Yin Yang Tattoo (20 page)

 

Two hours later we were sitting on the floor again, in a different part of town, and in an establishment where a lot more than food and drink were on offer. This northern suburb was quietly famous throughout Korea for its high-end brothels. Night-time entertainment in this part of town had always been too rich for my blood, but tonight K-N was pushing the boat out for the visitors, and for some reason I was expected to tag along, even if I wasn't exactly kicking and screaming.

Traditional wood-and-tiled single-storey buildings with inner courtyards still survive in older parts of Seoul, and here they ran in crooked lines forming narrow residential alleyways. These lanes easily pre-dated the 1980s explosion of car ownership, meaning many of the homes in them were accessible only by foot. On both sides of the alleys, ornate doorways painted with colourful yin yang roundels lay invitingly ajar. I concentrated on what might lie behind them, setting aside all thoughts about a yin yang tattoo and an almost-certainly dead Miss Hong.

Flanking the gates stood wiry young men in well-pressed black trousers, white shirts and dark ties. Touts-cum-bouncers. Through the gateways, flashes of brightly-dressed beauties teased window shoppers with hints of what went on behind the paper doors that masked elevated wooden walkways lining inner courtyards.

When five black Hyundais unloaded our well-oiled crew at the mouth of one alley, the touts stepped quickly forward, competing welcome cries on their lips. Without a glance at them, Mr Yu and Ben Schwartz led us into the alley and through one of the bigger gateways into a courtyard where a mama-san with a bee's nest hairdo was already flapping around, banging door posts with the palm of a meaty hand, calling staff to muster.

Soon we swayed in front of more than twenty young women lined up in the courtyard in full
Han-bok
costume, long hair pinned back in precise tight buns, hands clasped in front of wide flowing dresses in garish clashing colours, broad, heavily made-up faces beaming professional welcomes.

Mr Yu, unsteady on his feet, swept a hand at the line of women and spoke to the guests, who stood in an uncertain cluster. Red in the face from drink, he had lost some of his earlier capacity for flowing, unblemished English.

‘Gentlemen, whatchoo like?'

The visitors just looked at him, so with a laugh he led by example, taking the youngest of the women by the elbow and leading her towards a room that the mama-san indicated with a series of mechanical toy bows. Soon a line of freshly-formed couples followed Yu into the room. I rescued a shy-looking lass from the fast-diminishing selection and joined them.

‘So this is just another day in the life of the ex-pat abroad?' Conor sat next to me. A gorgeous Korean woman fed him fruit salad with one hand while with the other she casually teased his inner thigh.

‘Koreans are big on hospitality, and Chang wants you people on his side.'

‘Ah hell, an ulterior motive. Now you've spoiled the illusion that the life of the foreigner is always like this.'

I thought of my past few days. Aside from the odd interruption for photography and blackmail, it had been a constant trek from bar to restaurant to nightclub to bed. No wonder I was so tired.

‘Much of the ex-pat's working life is about smoothing relationships with Korean clients over evenings like this. It's not a game for the weak-livered.'

Conor drew his fingertips around his partner's slender waistline, making her wriggle. ‘How about weak marriages?'

‘Asia's been the death of a lot of them – and a few of the strong ones too.' Across the room Schwartz, face slack from too much drink, was trying to get his hands down the front of his girl's dress. That only made two of us being unfaithful to his wife.

‘Was it too much drink that got you the keeker?'

I had forgotten about the black eye, and not one other person today had mentioned it.

‘Exactly. Got up in the night after a few too many beers, thought I could find my way in the dark – and took a dive in the hotel bathroom.'

A couple of young bankers were being led from the room like tame elephants under the control of diminutive hostesses. Nethers had acquired two girls all to himself, and showed signs of leaving with them at any minute. Conor turned away from a grape on a stick that his girl was trying to feed him. ‘What do the locals think of all this? Don't they resent it?'

‘Half the guys in here are Korean.' I brushed a piece of imaginary lint from the breast of my new friend, who nuzzled closer. I stood up, and like an expectant puppy springing to heel, she followed.

‘If you'll excuse us, we have stereotypes to explore.'

I popped out of deep sleep like a day-old chick ejected from the nest, dazed and bruised and featherless on the forest floor. Except I was butt naked and clinging to the underside of a rectangular rug, scant protection from the relentless blast of hotel air-conditioning. My mouth felt like it had been turned inside-out and freeze-dried on a desert floor, my breath so foul I could smell it with my mouth closed.

I stood up slowly. Only my quarter of the huge bed was a mess, the rest of it undisturbed, so apparently I had made it back to the hotel alone and to my own bed, albeit temporarily. Scratching at balls hanging satisfied and loose, I remembered why, thinking of the slim young
agashi
I had plucked from the courtyard line at the suburban whorehouse. She was surprised by my request for ‘only' a good massage, but when I said she could tell the Mama-san to bill K-N for the whole package, she entered into the conspiracy with visible glee. One randy foreigner she didn't have to service, yet still get paid. It was her lucky day.

Her strong hands skilfully kneaded me all over without once crossing the pain threshold that forever lurks at the edges of a quality massage. When her fingertips strayed across my shorts and found me aroused, she furrowed her brow in mock rebuke and reached for a lotion jar.

A few hours later, and my hotel room might as well have been filled with dense fog, so complete was my
soju
hangover. I scrambled my way to the mini-bar and leaned down to pluck a bottle of water from the shelf low on the fridge door. A lancing pain knitted my temples, blurring my vision with tears; my stomach did a back-flip, and my mouth filled instantly. I let the bottle slip from my fingers and bolted for the bathroom, where I jack-knifed before the pedestal. Between after-shocks I hugged the bowl-rim, rested my head in my arms, and swore I would never touch the stuff again. Even in the most bare-faced lie there is a sliver of hope, which might explain why drinkers are such terrible liars.

