Chapter eight
I gazed into the large brown eyes that were studying me so curiously. ‘Did you say Sun-lee?’ I asked.
‘No, I didn’t’, replied the child with the utmost clarity, ‘I said Se-un-g-li’.
It was incredible, I thought – it couldn’t be a coincidence. I knew, Seung-li was a common enough name, but hearing the Korean name for ‘Victory’ it fell strangely on my ears after that night in the Dokgo hotel.
Before I could say any more the door was opened by a woman of about fifty. Her dark hair was tastefully styled and barely touched with grey; she was still handsome, though there was a hardness about her mouth and eyes. She looked at me in the distant manner with which housewives confront door-to-door salesmen and said: ‘Yes?’
‘Are you Mrs Choi Ji-Hye?’ I asked. ‘That’s right’, she said, still on guard.
I took the spectacle case from my pocket. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you’, I said, ‘but do these belong to you?’
Mrs Choi looked at the case for a moment. Then her manner changed. ‘Why yes’, she said. ‘I’d given them up for lost. I made inquiries all over the place with absolutely no result’. I noticed that her expression had softened appreciably. She stepped aside and held open the door. ‘Won’t you come in?’
Just before we went into the hall together Mrs Choi turned to the child. ‘Seung-li! Time for tea, dear. Wash your hands in the kitchen’.
So the child’s name really was Seung-li.
‘Come and meet my husband’, invited Mrs Choi affably.
She led me into the sitting-room. It was large, low, and comfortably furnished with soft cream coloured sofa and curtains, setting off the warm glow of the hard wood floor.
There was a predominantly military flavour about the room: there were brass shell cases of all sizes arranged under the window, two model armoured vehicles on the mantelpiece and over it hung an oil painting of a fighter jet in full flight. Each of the four walls was covered with prints and photographs of military scenes. I had also spotted a ship’s compass and an old-fashioned ships’ barometer in the hallway.
Mrs Choi led me to the open door of a smaller, adjoining room. It appeared to combine the functions of office and workshop and the military atmosphere, powerful as it was in the sitting- room, seemed all-embracing.
An older, studious looking man was working on an old radio set on a rough wooden table. He wore disreputable dark grey flannel trousers, a rather shiny double-breasted jacket with scuffed elbows and a woollen cardigan, which appeared to be several sizes too big for him. I noticed that his black shoes had seen better days.
The walls were lined with bookcases on all sides packed with military reference books and piled up in one corner were pieces of old electronic equipment in varying stages of repair: there were morse systems, walkie-talkies, a Geiger counter, and several radio kits. A confused jumble of tools and spares overflowed from one of the boxes, whilst a large aeroplane propeller fastened to the wall above his workbench completed the picture of disorganised military industry.
Mr Choi blinked inquiringly at his wife and myself with mild and short-sighted eyes. Then he came towards us and into the sitting-room.
‘Kyung-lee, I’ve got my spectacles back’, announced Mrs Choi. ‘This gentleman very kindly brought them’. She turned to me. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know your name. This is my husband’. ‘Moon Han-sang’, I said.
I held out a hand to Choi Kyung-lee and he shook it absent-mindedly. ‘What’s that you said about spectacles, my dear?’ he murmured.
‘You know’, said Mrs Choi, ‘the pair I lost in Seoul about three weeks ago’.
‘Of course’, said Choi, ‘I remember’. It was obvious to me that he did not remember at all.
‘I can’t tell you how delighted I am to get them back, Mr Moon’, said Mrs Choi. ‘I’ve been completely lost without them’.
‘You’ve got your new ones’, pointed out her husband mildly.
‘Oh, yes – but they’ve never been quite the same as these, you know’. Her look challenged him to contradict her.
‘I didn’t know’, ventured Choi meekly, ‘but I’ll take your word for it’.
Mrs Choi shot a reproachful look at her husband, and turned back to me. ‘Where on earth did you find them, Mr Moon? As far and I can remember, I left them in a little restaurant in Namdaemun. I telephoned the next day, but they said no one had handed them in. Of course, people these days are quite incredibly dishonest’.
