Das Road

  No, I’ll have to play out this scenario to the end. To do otherwise would not be the act of a gentleman. But if Kathy wants to break off the trip and return alone to her town, far be it from me to oppose her wishes.

  A desperate thrashing from the far courtyard disturbs the morning’s harmony. A bird, caught by a spider web, is thumping against the wall.

  “What the hell?”

  The unfortunate creature fights mightily but cannot extricate itself. The web has twisted into a string which holds its feet tightly. The bird is larger than a sparrow and would seem strong enough to break a web designed to catch flies. It does not cry out, which makes its struggles more terrible.

  With a swipe of my bamboo flute, I break the web. I think the bird will fly off, but it falls to the ground between the wall and a steel fuel drum instead. I roll the empty drum away – no sign of the bird.

  “Oh!”

  I tip the drum and examine its rusty bottom; I scan the whole area. Still no bird. I stroke my chin stubble. A person of a metaphysical cast might discern some underlying significance to these events. I am simply baffled.

  As far as I can see, many things just happen without any explanation. Benefits rain down on some people randomly, while disaster strikes others unbidden and undeserved. Myself, I have never won a single thing in my life – contest prize, 50/50 raffle, nothing. Nobody has ever grabbed me as I walked into a grocery store and presented a ‘millionth customer’ award.

  Yet, my birth date came up well over 300 in the draft lottery, instantly erasing my worries of being taken for the Vietnam war. Had I been born six hours earlier, my lottery number would have been in the low 30’s, a virtual guarantee of induction.

  Correspondingly, some poor guy a few hours older than me had been conscripted. Maybe I’d just saved up a whole lifetime of luck for that single win.

  Kathy rolls out of bed and takes her sweet time preparing for our departure. The beautiful day advances unused while I hang around impatiently. Although my earlier reverence for Kathy has evaporated, I don’t really dislike her. Rather, I’ve come to regard her as something to be gotten past as quickly as possible – like a head cold, or a trip to the frosty virgin.

  I’d never claim to be Florence Nightingale, but I did the best I could for her yesterday. Her illness put me through some genuine hell. A simple ‘thank you’ would be very appropriate but seems beyond her ability to express. Not only that, but my so-called pass of the previous night had hardly been serious, and her shouted ‘NO!’ response was definite overkill.

  At last she is ready, and we move out into the street. Some small children ran after us shouting, “Hello!” and “Mi gook saram!”

  “How are you?” I flash my politician’s smile and snap a picture of the braver kids. Kathy merely ignores the little pests.

  We board the bus for Sorak San, having barely exchanged a word. Is Kathy angry about last night? She wears her usual little inward-looking smile and views the passing scenery from her window seat. I maintain polite aloofness.

  We get off at the national park and enter a swirl of Korean tourists. I immediately feel out of place. For more than a year I’ve believed myself to be a part of Korea – an awkward appendage, maybe, but still someone who belongs. Now I seem to be just another dumb jerk tourist with a camera hanging around my neck.

  Magnificent jagged mountain peaks adorn the background, and a sprawling Buddhist temple lies before us. Young Koreans with back packs and pseudo Alpine outfits, including feathered Pinocchio hats, crowd past us on their way to the mountain trails.

  Harabojis clad in traditional hanboks walk by with great dignity, their long white coats billowing. An elderly couple poses for a photograph in the temple courtyard. Kathy and I are the sole Westerners.

  The temple complex is magnificent with gracefully curving tiled roofs, ornate wood work, paintings, and carved stone. The building interiors smell of old incense. I am unable to absorb such complexity. The whole Buddhist faith with its myriad Bodhisattvas, guardians, and mysticism overwhelms me.

  A sign proclaims that the original temple had been destroyed by Japanese invaders and subsequently rebuilt. The usual story. Most Korean landmarks have been destroyed / rebuilt repeatedly throughout the centuries.

  Kathy proclaims her opinion. “God, how depressing!”

  We see a gigantic Buddha statue and some other cultural artifacts as we circulate through the tourist sites and off into a less frequented area of the park. Late afternoon, we stop at a little restaurant past the crowd fringes, a picturesque locale alongside a rushing stream.

