The Land of Morning Clamour

By David Carter

Dedication:

In memory of Tom, typecast for Bill.

1.

              "That's it!"

         He started to push forward between a large, fat, middle-aged woman and a young, Oriental man with glasses in a dark grey suit.

              "D'you think so? It doesn't look like it to me."

              "I recognise the strap."

              "I thought yours was more of a dark blue."

              "That is dark blue. Excuse me!"

         He had now reached the side of the carousel.

              "Yours was very much bulkier."

              "I know my own hold-all when I see it."

         The piece of luggage which was the focus of attention was fast approaching, behind something that looked like a lawnmower wrapped in brown paper and a large red, white and blue plastic bag, all crumpled together, with a big red label proclaiming that it was 'Fragile.'

         The hold-all was promptly whipped off and plumped on the floor. The two men stood looking down at it. The one who had retrieved it said:

              "There! You see? I'd recognise it anywhere."

         The other bent down and turned over a tag attached by string:

              " 'Mrs. Jemima Wetherspoon, c/o The Westin Hotel, Seoul, South Korea'."

         He turned to his friend and said slowly, and ever so sweetly, enunciating each word clearly and expressively:

              "Arnold! Is there something about your private life that you've been concealing from me?"

              "Oh, for Heaven's sake!"

         But there was no time for adequate placation of Heaven. A tall, broad figure loomed over them, in a brownish tweed jacket and a brownish hat to match:

              "Thank you very much! So kind of you!"

         She gathered the two handles of the bag and heaved it up to a comfortable height, and then turned and disappeared among the throng.

              "That, presumably, was Mrs. Jemima Wetherspoon."

              "It looked exactly like mine."

               "As no doubt do thousands of others."

         There followed a long tedious time which seemed to go on for all eternity, when they could do nothing but stand and stare at all shapes and sizes of bags, cases and packages drifting all too slowly by, with the occasional exciting highlight of a bag toppling over or being pushed off the carousel altogether. When they had finally retrieved all the luggage, the two men ambled slowly, each with a trolley loaded with two bags, towards the 'Nothing To Declare' exit. They both put on brave, sickly smiles and pushed determinedly through the gateway. A customs official stopped them both dead in their tracks.

         He seemed to be middle-aged, but as Arnold commented later "You can never tell with Orientals. They start shriveling from the onset of puberty." He had a stern, craggy face. Eyes and mouth were like cracks in primeval strata. He stuck out one hand and made a quick impatient beckoning gesture.

         In a stage whisper and between clenched teeth, Arnold said "Thank God! He's waving us through."

              "I think he wants our customs declarations."

              "Customs declarations?"

         There followed a frantic searching of pockets by both men, resulting in the eventual retrieval by each of a long strip of paper, on which they had had to tick various boxes, confirming that they were bringing into the country no forbidden substances, no live (or dead) hamsters, no caches of fresh vegetables, nor loins of lamb. The official did not seem to be remotely interested in answers which they had agonised over for ages, and stuffed the slips of paper into a cardboard box on his desk.

              "Where you from please?"

              "From? Well, England. That is to say, I originally grew up in…"

         Arnold had decided to play the obliging innocent.

              "Directly?"

              "No, not really. We came via Bangkok."

              "Bangkok?! You stay in Bangkok?"

              "Well, only for a short time."

              "Short time? How many days?"

              "Just two days really."

              "Open your bags please."

         Arnold caught a glance of despair and disbelief from his friend.

              "What?"

         He threw the word sharply at him.

              "Nothing. I'll tell you later."

              "Bill! There's no point in pretending."

              "You also please. Open your bags."

         Opening up luggage in a vast echoing and impersonal airport hall does tend to focus awareness on a person's little foibles of taste and personal preferences. Bill looked on in disbelief as Arnold helped the customs official remove several items from his bags to facilitate the search. From the hold-all there appeared an enormous pair of Bermuda shorts, about the size of a bathroom curtain. Bill found himself wondering whether in fact it might be a bathroom curtain. The design seemed to be more suitable for this purpose: groups of small bright-eyed penguins at regular intervals in an overall pattern were engaged in various human-like activities, such as making a snow-man (or rather a snow-penguin), building an igloo (did they have igloos at the South Pole?) and playing ice-hockey. A pink toilet-bag, patterned with roses, also appeared, as did several packets of a well-known brand of beef-stock cube, and a thick pale yellow towel with an image of a teddy bear wearing a floppy hat imprinted on it.

