Floored (2 of 2)

The lift spilled them into the gaze of a middle aged Korean gentleman in black suite and tie. He stared at them from behind what looked like an oak podium. The whole façade stood in front of draping, scarlet curtains, and an impressive sign hung shimmering above, letters of cool steel composed in a silver lattice.

“Bruce?” queued Lee.

“It's a bit low on info actually...” said Bruce, “just says “the place.””

The old man didn't make much sense, although he made commendable effort to speak English.

“Here, place, go you... No speak... No tell... You go in place, change face...”

And he pointed at his own face.

They just stared at him.

So after some dithering, he swiped their cards and waved them through the curtains.

Once through, they were faced with six doors, two closed, red lights blinking atop. Four had green lights and were open. There appeared to be changing rooms inside.

“Well,” Bruce rubbed his hands together, “let's see what this place is all about then...”

So they separated, none the wiser.

Immediately upon entering, the door closed behind Raymond. It was a pentagon, he realised; one wall had a large flat-screen TV, one what appeared to be a closed exit point, another a large mirror surrounded by little lights, and another was just plain white. He scratched the back of his neck absently, and sat on the single stool bolted to the floor.

Within seconds, the TV flicked itself on and an attractive female face appeared, blurting out incomprehensible instructions at him. Luckily, there were diagrams. He felt his heart pump, with utter confusion, he thought at first. Or was it the unwanted awkwardness of yet more nakedness without the opposite sex. Then he realised it was just the pain of disappointment, tinged with a little self loathing. He'd wasted an opportunity. He should have pushed the right button.

He followed the diagrams, undressing with a pinch of sulk. When he'd put his things in the drawer provided and sat back down, the voice spoke to him again.

Understanding nothing, he stared at the corporate images that floated optimistically across the screen, followed unexpectedly by Michael Jackson, Elvis Presley, Madonna and Frank Sinatra.

Then suddenly the introduction was over, and the faces arranged themselves into a grid of nine, joined not quite so unexpectedly by Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Bono, Freddy Mercury and Marvin Gaye. They're all singers, he realised. More karaoke.

He allowed himself a brief groan.

But there were arrows on either side of the grid, and, realising it was a touch screen, he put his finger on one of them. Another screen replaced the old one, and here were famous sportsmen and women. They couldn't sing, as far as he was aware. Pushing again experimentally, it was Hollywood actors. Next, rappers. Again, politicians. Next, some Asian faces he didn't recognise, more faces he didn't recognise, some faces he vaguely recognised from the news, some faces he vaguely recognised from black and white films... he began scrolling through uncontrollably, finding endless screens and infinite faces.

Finally he came to a grid of legendary Jazz performers, and stopped scrolling. Whatever it was, he’d found his ticket.

Looking across, he considered the options; John Coltrane, Dizzy Gillespie, Chet Baker... but thinking back to the karaoke place, he pushed on the face that had always most dazzled him with his musical revolutions. A subdued, cool looking Miles Davis.

Raymond hardly knew what to expect; a tune, perhaps, yet he was greeted with a wholly surprising oxygen mask falling from the ceiling, and the voice blaring out a new set of instructions. The diagram was just like an aircraft safety video; what to do if the cabin lost pressure. He'd wondered how that might happen; either by terrorist intent, plain idiocy, or a dangerous high flying bird, he supposed. The voice spoke again, without patience. He grudgingly placed the hanging thing over his head.

It was like putting on a crappy Halloween mask; cool and sharp, not quite accommodating his thick nose. Yet the instant his skin made contact, it wrapped itself tightly from cheek to neck. He shuddered, almost screamed, squirming, but completely helpless. To put himself at ease, he tried imagining how he must look from the outside; like some kind of an air crash victim.

The unpleasant experience got steadily more unpredictable. It sucked at his skin, the temperature rising steadily, like hot honey spread over his cheeks. He began to breath faster and faster through the little nose hole, trying not to panic. Eventually cool air was blasted all over his head.

