MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
- volume 118 -
in
- volume 118 -
DO NOT READ! CLICK THE IMAGE ABOVE FOR FORMATTED PROMO!
There's nothing more cruel than being awoken first thing in the morning by a ringing telephone. The device's shrill cry was bad enough, and there was also the oncoming conversation that accompanied it. She had developed a firm habit over the years of refusing to kowtow to this overstepping of boundaries. After hundreds of practises, she was able to lift the receiver and hang it up again without its movement being visible to the naked eye. Then more sleep and more dreams, if the day (the week (the month)) was on her side.
Today's mystery morning caller was persistent, though. By the time the incessant shriek of the telephone began for the eighth time, she felt she had no real choice but to answer it. Eight was a number of particular significance to her, after all.
“Do you know what time it is?” she asked, in lieu of a greeting.
“It's seven in the evening where you are,” the caller replied. The voice was familiar, and the mystery of her unprompted alarm call was solved.
“How did you get this number, Gerald?” she continued with her enquiries whilst begrudgingly sitting up, her bedsheets pulled up over her pale skin.
“The office gave it to me,” Grayson said. “I needed to speak to you.”
“I didn't think they gave that sort of information out to just anybody,” Michelle replied. The mound of flesh next to her in the bed shuffled, draping an arm over her in the process. She pushed it away before continuing.
“They don't, but I'm not just anybody. I’m your tag team partner. Or was. I guess I still am? I don't really know anymore. There's the Madison girl now, after all. Not that I know what she is to you…”
Michelle said nothing in response. She didn't really know what the Madison girl was to her either. Not much, but something.
“Anyway, I didn't think I'd have any luck getting a contact number from the office,” the Daredevil continued, undaunted by Dreamer's lack of engagement. “You're not usually one for the company hotel.”
“Couldn't find a place,” Michelle said, half-truthfully. The other half of the truth was that she couldn’t summon the energy to search for one. She blamed the morose and abstracted state of mind that had swallowed her whole in Mexico City. She couldn't find the words for that, even if she cared to speak them aloud. “I think the whole country is here. Or enough to fill the hotels, at least. And where exactly are you? You left pretty suddenly, Gerald. I was looking forward to another dance.”
“We've danced enough already,” Grayson sighed. He sounded ponderous and reflective. This attitude made Michelle feel vaguely uncomfortable. The Daredevil, a moniker both sincere and unintentionally ironic, was filled with anxieties of his own, but she'd always admired the headstrong manner with which he routinely threw himself in. He was one of the few who had taken her advice. “I'm back home. Raleigh.”
“Why did you call me, Gerald?” she asked, somewhat abruptly.
“I…” he began and then stalled. “I just…”
He trailed off into silence. Michelle sat up on the side of her bed, the mound of flesh next to her snoring amongst the sheets.
“What is it, Gerald?” she asked, softly. “It's me. You can talk to me.”
“Something's just eating me up inside,” he said. “I can't shake it. It's following me around. With me every moment of every day.”
“What we spoke about? In Istanbul?” she questioned. Another period of silence. This time, even the hitherto constant heavy breathing on the other end of the line temporarily abated. “You know I can't see you nodding your head over the phone, right?”
“I'm nodding my head,” he confirmed. “I just have to do it. I have to find them.”
“Then do it,” she said, simply. “Find them.”
A sigh by way of response.
“Are you behaving yourself?” Gerald asked, subtly changing the subject. “In Seoul? You don't do well in big cities.”
“I'm doing just fine,” Michelle lied, hoping that the mound of flesh’s coarse snores were inaudible in Raleigh. Her eyes drifted to the bedside table: a wallet (his), a phone (his), a pack of Camels (hers), three mostly empty Heineken bottles (hers), and a small arrangement of white powder upon a square plate (his, now theirs, except the plate, which belonged to the hotel). “Behaving myself.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “I'll call again soon, Michelle.”
“I hope you do,” she said. She was surprised to find her tone earnest. The phone clicked off in Raleigh. She placed the receiver down in Seoul. The snoring stopped at her side.
“What time is it?” Joon enquired, whilst reaching around on the table for his phone. She placed it into his grasping hand. He mistook her fear for the cocaine as a kindness.
“A little after seven, I'm reliably informed,” she replied. She opened his wallet and collected his library card, using it to syphon some of the white powder from the central mound and into a neat, thick line.
“We should get ready,” Joon instructed her as he removed himself from the sheets and climbed out of the bed in a gangly, uncoordinated fashion. What do you think I’m doing right now, she thought to herself as she rolled a thousand won note into a tight cylinder. “The show starts at nine.”
“Is it far?” she asked, as she considered adding a little more to her line.
“Not far,” he said. He collected his underwear and pulled them on whilst hopping around on one leg. She turned away from him and attended to the task at hand. “But Uncle won’t like it if I’m late. And I know better than to upset Uncle Donghyun.”
“Ah, yes, Uncle Donghyun,” she remembered, whilst unrolling the note and collecting the remnants of coke that had gathered on its face on a fingertip. She then rubbed it against her upper gum and winced at the sharp taste.
“You sound like you know him,” Joon said. He’d mentioned this uncle the previous day, as they watched a street performer on the banks of the Han River. They had both agreed without words to cycle on and away when the self-proclaimed shaman pulled a white rabbit out of a stovepipe hat. She’d disliked it on the bunny’s account, whereas Joon appeared to take the sleight of hand as a personal affront. He only half-explained later in the evening, and in a manner that Michelle didn’t find entirely satisfactory.
They dressed and left her hotel room, walking in the shadow of the Namsan Tower towards the small assembly hall on the south side of the river. The manner in which Joon walked a few paces ahead of her, his trenchcoat pulled tightly around him to shield from the cold, and intermittently instructed her to hurry up implied a familiarity that she didn’t feel comfortable with. They had only met three days prior. Or was it four? Either way, she still followed, passive and dutiful and compliant.
She recalled their first encounter, three (was it four?) days ago, as they crossed the Dongjak Bridge. She wasn’t long off the boat when she walked into the Sleeping Tiger, a cocktail bar - far more lavish and self-indulgent than the establishments Michelle usually found herself in - on the edge of Yongsan Park. Her presence there was an accident, as her presence frequently was in most of the places she found herself in. It was only a stone’s throw from her hotel, if one had a proclivity towards throwing stones, and her bus had dropped her in this strange, alien city too late for her to find anywhere more suitable.
It was Sunday night into Monday morning and the place was almost empty. The only customers were an old businessman in a suit drinking alone in a corner and a youngish couple talking at the bar, a half-dozen empty cocktail glasses of various sizes between them. Michelle sat near them and couldn’t help but overhear snippets of their conversation, which was casual and free and easy even if she couldn't understand the words. Dreamer was surprised to later learn that they were married. In her experience, husbands and wives didn’t usually act so naturally around one another.
