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  Yet Ijeong loved Villa. Villa, who had beaten to death a foreman who was raping his younger sister and then fled the hacienda to become a bandit. Like Zapata, he was illiterate and impulsive in all he did. By his very nature, he hated nations, institutions, and laws. He was not an anarchist, but ultimately he acted like one. He had no interest in founding a nation. That was precisely what made Villa so attractive. He hated the landowners and the learned, and put that hatred into practice. He had crossed the line once and killed hundreds of Chinese for no reason, but people still loved this impulsive and whimsical man.

  Ijeong sometimes wrote in a journal: “Can a nation disappear forever? What if it can? Since the start of the revolution it has been just as if there was no nation in Mexico. Everyone prints their own currency and kills those who use different money. Butchery leads to butchery. The powerful are all advancing on Mexico City. Here is both the start and end of this long revolution. Tens of thousands have already died. Has all this happened because of the former nation, or because of a lack of a nation? We had the Korean Empire, but we were not happy. And now it is the same with Mexico. From somewhere comes the stench of blood. The stronger nations, Japan and the United States, start wars and support civil wars in order to rule the weaker nations.”

  Miguel, a Mexican soldier with whom Ijeong was close, was a curious anarchist. Chewing on cheap cigars like gum, he always said things like this: “Nations are truly the root of all evil. Yet the nations do not disappear. If we drive out those caudillos and accomplish the revolution, other caudillos will seize control of the government. So what can we do? We can only shoot them all to death. If the revolution is to continue, that is the only way. A permanent revolution, that’s what it is.”

  “Then will you shoot Villa if he becomes president?” Miguel flashed a smile at Ijeong’s question. “That is my belief. Politics and convictions are different.” In contrast to the young Marxists who served as staff officers under Zapata, those who followed Villa had more diverse backgrounds and views. Among them were anarchists who had come from Russia and Spain, and romantic Trotskyites from Germany. Ijeong was confused. What was clear, though, was that none of the nations that Ijeong had passed through, not even Villa’s camp, was the ultimate form of government he desired.

  One day, Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata invited diplomats to the presidential palace. The great powers, including the United States, Germany, Great Britain, and France, were summoned by the revolutionary leaders. Some attended, some did not, using illness or a holiday as an excuse. Ijeong stood guard outside the palace with the other soldiers. The revolutionary troops were a little timid before the splendor of the capital. The guerrillas in their old uniforms looked shabby before the vast Zócalo. When cars carrying the diplomats began to stream into the presidential palace, Ijeong watched them with indifference. One of the cars, a new model Ford, stopped. The passenger door opened and a man stepped out, then the car went on to the palace.

  It was Yoshida. Dressed in a formal swallow-tailed coat, he approached hesitantly and held his hand out to Ijeong. Ijeong shifted his rifle from his right hand to his left and shook his hand. “It’s been a long time. I never thought I would see you here,” Yoshida said. He glanced at Ijeong’s uniform and comrades. “You’re a Villista.” Ijeong’s comrades stared at him with wonder as he spoke in Japanese. “Did you know that Villa killed some two hundred Chinese in Torreón for no reason at all?” Ijeong nodded. “And yet you are a Villista.” Ijeong spoke in Spanish. He could not talk about Villa in Japanese. “Sometimes he just goes out of his head. There is no reason for him to dislike the Chinese. He is just hotheaded, and that’s what is so attractive about him. But what are you doing here?”

  “I went to the Japanese consulate and turned myself in. The consul said that he was sorry, but he had no way to arrest and take me into custody. He asked me if I would like to work for him, so I settled down there.” Yoshida held his arms out and smiled. “What do you think? Not bad, eh?” Then he lowered his voice. “We do not think Villa and Zapata will last long. Consider this carefully.”

