All Woman and Springtime (28 page)

“Take the shoes off, for now,” Mr. Choy instructed. “You can practice dancing in them tomorrow.”

She kicked the shoes off, which helped her balance, but then the minute timer rang. She shook with a start, hesitated, and then stopped altogether.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mr. Choy. He felt a surge of anger rise sharply from somewhere in his bowels . . . No. Anger could come later.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never really been naked in front of a man before. I’m scared.”

“Is that really true?” he asked, his voice suddenly thick with sarcasm. He doubted that she had
never
been naked in front of a man—Gianni tended to sample his own merchandise—and he wanted to get past this hurdle as quickly as possible. He forced a smile, and said, “You’re doing fine.”

Il-sun looked at the floor, her face turning bright red, but she did not respond.

Mr. Choy took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s watch what you did so far. I was recording you so that you can see what you look like.” He nodded at one of the technicians at the desk, and Il-sun watched herself on the screen.

“Well, what do you think?” Mr. Choy asked her.

“I was a little bit stiff. I can see how nervous I was. I also had a funny look on my face. Can I try it again?”

Mr. Choy gloated inside. He was right to play to her vanity. “As many times as you like. We have all night.”

Il-sun began again; this time she was more self-possessed. Her nervousness evaporated quickly and she seemed to lose herself in the dance. She even threw in some flirtatious glances at the camera. When the bell rang, she stopped.

“Can I watch it again? I want to see if it was better that time.”

Mr. Choy felt his anger rising again—it was so much harder to stave it off when he was high. He hated it when people did not do what he wanted them to. He clenched his fists at his sides and bent his lips into a smile. “Of course,” he said.

She watched the monitor with her head cocked to the side, evaluating her performance.

“Are you satisfied?” asked Mr. Choy.

“I can do better,” she responded.

“Alright. Let’s go all the way through this time, okay?”

Il-sun did her dance again, and Mr. Choy had to admire how quickly she was improving. The bell rang again, and then she looked into the camera, bringing her hand to the strap of her dress. Her timing was perfect. She moved the strap off her shoulder in a sultry way, but then stopped again.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Just take off your goddamned clothes!” Mr. Choy shouted, his violent frustration breaking through. “This isn’t a fucking ballet, it’s porn!” He then grabbed the rack of lights and, with a growl, threw them to the floor. Lightbulbs exploded, sending a shower of glass into the studio. Mr. Choy began to huff away, but then turned around and pointed a finger at Il-sun. “You have to pay for that!” Then he turned and walked out.

All activity in the studio ceased, and Il-sun stood there, shocked. The click of typing on keys, which had been constant white noise in the background, stopped, the men at the desk distracted by the outburst. A woman peeked around the corner from the stall next to Il-sun’s. As soon as the shock wore off, Il-sun began to weep.

One of the technicians eventually appeared with a broom and a dustpan and cleaned up the glass. He then righted the rack of lights and replaced all the bulbs. Nobody looked at or spoke to Il-sun. After fifteen minutes Mr. Choy reappeared. There was no trace of his outburst left on his face, and he was smiling. He spoke in a quiet, measured voice.

“Shall we try that again? We’re going live this time, so I want you to go all the way through it.”

Il-sun was afraid of setting him off again, so she took up her position at the pole, tears still streaming down her cheeks. The voice of a technician came over a speaker, saying, “Going live in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”

She danced without much heart, but she did not stop. When the bell rang, she slipped a strap off one shoulder, and then the other. She reached behind and pulled the zipper of the dress down her back. She peeled the front of the dress slowly off her breasts, exposing a lacy white bra underneath. It was a perfect contrast of innocence and sophistication, the white bra under the black dress. She danced around the pole, and eventually slid the dress off her hips and down her legs. The beautician had chosen her underwear well, Mr. Choy noticed. They were the perfect cut to show off Il-sun’s seductive form. She continued to cry, but she did not stop the dance. Mr. Choy felt himself getting hard. He liked it when a girl cried. He would enjoy watching this again and again.

The bell rang again, and Il-sun glanced up at Mr. Choy. Fear flashed in her eyes before she looked away and undid the clasp of her bra. She placed her arms in front of her chest, holding her bra in place, and turned her back to the camera. Her bare back was a flawless landscape to Mr. Choy. She let go with her arms and the bra fell to the floor. Looking down, she turned slowly toward the camera, her arms folded just under her breasts, her nipples pointing at a slight angle upward. Mr. Choy was transfixed as he watched the light shift across her breasts and glint off her tears as she turned. She stood, full frontal, and lifted her eyes to the camera without lifting her chin. Tears fell from her cheeks onto her breasts, mascara running in two rivulets down the sides of her face.

The bell rang. Il-sun put her thumbs into the waistline of her panties, and she slid them down her long legs. Mr. Choy was salivating and nearly drooled. He had not seen anything this erotic for a long time. She stepped out of her panties and stood there, motionless for a whole minute, holding her legs together. Her pubic hair was scant but dark. Her belly was flat. Her breasts were firm handfuls. She was innocence and temptation all wrapped up into one, and Mr. Choy knew that he had struck gold.

A buzzer went off, breaking the spell. The customer had gone offline.

Mr. Choy and Il-sun stood facing each other for a long moment. The look in her eyes was both fear and hatred. He had not expected to see the defiance that was pushing through her humiliation. He liked that. He clapped slowly.

“Very good. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he said in a syrupy sweet voice. “Now clean up your face. Another customer is waiting.”

