Everything Belongs to Us Page 13

  “I haven’t even told you about the girl—”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I disagree. This one will matter. You’re going to want to hear about this.”

  “Hyung-nim, you always speak to me in the future tense, like you can predict the future—”

  Juno cocked his head. “Hey, you busy tomorrow?”

  Sunam stared at him, trying to release the trick in the question. Unable to figure it out, he shook his head.

  “That’s right. Keep this up, you’re not going to be busy the next day either,” Juno said. Every word he spoke seemed to make him more sober. “See, that’s one kind of future. I keep showing you how to get on the right track. And you keep wanting to stay on your nice, warmed-up loser track. You like it there? You want me to tell you why I always speak in the future tense—it’s because of people like you making it easy for me. What did I tell you the other day?” he said. “You don’t have to be a shark, you just have to be one little step ahead. And if everyone else is thinking today, all you have to do is think tomorrow.”

  It was watching this, this seemingly impossible transformation—the alcohol gone in seconds—that silenced Sunam.

  “So the girl. You decide what you want to do. But you’ll see what I mean. A very attractive opportunity.”

  Sunam stiffened. That future tense again.

  It was the name that bothered Sunam the most—Patriot Hostess. He knew it referred to the minister of education’s speech about prostitutes, euphemistically called “hostesses.”

  Fifteen minutes in a bedroom with a strange girl was meant to embarrass the couple and titillate the others, who would enjoy imagining what might be happening behind closed doors. It was a childish prank, but also genuinely nerve-racking since Sunam had never been alone with a girl.

  And the name “Patriot Hostess” made it insidious, as if they expected the girl to somehow service him. It was a crude and savage joke, and Sunam hoped she didn’t think he had come up with it. He was a victim as much as she was.

  —

  THE BEDROOM WAS not so much a suite as it was its own apartment. It had a sitting area with two round-backed chairs upholstered in an elaborately brocaded fabric, green and gold. There was a writing desk with a red carved lamp on either end. He could see an open door to a marbled bathroom. In the middle of the room was an enormous bed, made up with a gold-tasseled spread. There were flat, round pillows emblazoned with dragons and cranes and mountains and pines that jutted precipitously from the sides of cliffs. An enormous vase stuffed with white flowers emitted a heady, oppressive scent. There was nothing in the room Sunam felt comfortable touching or looking at.

  The girl was sitting at the writing desk, her body turned to face the door. He had to cross in front of her and walk past the bed in order to sit in one of the chairs. Their eyes met immediately. He looked away. She was as striking as Juno had intimated, with sharp, upturned eyes and a wide mouth. She wore a printed blouse that made her skin appear creamy and flushed.

  Beyond the door, someone shouted, “Fifteen minutes…starts now!”

  It seemed important that he not speak first, which could be misinterpreted as an advance. He was prepared to spend fifteen minutes in complete silence, strenuously ignoring their mutual confinement. But the girl seemed completely at ease. She sat crisply in her seat, gazing at the objects surrounding them with steady, intelligent eyes. She looked as if she were capable of getting up at any moment to rearrange the furniture to her liking.

  Her name was Namin Kang. First in her graduating class at Kyungki High School. An impressive feat, but not unheard of—that was the nature of ranking, someone had to be first. What was unprecedented was the perfect score on her college entrance exams. The provost himself had examined the results, searching for errors or some evidence of cheating. He found nothing. “The Machine,” they called her. She must have some kind of photographic memory.

  She was on the physician track, already involved in the premed circle. No doubt it was a useful association, connecting her to other future doctors. But the premed circle was a boring academic club compared with Min’s flashy clique, and evidently Namin had pulled her nose out of a textbook long enough to realize that. According to Juno, she’d approached them with her bid for membership, asking, “Any of you score perfectly on the entrance exam?”

  It was hard to argue that point, Juno said.

