Chapter 6  The American

The Glory Hotel was undisputedly the finest building in the whole of Joseon. With its resplendent burnished brown and milk-white facade, it stood, a majestic beacon of genteel Joseon warmth and hospitality, beckoning to weary travellers, at the junction between the two busiest streets in the centre of town, its strategic location and sterling reputation drawing a string of formidable customers, including, among them, some of the wealthiest, and the noblest, from the whole of Joseon, the neighbouring regions, and beyond.

Within the confines of the Glory Hotel, the Glory Hotel Restaurant strove to fulfil the monumental task of satisfying the culinary needs of its myriad of patrons, with their diverse demands and equally diverse appetites. For the most part, the patrons left, satisfied, though, occasionally, a disgruntled patron would throw a tantrum over an egg that had been boiled too long, or a serving of fish that was not fresh enough; but these were rare, and far between, so that if one entered the restaurant on a  sudden whim to indulge in some fine dining, one would be greeted by courteous servers, looking sharp and smart in their identical uniforms, bearing trays filled to the brim with a wide array of Western cuisine and Joseon delicacies; and if one were curious enough, and looked hard enough, one would observe, in obscure shadowy corners, groups of men in dark suits, huddled over their tables of steaming, tantalising food, raising their cups of fragrant tea to one another, or clinking their glasses of fine wine together, seemingly engaged in the most important of secret conversations.

The owner of the Glory Hotel was an enigmatic woman named Kudo Hina, a widow, who had inherited the property from her deceased husband, a wealthy Japanese gentleman, who was reputed to have been a great deal older than his young wife. The widow could be seen almost every day, presiding over her place at the manager's desk, located on the far right of the lobby of the Glory Hotel, next to the grand staircase that led to the guestrooms on the upper floors, dressed in the finest of kimonos.

From those red lips emanated a low, musical voice, issuing instructions to her motley group of hardworking, well-trained workers with a calm, unruffled air, delivered in the smoothest, sultriest, almost languid, tones, in fluid Japanese, accompanied by a flicker of those fine, heavy-lidded eyes; greeting new guests with lazy charm, and exchanging banalities easily with old guests, as if they were the very best of friends, so that many would have been surprised if they knew that she was, in actuality, Joseon-born and bred.

She also spoke an impressive smattering of English, which added to her beguiling air of mystery and allure. It was rumoured that she had many wealthy admirers, and countless lovers, and that one of her conquests had been a high-ranking English officer, for whom she had to thank for her much-admired, much-valued English language skills.

Madame Kudo had a penchant for dressing herself in the most outrageous and eye-catching outfits when she was not behind her desk at the Glory Hotel, raising eyebrows among the hanbok-clad good womenfolk on the streets; the long gowns decked with huge ribbons and lace ts, fitted perfectly around her tiny waist, and trailed down in a cascade of billowing taffeta and elaborate pleats to the ground. She wore rakish little hats, set at a daring angle, on her beautifully-coiffered hair, and had a different parasol to match each gown that she wore.

She was a source of endless fascination for the townsfolk, and she was their main subject of conversation, in a town where everyone knew who everyone was, but after a time, they grew to accept her, with her strange gowns and strange hats and the strange-looking umbrellas she carried over her strangely-styled hair. 

The unfamiliar had become familiar.

The townsfolk settled into an amicable acceptance of the strangeness of Kudo Hina, and went on with their lives.

Until the day the doors of the Glory Hotel swung open, and the American walked in.

He was familiar, and yet unfamiliar.

Dong Mae took a violent dislike to the stranger almost at once.

He did not know whether it was the tall black hat the stranger wore on his head, or the great black coat that he wore that hung down to his calves, or that his hair was combed rigidly back with the slightest sheen of an elusive hair oil, or his face that bothered him, or a combination of everything that he had noted about the stranger; all he knew was that the sight of the stranger had caused a strange feeling of unease to rise deep within his abdomen, and a disquieting sense of foreboding to descend on, and weigh heavily upon his chest. Dong Mae was not a superstitious man by nature, but the appearance of the stranger made him feel strangely out of odds, reason enough to cause him to develop a sudden and most severe aversion to the newest guest of the Glory Hotel.

From where he stood, he could get a glimpse of the stranger's face quite clearly; he looked like a Joseon man, and he spoke the Joseon language well enough, though with a slight, almost foreign inflection, as he inclined his head courteously to listen to what Madame Kudo Hina was saying. The stranger looked about forty-ish, with lines etched deep below his eyes, as if he did not sleep enough, but he had an air of quiet calm and confidence about him, and he responded to Madame Kudo's queries in a deep, resonant voice, speaking little, and divulging only the barest morsels of information about himself.

"My name is Eugene Choi."

"No, I am not from Joseon."

"I am an American."

"I will be staying for a few days, perhaps a few weeks."

"I need a room."

The American waited patiently for the key to his room, as Kudo Hina stared at him with undisguised interest in her heavy-lidded eyes.

She produced a key, finally.

"Room 304."

"I trust everything will be to your satisfaction, sir. And if you need anything, anything at all, please do not hesitate to bring it to my attention at once."

She gave him a dazzling smile.

"Nothing is no trouble at all, you understand," she lowered her eyes, and looked at him through her thick eyelashes, her eyes heavy, and laden with meaning, "No trouble at all."

But the American merely looked at her impassively with shuttered eyes, and did not say a word. Instead, he took the key from her outstretched palm, and his heels, sharply, like a soldier, and was up the grand staircase swiftly, as if he could not wait to make his escape, the key to his room held firmly in one hand, and a black bag gripped as firmly in the other.