When it let him go, he staggered, coughing and spluttering. He rubbed his neck and bent down, breathing deeply for a moment, hands resting on his thighs. His face felt oddly stiff. He looked up at where the mirror had been, but it had swung open, revealing a variety of 1950s style suits, shirts and accessories, including a shiny golden trumpet leaning to one side.

Grabbing the trumpet and a dark brown double breasted suit from the wardrobe, he dressed hurriedly. All finished, the mirror swung back into place.

He gasped with a shock both brutal and magnificent.

Following his first instinct, he fingered his face experimentally.

Gone was the stubble, the flabby red cheeks, even the eternal bags under his eyes. Now he stood as black as a leopard, white eyes and teeth flashing through like varnished ivory, the scruffy ever slightly ginger hair he’d never been able to control transformed into clipped, bushy blackness. In truth, it was not quite a perfect rendition, yet it was extremely difficult to say exactly what was out of place; nothing crucial certainly. The shiny, puffy cheeks and huge forehead were in any case unmistakeable.

He was no longer Raymond White. He was Miles Davis.

The exit door opened almost the moment the mirror swung shut. The voice began its feminine bark again, and it was obvious the operation was over; he was meant to pass through into the large parlour beyond.

He stepped through, amazed.

Crystal chandeliers hung grandly over a fluffy white bearskins. Tall mirrors covered every available wall. Inside the zone of reflection it was like a mad circus act or a wax works museum. More precisely, thought Raymond, it was like one of those tatty overburdened posters that brings all the stars of the 20th Century together in a messy pose of mismatches. It left his eyes forever running with nowhere to go.

Raymond did a double take. Many of them were in the wide space of leather armchairs and low tables, sat in front of a large central bar. He focussed on a few particular recognisables. Elvis was sharing private margaritas with Madonna at a table for two. Nearby, Ronald Reagan sat chatting to a cigar chugging Marlon Brando. In one corner, Hitler was playing pool with a Superman costumed Christopher Reeve. He even spotted a convincing Dracula, Christopher Lee in full Hammer Horror garb, arm wrapped possessively round the bare shoulders of some pre-pubescent child star from way, way back; all flaxen curls and polker-dots. There were so many, he gave up identifying them, focussing on the stony Korean characters that hung above it all, steadying himself with their relative normality. Some “Place”.

“Over here man!”

He heard the voice of Karl calling to him from the bar. Raymond looked in the right direction, yet he couldn't find Karl anywhere in it. There was a James Dean barman and a familiar looking pretty Asian lady, and further down sat James Bond, Rambo and Snoop Dogg. Snoop Dog was waving to him.

“Raymond! We're here!”

He heard smans at his slowness, feeling a little stupid despite himself.

Strolling over to the bar, he became very aware of his reflection. For Christ's sake; he was Miles Davis. Only half realising as he did so, he let an unconscious jazzy gate swing itself into his step.

On his way, a middle aged lady with a curly bob and a stern stare caught his eye, sat alone to one side. It took him a rather long moment to recognise Margaret Thatcher for what she was. Something in her build put him off; her shoulders were too broad, too bulky. And it clicked, the travesty, yet it was somehow perversely appropriate that she should have a man's body.

Arriving hastily at the bar, he stood his trumpet on a stool and promptly ordered a whisky. Sitting himself next to the instrument, he shared the corner with James Bond, Snoop Dogg, and Rambo.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” asked Rambo, rather rudely thought Raymond. But of course, it was good ol' Yanky Lee under the sweaty headband.

“He's Miles Davis.” informed an impatient Australian accented James Bond in an impeccable tux. “Don't you know anything?”

Lee grunted, and Raymond felt an instant hitherto undiscovered liking for the Jazz savvy Bruce.

“This place is absolutely crazy...” enthused Raymond, ignoring Lee.

“Yeah man...” Bruce nodded, swigging a beer. “I told you: you never know what you might find.”

“Sure... But it's really something else here,” Raymond continued, “I mean, did you see Margaret Thatcher over there?”

“Who?” asked Lee dumbly, rather matching his Rambo persona, thought Raymond. Bruce chuckled darkly and shook his head.

“The first female British Prime Minister,” he almost spat at Lee, “Are all Americans as stupid as you?”

Lee shrugged and drank some more beer.

