Everything Belongs to Us Page 12

  “Play,” he said, picking up his cards. It was Wonu’s turn to bid. “What do you bid?”

  Wonu glanced at his cards. “Fifteen. Spades.”

  The bidding went around until it was Tae’s turn. “Bid,” said Sunam.

  Tae hadn’t even picked up his cards. He smiled. “Pass.”

  It was his right to pass if he wanted, but they knew he was intentionally throwing the round, dragging out his moment and forcing the others to wait on him.

  “Call,” Sunam said.

  “I said pass.”

  “And I said call.” He could sense the other guys backing him even if no one knew what would happen. He put down his cards with a decisive snap. “Here’s an idea, tough guy. If you lose, you forfeit the magazine. If you win—”

  “Forfeit it? To who, you?” Tae cut in with a laugh. “Why would I do that?”

  “It’s just some pictures, you said so yourself,” Sunam said calmly. “You know plenty of real girls, don’t you? What do you need pictures for? Go ahead, play.”

  There was a moment when Sunam thought Tae would pick up his cards and play. Instead he got to his feet in one fluid motion, not stiff or hurried with anger. A simple unfolding of legs and torso, coming up to full height. When his hands came to his fly, that too seemed a matter of posture. Sunam—and the others—didn’t realize until it was too late, until Tae had unzipped his pants and started to urinate liberally on the cards they’d just played. A full stream at close angle, splattering warm piss in a wide, unpredictable radius. They scrambled, shouting, to their feet. Wonu, farthest away to begin with and almost certainly safe, kept brushing his pants and shaking off the hems as if he thought the stains would scatter off him like crumbs.

  At their feet were the ruined cards, splashed and soaked through.

  “Are you crazy?” Chang’s old-man face was nearly purple. He kicked a batch of the cards near his feet. The soggy card stock stuck to the bottom of his shoe so that he had to scrape it forcefully on the grass, pawing like a goat.

  Tae zipped himself up.

  “Like I said, it was a shit deal. Anyway, I never make decisions on a full bladder.”

  The Playboy was in his hand. He let it drop open over the wettest part of the puddle.

  “The best pictures are in the middle.”

  —

  LATER, SUNAM TOLD Juno the story about the Playboy. Omitting the part about the urine, the inevitable aftermath in which the boys rescued the magazine and smuggled it into one of their homes in a soggy paper bag. Even Chang had come along, citing a curiosity of “foreign cultures.” Once behind closed doors, they had argued over the best way to dry the pages, finally deciding to set sheets of newspaper between them. None of them had foreseen the disastrous effects of pressing wet newsprint to urine. They’d ended up with naked American girls superimposed with local headlines, a uniquely disorienting and disappointing experience.

  Sunam had hoped to amuse or even impress Juno with the story, but he didn’t seem to be paying any attention.

  “You like that game?” he said suddenly. “Mighty—whatever it’s called. You like it?” He had that pinched, appraising look Sunam was becoming familiar with, as if he were an investment turning sour. “How many hours a week you spend with them, you think? Playing that game.”

  “I barely played all week,” Sunam said defensively. He knew his sunbae thought those guys were completely useless, losers without a future, but actually they were smart, decent guys who probably would do fine in life. Sure, they played a lot of cards, but that wasn’t so unusual. They did the same things most guys did: cards, baduk, soju, and cigarettes, fall in love or chase some girls if they felt so inclined. What else was there to do around here, really? It wasn’t as if they were constantly hanging around the comic-book stores, waiting for the new issues to show up. Or nailed to their seats at the library, primed to slit their wrists over a disappointing exam grade. The Mighty guys were not as upper echelon as Juno and his cohort, but they were far from scraping the bottom of the social barrel.

  “But other weeks,” Juno said. “What’s the most you’ve ever played?”