I woke again when my head hit the wall and the stench of disinfectant cut through me like smelling salts. Throwing the toilet brush to one side, I put hands to wall and levered myself onto numbed legs, palmed my way around three right-angles to the wash-hand basin and squinted at the all-too familiar horror in the mirror. Eyes like nailholes in a rotten board, crusted at the corners, the swelling around the right one receding now, angry purple tending towards jaundiced orange. Grey-pale face wrinkled and lined, lips faded and near bloodless. On my forehead, a crescent weal where I had slept on my watch before sliding from the toilet bowl and waking with a head-flick to the bathroom wall. I put one shaky hand to a ridge above my left ear and winced: a cartoon-egg bruise, growing beneath my fingertips.

From the wall phone I called down for a large pot of coffee, two litres of still mineral water, a jug of freshly-squeezed orange juice, three bananas and a bucket of ice. Shuffling from the bathroom, I opened the door to the corridor, flicked over the security bolt to leave it unlocked for room service and lay down again, on the bed for a change. A few minutes later – it may have been seconds – a ringing door bell broke into my erotic reverie. Arranging the heavy towelling robe as best I could (what is it with hangovers and hard-ons?), I yelled to come in. A disgustingly cheerful young man bounded across the room, heavy silver tray floating easily on one hand. I waved at the coffee table and with his free hand he cleared newspapers, dirty socks, and a pile of coins. Avoiding eye contact I signed the bill, thanked him and turned away. Apart from those coins I had no Korean money left to tip him. Something had to be done about that.

Nearly eleven o'clock. At least it was Saturday and, unless my memory was playing tricks, Schwartz had said I wouldn't be needed again until Monday. I had one hour before Bobby joined me for brunch. I switched the TV to CNN, volume low, and attacked the water and orange juice, rehydrating and raising blood sugar levels before settling down to coffee and bananas. The coffee wouldn't help the dehydration, but I needed that caffeine jolt in a hurry, and the bananas would further help the sugar levels. Bobby never goes anywhere without a beer thirst, and if I was going to join him for a hair of the dog I had to get myself into better shape quickly. Certain times are entirely wrong for stopping drinking. Right now, even a momentary pause was out of the question.

I got to the coffee shop five minutes late. Bobby was sitting in an alcove attacking a tall draught beer while he flicked through the local papers, his big honest face lined with worry. I sat down opposite him and asked the waitress for a beer. Bobby gave her the Winston Churchill fingers, signalling to make it two. When he turned to face me his expression was grim.

‘I got a phone call at six o'clock this morning.'

For all I knew it could have been me. ‘Who was it?'

‘A Korean speaking English, but slow and near-perfect, like he was reading from notes.' Bobby sucked at his beer. When he raised his eyes over the edge of the glass I thought I saw tears form.

‘The bastard threatened my family, said he knew where we lived.'

‘What do you mean ‘threatened'?' I dreaded the answer. I could guess what this was about. The beers arrived, and I took them from the tray and shook my head at the waitress. She left us.

‘He said something like, ‘You should be careful. It is better for you if you stay away from some people. Certain things are none of your business'.' He raised the beer glass, his hand shaking. ‘I asked him what he was talking about, and he said ‘Stop talking with the wrong people about things that don't concern you, or your wife and little Min-hong and Min-tae will be in danger'.'

Whoever it was knew Bobby had two boys, and even knew their names.
Our business.
My drink was in my hand, close to my lips as if awaiting instructions. I put the glass down hard, beer splashing over my hand onto the table.

‘Jesus, I'm – '

‘You've been messing me about ever since you – '

‘Wait – '

‘You've been using me, pumping me for information about K-N and the GDR – '

‘Bobby I'm in a fu – '

‘I told you everything I knew, and when you kept me in the dark, I told myself it was no big deal. My old mate Alec always did like to play his cards close to his chest.'

Sometimes it's better to say nothing. I licked beer from the back of my hand. It tasted acrid.

Bobby stared unblinking. I tried to look back at him.

‘Bobby, I never for a moment thought anything like this would happen.'

‘Just tell me what the fuck is going on. You've fed me nothing but shit since the day you arrived.'

I dabbed at the spillage with a napkin so heavy with starch that beer ran off it like beads of golden glass.

‘For what it's worth, I told you mostly the truth.'

‘Right. Mostly.'

‘I didn't think the bits I kept to myself could hurt you – because I thought they were my problems, nothing to worry you about.' I had an awful thought. ‘Hang on, where are Myong-hee and the boys? Tell me they're not at home alone.'

‘They're spending the day at her sister's. I took them there in a taxi.'

‘Did you look out for anyone following you?'

‘We're talking about my wife and kids. What do you think?'

The waitress arrived with fresh beers. I hadn't noticed Bobby ordering them, but his glass was almost empty again. Bobby drinks hard enough when he is happy, but when he is under pressure, he
really
goes for it.

‘Anytime you are ready. I've got all day.'

‘Listen, I'm not making excuses.' I held up one hand. He settled for another hit at his beer. I went on.

‘No excuses, but if this sounds bad, wait until I tell you the rest of it. Maybe then you'll see why I kept it to myself.'

‘Are you going to tell me, or just talk about telling me?'

I sat up and looked around us. The only adjacent alcove was empty, and at the nearest table three Africans in finely cut pinstripe suits were talking French. Still, I lowered my voice.

‘I'm being blackmailed by Chang, Schwartz and Martinmass into helping them with the GDR and the Due Diligence investigation.'

Bobby gave me a look of pure disbelief. ‘You're a fucking
photographer
– how does a London snapper fit into a GDR issue worth several hundred million?'