“Yeah,” Bruce turned back to Raymond, “Not to mention Dracula and Shirley Temple.”

“God yeah...” said Raymond, kicking himself for not recognising her. His grandmother had always been fan.

“What's that all about man?”

“Sometimes I really wonder about the Koreans...” said Bruce leaning forward towards Raymond, though the others all heard.

“But the technology is just out of this world,” interrupted Snoop Dog, his gold chains jiggling with enthusiasm, “don't you think? Unbelievable what they can do.”

He stroked his goatee.

“Almost perfect, and done in just a few minutes...”

Raymond nodded in agreement: was it really pale, spotty Karl under that chocolate skin, oversized hoody and that long platted hair?

“The Chinese are worse,” hissed Lee from behind his bottle, “and forget about the Japanese. All fucking perverts, believe me.”

“Hey, keep it down man,” cautioned Raymond, “you never know who might be listening.”

“Yeah yeah...” continued Rambo, as loud as ever, “Who the hell are you supposed to be again? Martin Luther King?”

After a couple of whiskies, Raymond was surprised to find the pretty Asian lady ambling over to him, her hand outstretched from within elegant traditional gowns of flowing deep reds and amber dragons.

“I'm Aung Sang Suu Kyi and you're Miles Davis,” she said in indistinguishably plain English.

“We could be the perfect match.”

He shook her cool hand, feeling idiotic for not having recognised that face from the news.

“I love musicians.” she continued, without giving him the chance to say anything, he noted. “My father used to play the piano, and I'm pretty good on the violin too. So, are you going to play that thing or just let it sit there and go to waste?”

For a moment, he wondered what she meant, then followed her finger to the trumpet.

“Well...” he began a far too hasty excuse.

“Don't give me that.” she waved her hand. “You can play, I know a musician when I see one, and I hate it when people waste their talents. So I'll make it simple; if you want to have any sort of conversation with me tonight, you're going to play me a tune. ”

He scratched his neck absently, wondering what she looked like under that mask. Again, his appearance jolted him from the mirror wall; a cool, confident, credible Miles Davis. And she was a legend too; a not quite middle aged, beautiful, bold Aung Sang Suu Kyi. He had a vague feeling it was wrong to find her attractive, but what the hell. It could do no harm just to play her a tune.

Putting metal to his lips once again, after so long a hiatus, the old nerves inevitably resurfaced. What if he played a wrong note? What if his trousers fell down? What if?

He took one last bizarre look round. All just strangers masquerading as better known strangers. In an off key place such as this, a bum note is as good as a true one. So he put all thought aside, and just played.

He was in luck.

Allowing a song to come naturally of its own accord, the notes were easily recalled in their entirety; the first he'd ever learned. And it just happened to be George Gershwin's “Rhapsody in Blue”. It just happened to be the most romantic slow ballad he knew.

A hush fell over the room as the simple, elegant piece unfolded upon those present, the trumpet melody softly piercing through to the heart. Aung Sang sat down soundlessly, crossing her arms and smiling warmly at him.

Lee managed to ask “What the hell is he doing?” before he was quietened down by Bruce.

“Just let him play, man...” he whispered roughly. Karl just stared, scratching his head in bewilderment.

As he played, Raymond soon realised that the whole room had become utterly transfixed. Hitler, Madonna, Margaret Thatcher... they were all enjoying their own peaceful moments of reflection, gazing across at him from bubbles of musical appreciation. Only one person seemed aggravated by it.

Dracula couldn't stop looking around, moving his head left and right, anger and distaste on his face. Like he'd come to a heavy metal concert and gotten a string quartet, thought Raymond. On the other hand, the Shirley Temple girl was quite the opposite, watching Raymond with sad, calm eyes. It made him wonder.

But the act of playing soothed his mind all by itself. Any niggling worries or fancies he had were instantly channelled into his lungs, mouth and lips, flowing out in comfortable, elastic notes.

He kept playing.

