In their absence, someone had brought a pile of clothing and left it in a heap on Cho’s futon. The beautician had explained the day before that the company had a wardrobe department, of sorts, that was stocked with all styles and sizes of women’s clothing appropriate for the pleasure industry. Mr. Choy wanted his women to look nice and clean. Along with the clothes were some basic makeup and hair supplies.
Jasmine came to their apartment not long after dark. She helped them prepare for the night by assisting with their hair and makeup. She also wanted to see how the
Chosun
women were holding up. Jasmine’s eyes were ringed by sadness, for herself, Il-sun could tell, but also for their plight. It felt good, at least, that someone cared, even if there was nothing Jasmine could do to help them. Jasmine talked more about the business, about how to steer clear of Mr. Choy’s wrath and how to be safe. She also talked about herself. Il-sun had the impression that she did not have many friends to confide in. She was resigned to her life, her dream of studying computers long abandoned.
Jasmine’s mobile phone rang, and she answered it. It was Mr. Choy telling her to bring the women down for work. They went downstairs, nervous and glum.
52
I
L
-
SUN
ARRIVED
AT
THE
Internet studio expecting to see Mr. Choy, but he was not there. There was no glass of champagne or sweet talk about the celebration of the female form. Instead, she was roughly met by one of the technicians, who looked up and pointed. “I need you in the third stall. Now!” was all he said.
She went directly to the third stall, and before she even had time to think about it, the technician’s voice came over the speaker and said, “Going live in five . . .”
She danced, fearful of what would happen to her if she did not do as she was told. She was tired and sore from the night before, but she forced herself to keep moving. One dance after another, the night wore on. She was barely able to catch her breath between performances, and her prickly tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth for lack of moisture. Nobody offered refreshment. Finally, after many hours, another woman arrived to take her place—Il-sun did not even bother to look at her face. She could barely lift her feet to climb the short flight of stairs to their apartment. She fell onto the bed and into a deep, deep sleep.
Day after night after day after night, the routine of cleaning and dancing was repeated until Il-sun lost track of how many days and nights she had been in
Hanguk
. Each day blended into the next, and she was too tired and aching to care. Disoriented and deprived of sleep, her home at the orphanage felt like it belonged to an aeon in the past, distorted by time and coming from a vague dream. Had there ever been a garment factory, a
Chosun,
a Gianni? When she thought of Gianni her heart lurched and the acid taste of bile crept hand over hand up the back of her tongue. At times she longed for him, or the idea of him, telling herself that he had made a mistake, that he had not meant to sell her to Mr. Choy. At other times she danced to spite him, flaunting her naked flesh to an unseen stranger on the Internet—a stranger who wanted her, who would pay to look at her.
Look at me now, Gianni.
You could have had this.
53
A
CCORDING
TO
G
I
’
S
COUNT
,
she had been in
Hanguk
for exactly twenty-one days, had given three hundred seven blow jobs and two hundred eighty-six hand jobs. Mr. Lee had slapped her four times and called her a whore sixteen times. Now she knew what that meant. She’d dared to put her hand on Il-sun’s shoulder exactly eight times as she watched her sleep. Those were qualitatively the best eight moments of the last three weeks. She still had not seen a photograph of the Dear Leader.
She hoisted his image into her mind and tried to hold it there. She could not recall enough details, she was sure of it. She should know every pore and hair. When they repatriated her back to the North, if they tested her worth by asking her to draw his face, she knew she would fail. She was not good enough. So she traced his image with her fingertips, rendering his hairline, his square glasses, his tall forehead, his pouting mouth, the disappointment in his eyes, on walls and windows.
Gi found a newspaper in the club, on a dirty table. It was early and the club was still mostly empty. She would not have picked it up, out of fear that she might be punished, except that on the cover was a photograph of the Dear Leader.
At last!
Even for that she might not have taken the risk, but the newspaper was folded so that the crease ran across the Dear Leader’s chin. It was an outrage and an abomination! A
Chosun
newspaper never would have dared to place his photograph over the crease. Seeing the desecration of the image sent her into simultaneous paroxysms of fear and rage. She was deeply afraid that someone might report the abused image in the North, and that she might somehow be implicated. She was enraged that a person would so carelessly or, even worse, so maliciously damage his image. She had not seen a photo of him in weeks, and had barely even heard mention of his name, even from her companions. It was wrong that this was how he should come to her, disrespected and cast aside, like rubbish. So much like her.
She was also afraid of what might happen to her if she did not take steps to rectify, as best she could, the damage to the photograph. This might all be an elaborate test, she realized, set up by her Party Youth organization to assess her worth as a
Chosun
citizen. Maybe all of it—the trip across the DMZ, Mr. Choy, the curtain booth with the red light—was part of an elaborate trial of her devotion to the Dear Leader. She resolved to do the right thing, to prove herself once and for all.
She cast her eyes furtively around. Nobody was watching. She reached down quickly and opened the paper, smoothing out the front, careful not to read any of the words printed there—they might say poisonous things unapproved by the Party. She ripped around the bar napkin–size photograph and then tucked it inside her bra, over her heart. She was afraid of what Mr. Lee would do to her if he found it, but she was even more afraid of what might happen to her if she did not take care of the image of the Dear Leader.
After her work was done for the evening, she reported to Mr. Lee for the nightly search. Some nights the inspections for hidden cash were only cursory, and she hoped that tonight Mr. Lee would have other things on his mind. Other nights he performed more demeaning searches.