         In his amazement Bill could not refrain from exclaiming "Good God, Man! It's like watching a bloody conjurer! Have you got a little white rabbit in there somewhere?"

         The customs official caught a few words that were familiar to him:

              "The import of all livestock in personal luggage is strictly forbidden, sir."

         Bill was thankful that his own taste had always been for pastels of all shades for all possible items of clothing. The worst he had been accused of, by those who had been vouchsafed some intimacy with his wardrobe, was being generally somewhat faded.

         No contraband being found, they were finally completely free to venture forth into an entirely unknown world. It was now that the experience they were seeking was truly to begin. They were on their own from here on in. But neither of them had given really much thought to what they were to do next.

              "Did you say something about there being a bus?"

         Arnold was wiping sweat from his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief.

              "You said there was, I think."

         They stood on the pavement. As far as the eye could see there were busses arriving and departing, huddles of travelers with trolleys and bags, and men shouting loudly and incomprehensibly in Korean, while waving pieces of paper in people's faces.

         A middle-aged Korean suddenly appeared at their side: "You want hotel, sir? Taxi? Private taxi?"

         Bill brushed him away as though he were a persistent mosquito.

         Arnold, who had now progressed to mopping the back of his neck, muttered:

              "Perhaps a taxi might not be such a bad idea. It's so much simpler." 

              "I think its must be a long way into the city."

              "We can afford to indulge ourselves. On arrival."

              "There's supposed to be an underground somewhere."

              "I don't want to struggle with these bags any longer than necessary."

         Bill recognised the symptoms of extreme exasperation in his friend.

              "I think the rank is over there somewhere."

         Arriving at the taxi rank they were immediately set upon by a hoard of drivers, some in short sleeves, and others besuited like naval officers. The yell "Taxi, sir!" reverberated in complex counterpoint.

         Arnold took the initiative. Nodding slightly towards the two types of taxi on offer, he leaned towards Bill, so that the drivers would not hear him:

              "Those black and gold ones look like the standard issue. The grey ones look a little dubious to me."

         But there were two groups of passengers with many pieces of luggage in front of them. It would mean waiting a little. Then suddenly a huge figure loomed into their field of vision and dumped a bag down next to Arnold's. He recognised it immediately as being identical to his own. Mrs. Jemima Wetherspoom had re-entered their lives.

         Their turn had come. A chubby, smiling driver was beckoning. And Mrs. Jemima Wetherspoon saw her chance. Suddenly a huge shapeless mass clutching a hold-all bag blocked their vision. The driver pulled open the back door of his taxi, and Mrs. Jemima Wetherspoon seemed to be sucked into it rather than to be entering of her own volition. Scarcely had Bill and Arnold become aware of what was happening, when the taxi was already building up speed.

         For the first time that day Bill felt truly rattled:

              "That bloody woman! I pray to God we've seen the last of her!"

         And another one of the black and gold taxis moved slowly up beside them. The driver, a round-faced man with a thick neck, showed no inclination to get out and help them.

         To clarify exactly what happened next, it is necessary first to reveal more precise details of the physical characteristics of Bill Mackay and Arnold Mills. To sketch them, as it were, in caricature, Bill was the shorter, with a round belly, and round head with only a few remaining wisps of silvery hair, while Arnold was very large, pear-shaped (having more in common with the William's rather than the Oriental Variety), and had a head which was uncannily like a small version of the same large pear, with scanty grey hair and a goatee beard. He got out of breath rather too easily for his own convenience. The nature of his particular physique made the getting in and out of taxis not exactly a straightforward matter.

         They waited for a few minutes, hoping against hope that the driver would budge and at least show some intention of helping, but he just sat in his seat, looking vaguely in their direction, or perhaps he was looking in his rear mirror. Arnold pulled open the rear door to its full extent. There was a particular expression combining incredulity and exasperation which he liked to adopt at such moments:

             "You'd better get in first."

