the kitchen, and when I limp out of my room I see Sujin heating up some hangover stew on the stove.
“Miho had to leave for the studio so she called me over,” she says when she sees me. “I went to that hangover stew place you like near the puppy spa. I love that place so much—today you could see all the puppies in the hinoki baths with mini-towels wrapped around their heads like little old women!” She cracks up, stirring the bubbling stew with a plastic spoon.
When I don’t answer, she squints and points to the dining chair, and I sink into it. “How much did you drink last night?” she asks tentatively.
I can barely shrug and I gingerly lower my head into my hands.
She ladles the stew into a bowl and brings it over to me with a spoon and chopsticks and some kimchi.
I peek at her as she starts ladling some more into a bowl for herself, humming cheerfully.
I know Sujin is not an idiot. She just seems simple because she reverts so naturally to a positive state. That would be essential for surviving in my industry, though I don’t think anyone can truly come out unscathed.
One would think seeing me like this would be more than fair warning to steer clear.
But I know what she would think even if I told her what was happening—she would think it’s my fault for making terrible choices. “I told you Seul-kuk was a bad idea,” she’d say. She does not know what this work does to you—how you cannot hold on to your old perspective. You will not be able to save your money because there will never be enough of it. You will keep doing things you never expected to do. You will be affected in ways you could never imagine.
I know, because that is what has happened to me. I never would have thought I would end up like this, with no money to speak of, a body that is breaking down, and an imminent expiration date.
I start eating in silence as she joins me at the table.
* * *
—
THE POLICE COME on a Tuesday. We are getting ready for what is always our busiest evening, with reservations for every room. Until then, Madam has been happy—something close to a smile hovering on her toad-like face as she flits in and out of rooms, checking over the girls, telling them to go change their dresses if she doesn’t like the way they fit, ignoring me when she crosses my path.
There are two policemen. We have not had any warning because they walked right downstairs without waiting for the door manager to call. From upstairs we just hear a strangled yelp of “Police!” but it’s too late—they are already here and suddenly the girls are scampering into the changing rooms, terrified and breathless. Usually, they come after letting salons know days in advance and the “sweeps” are a formality—a joke more than anything. But a raid without warning—if anything serious happens, the girls take the blame. It’s never the Madam or the actual owner of the room salon, who is always some shadowy fuck who’s busy pretending like he’s high society, his wife sucking up to richer people, trying to pretend like their money isn’t dirty. It has always been that way and it will always be. Us girls, we have been trained for years: “Say that you were the one who wanted to sleep with the customer. You just wanted some money. Got it?” So the girl gets jailed and fined for prostitution, and vilified in society as someone who does this for easy money. The girls who die in the process—the ones who are beaten to death or the ones who kill themselves—they don’t even make the news.
I am the only one that lingers behind in the hallway. I want to know what the cops are saying. There is a middle-aged one, who is bored and annoyed, and a rookie, who is standing with his mouth agape. He looks like he is in middle school, this young cop.
“Listen, I don’t like having to come here either, but this is a matter of someone