Hearts of the Morning Calm...Prologue and Opening Chapters

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,
Absent thee from felicity awhile,
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain
To tell my story.

—Hamlet,
William Shakespeare

FOREWORD
 

Since 2333 BC, long before the Western world was new,
Antiquity's name for Korea was Chosun…
Land of the Morning Calm.

 

PART ONE

Astoria, Oregon

December 13, 1998

Time it was,
And, what a time it was.
It was…
A time of innocence,
A time of confidences.

Long ago…it must be.
I have a photograph.
Preserve your memories;
They're all that's left you.

—Bookends Theme,
Simon and Garfunkel

PROLOGUE

Despite its twenty years, his sole remaining photograph had aged gracefully. The left edge was just slightly tattered. A long ago corner-crease was nearly imperceptible. The once white border was only now turning a mature shade of ivory; even the old colors remained, New England-autumn bright. Seemingly, the remarkable snapshot was inoculated against the bacteria of time and touch.

Saunders held the picture with both hands, and again marveled at the stunning landscape. In the far background, dark, saw-toothed mountaintops sliced sharply across a cloudless horizon. Closer in, afternoon sunlight reflected from a wide river in a thousand silver sparkles. The bright water flowed slowly across the paper, finally disappearing through a narrow gap in rocky, precipitous cliffs. In the left foreground, two gigantic statues were, like the lost city of Petra, carved into the reddish-brown rock of a vertical cliff face.

Certainly, the terrain’s panoramic scope, nature’s magnificent touch, and man’s bold artwork were on breathtaking display. Even so, the picture would never be considered a landscape. A single, powerful presence made this photograph an accidental portrait.

At the far left stood the apparently reluctant, unintended subject, a young Asian woman. Without effort, she muted and subdued her dramatic surroundings. A classically simple white blouse accentuated her short, black hair. Faded, tapered jeans emphasized her long legs. There was a supple, almost athletic look about her. She was attractive, but not striking. Yet, she was absolutely compelling.

Saunders knew the woman’s commanding presence stemmed from the triple nature of her character. She possessed in full measure the gifts of strength, grace, and compassion. They radiated from her like powerful searchlights, guiding, comforting, redeeming.

Leaning his considerable bulk toward the large bedroom window, Saunders squinted and adjusted his bifocals. Gray December twilight seeped through the rain-streaked glass. Tilting the photo to catch the diluted light, he tried again to capture the woman; to find and hold her elusive, multi-stream essence. As on a hundred previous occasions, he found her unchanged. She stood facing the photographer, chin raised, head tilted, leaning against a metal railing, the sparkling river hundreds of feet below. In contrast to the nonchalant pose, her earnest expression was almost humorous. Saunders shook his head in warm bemusement; no matter the time or distance, she remained what she was, very much like her nurturing Asia; a wonderful, contradictory enigma, an elegant, intricate, delicate paradox.

With a rueful half-smile, he turned the photograph over. On the back was a promise, its faded characters carefully and methodically doled out by a steady hand. It was a melancholy pledge, sufficient to bind a wound but not stay the bleeding. Feeling like an emotional Peeping Tom, he was nonetheless compelled to read the words. The simple phrases brought her to life, illuminated her humanity; and without fail, moved him. They’d never met, but he’d all too easily fallen under her spell. Secretly, he wished the pledge were for him.…

Remember my promise.
I will hold you in my heart, always.
You will never be far from me.
We will be together.
Y

He thought the message was oddly mixed, and like the woman, simultaneously ambiguous and forthright. The inscription began with a command, but softly tendered. The message didn’t close with "love," but love was clearly present. The promise held strong commitment and connectivity, but hauntingly…in absentia. Most interesting was the final, equivocally clear sentence. Did it mean "together" in some future reality, or was it tied to the preceding phrase, and meant metaphorically? No one would ever know.

Saunders gazed wistfully across his sick friend’s bed and through the window at the storm-enraged breakers and the coastal gloom.

"It’s really amazing. We’ve looked at her, thought about her, talked about her, every day for months. But, even after all that, the more I…focus on her, think I know her, the more she becomes," he hesitated, searching for a word, finally settling on, "obscure."

"Yeah, she.…" A retching cough barged into Wilson’s sentence, forcing him to a partial sitting position. The spasm passed. Grimacing, he eased back against the pillows.

"She was like that," he finished weakly.

Saunders nodded, leaned forward, and returned the picture to the frail man, who placed it on the nightstand between the water glass and pill jars.

The wind-driven rain tapped louder against the cold, single-pane window. In defiance, the fire popped twice; the wet wood sizzled. The scent of burning pine wandered amicably about the room. The old Oregon coast house, like most of its day, was built with a fireplace in each bedroom. When the December rains sprinted in, cold and unrelenting, from their anonymous north Pacific birthplace, a fire’s warmth soothed primal fears and the firelight dispatched the demons.

Saunders picked up a woolen afghan from the scuffed oak floor, shook it open, and draped it across his knees. Settling back in the wicker chair, he looked briefly at a small, faded print of a Parisian street corner hanging above Wilson’s brass-frame bed. He noted absently that the glass was chipped and the plain wooden frame rather nicked and in need of replacement. Though it was one of Wilson’s most valued possessions, its repair, like most chores in his recent life, would probably go uncompleted. Finishing the novel had been an exhausting trial. He had little energy—or now, time—for extras.

"So. Can you believe it’s done?" Saunders asked, affectionately fingering the manuscript in his lap.

Wilson rolled his head listlessly toward the rain-streaked windowpane, looked out at a distorted, disturbed ocean, but didn’t respond.

Saunders rubbed his chin and struggled with how to broach the next subject. They had covered this tender ground before. Wilson, the final authority on story line, consistently objected. Saunders, the vigilant editor, called it "full-circle information" and believed it was material readers would want. If Wilson could be persuaded, the novel could still be modified without postponing publication.

"Uh, Keith?" Leaning toward the bed, Saunders tapped the manuscript with two fingers. "Look-it, just one thing. We oughta rethink the Korean Air Lines stuff." He hesitated, then added softly, "You know, the double-oh-seven incident."

"Christ, Bill, not again." Wilson looked wearily at the ceiling. "I’m a sick man here. How ’bout giving me a little peace on this, huh?"

"Hey, I’m just trying to improve it, make it better. I’ve got a…you know, a feel for this kinda thing. I do it for a living. It’s why I get paid, remember?"

Wilson closed his eyes and grunted.

Undeterred, Saunders continued. "Listen, I just think it’d give the readers closure. I guarantee they’re going to want to know what happened to her. To him. It just closes the loop, that’s all."

"No." Wilson raised an emasculated hand, the skin almost translucent. "Why can’t you get this? It’s fiction…or mostly fiction." He picked up the photograph and, holding it toward Saunders, continued in a subdued, almost regretful tone. "I just used her as an example, a model. It’s all made up, all, uh…make-believe. The people in there don’t exist, not then…and certainly not now." He looked at the picture briefly, then placed it on the blanket near his side.

"Well, readers won’t think so."

