Chapter sixteen
Na Sang-wha examined the sheet of paper with some interest, then looked up at me. ‘You say there’s no doubt that this Cuban sailor, Arsenio, died in the Dokgo hotel at Sinjang-ri?’ he asked.
‘No doubt at all. He was pretty far-gone when I saw him the night before – he’d been in the water for several hours, don’t forget. He died at breakfast time the next morning. The landlord’s daughter found him. Then the local policeman arrived, and Captain Martinez came later to collect Arsenio’s things. I tell you, Arsenio’s the deadest man Sinjang-ri will ever see’. ‘Well, this note must mean something’, said Na decisively, ‘and Mrs Choi must have put it there’.
‘I agree’, I said. ‘No one else could have. Shall I go and talk to her about it?’
‘Not at the moment’, said Na. ‘I’m more interested in Arsenio. Presumably a doctor put in an appearance at some time or another?’
‘Yes’, I said. ‘His name’s Lee Chung-kyu. I imagine he must have certified Arsenio’s death’. ‘Know anything about Lee?’
‘Not a lot. Seemed a very pleasant sort of chap; about fifty, brisk and cheerful – the usual type of country GP’.
‘You’d better go and see him’, decided Na. ‘You might dig up something...’
I drove the long journey to Sinjang-ri with my brain in a ferment of bewilderment. Travelling along the almost deserted coast road down to Gwangju I tried to review the events of the past few days and the people who had motivated them: Park Song-yong, who had disappeared without trace and was now on the wrong side of the law; Kim Joo-young, so unfortunately engaged to a man who, so far as I could see, could only bring her trouble and grief; Choi Kyung-lee and his wife, whose benign good nature could not disguise certain sinister undertones; Seong Jeong-ryong, the motor trader who inexplicably purchased a car for a ridiculous sum and had a furtive meeting with a Cuban sea captain; the seaman, Arsenio, who was allegedly dead but apparently still alive; Seung-li, the child with the elfish charm, whose name translated into the word ‘Victory’ also muttered by Arsenio in delirium a few hours before he died – or did not die.
I came to the conclusion that my only course was to follow Na’s instructions and keep my wits about me. I was now back in Sinjang-ri where this strange and macabre succession of incidents had had its beginning …
Kwon Oh-young greeted me with considerable enthusiasm. Over a drink in the bar he said: ‘Well, you’ve certainly brought better weather with you this time. Have you come up to meet that friend of yours?’
‘No’, I said, ‘as a matter of fact, I’ve come to have a word with Dr Lee Chung-kyu’. Kwon was non-commital but palpably curious. ‘Oh, really?’ he said.
‘I telephoned him from Seoul. He should be here any time now’.
Kwon polished a glass and examined it critically. ‘With all them doctors in the fancy clinics’, he said, ‘I shouldn’t have thought you’d have to come all this way’. He looked up as Dr Lee came into the bar. ‘Ah, here he is now’.
Lee greeted me effusively. ‘Nice to see you again’, he said. ‘And you’, I said. ‘Sit down and have a drink’.
Lee shook his head. ‘A bit early for me, thank you. Now, what’s this very urgent matter you wanted to see me about?’ He beamed at me with the utmost cordiality.
Lee looked so placid and amiable, so much the complete picture of a kindly country doctor, that I hesitated for a moment; until I remembered something Na had told me about some of the people who worked for him and against him. ‘It’s not enough just to play a part’, he had said, ‘you’ve got to be the man you’re impersonating’. Having seen Jo and Kim Han-jin in action I appreciated his meaning: Jo had become so much immersed in his guise of a seedy fishing rope distributor that he probably checked through his order book every night before going to bed; Han-jin, as an Army sergeant, had almost certainly thought longingly of promotion to Company Sergant-Major, and a pint of wallop in the sergeants’ mess.
Feeling rather less of a fool now, I said: ‘I’ve got rather an odd question to ask you, Doctor. I hope you won’t be offended by it’.
‘I doubt it’, said Lee in high good humour. ‘After twenty-five years in general practice I’m past being offended by anything’.
‘You remember Arsenio, the Cuban sailor?’
Lee looked surprised. ‘Very well indeed. How could I forget him. Why?’
