Chapter 12  The Scarred

Dong Mae walked into Hina's room, and stopped short when he saw her in the bath tub.

"Hand me that towel," she said, indicating the large white towel draped over the back of a chair.

He handed the towel to her, and watched as she stood up in the tub, like a water nymph rising from a mystical lake, her back to him.

Droplets of water rolled down her back and over the weals and scars that marred the smoothness of her skin. There were so many, so that it was impossible to count how many they totalled altogether, or to know where one began and another ended; they crossed one another, and cut one another, meeting, and diverging, and meeting again, in an endless map of puckered paths, of varying lengths: some were short; others, long; some were thin; others, thick. But they were all white, puckered, old, and they began beneath her shoulders, and covered the entire expanse of her back, and buttocks, leaving her arms and thighs and legs, clear, smooth, unmarked and unblemished.

He stared in silence, as she dried herself with the towel, and slipped on a silk bathrobe.

He sat down at the table, and waited for her to take her seat.

She sat down, and poured out a cup of coffee, and handed it to him. Then she poured herself a cup, and took a sip.

"You have more scars than even the most hardened of warriors," he said.

"I was told that I had a wilful and disobedient nature, and that punishment was the only way to curb it," she sipped her coffee. 

He did not say a word, but there was understanding in his eyes.

Finally, he spoke.

"Scars on the outside heal," he said softly, in almost a whisper. "But the other scars - the hidden ones - they remain."

She did not say anything, but her eyes were dark and shuttered, remembering.

"You survived," he looked at her, and his eyes were intense. "You survived, and that is all that matters: that you did not break."

He leaned forward, and said, "The scars have made you stronger."

"They are a testament of your strength." He spoke with passion and conviction.

She could not let him see how his words of comfort had moved her, so she sought refuge in flippant speech, and affected a carefree laugh.

"Ah, the gallant hero to my rescue! It is my misfortune to know two dashing, heroic gentlemen who are besotted, not with me, but with another, the same woman," she sighed. 

"Perhaps I should show my claws to Lady Ae Shin, to scare away my rival for your, and that other disinterested gentleman's affection."

Dong Mae's face darkened.

"Do not mention her name," he growled, and set down the cup forcefully on the saucer with a loud clatter.

They were on safe ground, and she could finally breathe again.

"Would you like to be my personal bodyguard?" she smiled. "There are dangerous people out there who could harm me."

"Like Lord Lee Wan Ik?" he asked. "I saw him talking to you in the lobby."

She looked at him. "Perhaps."

"How do you know a dangerous man like Lord Lee?" Dong Mae asked, his face curious.

"He is my father."

"Your father?" he asked in surprise.

"Yes, he is the man who sold me, my youth, my name, to an old man."

"What was your name?"

Her smile faded.

"Lee Yan Hwa."

"Lee Yan Hwa," he repeated the name slowly. "That is a beautiful name."

"That name is no longer mine," she said, a faint glimmer of tears in her eyes. "That name is forever lost to me."

He drank the rest of his coffee and got slowly to his feet, giving her time to compose herself.

"Regrettably, I have to decline your offer, because I have already been employed by Japan to be the personal bodyguard of Lord Lee Wan Ik," he said, "who I am on my way to meet now."

"In that case, I wish you the very worst of luck," she said maliciously.

He laughed.

Lord Lee Wan Ik and Dong Mae eyed each other with caution.

"Did you find the document?" Wan Ik asked.

"No, I did not."

"Whoever possesses that bank document holds the fate of Joseon in his hands: Japan or the Righteous Army," he smirked. "Or me."

"You?" 

"If I have it, the King will bow to me, and Joseon will bow to me," he laughed in delight at the thought.

He fixed his eyes unblinkingly on Dong Mae, like a hawk.

"That is why I need you to find it," he said, his lips curling a little with disdain. "A man like you, with that butcher's blood that courses through your veins, will likely find it faster than anyone else."

Dong Mae stilled.

"Be careful with your words, my lord," he spoke softly, menacingly. "This butcher's blood that courses through my veins could very well make me strike you down anytime, anywhere, when you least expect it, and keep that prized document for myself."

He rose to his feet, the scabbard dangling at his side, "Do not make me angry, my lord. And that is a friendly warning. The next time, I may not be as friendly."

He strode to the door, opened it, and slammed it shut behind him, leaving Wan Ik trembling with anger, and fear.

Eugene opened the door to the loud and persistent rapping.

Dong Mae stood outside, with a group of swordsmen.

"Today is the day I search your room," he grinned.

Eugene stood aside as Dong Mae and his men strode into the room.