"Tough. Readers can think what the hell they want. It’s my last book, and it’s fiction. Period. Besides, that other stuff ain’t germane! It happened years later, and’s got nothin’ to do with the story. And most important? Bill? You listening? Uh? Most important? I don’t know the details. I don’t want to know the details. I just plain don’t want to think about it! So…no. Let it go."

Saunders sunk back in his chair, but looked up in time to catch Wilson’s wicked smile. "The only way you’ll include KAL double-oh-seven is over my dead body." A convert to gallows humor, Wilson laughed loudly. The sound was bitterly sarcastic and surprisingly robust in the small, dim bedroom.

"I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. Besides, you approve all the changes."

"Yeah? Well, I don’t approve this one…again, and hopefully for the last time."  Wilson pulled the blankets to his neck. "Always so goddamn cold anymore."

The rain slackened. The fire waned. The darkness intensified. The white ceramic table lamp, always on in Wilson’s near-sleepless world, cast an unhealthy yellow glow. In the downstairs hallway, an antique wall clock slowly chimed five times, the sound muffled and weak. Saunders shifted his weight and placed both feet on the floor. The tan wicker chair squeaked loudly.

"You gotta go?"

"No." Saunders looked up quickly, ashamed he’d been thinking of an excuse to leave. He cleared his throat and said, a little too emphatically, "Not at all. You need something?"

Wilson answered softly, "Yeah, can you read me some? Just a little."

"Sure, Keith, happy to." He pause and smiled. "I’m in love with her too. What part you want to hear?"

Wilson turned toward the window. The world was quickly darkening, sharp images fading to soft edges, only the rain was audible. A silent minute passed; then two. Saunders had seen these lapses before, though they were now more frequent and their duration longer.

Finally, his voice weak from disease and encumbered with distant joy, Wilson said, "The front. Start at the beginning." Pausing, he closed his eyes. "The world was…new then, brighter, unspoiled. Things seemed…possible. The future wasn’t the past. Start at the beginning."

Saunders ran his hand across the manuscript. Melancholy tried to press against him, but he pushed it aside. Wilson was correct. The beginning was bright. Possibility was reality. Opening the manuscript’s maroon cover, he turned to Chapter One, smiled at what he knew was there, and began to read.…

PART TWO

Seoul, South Korea

October 8, 1978

Twenty years now,
Where’d they go?
Twenty years,
I don’t know.
I sit and I wonder sometimes,
Where they’ve gone.


And sometimes late at night,
When I’m bathed in the firelight,
The moon comes callin’ a ghostly white,
And I recall.
I recall.…


—Like a Rock,
Bob Seger

Chapter One 

The wide Seoul sidewalk teemed with a variety of Koreans who, like their emerging country, were a contradictory composite of the modern, the traditional, and the future. Businessmen in dark Western suits, women in Eastern silk dresses, and teenagers in plaid and gray school uniforms jostled, bumped, and pushed noisily past me as if I weren’t there. A rush of sing-song Asian words swirled rapidly through the bright October afternoon, falling with an incomprehensible jangle on my Western ear. Blond, a foot taller than the surrounding crowd, and dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, my male ego felt the dull sting of an excluded expatriate, a kind of cultural trespasser, unbidden, unwanted, but impassively tolerated.

At the corner, a traffic light changed from green to yellow, slowing the crowd. The fickle light changed to red, and our babbling stream sloshed to a moving stop, pooling restlessly along the curb.

Before us, the jammed street was alive with overloaded buses, buzz-saw-noisy motorbikes, and Asia’s signature vehicle, the tiny, smoke-generating, three passenger taxi. Horns blared and engines revved as the vehicles edged minutely forward, seeking even the smallest positioning advantage for the anticipated getaway.

Their restraining red light changed to green and the drivers applied full throttle. En masse, the vehicles burst away from the intersection, leaving a peaceful ripple of decrescendo noise and a thin curtain of acrid, hazy blue smoke. However, like the false tranquility of no-man’s-land, it was a deceitful serenity. Materializing from nowhere, a flash of equally impatient taxis, motorbikes, and buses ripped loudly past in the opposite direction. Glad to be afoot, I shook my head and grinned, bemused by the always aggressive, rarely rational Asian drivers who were forever in a passionate rush to reach the next stoplight.

Through the blurry maelstrom of weaving traffic, I glanced toward the far corner where a surprising remnant of old Seoul caught my attention. A single story, Oriental style, wooden building stood in David-and-Goliath contrast to the surrounding glass and steel skyscrapers. The building’s gray tiled roof swooped down and away from a peaked ridge to end gracefully in four upturned corners. Softball-sized green dragon heads snarled from beneath white, overhanging eaves. A small, arched doorway and a pool-table-sized display window occupied most all of the red building’s front.

A traditional Asian structure in 1978 Seoul seemed an impossible anachronism. Yet, there it was, a lost ghost from a forgotten century, standing with grace and patience next to its younger, bigger, flashier cousins. I smiled at the architectural counterpoint and wondered what the little building housed, and what miracle had allowed it to escape the city’s Shermanesque march to the Sea of Modernization.

The traffic squealed to a stop. The street was temporarily safe. With uncanny synchronization, the surrounding river of Asian faces surged into the striped crosswalk. Like unnoticed flotsam, I was carried benignly along in the backwash, across the intersection and closer to the mysterious structure.

I drifted diagonally out of the main current to stream’s edge and stopped before the little building. Tilting my head, I tried to read a small sign hanging above the doorway. Impossible; just a scrambled tangle of pick-up-stick letters and jumbled Korean symbols that made no sense. I moved to the window, and in typically bold American fashion, peered inquisitively through, unconcerned about decorum or the privacy of secrets.

Beyond the glass I discovered muted lighting, accent mirrors tastefully hung on mahogany walls, and on three of four sides, polished glass counters holding pearl, gold, and silver display items. The enigmatic little building was a jewelry shop.

I leaned forward, cupped my hands against the glass and looked more closely. Arranged tastefully in the display window were men’s and women’s watches, diamond rings, and bracelets made from Korea’s famous white jade. I looked further into the shop, across the emerald-green carpet to the small room’s far wall. There, behind the counter, sat an Asian woman. She was alone, reading, totally absorbed in what would prove to be her beloved Hamlet.

I stood back from the window, surprised by an urge to step inside and browse. Hesitating, I checked my watch and sighed. Four-forty. The cusp of late. Dinner with my Army friends was at five. I had little time for, and certainly no interest in, jewelry. I shook my head in a questioning reproach; I wasn’t a browser. Regaining my wits, I began to turn away.

The woman, unaware of my presence, arched her back in a long, feline stretch, all the while continuing to read. She relaxed and casually passed one hand through her short, styled hair. Pursing her lips, she turned the page, slowly, as if too rapid a movement would dislodge and scatter the words. Her movements were unpretentious, elegant, and inexplicably captivating. I looked at the ground, smiled, and shook my head…perhaps just a quick look. I could, it seemed, spare five minutes after all.