  A small waterfall rumbles in the background. Except for some picnicking middle-aged Koreans doing a round dance, the area is deserted. I politely decline an offer to join the dance. If I’d had a couple of sojus first, I might have agreed.

  Our waitress, Miss Yi, is a pretty, rosy-cheeked teen-ager. I induce her to come outside for some portraits. I photographed her standing by the waterfall and then seated on a rock with a sharp mountain peak framing her.

  For the first time I feel comfortable in the park surroundings. Freed from the press of the tourist crowd, the old Korea is reasserting itself. A wood fire burns somewhere, adding a wonderful outdoorsy scent. Kathy stands around glancing at her watch. Her impatience annoys me, and I ignore it the best I can.

  “You’re leaving soon?” Miss Yi asks.

  “Yes, probably,” I say.

  “That’s unfortunate,” Miss Yi says.

  “How so?”

  She gestures to a trail running alongside the stream and explains that it leads to a mountain top hermitage with overnight accommodations.

  My interest picks up. “How long to get there?”

  “A few hours,” she says. “If you leave now you could arrive before dark.”

  I inform Kathy that I intend to hike the trail and stay overnight at the hermitage.

  “But I want – ”

  “Do whatever you want, Kathy,” I say. “I’m going up to the hermitage, though. You’re welcome to come along.”

  She isn’t pleased. Ordinarily, all she has say is, “I want” and us guys fall on our faces. Well, not this time!

  We tramp uphill amid a miasma of tense silence. As I negotiate the rocky trail, I can feel Kathy’s hostility stabbing into my back like a dagger. I am being a jerk and know it. The realization does not please me as it conflicts with my nice-guy self image.

  I stop and turn around.

  “Okay,” I say, “maybe we should head back.”

  “Too late for that, Tyler!”

  Kathy zips past me.

  “You coming or not?” she calls over her shoulder.

  She sets a pace difficult for me to match on my tender ankle. The magnificent scenery makes up for all difficulties, however, especially the sight of Kathy’s ass flexing under her jeans as she climbs.

  Isn’t this the way of the world? I reflect. No matter how smart you think you are, you always end up chasing one of those.

  Aside from Kathy’s excellent buns, the scenery includes pine trees – mostly small ones, but some giants as well with great, dignified limbs curving over the brook. Ridges hem us in on either side blocking the sun. An invigorating scent composed of evergreen and sparkling water fills the air.

  The stream rushes more insistently with the steeper gradient, and Kathy seems to tire. She slackens the pace and eventually calls a halt. I sit down beside a large boulder and massage my ankle.

  Then I pause, startled, as if some ghost has puffed his frosty breath down my neck. I know that something is on the rock – even before I look. Not that it is large or obtrusive; in fact, I have to search carefully to find the shallow engraving in the stone:

  I stare – teeth gripping my lower lip hard enough to hurt. Is this some goddam bad joke? Another unfathomable omen? I run my fingers over the indentations, hoping that my touch will erase them somehow. But they remain, confronting me with their mystery.

  Then Kat
hy kneels beside me, instantly banishing awareness of everything else. Her face is a bit flushed and she is slightly out of breath.

  “Sore ankle?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I sprained it a while ago.”

  Then a miracle happens. She leans over and kisses my cheek.

  “Thanks for taking care of me yesterday, Tyler.”

  “S-sure ... you’re welcome.”

  She stands and flashes an amused little smile, eyes sparkling. I must look comical – a stunned expression on my face, my fingers caressing the blessed spot her lips have touched. Every particle of my resentment vanishes into the mountain air replaced by awe-struck worship.

  “Just don’t get your expectations up,” she says, “or anything else for that matter. Okay?”

  “Sure ... right.”

  We continue walking. Kathy allows me to go first now. Maybe she is tired, or perhaps she’s gotten a bit chilly since I’ve been undressing her with my eyes so much. An occasional wooden sign indicates the distance to the hermitage. We haven’t far to go, but the steepening trail slows our progress greatly.