‘As a matter of fact’, I said, ‘I found them in a car’.
‘In a car?’ Mrs Choi’s voice reached a high pitch of incredulity.
‘Yes’, I said deliberately. ‘It was lent to me by a friend of mine – a man called Park Song- yong’.
‘Park Song-yong?’ repeated Choi Kyung-lee. ‘I don’t think we know anyone of that name, do we dear?’ Looking at him, I was ready to swear that he was an absent-minded old man searching a memory that had long since proved unreliable.
Mrs Choi was no more helpful. ‘I don’t think so’, she said. ‘No, I’m sure we don’t’.
‘He must have picked them up in the restaurant, or where ever it was you left them’, commented Choi.
‘I suppose so’, she agreed. ‘Did he ask you to deliver the spectacles to me, Mr Moon?’
‘No’, I replied. ‘As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen Park Song-yong for quite some time – not since I borrowed the car. I came across the glasses quite by chance, and as I was on my way to Pocheon on business I thought I’d drop them in’.
‘How very kind of you’, said Mrs Choi effusively. She turned to Seung-li, who had just come into the room. ‘Seung-li, look! These are the spectacles I lost. Mr Moon has brought them all the way from Seoul’.
‘I’m afraid you’ve been to a great deal of trouble’, said Choi Kyung-lee apologetically. ‘Not at all’, I assured him. ‘If it had been out of my way I should have posted them to you’.
‘All the same, it was extremely thoughtful of you’, said Mrs Choi. ‘I just can’t tell you how grateful I am. My new pair is supposed to be exactly the same, but I don’t think that new oculist is any good. I just can’t get along with the pair he gave me’.
Seung-li spoke for the first time since she had told me her name. ‘Is Mr Moon staying for tea?’ she asked.
Mrs Choi laughed. ‘Yes, dear, I think that’s the very least we can do’, she said. ‘You’ll stay and drink tea with us, won’t you, Mr Moon?’
‘Well...’
‘I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer’, insisted Mrs Choi.
Choi turned his mild eyes towards me. ‘That means you’re staying’, he said.
‘Good, so that’s settled’. Mrs Choi took the child by the hand. ‘Come on, Seung-li. You can help me in the kitchen’.
‘Charming little girl’, I said when they had gone.
‘Yes, isn’t she?’ said Choi. He looked almost wistfully, it seemed to me, in the direction of the kitchen. ‘A sweet child, and we’re both devoted to her. I’m afraid we couldn’t bear the thought of being parted from her now’. He broke off and peered at me through his thick glasses. ‘I expect you’ve got the wrong idea. Seung-li’s not our daughter, you know’.
‘Oh, really?’ I said inadequately. ‘I thought she must be’.
‘Oh, no. We have no children of our own. Seung-li’s my brother-in-law’s child. He’s a widower, so she spends most of her time with us’.
‘I see’, I said. The explanation seemed perfectly logical, but I could not rid my mind of this nagging doubt. I went on: ‘Seung-li – is such a special name?’
‘I suppose it is’, said Choi. ‘Quite honestly, I don’t know how she came by it’.
‘It’s got a kind of military sound about it’, I suggested casually. ‘Victory – did her birth coincide with the commemoration of a great battle?’
‘I really don’t know’ said Choi absently. ‘Of course, I had nothing to do with her naming. I remember she used to be teased about it when she first started school. Children can be cruel little devils, you know, and any child with a different name gets pounced on at once’. He smiled reminiscently. ‘I remember going to school with a small boy whose life was a perfect misery…’
I quickly realised that further inquiries into Seung-li’s antecedents would get me precisely nowhere. The mention of his school chum was an attempt to steer the conversation away from the girl. I took the hint.
I crossed to the mantelpiece and looked more closely at the model armoured vehicles. Pointing to what I judged to be a Korean War vintage car, I asked: ‘This is very detailed. I presume it is to scale?’
He smiled. ‘Oh yes, and all the others’.