* * *

I opened the door. A tiny brass bell jingled. The woman looked up, expressionless, transitioning through the centuries from Hamlet’s Denmark to 1978 Korea. Recognizing a customer, she placed her book on the counter, one finger marking her place, and stood. With her right hand, she smoothed the bottom of her navy blue jacket, assuring it fell neatly over a light-gray pleated skirt.

I walked toward her and noticed she was taller and thinner than the Korean bar-girls I knew, perhaps only three or four inches shorter than my five-eleven. She appeared lithe, and there was the vague impression of supple athleticism about her. Her face was more narrow and her complexion decidedly less ruddy than the saloon waitresses. Her chin was almost pointed, and she had just a trace of the classic Korean "pug nose."

She tilted her head slightly and seemed for a moment to smile, but as I got closer, I recognized the illusion. Her upper lip formed the top half of an elongated heart shape and, like the geometric French Curve it mimicked, turned the corners of her mouth slightly upward in a perfect Mona Lisa taper.

I reached the counter and concluded my very male assessment. She was appealing, almost attractive, but not beautiful. Beauty was the sole province of Western women, the much desired "round eyes." The highest praise allocated Asian women was…"attractive." Before I could pronounce further judgments, I met her gaze. Without warning, I was ensnared.

Her eyes were, of course, dark; but only as background. Shining through the darkness, they were dynamically alight, aglow with a fierce, steady fire that fueled a glimpse of her power, intensity, and intuition. She seemed to use her eyes like scientific instruments, tools to dissect, examine, and evaluate. Uncomfortably, I sensed my thoughts and secrets were being methodically dredged up and dispassionately assessed.

But there was more, and like Asia, it was subtle, a second level of meaning, a divergent but parallel existence. Asian subtlety never dealt with the event, but what the event represented. Her eyes personified this subtlety, and lying just beneath the ferocity and flames smoldered a hint of sequestered kindness and guarded tenderness.

The net effect was a confusing, conflicting, at odds set of visual clues. Was she the disinterested, scientific examiner, or the understanding and soft comforter? Perhaps she was capable of the impossible, critical compassion. In either case, she suddenly seemed more than just another Korean woman.

I remained transfixed, my assessments and judgments about her surface characteristics forgotten. She continued to watch me with exclusive intensity. The sensation was disturbing.

I cleared my throat, tugged awkwardly at my shirt collar, and with effort, broke eye contact. Still, I felt each of her unasked questions: Who was I? Where was I from? Why had I interrupted? Was I capable of coherent communication, or limited to simple noises and basic gestures?

The silence and my discomfort grew proportionally. Normally glib, I was surprised to find my vault of smooth, opening lines empty. She’d spun me akimbo. Disoriented, I glanced rapidly about for an anchor. I spotted the thin book lying innocently between us, her finger resting at the spot of interruption. A bad idea struck me; naturally, I lunged for it.

"You can’t read that," I blurted.

She continued to watch me without comment.

"It’s English," I added in unsolicited explanation, as if the great unwashed of Asia were incapable of mastering "The International Language."

This approach was classic military humor: rough-and-tumble, sarcastic, and delivered without the important introductory "small talk" or other obligatory Asian social courtesies. Under duress, I’d displayed my best cultural ignorance, laced up my Army boots, and trampled directly over her unseen Korean sensitivities.

The woman, however, appeared unfazed and I wondered if she’d understood what I’d said.

I tried a smile. Smiling was readily understandable, no matter the culture. She didn’t smile in return, so I tried to simplify my insult.

"You speakee English?" I asked slowly in a slightly raised voice, the way Americans do when addressing foreigners.

She sighed wearily, sagged for just a moment, then canted her face upward—a posture she would wonderfully describe as "playing high-nose."

"Yes, I can read the book...and I ‘speakee’ English. Do you?" Her confident tone was lightly indignant, but laced with indulgent humor.

"Oh." I felt the warm blush of red cheeks, but firmly seated in a deck chair on the Titanic, pressed on.

"Well then, prove it. Read a little…and let’s just have me choose the passage," I said brightly, adding the insult of implied dishonesty to my growing list of Western blunders.

Without invitation, I took the thin red book from beneath her hand.

She raised an eyebrow.

I flipped randomly through the pages and selected a short passage. I turned the book toward her and tapped the chosen text, indicating she controlled the metaphoric dice.

Accepting the book, she lowered it to the counter with an expression of bemused disbelief. She shifted her weight to one foot and tilted her head. Apparently, this was a new game. Her manner suggested she was slowly fingering the dice. I could almost hear the ivory clicking and clacking as they rolled deliberately over one another within the boundary of her hand. Clearly, she was considering the odds, weighing risk versus return, deciding whether to pass or play.

Suddenly, she lifted the book, squinted briefly in concentration, and began to read. She did so with a charmingly smooth, lilting cadence. Her diction was almost too good, pure textbook, none of the easy melting of word upon word she would eventually call "conversational English." She read, of course, without error:

"Laertes, was your father dear to you?
Or, are you like the painting of a sorrow,
A face without a heart?

Why ask you this?

Not that I think you did not love your father,
But that I know love is begun by time,
And that I see, in passages of proof,
Time weakens the spark and fire of it."

She paused, but didn’t look away from the text. Her face clouded slightly as she appeared to consider the next sentence. After a moment, she began again, slowly this time, as if emotionally measuring the words.…

"There lives within the very flame of love,
A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it."

She lowered the book and looked up. Her head seemed to move in motor-drive photography freeze-frames, each picture sequentially different than the one preceding. Her gaze had lost its curious examiner quality. Apparently, she too was moved by the words’ passion and touched by their timeless and universal power.

Free from the constraint of her gaze, I recovered first, cleared my throat, and spoke, breaking the spell.

"Uh.… Okay. Not bad. Not bad. Lucky guess probably." I grinned sheepishly, thinking she surely could not miss my obvious appeal and charm.

Indeed, the woman seemed to refocus and return to the small shop. However, she neither smiled nor gave any sign she’d been charmed. Yet, despite my cultural stumbles and her demeanor, I sensed she wasn’t angry or insulted. She was, however, about to demonstrate her rapier-like repartee tendency.

She stooped slightly, bending gracefully at the knees. Reaching below the counter, she rummaged about in what sounded like a sack or wrapping paper. Standing, she produced a second book, this one much thicker than the first. She opened the cover. The print was in Hangul, the written script of Korea. The typeface was large, surrounding illustrations of children, dogs, and cats. It looked like a child’s elementary reader of the "Dick and Jane" variety.

"This book is a gift for my small sister. She would, I think, uh…permit? Yes? Permit you to see this." She handed me the book and, at last, smiled.

"So, now it is your opportunity to read the passage, yes? You," she added, pointedly twisting her embedded rapier, "may also choose this passage." In afterthought, she added casually, "With a loud voice, please." Pausing, she shook her head. "Loud voice is not correct. What is the phrase?"

"Uh, I think you mean ‘out loud.’ Actually, ‘aloud’ is best, but ‘out loud’ is, uh, normal."

"Yes, aloud, please."

I noted with brief interest, she chose "best."

With a satisfied smile, she leaned back against the wall, folded her arms near her waist, and with head tilted, regarded me expectantly.

