Martin Limon - Buddha's money

Mi-ja tried not to let her mind stray from the mountains. She thought of the stream near her village that ran gurgling and swirling over ancient rocks. She thought of how she used to squat on the flat stones every morning, beating her father's hemp tunic with amongdungi, a long wooden stick. And she remembered his baggy pantaloons and the soap sudsing in the clear water of the pond and her father's pleased expression when she knelt before him and presented him with a freshly pressed suit of clothes.

It had been a difficult life, but so much more filled with joy than life with Mistress Nam and the big American in Itaewon. But as bad as even that was, it now seemed idyllic compared to this dank and smelly chamber. Once again, Mi-ja fearfully studied the man across from her, his oiled skin glimmering in the guttering light of a single candle. What were they planning on doing with her?

Finally, the supplicant stopped rubbing his master with oil. He raised himself off the floor and shuffled across the meditation chamber toward Mi-ja. Instinctively, she scooted away. Like lightning summoned by an evil god, the bamboo rod snapped onto her flesh. Stinging pain flashed through her body. She froze where she was, hoping she wouldn't be hit again.

The supplicant knelt beside her, dipped his greasy fingers into the wooden bowl, and began to smear oil over Mi-ja's body. Fearing the rod, she did her best not to move, but the oil was slimy and cold and the smell of it disgusted her. What was it? Something familiar, she decided. Like the tiny bricks of hardened milk that Mistress Nam bought in the American PX. What did she call it? Butter, that was it. But the American butter had only a mild aroma. This vile potion reeked as if it had been rotting for months.

As the man's fingers slid over her body, Mi-ja's supple mouth twisted in horror. The bamboo rod snapped again-and again-but no matter how many times it bit into her flesh, Mi-ja could not stop quivering at the touch of his greasy fingers.

Finally, her body was almost completely lathered in grease. The supplicant's fingers paused for a moment, just below Mi-ja's navel. Then his hand slid lower until the tips of his fingers touched her in a spot where even Mi-ja knew no one was supposed to touch.

Mi-ja leapt back. The bamboo rod lashed out. She bit her lip, squirming, flinching at the lash of the pliant wood. Tears streamed down her soft cheeks. The supplicant seemed offended that someone had interrupted his work and paused for a moment. When Mi-ja stilled her shaking, he continued.

Soon, every part of her small, unblemished body reeked of the rancid butter. Then the supplicant paused and placed two fingers at the cleft between her legs. Without warning, he jammed them deep into her body.

Mi-ja screamed. She squirmed and kicked away from his pressing fingers. The bamboo rod snapped and sliced again into her flesh.

The pain slowed her for only an instant. The supplicant's breath came hot and close. In a language she didn't understand, he hissed into the gory wound that had once been her ear.

'You will be ready for our master soon, Little Sister. Ready to assist our Master Ragyapa in praising the Lord Mahakala. The Lord of the Demons."

He reached for her. Mi-ja flinched backward. Again the bamboo rod lashed out, running its fiery tongue along her quivering flesh.

The slimy hand grabbed her arm, slipped, and grabbed again.

This time it held firm.

Herman and Ernie and I trudged up a short hill, the clang of unsyncopated rock music, the harsh barking of GIs, and the lilting laughter of business girls drifted through the walled lanes. Dok Yong Mandu Jip, the Virtuous Dragon Dumpling House, was stuck back in an alley in the maze behind the Itaewon bar district.

Flimsy glass panes rattled as Herman slammed open the sliding door.

Korean customers gazed up at us-openmouthed- from steaming bowls of noodles. With Ernie and me behind him, Herman must've looked as ominous as a Mongol horde.

We strode into the kitchen. It was tiny, with charred metal woks atop cement stoves filled with glowing charcoal. The odor of burning peanut oil seared into my nostrils. Half-moon dumplings sizzled in popping grease.

An old man looked up from the flames. Worry creased his wrinkled face.

"Koma oddiso?" I asked. Where's the boy?

The old man didn't answer. But his head turned slightly toward the back door.

The entire alley was a sea of mud. The boy stood next to his bicycle, tying his sheet-metal carrying box to the rack above the back tire. He swiveled when he heard our footsteps. The smooth, even features of his face bunched in terror. Stepping back, he held up his hands.

"Na kuriqu an hagosipposo!" I didn't want to do it!

Herman either didn't understand or didn't listen. He grabbed the boy by his narrow shoulders and slammed him up against the brick wall. As thick fingers clutched his neck, the boy started to croak. Rivulets of rain ran from his short black hair, puddled in his eyes, and streamed down his cheeks.

Ernie shoved Herman. "Let him down! George will interrogate him."

Herman hesitated, glaring. Finally, his fingers curled open and he eased the boy to the mud. I made Herman back up a few steps and then leaned over.

"Orini oddiso?" I asked the boy. Where's the child?

He answered in quavering Korean.

"I don't know of any child. All I know is that men came and forced my grandfather to make dumplings, using the meat they gave to us."

"Did you know what kind of meat that was?"

The boy shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know."

The shout came from behind us. "Manji-jima!" Don't touch him!

We all turned.

The old cook stood in the doorway, a huge meat cleaver in his hand, his face twisted like the mask of a demon.

Herman seemed not even to notice the cleaver. He sloshed forward through the mud, heading directly toward the cook. The old man raised the heavy chopper. Herman stopped.

"We've had enough!" the old man said in Korean. "This is the second time today foreigners have tormented us. No more!"

Herman stared at the old man and the blade. Then he suddenly lunged forward, ramming his big round head into the man's narrow chest. The blade slammed down, twisting in midair, thudding onto Herman's back.

The two men crashed back into the kitchen. Pots clattered onto cement, sizzling oil splashed against flesh, smoke and flames leapt up toward the ceiling.

The boy screamed.

"Christ, Herman!" Ernie yelled. He glanced toward me, a smile starting to curve across his lips. "That guy's crazier than I am."

We ran into the kitchen and pulled them apart. I grabbed an earthen jar of barley tea and poured it over the burning spots where hot oil had splattered onto their arms and necks. Using a can of flour, Ernie put out the small fire. In the serving area, all the tables and chairs were empty, customers vanished, plates of hot food abandoned.

We jerked the two combatants to their feet. Ernie had the old cook shoved up against the wall, his forearm pried beneath his wrinkled neck. Herman stood huffing and puffing, his eyes watery as if he was about to cry. In Korean, I yelled at the old man.

"Who were the men who brought the meat? Who told you to make the dumplings?"

The old man shook his head. "I don't know. Foreigners.

"Americans?"

"No. At first I thought they might be Japanese, but they spoke some strange language. Not Japanese."

The cook was old enough to have lived through the occupation of Korea that ended with the Japanese surrender at the close of World War II. He'd know if the foreigners were Japanese. They weren't.

"Had you ever seen these men before?"

"Never. It was as if they were demons who floated in on the monsoon clouds."