Her curiosity in the couple was piqued by the frequent trips to the bathroom that each of them took, and the heightened manner in which they would return shortly afterwards. That usually meant one thing, and it was a thing that Michelle was attuned to wherever she went. Her recent malaise left her less likely to strike up conversation with them herself. For her first two drinks, contradictory desires struggled within her: the wish to be left alone versus the poor impulse control that dogged her worldly travels.
“We're sorry to bother you,” the man, Joon, said in English. His eyes were wide and his jaw was active. “My wife thinks she recognises you.”
“From the posters,” his wife, soon introduced as Seo-Hyeon, interjected, flashing Michelle a bright and encouraging smile. “At the Gymnastics Stadium. You are one of the wrestlers?”
“I don't think you look much like a wrestler,” Joon reasoned, perhaps correctly.
“What does a wrestler look like?” Michelle asked, whilst sipping a neat, domestic whiskey that was only increasing her appetite for what she already knew they had.
“You know Cyrus Truth?” Joon asked, accompanying the question with his best solemn and stern Cyrus glare. Michelle couldn't help but smile.
“I know Cyrus Truth,” she conceded. “If you're looking for tickets, I can't get you any.”
“We already have ours,” Seo-Hyeon said, brightly. “I'm Seo-Hyeon. This is Joon, my husband.”
“You don't look like a married couple,” Dreamer mused.
“As much as you look like a wrestler,” Joon returned. Michelle didn't usually make a habit of conversing with fans, but she surmised that possession of a ticket didn't necessarily make you one. Beyond a surface-level understanding of what Cyrus Truth looked like at his most sanctimonious, the pair didn't know the first thing about professional wrestling. Wouldn't have been able to tell Los Osos Locos from Golden Rock. She concluded the conversation was safe and, characteristically, threw herself in.
Outside, a little while later, she smoked a cigarette with Seo-Hyeon in front of the bar whilst Joon remained inside to check his social media. Michelle had heard people say this but didn't really understand what it meant. Yongsan Park was illuminated by a thousand or more spherical street lamps lining its sprawling pathways but was devoid of footfall. The old businessman had left a half hour ago, leaving the trio alone except for the sole, begrudging barman.
“Have you always lived in Seoul?” Michelle asked. It was a banal question, perhaps a result of the banal conversation that Joon had offered her throughout the evening (or, to be more truthful, throughout the morning). Seo-Hyeon was vaguely more interesting and Michelle lamented the question because of this. She wondered why the woman smiled all the time. She didn't seem stupid enough to be so happy.
Fortunately, Seo-Hyeon wasn't as offended by the vapid nature of Michelle's question as Michelle was herself. She smiled and shook her head whilst taking a long drag from the end of her cigarette.
“I'm from a village near Busan,” she replied, exhaling a column of smoke into the air above them both. It caught in the light of a street lamp as it rose towards the moon. “In Gyeongsangnam, to the south-east. I came here a few years ago, after I met Joon. He's always lived here. Well, only since he was born.”
“He said he was from China?” Michelle said. She remembered the man saying this because of the way he'd said it, implying an exoticism or maybe some mystery that she was supposed to be impressed by.
“His father was from China,” Seo-Hyeon explained. “He came here with his uncle in the nineteen eighties. Joon was born here. He's never been to China.”
“What’s your village like?” Michelle asked.
“Well, it's not really my village,” the other answered. Dreamer knew this feeling. “But it's a fishing village. Small and unremarkable. I'm flying there tomorrow, via Busan. Tonight is my big send-off.”
“Joon isn't going with you?”
“He has to work,” Seo-Hyeon sighed, with a shrug that contradicted the sigh. She seemed both disappointed and apathetic. “Would you like to come? You seem interested.”
“I have work, too,” Michelle said. A smile of her own crept onto her face. She enjoyed the woman and was sad that she was leaving. If she wasn't flying, maybe…
“I'll be back in time for your show. I'm going, after all.”
“Another time,” Michelle remained non-committal as she crouched down to stub her cigarette out on the pavement. “A lot of travel recently. I need a few days in one place.”
“Probably wise,” Seo-Hyeon agreed. “Lots more to do in Seoul. Unless you like fishing.”
“I don't like fishing,” Michelle responded.
“What do you like?”
“Cocaine,” Michelle said, somewhat forwardly.
They parted three hours later. She took Joon’s number with the vague plan that his sister would show Michelle around the city the following day. She stumbled back to her hotel and didn't sleep all night.
When she called Joon the following day, his sister was unexpectedly out of town. With his wife out of town and his evenings suddenly empty, Joon offered to take on the role of tour guide himself and show her the sights of Seoul. She agreed to his mundane suggestion of dinner and a show after he was finished at the office that evening. She hung up the phone and continued to not sleep.
Dinner was bad. She didn't eat anything and they only served wine. She made the most of it but yearned for a beer or a whiskey. The conversation was mostly tedious and punctuated with lengthy periods of silence. Michelle would've usually been thankful for such reprieves but for Joon’s frequent attempts to make smalltalk about Europe or wrestling or some other uninteresting topic, disturbing the sanctuary that these happy silences created. In his defense, she didn't offer very much in return.
“Why did your father leave China?” she asked, as her fourth glass of wine arrived and the dialogue turned to Joon’s family. Joon mulled over the question whilst sawing the edge from his steak.
“My father was a performer,” he started, before placing a cube of meat between his lips. He chewed it carefully and thoughtfully before continuing. “My uncle still is. The government didn't like their show. They said they were agitators. I think it was fear.”
“Why were the Chinese government scared of your father?” Michelle queried, with a healthy degree of cynicism and an incredulity that Joon considered vaguely offensive. He would say no more, though, except to clarify that they were only known to local officials. Michelle thought there was probably more to the story but wondered if Joon even knew the rest of it himself. It was the most interesting conversational avenue available and he'd closed it off almost immediately.
The play was better than dinner. It was a new piece by a student group hosted in a small theatre, and told the story of a young boy in Seoul who was given a handful of magic beans by a stranger. He planted them and the beanstalk grew down, the rest of the play describing his descent into Hades, and the Sisyphean punishment that awaited him there. She enjoyed the work and the young actors were fine, particularly in the second half of the show after she'd had her first bump during intermission. The coke wasn’t great but beggars can’t be choosers unless they wished to be sober ones. A steady flow followed until Joon suggested the Sleeping Tiger for a nightcap. She emphatically declined, but he persuaded her to part with the phone number for her hotel room.
Two mornings before Gerald did the same thing, Joon abruptly shook Michelle into consciousness through the shrill shrieks of the bedside telephone. He hadn't been as persistent as the Daredevil, instead electing to call back a few hours later after being ignored a measly three times. He invited her to a bar that had a K-Punk band playing, a shift in tactic and tone that moderately impressed her. She meekly acquiesced and met him there at eight.
Tuesday night was better than Monday night. The band was a quartet of women dressed as housewives with blood - presumably that of their husbands - staining their pinafores. The singer held a rolling pin that she’d periodically wave frantically in the direction of the small but enthusiastic audience. They sang songs in Korean with English swear words. Joon didn’t want to dance, instead preferring to hang back at the bar with the other boring non-dancers, sharing hushed whispers with them about the docile European he’d brought with him. She scored some green from one of the roadies in the smoking area, handed off to her on the dancefloor, tightly wrapped in cling film. Tuesday night was better than Monday night.