  Without Kathy’s fabulous body to distract me, my mind creeps back to the mystery of the rock inscription.

  Only it’s not a mystery, my inner voice says, you know very well what it is.

  The J G stands for Jon Glass – I am convinced of that now. He’s been through here before me and has left his moniker; among the jumble of rocks I’ve found it as sure as if it had been sending out a search light beam.

  I don’t want to acknowledge the strange recurrence of Jon Glass in my life, but my denial strategy is wearing thin. I recall that weird story where the guy drives across the US seeing the same hitchhiker – the one who means to sweep him out of the land of the living.

  It’s getting late, and I fear we’ll be stuck outside when darkness comes. How would Kathy handle a night in the open after she’s been so ill? But we simply can’t continue after dark. Even with a flashlight, I’d probably still break both my ankles.

  Shadows lengthen; gloom issuing out of the rocks brings dour thoughts. The stream’s rush, pleasant enough in daylight, becomes an ominous rumble. Things lurk in the gathering darkness, frightening things. Jon Glass waits out there, ready to suck my identity away like a giant leech.

  God, what a warped thought!

  Kathy comes up behind me, so close that I feel her warmth in the dimness. I grow calmer. My life lacks an anchorage, I realize. With the right woman at your side centering your emotions, you can stand almost anything. On his own, all sorts of creepy things can twist a guy’s mind.

  The darkness increases rapidly. I have almost decided to pitch camp for the night when the trail takes an abrupt turn and we step out into a broad, flat area. I spy a low building which seems to be a primitive inn. A tent is pitched nearby, and a campfire spreads cheery warmth. Farther on, a small temple reposes in the gathering mist.

  “We made it!” I say.

  “Of course,” Kathy says. “Now aren’t you glad I decided to come here?”

  A large, ominous figure approaches through the gloom. I step in front of Kathy to confront it.

  12: On the Mountaintop

  One could hear the rustle of the pines and feel the deep, impenetrable mystery that lies at the root of all life. – Karate, My Way of Life, by Shoto Funakoshi

  “Kind of late, aren’t you?” a deep American voice asks.

  “The elevator broke, so we had to walk,” I say.

  “Elevator?”

  I can see the guy more clearly now – a round, clean-shaven face with a baffled look on it, short hair, glasses reflecting the camp fire.

  “You’re joking, right?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  He laughs, a not entirely pleasant sound. “The wife made some coffee. Come on over.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Kathy has remained silent throughout this encounter, content to follow my lead. I take some macho pride in this.

  The man leads the way to the campfire, his broad back obscuring the flames. He is acting friendly enough, but I take an intuitive dislike to him. There seems to be ugliness beneath his laughter. He introduces himself as a captain in the US Army, but his last name instantly blows out of my head as I have no wish to retain it.

  We give our names.

  “Lakatos?” he says. “You’re Greek, right?”

  “No, Hungarian.”

  “Oh,” he says.

  “I didn’t know that,” Kathy says, without enthusiasm.

  People don’t seem to have many positive associations about us Magyar types. If asked to name a Hungarian, they’d mention Bela Lagosi with his vampire cape and chilling accent. Of course, anyone who’d actually bothered to read Dracula would know that the Count was not Hungarian at all, and ... well, to hell with all that.

  We take seats on a large rock by the fire, and the wife hands us plastic mugs of coffee.

  “Thanks,” we say.

  “You’re welcome,” she replies, the only words she’d utter.

  The coffee tastes great – genuine American brew far superior to the instant concoction I’ve been drinking in tabangs. We savor it as conversation ensues. The ‘conversation’ is really a monologue about what a helluva big nuts, take-no-crap type of guy the Captain is.

  He has a desk job now in Korea, he says, and has torn himself away for a brief vacation with “the wife.” Earlier he did a combat tour in Vietnam. While there, he’d “passed the test of manhood” by “getting blood on my hands.”

  The coffee begins to taste sour, and the air turns colder as the Captain drones on, slashing the air with knife-like gestures. Kathy moves closer until she is pressed against me in the darkness, like some vulnerable child seeking protection. I place an arm behind her.