Touché. Payback. I’m sure she didn’t know the English slang, but clearly she knew the universal concept.

I opened the book, hesitated, and looking down as if to read, bluffed; surfacing one of my few Shakespeare quotation fragments. I began loudly, with bravado, as would an unskilled Victorian actor, then diminished quickly in decrescendo.

"NOW, is the winter of our discontent, made glorious spring byeeee…sunshine," I blurted, laughing, the correct quotation lost. The woman joined me, surrendering at last to laughter.

"This is not correct," she exclaimed, playfully snatching the book. "This is the children’s book." She waved it in the air before my nose.

"Are you sure?" I sparred. We shared more laughter, crisp, clean and connected, with no Eastern or Western border.

"Of coors I am sure." Her emphasis was on "sure" and "course," was charmingly pronounced as if it were the Rocky Mountain beer.

"Also, the uh, word is ‘glorious summer,’ not ‘spring,’" she corrected gently.

"Spring. Summer. Close enough for this test."

"Well, perhaps it is you need the more study and less examination," she suggested with an easy smile.

"Study. Right. I’ll start this evening. But I need a teacher. Maybe you’re available?"

The question was not intended to be suggestive. To my Western ear it sounded fine, fitting nicely in the flow of give-and-take just where it should. This was how it would have developed at Sears or K-Mart back home in Alabama.

However, in a small shop in the heart of downtown Seoul, Korea, the effect was absolutely different. The idea ricocheted sharply off her Asian heritage. Her mood darkened. She withdrew. The surprising warmth between us cooled.

"Well, there are many fine language tutors for this kind of thing. You will identify one without difficulty."

The entry bell rang brightly. A Korean couple entered the shop. Seeing me, they stopped abruptly and, demonstrating that least engaging of Asian characteristics, stared.

I nodded.

They stared.

Looking back to the woman, I noticed she seemed ill at ease, so suddenly and unexpectedly trapped between two worlds.

"Sir, is there something I can show you?" she asked. Her voice had lost its lilting cadence; the question was mechanically delivered as if scripted and awkwardly read.

"Well, uh, actually no. I just happened in and, well.…" I stalled, stymied by the intruding, gawking couple. "Perhaps I could just look around some?"

The woman bowed slightly. "Very well." After a moment’s uncomfortable hesitation, she turned and walked to the couple.

I watched the trio with interest. There was general bowing, much smiling, several handshakes, more bows and an extended exchange of what I gathered were pleasantries. Finally, the man pointed to an article of jewelry and a three-way discussion began in earnest.

Watching this ritual, I concluded these greeting protocols were routine Asian courtesies and conventions I’d overlooked. However, displaying a gracious good nature, the woman had excused my Western manner. She seemed to understand my handicap and the game at work between us. In the shop’s quiet emptiness, she had accepted the dice and played along.

But players fold; games end. More customers arrived. My five minutes had long since lapsed. She could no longer gamble. I could no longer remain.

The woman returned and with the briefest of bows, stood directly before me, hands clasped gracefully at her waist. Her previous familiarity remained in hiding. Her eyes were neutral. She was unreadable and inscrutably Asian.

"Soooo.… I better go."

The woman remained silent and immobile.

Occasionally, life moves us to places of its choice without permission or explanation. For reasons I would never understand, I fumbled in my wallet and heard myself say, "But, uh, take my card." I shrugged. "It’s got my phone number. I live on the American Army base at Yongsan. Perhaps we could, uh…talk sometime? Who knows, you may even decide to become my ‘tutor.’"

I tried another winning smile. No reaction. I started to hold the card out, but intuition cautioned discretion. The rules were different in Asia. I placed my card on the counter. The woman watched, but made no acknowledging comment or gesture. I hesitated, unsure what to say or do. After a moment, instinct urged I leave. This had been fun, but we were finished. I smiled, nodded, and left the shop.

* * *

Seoul’s metropolitan skyline blocked most of the late October sunlight. To the west, dark clouds formed over the port city of Inchon. The afternoon had cooled considerably as it yielded to the deepening city shadows and the promise of rain. I shivered, zipped my jacket and, joining a thinner stream of passersby, walked about a quarter-mile to the perpetually bustling, open-air, Seoul City Farmer’s Market. Opposite the market was a taxi stand where, surprisingly, there was no waiting line.

My tiny beige cab scurried through the capital city’s noisy and frenetic traffic to the Naija Hotel, where I met fellow Army pilots for drinks and dinner. Following dessert, we enjoyed an old Abbott and Costello movie in the hotel’s small theater. After the movie—and several nightcaps—exaggerated tales of aviation derring-do and our growing laughter echoed about the hotel’s bar. At eleven-thirty, with some gentle management prompting, we blearily and nosily agreed to leave.

I taxied the fifteen minutes across town toward my quarters on Yongsan. The little cab’s threadbare windshield wipers scraped left and right in a losing battle to clear the glass of rain. Watching the hypnotic pattern, I fell into a contented stupor; unaware of the gathering forces, unsuspecting of what they would bring, and unprepared for their lasting impact. Sadly ignorant but happily exhausted, it was a simple matter for the combined effects of fatigue, alcohol, camaraderie, and laughter to supplant dim and fading memories of a tall, anonymous Asian woman with remarkable eyes. By the morning, I had forgotten her entirely.

Chapter Two

Korea, "The Hermit Kingdom," lies quietly between the Yellow Sea and the Sea of Japan. The tiny nation is six hundred ancient miles of beautifully rugged, mountainous peninsula. Across the Yellow Sea to the west, lies China; to the north, Manchuria, and to the east—but curling maliciously southwest toward Korea—lurks Japan.

Through the centuries, the Japanese and Koreans developed many blood-soaked animosities, the most recent concluding in 1945. At the close of World War II, the Allies evicted Japanese military forces from the peninsula. The expulsion ended a brutal thirty-five year occupation, marked by a cruel subjugation of the Korean culture and an unrelenting expropriation of Korean natural resources. Japan’s departure also left Korea without a functioning government.

As a first step toward self-determination, the Allies politically divided Korea at its geographic mid-point. The Soviets administered post-war recovery plans north of the thirty-eighth parallel; America was responsible for reconstruction south of the parallel.

The Allied plan envisioned a nationwide election to establish a new government. However, due to Soviet intransigence, a national referendum was not conducted. As a result, rather than a unified country emerging, two antagonistic and philosophically divergent nations arose side by side, communist North and democratic South Korea.

In June 1950, North Korean forces crossed the thirty-eighth parallel and attacked the South, intending to force unification under communist ideology. South Korea resisted and sought United Nations assistance. The U.N. provided combat forces from sixteen countries, the largest proportion American. A bitter, three year war ensued. In July 1953, an armistice was signed. A bitter, twenty-five year peace followed. To help enforce a tense and tenuous cease-fire, American forces remained in Korea.

In the summer of 1978, I was assigned to Korea and Headquarters, Eighth U.S. Army as a helicopter instructor pilot and aviation staff officer. Eighth Army Headquarters was located on a major military installation, Yongsan compound. Fenced and guarded, Yongsan’s twenty square miles of hills, trees, office buildings and living quarters lay adjacent to Itaewon (E-tay-wahn) District, a busy shopping area catering to American soldiers.