They left after the band had finished and walked along the northern bank of the Han River. Michelle smoked a straight and strained her eyes in the direction of the stars, which she knew were up there somewhere, masked by light pollution from the city. Joon was listing the names of various bars that they could go to in this part of the city, slurring his words slightly and frequently repeating the Sleeping Tiger after the excesses of the evening.
“We’ll go to my hotel room,” Michelle asserted, more forcefully than she had been since arriving on the boat two days earlier. “I have whiskey and beer. Weed now, too. No need for another bar.”
“Where are you staying?” Joon asked, whilst waving Michelle’s second-hand smoke away from his face. Michelle pointed at the five-star hotel that was prominent amongst the city skyline. Joon nodded his head, suitably impressed in a manner that she expected from a trog.
In the hotel room, he emptied his baggie onto a square plate and then removed his clothes. Michelle did the same with her jeans but kept her hoodie on. He climbed atop her and did the little that was within his power. It was over in less than a minute. He rolled off her and promptly fell asleep. Bad coke was better than no coke but she was unsure if bad sex was better than no sex. Sometimes one could find a pleasant surprise in an unexpected place, like back in Mexico City, but Joon was a book whose cover summed him up perfectly.
She prepared and sniffed two lines and, upon realising that Joon’s opening gambit had at least awoken an urge within her that she’d considered dormant, lay down next to him. She attempted to masturbate and came close but then Joon started to snore and she lost it. She smoked a joint out of the window and eventually fell into a restless, uneasy sleep. She didn’t dream of anything.
Joon awoke very early the next day and chastised her for smoking the room out. She thought about reminding him that it was her room but quickly decided to register her protest by smoking another joint instead. She was quite high when he suggested they take a cycle along the riverbank to see the sunrise. The plan sounded promising until she remembered that she didn’t own a bicycle. Joon explained that he had a spare, and so the two took the subway to the house that he shared with Seo-Hyeon.
Michelle had done her utmost to think as little about Seo-Hyeon as possible, whilst Joon - somewhat surprisingly - mentioned her frequently. He was unwilling to speak about the family that had left China through fear of some unexplained persecution, and so filled the sizable gap left in his conversational repertoire with idle chatter about Seo-Hyeon, their three dogs, and the litter of children that they hadn’t yet begun spawning.
The house itself was unremarkable, set back a few metres from a quiet road in the middle of suburbia and identical to the other half a hundred homes on either side of it. Now that she stood in front of it with the pre-dawn lighting making her feel like a thief in the night, she found that she didn’t want to go inside. She instead sat on the wall at the end of the drive and lit another cigarette. Joon told her that she smoked too much and then disappeared into the house.
It was soon apparent that Joon’s spare bicycle wasn’t Joon’s at all. Somehow, she felt more uneasy about sharing Seo-Hyeon’s bicycle than she did sharing her husband. Perhaps it was because she actually enjoyed cycling. The brief and unexciting relationship between her and Joon was almost entirely utilitarian. She reasoned, perhaps as a coping mechanism, that this particular affair - if one could give it such an exciting label - was akin to borrowing one of Seo-Hyeon’s other household appliances. She had finished her Camel by the time Joon re-emerged with a pair of bicycles but lit another for his benefit.
After their cycle, they saw the shamanic street-performer pulling a white rabbit from a stovepipe hat. Michelle noticed what appeared to be anger simmering beneath Joon’s surface as they cycled away. Such an emotion was uncharacteristic for him, as were most other emotions. Michelle hadn’t considered him one for animal rights considering his penchant for blue steaks. She cycled alongside him to further examine his displeasure.
“You don't like magic?” she asked. Michelle herself enjoyed the puzzle that underlay their trickery, although she would've preferred something a little more original than a rabbit in a hat.
“Not that kind,” he replied, distractedly.
“And what kind was that?”
“Imitation,” he said. “For tourists and fools.”
“Most magic shows are like that,” she responded with a shrug. This brought a smile from her counterpart, though she wasn't sure what the joke was.
“You should see my uncle’s show,” he said. She didn't realise this was an invitation until he'd declared they would be late for his uncle's show after Gerald's phone call the following evening.
“What do you want to do this morning?” Michelle asked, as the sun began to set in front of them. “You don’t have to work?”
“I took the day,” Joon explained. “We could go to the Sleeping Tiger?”
“I fucking hate the Sleeping Tiger,” she declared. He seemed surprised, unsurprisingly, and then pondered for a moment.
“Your hotel room?”
“Let's go to the Sleeping Tiger.”
A forgettable morning followed. More passable cocaine and bad sex, though slightly better than the first time. Progress of a sort. They slept through the afternoon and the early evening. Then an unexpected phonecall from Gerald and a brisk walk across the Dongjak Bridge. This is where you joined the story, dear reader.
The auditorium at the end of their walk housed around forty people when full but two thirds of the seats were unoccupied tonight. A chalkboard near the bar explained that Uncle Donghyun’s show took place every week, which perhaps explained the hall’s emptiness. He'd been performing his show in this assembly hall for nearly forty years, Joon told her, and so she imagined most of Seoul had seen his tired act by now. Those that were here were of a specific type: old, stuffy, bored, and tired. Michelle concluded that most of them were here because the ticket cost next to nothing and it was cold outside. She wondered about her own audience, and hoped that the Gymnastics Stadium would be this empty on Thursday.
A few minutes before the show was due to start the curtains peeled back, the stage vaguely illuminated by a dim spotlight. It was small, relative to the hall itself, and empty but for a low table and a few items arranged upon it. An unlit candle stood in each corner of the table, and between them was a plastic box containing a live rat, the lid held shut by a rubber mallet on top of it. Michelle watched the animal claw helplessly and uselessly against the walls of his tupperware prison. I know, rat, she thought. I know.
At nine o'clock sharp Uncle Donghyun took to the stage to zero fanfare. The audience watched him curiously, pretending that they hadn't seen the show a hundred times before. Michelle did the same. Donghyun looked as old as it was possible to be. He would've been tall if not for his hunched back, the pronounced stoop that resulted from this deformity causing him to waddle towards his table. His hair was white but his beard was black, and both were long enough to drape below his knees as he walked. His eyes were wide open and cobalt blue, a cold fire burning within them. He had his hands behind his back, and - if it wasn't for the fact that he was on stage and they were assembled there to watch him - Michelle wouldn't really have given the unassuming gentleman a second glance or second thought.
He knelt behind the table, his back still crooked, and collected the mallet from on top of the box. He opened the lid and carefully placed it on the ground, the excited rat beginning to scurry with all its limited might towards the new opening. Donghyun placed both of his hands around the creature and gently lifted it to his lips, whispering something inaudible in a language Michelle couldn't understand. He placed the rat down on the table and held it there by its tail. The box was placed onto the lid and with his free hand he collected the hammer. Suddenly and decisively, he brought the mallet's head down onto the rat’s, the animal letting out a small squeak before remaining still, its uppermost third flattened out beneath the hammer.
