Heart of Mine (part 2)

Heart of Mine (part 1)  (13+) A Korean pop singer invades the West in an unexpected way. #1943909 by Graham B.

         Link met Jim Carver outside of Silver Note. He was holding the passes in his hand.

         “I’m on my way to the concert,” Link said. He held up the passes. “Two! You and me, Jim.”

         Jim shuddered.

         “I don’t think so, Link. I uh . . . I’ve got a prior engagement.”

         When would a member of the Silver Note staff pass up an opportunity for a back-stage meeting with one of the hottest upcoming acts on the music scene?

         And yet, Link thought he knew why. It would take time, and a lot of booze to get the story out of Jim.

         Another time, then.

         “I’ll meet with you after the concert.”

         “Break a leg, Link.”

         Link waved down an orange taxi.

         Brightly lit colors danced up and down the sides of the buildings that glided by on the way to Gangnam District. As he idly watched them illuminate advertisements for German cars and Korean electronics, Link went over in his mind what he would say to Young-il backstage. He had been mentally kicking himself ever since the interview, and had no inkling what she must think of him after his handling of the meeting. There was no excuse for being caught off balance by some pop-tart, and Link began steeling himself for the next encounter.

         The concert was already well underway when he entered the hall. Young Koreans danced and waved their arms about while holding neon-colored tubes and streamers. Some carried cigarette lighters which they held aloft like so many memorials.

         The opening act had already ended, and Young was on the stage. She was dressed all in black, wearing platform boots which added at least five inches to her diminutive height, fishnet stockings below black shorts, and a black tube top covered in silver sequins. On her head was a wig of highly reflective silver, like tinsel, which just reached her bare shoulders. As the lights above flashed and spun, her head looked like it was surrounded by a halo of sparks.

         And she moved.

         Not so much danced, but floated like billowing smoke. The eye had trouble following the curves of her body as they flowed so seamlessly into each other on the stage. Her eyes flashed and her skin was flawless. From her mouth gushed lyrics in that sweet, dangerous voice which seemed to invade Link’s very soul and break down his reserves of strength. The hard-bitten reporter felt himself being carried away by the voice. Link tried to turn away, tried to leave, but he could only stand there with the crowd as they swayed like a field of wheat before the wind.

         Young finished the number, and the crowd erupted with calls for various favorites. Through the noise, Link could hear “Heart of Mine!” in plain English, shouted the loudest. A moment later, Link could swear that she looked straight at him. Her eyes seemed to drink him in. She lifted the microphone to her face, and Link saw the tattoo of the cat on her wrist seeming to leap outward from her skin.

         The moment passed, and Young-il began singing “Heart of Mine” in English. The crowd went wild, and a roar of approval surged toward the stage, but Young’s voice somehow slithered between the cheering voices and seemed to be singing directly to him.

         In the darkest depths of my soul
         The night cries out in sweet sorrow
         I reach for you but you’re so far away
         In the light of the sun where I cannot follow
         The warm and gentle winds of summer
         They ruffle your hair, caress your face
         I circle about in cold cold shadows
         Trying to meet you in that special place
         Ohhh baby
         I’m everywhere
         Don’t look in mirrors
         I won’t be there
         Ohhh baby
         Please take my hand
         Come on with me boy
         If you can
         I wait for you but the night is calling
         The sun is setting and you see the signs
         I feel so warm and I know I’m falling
         Your fire burns so hot within this heart of mine
         
         Young-il continued to croon onstage until Link’s own thoughts no longer registered. He didn’t remember any more until later, when he was knocking on her dressing room door backstage.

         No one answered. With uncharacteristic timidity, he grasped the knob and slowly opened the door.

         The dressing room was empty of enigmatic pop stars, but not empty of her presence. Link stepped inside and began examining the room for any clues to the real Young-il. He saw a vanity with a mirror surrounded by the requisite lights. Various skimpy costumes hung from a nearby rolling rack. Link continued to scan the room, and it took a while for him to realize what was missing.

         There were no pictures or family memorabilia in the room. Link had interviewed dozens of celebrities in their dressing rooms and nearly all of them had had some personal mementoes. There were none in evidence here.

         There were also no refreshments of any kind, no snacks, no drinks, and no water to wet the parched throat of a performer. Link looked around but could not see anything resembling a refrigerator. He wondered if the Koreans used a model which would somehow escape his notice.

