“The Grand Oriental Cinema, please.” Lotus leaned forward to tell the driver, then sank back into the partitioned seat, hiding away from the biting wind. It was a chilly November morning, just teetering at that point where the clear blue and yellow of autumn give way to the gray, silver, and pink of winter. People were bustling about, dragging carts and hawking persimmons, fire-roasted sweet potatoes, charcoal, fish, herbs, and mushrooms. Meanwhile, cars kept overtaking the rickshaw, although the driver was trotting at an admirable speed. There was a smoky, fresh, and sweet smell in the air. While Lotus was noticing these things with childish wonder, the rickshaw arrived in front of the two-story movie palace.
She paid the driver and walked into the lobby, which was deserted at this time of day. As soon as she entered, a woman secretary appeared and greeted her. “You’re Miss Lotus, right? President Ma is waiting for you,” the secretary said sweetly, but without a bow. “Right this way, please.” She led the way through a dark corridor and opened the door to an office, where President Ma was looking through some papers at his desk.
“Ah, Miss Lotus, it’s an honor to receive you here,” he said, rising and bowing to her courteously. He had a largish head, flashing eyes anchored by a well-pronounced nose, and an open forehead. The husky vigor of early old age emanated from his face and body, which was still upright and manly. Lotus felt nervous for no reason.
“No, you honor me by your invitation,” she murmured as the president came around from his desk and led her to the club chairs in the center of the room, lightly touching her back to do so. He ordered the secretary to bring them coffee, and Lotus noted with pleasure the resentment in the young woman’s face.
“So, Miss Lotus, you must know why I asked you to come here,” the president began. “You’re one of our finest actresses and singers. I heard you sing for the first time at MyungWol, two years ago. Do you remember when I came for a banquet one night?”
Lotus shook her head.
“You sang a waltz, and your voice had so much depth in it that I couldn’t believe you were only fifteen.” He smiled. “Since then, I’d always dreamed that one day you might perform at the Grand Oriental Cinema. The other day, I heard that you were under contract with Joseon Theatre for a role that’s far beneath you. So I decided to reach out and see if you’d like to be a star at the Grand Oriental.”
Lotus blushed, forgetting her wish to seem haughty like Dani. The Grand Oriental was by far the largest theater in Seoul—a two-thousand-seat movie palace showing motion pictures, variety shows, dance performances, and plays. It was even more prestigious than Joseon Theatre, and she was being offered a star billing.
“Talent like yours, one sees only once or twice in a generation. I’d like to make sure you get the attention you deserve. We’ll start with a new show, with you in a singing role. Maybe The Story of ShimChung. The public can’t get enough of the adaptations of medieval novels—they rouse their sympathies and let them cry out their feelings. Of course, they also have the advantage of passing Japanese censorship without difficulty.” President Ma paused, putting his two hands together so that they only touched at the fingertips. “At the same time, you’d be making a new record. Original jazz and waltz songs, written by a composer I know who studied in Tokyo. How does that sound?”
“I’m amazed that you think so highly of me.” Lotus flushed.
“Well, Miss Lotus. You have an exceptional voice.” President Ma smiled. “I have heard you’re the niece of the celebrated courtesan Kim Dani. All Seoul used to be under her sway, fifteen or so years ago. I remember her well . . . She’s a breathtaking woman with a brilliant mind and courage like a man’s. But your fame will surpass hers, I am sure of it.”
15
Nocturnal Birds
1928
THE SPRING WHEN LOTUS AND JADE TURNED TWENTY, THEIR HOUSE was always filled with a timorous and delicate air. The junior maid was busy delivering secret letters to one mistress and then the other. They were prone to looking dreamily into space, or suddenly smiling for no reason.
They were no longer girls by any standard. Most peasant women had one or two children by their age, and the most coveted courtesans were closer to fifteen rather than twenty. But they were only just beginning to see themselves as women. Each felt as though she’d gained some secret password that would change all the previously known rules of life.
Although she never spoke of him, everyone in the household knew that Lotus’s lover was President Ma. She had been starring in The Story of ShimChung for only a month when he sent a note to her dressing room during intermission, offering to take her to dinner. When she came out at the end of the night, there was a black car waiting outside the back entrance of the Grand Oriental. He was in the driver’s seat, wearing an elegant fedora and a black suit with a pristine white pocket square.
“Let’s go drink to your success, wherever you’d like,” he’d said as Lotus slid onto the passenger seat. Her nose flooded with his scent—the freshness of cologne mixed with the warmth of tobacco.
“It’s fun going out for a drive, isn’t it? In the summertime, I’ll take the top off and you’ll feel the wind in your hair. There’s nothing in the world that’s more refreshing,” he said, and she drank in every word. He was implying that they would continue to spend time together in the future, and thinking of what she might like while also sharing what he likes. This is what it means to be loved, Lotus thought. There had been no one else who showed so much interest in her, so she fell for him before he even asked her to be his mistress.