Michelle, startled and horrified, jumped and then winced. She got up to leave, but Joon's hand upon her wrist told her otherwise.
“Wait,” he instructed. She wanted to throttle him there and then, but she didn't. She acquiesced and waited.
Donghyun began to chant. This lasted for several minutes. Michelle felt uncomfortable but was held in stasis by the power of his voice’s rhythm. Joon, in an act of uncharacteristic perception, noticed her discomfort and reached out for her hand. This only made it worse. She snatched it away from him and leaned towards the empty seat on the other side of her.
Eventually, he fell silent. It had only been, in reality, around ten minutes, but to Michelle it felt an eternity. The old man on the stage remained knelt down, his head now bowed and his breathing soft but quickened.
Nobody moved. She noticed that his eyes were closed. The palms of his hands were outstretched on the table in front of him, either side of the rat. Its head was still flattened beneath the discarded hammer.
It went on like this, in perfect stillness and perfect silence, for two full minutes. Michelle thought that perhaps the show was over and again considered leaving when, finally, the candle closest to him stirred into life. A purplish-red flame lept from the end of it, but still Donghyun kept his head bowed. His back seemed a little straighter, though, and his breathing was slowly beginning to regulate itself.
The second candle came to life a minute later, and then the third and then the fourth. Each glowed with the same purple fire, the warmth from which felt disproportionate to their size. Donghyun was absolutely still, even his breathing seemingly halted, and his back was now straight. His eyes were closed, his hands still on the table in front of him.
A rumbling from beneath, distant at first, but soon unmistakeable and fierce. A whirring noise that shook the room itself, the oldest gentlemen amongst the audience instinctively holding onto their armrests for dear life. Michelle leant forward in her chair. The flames from the candles grew in size until they towered above the man between them. There was fire beneath them, too. In the bowels of the earth. Michelle couldn't decide if she could see it but she could feel it.
And then, at last, a distant voice called back to him. She heard it clearly in her heart, though she couldn't understand the words.
Silence. Stillness. The rumbling and shaking and whirring. stopped. The candles extinguished all at once. Uncle Donghyun was a stooped old man once again.
The first thing they heard was the hammer falling onto its side on the table. Then, a soft squeak. The mouse scurried to the edge of the table and jumped onto the ground. It ran as quickly as it could through a hole at the base of the bleachers. The audience applauded politely but, given the magnitude of what Uncle Donghyun was purporting to have done, remained mostly unenthused. The performer stood to his feet, his only bow an involuntary one, and waddled off the stage.
Outside, Michelle lit a cigarette, exhaling the first column of smoke into Joon's unexpecting and thoroughly displeased face with great satisfaction. He let out a sharp series of coughs, wafted the smoke away with his hand, and promptly took a large step away from her.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, somewhat sheepishly for the nephew of a self-proclaimed necromancer.
“Was different,” she allowed. “I felt for the first rat, but the second was the star of the show.”
“Your cynicism is normal,” he said, bitterly. “But I've seen things, Michelle. Things you couldn't understand and probably wouldn't try to.”
She thought about this for a moment. This alleged cynicism was a charge she didn't accept. Maybe once. But her own Uncle had changed that. One couldn't ride aboard the Octopi as often as she had without expanding the horizons of their thinking. She had surfed upon stardust, sat upon the last beach as the earth gave up with a whimper, watched a hundred planets perish, and been dragged away from death by the COSMIC HORROR’s touch. Perhaps it was this last experience that caused her to identify with the first rat.
“If one possessed this godly skill,” she began, after making her conclusions. “Why would they choose to do it here? Resuscitating rats in a dingy basement? To sell a few tickets and collect a few won?”
Joon didn't answer. He screwed up his face, clenched his fists, and then began to walk towards the bridge. Michelle didn't move. When he realised this, he turned back towards her.
“You want to go back to the hotel?” he asked. “You didn't sleep much.”
“No,” she said. “Maybe, but on my own. Enjoy the show tomorrow, Joon. I hope one day your uncle can do for you what mine did for me.”
She reached in for a hug, and then reached into his pocket for his baggy. He was too confused to notice. She left him there and headed for the river.
Three bumps or maybe it was four under the bridge were enough to set her heart racing and mind pounding or maybe it was the other way around. She wanted to find a bar but hadn't found a decent one here yet but she hadn't really looked for herself either and you couldn't really expect a man like Joon to show you a good bar or a good time or a good anything really. She knew in that moment that she would spend the next portion of her night uselessly looking for somewhere decent and would end up in a place she hated anyway but she didn't mind because she liked to walk and it was a nice evening to walk and she had his coke and what was she in a rush for anyway? Saw a group of men under next bridge smoking a joint and asked if they wanted to swap a bump each for a few drags, they didn't want the bump but gave her a few drags anyway and eventually they took a few cigarettes in return and she was happy to have done business with them and as she walked away she realised she was a capitalist cog and she lamented that she was a capitalist cog and thought maybe this is the paranoia but probably not you're probably a capitalist cog. The smokers under the bridge didn't want a bump so she had theirs and then smoked a cigarette on a bench next to a bend in the river and she smiled at a passing mother pushing a pram and a passing police officer and the police officer smiled back but the mother pushing the pram didn't smile back. Walked to the suburbs. Birds fighting over trash in a park. Watched that for quite a while but couldn't pick a side and eventually left the park and found a bar that had tables on the park on the edge of the grass and she smoked two cigarettes there before going inside and ordering a beer and then three more. Talking to a girl at the bar who seemed fun and interesting and interested and eventually she asked if Michelle was going to the show at the Gymnastics Stadium tomorrow night and Michelle said she was thinking about it and she was glad that she didn't know who she was and wished everyone didn't know who she was like she didn't but when she went to the toilet (another bump) and came back she thought that one of the girl's friends must have told her who she was and the girl was different now and less fun and less interesting but more interested and when she asked if Michelle wanted to go to another bar Michelle said no and she drank alone for a while. Walking home because she didn't know how to get a taxi in this city and mind is flooded with Mexico City and the kaiju and der basterd, Tartarus and Sisyphus, and where is Uncle and what is the wizard to her what is the wizard to me but a speck on the horizon can see the hotel but can't see Uncle even when i close my eyes but can see the hotel at least that's something walk towards it walk towards it think of nothing walk towards it think of nothing - - -
Back to the room. Joint to level out. Uneasy sleep. She dreamed that she was in Tartarus, as she often did these days.
When she awoke, she noticed that she had a message on the hotel room telephone’s answering machine. She pressed play and closed her eyes, listening to the familiar voice that had awoken her the previous evening.
“I've done it, Michelle!” Gerald said, excitedly. “I've actually done it! I've found them!”