  Sunam thought back to that nine-and-a-half-hour marathon. Since then, far more extreme records had been set indoors. When it was too cold to sit outside on campus, the guys holed up in one of their bedrooms—that record was more than thirty-eight hours—and no one went home or to class or even slept. Thirty-eight hours of bleary-eyed gambling fueled by snacks and drinks delivered to their door by someone’s mother, as if they were members of some national council conducting a vital symposium. Some of the mothers would have fed and coddled the boys for weeks. Not Sunam’s, who barely tolerated the odors and disarray created by her own four sons. His mother, seemingly traumatized by the concentration of testosterone in her home, nurtured a general mistrust of males behind closed doors. It was her belief that the air in such a space would fester, attracting insects and grime.

  “Let me say something to you as your sunbae,” Juno said. “What do you think those guys are going to do when this is over? After college, I mean. Those guys you play cards with.”

  “Probably do their military service.”

  Juno shook his head impatiently. “Everyone has to do that. I’m talking after. Real life. What do you think they’re going to do?”

  “Chang is an economics major. He wants to be a college professor. Wonu—I suppose he’ll get a job somewhere. Maybe an electronics company. Tae’s got such a big mouth, maybe he’ll go into broadcasting—”

  “So no plans,” Juno cut in. “No one’s going anywhere.”

  “I just told you—”

  “Here’s what you don’t understand,” Juno said. “Our country? Think about it. It’s like a little pond. Everyone’s swimming around, all together. Nowhere else to go. You know what happens in a little pond? You don’t have to be a shark. You just have to be bigger than the tadpoles and the microscopic algae. You just have to be that much higher on the food chain. It’s just a little pond, you see? And everyone seems happy enough to be a tadpole. Just getting a little bigger every day. You know what happens when a tadpole gets bigger? It becomes a frog. That’s it, just a frog.”

  Sunam looked at him blankly. Not sure what to say, not even sure what Juno was really talking about. The idea of their country as a “little pond”—it seemed somewhat disloyal to speak in such diminutive terms. Of course their country was small, a tiny peninsula between giants. China, a land giant on the west. And Japan, a superpower that had almost succeeded in overcoming the West. But from their earliest childhood, Sunam and everyone else he knew had been taught a fierce pride in their country. The Republic of Korea was not just a political designation, but an extension of family, of self. It was uri nara, “our country”—the first-person plural, everyone speaking for everyone else. Uri nara, which was small, poor, and vulnerable—but which was unquestionably more valuable and more precious than any other country because it was theirs. Ours.

  “I don’t want to be a stupid frog,” Juno said vehemently. “If we’re going to live in a pond, I want to be the fish. Big fish with a big mouth. Eating whatever I want. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Slowly Sunam nodded, but he didn’t really.

  “What you’re doing—playing cards all day, hanging out with those losers. That’s tadpole behavior. Frog track. Pretty soon, other people will catch on to the game. They’ll start zooming ahead of you and you won’t be able to get off that loser track even if you want to. Too many people. Small pond. It’s wide-open now, but you don’t even see that, do you? You’re sitting around playing cards.

  “To be great you have to follow your instincts.” Juno’s self-importance was total and completely unapologetic. “When I believe in something—well, I do it. Because, have you ever noticed, Sunam, how people say they believe in certain things? Sacrifice. Determination. Hard work. But when it comes time to act on it, to really do as they say, they don’t seem to believe as hard as they claimed.” He p
aused, the master waiting to see if the student understood. “So that’s a sign of weakness, knowing something and not doing it. You may as well stay in the dark and not have known it at all.”

  “You mean like the girl at the Mun-A strike,” Sunam said.

  “Exactly. I’ve made my plan and it’s only a matter of time. You should do the same—whether it’s a girl or a job or—whatever it is. Set your goal. See it through. Who else will do it for you?”

  “I only want the chance you had,” Sunam said. He ducked his head, adding hastily, “If you think I deserve it.”

  “It’s up to you, Sunam. You show me what you deserve.” Juno clapped a hand on his shoulder and seemed to be arriving at some internal decision. “Lucky for you, you’ll have your chance this weekend.”

