ME: I must have gotten lost. Where is the dinner?
But there’s no response. Not in the first five minutes after and not in the next fifteen. Of course there’s no response, because there’s no texting during the hweshiks.
The server comes over and says something sharp in Korean, which I guess is “get out.” I put money on the table even though there’s no tipping in Korea because I’ve occupied this space for nearly an hour. If Soyou and Chaeyoung wanted me to feel humiliated, they have succeeded. I slink out of the restaurant and stand in the street. It’s dark now and it’s beginning to mist. The umbrella I bought at the Dior boutique is leaning against my desk at work.
The mist turns to a sprinkle, which turns into a downpour. As the water causes the silk fabric of my shirt to stick to my skin, I make up my mind. IF Group is not for me.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The building I worked in back home in Iowa was four stories and had its own private garden, where the garden staff would grow various plants, set up photo shoots, host company events. The staff was small, in part because of increasing budget cuts, but also because it was once a family-owned company, which sold out to a national conglomerate a few years before I started working there. Yujun calls IF Group a family, and maybe it is—if the family is full of dysfunctional backbiters. It’s unfair of me to characterize the whole of the company because of one section of the marketing department, but I really don’t care. These are my feelings and they aren’t going away.
The seventh floor is empty when I step out of the elevator car. The chairs are all pushed in against the desks. My work space is full of binders and extra supplies. The clock on the screensaver of Chaeyoung’s computer bounces from one side of the monitor screen to the other. A low hum of noise from the air purifier mixes with the fans of the hard drives, but there aren’t any sounds of actual life. I won’t miss this place.
Footsteps and then a gasp startle me. I spin and nearly knock over the stack of binders. Soyou is at the door of the department, one hand clutching the frame and the other clapped over her mouth. Her hair is a mess and her shirt is only half tucked in. Even in the dim light, I can see the flush on her cheekbones. Another head appears behind her, and this time I’m too shocked to keep my own sharp inhale quiet.
“Bujang-nim?”
“What are you doing here?” he snaps in full Korean.
“I forgot my umbrella.” I lift the white nylon up in the air. My slow brain is putting two and two together, and I do not like the sum. The love bite on Soyou’s collarbone a few weeks ago, her mussed hair now, the empty office, the two of them together, create a picture that I don’t want in my head. It’s none of my business, really. I straighten the binders and move toward the elevators. “Nice to see you.”
The two move aside as one, and no one utters a word. The elevator takes a year to arrive and I don’t actually take my first breath until it starts its descent. Soyou needs this job. You can tell by her modest clothing, the wear on her shoes, her near-desperate work ethic. And while I don’t like Bujang-nim, he has two kids. Losing his job could really screw up their lives.
I have no idea what to do. If Soyou is being sexually harassed, then family or no family, Bujang-nim needs to go. If she’s having an affair with him because she likes him, is it my business? Would she even tell me the truth if I ask?
I can’t talk this over with Yujun because he’ll immediately want to investigate the matter. If I tell Jules, Miss Open Lines of Communication Are Good for a Relationship, she will tell Bomi, who will immediately want to investigate the matter.
I need to talk to Soyou, which means tomorrow I have to come to work. Damn it all anyway.
* * *
• • •
I ARRIVE EARLY at Yongsan the next day, not just to catch Soyou but to say goodbye to Yang Ilwha. Since this will be my last day, I want to let her know I won’t be seeing much of her in the future, but when I arrive in the alley where the food truck has been parked for the last three months, the space is empty.
I rub my eyes to make sure I’m not missing something, that I’m in the right alley, in front of the right convenience store with the auto-body repair shop next door. My view remains the same.
Inside the convenience store, the clerk informs me that Yang has not been here for several days. Panic blooms in my chest. What if she didn’t have the flu? What if she’s sick sick? I send an anxious text to her.
ME: Seonsaeng-nim, are you doing well?
I tap my fingers impatiently against the back of my phone, waiting for a response. One doesn’t come. I call a cab and give the driver the address to Yang’s apartment. It takes way too long to arrive, and when I finally do, there’s no food truck in the parking lot. Has she gone to another location? Why wouldn’t she have texted me? Then again, why would she? I’m a customer.
But I’m a customer who manned her food truck for almost two days, which is why I stopped referring to her as Imo-nim and switched to Seongsaeng-nim. Doesn’t that deserve some consideration? Yang’s apartment isn’t an enclosed unit. Instead there are outdoor hallways, like in the older motels back in the US, with concrete walls that come up to your chest. I read that many of these were built shortly after the war, which explains all the drab gray stone.
I knock on her apartment door, but there’s no response. The windows of the apartments on this row all have iron bars, and none look very inviting. The neighbors aren’t going to appreciate me knocking on doors and asking in my inexpert Korean if Yang is okay.
I hate bothering Yujun because he’s so busy, but if I was in his shoes, I’d want me to call.
He answers immediately with concern in his voice. “Hara?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I quickly reassure him. “Well, nothing is wrong with me. I’m at Yang Ilwha’s apartment but she’s not answering the door. Is there an apartment manager I can talk to? Where would I find him?”
“Yang Ilwha is the ahjumma who owns the food truck, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you say you helped her before because she was sick? Maybe she is at the hospital?”
“The hospital?” I exclaim. “She only had the flu!” Maybe it was something more serious.
“To get an IV,” he reassures. “It is not like in America where you have to be dying to go to the hospital. Here, we go and get an IV if we have a cold or flu. State health care, remember?”
I do now. “What hospital would she go to?”
“Can you text me your location?”
I send him a pin. “Did you get it?”