  Ijeong nodded expressionlessly. “That does not matter to me. After all, I am an outsider.” “You mean a mercenary?” Ijeong shook his head. “I volunteered, but my situation is no different. It is good to see you.” Yoshida’s face clouded over. “We probably won’t see each other again, will we?” Ijeong moved his rifle from his left hand back to his right hand. Their replacements were coming. Ijeong signaled to his men to withdraw. “Probably not, but who knows what might happen?” Yoshida grabbed Ijeong as he turned to go. “Oh, by the way, you’re Japanese now, too. As such, your actions should be reported to us. You probably knew this, but all of the Koreans living in Mexico became Japanese citizens in 1910. So if you need a passport, if you are treated unfairly—anything—come to the Japanese embassy. It is the legation’s duty to protect our citizens abroad.”

  “I did not know. But I never agreed to become Japanese.” Yoshida laughed. “Since when does an individual choose his nation? I’m sorry, but our nation chooses us.” Yoshida clapped Ijeong on the shoulder and went into the presidential palace.

  69

  IGNACIO VELÁSQUEZ had a dream. A white, winged horse flew down from the heavens through the clouds. The heavenly horse was so dazzlingly beautiful that it looked like it belonged to God. On it rode a young man he assumed to be an angel, and he was smiling at Ignacio. The angel spoke to Ignacio, who had bowed down and was praying. “Can you give your life for the Lord?” Ignacio was overcome with emotion and bowed to the floor. “Of course. If the Lord desires it, how could I cling to this petty life? Give me the order. The army of the Lord will march forth.”

  When Ignacio woke from his dream, his sheets were soaked with sweat. It was no ordinary dream. He went out to his prayer room and knelt down. “Lord, just say the word. I offer up this body to you.” He tended to some business on the hacienda and read the newspaper that had been brought to him by an overseer. The state of affairs in Mexico was critical. Things had been changing so fast since Porfirio Díaz was ousted that no one could see what was coming. “Pitiful atheists!” Ignacio ground his teeth. They had not stopped at overthrowing the leader but had begun to attack the landowning class, the Church, and the clergy. Ignacio mustered the hacienda’s soldiers. Among them marched Choe Seongil in smart leather boots. Ignacio told his men that the moment of the decisive battle was approaching. Not all of the overseers and foremen sympathized with Ignacio. Some of them were already leaning toward the revolutionaries. What was so wrong with tearing down the landowning class and the Church? But Ignacio trusted steadfastly in their loyalty. At least one of them would faithfully live up to his expectations: Choe Seongil, the thief of Jemulpo, who had transformed himself into Ignacio’s most fanatical henchman. Whenever he appeared on the hacienda, all of the laborers grew nervous. His nickname was the Executioner. He overturned altars to the ancestors and took the whip to those who attended Baptist services.

  There were hardly any Koreans left at Buena Vista hacienda. Many of those who had left when their contracts expired were unable to find jobs elsewhere and returned to the haciendas, but not to Buena Vista. Because Ignacio and Choe Seongil were still there, the freed laborers avoided the place. Some of them left for the sugar plantations of Cuba, others for big cities like Mexico City, Veracruz, and Coatzacoalcos. Choe Chuntaek and the whalers from Pohang settled in a fishing village near Coatzacoalcos. They borrowed nets and boats and caught fish, and the women took the fish they caught and sold them at the market.

  Among those who left for Veracruz was the Stone Buddha, Bak Jeonghun. After he had gained his freedom, he remained on the hacienda for three years and saved his money, then went off to Mérida. Jo Jangyun had asked him to stay with him there and help with the branch office, but Bak Jeonghun chose to go it alone: “I don’t think I’m the type of person who gets along with a large number of people.” As soon as he arrived in Veracruz he went into a barbershop near the piers to ask for
a job. An old Negro barber tilted his head. “Where are you from?” “I’ve come from Mérida.” “Have you ever cut hair before?” “No. But I am good with knives and scissors.” The barber took hold of Bak Jeonghun’s hands and looked at them carefully. “You’ve done hard work on the haciendas, I see. But why do you want to learn to be a barber?” Bak Jeonghun had his reasons. Cutting hair was something you could do without talking. The life he dreamed of was one where he quietly clipped with his scissors, went home, ate dinner, and went to sleep. He said that he didn’t need much compensation, he only wanted to learn the work. The old Negro, who was from Cuba, willingly took him in. Thus began Bak Jeonghun’s life as a barber. In only three months, he learned everything the barber could teach him. He was especially good at shaving, and he soon had regular customers of his own. The people of the port knew him as the mute Chinese. He ate and slept in the back of the barbershop and took care of the cleaning and odd jobs.

