Hwang Sok-Yong - The Shadow of Arms

“What did you do as a civilian. .?”

“He’s a saxophonist,” interjected the gunnery sergeant. “You should hear him play sometime, damn good, really.”

“Were you in a show group?”

“I worked in Eighth Army. Shouldn’t have come here. The pay is shit. I’d have been better off back home.”

“You know most of the women dancers, don’t you?” Yong Kyu asked after a pause.

Before responding, the slick-haired sergeant looked over at Sergeant Yun as if to ask “What’s this all about?” and the latter murmured in a low voice, “C-rations.”

“It’s about C-rations, he said.”

“You know how many of those women are around Da Nang?” Yong Kyu asked.

“Hard to say. They may come here for a few days for a performance, then they slip off to places like Chu Lai, Tui Hoa, or Na Trang.”

“They say quite a few foreign girls who hitched up with entertainers’ troupes later got left behind on their own,” said Sergeant Yun, trying to be helpful.

“I’m sure there are some girls doing you know what and some even shacked up with GIs.”

“Lots in Saigon and up here I’ve heard of a few, too.”

“I wonder if you can find out who there is. .”

Yong Kyu looked at his watch. Twenty minutes had already passed since he got there.

“Can you check out everybody who’s gone to Monkey Mountain for performances?”

“That’s easy,” said the band sergeant. “All you have to do is go there and see the wet canteen master sergeant and ask him to show you the performance contracts.”

“Can I also check for all the Korean women who’ve performed there over the past six months?”

“Why not? Not so many of them, anyhow. But we wouldn’t know where they live. Probably hard to get any personal information on them at all.”

“Thank you,” Yong Kyu said, “and I’ll be dropping in again to say hello.”

As he walked away the gunnery sergeant kept on pleading for him to give them a break. When he reached the Land Rover he found Toi asleep with his legs hanging out of the window. He was about to wake him up when he heard Sergeant Yun call to him from inside the hut.

“Corporal Ahn, there’s a phone call for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Your boss.”

Yong Kyu rushed over to get the phone. There was urgency in the captain’s voice.

“It’s streaming out into the market again. Take Toi to the market and check it out. Have you found the woman?”

“Got some leads that may help.”

“It’s definitely a woman. The American side got eyewitness testimony from some Vietnamese. She’s an Asian, tall and good-looking.”

“I’ll run by Monkey Mountain first and then hit the market, sir.”

The Land Rover sped away from China Beach and headed northwest. Refugee barracks whizzed by on both sides of the road. The briny wind off Da Nang Bay penetrated to the heart. Toi asked Yong Kyu if he had any smokes. Yong Kyu lit a cigarette and put it in Toi’s mouth.

“Get some information?” Toi said casually.

“Not much. May be a woman, after all.”

“Korean?”

“I don’t think a Vietnamese woman would get involved in a deal like this.”

Toi chuckled, nodding.

“What’s so funny?”

“In Da Nang you have women from all over the world. They range from fifteen to five hundred dollars.”

“Why is that funny?”

“It’s your attitude that’s funny. Women come in all shapes and sizes, but once you’ve done it, they all look the same. Once at the Hotel Thanh I did it with a big blonde built like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I’m not interested.”

“It was lousy. I paid a good three hundred dollars, and I felt like I was inside a giant sponge.”

Yong Kyu remained cold and distant.

“What I’m saying has to do with information,” Toi continued. “Listen carefully, Corporal Ahn. If it’s a Korean woman, she’s probably hooked up with a Vietnamese.”

Yong Kyu stared at him without speaking.

“It’s plain as day. GIs, they’ll sleep with anyone, but not with high-priced dancers or women from third countries. I told you, it’s all the same down there. White, black, yellow, I say, there’s no difference. To the white men, however, the yellow people like you and me are different. GIs sleep with the cheapest Vietnamese women, just like they drink a beer and crush the empty can before tossing it away. The black market dealings for the Vietnamese women are usually cigarettes or chocolate. That is what the women get paid. The Americans refuse to mix black market dealings with their whoring. Dealing contraband is one thing, and buying a woman is something else. If the woman involved in this case is a Korean, I bet she’s got some connection with a Vietnamese. Understand what I’m saying?”

“No, not yet.”

Toi abruptly stopped talking. The car was passing smokestacks on the way across the bridge leading downtown. In the distance across the bay you could see Monkey Mountain, called Bai Bang in Vietnamese. It was like an island jutting out of the water. Yong Kyu wondered where all the monkeys had gone. Bulldozers had cleared the jungle away, and in its place a vast headquarters compound, heliport, and naval harbor had been constructed. Had the monkeys fled into the dense forests of the Central Highlands? Ahn Yong Kyu already guessed what Toi had been getting at, but he did not know why he had clammed up and what he was waiting for.

“Go on, tell me. I still don’t quite understand.”

“Tell you what?”

Then Toi grinned brightly. For a second he turned his eyes and then shoved his mirrored sunglasses right under Yong Kyu’s nose. On the glossy metallic surface of the lenses Yong Kyu saw his own face distorted into a grotesque shape. They were the kind of glasses that hid the mood of the wearer. Perfect for the scalding heat in Vietnam.

Barely suppressing a fleeting urge to punch Toi in the face, Yong Kyu calmly asked, “Why is it that a Korean woman is so likely to hook up with a Vietnamese?”

“Ah, that much I could’ve told the captain earlier. I thought of it from the start.”

“What do you want, anyway?”

“Easy does it, man,” Toi said, chuckling. “You’ll uncover a very good dealing connection.”

“Has that happened before?”

“Yes, when I worked for the American forces.”

Yong Kyu grew tense. “The conditions are the same, sure. But it varies depending on the kinds of deals.”

“With your help, I’m confident I can get to the core of these deals in three days.”

“Go on.”

“I told you. This Korean woman of yours, she’s hooked up with a Vietnamese. The Vietnamese like foreign women. They’ve lived colonized for a long time, so they like foreigners. The guy’s an officer, that’s my guess. His post, near Da Nang. Not a combat officer.”

“Sounds good. One thing I don’t get, though. Why would such a man need a woman as a front, and a foreign woman at that?”

“Ha, ha, you don’t understand, do you? It means he’s not in this for the money. A man like that can have as many big deals as he wants. That’s the key point. This is a petty gift kind of thing. Think about it. If she’s one of yours, there’s no doubt you’ll interfere. But you’ll never touch the core of the black market. Why? Because the dealings of the Vietnamese forces are sacred. Same with the American forces. Too many headaches and too much trouble. Endless complaints and accusations from civilians pour into the Vietnamese high command. The superiors in the investigative headquarters either have the man in charge transferred or issue orders suspending the investigation. It’s the same with AID8 loans, advisory group funding, and even with the foreign private contractors. You don’t get it. Perhaps you won’t get it until the end. So much the better for you. For after all, this is our country and this is our war. We are the masters of the house. You people just serve your time and go back home.”