Her eyes jolted open. The ends of her mouth curled upwards in the suggestion of a smile.
“I've found Uncle!”
There's nothing more cruel than being awoken first thing in the morning by a ringing telephone. The device's shrill cry was bad enough, and there was also the oncoming conversation that accompanied it. She had developed a firm habit over the years of refusing to kowtow to this overstepping of boundaries. After hundreds of practises, she was able to lift the receiver and hang it up again without its movement being visible to the naked eye. Then more sleep and more dreams, if the day (the week (the month)) was on her side.
Today's mystery morning caller was persistent, though. By the time the incessant shriek of the telephone began for the eighth time, she felt she had no real choice but to answer it. Eight was a number of particular significance to her, after all.
“Do you know what time it is?” she asked, in lieu of a greeting.
“It's seven in the evening where you are,” the caller replied. The voice was familiar, and the mystery of her unprompted alarm call was solved.
“How did you get this number, Gerald?” she continued with her enquiries whilst begrudgingly sitting up, her bedsheets pulled up over her pale skin.
“The office gave it to me,” Grayson said. “I needed to speak to you.”
“I didn't think they gave that sort of information out to just anybody,” Michelle replied. The mound of flesh next to her in the bed shuffled, draping an arm over her in the process. She pushed it away before continuing.
“They don't, but I'm not just anybody. I’m your tag team partner. Or was. I guess I still am? I don't really know anymore. There's the Madison girl now, after all. Not that I know what she is to you…”
Michelle said nothing in response. She didn't really know what the Madison girl was to her either. Not much, but something.
“Anyway, I didn't think I'd have any luck getting a contact number from the office,” the Daredevil continued, undaunted by Dreamer's lack of engagement. “You're not usually one for the company hotel.”
“Couldn't find a place,” Michelle said, half-truthfully. The other half of the truth was that she couldn’t summon the energy to search for one. She blamed the morose and abstracted state of mind that had swallowed her whole in Mexico City. She couldn't find the words for that, even if she cared to speak them aloud. “I think the whole country is here. Or enough to fill the hotels, at least. And where exactly are you? You left pretty suddenly, Gerald. I was looking forward to another dance.”
“We've danced enough already,” Grayson sighed. He sounded ponderous and reflective. This attitude made Michelle feel vaguely uncomfortable. The Daredevil, a moniker both sincere and unintentionally ironic, was filled with anxieties of his own, but she'd always admired the headstrong manner with which he routinely threw himself in. He was one of the few who had taken her advice. “I'm back home. Raleigh.”
“Why did you call me, Gerald?” she asked, somewhat abruptly.
“I…” he began and then stalled. “I just…”
He trailed off into silence. Michelle sat up on the side of her bed, the mound of flesh next to her snoring amongst the sheets.
“What is it, Gerald?” she asked, softly. “It's me. You can talk to me.”
“Something's just eating me up inside,” he said. “I can't shake it. It's following me around. With me every moment of every day.”
“What we spoke about? In Istanbul?” she questioned. Another period of silence. This time, even the hitherto constant heavy breathing on the other end of the line temporarily abated. “You know I can't see you nodding your head over the phone, right?”
“I'm nodding my head,” he confirmed. “I just have to do it. I have to find them.”
“Then do it,” she said, simply. “Find them.”
A sigh by way of response.
“Are you behaving yourself?” Gerald asked, subtly changing the subject. “In Seoul? You don't do well in big cities.”
“I'm doing just fine,” Michelle lied, hoping that the mound of flesh’s coarse snores were inaudible in Raleigh. Her eyes drifted to the bedside table: a wallet (his), a phone (his), a pack of Camels (hers), three mostly empty Heineken bottles (hers), and a small arrangement of white powder upon a square plate (his, now theirs, except the plate, which belonged to the hotel). “Behaving myself.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “I'll call again soon, Michelle.”
“I hope you do,” she said. She was surprised to find her tone earnest. The phone clicked off in Raleigh. She placed the receiver down in Seoul. The snoring stopped at her side.
“What time is it?” Joon enquired, whilst reaching around on the table for his phone. She placed it into his grasping hand. He mistook her fear for the cocaine as a kindness.
“A little after seven, I'm reliably informed,” she replied. She opened his wallet and collected his library card, using it to syphon some of the white powder from the central mound and into a neat, thick line.
“We should get ready,” Joon instructed her as he removed himself from the sheets and climbed out of the bed in a gangly, uncoordinated fashion. What do you think I’m doing right now, she thought to herself as she rolled a thousand won note into a tight cylinder. “The show starts at nine.”
“Is it far?” she asked, as she considered adding a little more to her line.
“Not far,” he said. He collected his underwear and pulled them on whilst hopping around on one leg. She turned away from him and attended to the task at hand. “But Uncle won’t like it if I’m late. And I know better than to upset Uncle Donghyun.”
“Ah, yes, Uncle Donghyun,” she remembered, whilst unrolling the note and collecting the remnants of coke that had gathered on its face on a fingertip. She then rubbed it against her upper gum and winced at the sharp taste.
“You sound like you know him,” Joon said. He’d mentioned this uncle the previous day, as they watched a street performer on the banks of the Han River. They had both agreed without words to cycle on and away when the self-proclaimed shaman pulled a white rabbit out of a stovepipe hat. She’d disliked it on the bunny’s account, whereas Joon appeared to take the sleight of hand as a personal affront. He only half-explained later in the evening, and in a manner that Michelle didn’t find entirely satisfactory.
They dressed and left her hotel room, walking in the shadow of the Namsan Tower towards the small assembly hall on the south side of the river. The manner in which Joon walked a few paces ahead of her, his trenchcoat pulled tightly around him to shield from the cold, and intermittently instructed her to hurry up implied a familiarity that she didn’t feel comfortable with. They had only met three days prior. Or was it four? Either way, she still followed, passive and dutiful and compliant.
She recalled their first encounter, three (was it four?) days ago, as they crossed the Dongjak Bridge. She wasn’t long off the boat when she walked into the Sleeping Tiger, a cocktail bar - far more lavish and self-indulgent than the establishments Michelle usually found herself in - on the edge of Yongsan Park. Her presence there was an accident, as her presence frequently was in most of the places she found herself in. It was only a stone’s throw from her hotel, if one had a proclivity towards throwing stones, and her bus had dropped her in this strange, alien city too late for her to find anywhere more suitable.
It was Sunday night into Monday morning and the place was almost empty. The only customers were an old businessman in a suit drinking alone in a corner and a youngish couple talking at the bar, a half-dozen empty cocktail glasses of various sizes between them. Michelle sat near them and couldn’t help but overhear snippets of their conversation, which was casual and free and easy even if she couldn't understand the words. Dreamer was surprised to later learn that they were married. In her experience, husbands and wives didn’t usually act so naturally around one another.
Her curiosity in the couple was piqued by the frequent trips to the bathroom that each of them took, and the heightened manner in which they would return shortly afterwards. That usually meant one thing, and it was a thing that Michelle was attuned to wherever she went. Her recent malaise left her less likely to strike up conversation with them herself. For her first two drinks, contradictory desires struggled within her: the wish to be left alone versus the poor impulse control that dogged her worldly travels.