         He felt heat rising even before he heard the door open. Suddenly Young-il was standing in the room with him. She didn’t say a word, but looked at him with those unfathomable black eyes. Her wig was gone, revealing her hair with its colored highlights.

         She smiled with just a hint of crookedness to her red-painted lips, and suddenly she was standing right in front of him.

         How did she do that?

         It was getting hotter in the room, but Young seemed cool. Link thought he saw water condense on the sequins of her tube top. Young stepped even closer and was now inches away, and her breath came forth and caressed his throat, an almost bitingly cold puff of air. He wanted to step back, but he could not, did not. She leaned forward ever so slightly, and Link felt the cold radiating from her lips, less than an inch away from his neck.

         Behind her, Lee stepped into the room. For the first time, Link saw raw emotion in the man.

         Alarm.

         Lee cut loose with a torrent of angry Korean, and the spell was broken. The world seemed to turn over and spin, and in the next instant, Link was alone in the dressing room.

         What had happened? Had he imagined the encounter? He started toward the door when a fleeting black shadow caught his eye. It was a cat, black with yellow eyes, staring at him from beneath the dresser. The cat made no sound, but continued to watch him quizzically as he hurriedly exited the dressing room.

         Instead of flagging down a cab, Link elected to walk. Even the hot, muggy air seemed to clear his head. Hordes of Koreans crowded the streets chatting about subjects Link could not even guess at. Locals congregated at high-end coffee shops and shopped at stores with imported designer labels. Korea’s affluent were out for an evening on the town. They were dressed in high fashions, all in blacks, whites, beiges and grays. Link thought back to the trip from the airport down the highway of colorless cars two days ago. A world in gray, like old photographs. He passed them all by, locked deep in his thoughts.

         What could possibly be going on with this pop star? He knew about seduction, about celebrity worship. He had witnessed it in all of its forms, but never experienced it himself. And he had never even heard of any celebrity affecting their fans in the disturbing way that Young-il affected him right now. He turned up one street, down another, and his thoughts made similar moves, trying to escape like a rat in a maze that inevitably ends up at the same destination. Young-il, so beautiful, so seductive, and so terrible in her mysteriously twisted way. She had a power over the masses that Link had never in his career seen in even the sickest of celebrity-fan relationships. As the crowds began to thin around him, he wondered just how far in over his head he was.

         Link pulled his pre-paid phone from his pocket and pressed the second contact.

         “Yeah?” Jim's words were a little mushy.

         Behind Jim’s voice were the urgent notes of a contemporary jazz number. A trumpet galloped furiously in the background.

         Does this guy ever take a sober breath in the evening?

         “It’s Link. Where are you?”

         “A place in Itaewon. Are you done with the concert?”

         “We’ve gotta talk.”

         There was silence on the line for a few seconds as both Jim and the band paused.

         “Get in a cab and tell the driver to take you here. It’s not far. All That Jazz, behind the Hamilton Hotel in Itaewon. The cabbie should be able to find it.”

         When Link arrived, the band had shifted to a more cool jazz, and the atmosphere had calmed from it’s the frenetic energy Link had heard over the phone. The trumpet belted out a blues melody as Link looked around and spotted Jim at a table in dark corner of the room. Empty bottles stood silent watch as his eyes met Link’s. Link made his way through the crowd of foreigners who populated Itaewon and sat at the table.

         The two men didn’t say a word for a couple of minutes, but let the cacophony of syncopated notes skitter by while they stared at bottles on the table.

         Finally, Link spoke.

         “Tell me about her, Jim.”

         Jim shook his head. He raised his hand to order another round.

         “You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but I guess you’ve seen something. Haven’t you, Link?”

         Link didn’t answer.

         “She’s the devil, or something, Link. I don’t know for sure. It’s like she’s a modern-day Robert Johnson who made a pact in exchange for fame.”

         “Jim, what the hell are you talking about?”

         “What do you mean, what am I talking about?” Jim snarled, his face turning very red. “You know! I can see it!”

         The waiter swung by and left behind two bottles of soju, without even asking Jim or Link for their order.