Dracula stood up roughly, looking him straight in the eye, clearly disgusted. Downing his glass of golden liqueur, he pulled Shirley Temple to her feet, strode away with her hand bolted in his. She glanced back over at Raymond with her dark eyes, two steps behind Dracula as he pushed through the swinging toilet doors, and Raymond's tones became ever more sweet, ever more tender. The doors swung shut and he kept playing.

If it hadn't already, then the piece really took over, pushing him aside on a divine autopilot. He kept on playing, loving it.

By the time he came to the final notes, he was simply on top of the world. He stared deliberately at Aung Sang, as he had been for most of the piece. She looked seductively content, as if purring.

Applause and cheers roared, and he dragged out the last blue C to oblivion.

Freeing his lips, he looked around, light headed and bursting with satisfaction. Doing polite bows to the four compass points, he had a kind of epiphany that just managed to articulate itself before anyone could pop it with their real-world words.

It was suddenly all clear. Up until now, he'd been a follower. He'd followed Mary to university, and out of it to a dull office and bills based existence. Both propositions had ended in tears. Yet he'd kept on following. Next it had been the tides of mere chance and desperation, ending up here in Korea of all places. But the underlying truth was, he was a simple trumpet man. And trumpet men didn't follow anything, except the beat.

Voices crowded in on him, but he was relieved to feel that certainty enduring within. He knew it wouldn't dissipate.

“That was fucking great man!” Cheered Bruce, coming over to pat him on the back.

“Nice one,” he confided with an arm over his shoulder, “you know I've always been a bit fond of a good brass section...”

“Thanks...” Raymond said sheepishly.

“I didn't know you could play,” complained Karl, who'd also stood up and was shaking him by the hand, “but you did it well.”

Raymond nodded thanks, took a swig of whisky, and caught a glimpse of Lee sat still at the bar. He gave a military salute, briefly look up from his glass. Then suddenly Raymond could smell almonds, or chocolate, and he turned to see Aung Sang stood right before him clapping her hands and smiling with delight.

“You were wonderful. I've always loved that piece, and you really pulled it off. I knew you could play! I knew it!”

He was about to say something like “Now can I buy you a drink?” or “I would never have played so well if it wasn't for you baby...”, except for the almost deafening girlish scream that rang like a shrieking mermaid over the hall. They all turned, following it's direction of origin.

The toilets, Raymond realised; Dracula; Shirley Temple... But he didn't have time to really think about it.

A number of people rushed towards the danger, shouting gruffly. One of them, the James Dean barman, heaved at the door and jumped inside, barking into the depths.

“What's going on?” Raymond asked to no-one in particular.

“Something's happened...” answered Bruce, moving towards the toilets. Raymond was going to follow him, but Aung Sang held him back.

“Don't...”

So he watched the little crowd form a few feet away from the malestrom. Margaret Thatcher rushed in after James Dean; a clamour could be heard within. In a moment, the two of them emerged dragging an excited Dracula into the hall as he made wild attempts to break free. His mouth was slopped with what looked like wet blood.

The two hardworking heroes roared something at the dumbly assembled crowd of fancy dress.

Call the police! Raymond imagined them shouting. He hardly noticed as Aung Sang interlocked her fingers with his.

“Shit this country is fucking mad!” Raymond wished Lee would just shut up.

The pair of heroes suddenly let Dracula go. For a second, Raymond thought it was a mistake, but the next moment they were bashing him in the face. In the stomach. Once down they kicked him on the floor. Elvis appeared to break it up, and one of them even swung at hum, furious, out of his mind. Yet seeing Dracula writhing in pain, clearly immobilised, they calmed down.

“Just leave it to them.” Said Bruce seriously as he returned, looking Aung Sang up and down briefly.

Raymond and Aung Sang were motionless, locked together by the astonishing moment, Raymond wondering about Shirley Temple. A couple of other patrons had entered the toilets yet to emerge. After what seemed far too long, a trio of unmasked Koreans dressed in green overalls suddenly rushed through the bar, howling something as they did so. Aung Sang cried something in reply, and they headed to the toilets.

“They're dentists, they say.” Aung Sang informed him. “The best thing until the ambulance gets here.” He looked at her next to him; large green eyes greeted him, superficially hard, yet with a vulnerability laid bare. He noticed their bodies were touching reassuringly at the sides.