              I rather think that if we attempt to sit together on the back seat, we neither of us will ever get out again. Nothing short of acetylene torches would…"

             "Then you'd better sit in the front."

             "I was thinking that. But do you think…?"

             "No, I don't think I can. I can't miraculously deflate like the Mrs. Jemima Wetherspoons of this world. Do you think she had some kind of contracting corset?"

             "So, what are you going to do?"

             "Head first, on my side, I think. And hold my breath till we reach the city."

         And that is precisely what he did, after gesticulating first at the driver to indicate that they needed him to open the boot in order to stow their luggage. Once settled prone on the back seat, Arnold did however relinquish his plan for prolonged holding of breath. The whole procedure had exhausted him too much. As they started off from the taxi stand, conversation between them was conducted by means of Bill craning back his head and Arnold raising his a little above the door lever on the left-hand side. If the driver was at all surprised at the sight of one of his customers lying prone on his side on the back seat with his knees tucked up, then he was a master at concealing his feelings.

             "Where please?"

         Not receiving an immediate reply, the driver rephrased his question:

             "Where you go?"

             "Yes, we hadn't actually thought about that particular issue had we?"

         Bill was actually directing his question at Arnold, but because he could only turn his head within a limited range, the driver obviously assumed that he was being addressed.

             "You want hotel?"

             "Well, yes we do actually, but…"

             "Hilton, Ramada Olympia, Novotel, Sheraton Walker Hill?"

             "A little beyond our range, I'm afraid."

             "Westin Chosun…?"

             "No, no, definitely not, I think. With our luck we'd be given the room next to Madam Wetherspoon."

         From the depths of the rear seat Arnold said: "I think you'll have to tell him something, or he'll throw us out, well, throw you out anyway…"

             "But where? I can't remember any of the places in the guide book. Downtown, downtown, that's where we have to go. What do they call it, following the American? City Hall, that's it!"

             "City Hall? You want City Hall? Toksu Palace Hotel?"

             "I don't know. Is it big?"

             "Quite big."

             "Expensive?"

         A voice intoned from the back seat:

             "Just let him take us there. If it's too much, we can look around for something else. It sounds central anyway."

         Bill conveyed their intentions as clearly as possible to the driver.

         As far as they could tell, he seemed to understand.

         Conversation on the drive into Seoul consisted mainly of Bill relaying occasional impressions to the recumbent Arnold of the more remarkable aspects of things they were passing. Communication was therefore rather one-sided.

             "There seem to be an awful lot of pylons in this country…"

             "Really."

             "…and billboards, billboards everywhere. I thought Samsung and Daewoo were Japanese companies… What do you think it means: 'Digital Exciting'? Sounds like the attribute of a good whore!"

         Then a little later, as he was beginning to find the journey somewhat tedious, Bill added:

              "A lot of traffic ahead. There seem to be a lot of flyovers. It must be the evening rush hour."

              A muffled voice from the back seat said: "You make it all sound very exciting".

         Bill felt he was not getting the encouragement he would have liked.

         When they were finally snarled up in sluggish queues, the driver seemed to need a little human contact too.

              "American, yes?"

              "Well, actually…"

              "New York, Washington, LA, Hollywood?"

              "I personally…"

              "My brother, Plorida, Disneyworld, you know? Your pamily, where?"

              "There are very few of them…"

              "They miss you, I guess, all your kids. They miss grandpa. Hey? How about?"

              "Ah yes, definitely, I'm sure."

         It seemed wisest to play along and allow a whole life to be dreamed up for oneself. It sounded much more interesting than the real one.

         A numbness of mind and bodily extremities had set in well before they reached the Toksu Palace Hotel. Wonderment at the new, at least in the case of Bill, who was in a position to indulge in it, had long given way to a simple desire to be there, wherever it was that they were going, and whatever it would be like when they arrived.

         The first sure sign that they had arrived was the appearance of a lanky bell-boy, who opened the front near side door, and who was observed closely in the background by an elderly commissionaire in full regalia. Having struggled somewhat to heave himself out, Bill opened the rear door, and was confronted by the sight of Arnold's shoes.

               "Are we there?" came a grumpy voice from deep within.

               "It would seem so."

         Bill stood pensive for a few minutes. The bell-boy seemed eager for action, but obviously had not the faintest idea what was needed. The commissionaire kept his distance, obviously convinced that his sole purpose in life was to supervise.

