“I do miss the old days. We were all so innocent.” Jade fought the tears in her eyes. She was thinking of Lotus and HanChol and every other person she had once loved with absolute certainty and purity, without fear of getting hurt. Even JungHo had quietly slipped away from her side, and she regretted not being a better friend to him. Lotus reached over and patted her arm, and she laughed. The hotness of tears was somehow very healing.
“I have an idea,” Jade said between sniffles. “Why don’t we go out this evening? To be honest, I could really use a drink.”
Lotus resisted the suggestion for only a moment; she was actually thrilled to have an outing. Humming softly, she sat down in front of her vanity with its powders and rouges. Although she was never beautiful, she still looked young. Her new hairstyle was similar to Jade’s, cut to shoulder length and curled with tongs, and it suited her features.
The maid and Sunmi returned as she was choosing her outfit. Jade noticed that Lotus’s daughter was not a pretty child, felt guilty for having this thought, and thus acted overly awed by her. The nanny prompted Sunmi to say hello. She only put a tiny finger on her lips, staring around the room with a slow watchfulness that struck Jade as unendearing.
Lotus said distractedly, “She’s so quiet, so polite. She never cries in front of me. Once she fell down while the nanny was away, and she screwed up her whole face trying to keep herself from crying.” Hearing this, Jade resolved to show Sunmi genuine warmth and kissed her on top of her head. Lotus lightly raked the child’s new hair, uncut and translucent like dewy spider silk. “There, there . . . And now it’s time for bed,” she said, sending the girl and her nanny away in a hurry.
The evening was blustery and overcast. Lotus selected a maroon silk dress, a cloche, and a dark green overcoat—autumnal and rich against the grayness awaiting them outside. She was buoyed by the voluptuous pleasure of being perfectly dressed for a certain kind of weather. Jade was already putting on her shoes when Lotus stopped at her vanity to roll a cigarette. She smoked it halfway before she noticed Jade’s impatience.
“It’s mostly tobacco and a bit of opium. Just to take the edge off,” she said. “You want to try it?”
“No, I’m fine. At this rate we’ll still be here at midnight,” Jade said, and Lotus put out the cigarette carefully and left it on her ashtray.
When they finally set off, a hoarse wind was blowing away empty pails by the well and maids were skidding about, tearing off the washings from clothing lines.
There were countless cafés in Seoul, and each had its own following. The businessmen and pro-Japanese wealthy went to Café Vienna; the Nationalists went to Café Terrace; the Communists went to the Yellow Horse; the students and the artists went to Café Gitane; and the Japanese went to their own cafés, run by the Japanese. But everyone who was known in society went to Café Seahorn, which was owned by a young bourgeois poet. Somehow the fact that he was a pro-Japanese landowner’s son with the best education, but also a Leftist and an artist who believed in free love, made it possible for him to attract the most interesting people from every corner of society. Jade was acquainted with him, and this was where she was taking her friend.
“Isn’t this lovely? You can see everyone from this spot,” Jade said to Lotus as they slid into the crimson leather booth. She turned toward the pretty waitress and ordered two cups of mocha.
“Why is this so much more delicious than normal coffee?” Lotus whispered.
“It has chocolate in it—isn’t it amazing?” Jade giggled. “We start with this, then we’ll have some alcohol. You see how people are just talking now. Later on, everyone will be dancing. Oh, they’re playing ‘La Paloma’！” Jade flitted from one thought to the next. She pointed out a well-known woman painter who’d married a diplomat and traveled the world with him; but while abroad, she had an affair with her husband’s best friend, and he divorced her as soon as they returned. Now she struggled to make a living by selling paintings and doing illustrations for magazines. There was also a novelist who was sitting alone, ostensibly reading an American magazine that was stocked at the café, but was really there for one of the waitresses, who was his mistress.
“They all go for the café girls these days. More modern than the courtesans, I’ve been told,” Jade said, glancing at their waitress, whose apron emphasized her tiny waist. She looked no older than twenty. “And not as demanding as high-born Modern Girls.”