  Anyway, no one was seriously opposed to her joining. They were fascinated and secretly wanted the proximity to check her out. Only, they had a reputation to uphold. To be regarded as her “second” circle was unacceptable. They had to make it difficult. They had to be able to say she had truly subjected herself to their demands.

  Hence the Patriot Hostess Game, designed to mortify the female ego.

  “We thought she would cry when we told her the plan,” Juno said. “Storm out.”

  “But she agreed?” Sunam asked. “Just like that?”

  “She said anyone could be a patriot for fifteen minutes.” Juno grinned. “She said either we were misusing the word or else we needed to raise the challenge to something worth aspiring for.”

  Sunam shook his head in disbelief.

  “Tough girl,” Juno said. “Hope you’re ready.”

  —

  NOW SHE LOOKED at Sunam and said, “I suppose they told you what my name is. They told me yours.”

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The pressure in his chest seemed to make a sound of its own.

  “Are you scared of me or something? You seem terrified.”

  “No.” His throat was so dry, it came out like a croak. He cleared his throat. “Just a little—uncomfortable,” he said.

  “It is rather barbaric, isn’t it.”

  From outside, several fists were banging the walls. “Can’t hear anything! Quiet as mice in there!”

  Namin raised an eyebrow. “Clearly they’ve never had the misfortune. Mice are not at all quiet. You get a good-sized nest of them in your house and it sounds like someone’s sawing trees over your head.”

  She got up and walked over to the bed. “Don’t be alarmed,” she said. “I’m lying down, but I don’t mean anything by it. I’ve just never lain in such a fancy bed before. Better take the opportunity while I can.” She arranged herself in the middle of the bed, legs straight out. Hands clasped across her belly. “Nice,” she said. She spread her arms out to either side, her fingers outstretched as if to reach the edges of the bed. They were nowhere close. “You could sleep in this thing for a week and never touch the same spot twice.” The banging continued outside, but she lay quietly. He could swear, despite the clamor, that she was actually enjoying the bed.

  “Halfway there!” someone shouted, and the pounding on the walls took on a more frenetic rhythm, as if several more people had joined in. “Halfway, man! Better hurry up!”

  He saw them on the other side of the wall. Drunk and excited, imagining what he was doing in here. Probably most of them knew or at least strongly suspected that nothing was happening. But not knowing—at least not knowing for sure—they could imagine whatever they wanted. They could make it custom-suited to their needs. And in that realization, Sunam suddenly became aware of himself from that distant point of view. He saw what they imagined. Undressing the girl on the bed. It was so easy, she was right there. Kissing her mouth, her neck, her breasts and stomach. Or perhaps she would be the one doing the kissing: his mouth, his neck, his stomach. In that stiff European chair that dictated how he sat, where he placed his arms, Sunam felt himself getting aroused. He saw what he would do. And what she would do. What she was wearing under her blouse and trousers. How it would look coming off. His pleasure expanded like a hot glow, a color in his brain. The real girl lay on the bed; she seemed as relaxed as if she were alone in the room. As if in her mind, she had erased him completely. But in his mind, she was straddling him. He was following the curve of her hip, squeezing her thigh.

  “I can hear you,” the girl said with
out rising from the bed. “You’re breathing like a buffalo.”

  He caught his breath mid-inhale and started to choke. A terrible minute passed as he hacked and sputtered, trying to clear the blockage. There was no question of trying to salvage his composure. He was completely helpless. Eyes watering, throat burning. The ability to find air was always just a fraction of a second beyond him. She sat up on the edge of the bed, watching him with controlled concern.

  “Are you all right?” she asked when he had finally resumed breathing normally.

  He nodded. “Time’s probably up soon.” He didn’t know why he said that, it was just something to say. The time had been irrelevant for her all along.

  “Are you sorry about the way you’ve spent it?” Namin asked, amused. “Any regrets?”

  He wanted to ask why this didn’t bother her, why none of it seemed to register at all. But the question implied too much. It made her out to be the victim when she had already refused to play that role.