He stepped over to me and picked it off the mantelpiece, and promptly began a detailed lesson on the various advantages of each machine. I feined interest and asked about the other pieces filling the house.
‘I take it you are a collector?’ I said warmly. ‘You must be quite an expert’.
Choi emitted a little sigh. ‘It’s rather more than a collection now, I’m afraid’, he said ruefully. ‘So you trade in militaria them?’
‘Dear me, yes. There’s quite a good market for this sort of thing, you know – you’d be surprised. Bills must be paid, Mr Moon’, he went on diffidently, as if loath to bring up the sordid question of earning a living. ‘Spotting bargains and bringing them back to life seems to be my only professional qualification’.
‘Well, these are certainly professional’, I said.
He smiled his distant smile; then took me by the elbow.
‘Come into my den for a minute; I’ll show you some of my other pieces’. ‘I’d like that’, I said.
‘I’ve always been fascinated by war’, said Choi, when we were in his study-cum-workshop. ‘Military history – the Japanese occupation, the Korean War – all that sort of thing’.
‘Were you in the army?’ I inquired.
Choi shook his head regretfully. ‘Alas, no’, he said. ‘It was always my ambition, but they turned me down – said I had a dickey heart. Absolute nonsense, of course: I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life’. He smiled rather pathetically. ‘So instead of the real thing I have to be content with playing at soldiers. Come over here a minute’.
He led me to the other side of the table. ‘Mind you’, he went on, warming to his subject, ‘objects have their romance too, you know. Like this one, for instance’. He picked up a rather battered looking tobacco tin and handed it to me.
I fingered it for a moment and said: ‘Excuse me for sounding ignorant, but it just looks like a rusty tobacco tin’.
‘Yes’, said Choi slowly, ‘but it’s also rather more than that’. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘It looks ordinary enough to me’.
‘Do you really think so?’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a funny thing, but this ordinary looking tobacco tin once saved a man’s life’.
Mystified, I repeated: ‘Saved a life?’
Choi gave an indulgent chuckle. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Moon. Of course, this must sound like Greek to you. Let me explain. This tin was in the breast pocket of one of the infantry soldiers at the Battle of Inchon in 1950’.
I nodded. ‘I remember learning about it at school. Wasn’t it the turning point in the war?’ I said, impressed in spite of myself.
‘Yes, it led to the recapture and liberation of Seoul’.
‘But what is the significance of the tin in all this?’ I asked.
‘You see here’, continued Choi turning the tin over in the palm of his hand. ‘This is the entry hole from a North Korean bullet’.
I looked and sure enough there was a neat hole in the base of the tin. ‘But there is no exit hole?’ I noted.
‘Exactly! You see the tin and its contents absorbed all the energy left in the bullet, saving the chaps life.’
‘He was a lucky bloke’ I exclaimed.
‘Indeed he was’, replied Choi dryly. ‘If only I could find out who it was, then the story really would be worth telling’.
‘Any chance of that?’ I asked.
‘Well it’s not impossible. I have amassed quite an archive of records and correspondence from the battle, and am always on the look out for more. Maybe one day I will turn up a letter that refers to the miracle of the little tobacco tin’.
I nodded and returned his smile.
‘So you specialise in the Battle of Inchon?’
‘Yes, it has a special place in my heart. But, one can’t make a living out of one battle, and so I deal in pretty much anything that comes my way’.
‘Ah, yes’, I said, regarding Choi with renewed interest. ‘Well the tobacco tin certainly makes for a remarkable story’, I remarked. I examined the tin again. ‘And they say smoking is bad for your health’.
Choi nodded. There was a light footstep outside and Seung-li appeared in the doorway. ‘Tea’s ready, Uncle Choi Kyumg-lee’, she told him.
‘Good girl’, said Choi. He clasped my elbow. ‘Come along, Mr Moon. I’ve taken up quite enough of your valuable time. I do hope I haven’t been boring you’.
‘Far from it’, I said, with genuine feeling, and followed Choi back into the sitting room...