  He slipped him an address scrawled on thick card stock like a business card, but blank. “This is Min sunbae’s address. Don’t lose it. Eight o’clock this Saturday, don’t be late.” He didn’t have to say anything else for Sunam to understand that this was a tremendous honor, to be invited to the house of Ahn Kiyu. There were probably men twice and triple his age, powerful men, who would tremble at such a rare opportunity.

  “Is this the…final interview?” he asked.

  “It’s a party, Sunam. A party. We’ll have fun.”

  The card he was given did not say what he should do when he arrived at the designated house number and there was no house that he could see. Instead there was a massive iron gate flanked by stone columns. Soft footlights shimmered along a paved driveway that disappeared out of view. An artfully designed forest—or maybe it was a true forest, how did one tell?—made whatever lay at the end of the drive a mystery.

  It should have been a quick twenty-minute bus ride from Sunam’s house. He had set out with plenty of time to spare. But at the last minute—the bus was pulling up to his stop, brakes squealing, exhaust fumes backlit by the beams of following headlights—he had felt certain he had miscopied the address and could not convince himself otherwise. He’d have to go back to campus, where he had another copy, to check. It usually took a half hour or less to campus from his neighborhood, but it was past the commuter hour and the buses were running longer, less frequent routes. It would be a long wait. Still, Sunam waved that first bus along, knowing he would be monstrously late to the party. He rationalized that if he didn’t have the correct address, he might not get there at all.

  It had taken forty-five minutes to campus, only to confirm the address had been right after all. Another hour to double back across the river, transferring two buses to arrive at Min’s neighborhood. Then another twenty minutes lost in the maze of private, unmarked streets, where he could not find a soul to ask for directions. Overheated and two hours late, Sunam had cursed himself for succumbing to doubt and wasting precious time. But now, staring at the high, forbidding gates, he wished the bus had taken even longer, or that he was still en route, or that he had not come at all.

  The right-flanking column was fitted with what could only be an intercom. A silver call button was centered beneath the speaker. His only option seemed to be to press it. Instead, Sunam paced. The address matched the one on his card—he had checked it a hundred times—but still, he worried it was the wrong house. He had never stood at such a formidable gate. And what would he say to whoever answered the intercom? Of all the words he’d uttered in his life, he could not think of anything that might be appropriate in this case.

  Hello…

  I’m here for the party….

  May I be let in?…

  All ridiculous. He would have felt better if he had a secret password, allowing him to bypass all the hapless, generic things one could say.

  Without warning the gates started to rumble, sliding open on mechanized rollers. The intercom beeped once and a voice said, “Stop pacing. Come in already.”

  By the time Sunam thought to answer, the intercom had gone dead. He slipped through the gate, peering around for the camera, his back prickling with embarrassment and paranoia. Wherever it was, the lens was so well hidden that he could not find it even now.

  Once inside the gate, the outside world fell away. Great trees loomed overhead, their heavy arms illuminated by spotlights aimed for maximum impact. Smaller gravel paths branched off the main drive into secret gardens. The call of night birds twittered with almost cartoonish clarity. Even the air took on new scents—the brisk fragrance of mountain trees and the earthy tang of freshly laid mulch. The familiar smells of the city—car exhaust, garbage, yeontan coal smoke—were completely absent, as if they had been denied entry at the gate.

  When he rounded the bend in the drive, he finally saw the house. It was cut into the mountainside in protruding stacks of wood and glass, as if a giant child had devised it layer by layer. Haphazard and poetic. A thing of great beauty and striking ugliness.

  A sound released from the back of his throat, a low hiss like steam escaping a boiling pot. It was the sound of fear and awe. Of disbelief.

  This was it. Everything he had hoped the Circle would be.

  —

  INSIDE, THERE WERE fewer people than he had expected. Sunbaes in black turtlenecks lounged artistically on low leather furniture. Smoke curled from crystal ashtrays. People turned when he entered, then, seeing no one of importance, quickly resumed their nonchalant postures. Sunam wandered near an elegantly arching ficus, pretending to admire a watercolor. He thought he must have seen it in some museum or art book. It was a depiction of cranes in downward flight, melancholy and expensive looking.

