Chapter 9  The Informant

Mr. Logan Taylor was an American who had spent several years in Japan working for the American Consulate, and later relocated to Joseon, where he took on the position of  Foreign Affairs Advisor in Joseon. 

Mr. Taylor was an affable, friendly man, with a loud booming laugh, and a smile permanently fixed on his face, which was ruddy and flushed most of the time, given his fondness for good wine, in the company of good friends from the Consulate of Japan, and he was often to be seen in the Glory Hotel Restaurant, engaged in conversation with these officials, and conversing in fluent Japanese, like an old and well-liked friend. 

What was not so known was the fact that he had been imparting a secret trove of valuable information on Joseon to Japan in exchange for a sizeable amount of money, which put him in a very fine humour every day, and accounted for the smile on his face, and that booming laugh that emanated from his throat, unmistakable signs of a man well-pleased with the comfortable life he led, straddling a fine line between two worlds deeply distrustful of, and harbouring suspicions of one another. 

Mr. Taylor was not a man who was given much to profound thought, nor one who struggled with his conscience, so that he was quite happy living the life of an informant, and he would most likely have continued in this vein, smiling, laughing, and drinking, if he had not been fatally shot on a dark, moonless night, by an unknown assailant, through the window of a renowned geisha house, in the company of his Japanese friends, despite being guarded by a band of black-clad swordsmen belonging to the Black Dragon Society, led by the fearsome Gu Dong Mae.

Mr. Taylor’s untimely demise, by a single gunshot to the head, fired at long range from the rooftop located directly opposite the open window of the geisha house, by an unknown, unseen assailant, took Dong Mae by surprise. Dong Mae did not shed a single tear for the man; he hardly knew him, and had never spoken a word to him, but his men had been employed by Mr. Taylor as his guards, and he had not been paid for his services, and, dead or alive, a man must uphold his end of the bargain, so it was only natural that he should look to the grieving widow, Mrs. Taylor, to pay the debt owed to him and his men.

In retrospect, Dong Mae’s three encounters with the American, Eugene Choi, would never have taken place if it had not been for the untimely demise of Mr. Logan Taylor.

The first time Dong Mae encountered the American was on a dark alley, where he came face-to-face with the American with black hair, standing tall and straight, with his aide, trembling beside him, flanked by the ferocious swordsmen of the Black Dragon Society.

The American showed no fear, and, instead, addressed Dong Mae in an even, unruffled tone.

“Why do you need my aide?” the American asked, a thread of curiosity in his voice.

Dong Mae studied the man impassively.

“The American who was shot at the geisha house had employed my men as guards,” he said to the American, “I need payment for my men, and I wish to write a letter, addressed to his widow, to ask for payment of the debt that is owed to my men and I.”

“I need a translator, and your aide could assist us,” he indicated the man cowering behind the American.

The American thought for a while, then answered courteously, “Certainly. My aide will assist you.” 

He bowed, and walked away, leaving the aide robbed of speech, and shaking with fear.

The second time he met the American was at the lobby of the Glory Hotel. 

The American was ascending the grand staircase as Dong Mae walked into the lobby.

“What is he doing in Joseon? And why is he calling himself an American when he looks, and sounds like a Joseon man?” he asked Hina, scowling at the departing back of the American.

“His name is American enough: Eugene Choi,“ she rolled the foreign name on her tongue with a kind of delight, and smirked. “Do not kill him just yet. I have not seen enough of him.”

“I think he and I could become good friends.” She stretched lazily. “Very good friends.”

“Well, here is your chance to be his friend,” Dong Mae nodded at the American walking down the staircase, at a much faster pace than when he had ascended it just a while ago.

Eugene strode over to where Dong Mae was lounging indolently in a high-backed armchair.

“Someone has been in my room. Was it you?”

Dong Mae studied the American thoughtfully.

“I had entertained the thought of searching your room, it is true, but at a later juncture, so my answer to your question is: no, it was not I nor my men who searched your room.”

Eugene eyed him with suspicion.

“I heard that you were in Logan’s house with your men after his death. What were you searching for?” 

“Something of value. Something I will recognize when I see it.”

“Did you find it?”

Dong Mae smiled silkily. “No, but, perhaps, I will find it in your room.”

The third time Dong Mae met the American was at the house of the widow. He and his men had been employed to guard Lord Lee Wang Ik, a Joseon man newly returned from Japan, where he had worked for the Consulate of Joseon in Japan, and had forged close ties with the Japanese officials at the Japanese Consulate, and was reviled by the townsfolk of Joseon as a traitor. 

“We meet again, sir,” Dong Mae bowed mockingly.

“Indeed,” Eugene bowed back. “We seem destined to cross paths.”

“But in the strangest of company,” Dong Mae stared at the widow who had gone quite mad, and was hurling a string of insults at the unfortunate Wang Ik.

“I am here to guard the widow. You?”

“I am here to guard that poor man,” he pointed to Wang Ik, who was trying, without much success, to defend himself against the balled fists and curved claws of the demented widow.

Eugene gave a deep sigh. 

He looked at Dong Mae, and there was frustration, and empathy in his eyes.

Dong Mae had seen fear, and revulsion, in grown men’s eyes so frequently that he had grown accustomed to it. 

This was the first time he had seen empathy in a man’s eyes.

So this was what empathy looked like.

He liked it.

It made him feel connected to the American, somehow.

“And did you find what you were looking for?” Eugene asked.

“No, I did not.”

“Perhaps we could work together to look for the, ah, what is it that you are looking for?”

“He works best who works alone,” Dong Mae smiled, “so, I am afraid I have to decline your kind offer, sir.”

Eugene looked disappointed.

Dong Mae suppressed a sudden urge to laugh. 

The American never ceased to surprise him. 

It was unfortunate they had to meet under such circumstances. They could have become the best of friends. The only man that he could think of with kindness was Yujo, but Yujo was his faithful worker, and not a friend. 

Hina and Hotaru, the tarot card reader, were his friends, he supposed, but they were women. 

He rubbed his stubble thoughtfully. 

He had never had a man for a friend. 

He looked at Eugene. 

Was that appeal he saw in those eyes? 

This time, Dong Mae burst out laughing. He could not help it.

“I do not know what I am looking for, but I will know what it is when I see it, in your room, perhaps.”

He gave Eugene a hearty slap on the back as he walked past, causing the American to wince.

“I will find it, and I will kill whoever stops me from finding it,” he smiled, and this time, it was a genuine smile, warming his eyes, softening his face.

Dong Mae walked out, still smiling, all his earlier ill humour gone.