The Command’s Aviation Office, in which I worked, was on the first floor of a three-story brick building. I shared aviation duties and responsibilities with my mentor and fellow instructor pilot, Hugh Stevens. Hugh was my senior in military service by fifteen years and at forty-seven, about twenty years my elder. He brought credibility, experience, and professionalism to the office. To me, he brought friendship and humorously sarcastic counsel.

* * *

It was a late afternoon, at least two weeks after my long forgotten jewelry shop encounter. I stood before a large, plastic-covered wall map of Korea marked with aviation hazards and no-fly zones. I was inserting color-coded stick pins at various hazard points when the phone, which seemed to ring incessantly, rang again. I ignored it, hoping Hugh would answer, which, after needlessly clearing his throat, he did. I half-turned toward him and grinned.

"Eighth Army Aviation, Chief Warrant Officer Stevens." Looking vacantly at the two lockers opposite our desks, Hugh paused to listen, then said, "Uh, yeah, it is." Another, shorter pause. "You bet he is, just a second."

Placing the mouthpiece against his shoulder, he looked across the top of his reading glasses.

"Ohhhhh, Jaaaa-son?"

"Yes, Hugh?"

"Guess what?"

"Wouldn’t even try."

"Well, it’s for you, Sport. A woman."

"Christ, it’s not Spiderwoman is it?"

"Nope, a Miss Lee.… Now there’s a surprise."

Lee is a common Korean surname, something like the Asian version of Jones. Inevitably, all Korean women were known as "Miss Lee" to the culturally sensitive GIs—an acronym formed from "Government Issue" and slang for any American serviceman.

I shrugged. "Who’s Miss Lee?"

"How do I know? Your latest bimbo?"

I frowned, but didn’t move.

After a moment, Hugh nodded impatiently toward my phone.

Raising a calming hand, I maneuvered around the file cabinets to my desk and lifted the receiver.

"Warrant Officer Fitzgerald."

"Warrant Officer Fitzgerald? This is the same as.…" She paused before continuing robotically, as if reading in dim light. "Chief Warrant Officer Jason Fitzgerald. Eighth United States Army. Instructor pilot. Yes?"

"Uh, yeah, close enough." Her appended "yes" seemed familiar.

"Very well. Good afternoon, I am Miss Lee."

I rolled my eyes. I didn’t know a Miss Lee; I knew a thousand Miss Lees. I looked up, unfocused, toward the small room’s only window, and repeated slowly as if greatly puzzled, "Miss Lee?"

"Yes. From the jewelry shop. Do you recall?"

Still lost, I didn’t immediately respond. A small, embarrassed laugh seeped down the phone line.

"Oh, you do not recall." A playful, disappointed pout surrounded her words.

I smiled, noting her vaguely odd but delightful choice of "recall" as opposed to "remember." This certainly wasn’t my favorite bar Hostess, Spiderwoman. Her vocabulary was comprised almost entirely of vulgar phrases linked with an occasional conjunction.

"Miss Lee?" I offered blankly. Then, it struck me. "Oh, Miss Lee! Yeah, yeah, right. Of course. That Miss Lee. From the jewelry shop. Yeah. Sure, I remember. You bet. Well, uh.… Hi! How are ya? This is a nice surprise. It’s good to hear from you!"

It was the woman with the remarkable eyes. I sat on the edge of my desk and smiled furtively at Hugh who, taking in the episode, shook his head in playful disgust.

I was on the verge of more gratuitous drivel when Miss Lee came directly to the point.

"I am shopping near your, uh, home. Would you enjoy to meet?"

There again was that engaging, non-standard syntax. Not quite correct, not quite flawed, but enticingly different, almost exotic.

Nudged off-balance by her direct, no-nonsense approach, I stumbled. "Uh, yeah, sure, of course. When? And where?"

"Do you know the Heavenly Gate Hotel? In the Itaewon District?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Very well. In that coffee shop at five o’clock. You can do this, yes?"

"Absolutely." Then, laughing, I mimicked, "Absolutely, ‘I can do this.’ Heavenly Gate Hotel coffee shop. At five. I’ll be there."

"Very well. Goodbye."

"Okay, great! Bye," I added to a buzzing phone line. Miss Lee was apparently not enamored of idle phone chat.

"So. Jason." Hugh uncrossed long runner’s legs, smoothed his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and leaned back in his swivel chair. He removed his reading glasses and studied them intently.

"Miss Lee? Not original, but, methinks, new." He flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his fatigue pants, looked up at me with feigned hurt and added, "You, young lad, are holding out on me."

"Relax, Hugh, she’s just a salesgirl I met downtown, nothing to get excited about, nothing to tell."

"Uh huh. I see." Hugh pulled his chair toward the desk, slipped on his glasses and looked down at an array of folders with a knowing, regretful smirk.

Unable to ignore his know-it-all attitude, I ventured, "Trust me, Hugh, this is all very innocent. I barely know the woman."

"Okay."

"Really!"

"Okay. Fine. Great. I believe you."

Hugh picked up a pen and scribbled something on the top right corner of a document. Expressionless, he appeared to have no additional comment. However, as I walked back toward the map, he volunteered distractedly, "And with any luck, that’s the way it’ll stay."

* * *

After leaving the office, I hurried the two blocks to my living quarters, dressed in civilian clothes, and started walking toward Yongsan’s main gate and beyond, to Itaewon’s shopping area and The Heavenly Gate Hotel. With summer gone, the subtle, dry-leaf aroma unique to fall was in the afternoon air. The day’s last warmth was draining away, encouraged in its retreat by the shadows of Yongsan’s taller buildings. A southern breeze hinted at a cool evening. I slipped into my blue cotton jacket and increased my pace.

The Korean gate-guard smiled and waved through the smeared window of his two-person guard hut. I returned his greeting, passed through the gate, and turned right. The wind was noticeably stronger and I zipped my jacket. I wondered if we’d experience a classically bitter Korean winter and grinned at the GI’s gift for creating disrespectful puns like "The Frozen Chosun." Frozen was clear enough, but "Chosun"? I guessed it was another name for the GIs "chosen" to be in Korea, but why the odd spelling? I vaguely remembered it was also somehow used in terms of Korea, though it made no sense in that context.

Picking a gap in the traffic between a passing, overloaded bus and an oncoming set of speeding taxis, I jogged across Itaewon’s main boulevard. The hotel was just minutes away. I slowed a bit and tried to picture Miss Lee. If it weren’t for those eyes, I’d be unable to pick her out of a crowd; Koreans looked alike to me. I couldn’t recall if she was attractive—unlikely, since she was Asian—so I decided I’d probably ranked her in the generously wide "Acceptable" category.

I had no trouble remembering her sharp sense of humor. Unlike most Koreans, she was willing to playfully use it in repartee with a foreign stranger. Her English was great. I wondered where she had learned to speak and, more incredibly, read it. Acceptable looks, witty, and educated; Miss Lee was clearly unlike the Korean women I knew.