         “She steals your soul,” Jim continued, grabbing a bottle. “That’s what she does. That’s the price you pay to be near her. She’s the incarnate of evil, Link, all wrapped up in that pretty little package. More than that . . .”

         Jim took a long swig of soju, almost emptying the bottle. He paused as he seemed to search for the words.

         “She’s a force of nature. She’s something that can’t be stopped, once she gets started. Can you see that?”

         Jim’s eyes were pleading, if manic. Was he crazy? Link stared into the red-rimmed eyes, and thought he saw a hint of madness there.

         Are you crazy, Jim? If so, where does that leave me? What have you seen that I missed? How much further is it to madness for me?

         “I’ve been watching her for almost a year,” Jim went on, and his eyes began to glitter conspiratorially. “There’s rumors. About her music. About her manager. About her cult-like fans.”

         Jim wiped his forehead with a napkin and looked around.

         “They say a few of her fans go missing every month!” Jim’s voice came in almost a hoarse whisper. “She’s doing something to them! Or someone close to her is.”

         “Jim, she has a lot of fans. They come and go! Surely . . .”

         But Jim was shaking his head.

         “Jim, what do you think she’s doing to her fans?”

         “I don't know, Link. A few fans drop off the radar. Few enough not to raise suspicions. And there’s never any missing persons reports . . .”

         Jim trailed off as he noticed Link’s skeptical expression.

         “Ah, what the hell’s the difference,” he sniffed. “You think I’m nuts.”

         “Jim, I-“

         “Well, I probably am. I’d have to be completely loco to keep going down this road. But you know, Link. You know where this road leads. It’s nowhere good.”

         Link could not admit what little he knew. Not even to Jim, for to do so was the first step toward embracing the insanity that flickered just around the edges of Jim’s alcoholic haze. He wanted no part of it. Denial was easier.

         “Jim, I think you’ve had enough.”

         Jim finished off the bottle and signaled the waiter. He didn’t look at Link, but stared sullenly at his hands. The band continued playing to the foreign audience, oblivious.

*

         “Hi Marcia,” Link said longingly into the telephone back in his hotel room. “I’m sorry, I know it’s pretty early there.”

         In front of him, his article glowed on his laptop, words a blur through a boozy halo. Next to the computer sat a glass bottle of clear liquid, refracting bright, radiant colors from the street signs outside.

         “It’s okay Link,” she replied. “You know I always want to hear from you. I don’t care what time it is.”

         She paused.

         “Your voice sounds funny. Are you okay?”

         “Probably the jet lag. And I just needed to hear your voice.”

         “Have you been drinking, Link?”

         “Of course not! Well, maybe a little.”

         “You know I don’t like you when you’re drunk!”

         Link sighed. “I’m sorry, babe. It’s been real crazy here. This trip didn’t really turn out like I expected.”

         “Do you want to talk about it?”

         “Not really. Like I said, I just wanted to hear you speak.”

         He didn’t tell her that her voice now sounded so plain and dull to him. Not a sugary voice dripping with promises, but normal. Yet somehow, Marcia sounded so alive, so warm and inviting. He needed to get home. He needed to get back to her.

         “Link, I don’t like this. What’s wrong?”

         I don’t want to alarm her.

         “Nothing, it’s nothing. I’m tired, that’s all. I just about have things wrapped up here. It went pretty well, all things considered.”

         “Oh. How did the interview go?”

         “Great! I think I got some real insight into what makes this artist tick.”

         God, don’t I wish that were true.

         “Well, I guess another success for Silver Note?”

         “You could call it that. I’ve already started writing the article. You know, this one will be different. I can’t really explain it, but it’ll all come out in the final product.”

         “I can’t wait to read it.”

         “I’m getting back to it. Gotta write it while it’s fresh.”

         “Okay. I really miss you, Link. Please be careful.”

         “You know I will, babe.”

         “Love you.”

         “Love you more.”

         The click of the line disconnecting was like a nail being driven into a coffin.

         He stared at the phone for a moment. A jumble of memories poured forth, unbidden. He saw the life he and Marcia had, the dates, the trip to Tahoe, their first apartment together. He tried to look into the future, to where he and Marcia might be headed, and saw nothing.

         Link took a deep breath to clear his head, and then turned back to the article.