  She was studying him. “They probably told you I’m some kind of freak. A machine,” she said, echoing Juno’s word. “But I’m not. I’m just not scared like everyone else.”

  “Scared?” It annoyed him that he was probably included in her “everyone else.”

  “Isn’t that what this is about? We’re supposed to feel harassed and intimidated. But I’m just not. Why should I be? Because they say so?”

  The boys were banging on the door, shouting, “Finish up in there! Thirty seconds!…Fifteen seconds!”

  “So you never feel any pressure—”

  “Of course I do. But this isn’t pressure, Sunam. This is a game.”

  “Ten…nine…”

  “Games can be a lot of pressure,” he said, forcing himself to level his voice against the increasing volume of the countdown. “And some have serious real-world consequences….”

  “I guess it depends on what kind of games you like to play.”

  “And what games do you like to play?” It was a genuine question that came out sarcastic sounding, as if he didn’t believe her. In fact he was afraid it was too obvious how impressed he was.

  She pursed her lips as if suppressing a smile. Or maybe she was annoyed. Sunam had never felt his ignorance of the opposite sex so acutely. “I think that’s enough secret telling for our first time,” she said lightly. (“Five!…Four!…Three!…”) “As lovely and romantic as this was.”

  “Too bad! Time’s up!” The crew outside flung open the door as if to reveal an eye-popping scandal. They scanned the room drunkenly and groaned to find the two of them sitting on opposite sides of the room.

  Namin looked at him and smiled for the first time. She had a crooked left incisor. The way it poked out of her smile, the irregularity of it, was like a wink given just for him. “Otherwise, where’s the mystery?”

  —

  “SO NOT BAD, right?” Juno said.

  Sunam had never managed that eloquent shrug-off he envied in other guys, that cool deflection that spoke louder than any boast.

  But he was achieving it now—and he could tell it was having the intended effect.

  “What’d I tell you?” Juno said, but this was an unconvincing display. For once Sunam had the upper hand, and he felt a head taller for it. Stronger. Smarter. More handsome.

  He thought about that crooked smile. As romantic as this was.

  “Did she do anything?” Juno demanded. “Did you get her to—”

  “We talked.”

  “You had her, alone, with that crazy bed—and you talked?”

  “That’s usually what people do when they don’t know each other.”

  Juno was studying him. “You seem—different,” he said suspiciously.

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Isn’t this what you wanted from me? For me to be different?” Sunam couldn’t help smiling at the consternation on Juno’s face. “You should see yourself,” he said, laughing. “You look like a frog.”

  “Careful,” Juno said—and he wasn’t kidding. His face was etched with sharp irritation, quickly verging on violence. The laughter caught in Sunam’s throat and stayed there, like a thumb pressed into his trachea.

  “You celebrate too soon,” Juno said. “You do one thing right and think you’re on top. Let me tell you something, it takes more than one step to get to the top.”

  Sunam lowered his head in an outward gesture of humility. Inwardly he was roiling. Wasn’t Juno always telling him how he was supposed to step out, move ahead of the pack? Now he was being reprimanded for stepping out too far.

  As if reading his thoughts, Juno said, “I told you to think ahead of the crowd, but your superiors are still your superiors—and they always will be.”

  But not your superiors, Sunam thought. Juno loved to brag about how he had risen to a position of leadership in the Circle as a second-year, beating out the upperclassmen “who had four years to get where I got in one.” Sunam had heard it so many times, he could recite the whole speech, top to bottom. But now he was being lectured about remembering his position, about the sacred order of hierarchy that must never be crossed. Convenient, he thought.

  “You hear me, Sunam? I don’t see you listening.”

  “I’m listening, sunbae-nim.”

  “Well? Is anything getting through that thick skull of yours?”

  “Everything,” Sunam said.

  Juno narrowed his eyes but let it go. “Go find me something to eat,” he said. “And hurry back. We’re just getting started.”