  I’ve never heard my brother, Victor, nor any other combat veteran talk like this. Their battlefield experience must have been such a traumatic horror that they never speak of it at all, let alone in the macho terms the Captain is using. Maybe he is simply a bullshit artist, or perhaps he really is a war lover type with a lust for violence. The only person who might know is the wife, and she just sits staring into the flames.

  Prior to entering the military, the Captain was some sort of reserve police officer and had “kicked some ass” during an anti-war demonstration. I decide not to mention the war protests I’d participated in, not that I could have gotten in a word if I’d wanted to. I begin to feel threatened, paranoid.

  As the Captain talks on, I scan the ground for weapon-sized rocks and review the submission holds I used back on the college judo squad. I know from experience how effective these techniques can be, even against larger and stronger opponents.

  For a while in Seoul I’d studied Tae Kwon Do, Korean style karate. One of the other students, a big, mean guy with a bull neck, thought he could knock me around with impunity. During one match, I bowled him over with a single leg take down. His head bounced on the wood floor, and I tangled his jacket around his neck in a strangle hold.

  He almost passed out. I slackened the hold; he began to struggle; I choked him again. The instructor broke things up. Of course, these tactics were illegal for a Tae Kwon Do match, but the guy had gotten the message.

  I quit the class soon afterwards, as I seemed to have little talent for the sport. Besides, I couldn’t assume I’d be so lucky again if a similar situation arose.

  The Captain is obviously too formidable to trade blows with, I’d have to take him down quickly. Best if I crack his skull with a rock first, or maybe I can use my camera as a club. I’d feel safer with a .45 automatic, except that the Captain probably has one, too, and is undoubtedly a better shot ...

  Jeez, get a grip!

  I’m around this guy only twenty minutes and I’m already thinking in terms of lethal violence. I drain the last of my coffee and start planning our departure. Then, inexplicably, he turns the conversation our way.

  “What are you doing in Korea,” he ask
s. “Just passing through?”

  “We’re Peace Corps volunteers,” I say.

  “Oh.” A frown creases the Captain’s face. “There was another one of you up here yesterday.”

  He stares into the fire, toying with his empty mug. The macho brashness is gone now. He actually looks a bit scared in the flickering light.

  I stand up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  The Captain gives me a disappointed look across the flames. Maybe he figured that I was supposed to be a fan club member.

  “Think I’ll arrange for our lodgings,” I say.

  “I’ll go with you,” Kathy says quickly.

  We leave the campfire and head for the little temple building. Kathy walks close, her hand dangling casually alongside mine. Our fingers brush, and soon we are moving hand in hand under the mountain stars. I can’t believe this incredible gift from heaven!

  At the temple-ette, we slide open the door and peer into a large, empty room with a seated Buddha statue at one end. Candles provide dim illumination, and the place smells of stale incense.

  “Let’s check it out,” I say.

  We doff our shoes and enter. The floor sags, and the whole building presents an aspect of general disrepair. It tries to impose a hush on you, as if you shouldn’t be talking at all unless you are making some pious, elevated type statement.

  “God, what a dump,” Kathy whispers.

  “May I help you?” a voice says in perfect U.S. English.

  I flinch my eyes toward a tall, gaunt figure with a shaved head entering from a side room. He wears the gray robes of a Buddhist monk.

  “Ah ... yes,” I say. “We wanted to stay overnight.”

  He approaches silently, his limbs scarcely moving. I resist the temptation to look down to see if wheels are attached to his feet.

  “You must be Americans,” he says. “I am, too.”

  “Really?” I say.

  He wears a beatific smile and has a bifurcated look in his eyes – as if he is seeing not only us but also some parallel world at the same time. He reminds me of guys I’d known in college who had done a lot of drugs. Hell, he could be one of them. Who can tell with that shaved skull?

  A second bald, gray-robed figure enters. I am astonished to see another Caucasian – a middle-aged woman this time. She holds wooden prayer beads and is murmuring something. She bows to us, and I bow back, rather foolishly.