-dollar bill on the table.
"It was an excellent steak. Too good to throw away. I'll take it home."
With that he beckoned the Korean waiter standing off to one side. When the man came over, Ki-jo spoke.
"I'll pay for what Mr. Hausman had as well. Could you wrap what's left?"
"Of course, sir. One moment, please."
The waiter, who had been listening to the whole exchange, was exceedingly deferential. Hausman only watched the two Koreans. Knowing no Korean, he could not tell exactly what was happening. The waiter brought the steak wrapped and held out Ki-jo's change, but Ki-jo would not take it.
"That's a tip. Please keep it."
"Thank you, sir. I'll gratefully accept three dollars and twenty cents."
The waiter bowed deeply. After paying for Hausman's steak and wine as well, Ki-jo spoke.
"Thanks to you, Mr. Hausman, I've found a fine restaurant. Please call me over from time to time."
He swallowed what he felt and smiled.
"Taking that steak home?"
Hausman asked it flatly.
"Yes. I keep a dog."
"Oh, is that so? You're acting like an American. Wrapping up the leftovers to feed the dog you keep. Ha ha ha."
Vicious to the very end.
"Didn't you say a moment ago that this was America? When in Rome, follow Rome's law. I'll be going."
Ki-jo took the steak the waiter had wrapped and walked out of the club.
Once clear of the US 8th Army Command, he drove slowly around the perimeter of the headquarters. When he saw children and adults picking through the garbage that came out of the compound, he stopped the car. He got out and went to a child who, shouldered aside by the grown-ups, could not get near the food-waste bins. The boy looked as if he had not washed in a week, and he was nothing but skin and bone.
"You hungry? Come over to the car with me. I'll give you something to eat."
The child nodded. A child of the present day, taught at kindergarten how to refuse a stranger, would have said no, but the children of this time were nothing if not innocent. Or perhaps, even if he was not innocent, he was simply too hungry to think of anything at all when someone offered food.
Ki-jo took the boy's grimy hand firmly in his and walked him to the car. He sat the child in the passenger seat and opened the cooking foil around the steak. The boy's eyes went wide as he looked up at him.
"It's all right. You can eat it."
The child bit into the foil-wrapped steak. Six, maybe? Watching a boy not so different in age from his own son, Yeong-su, tear into the meat as if possessed, Ki-jo felt a sharp ache in his chest. He wiped the corner of his eye, took the canteen he had left in the car, and held it out.
"Eat slowly. Have some water, too."
The child took a mouthful from the canteen and went back to the meat. Ki-jo could not keep looking at him. He opened the door, stepped out, and gazed at the children and adults crowded around the American dump. The adults were scooping food from the slop pails into basins, and the children were digging through the trash, putting wilted scraps of lettuce in their mouths or licking chocolate wrappers with their tongues.
Once again it struck him to the bone that this was the 1950s. He wondered whether he had been far too complacent all this while. There were simply too many desperate people for jobs alone to help them all. Ki-jo struck his chest a few times with his fist. The single piece of meat he had eaten at the American club seemed to be sitting heavy on his heart.