‘It’s because of Arsenio that I’m here. I told you this was going to be an odd question’. I hesitated for a moment, then said bluntly: ‘Did Arsenio actually die?’
Lee stared at me in amazement. ‘Are you serious?’ I repeated the question.
‘I heard what you said, Mr Moon’, retorted Lee a trifle coolly, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t understand you’.
‘I’m simply asking you’, I said, ‘if Arsenio was really dead’.
‘Of course he was dead’, said Lee. He looked at me with scarcely concealed suspicion. ‘There’s no doubt about it?’
‘None whatsoever. The wonder is that he stayed alive as long as he did. You realise you are casting a serious aspersion on my professional –’
‘What happened to the body?’ I interrupted.
Lee looked at me before replying. ‘Well, that was a little strange’, he said slowly. ‘It must have been after you left, I suppose. That Cuban captain – what was his name again?’
‘Martinez’, I supplied.
‘Well, Martinez came here at the head of a deputation of his men, and they insisted that Arsenio should be buried at sea’.
‘And was he?’ I asked.
Lee nodded. ‘Indeed he was. He was taken out to sea in a trawler and they held a burial service’.
‘Did any of the local people attend this service?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Yes; the priest and the crew of the trawler’.
I seemed to be getting nowhere, yet I had a feeling there was something terribly wrong.
Lee’s normally good-humoured face was puckered in a frown. ‘What exactly is the point of all this? Why are you so interested in Arsenio?’
‘I’m just curious’, I said.
‘Come, Mr Moon’, said Lee mildly. ‘Haven’t you made rather a long journey just out of curiosity?’
‘I was passing through Sinjang-ri anyway’, I said casually, but very much on guard.
The doctor looked unconvinced and faintly annoyed. ‘I’m sorry you don’t see your way clear to explaining your curiosity a little more fully’, he said stiffly. ‘I can assure you that I’m not in the habit of certifying a man dead when he’s still alive’. He gave a wintry smile. ‘I have a certain reputation to keep up, you know’.
I was apologetic. ‘I didn’t mean to imply –’
I was interrupted by the appearance of Kwon by my side. ‘You’re wanted on the telephone, Mr Moon’.
This surprised me. No one except Na knew that I was in Sinjang-ri. It might be Na, but I doubted it. He was, I knew, no great lover of the telephone. ‘Who is it?’ I asked.
‘I didn’t ask’, said Kwon, ‘but I will’. He went back to the telephone and I heard him make the inquiry. When he returned he said: ‘It’s a Mr Park. Mr Park Song-yong’.
‘Park Song-yong?’ I said incredulously. ‘That’s what he said’.
I went to the telephone and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, Song-yong? This is Han-sang’.
Song-yong had not got what you would call a quiet voice, especially on the telephone. I at once recognised this voice as Song-yong’s, but it sounded tense, worried, and more than a little frightened. It said jerkily: ‘Han-sang, is that you? Look here, you’ve got to – ’
I interrupted him. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ I demanded. ‘I’ve been looking all over the country for you. Where are you? Why didn’t you turn up here last week?’
He cut in with a sudden rush of words. ‘You’ve got to stop chasing round after me! You’ve got to forget I exist; do you understand?’
‘No, I don’t understand!’ I said tersely. ‘What d’you mean, ‘forget you exist’? I’ll find it a bit hard to do that. You seem to forget that you owe me a lot of money. Just in case you didn’t know, the firm of Frazer and Denston has ceased to exist and my four hundred million won went for a Burton. What about that?’
Song-yong said hesitantly: ‘Is it the money that’s worrying you?’
‘Just a little’, I said sarcastically. ‘I’ve got to see you, Park – and soon. You and I have a lot of things to sort out’.
‘All right’, said Park at last. ‘I’ll see you next Sunday morning’.
Remembering that complete ruthlessness of purpose was the only possible way to tie Park Song-yong down to keeping an appointment I said brusquely: ‘Where?’
‘At your flat. I’ll be there at about eleven o’clock’.
I knew from long experience with Park Song-yong that ‘about eleven o’clock’ could mean anything from twelve thirty to six o’clock the following evening. ‘Not ‘about eleven o’clock’, I said sharply. ‘Eleven o’clock exactly’.
‘I’ll be there’, promised Park. He sounded listless and dispirited – not at all like the Park Song- yong I knew.
