Martin Limon - Jade Lady burning

She wore a tight black sweater and dark corduroy pants. The room was empty except for her purse and a coat and a broken mirror on the wall. I slipped off my shoes, stepped in, and slid the paneled door shut behind be. I sat cross-legged on the floor and faced her.

‘Tell me about the General.”

She looked down at her lap.

‘That night,” I said, “the last time you saw Bohler, did you bring him back here?”

She looked up, suddenly angry. ”I never bring man back here! Only one man. Ernie.”

“What was the marriage application for?”

“Ernie wanted to marry me.” She threw her long hair back off her shoulder. “I thought about it. Maybe he was the first one who made me think about it. But I can’t.” She looked away. “I can’t leave Korea.”

“Why not?” I said. “What has Korea ever done for you?”

“I have to stay,” she said.

“What about Ernie?”

“You don’t understand. Me and my little brother, we need money. Nobody help. We have to get money. But we didn’t want to hurt Ernie. Just for money. Ernie young. He’s GI. He doesn’t need money.”

She took a slow breath and looked down at her lap. “I had done… it before. Some GIs… I don’t know why.” She waved her hand as if to dismiss something. ‘They like me. They all the time want to steady me, they all the time want to marry me. But they want do strange things. So I tell them I need money, bring money, and maybe then we can do.”

“What about Bohler?” I said.

She looked down again. “I have to do.”

“Have to do?” Who says you have to do?”

“Everybody,” she answered. “Policeman say, Korean man say. Everybody say General number-one honcho. I have to do.”

“How did you meet him?”

“With Korean men.”

“Who?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. They all same.”

“What happened?”

“Korean man say I have to eat with him at party house. I pour him drinks, I laugh at what he say.” She shrugged again. “He like me.”

“And then he started coming to your place every night?”

“Not every night,” she said matter-of-factly. “Maybe two, three times one week.”

“And then you realized that he’s not a normal man.”

“Yes.” She said it very softly. “He’s not normal.”

She got very tense, and very red, and very quiet.

She had been coerced by the local powers into assuaging the needs of the chief of staff of the Eighth Army. Despite the shame, it had given her a strange sort of power. No one would hassle her. In fact, they could probably count on a certain amount of protection by the local police. As long as they were taking care of the General, the police and the mayor and the local businessmen were all happy. Everyone was happy. Except Miss Pak.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked. “You tell Ernie?”

“No,” I said. “No.”

“I don’t know, Geogi.” She looked sad.

“What about Bohler?”

“I don’t ever want to see him again.”

“Bohler will look for you,” I said. “He might even send the Korean National Police after you. There are two of them outside now pretending to be neighbors.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “But they won’t find me or my brother.” She didn’t seem too sure of that, however.

“What about the police outside? Aren’t you worried about them?” I said.

“No. They want the film. They are looking for you, Geogi,” she said.

One of the things they teach you in the training course for the Criminal Investigation Division is that when you’re getting chased by the bad guys never run into a dead end. Funny how that dictum stuck so well in my mind as I careened through the crowded streets of downtown Itaewon. But every time I turned a corner I prayed it wasn’t a dead end.

The policeman kept blowing his whistle, which was sort of convenient because I could tell that he was falling a little behind. It stood to reason. The streets were crowded with pedestrians, carts, and vendors of all sorts. I knew which way I was going at each turn. He had to stop at every intersection and check which way I had gone.

I was heading in the general direction of the compound, away from the downtown. I turned down one road and it turned out to be a small outdoor market. Stalls on either side of the road were covered with canvas awnings supported by wooden poles. There were clothes and fish and produce but I didn’t have to admire any of the goods. I was very rude pushing my way through the crowd. I’m afraid a few people were probably knocked to the ground but, like Satchel Page, I didn’t look back or listen for footsteps. I was afraid something might be gaining on me.

I estimated when the policeman behind me would hit the intersection and start looking. At that moment I crouched down low but kept moving, trying to make myself less of a conspicuous target.

As I plowed through the crowd, wave after wave of startled Korean faces came at me, like trodden grass rising to retake its shape. What they saw was a huge, crouching, wild-eyed Caucasian charging at them from out of the night. The Koreans fell back and opened a small path for me in the sea of humanity.

At the end of the long block, two more policemen trotted into the intersection, apparently having been attracted by their comrade’s frantic whistle. I stopped for a moment and for the first time looked back. The policeman who had been following me was hopping up and down, straining to see past the jumbled stalls and milling crowds on the market roadway.

The police on both ends of the roadway started to close in. There was a small alleyway between a produce stall and a fish market. I ran down it and, as if to illustrate a point out of the CID training manual, it was a dead-end.

There was an eight-foot-high brick wall at the end and no doors on the tall buildings on either side. I ran for the wall and spotted a wooden crate at its base. I hit the crate running and bounded up, pulling myself up with my hands and kicking my right foot over the wall. It’s amazing how much more acrobatic a person can become with a little incentive.

I stayed up on top of the wall for a couple of seconds, looking at the shards of glass under my hands and my legs. With a sick feeling, I rolled over, onto the far side of the wall, and fell-crashing-into a bush below.

It was somebody’s back yard. A little fluffy white dog was barking his head off. I got up, moved away from the wall, and saw a gate. The dog bared his teeth and growled. I was in no mood to play with him and I think he could tell. He backed off.

Someone slid their door open and light spilled out into the small courtyard. A man in pajama bottoms and a sleeveless T-shirt gazed out the door. I waved and smiled and stepped through the gate out into a quiet residential street.

I decided not to wave anymore. Blood was running down my wrist.

I started running again but when I got back out to the large streets, there were too many pedestrians to go fast, so I slowed to a walk. I didn’t want to attract too much attention to myself. The whistles were growing fainter behind me. I kept moving.

I checked my hands. The right was okay but the left had a pretty nasty cut. The flow of blood had slowed, no artery had been hit, but it was still pretty messy. I figured I’d need seven or eight stitches and I’d have a scar to jog my memory about this evening for the rest of my life-although I doubted I’d need the prompting.

I take long strides when I’m in a hurry, and I can walk as fast as some people can run, at least for sustained distances. I would stay off the main roads, if I could. If I ran into any police, they would most likely be walking patrols and I’d have a better chance. Then again, there would be fewer civilians to run interference for me.