HOTEL WITHOUT A NAME
story
by
Patrick Breheny
PART ONE
The yogwan was in a shophouse above a grocery, up a hilly alley off what itself was a side street, one of those mazes of alleys and narrow winding lanes in Seoul where you can suddenly come on, as if a miracle or a mirage, a five story brick apartment building that looked transported from the Bronx, and where strangers can get trapped for a long time turning and detouring only to realize they are seeing the some stores and dwellings from another vantage point. Ajima’s yogwan was not far enough up the alley that Cappy could become the man who never returned. When he first rented there, he knew just enough Korean script to read the sign in front, printed black on a kind of laminated plastic white background, that said, translated into phonetic English, YOGWAN. Low rent hotel.
Who stays at a hotel without a name? People like Cappy. It was a special place because it was so cheap---mat on the floor, a small fan, a black and white TV (you wouldn't think they could find any, but they didn't FIND them, they'd kept them) He’d stayed there on weekends when he worked and lived outside Seoul teaching English, and on vacation now he couldn’t find a short term apartment rental he could afford. From his previous experience, others who stayed there in this I Tae Won area---atypical of Seoul, the international section, and near Yongsan US Army post, the biggest in Korea---were English teachers, imported laborers, students from a nearby university who couldn’t pay dorm fees, bar girls, and on weekend, GIs with bar girls, young Korean guys with female students..The bar women, from their association with the GIs, spoke the best English.
Ajima rented him a room on a summer deal, but he was in a room he hadn’t slept in before, designated thirteen. He objected, but she seemed to have no other vacancy. After she went back to her office/sleeping cubicle, he looked carefully at the number above his room entry. It was defined by blue cellophane posted to a beige wall. He quickly canvassed his teaching accessories in a knapsack and found a board marker exactly the same color. He carefully rounded the 3 in 13 to make an 8, and then he was in Room 18.He wasn’t damaging ajima’s property, he proved that by easily erasing what he’d done with a sock. One would have to look carefully to determine the change, though one might notice a sequence of 11, 12, 18, 14, 15. And only Cappy knowing he was in Rom 18 was not sufficient. Ajima had to agree he was in Room 18, or he would be in 13.
He went and got her. She didn’t understand, just knew he wanted her to look at something. “ANNEYO,” she said when she saw his vandalism. NO. By her expression of deep pondering, he surmised she was determining what to charge him for the destruction. Quickly, with the same unwashed sock, he wiped as before and the curves in 8 vanished, making it again a 3.
“OK”, she said. Okay as in now leave alone.
“Ajima, I want it to be 18.”
“Why?”
“Thirteen is an unlucky number in America”
Maybe not good reminding her of his nationality. She met Americans all the time. GIs. were the only Americans she knew, boisterous and testosterone driven, and she figured by them all American were crazy. She gave a sweep of her hand to indicate the mindlessness of his numerical anarchy, and said, “Numbers don’t fit.”
“I’ll change it when I move.”
He had just offered to pay her for the whole summer, but he hadn’t paid yet..He though she understood “move” and had emphasized it. She just sighed, meegooksaram, what gets into them? She shook her head at his lunacy, but had other things to concern herself with, sleeping for instance. He didn’t know what she’d conceded, if anything, but as she left he made sure she saw he was changing it again to room 18. So, she knew HE at least thought he was in Room 18. Did he think that? If he hadn’t succeeded in getting her to accept it, he was still in Room 13. Could she believe it? Could he? Well, at least he was in a room with a number 18 above the door, probably the best he’d be able to do He tried to just put it out of his mind now, as ajima had.