              "Can you get out?"

              "Not really."

              "Can you sit up?"

              "No."

              "How about rolling over?"

              "Highly unlikely."

              "Any suggestions?"

              "How about dismantling the car around me?"

              "I think we're going to have to pull you out."

              "Feet first or head first?"

              "If we pull you feet first, aren't you likely to get your…abdomen stuck in the door?"

              "Probably."

              "If we come round the other side and ease you out head and shoulders first, I should think that we'd stand more chance of success."

              "And more chance of being mown down by passing traffic."

              "For you, Arnold, it's a chance I'm willing to take. We'll manage it somehow."

              "You keep talking of 'we'. Do you have a Korean SWAT team behind you?"

              "Just me and the bell-boy."

              "Then my worries are obviously over."

         The task was accomplished very much as planned, with the bell-boy hanging on to Bill's hips and providing very little real motive force. Arnold ended up flat on his back on the roadway. The bell-boy leaned over Arnold and, in a very rough approximation of English pronunciation, said: "Wayoo-com to Toksu Parris Hotel".

         As they were helping Arnold to his feet, a car zoomed by disturbingly close.

         Arnold looked daggers at Bill:

              "Ten seconds later, and my head would have been mashed across the tarmac."

              "I don't think it is tarmac, it seems to be…"

              "Let's get onto the pavement, shall we?"

         Then there was the small matter of the taxi fare.

         It seemed that the driver had no objection to getting out of the car and coming round to the passenger's side, when it was time for him to receive payment. He even managed a smile.

         Arnold was busying himself with getting luggage out of the boot, and Bill braced himself to deal with the financial aspect.

              "How much please?"

         Still smiling the driver said"

              "Pipty million won, sir!"

              "I'm sorry?"

              "No problem, sir."

              "Arnold!"

              "What?"

              "He says, I think, that the fare is fifty million won. Can that be right?"

              "Fifty what?!"

              "Million. Fifty million won."

              "That's absurd!"

              "Well, that's what I thought. It does seem a little…"

              "Very!"

              "…excessive."

              "You must have misheard him."

              "You did say 'Fifty million'?"

         For the first time the driver looked a little disconcerted:

              "Pipty! Yes, pipty!. Ah! Yes! Pive…! Pive million won."

         Arnold, having now removed all the bags from the boot, was mopping his brow with a handkerchief, and had heard the driver's words:

              "It's still absurdly high. It can't be right."

              "Maybe you mean 'thousand', not 'million'?"

         The driver was beginning to get a little flustered now. He started laughing rather falsely.

              "Oh yes! Pive thousand. I'm sorry. Pive thousand won."

              "Bill. The man doesn't know what he's talking about. Now he's going from the absurd to the sublimely ridiculous. Five thousand won is only just over £2!"

         The driver started muttering to himself and wiggling one finger in the air, as though he were writing some mathematical calculation. Slowly and decidedly he said "Pipty thousand won.Yes", muttered something in Korean, and then repeated "Pipty thousand won."

              "I suppose that must be it, though it still seems pretty high to me." Arnold gave a heavy and deliberate sigh.

         It was at that point that the bell-boy brought clarity and light into the proceedings. In an English stripped of all grammatical niceties and with the aid of a few simple gestures he said, coming between Bill and the driver: "Please. Black taxi very very! Grey taxi" , and he pointed at one pulling up nearby, "very not very. Very cheap. OK? Black taxi two times! Two times! Many, many, many! OK?"

         Bill reassured him: "OK!" And turning to Arnold he said in a stage whisper "We took a bloody luxury taxi."

              "You think that's my fault?"

              "No, no. Let's just pay him and find a hotel."

              "I didn't change any money yet."

              "You didn't?"

              "Of course not. Didn't you?"

              "Of course I didn't."

              "Oh, that's marvelous, isn't it? So neither of us has any Korean money!"

              "I thought you bought some when you got your traveller's cheques."

              "You can't buy Korean won outside the country."

              "But you have a credit card?"

              "No! I'd never trust myself with one."

              "So what do we do? Offer ourselves to him as personal slaves?"