“We're sorry to bother you,” the man, Joon, said in English. His eyes were wide and his jaw was active. “My wife thinks she recognises you.”
“From the posters,” his wife, soon introduced as Seo-Hyeon, interjected, flashing Michelle a bright and encouraging smile. “At the Gymnastics Stadium. You are one of the wrestlers?”
“I don't think you look much like a wrestler,” Joon reasoned, perhaps correctly.
“What does a wrestler look like?” Michelle asked, whilst sipping a neat, domestic whiskey that was only increasing her appetite for what she already knew they had.
“You know Cyrus Truth?” Joon asked, accompanying the question with his best solemn and stern Cyrus glare. Michelle couldn't help but smile.
“I know Cyrus Truth,” she conceded. “If you're looking for tickets, I can't get you any.”
“We already have ours,” Seo-Hyeon said, brightly. “I'm Seo-Hyeon. This is Joon, my husband.”
“You don't look like a married couple,” Dreamer mused.
“As much as you look like a wrestler,” Joon returned. Michelle didn't usually make a habit of conversing with fans, but she surmised that possession of a ticket didn't necessarily make you one. Beyond a surface-level understanding of what Cyrus Truth looked like at his most sanctimonious, the pair didn't know the first thing about professional wrestling. Wouldn't have been able to tell Los Osos Locos from Golden Rock. She concluded the conversation was safe and, characteristically, threw herself in.
Outside, a little while later, she smoked a cigarette with Seo-Hyeon in front of the bar whilst Joon remained inside to check his social media. Michelle had heard people say this but didn't really understand what it meant. Yongsan Park was illuminated by a thousand or more spherical street lamps lining its sprawling pathways but was devoid of footfall. The old businessman had left a half hour ago, leaving the trio alone except for the sole, begrudging barman.
“Have you always lived in Seoul?” Michelle asked. It was a banal question, perhaps a result of the banal conversation that Joon had offered her throughout the evening (or, to be more truthful, throughout the morning). Seo-Hyeon was vaguely more interesting and Michelle lamented the question because of this. She wondered why the woman smiled all the time. She didn't seem stupid enough to be so happy.
Fortunately, Seo-Hyeon wasn't as offended by the vapid nature of Michelle's question as Michelle was herself. She smiled and shook her head whilst taking a long drag from the end of her cigarette.
“I'm from a village near Busan,” she replied, exhaling a column of smoke into the air above them both. It caught in the light of a street lamp as it rose towards the moon. “In Gyeongsangnam, to the south-east. I came here a few years ago, after I met Joon. He's always lived here. Well, only since he was born.”
“He said he was from China?” Michelle said. She remembered the man saying this because of the way he'd said it, implying an exoticism or maybe some mystery that she was supposed to be impressed by.
“His father was from China,” Seo-Hyeon explained. “He came here with his uncle in the nineteen eighties. Joon was born here. He's never been to China.”
“What’s your village like?” Michelle asked.
“Well, it's not really my village,” the other answered. Dreamer knew this feeling. “But it's a fishing village. Small and unremarkable. I'm flying there tomorrow, via Busan. Tonight is my big send-off.”
“Joon isn't going with you?”
“He has to work,” Seo-Hyeon sighed, with a shrug that contradicted the sigh. She seemed both disappointed and apathetic. “Would you like to come? You seem interested.”
“I have work, too,” Michelle said. A smile of her own crept onto her face. She enjoyed the woman and was sad that she was leaving. If she wasn't flying, maybe…
“I'll be back in time for your show. I'm going, after all.”
“Another time,” Michelle remained non-committal as she crouched down to stub her cigarette out on the pavement. “A lot of travel recently. I need a few days in one place.”
“Probably wise,” Seo-Hyeon agreed. “Lots more to do in Seoul. Unless you like fishing.”
“I don't like fishing,” Michelle responded.
“What do you like?”
“Cocaine,” Michelle said, somewhat forwardly.
They parted three hours later. She took Joon’s number with the vague plan that his sister would show Michelle around the city the following day. She stumbled back to her hotel and didn't sleep all night.
When she called Joon the following day, his sister was unexpectedly out of town. With his wife out of town and his evenings suddenly empty, Joon offered to take on the role of tour guide himself and show her the sights of Seoul. She agreed to his mundane suggestion of dinner and a show after he was finished at the office that evening. She hung up the phone and continued to not sleep.
Dinner was bad. She didn't eat anything and they only served wine. She made the most of it but yearned for a beer or a whiskey. The conversation was mostly tedious and punctuated with lengthy periods of silence. Michelle would've usually been thankful for such reprieves but for Joon’s frequent attempts to make smalltalk about Europe or wrestling or some other uninteresting topic, disturbing the sanctuary that these happy silences created. In his defense, she didn't offer very much in return.
“Why did your father leave China?” she asked, as her fourth glass of wine arrived and the dialogue turned to Joon’s family. Joon mulled over the question whilst sawing the edge from his steak.
“My father was a performer,” he started, before placing a cube of meat between his lips. He chewed it carefully and thoughtfully before continuing. “My uncle still is. The government didn't like their show. They said they were agitators. I think it was fear.”
“Why were the Chinese government scared of your father?” Michelle queried, with a healthy degree of cynicism and an incredulity that Joon considered vaguely offensive. He would say no more, though, except to clarify that they were only known to local officials. Michelle thought there was probably more to the story but wondered if Joon even knew the rest of it himself. It was the most interesting conversational avenue available and he'd closed it off almost immediately.
The play was better than dinner. It was a new piece by a student group hosted in a small theatre, and told the story of a young boy in Seoul who was given a handful of magic beans by a stranger. He planted them and the beanstalk grew down, the rest of the play describing his descent into Hades, and the Sisyphean punishment that awaited him there. She enjoyed the work and the young actors were fine, particularly in the second half of the show after she'd had her first bump during intermission. The coke wasn’t great but beggars can’t be choosers unless they wished to be sober ones. A steady flow followed until Joon suggested the Sleeping Tiger for a nightcap. She emphatically declined, but he persuaded her to part with the phone number for her hotel room.
Two mornings before Gerald did the same thing, Joon abruptly shook Michelle into consciousness through the shrill shrieks of the bedside telephone. He hadn't been as persistent as the Daredevil, instead electing to call back a few hours later after being ignored a measly three times. He invited her to a bar that had a K-Punk band playing, a shift in tactic and tone that moderately impressed her. She meekly acquiesced and met him there at eight.
Tuesday night was better than Monday night. The band was a quartet of women dressed as housewives with blood - presumably that of their husbands - staining their pinafores. The singer held a rolling pin that she’d periodically wave frantically in the direction of the small but enthusiastic audience. They sang songs in Korean with English swear words. Joon didn’t want to dance, instead preferring to hang back at the bar with the other boring non-dancers, sharing hushed whispers with them about the docile European he’d brought with him. She scored some green from one of the roadies in the smoking area, handed off to her on the dancefloor, tightly wrapped in cling film. Tuesday night was better than Monday night.