What, then, was she, floating undefined about the world? Was she a new species? What rules surrounded her? Uneasily, I realized there were no rules for women like her. She was undiscovered territory and unmapped terrain. As an aviator, I liked order and predictability. Miss Lee’s unknown nature troubled me; but I brushed aside the concern with a shrug. In the end, she wouldn’t be so great a mystery. Though packaged differently, she was just another Korean woman.

* * *

One of the many Itaewon street vendors approached, pulled up his coat sleeve, and offered me a choice of six "Rolex" watches, each reasonably priced at "Fibe dolla, GI." I waved him away and continued walking. Reaching this Heavenly Gate didn’t require passing through the biblical "eye of a needle," only a brief walk through Itaewon, almost as harrowing a task.

Beginning adjacent the Yongsan compound, Itaewon district stretched two miles eastward along both sides of a busy, four-lane boulevard. Colorful and vibrant, the district was alive with around-the-clock, beehive activity emanating from a crowded honeycomb of tiny shops and bars, both finely tuned to attract young American soldiers.

The average age of Eighth Army enlisted men was about twenty. For most of the soldiers, Korea was their first extended time away from home and familiarity. Lonely for family or girlfriends and bored by the monotony of barracks-life, the young GIs were easily lured to the exotic adventures lying just beyond the Yongsan fences.

By day, the soldiers’ Itaewon escapades were lighthearted, including window shopping, haggling with street vendors, hassling the prostitutes, bolting down spicy Asian food, drinking maekju—potent Korean beer—kibitzing with the shop merchants, and generally finding frivolous ways to squander time and greenbacks.

In the evening, however, Itaewon’s sinister nature ruled, and there was but one diversion: the GI bars. These small, dimly lit nightclubs served Americans only and featured eating, drinking, and dancing wrapped in a Western format. However, for the young GIs, the clubs’ primary attraction was women. Club women were either Hostess or Pillow Girls, each with distinctly different rules.

Hostesses were club employees who spoke fractured but understandable English, and dressed in a provocative Western fashion. They were young, somewhat attractive, not averse to physical contact, and schooled in the most effective methods of draining a soldier’s wallet. Hostesses could be surreptitiously fondled, but only with strategically granted permission; usually when attempting to coax "just one more drinkee" from a sodden GI.

As a condition of employment, Hostesses were forbidden from forming relationships with the soldiers. However, in a convenient coincidence, the clubs were also home to the euphemistically named Pillow Girls, the collective title for Korean women who were either Prostitutes or Camp Followers.

Prostitutes formed the lowest of Korea’s social strata. They occasionally worked from Itaewon’s lesser bars, but more typically walked the streets, boldly soliciting clients and charging free-market rates. They normally spoke only enough English to cover the essentials of cost, time, location, and nature of services. Their business plan called for volume and turnover; relationships were measured in minutes.

Camp Followers existed one rung higher on the social ladder. Their business objective was a longer term, live-in relationship. The best they could hope for was one year, the normal length of a GI’s Korean stay. Camp Followers spoke better English than Prostitutes and had a less "worn" air about them. Generally, they remained off the streets, cruising the bars and clubs in search of GIs willing to live with and support them.

Korean society considered Pillow Girls outcasts. Castigation was so pervasive that any Korean woman simply seen with an American soldier was presumed to be a Prostitute and subject to scorn. To avoid embarrassment and hostility, GIs and their Korean girlfriends stayed in Itaewon, a twilight area where morality was not an issue and the American dollar salved cultural trespasses.

For the GIs, Prostitutes and Camp Followers represented the total population of available Korean women; there were no other categories. The opportunity for an American serviceman to meet what my mother would have called a "nice" Korean girl simply did not exist. To the average soldier, Pillow Girls were "nice" Korean girls.

It was into this tangled and seedy jungle of ignorance, indifference, prejudice, and hostility that Miss Lee and I wandered. For her, the twin tigers of taboo and risk would be quick, vicious, and unmerciful. Unlike Miss Lee, however, I had no sense of jungle, no understanding of taboo, no concern for risk. I was an American, safe and untouchable. Miss Lee, like all Korean women, would have to fend for herself. Those were the rules; that’s the way it worked.

Chapter Three 

The Heavenly Gate, a twenty story, Western-style hotel, was about fifteen minutes’ walking distance from Yongsan. GIs know the hotel’s bar as a favorite nesting spot for Korean women of questionable morals. I wondered how Miss Lee knew about this lair of lust. Perhaps she wasn’t so different after all.

The doorman smiled and tipped his cap as I walked up the front steps. I shuffled through the revolving doors, entered the lobby, and crossed to the glass-walled coffee shop. Tables, covered with white cloth, were neatly aligned in four rows of six each. A center aisle divided the shop in half. Miss Lee, her hands demurely folded, was sitting in the shop’s right rear corner. Seeing me, she made a small gesture of hello and smiled shyly. I waved in acknowledgement and walked toward her.

She wore a chocolate-brown silk blouse and beige wool skirt; a matching jacket was draped over the chair at her side. A gold chain hung loosely about her neck. Her short wavy hair looked like soft obsidian. She wore the lightest of makeup. She seemed relaxed, but there was that remarkable light and intensity in her dark Asian eyes. She watched me with interest.

I withdrew the chair opposite her, but didn’t sit. "Hi, nice to see you again."

Motioning for me to be seated, she bowed slightly and replied, "Annyong hashimnikka. Hello. How nice you could come. This place is not so.…"

"Crowded" occurred to me, as we were the shop’s only customers. However, Miss Lee pursed her lips and looked about somewhat contemptuously as she groped for an appropriate descriptor.

" …suitable," she continued, "but it is familiar to you?" Her voice drifted higher at sentence-end, leaving the hint of a question.

I was unsure how to respond.

"How nice you could come"? It was barely two hours since we’d spoken. Did she think I’d changed my mind?

"This place"? Did she mean Itaewon, or the Heavenly Gate, or both?

"Not so suitable"? For what, or whom?

"Familiar to you"? Did she mean I could easily find the Heavenly Gate, or was she suggesting I was a barroom baron, constantly on an alcoholic prowl in search of willing Korean women?

Squirming slightly, I struggled to interpret, sequence, and reply. But was a response necessary? Had she asked a question or simply made a statement? Did she expect explanation or confirmation? She had spoken two sentences and I was disarmed. As in the jewelry shop, she continued to silently watch me.

As I nervously bumbled toward a rejoinder, our waitress arrived, plucking me from the quandary. I was saved, but I sensed Miss Lee had become subtly uneasy. For Heavenly Gate waitresses, GIs with Korean women were an everyday sight. They were long since oblivious to cultural taboo, scorn, or embarrassment. We ordered coffee, which was quickly poured, and our waitress off to other matters.

Miss Lee stirred cream into her cup and seemed somewhat more at ease.

We began smoothly enough. In what would become a familiar pattern, she initiated the conversation in her intriguing, non-sequitur fashion.

"As you can see, I am shopping. While looking for money in my, uh.…" Placing her left hand on her purse, she gestured in a wrist-rotating motion with her right hand, the thumb and index finger extended U-shaped, approximately an inch apart. It was an endearing, defining gesture. I would see it many times. She would call it, "word-searching."

