Bellies insisted we look at her photo album. It was filled with old black-and-white snapshots of a slender young woman with long legs and lovely breasts, always heavily made up, her jet black hair coiffed into expensive-looking hairdos, and wearing silk dresses that clung to her curvaceous figure.
“This me during war,” she said. “This me after war.”
While virtually everyone around her suffered, the woman we knew as Two Bellies had prospered.
“Lotta G.I.s,” she said. “Lotta officers. Not all American. Many countries. How you say? England. Ethiopia. Swiss. Some have taak-san money.” A lot of money. “Me, everybody call Miss Pak that time, not Two Bellies. Miss Pak number one girl. All man gotta be nice to Miss Pak. Miss Pak make a lot of money.”
“What’d you do with all that money?” Ernie asked.
“You know,” she said, flipping her wrist in the air. “Spend.”
And now she was pointing at the King Club, inviting us to picture it standing alone like a shining beacon amidst a sea of shanties and suffering. Back when she had been the Empress of Itaewon. All of the photos in her album were of either herself posing alone or with one or two girlfriends. Invariably, she was in the center of the photograph. They were records of her sexiness. As if she was saying, This is how I looked once. Eat your heart out.
“Before,” Two Bellies continued, “I have many picture with G.I. Many boyfriend, many different country. I takey all that kind picture, throw out.” She mimicked ripping photographs into thin shreds. “They all lie to Miss Pak. But Mori Di picture, I no have. He number one G.I. If I have picture of Mori Di, I no tear up.”
“Were you his yobo?” Ernie asked.
“No. Mori Di no have girlfriend. He all the time work.”
“With all the women around Itaewon,” Ernie persisted, “he must’ve had some girlfriend.”
“Maybe.” Two Bellies shrugged. “I busy that time, work nightclub. Mori Di, he no come inside nightclub. He all the time work.”
Two Bellies paraded down the street, her posture erect, leaning back slightly, as if to show off the paunch for which she was named. Her cotton print dress clung to a figure that now resembled a soft melon. Like a proud tour guide, she pointed out the Seven Club, built by Moretti; the Lucky Seven Club, also built by Moretti; and finally, where the Itaewon main drag meets the Main Supply Route, the UN Club, also built by Moretti. Down the MSR, about one long block away, sat the 007 Club. Up the hill behind that sat the Grand Ole Opry Club. Those clubs plus the King Club—and the Yobo Club which had since been torn down—made seven major buildings constructed by Moretti and his three assistants. Not bad work in the middle of a country ravaged by war.
“Which one was the orphanage?” I asked.
Two Bellies eyes widened. “How you know?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t going to tell her. “I know,” I said.
“Come on,” she said. “I show.”
The Grand Ole Opry Club sat halfway up Hooker Hill. The narrow road was darker than most of the pedestrian pathways in Itaewon, the only neon to be found flashed right in front of the Grand Ole Opry Club. The gaggles of business girls who stared at us from shadowed doorways didn’t bother to come out and clutch at our sleeves and coo and cajole as they usually did. Having Two Bellies with us was like a free pass. They knew we were up to something and, whatever it was, we weren’t looking for women, so we weren’t accosted. For an American G.I., walking up Hooker Hill could be a trial. The girls poured out at you like spiders from a trapdoor. Then, once you were surrounded, you had to gently unfold the pincerlike grips on your forearm, keep shaking your head no, and keep apologizing for not being more interested in the young woman’s charms, making excuses, telling the girls you had to meet someone in one of the cubbyhole barrooms up the hill. It was a relief not to have to go through all that.
“This me during war,” she said. “This me after war.”
While virtually everyone around her suffered, the woman we knew as Two Bellies had prospered.
“Lotta G.I.s,” she said. “Lotta officers. Not all American. Many countries. How you say? England. Ethiopia. Swiss. Some have taak-san money.” A lot of money. “Me, everybody call Miss Pak that time, not Two Bellies. Miss Pak number one girl. All man gotta be nice to Miss Pak. Miss Pak make a lot of money.”
“What’d you do with all that money?” Ernie asked.
“You know,” she said, flipping her wrist in the air. “Spend.”
And now she was pointing at the King Club, inviting us to picture it standing alone like a shining beacon amidst a sea of shanties and suffering. Back when she had been the Empress of Itaewon. All of the photos in her album were of either herself posing alone or with one or two girlfriends. Invariably, she was in the center of the photograph. They were records of her sexiness. As if she was saying, This is how I looked once. Eat your heart out.
“Before,” Two Bellies continued, “I have many picture with G.I. Many boyfriend, many different country. I takey all that kind picture, throw out.” She mimicked ripping photographs into thin shreds. “They all lie to Miss Pak. But Mori Di picture, I no have. He number one G.I. If I have picture of Mori Di, I no tear up.”
“Were you his yobo?” Ernie asked.
“No. Mori Di no have girlfriend. He all the time work.”
“With all the women around Itaewon,” Ernie persisted, “he must’ve had some girlfriend.”
“Maybe.” Two Bellies shrugged. “I busy that time, work nightclub. Mori Di, he no come inside nightclub. He all the time work.”
Two Bellies paraded down the street, her posture erect, leaning back slightly, as if to show off the paunch for which she was named. Her cotton print dress clung to a figure that now resembled a soft melon. Like a proud tour guide, she pointed out the Seven Club, built by Moretti; the Lucky Seven Club, also built by Moretti; and finally, where the Itaewon main drag meets the Main Supply Route, the UN Club, also built by Moretti. Down the MSR, about one long block away, sat the 007 Club. Up the hill behind that sat the Grand Ole Opry Club. Those clubs plus the King Club—and the Yobo Club which had since been torn down—made seven major buildings constructed by Moretti and his three assistants. Not bad work in the middle of a country ravaged by war.
“Which one was the orphanage?” I asked.
Two Bellies eyes widened. “How you know?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t going to tell her. “I know,” I said.
“Come on,” she said. “I show.”
The Grand Ole Opry Club sat halfway up Hooker Hill. The narrow road was darker than most of the pedestrian pathways in Itaewon, the only neon to be found flashed right in front of the Grand Ole Opry Club. The gaggles of business girls who stared at us from shadowed doorways didn’t bother to come out and clutch at our sleeves and coo and cajole as they usually did. Having Two Bellies with us was like a free pass. They knew we were up to something and, whatever it was, we weren’t looking for women, so we weren’t accosted. For an American G.I., walking up Hooker Hill could be a trial. The girls poured out at you like spiders from a trapdoor. Then, once you were surrounded, you had to gently unfold the pincerlike grips on your forearm, keep shaking your head no, and keep apologizing for not being more interested in the young woman’s charms, making excuses, telling the girls you had to meet someone in one of the cubbyhole barrooms up the hill. It was a relief not to have to go through all that.
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