I sat on the bed and looked about the room. My room from now on, according to Vincenzo. It was so small and plain that it only took one quick, sweeping glance to make sense of it. There was the bed neatly tucked on the corner, a desk and chair beside it, a dresser table with a basin and a lone candle burning at the other side of the room, and a cabinet. That was it. 'And I thought my apartment was small,' I mused.
Well, my studio unit was small, but by Seoul standards, it was more than adequate. It was simply furnished, almost always clean, and best of all, it was only a 15-minute walk from a local train station. I had been dreaming of moving into a spacious one-bedroom apartment a bit closer to one of the city's numerous commercial districts, but on a secretary's meager monthly salary, it had remained only that – just a dream.
There was a window right by the bed, and when I opened it, I was greeted by abundant clusters of stars overhead. It dominated the sky so much that it was picturesque, like a painting that came to life. I leaned on the window sill, closed my eyes, and breathed in the crisp and cool night air. It was so serene that it was almost hard to believe that just mere hours ago, I had witnessed bloody corpses being loaded into wagons. But the fact that I was in a room I had never seen before – one that was lit by a candle, to boot – was enough testimony: wherever this was, it was definitely not Seoul.
Vincenzo had long since retired to his own room, and I was peacefully alone at last. I thought back to the chain of events that led me here. I was in the office, wrapping up the last of my tasks for the day, when my phone lit up. Seeing the name of the caller flashing on the screen, I snatched up my phone and giddily answered.
"Hello, Bong-su," I said, walking to the pantry. It was past seven in the evening and there weren't many people left on the floor. I could have easily answered a quick call at my workstation with relative privacy, but I didn't want to take the chance that someone might overhear. Especially when my colleagues always made it their duty to mind other people's businesses. "I'm almost done here. Are you on your way?"
I had been going out with Kim Bong-su for three years, and that evening we were celebrating my birthday. I had already booked our reservation at a casual French bistro overlooking the Han River. And I was so excited that I even bought a new dress and wore it to work underneath a blazer, because I didn't have time to go back to my apartment and change clothes before our dinner.
"Na-ri, I'm sorry," he said. "I don't think I can make it tonight." There was loud music blazing in the background, and I could hardly hear him.
"Where are you?" I asked, pressing the phone closer to my ear.
"I'm at a bar in Itaewon," he replied, trying to speak above the noise. "I got pulled in for drinks with some senior lawyers." Bong-su was a junior lawyer in a private investment firm.
"I didn't have a choice," he added lamely. "I'll make it up to you next time, OK?"
"You didn't have a choice," I repeated, the sting of tears beginning to well up in my eyes. It wasn't the first time he used that excuse, and I was sure it won't be the last. Over the three years we had been dating, he had gradually made it a habit to randomly cancel our dates, often using work as a reason. He was running behind a deadline, a client invited him to dinner, he had to play a few rounds of golf. I was frustrated and resentful, and got even more so when I realized that the feeling was becoming all too familiar. I knew he had a prestigious career, I got that. And I never wanted to get in the way of his job. I just wished that one time – just once – he would make me feel like I was also his priority.
"Na-ri, please," he cajoled, adapting a soothing tone. I recognized that tone. It was the one he always used when he knew he was wrong, but he still expected me to forgive him.
"Do you even remember it's my birthday today?" I asked, tears freely flowing from my eyes. I picked up my pace to get to the pantry faster.
"Of course, I –"
"Who are you talking to?" a female voice interjected. It was fairly audible even with the blasting music, which meant that whoever it was must have been standing very close to Bong-su.
"Nobody," he answered her.
He turned to me again. "I got to go," he said in a rush, and hung up.
He couldn't even admit that he was talking to his girlfriend. I clutched the phone in my hand and shoved it in my pocket, wiping my tears with my other hand. I was almost sure that my makeup was ruined, but after that call, I deserved a good cry. Thankfully I had reached the pantry by then. I turned the handle of the door, expecting to find the colorful assortment of chairs and tables – and instead walked into a war scene.
'And now I'm here,' I contemplated, scanning the room again. Since it was a door that led me to this strange world, it was quite logical to assume that it's also a door that will get me back to Seoul. I just had to find it. 'How hard can it be?'
*****
I was jolted awake by a persistent knocking on my door. I sat up and squinted at the light streaming through the window. For a moment my brain was muddled, wondering where I was and how I ended up in such a dilapidated room. And then everything clicked into place and I jumped out of bed.
"Take this," a cheery voice said as soon as I opened the door. "You'll need it."
I took the mug that was held out mere inches from my face, and looked at a girl with fiery red hair and green eyes. She walked into the room uninvited and sat down on the floor. I closed the door, followed her inside, and sat on the bed across from her. She had her hair in a bun, but there were still several curly strands that came loose.
She noticed my open stare. "I know," she grinned. "I gave up worrying about my hair a long time ago. It's always been all over the place." I smiled and took a sip of the steaming hot coffee she brought. There was something about her that immediately made me feel at ease.
"Anyway," she cleared her throat. "I heard from Monsieur Di Almarati that you can't speak." She reached into the pocket of her apron and produced a slate, a writing stick, and a cloth. "These should help you to communicate."
I placed the mug on the table to get the items she was holding out, and immediately put them to good use. 'What's your name?' I wrote.
"Nineteen," she answered easily.
I stared at her incredulously. Using the cloth to wipe the words I had just written, I hurriedly scribbled again. 'Is it common to name people here by numbers?'
"Of course not," she replied. "It's only reserved for the emperor's concubines. I'm Concubine Number 19."
At the mention of concubine, I felt myself hyperventilating. With everything that had happened since I came here last night, I had almost forgotten the name I was assigned to, and what it meant. But now it came back to me in full force, and I tried taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. 'Does that mean you serve the emperor?'
"What do you mean by serve?" She looked at me with guileless eyes, as though she really didn't know what I was referring to.
'I meant in bed!' My face was hot with embarrassment. I couldn't believe I was having this kind of conversation with someone I just met.
She stared at me quizzically, and then my question seemed to have properly registered with her, and she laughed. She laughed so much that she clutched her stomach and dropped to the floor. After a while, she finally stopped laughing and she looked at me, amusement making her eyes sparkle. "I've never even seen the emperor. What made you think I serve him in bed?"
'Isn't that what concubines do?'
She clicked her tongue at me. "There are two kinds of concubines," she explained slowly, like she was speaking to a child. "The first kind comes from other royal families and members of the nobility. They're the ones who serve the emperor as his bed partners. And the second kind," she looked at me pointedly, "are servants who work in the palace."
She got up from the floor and pulled me out of bed. "I don't think you need to wonder which kind of concubine you'll be," she said indulgently. We had stopped in front of the mirror on the dresser table, and I got to take a look at my reflection for the first time since coming here. The reflection was quite hazy, like the glass hadn't been polished in years. But it wasn't the quality that made me look at it in horror. It was the image staring back at me. I saw a girl with long, brown hair and big, round eyes – a stranger's face.
It wasn't me.