"You have something, a letter, that I want," said Dong Mae. "I was told by someone that there is an envelope, addressed to you, and written in English, and that it is here, in this room, at the edge of the table, between two thick books, and, so it is," Dong Mae drew out the envelope from its unchanged position, related to him by a chambermaid at the hotel, who had gone to ask Dong Mae for a loan, and had offered the information in exchange.

Eugene stared at the letter, mumbling, "That letter has not been read by me yet - "

"In that case, I would be delighted to read it aloud for you, sir," Dong Mae said, with a smile.

"It is written in Korean, and it says: There has been a change to our arrangement." His smile faded, and a look of confusion appeared in his eyes. "Please reply to this letter at the earliest time possible."

He recognized the writing on the letter, that familiar, beloved writing.

How many times had he taken out his precious treasure, and read and re-read those shopping lists, consigned those beloved painted to memory?

There was no doubt; it was her writing.

He felt bewildered, confused.

She knew the American intimately.

It was not an ordinary friendship.

It was something deeper than that.

He stared at Eugene, and he knew, with certainty, that it was something deeper. He could see it in the American's rigid dimeanour, the way his eyes dwelled on the letter, how precious it was to him, how affected he was by what she had written.

She had even written his name in English: a neat, girlish scrawl on the front of the envelope. 

EUGENE CHOI

She had gone to great lengths to learn English so that she could write the American's name in English.

EUGENE CHOI

The words leapt at him from the bottom right fringe of the envelope, mocking him, laughing at him.

"You poor, poor fool," they sneered. "You poor, poor, deluded fool."

Dong Mae's world collapsed.

He felt dull, dead.

He no longer cared about the document.

All he wanted was to run out of the room, and hide somewhere, somewhere dark, and never emerge again.

With trembling fingers, he slid the letter back into the envelope, and wedged it behind his belt.

Without looking at Eugene, he stalked out, and his men scurried to keep up with him.

Dong Mae was drinking at the bar in the Glory Hotel when Eugene came, and sat on the stool beside him

Dong Mae glared at the American, but he had drunk so many drinks that he had progressed to a state of numbness, and instead of looking upon Eugene with resentment, and jealousy, and even hate, those disquieting feelings had been replaced by one of calm, and distance, as if he were looking at himself from far away, from outside his body.

Eugene drank his glass of wine, and looked preoccupied.

The two men drank in silence, and did not speak to each other.

Hee Sung breezed in, and yelped in delighted surprise at the sight of the two men.

Pulling up a stool, he wedged himself in between the two men.

"My dear friends, I shall join you in a drink, and more! The night is young!"

"Go away!" Dong Mae and Eugene spoke in unison.

Hee Sung widened his eyes. " Ah, you are speaking in one voice. What a rare gift it is, to share a mind, and to speak the same words, at the same time! Gentlemen, I am moved by your close bond, and here is my toast to both of you!"

He lifted his glass, and toasted both of the men.

"Are you like this all the time?" Eugene asked him rudely. "Do you ever not stop smiling?"

"My smile hides the pain in my heart," Hee Sung beamed. "The ladies like me more when I smile. They say it makes me very attractive."

Dong Mae grunted.

Eugene looked annoyed.

A servant came, and bowed to Hee Sung.

"My lord, your father wishes for you to come home now, at once."

The servant straightened, and Eugene saw him full in the face.

He froze, his fingers clenching around the glass until the knuckles showed white.

"Are you the son of Lord Kim An Pyung?" he asked, his voice flat. " Were you born in the year 1871?"

Hee Sung's smile faded.

Hee Sung looked at him , and put down his glass.

"I am, and, yes, indeed, I was born in the year 1871. I see that that name means something to you, something important."

Hee Sung stood up, unsmiling.

"Was it my father, or my grandfather? It does not matter, sir," he said, his face sad, and serious. "This is nothing new to me, and I have encountered more episodes like this than I can recall."

"Feel free to slap me, or punch me, or pour your drink over my head, sir. I will take it in stride, as a small way to compensate for all the pain and suffering you have undergone at the hands of my father or grandfather."

"It is clear that you have suffered a grave injustice, because of my father, or grandfather, or both, and I apologize to you, on their behalf." He bowed low.

"So you have finally stopped smiling," Eugene almost spat out the words, rage making his voice tremble.

"Yes, I have, and this is what I look like when I stop smiling." He looked at Eugene, and there was so much sadness in his eyes that it was as if the smiling man had never existed, and had been a figment of the imagination, and the only reality was this man, his eyes, two dark pools of deep, deep sadness, laden with guilt, and heavy with the burden of inheriting the legacy of sin, his cross to bear till the end of his days in this mortal world.

He put on his hat.

"I bid you good day, sir."

He walked out, the servant following closely on his heels.