JungHo didn’t know what to say to that. The rest of the walk passed by in near silence. For the first time ever, he left her without wanting to prolong their meeting. How could he have been so foolish as to believe that he was anything other than a friend, an old playmate from back in the day?
He realized that this was why she felt so free with him—because she never thought of him as a man. Even her habit of grazing his arm to make a point was just a show of affection; she wasn’t putting on an act of seduction like she did with other men. In order to be seen as one of them, it was necessary for him to become rich—not so as to buy her, but to earn her respect. This idea came as a revelation: up until this point JungHo had only ever focused on survival and minimal comfort. He now understood why people who have enough to eat were so obsessed with money. It wasn’t so much what they could buy with it, but the validation that they craved.
Once he made up his mind, JungHo took Loach out for a walk. Out of habit, they made their way to the bridge over the canal. The sun was steeping the western clouds in pink, and lights were starting to illuminate the windows of the bluish buildings. Cars passed behind them over the bridge. In front of them, a flock of sparrows leaped off an electric line and went home to the evening sky, talking about their day.
“How can we get rich, Loach?” JungHo asked point-blank. Even as the words left his mouth he realized he sounded desperate and ignorant, but he swallowed his pride.
“You want to become rich?” Loach smiled his sly smile.
“Well, who says we have to go on like this for the rest of our lives?” JungHo balled up his hands and pounded them against the old stone railing. “Ripping off businesses for free food and some cash, is that all there is? It can’t go on like this.”
“Do you know, there is a way,” Loach said with sudden seriousness. “You know all Seoul is divided into the Leftists and the Rightists.”
JungHo had heard the angry chatter on the streets but had no idea what it meant or how it would affect him. The headlines on newspapers all over town meant nothing to him, since he could not read.
“The Communists, that’s on the left. And the Nationalists, that’s on the right. It’s not really important who believes what . . . But both groups will need men for protection and other jobs that they can’t be directly involved with. Do you know what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” JungHo said, although he was only dimly aware of the whole situation.
“So what we need to do is simply find out which party is willing to pay us more, swear allegiance, and help them do their jobs.”
“Who can we talk to? I don’t know any of these people,” JungHo said sheepishly.
“Don’t you worry about that.” Loach smiled. “It so happens that I have already been in touch with a bigwig among the Communists. He was one of the founding members of the Koryo Communist Party that got started in Shanghai. This guy is incredibly wealthy and connected as well, so if we work for him, we’re all going to strike a gold mine, you hear me? I’ll bring you to meet him—his name is Lee MyungBo.”
*
MYUNGBO’S HOUSE IN PYEONGCHANG-DONG WAS a traditional villa wrapped in old stone walls, over which the top parts of a pair of trees could be seen from the outside. Their branches were touchingly slender and leafless, yet heavy with persimmons that shone like rubies by the moonlight. The outer gates topped with ceramic tiles rose twelve feet high, tall and wide enough that the master of the house could stay in his carriage as he entered his home—a privilege of only the highest gentry. This was just one of the family’s ancestral homes that MyungBo had inherited upon his father’s death in 1925. When the loveless parent choked on a fish bone at breakfast, MyungBo had suddenly gone from having to importune his friends to being the master of vast estates with an annual income of three hundred thousand won.
As JungHo stepped through those imposing outer gates, he became acutely aware that he was so out of his element he might as well be at the Imperial Palace itself. He was astonished by the details that MyungBo would consider most unassuming and modest, like the pleasantly musty odor of the ancient books lining the bookshelves, the sideboards inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the unadorned yet clearly priceless antique porcelains. Above the urns, there was a framed photograph of a bald foreigner with a mustache and a pointed goatee. Everywhere, there was tasteful restraint and gentlemanly elegance that made JungHo feel ashamed to be treading the spotless floor with his worn socks.