"Purse?" I proposed.

"Thank you, this is the proper word. In my purse.…" She slowed and drew out the word as if it were spoken for the first time and she wanted it categorized and memorized. " …I located your card. This gave me the thought to telephone. This is acceptable?"

I realized Miss Lee had an intriguing tendency to change a declarative to an interrogative at the last moment. I’d noticed two techniques for this: appending "yes" at a statement’s end, and the more subtle approach of increased voice inflection as the sentence ended. This was the case with her last statement, which, of course, was not a statement at all, but a question.

"Well, sure. I asked you to call; so you were actually obligated."

We smiled awkwardly and drifted into silence. I sipped my coffee and studied the floor. Looking up, I caught her eye. She looked quickly away. More silence. Finally, I nodded toward the packages stacked next to her.

"Looks like you’ve been to every store in Seoul," I teased.

"No, not all stores, just a few," she answered seriously, missing my playful sarcasm.

"Oh."

Miss Lee looked about nervously. I nodded and wondered what to say next. Eventually I tried, "Well.

You’ve certainly more than just a few packages."

"Yes. More than a few," she replied woodenly.

"So. That’s nice."

"Yes. Nice." Miss Lee cleared her throat and smiled uncomfortably.

I adjusted my chair and glanced at the ceiling. Absently, I noticed both rear corners had dangling cobwebs. Looking back to Miss Lee, I asked, "Uh, did it take you long to buy them?"

"No, not long." She fidgeted with the napkin on her lap and brushed aside imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth.

I’d been with her less than two minutes, but could feel our meeting slipping away. The surprising awkwardness was a reversal of our effortless jewelry shop banter. I wondered if it was the culture, but decided not; I didn’t have this problem with Pillow Girls.

Casting about in a final effort to sustain the conversation, and exhibiting a dogged interest in her packages, I came out with the brilliantly conceived, "Uh, are they all for you?"

"All what?" she asked, nervously twisting her gold necklace.

"The packages, Miss Lee. Are all the packages for you?"

"Oh! Sorry. No. My family. Most are for my family. My brother is never shopping, so, this is my duty," she explained.

I leaped at the family angle. "How many brothers and sisters you got?" If this didn’t turn the tide, I’d somehow excuse myself from this disaster, find Hugh, and line up a Pillow Girl.

Miss Lee brightened and became more animated at the mention of her family.

"There is my brother and, as you know," she glanced at me in a sly and satisfied manner, "my smaller sister. We live with my mother and father in the district of Mapo." She pronounced it "maw-poe." "We have the small rooms there. My father is old and does not now work. My mother does not work. My brother is at school during these days. I work. I am first. No, not first, how is it said?"

"Oldest?" I suggested with a smile.

"As the oldest," she continued, making no acknowledgment of the assistance, "I am responsible."

She said this without pride, anger, or remorse, just factual recitation. If she felt any of these emotions regarding her family, she did not then, nor ever, communicate them. However, it was clear in her tone and manner that she regarded her family obligations seriously.

"Responsible for what?" I probed.

"For my family’s, uh.…"

"Welfare?" I provided.

"Yes. Exactly. Thank you. Well-fare." She pronounced the word with two clear and distinct syllables.

"I must work until my brother leaves the university. He is now sixteen…and very silly," she lamented, sounding like any older sister, anywhere.

"Where’d you learn to speak English? Which is, by the way, quite good."

"In school and at university. I do not practice now, so, my skill is not as it was. I do wish my conversational English is soon improved."

"You also read English."

"Yes, of course," she said, drawing back in false, exaggerated offense. "Most younger people do."

The waitress cruised distractedly by, filled our cups, and left without comment.

Apparently deciding she had explained enough about her background, Miss Lee asked, "Where do you live in America?"

"I was born and raised in Ohio.…"

"This is the center-west, yes?"

I smiled. "Uh, kind of—the Midwest, actually. But I live in Alabama now."

"Alabama is in the Confederate," she said flatly.

Laughing, I replied, "Well, they think so, but the rest of the country thinks of it as simply in the south."

She looked at me earnestly, lost in the difference between Confederate and south.

She wasn’t sidetracked long. "Your family, it is how big?"

"Well, unlike you, I have no brothers or sisters."

She sat up slightly, wonderment on her face. Her reaction stopped me. We looked at one another in surprised silence.

"No brothers or sisters?" she repeated, a lightly questioning tone in her voice. "This is sad."

"Well, I don’t know about sad. I never thought about it much." I shrugged dismissively. "Just don’t have any. It’s no big deal," I said, feeling defensive.

"Oh, yes. Brothers and sisters are wonderful. They uh.…" Word-searching. "…tie, the family together. They allow the family to continue in the uh…future, yes? They share the secrets and problems that mothers and fathers cannot know. They are laughter late in the night. They are help when you really need this. Yes, they make you angry. But no matter, they are…lifetime friends. They are important. If you have none, then you do not know this. Yes, it is sad."

"Well, good. I’m sure you’re right. But I just don’t have any, and there’s not much can be done about it."

I tried to answer cordially, though to my ear I sounded petulant, and perhaps with good reason. Why did I have to defend this no-siblings turf? What difference did it make? Having—or not having—a brother or sister didn’t seem to have affected my life much one way or the other. Clearly, however, Miss Lee had a different perspective.

I glanced uneasily through the adjacent glass wall and into the hotel lobby. I sipped my coffee and wished we could get past this family question.

Apparently sensing my discomfort, Miss Lee smiled in her uniquely engaging way and, dismissing the tension, said gently, "Well, you are correct. There is nothing to do, or not do. It is your fate to have no brothers or sisters. Tell me about your mother and father? You have these, yes?" She chuckled, pleased with her wit.

Now on guard, and somewhat aware of her feelings about family, I sensed she wouldn’t like my next response either. I hesitated, trying to find the correct framework. There seemed no easy way to phrase it.

"My mother and father are divorced."

Miss Lee became serious again and after a moment said, "Duborced?"

"Dee-Vorced," I gently corrected.

She took a breath and looked toward the ceiling, as if reviewing a mental dictionary.

"Yes, this means not living in the same place together because of the disputes?"

Nodding my head, I offered the erudite, "Uh, yeah, pretty much."

"This circumstance is also sad." Miss Lee looked down at her coffee. With one hand, she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the white tablecloth.

"Yeah, but it happened when I was really young. I was raised exclusively—"

She looked at me questioningly, apparently unable to translate "exclusively." A second attempt produced the unwieldy,

"I was raised only by my mother." Miss Lee nodded in what I hoped was understanding.

"I haven’t seen my father in years. But to me, that’s normal. I don’t have a sense of loss. Again, it’s no big deal and nothing now to be done about it. My mother’s a writer. I grew up okay, I guess, and so.…" My voice trailed off; I shrugged, unsure how to finish.

Miss Lee stepped in and continued smoothly. "We do not have this kind of thing so much in Korea. Many marriages are chosen, set, by the parents. The couple does not, cannot, de-vorce," she said, careful to use the "V" sound. After a short pause, she added, "We have the different family histories."