  On the low couch, the upperclassmen sat with their knees far apart like grown men, watching a baduk game that had advanced to fill the entire board. Baduk was a game of strategy, its objective to surround a larger total area of the board with your stones than your opponent’s. The covered areas were considered “territories,” and there was a meditative, warlike quality to the game, in which each player had to weigh the benefits of his possible advances versus potential losses with each move. It had been considered a scholarly art form in ancient China where it had originated, but contemporary players—especially those who played only sporadically—tended to think of baduk as a macho battle of wills.

  In this particular game, the black and white territories were packed with only a few possible moves left. Each player took a long time to decide, fingering each stone in secret soothing patterns, then releasing it with a resounding clack. Sunam had never been personally introduced to Min, but he knew he was the player using the white stones. Anyone else with Min’s physique might have been considered bulky or overweight, but with his meticulous grooming and sleekly tailored clothing, his size only contributed to the impression that he was not a young man to be trifled with. Ahn Kiyu’s son had a reputation for quick violence, hard partying, and an indiscriminate taste for women. Even now, relaxed in his own house, every muscle in his large frame seemed flexed with an excess of energy, as if he might spring up and overturn the board if the outcome did not please him. There was no need for that now: Min was the obvious winner of this game. If black didn’t surrender soon, he would be ridiculed.

  “If you know anything about oil…” This from the guy on deck to play the winner. His voice was slippery and thin, unpleasant to listen to. But he kept up a steady lecture of self-important chatter, every other statement rising in an annoying rhetorical question. The others simply called him by his initials: H.G. “You know how to shift power, you know the little guys aren’t so little anymore.”

  “But we don’t have any oil,” said someone else, humoring him.

  “You don’t have to have it,” H.G. said. “Just follow it, be involved. First thing after graduation, I’m heading to Saudi Arabia. You know we’re building a harbor? Place called Jubail? Ocean tanker terminal. You think they’ll stop at just one? First the terminal, then more ships, more tankers. I’m gonna be the first one there, get friendly with all the execs out there, all the sheikhs. You guys should really think about this too, if you have the guts. Stick it out a
few years, come back a real big shot. Don’t come asking me for favors when you wake up late. I plan to be way too busy.”

  “Yeah, great, you become the emperor of Saudi Arabia. I’ll come ride your camels.”

  “They have a king. And it’s hereditary? You can’t just go in there and crown yourself whatever you want.”

  The game ended with Min as the victor. Taking his seat, H.G. slid the black stones neatly into their bowl, creating a tiny avalanche of pebbles. Juno said, “Who’s playing after this, nobody? Let’s have the new guy play next. Sunbae, you know the new guy? He used to be a tournament player.”

  Sunam was convinced that the only reason Juno had taken him on as sunbae was his brief success as a ranked player in junior tournaments. Sunam had met plenty of people like Juno, who worshipped the game and considered a special talent to be something like a mark from heaven, a measure of excellence that other mere mortals could never reach. Juno’s grandfather had been a master player who had moved to Japan to be trained at the Kitani dojo. Juno’s father had also been highly ranked, even chairing the national association for three years in the 1960s. Juno refused to touch the game himself, claiming his own facility was so mediocre that even friendly play on his part was a dishonor to the family legacy. More and more, Juno seemed disappointed that Sunam did not show evidence of genius outside of the game. Sunam did not know how to explain that baduk talent was just that—a set of skills and training narrowly focused on the game, without any extra promises about winning in the real world.

  Min ignored Juno’s remark, keeping his eyes on the board, setting stones with a quiet precision that kept both players moving steadily over the grid. Ten minutes lapsed in silence, punctuated only by the clicking of stones and H.G.’s uneven, whistling breath as he struggled to keep up with the game. Juno fidgeted behind the couch with a look of intense concentration on his face, as if he were completely absorbed in the game and had not noticed being dismissed by Min earlier. Sunam could tell this was what Juno was doing because he had put on the same face after being snubbed by Juno.

  “You, new guy,” Min said, without looking up. “You any good?”