A little later, he was about to explore I Tae Won and it was night time. As he opened his door, an attractive young woman in room 12 opened her door. Hard to tell a student from an off duty bar girl if wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She smiled, and he thought they could talk, maybe she would even visit briefly. But at one glance she saw that his pillow was at the foot of the bed, a sensible place for it under the window on a June day in a room without air conditioning. But as he saw what she saw, that pillow at the bottom pulled tightly under the bedspread did indeed resemble a grave mound. She said “Anneyo,” much as ajima had said it earlier. She also now noticed his blasphemous numerical progression above the doors. He thought she’d turn out just like ajima eventually, because she also left shaking her head at his depravity.
Yes, he was going to go out, but he thought, first relax, rest a while, take a nap and FEEL Room 18, make it yours. He lay down. He dreamt of willing 13 to 18, and was beginning to believe in its possibility. Rooms have no numbers, people assign them. Ajima created Room 13. But ajima owned the hotel. His sleep was troubled. There was no status quo he could grasp.
Then the hard knocks came. Definitely not the agasee back changing her mind about him. This was the knock of police or enforcers.
He answered. There was a big guy with tattoos standing there, who said with an accent that sounded like Bella Lugosi’s, “You Zingo?”
“No”
“Bullshit. He says live Room 18.”
“There is no Room 18.”
“Don’t bullshit.”
He hoped he hadn’t convinced ajima too well.
“Ask the concierge.”
“You passing counterfeit bit coins?”
“Huh?”
“You play poker on line?”
“No. Counterfeit virtual money?”
“Zingo, he cheating.”
“Cheating at on line poker? How?”
“Told me he had a straight, but missing one card. Like your room”
“So, he was bluffing.”
“I paid to see his cards. He say come here, Room 18, he make good”
"I’m not Dingo. Jingo.”
“Zingo.”
“Excuse me. Hard to get the first letter”.
Bluffing. That’s what Cappy was doing with this Room 18 shit. He was in 13.
“I’m going to find out you him or not. You lying me, I come back couple of guys and
fuck you up. Fuck you up not virtual.”
“I’m not him.”
“We’ll see.”
“Who are you?”
“You know. Bella. We going to pump the blood out of your mortal body. Ha-ha-ha.”
Thankfully, he left. He had to get out of this room, if not hotel. Ajima was awake in
her cell---it had bars in the window---watching her soap opera.
“Do you have ANY other room I can stay in?”
“Third floor.”
There was a third floor? By first floor, she’d mean the store. He was on the second floor. There was a flight of stairs, but he always thought they went to the
roof. A different floor might hide him. She led, he followed up the stairs, and there there was another series of rooms: 16,17, 18, 19, 20. She pointed to 18 and opened the door.
“Ah, no, ajima, not 18.”
He couldn’t possibly change that to 13 without seriously damaging cellophane.
“All there is.” Her tone indicated she’d finally had enough of him.
The door to 17 opened, and the same agasee from Room 12 stepped into the hall. Moved to get away from him? She seemed startled to see him, but she could see past him into the new room and the pillow was where it should be at the wall. And it was under the window here so he knew he’d leave it there. The numbers here were also in rational order. She gave a slight smile and left, but not without leaving her trace.
Ajima brought reality back.
“Yes or no?”
“Okay, let me try this. But, tell me, who lived here before?"
“Why?”
“Just curious. Could his name be Lingo? Dingo?”
“I don’t ask names. Just rent rooms. You want this?”
“I’ll take it.”
She left. He stayed. Rest some more and adjust to this room. Immerse in the concept of 18. He did it, got a little more sleep until---another knock on the door. Gentler than before, at 13 faux 18. Agasee in Room 17 deciding to get aquainted?
No, it was Bella.
“Don’t be afraid. I come to he-e-llp you. A-ha-ha!”
“You’re name can’t be Bella.”
“Is. Don’t worry. I found out about Zingo. He always stay here. He going to have to pay up. Just let you know it all straightened out. I took your old room. And I take off your silly marks. Now I know I get my money. 13 good luck in my country.”
Cappy believed now he was out of 13, and all the attendant bad karma that went with it. He lay down again, but listened for soft feminine footfalls in the corridor.