. . . and as the West continues to slog fitfully into the future, unmindful of
the potential talent languishing in its pool of artists, the East is poised
on the crest of a tsunami of stars, waiting to storm the shores. Is this the
beginning of an Asian invasion? Only time will tell, but within the vanguard
will certainly be Young-il.

         Link looked it over thoughtfully, and decided he didn’t like it. It was shallow, insubstantial. It was more about the pop phenomenon than the person behind it. Jim had called her a force of nature. Could Link possibly use something like that in his article? He chuckled humorlessly at the thought.

         Link threw his hands up and leaned back in his couch, his mind racing from one random thought to the next like a hummingbird, never settling too long on a subject, for right here, right now, nothing, not even Marcia interested him more than the little Korean pop star with the ebony eyes and porcelain skin.

         Link cracked open another soju, his fourth for the evening. The cool, clear fluid burned only slightly going down and seemed not to have an effect on him until he stood up. The room tilted slightly, and he felt heat rising from his gut. He looked around in bewilderment.

         Had he drunk that much?

         The heat continued to rise, and beads of sweat broke out along his hairline. Link set the bottle down on the table and steadied himself. That was when he saw a shadow flicker in the corner of the room.

         The cat was in the room with him.

         He began searching for the shadow flitting among the furniture, but instead, his eyes traveled involuntarily toward the large plate-glass window, as if pulled by gravity.

         She was outside.

         The heat rose up to his head, and his eyes and ears burned.

         Young-il? Outside my window? I’m twenty-three floors up! This has to be a hallucination or something!

         Confused, he blinked and looked again, and she was still there. Her dark eyes caught every bright light of the city and threw them at him. Her highlights were plainly visible, waving gently in an unseen breeze. Her skin was ghostly pale. She smiled faintly, and through the haze, Link saw that there was something wrong with her teeth. He moved toward the window and she beckoned to him, her dainty hands reaching for him. He reached for her in return and she vanished . . .

         Link felt a wave of coolness wash over him from behind, clashing with the fever erupting from his own body. He turned again, and Young-il was there. Coolness fell from her pale skin and drank the heat from his own body as she stepped very close to him. She had no scent, yet the very air was permeated with her essence, something that crept in through his lungs and rushed through his brain like a Northern wind. He had a last faint vision of Marcia, smiling sadly at him as he left her at the airport, before his remaining coherent thoughts were blown away.

         Young leaned forward and placed her hands on either side of his face, their coldness penetrating so deep he felt the beginnings of a brain freeze headache. Then she kissed him, a press of ice on his own lips so gentle he wasn’t sure it happened until something sharp pricked his lip and let a little bead of blood dribble down. Link saw her tongue flick almost imperceptibly to claim the drop, her eyes never leaving his, her breath caressing his face in a winter’s breath. Then she lowered her mouth to his neck.

         Link hardly felt the two tiny slivers entering his neck, but his legs suddenly lost their strength and gave out. Young shifted her hands from his head to his waist, and incredibly, this one hundred-pound girl was gently lowering a two hundred-pound man to the floor, her mouth locked on his neck. Despite the cold coming from the pop star, Link felt the heat rise higher and higher until it exploded in his head in a blinding light the color of kleiglights on a stage. As he spiraled away from the light toward unknown darkness, he saw Young-il’s face just above his own, light streaming through her hair. Her skin was as white as snow and her mouth was a red bloom, from which two needle-like teeth jutted. She kissed him, leaving a taste of copper and marble, and she no longer felt cold to him. Then he faded, knowing nothing more.

*

         Link slowly surfaced, and was greeted by the faded gold colors of his hotel room. His head was pounding, and somewhere, a buzzing noise intruded on his awareness. He turned to the side and saw a black cat watching him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to shake the headache away, and only succeeded in making it worse. When he opened his eyes again, the cat was gone.

         The buzzing noise resolved itself into the faint strains of music.

. . . I feel so warm and I know I’m falling
Your fire burns so hot within this heart of mine. . .


         Link sat up and saw the four empty soju bottles standing like soldiers on the edge of the table.

         No more soju. Never again.

         He grasped the bed frame and managed to lever himself onto the mattress. His hand inadvertently pushed the remote control sitting on the comforter and switch the TV on. The local BBC affiliate was reporting the news from Seoul. The news ticker displayed the time: 9:00.