51

I
L
-
SUN
AWOKE
TO
A
loud banging on the door, then the squeaking of hinges. She could tell by the daylight filtering in through the single, spotty window in their small apartment that it was late morning. A man came into the apartment and shouted, “It’s time to get up. The boss wants you to clean the studios.” Il-sun arose groggily, returning from her dreams only to find herself still a captive in South Korea. The orphanage mistress had been helping her fold the laundry. She had been dreaming of home.

“He never said anything about cleaning,” Cho said saucily, sitting up and rubbing sleep from her eyes. Cho had slept on the futon that had been delivered in their absence the night before and now dominated their living room. Il-sun and Gi shared the small European-style bed.

“He did just now, so get up!”

“We need to eat something” Cho said, cutting him an icy look. The man was in his midthirties, with a thick neck and a crew cut. He looked like the kind of man who was just smart enough to follow orders. He reminded Il-sun of a dog who had been kicked often—he looked both afraid and mean.

“I’ll give you fifteen minutes to get ready,” he barked, and stepped out of the apartment.

Gi got out of bed and went to the sink to spit. Il-sun had noticed her getting up throughout the night to do that, but was afraid to inquire about it. Her own night had been bad enough, and she could not bear to hear what Gi had gone through. She had a feeling that whatever it was, it must have been even worse than having to strip off her clothes. Now, in the dirty light of their only window, she could see the faraway look in Gi’s eyes. There would be no talking to Gi about anything for several hours.

The women got dressed in their old clothes, and then Cho served up the remainder of the restaurant food. Il-sun and Cho sat in silence while picking at cold noodles. Gi did not touch the food, and stood at the sink, her back to the others, unmoving except to occasionally clear her throat and cough. Cho seemed foul tempered, but more from lack of sleep than anything else. She had a look on her face that forbade conversation. Il-sun wanted to talk about her embarrassment and fear from the night before—she needed comfort and reassurance—but her companions were in no shape to commiserate. That would have to come later.

The man came back and ordered the women to come with him. Reluctantly, Il-sun and Cho stood up and began to follow, but Gi made no movement. Il-sun walked over to her and touched her hand to her shoulder.

“Gi . . .”

“I’ll be okay,” Gi whispered.

Il-sun was surprised that Gi was able to respond at all. Gi turned, and Il-sun put her arms around her. Gi softened under the touch. Il-sun held her close, as much to receive comfort as to give it.

“We don’t have all day!” the man shouted back to them, breaking the embrace.

T
HE
THICK
-
NECKED
BOUNCER
led the women downstairs to the alley shop, where a young woman was wiping down one of the picture windows.

“The alley looks worse in the daylight,” Cho remarked.

“You’ve been here?” asked Il-sun.

“I worked here last night.”

“I have more cleaners for you,” the man said to the woman who was cleaning the glass. Without another word, he left them.

The woman looked up from the window, and then turned back expressionlessly to finish the pane. She was dressed in a stained T-shirt and a knee-length skirt, and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked as tired as Il-sun felt. When she was finished with the window, she approached them.

“There is a bucket with rags and window cleaner over there,” she said, pointing. “People like to paw at the glass, so we have to clean both sides every day. They will let one of us out under supervision to clean the outside.” Her voice was droopy, like her eyes. She threw a cautious glance at the bouncer by the door. It looked like a habitual movement. “After we finish with that, then we clean the rooms. We have to strip the sheets and make sure everything is stocked and dusted.”

“Are you
Chosun
?” Il-sun asked. The accent was unmistakable.

The woman gave a blank look, then nodded. “They treat us differently, you know. They think we’re stupid because we come from the North.”

“How long have you been here?” asked Cho.

“I don’t know. Maybe six months. I came from Kaesong. I was promised . . .” she glanced over her shoulder and swallowed. “I live across the hall from you.”

“What’s your name?” Il-sun asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, looking down at her feet. “It just doesn’t matter anymore.”

Il-sun felt her heart sink even lower. She could see her own future in the woman’s exhausted eyes.

“They only make the
Chosun
girls do the cleaning,” continued the young woman. “Because they don’t have to pay us.”

“After six months, you must at least be close to paying off your debt to Mr. Choy, though. Right? Then you probably won’t have to clean anymore,” said Cho hopefully.

The woman did not say anything, a sour look darkening her face.

“How many
Chosun
live here?” asked Cho.

“Maybe ten, or twelve. It changes all the time. We all live upstairs.”

“Where are the rest of them now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they have been taken to clean the nightclubs.” She looked outside for a moment, gauging the time by the quality of daylight, then threw another quick glance toward the bouncer. “Look, there really isn’t time to talk. We need to finish up here so we can clean the Internet studios. I like to be done in time to take a nap before night work starts. You girls start with the rooms while I work on the glass. Be thorough. If Mr. Choy sees anything out of place he goes crazy.” With that she went back to the window.

The women went to work, busily detailing the rooms. All the soiled sheets were taken to a laundry facility in the basement. Il-sun was in awe of the laundry machines, which required no more work than loading the sheets, adding detergent, and hitting the Start button. How was it that the South could have such things, where in the North a woman’s hands were chapped and roughened by wringing clothes in cold water and caustic soap? After the alley shop had been thoroughly cleaned, the women went methodically through the rest of the building, sweeping, mopping, and dusting. The first floor housed the alley shop on one side and a small video production studio on the other. The second and third stories were wholly dedicated to Internet studios, where they had to clean around all the activity that was continually going on. It was a twenty-four-hour business.

They had finally finished cleaning the building by dusk, and the nameless young woman told them that they would probably have an hour or so until they were summoned for their night work. She then left them without a word.