They left after the band had finished and walked along the northern bank of the Han River. Michelle smoked a straight and strained her eyes in the direction of the stars, which she knew were up there somewhere, masked by light pollution from the city. Joon was listing the names of various bars that they could go to in this part of the city, slurring his words slightly and frequently repeating the Sleeping Tiger after the excesses of the evening.
“We’ll go to my hotel room,” Michelle asserted, more forcefully than she had been since arriving on the boat two days earlier. “I have whiskey and beer. Weed now, too. No need for another bar.”
“Where are you staying?” Joon asked, whilst waving Michelle’s second-hand smoke away from his face. Michelle pointed at the five-star hotel that was prominent amongst the city skyline. Joon nodded his head, suitably impressed in a manner that she expected from a trog.
In the hotel room, he emptied his baggie onto a square plate and then removed his clothes. Michelle did the same with her jeans but kept her hoodie on. He climbed atop her and did the little that was within his power. It was over in less than a minute. He rolled off her and promptly fell asleep. Bad coke was better than no coke but she was unsure if bad sex was better than no sex. Sometimes one could find a pleasant surprise in an unexpected place, like back in Mexico City, but Joon was a book whose cover summed him up perfectly.
She prepared and sniffed two lines and, upon realising that Joon’s opening gambit had at least awoken an urge within her that she’d considered dormant, lay down next to him. She attempted to masturbate and came close but then Joon started to snore and she lost it. She smoked a joint out of the window and eventually fell into a restless, uneasy sleep. She didn’t dream of anything.
Joon awoke very early the next day and chastised her for smoking the room out. She thought about reminding him that it was her room but quickly decided to register her protest by smoking another joint instead. She was quite high when he suggested they take a cycle along the riverbank to see the sunrise. The plan sounded promising until she remembered that she didn’t own a bicycle. Joon explained that he had a spare, and so the two took the subway to the house that he shared with Seo-Hyeon.
Michelle had done her utmost to think as little about Seo-Hyeon as possible, whilst Joon - somewhat surprisingly - mentioned her frequently. He was unwilling to speak about the family that had left China through fear of some unexplained persecution, and so filled the sizable gap left in his conversational repertoire with idle chatter about Seo-Hyeon, their three dogs, and the litter of children that they hadn’t yet begun spawning.
The house itself was unremarkable, set back a few metres from a quiet road in the middle of suburbia and identical to the other half a hundred homes on either side of it. Now that she stood in front of it with the pre-dawn lighting making her feel like a thief in the night, she found that she didn’t want to go inside. She instead sat on the wall at the end of the drive and lit another cigarette. Joon told her that she smoked too much and then disappeared into the house.
It was soon apparent that Joon’s spare bicycle wasn’t Joon’s at all. Somehow, she felt more uneasy about sharing Seo-Hyeon’s bicycle than she did sharing her husband. Perhaps it was because she actually enjoyed cycling. The brief and unexciting relationship between her and Joon was almost entirely utilitarian. She reasoned, perhaps as a coping mechanism, that this particular affair - if one could give it such an exciting label - was akin to borrowing one of Seo-Hyeon’s other household appliances. She had finished her Camel by the time Joon re-emerged with a pair of bicycles but lit another for his benefit.
After their cycle, they saw the shamanic street-performer pulling a white rabbit from a stovepipe hat. Michelle noticed what appeared to be anger simmering beneath Joon’s surface as they cycled away. Such an emotion was uncharacteristic for him, as were most other emotions. Michelle hadn’t considered him one for animal rights considering his penchant for blue steaks. She cycled alongside him to further examine his displeasure.
“You don't like magic?” she asked. Michelle herself enjoyed the puzzle that underlay their trickery, although she would've preferred something a little more original than a rabbit in a hat.
“Not that kind,” he replied, distractedly.
“And what kind was that?”
“Imitation,” he said. “For tourists and fools.”
“Most magic shows are like that,” she responded with a shrug. This brought a smile from her counterpart, though she wasn't sure what the joke was.
“You should see my uncle’s show,” he said. She didn't realise this was an invitation until he'd declared they would be late for his uncle's show after Gerald's phone call the following evening.
“What do you want to do this morning?” Michelle asked, as the sun began to set in front of them. “You don’t have to work?”
“I took the day,” Joon explained. “We could go to the Sleeping Tiger?”
“I fucking hate the Sleeping Tiger,” she declared. He seemed surprised, unsurprisingly, and then pondered for a moment.
“Your hotel room?”
“Let's go to the Sleeping Tiger.”
A forgettable morning followed. More passable cocaine and bad sex, though slightly better than the first time. Progress of a sort. They slept through the afternoon and the early evening. Then an unexpected phonecall from Gerald and a brisk walk across the Dongjak Bridge. This is where you joined the story, dear reader.
The auditorium at the end of their walk housed around forty people when full but two thirds of the seats were unoccupied tonight. A chalkboard near the bar explained that Uncle Donghyun’s show took place every week, which perhaps explained the hall’s emptiness. He'd been performing his show in this assembly hall for nearly forty years, Joon told her, and so she imagined most of Seoul had seen his tired act by now. Those that were here were of a specific type: old, stuffy, bored, and tired. Michelle concluded that most of them were here because the ticket cost next to nothing and it was cold outside. She wondered about her own audience, and hoped that the Gymnastics Stadium would be this empty on Thursday.
A few minutes before the show was due to start the curtains peeled back, the stage vaguely illuminated by a dim spotlight. It was small, relative to the hall itself, and empty but for a low table and a few items arranged upon it. An unlit candle stood in each corner of the table, and between them was a plastic box containing a live rat, the lid held shut by a rubber mallet on top of it. Michelle watched the animal claw helplessly and uselessly against the walls of his tupperware prison. I know, rat, she thought. I know.
At nine o'clock sharp Uncle Donghyun took to the stage to zero fanfare. The audience watched him curiously, pretending that they hadn't seen the show a hundred times before. Michelle did the same. Donghyun looked as old as it was possible to be. He would've been tall if not for his hunched back, the pronounced stoop that resulted from this deformity causing him to waddle towards his table. His hair was white but his beard was black, and both were long enough to drape below his knees as he walked. His eyes were wide open and cobalt blue, a cold fire burning within them. He had his hands behind his back, and - if it wasn't for the fact that he was on stage and they were assembled there to watch him - Michelle wouldn't really have given the unassuming gentleman a second glance or second thought.
He knelt behind the table, his back still crooked, and collected the mallet from on top of the box. He opened the lid and carefully placed it on the ground, the excited rat beginning to scurry with all its limited might towards the new opening. Donghyun placed both of his hands around the creature and gently lifted it to his lips, whispering something inaudible in a language Michelle couldn't understand. He placed the rat down on the table and held it there by its tail. The box was placed onto the lid and with his free hand he collected the hammer. Suddenly and decisively, he brought the mallet's head down onto the rat’s, the animal letting out a small squeak before remaining still, its uppermost third flattened out beneath the hammer.