"Yeah. Different."

We sat silently, discomfort an unwelcome visitor at the table. This was not the clumsiness of our earlier "first date" conversation, but the awkwardness of my dysfunctional family disturbing and disrupting our harmony.

But, as I would learn, Miss Lee, blessed with the gifts of intuition, charm, and graciousness, could identify and soothe any difficulty. Moreover, she could summon these gifts at will and manifest them in any form. On this occasion, she simply smiled slightly, lowered and tilted her head, catching my eye, and like a playful, soft wind, gracefully changed direction.

"You are in the Army, yes?"

I brightened. "Yeah, the Army."

"You like this?"

"Oh…it’s okay."

"Why this is? In Korea, the Army is not the so, uh…pleasant job."

"Well, it’s sort of the same in the States."

Miss Lee looked at me quizzically, my semi-confirmation defying her logic. To clarify, I decided to start somewhat from the beginning. I leaned back in my chair and tried again.

"Yes, it’s like that in the States also, but, I got kinda trapped."

"Trapped?"

"Uh, yeah. Trapped. You know, no choice."

"Umm. Choice." Miss Lee nodded somberly. "Yes, I know this kind of thing."

Feeling I was missing something, I continued slowly, "Anyway, I started college at Ohio State, but was more interested in parties and football than academics. So, my grades suffered…were bad. I never got them back up and, well.…" I squirmed. "I got kicked out of school."

"‘Kicked out of school?’ This means the asking not to return, yes?"

"‘Not to return.’ This is exactly correct," I laughed. "To make it worse, this was during the Vietnam War, so I had two choices; get drafted or join voluntarily. Neither was an especially appealing alternative, but volunteering had the advantage of job-choice. So, I joined."

"What job did you choose?" she asked, seemingly fascinated by my undistinguished and failed history.

"I chose flying. Helicopters. I’m an instructor."

"Really?" She sat up and smiled brightly. "In January, I will try for the new job that is also flying. Once each year, KAL.…" She paused, and with an inquisitive sideways glance asked, "Do you know KAL?"

"Uh, you mean the airline?"

"Yes, it is the major letters for Korean Air Lines."

"Letters? Oh, uh…an acronym."

"Um. Once each year, KAL accepts new students for the flight attendant school. I will complete this

application. There is also with this the examination and interview."

I whistled. "That’s pretty brave isn’t it?"

"Brave?"

"Well, yeah, I mean aviation’s a dangerous job, not like working at a jewelry shop."

She shrugged. "Not so brave. Anyway, fate will take care of this kind of thing."

"You think so?"

"Of course, do not you?"

"Well, I never thought about it much. I guess I believe a little more in planning, preparation, and training. How long’s the training?"

"The training is six months," she answered with enthusiasm.

"Is it here, in Seoul?"

"Yes, at Kimpo. This is the Seoul konghang, uh, how do you say…the airport," she added proudly.

"What kinds of things do you get tested on? Is there a special study course, or do you just take the exam and hope for Fate to do the rest?"

Miss Lee allowed my "Fate" sarcasm to pass without comment, but she did explain the KAL testing and interview procedures and her plans to prepare for both. We also spoke of other, less serious, getting-to-know-you things.

The early evening slipped steadily around us. We found a sweet rhythm. Our discussion was punctuated by her frequent, quiet laughter, the give-and-take flowed easily. I happily admit to falling under the spell of her diction, syntax, cadence, smile, and abundant charm. Listening to her, being with her, was a unique and agreeable comfort.

Near the end of our visit, I suggested and she agreed to meet at the Heavenly Gate again on Saturday. We planned strolling, shopping, and of course, her favorite—and rapidly becoming mine—more "conversational English."

As we prepared to leave, Miss Lee smiled wryly and said, "I have a small gift. This first-meeting gift is a tradition in my country. This is perhaps your first culture lesson?" Her voice again rose slightly.

I decided she’d asked a question, but before I could answer, she turned quickly to her bundles and produced a wrapped package measuring about eight by fourteen inches.

"It is for you," she said, placing it on the table before me. "I hope you like it."

"But I have no gift for you," I said, with growing embarrassment.

"Of course. You do not know this culture, uh…habit. I think there are many culture things you do not know. Do not be concerned with this. I am not."

"Gosh, I…I don’t know what to say."

"There is nothing to say or not to say. This is not so great a gift, just a small one."

Still, I hesitated. Realizing I need a nudge, she edged the package further toward me, saying, "Just smile and say thank you. That will be your gift."

"Okay." I smiled, pleased at her elegantly simple solution. "Thank you very much, Miss Lee."

She nodded slightly.

Surprised and pleased, I took the package, untied the string and removed the wrapping. Beneath the brown paper was a simple, wood-framed impressionist print of what looked like a Parisian street corner. Red and blue umbrellas covered tables in front of several small bistros. Artists with easels lined a tree-shaded square. Tourists milled about.

"This is Paris…the Place du Tertre…in Montmartre." Miss Lee pointed to a large white dome in the background. "There, in the uh, away part? This building? This is the Sacré Coeur. These things are on the Right Bank," she volunteered knowledgeably. Then, as if stating a preordained divine right, added, "I will visit there."

"Yes," I said, feigning recognition, "it is Montmartre."

In point of fact, I didn’t know Montmartre from K-Mart. Further, I had no idea what a "Right Bank" might be. I speculated that for every right bank, there was probably a wrong bank. As an aviator, I knew aircraft banked when turning. I had money in a bank. Snow was piled into banks. I donated to a blood bank. Billiards had bank shots. Information was stored in a databank, and there were people on whom I could bank. However, none of those seemed to fit. Of course, the obvious and logical Left Bank never occurred, though I wouldn’t have known what it was in any event. To preserve my dignity and ego, I simply continued the benign deception.

"It’s very nice, thank you, Miss Lee. I’ll hang it in my bedroom."

"You will not dispose this away?" she teased.

"No, of course not!" Warming to the game, I said, "I’ll tell you what. No matter where I go from now on, I’ll always hang this in my bedroom. It’ll be the first thing I put on the wall, and the last thing I take down, always. I promise."

"Very well. One day, when you are President of Alabama, I will visit. I will look for this, uh, poor gift."

I smiled at her cross-wired civics reference. "And you’ll find it. It’ll be there, really."

We were suddenly serious and quiet a moment, both perhaps surprised by such an easily offered and readily accepted lifetime promise.

Barging past the lull, I brightened and added with youthful enthusiasm, "Hey, I’ll go to Paris too! We could meet there!"

Miss Lee nodded and looked away, past my shoulder.

Eventually, we would travel to Paris.

Eventually, we would climb the "Mountain of Martyrs."

Eventually, we would light votive candles in "Sacred Heart" Cathedral.

Eventually…but never together.

Her "poor gift"? The colorful Place du Tertre? As I promised Miss Lee that chilly October evening, the print hangs faithfully above my bed, its colors faded, the frame nicked, the glass chipped. Yet, twenty years distant, it is defiantly bright with covenant, warm with memory, and patient for reunion.