Festival for Three Thousand Women by Richard Wiley Page A

“Now you’ve got to drink everything.”
    Ron did what Bobby told him, and then he and Bobby both ganged up on Gary Smith. They hadn’t been there five minutes when the owner brought another pot.
    The Pusan-chip was full of farmers and day laborers from the railroad, men who had been laying another spur out from town, working along in front of a steam locomotive. The laborers were sitting closeby and the farmers were in the back room. After some discussion the laborers bought the Americans a pot of makkoli, and when the owner brought it over, all the laborers bowed. The farmers leaned out to see what was going on.
    â€œThanks,” said Bobby. “Great. Thank you very much.”
    He and Ron and Gary bowed to the laborers, and in a minute Bobby had the owner send a pot back to them, and one to the farmers as well. The farmers then sent a pot out to the Americans and, for good measure and because they’d come late to the thing, they sent a pot to the laborers, who were happy to have come out ahead. And in order to confuse things even more, one of the farmers got down and carried a full makkoli pot around the room, filling everyone’s bowl.
    â€œThis is great,” said Gary. “In the Vil people are always suspicious. There are never any guys like these hanging around.”
    Bobby swept his arm around the room. “This is a great village and these are all great men,” he said.
    Ron and Gary quickly agreed, and suddenly Ron grabbed Bobby’s arm. “They are great men,” he said. “Tell them so, would you? Stand up right now and tell them that they’re all great men.”
    Ron seemed so taken with the thought that Bobby stood and attempted to get everyone’s attention by rapping his knuckle against the edge of his bowl.
    â€œHey,” said one of the laborers. “Hey, look at that.”
    â€œMy friends and I want you to know that we think Taechon is a great village,” Bobby said. “And we think its people are great too.” He wanted to say that the people in the village were what made it great, but he didn’t know how.
    The farmers and laborers sat there staring.
    â€œWhat else?” Bobby asked, looking at Gary and Ron.
    â€œTell them we think Korea is better than Vietnam,” Gary said, and Ron chimed in, “Tell them the whole evening is on us. All the drinking.”
    But Bobby had paused too long and the others, believing that he was finished, began to applaud. And after that one member from each group stood to answer his praise with drunken praise of his own. Both men stood at the same instant and then each tried to relinquish the floor.
    Finally the farmer stood alone, weaving back and forth, his toes hooked over the edge of the upper-room floor. “This is really something,” he said. “In all our years coming here to drink we’ve never had such an experience as this.” He looked back at his contingency and they all nodded. “Always before we have seen Americans in trucks,” he said, “but you are real people, not in trucks.” For a moment the farmer stopped like Bobby had, utterly taken with the thought that they were all real people, and when the laborer edged up off his stool again, the farmer saw him and sat back down quickly, giving up the floor.
    â€œI’m only a laborer,” said the man, “and don’t know as much as a farmer, but I want to tell you something that I remember. When I was a young man, an American soldier saved my life. I was running from the North Koreans and the American soldier picked me up on his motorcycle, letting me ride to safety on the back of it, my arms wrapped around his middle. His name was Daryl Prescott and I only wondered if any of you know him, where he might be today.”
    His pronunciation of the name Daryl Prescott was so clear, so well practiced, that Ron and Gary both heard it coming from an otherwise indivisible wave of