  He received his first monthly wages on the first day of his fifth month on the job. As soon as the workday ended he walked outside and down the street. He had been eyeing a Chinese restaurant there, and he pushed aside the curtain, went inside, and sat down. A woman came out to take his order. She spoke clumsy Chinese, but her scent reached him first. Bak Jeonghun lifted his head and looked at her. Her face was familiar. The woman did not recognize Bak Jeonghun, but she sensed something in his look. He remembered who she was from her aristocratic profile. The girl who had sat quietly in a corner of the Ilford a long time ago.

  Yeonsu was the first to speak. “Have you come from Mérida?” she said in Korean. Bak Jeonghun nodded. Yeonsu glanced back at the owner before speaking again. “Where do you live?” Bak Jeonghun told her about the barbershop. She lowered her voice and asked, “Have you heard anything from Mérida?” “I worked on the hacienda until 1913. Then a few months ago I came here. That is all. There was talk of everyone leaving for Hawaii, but that came to nothing, and after that everyone scattered to the wind.” Yeonsu’s face grew red and she wiped the table with a cloth. As she did so, she kept glancing around at the owner. Bak Jeonghun realized that she could not talk freely. Yeonsu lowered her voice and asked, “Do you know a man by the name of Kim Ijeong? He worked in the galley on the Ilford and he was briefly at Yazche hacienda . . .” Of course Bak Jeonghun remembered the young boy whom Jo Jangyun had named. “He was sold to Chenché hacienda, where I was, and went on strike with us. On the day the strike ended, he borrowed some money from my friend Jo Jangyun and ran off to the north. We wondered about him from time to time. Ah, now that I think about it, the two representatives from the United States, Bang Hwajung and Hwang Sayong, I think they said that they saw him in the state of Chihuahua. He was about to cross the border, so he is probably in the United States now.” Yeonsu’s face grew dark. “I am embarrassed to ask, but my father, the one called Jongdo . . .” Bak Jeonghun shook his head. “I don’t know. Ah, you had a younger brother, didn’t you? I heard that he is doing well. I heard that he worked as an interpreter and these days has been put in charge of management, bringing laborers to the haciendas and receiving a commission. He is probably still in the Yucatán.”

  Bak Jeonghun ordered his food and offered her some. She looked back toward the owner. The fat owner nodded. Bak Jeonghun ordered far too much food for two people to eat so that she could sit as long as possible. Yeonsu realized that this man was quiet and prudent, and she was drawn to him. No, that’s not it, she thought. I am just happy to see a Korean after so long. She got up and went to the kitchen. Bak Jeonghun sat alone and snacked on pieces of duck as he emptied a bottle of Chinese millet liquor. And for the first time in his life, he decided to speak up. He pretended to make his way to the bathroom and stood in Yeonsu’s path as she came out of the kitchen. It was a narrow hallway. “Are you being confined here?” Yeonsu nodded. Not long away from the henequen hacienda, Bak Jeonghun grasped the whole situation in an instant. He spoke. “Since I lost my wife to illness, I have never given thought to another woman. But seeing you makes me think that all my resolution was for nothing. I want to live with you. I have become quite a skilled barber, so I can earn enough to feed you.”

  She was torn between the young man whom she loved so much, but for whom there was almost no chance of returning, and the gentle retired soldier who stood across from her. The Chinese owner was beside her before she knew it. He could not understand Korean, but with his merchant’s intuition he immediately understood. He grabbed Yeonsu’s arm and dragged her back to the kitchen.