‘Can I depend on this?’
‘Yes, but listen, Han-sang. If you tell anyone about this – if you breathe a word about it – I shan’t turn up. Do you understand?’ There was a kind of desperate urgency in his voice.
There had to be a string of conditions attached to it, I thought sourly. I said: ‘All right, I understand’.
‘I’m serious’, he warned.
‘I hope we’re both being serious’, I countered coldly. ‘Eleven o’clock Sunday morning – and this time be there’.
I rang off and looked thoughtfully at the telephone. I knew that it was asking too much to expect any clarification of the situation in a telephone call from Park Song-yong: I remembered so many other telephone calls, invariably with the charges reversed, which had told me that ‘there’s been a bit of a slip up’, that ‘error has crept in’ (a favourite phrase of Song-yong’s when something had gone catastrophically and irreparably wrong). I sighed gently and went back to Dr Lee.
‘Sorry about that interruption, Doctor’, I said. ‘It was an old friend of mine who’d tracked me down here’.
Lee smiled placatingly. ‘It’s given me a chance to calm down a little’, he said. ‘I must apologise for my outburst just now’.
‘On the contrary, your comments were more than justified’, I said. ‘I shouldn’t have asked such a ridiculous question’.
Lee looked at me. ‘I wouldn’t say ridiculous, exactly. Curious, yes’. ‘Won’t you change your mind and have that drink?’ I invited.
He looked at his watch and shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I’ve still got a couple of patients to see before my surgery: both of them, alas, ladies who can smell alcohol a mile away’. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his chest’. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking of this idea of yours that Arsenio might not be dead. It’s really quite fantastic. Whatever put such an idea into your head?’
I thought it would be preferable to show signs of letting the matter drop. In any event, the sudden reappearance of Song-yong, if only on the telephone, had given me more than enough to think about. I had been assigned to find Park Song-yong: the question of Arsenio’s problematical death would have to wait.
‘It was just a thought’, I said casually. ‘It occurred to me one day when I was thinking about Sinjang-ri and the storm and what happened here’.
But Lee was not to be put off so easily. ‘Yes, but someone must have said something to you about Arsenio, or you must have read something about him. No one would ask a doctor a question like that without a definite reason’.
‘I have a reason’, I told him.
‘Well, it must be a very good one’, said Lee. There was still a trace of stiffness in his voice as he added: ‘But you’d rather not tell me what it is?’
Feeling like a small boy being questioned about the disappearance of some chocolate, I replied: ‘I’m afraid so. For the moment, at any rate’.
‘Well, you’ve made me very curious’, said Lee. He rose from his chair. ‘How long are you planning to stay with us this time?’
‘I’m going up to Gwangju tomorrow to see some friends’, I lied glibly. ‘And then back to Seoul?’
‘Yes’.
‘I’m treating myself to a trip to Seoul in a few days’, said Lee. ‘Well, drop in and see me’, I suggested.
‘I may take you up on that, but I expect I’ll be pretty busy. I’ve got a lot of people to see’. ‘Why not join me for dinner tonight?’
‘I doubt if I’ll be able to manage it’, said Lee regretfully. ‘I’ve got a surgery in a quarter of an hour and the ‘flu season is in full swing’.
I sat in the bar for a little while after Lee had gone. I thought of his reaction to my query about the possibility of Arsenio not being dead: his rather aggrieved dismissal of any theory could hardly have been more genuine. It seemed impossible that anyone but Mrs Choi could have put that note in the box, but what was the possible connection between Mrs Choi, a singularly ordinary housewife, and a young Cuban sailor whose body was presumably at the bottom of the West Sea?
My thoughts went off at a sudden tangent to Park Song-yong. Obviously he was not at all anxious to see me; equally obviously he had somehow got to know that I was in Sinjang-ri. I cursed myself for not having the call traced, and then realised that in all probability Park had used a public call box.
I was released from my thoughts by the arrival of Hae-jin, pretty as ever. Her father had gone out for the evening, and so we enjoyed a rare chance to sit down to dinner together. Assuming I had travelled down especially to see her she had prepared a Korean barbeque. I decided it polite not to disillusion her. She really was a fabulous cook, not to mention the sweetest natured girl I had met in a long time.