Suki Kim - The Interpreter

“Excuse me?” The man’s a real pain, she thinks.

“That guy out there, he your boyfriend?” He points his index finger toward the door. Suzy turns, catching a glimpse of someone dashing off.

The clementines tumble to the floor as Suzy runs outside. She looks frantically in both directions, and spots the man under a black umbrella, walking briskly. From the back, he appears to be dragging his right foot slightly, or maybe the ground is so slippery that he is having difficulty running. Even as he crosses First Avenue to head toward Avenue A, he never looks back. Suzy keeps up at a ten-pace distance, knowing that he will have to stop soon. Ninth Street comes to a dead end at Avenue A, where Tompkins Square Park takes up three blocks in both directions. When he reaches the park, he halts for a few seconds, as if he cannot decide which way to continue. He can either make a ninety-degree turn onto Avenue A or go straight into the park, which is empty except for a few homeless men who’ve made puddly shelters on benches barely shielded under tentlike coverings.

He quickly enters the tiny fenced-in area between a dog run and a basketball court. He may have decided to give up the charade. He may be planning his next move. From behind, the man is nothing but a collage of a black umbrella and a black raincoat. For a second, she wonders if she is following the right man after all. Maybe the real guy disappeared in a different direction. Maybe he ducked into a cab that had been waiting. Maybe he dodged into the diner next door and watched her follow another man. Anything is possible, as she circles the park for the fourth time, waiting for the guy to make his move.

Suzy is now wondering if she should catch up to him after all. It does not look like he will do anything other than amble through the park. She must be trailing the wrong man. Maybe he’s just one of those aimless people who like to meander in parks on rainy Saturdays. As she is contemplating what to do next, he suddenly takes the St. Marks Place exit back at Avenue A. He’s decided to leave, obviously, for reasons she cannot tell. He trots along, back toward Second Avenue. The rain is fiercer. She is getting drenched. The umbrella is definitely not strong enough; its spokes keep flipping in whichever direction the wind blows. Already a few of the spines have broken loose, one of them dangling before her eyes at a precarious angle. She might just as well throw it out and take the rain as it comes. Now, suddenly, there are more people on the street. A crowd sweeps past her, which must’ve poured out of the monstrous Sony Cineplex nearby, or the New Village Theater, where a certain British troupe has been recycling the same sellout number for the past five years. But do shows run this early? Is this the matinee crowd? Then she realizes that it is suddenly impossible to tell which black umbrella belongs to the man. In a mere second, he seems to have gone missing amidst the dancing umbrellas before her eyes. All the strength in her body gives at once, and she is not sure where to turn, what comes next. She knows only how bitterly cold she is suddenly, how wet her clothes are. She is no longer holding the umbrella. What did she do with it? Did it fly off with the wind? She has begun looking around frantically, when something bright and yellow flashes right under her eyes.

It is a flyer, on yellow paper. A club invite. Around here, on weekends, it is not unusual to find kids on street corners passing out flyers. But not now, not in such rain, not when she has just lost someone who’s been following her for days. She is about to crinkle it up when a phrase catches her eyes. “HOTTEST PARTY OF THE MILLENIUM”—and underneath it, “COME THIS SATURDAY NOVEMBER 18, D WAVE D RAVE DJ SPOOKY & HIS FRIENDS!!!!!”

It is “DJ” that stops her heart.

DJ. The fourth member of the Fearsome Four. The missing KK. The orphan. The name has stuck with her from the first time she heard it. For no reason, really. It is not even his real name.

Instead of trudging through the rain, she runs for the underground hole less than a block away. She knows exactly where to go. She is almost elated at this sudden direction. And the man she just lost in the rain? Let him catch up with her if he wants to play real hide-and-seek.

BOLTED ACROSS THE TOP WINDOWS of the three-story building is the dilapidated electric sign for EAST BILLIARDS, trimmed with blinking red lights. A couple of bulbs are broken; the line is not as smooth as it should be. The floor below is dark, blinds drawn, no sign of life. On the ground floor, three stores are jammed together. A Korean market. A nail salon. Santos Pizza, the third one is called, and Suzy wonders if Santos is as common a name as Kim.

The rain has not eased. Her clothes are soaked through. The forty-minute ride here has only made it worse. She can feel the chill in the core of every bone. She should have grabbed that bottle of echinacea. She ran out so fast that the bottle just fell from her hands, along with the clementines. And the gaping face of the man behind the cash register—probably the last time he would smile at her.

Climbing the stairs, she is surprised at how quiet it is. Not a peek coming from the pool hall above. But. then, she has never been to a pool hall before. Too decadent, where bad kids congregate and dropouts make trouble. What would Dad have said if he saw her here? And Damian? At least they had that in common, she thinks, quickly averting her eyes from the genitalia-shaped graffiti on the cement wall. When she reaches the third floor and opens the door, she finds a spacious room filled with pool tables. Some with solids and stripes dotting their green tops, and others sitting wide and empty. It is dark inside, the only light belonging to the foggy windows, through which the sky is barely visible.

“Hello?” Her voice rings loud, making an echo. Nothing. No one around. “Hello? Anybody here?” she calls out again. Strange, Saturday should be their busiest day. Maybe it is too early. Maybe they don’t open until late afternoon, like some restaurants. But, then, why isn’t the door locked? “Hello?” Suzy tries once more. No one still. Not much to see. A rickety soda machine by the entrance. A jukebox to its right that’s seen better days. A couple of Budweiser cans on the floor, which no one seems to have bothered to pick up. Farther in the distance is a partition; must be an office of sorts.

She is not sure what she expected. What is it that keeps tugging at her? When Detective Lester mentioned the Flushing pool hall where the drugs were found, Suzy remembered another pool hall, in Jackson Heights, which had been a notorious hangout in the mid-eighties. There were always rumors surrounding it, with gory details of gang rapes and drug deals gone sour. Everyone in her high school had heard of it. The kids whispered its name with awe and fear. The KK had still been active then, along with several other minor gangs whose names Suzy cannot remember now. Back then, it was just a rumor. It belonged to the underground world of the underground kids whose lives would never touch hers. That is, until now.

She is turning to leave when she is stopped by a sound behind the partition. “Hello?” she tries again, to no avail. Yet those rustling steps, an unmistakable murmur. Maybe there is more than one person there. Maybe they are in the middle of an important conversation and do not want to be interrupted. Suzy is tempted to turn around and walk out, but then she remembers the rain outside and hesitates. Besides, she is curious. Why wouldn’t the person answer her four hellos? What’s he doing there behind the wall? From the doorway to the cubicle is about fifty steps. Five rows of pool tables, two in each row, ten total. It is not such a great distance.