“Master Lee, I can see that you’re a good person—I really do,” JungHo said, shaking his head. “But I am not trying to save the country, or anyone else, really. What does that have to do with me? It’s the gentry like you who have brought us to this point, so you can figure out how to get us out of this mess. I only care about how my brothers and I can make some money.”
MyungBo sighed, resting his eyes on the sideboard and collecting his thoughts. “People think they want money, but generally I find that they actually want something else,” he said slowly, thinking of SungSoo and other wealthy men in their circles. “They say that being rich is their goal, because that feels safer to admit than what they actually wish for . . . Do you understand what I mean?”
In amazement, JungHo stared at his host’s weathered yet appealing face. The younger man blushed again, this time at having his deepest secret being laid bare.
“I can also see that you’re a good person, Mr. JungHo,” MyungBo continued. “If you and your friends would work for me and my cause, I can’t guarantee that you will become rich, but you will likely get whatever you actually need to be happy. And that’s not anything money can buy.”
At MyungBo’s last word, Jade’s image again flashed before JungHo’s eyes. He was surprised how everything MyungBo was saying made so much sense. Not communism, Russia, Japan, or Korea, ideas and maps that had no bearing on him, but attaining true happiness. In the heart of his heart, JungHo only wished to share his life with someone who loved him. Without having explained himself, he felt that MyungBo would appreciate and even respect this wish. He had never felt so understood by anyone, let alone a stranger he had just met for the first time. If someone as genuine, intelligent, and powerful as MyungBo couldn’t lead him to what he wanted, no one else could.
“So what is it that you have to do to become a Communist?” JungHo asked.
14
Some Men Are Good and Some Men Are Bad
1925
AFTER THE CURTAIN FELL, JADE RETURNED TO HER DRESSING ROOM and sank down on the tufted settee, surrounded by flowers. She sat very still and heavy for a few minutes, languishing in the fatigue that overtook her at the end of every performance. Gathering a bit of energy, she pulled on the ribbon of her snug traditional blouse and shrugged it off her shoulders. Unlacing the chima pressing down on her chest allowed her to inhale deeply, and feeling more relaxed, she plucked a rose from the nearest bouquet and breathed in its fragrance.
It was the opening week of The Story of ChunHyang. Jade played the heroine, a seventeenth-century courtesan who falls in love with a local magistrate’s son. After much suffering, they end up getting married despite the difference of their class. Seemingly all Seoul was talking about the play, and the newspapers lavished praises on her performance. The first time she saw her photograph next to a review, she nearly screamed out loud in joy; she’d never dreamed of such success—perhaps for Lotus, but never for herself. Every night, her dressing room was filled with fresh flowers that held hidden messages from her admirers. Jade noticed that there was a little folded note tucked in the bouquet of red roses. Still holding the single flower to her nose with her left hand, she pulled out the note with her right and began rapidly reading it.
“To the greatest actress in Seoul, next to whom these roses would blush even more crimson . . . For you are more beautiful than any flower . . . Oh, it’s from Mr. Yoo. How dreadful and funny!” Jade giggled to herself, recalling the steel factory owner with his windowpane suits and round eyeglasses. His hair was always pomaded and slicked back, still showing the ridges of the comb, and both his breath and teeth bore the unpleasant tang of tobacco. He had been sending her gifts for months, like painted French porcelain dolls, a box of chocolate truffles, and a very pretty bejeweled gold comb. Because he was so rich, Jade had assumed that the gemstones on the comb were real. But Dani, who only kept and wore the finest jewels, needed only a glance to know that they were paste. “This is just colored glass,” she had said crisply, not noticing Jade’s embarrassment and strangely hurt feelings. Afterward, Jade returned each of Mr. Yoo’s gifts and never answered any of his letters.
“Married and thirty years older than I am, of course!” she muttered to herself, mindlessly folding the note and tossing it aside. Next to the roses there was another, much smaller bouquet of purple and white cosmoses.
“No note. I wonder—” Jade thought, smiling happily into the blossoms. None of her older admirers of Mr. Yoo’s ilk would have sent something without a name. She felt she could guess who it had to be, this shy young man who adored her from afar. As she fell into a daydream, the door creaked open and a man entered. He was wearing a khaki officer’s uniform.
“You look quite nice tonight,” Colonel Ito said, smiling as though Jade should feel grateful for such a compliment. “No, why are you putting on your clothes? I like you better without them.” He laughed as Jade wound her skirt back over her chest with a haughty glare.
“You’re welcome to come see my performance in the theater, but I beg you not to visit me anywhere else, especially not in my dressing room. I’ve already told you many times,” Jade replied in Japanese, putting her arms through the sleeves of her blouse and tying the ribbons.
“On the contrary, I don’t plan on ever seeing the play. It would bore me, and I can see you so much better here,” he said, loosening the top button of his uniform with his right hand. He crossed the small dressing room in just two strides and sat down on the settee, spreading his thighs comfortably open. Jade rose at the same moment, but Ito caught her arm and forcibly pulled her around so that she was standing in front of him.