Michelle, startled and horrified, jumped and then winced. She got up to leave, but Joon's hand upon her wrist told her otherwise.
“Wait,” he instructed. She wanted to throttle him there and then, but she didn't. She acquiesced and waited.
Donghyun began to chant. This lasted for several minutes. Michelle felt uncomfortable but was held in stasis by the power of his voice’s rhythm. Joon, in an act of uncharacteristic perception, noticed her discomfort and reached out for her hand. This only made it worse. She snatched it away from him and leaned towards the empty seat on the other side of her.
Eventually, he fell silent. It had only been, in reality, around ten minutes, but to Michelle it felt an eternity. The old man on the stage remained knelt down, his head now bowed and his breathing soft but quickened.
Nobody moved. She noticed that his eyes were closed. The palms of his hands were outstretched on the table in front of him, either side of the rat. Its head was still flattened beneath the discarded hammer.
It went on like this, in perfect stillness and perfect silence, for two full minutes. Michelle thought that perhaps the show was over and again considered leaving when, finally, the candle closest to him stirred into life. A purplish-red flame lept from the end of it, but still Donghyun kept his head bowed. His back seemed a little straighter, though, and his breathing was slowly beginning to regulate itself.
The second candle came to life a minute later, and then the third and then the fourth. Each glowed with the same purple fire, the warmth from which felt disproportionate to their size. Donghyun was absolutely still, even his breathing seemingly halted, and his back was now straight. His eyes were closed, his hands still on the table in front of him.
A rumbling from beneath, distant at first, but soon unmistakeable and fierce. A whirring noise that shook the room itself, the oldest gentlemen amongst the audience instinctively holding onto their armrests for dear life. Michelle leant forward in her chair. The flames from the candles grew in size until they towered above the man between them. There was fire beneath them, too. In the bowels of the earth. Michelle couldn't decide if she could see it but she could feel it.
And then, at last, a distant voice called back to him. She heard it clearly in her heart, though she couldn't understand the words.
Silence. Stillness. The rumbling and shaking and whirring. stopped. The candles extinguished all at once. Uncle Donghyun was a stooped old man once again.
The first thing they heard was the hammer falling onto its side on the table. Then, a soft squeak. The mouse scurried to the edge of the table and jumped onto the ground. It ran as quickly as it could through a hole at the base of the bleachers. The audience applauded politely but, given the magnitude of what Uncle Donghyun was purporting to have done, remained mostly unenthused. The performer stood to his feet, his only bow an involuntary one, and waddled off the stage.
Outside, Michelle lit a cigarette, exhaling the first column of smoke into Joon's unexpecting and thoroughly displeased face with great satisfaction. He let out a sharp series of coughs, wafted the smoke away with his hand, and promptly took a large step away from her.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, somewhat sheepishly for the nephew of a self-proclaimed necromancer.
“Was different,” she allowed. “I felt for the first rat, but the second was the star of the show.”
“Your cynicism is normal,” he said, bitterly. “But I've seen things, Michelle. Things you couldn't understand and probably wouldn't try to.”
She thought about this for a moment. This alleged cynicism was a charge she didn't accept. Maybe once. But her own Uncle had changed that. One couldn't ride aboard the Octopi as often as she had without expanding the horizons of their thinking. She had surfed upon stardust, sat upon the last beach as the earth gave up with a whimper, watched a hundred planets perish, and been dragged away from death by the COSMIC HORROR’s touch. Perhaps it was this last experience that caused her to identify with the first rat.
“If one possessed this godly skill,” she began, after making her conclusions. “Why would they choose to do it here? Resuscitating rats in a dingy basement? To sell a few tickets and collect a few won?”
Joon didn't answer. He screwed up his face, clenched his fists, and then began to walk towards the bridge. Michelle didn't move. When he realised this, he turned back towards her.
“You want to go back to the hotel?” he asked. “You didn't sleep much.”
“No,” she said. “Maybe, but on my own. Enjoy the show tomorrow, Joon. I hope one day your uncle can do for you what mine did for me.”
She reached in for a hug, and then reached into his pocket for his baggy. He was too confused to notice. She left him there and headed for the river.
Three bumps or maybe it was four under the bridge were enough to set her heart racing and mind pounding or maybe it was the other way around. She wanted to find a bar but hadn't found a decent one here yet but she hadn't really looked for herself either and you couldn't really expect a man like Joon to show you a good bar or a good time or a good anything really. She knew in that moment that she would spend the next portion of her night uselessly looking for somewhere decent and would end up in a place she hated anyway but she didn't mind because she liked to walk and it was a nice evening to walk and she had his coke and what was she in a rush for anyway? Saw a group of men under next bridge smoking a joint and asked if they wanted to swap a bump each for a few drags, they didn't want the bump but gave her a few drags anyway and eventually they took a few cigarettes in return and she was happy to have done business with them and as she walked away she realised she was a capitalist cog and she lamented that she was a capitalist cog and thought maybe this is the paranoia but probably not you're probably a capitalist cog. The smokers under the bridge didn't want a bump so she had theirs and then smoked a cigarette on a bench next to a bend in the river and she smiled at a passing mother pushing a pram and a passing police officer and the police officer smiled back but the mother pushing the pram didn't smile back. Walked to the suburbs. Birds fighting over trash in a park. Watched that for quite a while but couldn't pick a side and eventually left the park and found a bar that had tables on the park on the edge of the grass and she smoked two cigarettes there before going inside and ordering a beer and then three more. Talking to a girl at the bar who seemed fun and interesting and interested and eventually she asked if Michelle was going to the show at the Gymnastics Stadium tomorrow night and Michelle said she was thinking about it and she was glad that she didn't know who she was and wished everyone didn't know who she was like she didn't but when she went to the toilet (another bump) and came back she thought that one of the girl's friends must have told her who she was and the girl was different now and less fun and less interesting but more interested and when she asked if Michelle wanted to go to another bar Michelle said no and she drank alone for a while. Walking home because she didn't know how to get a taxi in this city and mind is flooded with Mexico City and the kaiju and der basterd, Tartarus and Sisyphus, and where is Uncle and what is the wizard to her what is the wizard to me but a speck on the horizon can see the hotel but can't see Uncle even when i close my eyes but can see the hotel at least that's something walk towards it walk towards it think of nothing walk towards it think of nothing - - -
Back to the room. Joint to level out. Uneasy sleep. She dreamed that she was in Tartarus, as she often did these days.
When she awoke, she noticed that she had a message on the hotel room telephone’s answering machine. She pressed play and closed her eyes, listening to the familiar voice that had awoken her the previous evening.
“I've done it, Michelle!” Gerald said, excitedly. “I've actually done it! I've found them!”
Her eyes jolted open. The ends of her mouth curled upwards in the suggestion of a smile.
“I've found Uncle!”