         It can’t be, unless I slept through the entire day, in which case, it’s Saturday.

         He had lost an entire day, and his red-eye was leaving in eight hours. He wracked his brain for the events of the previous evening, but only remembered pressing “send” on the email to Hillary with his article attached before picking up the bottle of soju again.

         The music abruptly faded, and Link wasn’t sure he had heard it in the first place.

         Link staggered to the bathroom, followed by the sounds of the news anchor and turned the faucet on. As he began splashing water on his face he suddenly looked, aghast at the mirror. A ghost stared back at him, with his own hollow eyes and his open, dumbfounded mouth. On his neck were what looked like two bug bites, space about an inch apart. Link looked carefully at his disheveled reflection wondering what could have happened to turn him into this creature in only four days.

         Shit, I’m sick or something.

         Link dug a bottle of aspirin out of his luggage and swallowed four pills. He tried to drink from a bottle of water, but it only made him gag. Slowly, he began packing.

         “ . . .and the police have identified the body of an American, who was found in the Itaewon district earlier today behind a local jazz club . . .”

         Link stopped packing and turned to the television, waiting to hear what he already knew.

         “. . .the man has been identified as James Carver, the editor for the local offices of the popular music and arts magazine Silver Note. The cause of death has so far not been identified . . .”

         Link pulled out his phone and with numb fingers, managed to press the international calling codes.

         “Hillary. Talk to me.”

         “Hill, it’s link.”

         “Hey, Link! So how are things on the other side of the world? Listen, I got your article. It’s not really the kind of thing you usually write Link! Not as comprehensive and in-depth. But we can make it work.”

         “He’s dead, Hill.”

         “Excuse me?”

         “Jim. Something happened. He’s dead.”

         “What? How?”

         “I don’t know.” But I know who does. “Police are investigating.”

         There was a long pause.

         “Oh my God, Link,” said Hillary. “This is terrible!”

         Link didn’t know how he felt, other than hollow and drained. He let Hillary go on for a few moments. When he spoke again, his reporter’s instincts kicked in, and all of the right words came out.

         “Listen. I fly out in a few hours. We can write an obit for Jim. You knew him better than I did, Hill, but I was with him, the last day of his life. I think we can put something good together when I get back.”

         “Yes...yes, I think he would have liked that.” Hillary's voice sounded even further away than the thirteen thousand miles which separated them. Link once again tried to feel something, anything besides the yawning pit of hollowness he felt, but failed.

         “I’m sorry, Hill. I know he was a friend of yours.”

         “Just get back safely, Link,” came Hillary’s muted reply.

         Why does everyone keep saying that?

         “Keep a fire burning for me.”

         Link called the front desk and arranged for a train ticket to Incheon. As he left the lobby to hail a cab to the train station, he noticed that the weather had cooled considerably. He was no longer sweating.

         Thank goodness for small miracles, he thought.

         The plane’s departure from Korean soil did nothing to ease his mind. Dreams mixed with jumbled memories seen through an alcoholic haze. Had he imagined the whole event? Dreamed it? He could not be sure what separated dream from reality. It was as if South Korea existed in some nether world between the two. However, the videos of Young-il on the television at the airport had looked real enough. There had been no volume, but he could almost hear the lyrics to “Heart of Mine”, straining to escape. He had tried not to look at the television and almost succeeded.

         Link’s mind turned to Marcia, and what he would tell her about this trip. How could he even begin to explain the surreal circumstances that had dogged his every step here? The enigmatic pop-star with no past? The mysterious manager who seemed to have an awkwardly selective control over his charge? The death of Jim Carver? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he didn’t even care what Marcia thought. That thought disturbed him for only a brief instant, and then he put her out of his mind.

         As Korea fell away in the airplane’s wake, the sun began illuminating the sky to the East. To Link, the sun looked angry. Link wondered why such a strange thought would occur to him.

         A ray of sunlight crept through the window and caressed Link’s hand in an orange glow and drew his gaze. It looked malignant, like something that wanted to attack him. He examined his hand in the glow. It was of a deathly pallor, the color of dirty snow, and blue veins traced restlessly toward his fingers. It looked like a corpse’s hand.

         As the ray crept up toward his wrist, the hand began to itch. He shut the window shade and drifted off into the deepest sleep he had ever known.