“You're Korean?” he asked.

“Yes, are you surprised? This is Korea, after all...”

“I know,” he said, “but you're English is so good.”

She grinned and winked at him, humming. Everything she said was surprising, yet wholly right and without any pretence. Even though she was Korean, and even though her looks and true identity were unknown under that mask of political self sacrifice, he could feel a connection building between them, a yearning growing within him.

The three dentists carried Shirley Temple through the toilet doors, hurriedly placing her on a nearby sofa. Everyone crowded around in concern. Aung Sang pulled Raymond, and he followed, losing track of Bruce, Karl and Lee.

Pushing to the front of the assembled semi-circle, the girl looked terrible. She had no visible pupils, only the ghostly whites of her eyes. Her mouth was open like wet doll, spittle lacing down. But her neck was the worst, ravaged and brutalised, flesh ripped out, hanging ragged. Blood gushed down, spoiling her ridiculous dress.

“My God, what happened to her?” Asked Raymond.

“I'm a journalist,” said Aung Sang, suddenly businesslike, “I'm going to find out...” She slipped her hand out of his, and strode over to the dentists. The circumstances were macabre, yet she grew ever more intriguing.

The dentists worked feverishly to cover up the girls neck, applying bandages and tape in what appeared a hopeless task. Aung Sang spoke to them in a hushed tone, and one of them looked up, giving a short, curt answer. The crowd took a harsh intake of breath as they heard it. Then Aung Sang moved expertly onto James Dean and Thatcher, who still guarded a groaning Dracula, repeating her procedure. When she returned to Raymond's side, he felt immensely proud that she had.

“This is a very twisted story we've stumbled upon...” she began to explain with a heavy look on her face.

But she was interrupted by a wave of tears and crying around them. Hands covered mouths, and blood shot eyes looked grimly down at a now obviously lifeless Shirley Temple, the dentists standing back dejectedly wiping their brows.

“That girl's dead, isn't she?” asked Raymond, feeling the world spin a little off its axis.

Aung Sang looked up at him with a pleading look in her eyes.

“So what happened here?” Raymond shifted the topic slightly.

“Well...” Aung Sang began with a sigh, “they don't know for sure. The barman says she's been here a few times with that guy, always an odd couple, even for this place. He thinks she was from the far North; he has a great aunt who escaped the communists during the war, and he recognises the accent. As for that Dracula character, it's more guesswork I'm afraid. They're going to wait for the police to deal with him. Maybe he's a gangster or something, they're the type to use girls like that. Once they get here, they're forced into it, you know. But that Dracula was one really sick guy. I don't want to say what he tried to do to her...”

Raymond sighed.

“It's so shocking...”

“Yes...” she held his hand again, squeezing.

They stood together and watched with the silent crowd, nobody quite knowing what should happen next. One of the dentists covered the body with his green overalls, another looked at his watch, wondering when the paramedics would arrive, guessed Raymond. The third said something to his colleagues, who nodded, and he kneeled down by the sofa with a scalpel in hand.

Yes, thought Raymond with bitter respect, it was wrong for a dead girl to hide her face any longer. Oddly, at that moment, with that grim show of humanity, and Aung Sang clutching his hand, Raymond gained a new appreciation for Koreans.

With an expert sweep of the knife, the mask was pulled off from the face, almost like cellophane. Revealed underneath were the pretty doll girlish features of a young and eager waitress. Raymond gasped, recognising her instantly.

“Are you OK?” asked Aung Sang, turning to him.

“We've stood here long enough,” she said sympathetically, “let's just go. We can get a drink somewhere...” She pulled him from the scene, and he let himself be lead meekly. If his face hadn't been so black, it would have been white as snow.

“My name's Kim, by the way,” she said leaning over, squeezing his arm, leading him to the exit. Then she chuckled lightly.

“We should probably lose the masks now...”

He looked at her again; she had a friendly smile pasted nobly over gruesome events. And she was tugging at her neck, peeling the edges of that fake skin; about to reveal herself to him, about to begin something wonderful with him.

“What a way to meet...” she joked, but he felt absolutely numb.