He started by looking inside her shoes. Then he made her remove her top, which he turned inside-out and shook. Gi swallowed hard. It looked as though tonight he was being thorough. Next he ordered her to remove her skirt, and then her panties. She held her breath that he would not ask her to remove the bra. He sometimes let it go, but it was unlikely. She was not lucky this time, and he asked that she hand it to him. The search was humiliating, being naked in front of the overfed, bullying Mr. Lee, and he seemed to enjoy her shame. She removed her bra, trying to fold it over the photograph hidden in the left cup, but the movement was not lost to Mr. Lee. His brow furrowed and his muscles flexed.
“Give me that!” he demanded, reaching for the bra.
Gi had no choice but to hand it over. She lowered her head, tensed, and waited for the blows to come.
Mr. Lee unfolded the bra and the photograph of Kim Jong-il fell out of it, swirling on the air as it floated to the floor. Mr. Lee picked it up, frowning. Gi closed her eyes. Soon he would strike her.
Instead, however, he laughed. She was standing alone with him, naked, and he was laughing at her. Her saliva began congealing in her throat and she wanted badly to spit, but she held it in. She felt that she might suffocate on it.
“Of all the things you could try to hide from me,” he said through his laughter, “you try to hide this?” When he spoke it sounded as if he had a mouthful of pebbles. “I don’t know what you Northerners see in this little rat. Don’t worry, it’s not worth beating you over this. You can keep the photograph.” He dropped it and the bra to the floor and left the room, his cackle receding with him down the hall.
Gi would have preferred being beaten. Of all the responses she could have imagined a person having to the Dear Leader, that was not one of them. She could understand a person feeling fear of him, awe of him, respect for him. She could even understand a person feeling hate for him: It was an appropriately strong emotion for someone so grand. But Mr. Lee laughed, as if the tendrils of the Dear Leader’s power did not reach him. He laughed off the Dear Leader as if he were no more than a minor irritant, easily neutralized and completely inconsequential. It was a disturbing response and it shook Gyong-ho to the core. Until she crossed the DMZ, she had never met a person for whom the Dear Leader was not absolutely central. The Dear Leader was credited with everything good. Could it be that there was a limit to his power?
She took the photograph home and more carefully trimmed the edges. She then used a flour and water paste to stick it prominently on one of the bare apartment walls. It was inappropriately small for the size of the wall, and it was hard to make out the details from across the room; but it served to assuage Gyong-ho’s feelings of fear and emptiness that were caused by not having any photos of him at all.
She studied his face in detail, memorizing every curve and hair. She would pass the test.
54
E
VERY
NIGHT
FOR
WEEKS
Il-sun did nothing but work in the dancing studio. She eventually developed a routine that she could do even when she was half asleep. As long as she focused on her future prospects once her debt to Mr. Choy was paid, the work was almost bearable. She ached to go home, but the longer she was absent, the more dangerous it would be to return. Anything unaccounted for in
Chosun
was suspicious, especially time.
Once she got past the initial humiliation of being naked in front of Mr. Choy, the technicians, and the anonymous clients on the Internet, she started finding a comfort in her body. In many ways it was less tense than working under Foreman Hwang at the garment factory, with his heavy smell and impossible quotas. Secretly, she even had to admit to herself that she enjoyed being looked at and admired. She liked the thought that the technicians and her clients were excited by her body. She felt powerful, being able to manipulate men by the way she looked and moved.
Mr. Choy was waiting outside the studio when Il-sun arrived. It was a rare event, since he could watch everything from a monitor in his office and relay instructions with his mobile phone. She tensed instinctively at the sight of him, and her heart began to race. When he saw Il-sun, however, he was all smiles and charm.
“Good evening, Il-sun!” he said, his voice lilting and smooth. When he used her name she felt special. He almost never used it, and never when he was displeased. “You have been doing a great job here. I mean it. You are one of the best dancers we have ever had.”
In spite of herself, Il-sun felt elevated by the praise. “Thank you,” she replied.
“I think you might be ready to try something new. We’re going to put you in Studio Two tonight.”
Studio Two was referred to by the other women as the “masturbation studio.” Il-sun suddenly went cold. That was different from just taking her clothes off and flirting at anonymous clients. It was a much more vulnerable thing to do, to touch herself so intimately in front of the camera. She wanted to refuse, but she swallowed her fear, knowing that if Mr. Choy wanted it, it was going to happen whether or not she was willing.
Mr. Choy sensed her hesitation. “It’s not much different, really, than what you have already been doing. But the best part of it is, you get paid more for it. If all you ever do is dance, then it will take a really long time to pay off your debt. Years, probably. But if you do this, then you will pay it off faster. Trust me, I think you’ll find it easier than dancing anyway. It’s less active. A lot of the girls prefer it, once they’ve done it.”
Il-sun knew that to be a lie, but it was better to keep Mr. Choy in a good mood. She nodded consent.
“Good girl! Come with me,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder. He walked her down to Studio Two. His arm was hard and heavy. It felt toxic, like it was radiating something that would make her sick if he held the contact for too long. She was glad that the walk was short.
The layout of Studio Two was identical to that of Studio One, on the floor above, but instead of there being a pole in the middle of each partition, there was a sofa or a bed.
“Okay,” Mr. Choy began. “This isn’t so difficult. Like dancing, everything is timed, and a bell rings for every minute the client stays with you. Watch the monitor, because sometimes they like to give you instructions. You can read, can’t you?”