In time he heard them and peeked into the hall. It was her back, but taking her backpack and leaving 17.
She asked “Do you know Zingo?”
“I’ve just heard of him.”
“He was my boyfriend. Bastard. Off playing around. He comes back, I’ll castrate him." Her English was very good.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m moving back down to 12.”
“Now that I’m gone?”
That got a laugh from her. “Nothing personal. There’s a cute guy in 13 now.”
“You think Bella’s cute?”
“Is that his name? Cute is subjective.”
And she left. He only wanted to relax now, no longer expected a reward for leaving 13 behind, just get some peace of mind. He nodded off again until he heard yet another gentle knock. Was she back, realized Bella wasn’t really cute..?.
He opened the door, anticipating wish fulfillment, but standing there this time was another huge gangster kind of guy. He was wearing a white T-shirt with a large Ace of Hearts playing card on the front, and at least he was smiling.
It was inevitable
Yes, he said,
"I'm Zingo. Anybody leave me any messages?"
PART TWO
This Hungarian who calls himself Bella knows I had a clean straight. I let him think he can psych me with intimidation into paying him because he stated he’s in Seoul, in I Tae Won, and this way I can lure him to my den. I know Cleo’s going to be around, angry at me, think I cheat, by which she means my heart is in it, because—well, love is a beautiful word, love is a terrible word….
I saw this jerk English teacher in my old room. His reading of my stars calls for me paying up for what I’m OWED, and the physical mutilation of my manhood by Bella. Bella is in 13, and I’m on my way to see him, collect my money.
Cleo here. Of course Zingo’s going to come looking for me. This time I’ll teach him a lesson. I’m going to make love to this wannabe vampire as if for love. Going to be interesting when they meet. I just have to get up to Room 13 before Zingo gets there,
I’m Bella. The Dracula crap is a game, but I am Romanian and my name is Bella. I know Zingo had a straight, he wasn’t bluffing, I am, and I think I can bluff 300 Euros in Korean won out of him. Somebody at my door now, not knocking like I’d expect from Zingo, and definitely not his fragrance out there. Let’s see who lurks beyond the door…
There’s no peace in this world. She’s back. Cleo, she tells me now her name is. I mean, that should be good, but her tidings. Zingo wanted his money, and Bella said he should pay him, they fought and Zingo stabbed and killed Bella. She postulates he was a bit motivated to such violence by the shrieks of, he thought, ecstasy from her before he kicked the door in. The way she has it, consideration to trying to get his money, at that point, was a speed bump.
Turns out the real reason she was screaming was that Bella, in his frenzy, bit her neck. This vampire legend is not of local origin and she’s confused about it. She thought to keep from becoming a vampire herself she had to drain the blood from the vampire's killer, and decided---there was that promise regarding Zingo she made here. After slaying Bella, Zingo put the knife down, and she got hold of it. She presents me now with what she calls his jewels. You understand, I’m reluctant to disillusion her, explain that according to the myth, she’s already a vampire. If she believed that she’d think she has to bite someone, and I’m all that’s available... I hear ajima hysterical downstairs, people in the corridor are saying the police are on the second floor, there is much commotion here, and the attraction I once felt toward Cleo has turned to terror…
The police came and took her. They questioned me and seemed amused even though the coroner took two bodies away. There were detectives down there a long time doing forensics with measuring tape and chalk and technical instruments. I lie in room 18 now. A guy who looks like Elvis has moved into room 17. I know there are a lot of them, the impersonators, but---don’t need that. Another huge guy calls himself Boris, he’s all scars, wears a grimy suit, enormous shoes, shuffles slowly. They tell me on the second floor there’s a moonwalker moved in with cold cream all over his face. Say you've been in places like that? Its just gotten too creepy for me. I need to find a hotel that at least knows its own name.
There’s one thing I was right about though. 13 is an unlucky number
"Copr" 2015, Patrick Breheny