  “Bet you that’s a fake.”

  Sunam jumped. A girl peered at him from under thick bangs. Her eyes, a little bloodshot, were lined with dark pencil, and he could smell the faint whiff of alcohol on her breath. She was wearing frayed but well-fitting blue jeans and a simple white T-shirt that had an ink stain on the hem. His immediate impression was that she did not belong in this house or with these people. Who had invited her? Was this some kind of joke, meant to test or harass him?

  “That could have been done by a first grader. But you’d think it was a real masterpiece just because it’s in this house.” She leaned closer and whispered loudly, “Take those vases in the hall, for instance. If they’re really so priceless, would they leave them out for anyone to knock into and break? It’s the lighting,” she said knowingly. “All for show.”

  “They looked nice to me,” Sunam said cautiously.

  He looked around, feeling as if they were caught in a spotlight. The girl made him feel hot and tight, as if he’d been shoehorned into his own skin. Later, if someone asked what she looked like, he would have recalled only the drama around her eyes. He would have conceded that she was pretty—in a wild, messy sort of way.

  “So…” She eyed his outfit doubtfully. “What are you?”

  Sunam looked down at his white-collared shirt and sweater. The carefully pressed slacks.

  The correct uniform, in evidence throughout, would have been dark knit and corduroy. Black, gray, or brown. Sunam’s sky blue sweater stood out like a beacon of error.

  The girl didn’t wait for an answer. “Ah, one of the strivers,” she said, drawing out the word. “Don’t worry. Hopefully all this”—she indicated his outfit—“is the worst that’ll ever happen to you. If you get in. If.”

  “Yeah, well…what are you?” Sunam hoped to mirror her tone, but the question came out mumbled and rushed.

  “No one you need to worry about. I’m not one of the judges.”

  “There are no judges,” he said.

  “No? If that’s what you think, you’re in worse shape than I thought.”

  Finally, he saw Juno across the room, struggling to open a bottle of beer with a glistening silver hook. There was a small explosion, then foam sprayed with a loud hiss. Sunam waved overhead, huge, desperate waves begging for rescue. Juno smiled coolly, dried his hands and the dripping bottle with a clean white napkin, and started to make his way over.

  The girl rolled her eyes when she
saw who was coming. “Time for my exit.” Slowly she sashayed across the room, sliding around the furniture as if she had the steps counted and could cross in the dark.

  Juno thumped his shoulder. Close up, his skin had the dark purplish sheen of too many beers. “Where’ve you been? I expected you hours ago. Nice sweater.”

  “Who was that, anyway?”

  “Her? Don’t worry about it.” He flashed a smile that could only be described as brightly unpleasant. “We have more important considerations tonight.”

  “What considerations?” Sunam tried to decipher how drunk Juno really was. Some people, like his uncle, would turn that color after half a beer. His father, on the other hand, could drink all night and each empty bottle would render his complexion increasingly pale and flat. Only the whites of his eyes would darken to a dank yellow, like the contents of a wet ashtray.

  “Don’t you want to be surprised?” Juno giggled. So he was quite drunk. “It’s more fun when it’s a surprise.”

  Sunam was relieved to discover himself on firmer footing with an inebriated Juno than a sober one. His whole life he had dealt with drunks and their idea of humor. He knew what to do. When to be firm, when to relent. “More fun for who?”

  “Don’t be such a wet blanket,” Juno said. “Everyone else wanted their guy, but I got you in. So don’t let me down. I didn’t get you this far for nothing. You’ll thank me later.”

  “Tell me. I’d rather thank you now,” Sunam said.

  “You know there’s a girl in the mix this year. That gives us certain attractive opportunities,” said Juno, giggling again. “Normally we have to bring in a coed or somebody to play this game, but no need for that this year. Convenient, right? Fifteen minutes in a luxury bedroom suite, right here in this house. A fun little diversion to make sure you’re not bored. We call it ‘Patriot Hostess Game.’ You can figure out the rest.”

  “No way,” said Sunam. “That’s sick. I refuse.”