  70

  THE YUCATÁN GOVERNOR, Salvador Alvarado, who had supported President Carranza and General Obregón, received information that the armies of Villa and Zapata were attempting to seize the henequen fields, to appropriate them for military expenses. In a place where various forms of currency were circulated indiscriminately, henequen was truly green gold. All Villa’s and Zapata’s men had to do was get the crop to the port of Progreso and American importers would pay them in cash. The governor did not hesitate to order the henequen fields near Mérida and Progreso to be burned, including Ignacio Velásquez’s Buena Vista hacienda. Government troops came and doused its fields in kerosene and set them on fire. The fire caught the west wind and spread through the whole hacienda. With this, the first of the shaman’s prophecies came to pass: “When the wind blows from the west, the sun will be hidden even at midday.” Just as the prophecy said, the black smoke that rose from the henequen fields darkened the land, turning the sun red. Hundreds of henequen fields were reduced to black ash, and the laborers became jobless.

  The American hacendados and henequen importers, who had lost their haciendas and all their property, petitioned Washington to intervene in the Mexican Revolution. An American fleet was dispatched near Veracruz.

  71

  ONE MONTH LATER, Bak Jeonghun received a few months’ pay in advance from José the barber. Then he walked into Yeonsu’s Chinese restaurant and negotiated with the owner. The owner took one look at Bak Jeonghun’s face and knew that he was determined. Not only that, he sensed that things would go terribly wrong if he ignored him. He was a Chinese merchant who lived and died by material gain. Bak Jeonghun handed him 150 pesos and took Yeonsu. “I don’t believe it,” she said, on the verge of tears. “What might have happened to me if you hadn’t come?”

  With that, a new life began for Yi Yeonsu. She moved her belongings to the barbershop. José played the guitar to celebrate their new start. It was passionate music that would loosen up even the stiffest person. The shop regulars flooded in, drinking and singing and dancing. Yeonsu was intoxicated for the first time in her life and threw herself into Bak Jeonghun’s arms.

  It is only natural that things that are not used for a long time should atrophy. Bak Jeonghun’s body was duller than his spirit; it did not react at all to the flesh of a woman. So their first night together was uneventful, and Bak Jeonghun was upset. But Yeonsu did not blame him. She thought that perhaps it was better that way. Her own body was not exactly unresponsive, but her feelings were not yet urgent. “It’s all right,” Yeonsu consoled him as she held him close. “It’s probably because of the alcohol,” he said. The former ace marksman drank some strong liquor and fell asleep.

  All in all, they lived happily. Yeonsu’s life before that had been so horrible that she found joy in ordinary things. She delighted in the freedom to go about as she pleased, as when she went on evening walks with Bak Jeonghun. Yet there was still a problem that Yeonsu needed to resolve. She waited and waited, until one day she opened her mouth. “Do you think we could go get my child?”

  “Ah, that’s right, you said you had a child, didn’t you? Then we must get him. But we’ll have to pay to take him with us.” Yeonsu bit her lip. “Don’t worry,” Bak Jeonghun said. “I’ll get paid two months from now. Then we’ll go to Mérida.”

  Not long after that, a man in a military uniform entered the barbershop and plopped himself down in an empty chair. His subordinates hurried in behind him. The
man had a stylish black mustache and said that he wanted a shave and haircut. Bak Jeonghun tied the cloth around his neck, picked up his scissors, and began to cut the man’s hair. When he had finished trimming his hair and shaving him, Bak Jeonghun politely bowed his head. His customer smiled when he looked in the mirror. He said that he was very pleased with the haircut. One of his men paid the bill. After the soldiers left, José approached Bak Jeonghun with wide eyes. “That was General Obregón, President Carranza’s right hand. He may have retreated here to Veracruz, but you wait and see. He will return to Mexico City soon. A thief like Pancho Villa cannot defeat Obregón.”

  From that time on, Bak Jeonghun was Obregón’s personal barber. The general showered him with money printed by the Carranza administration. Each of the revolutionary armies issued their own currency, and each faction prohibited the use of pesos issued by others in the areas they controlled, so people were not able to buy goods even if they stuffed their pockets with various types of currency. A murderous inflation ensued. Yet Bak Jeonghun diligently saved Obregón’s money. Eventually he went to the Chinese restaurant where Yeonsu had been confined and exchanged the bills for the 150 pesos he had paid for her. The restaurant owner did not resist Obregón’s barber. He even tried to refuse the money, saying that he did not need to give him the currency from Obregón’s camp. But Bak Jeonghun threw Obregón’s pesos in the owner’s face and returned to the barbershop.