         The driver was already beginning to lose his patience amid this incomprehensible gabble of foreign language:

              "Please.You pay. I go."

         After a few moments when all three did a lot of frowning and expelling of air, Arnold finally made a practical suggestion:

              "Do you think they'd change a traveller's cheque in the hotel?"

              "Well, I suppose so."

         Arnold addressed himself directly to the driver in what he imagined was easily comprehensible English:

              "Cheque! Cheque! Hotel! Hotel! OK? Change ! You wait!"

         The man was clearly becoming both anxious and angry.

              "Bill, you'd better wait here with him."

              "As a hostage, you mean?"

              "That way he won't think we're doing a runner. I'll see what I can do."

              "But I should try slightly more sophisticated English with the hotel staff!"

         As Arnold hurried off through the hotel entrance, the commissionaire showed the first signs of concern, indeed of life, on his rigid features.

         Arnold pulled off his jacket, a light beige waterproof affair, and wrenched off his shoes, letting all items just tumble on the floor. Bill was slower and more fastidious in similar operations. Arnold then sat heavily on the side of the bed (he sat heavily on all things) and heaved himself onto it, lying down flat with an enormous and deliberate sigh. A few moments later Bill had placed himself in a similar position on his own bed, next to Arnold's, and, while not audibly, as with Arnold, he also felt enormous relief at having finally arrived and being able to collapse completely.

         For a few moments they just relished the silence and the comfort. The Bill cleared his throat with a little cough and said:

         "I do hope we've done the right thing."

         "About what?" came the rather gruff answer from Arnold, who had closed his eyes.

         "About the hotel. It is rather expensive."

         "I just don't want any more hassle. I couldn't walk around heaving these bags, in this heat, just to save a few quid a night."

         "No, well, we've just got to be careful, if we want the money to last. Will they change cheques at the desk any time?"

         "Any time."

         "Well, it is convenient, I suppose. And it seems to be well situated. Very central."

         "We can afford it."

         "Well, you can."

         "We'll manage."

         "Do you want to sleep?"

         "No, I'm just weary."

         "So, shall we just sort our things out and then go and have a coffee somewhere, decide what to see, what to do, that kind of thing?"

         "Sounds good."

         Bill was the first to rise and open his bag, removing from it toiletries and some fresh underwear. He had almost finished arranging various items on his bedside table when Arnold heaved himself to his feet again and raised his holdall bag onto a small table by the wall.

         "Strange!"

         "What's that?"

         "My bag. It's unlocked."

         "Maybe you forgot."

         "I distinctly remember locking it again after the customs inspection."

         "Maybe you thought you did."

         "I did."

         He pulled back the zip slowly and cautiously and looked inside. He had his back to Bill, so that he could not be seen by his friend.

         "I may have a rather acquired taste in underwear…" He turned to face his friend and waved a couple of brightly coloured garments in the air "…but I don't wear frilly knickers!"

         But Bill was not really paying attention.

         "Bill! Do you understand? This isn't my bag!"

         "Oh, really."

         Bill's attention was still not fully with him. He was pondering where best to put his eau de Cologne. He came across to join Arnold with the bottle still in his hand. Arnold was holding the bag open with one hand, and Bill looked inside.

         "Good God! So you really are a cross dresser!"

         He examined the bag, tugged the handles, and turned over the tag affixed by a strip of leather.

         They both froze and there was a shared moment of disbelief. Then they looked at each other.

         It was Bill who finally broke the silence:

         "Mrs. Jemima Wetherspoon, c/o The Westin Chosun Hotel, Seoul, South Korea."

         Arnold threw the panties down in disgust.

         "That bloody woman! You know what's happened, don't you?"

         "It must have been at the taxi rank."

         "She put hers down next to mine and picked up the wrong one!"

         But Bill was intrigued by something he had noticed inside the bag. He pulled aside the frilly blouses, packs of stockings and folded skirts, and drew out a small transparent plastic bag, and another, and another, and another. There seemed to be dozens of them. They were all packed full with some white powdered substance.

         "Arnold, your friend, the honourable Mrs Jemima Wetherspoon is not as innocent as she appears. She's smuggling drugs."

         "More to the point: she's got my bag!"

         "And I think she's going to be wanting this little hoard back!"