politics and economics and cultural life of Korea.
"You're afraid of this woman because she's a yangban?" I asked.
The old man chortled at that. "No. f am yangban also. She's more than that."
"Then what is she?"
"She is Sung Cho."
It didn't compute. "You mean Yi Cho," I said. From a prominent family of the Yi dynasty, the dynasty that had ruled Korea for over five centuries.
The old man waved a withered hand. "No. Sung Cho." From the Sung dynasty.
"In China?"
He nodded.
For a moment I thought he was kidding me. The dynasty of the Sung emperors in southern China had been overthrown by the Mongols more than seven hundred years ago.
I let that sink in. In 1911 the Japanese had deposed the last king of the Korean Yi dynasty. The Crown Prince was taken against his will to Japan and forced to marry a Japanese woman. Later, he renounced any claim to the throne, and when Korea became a republic in 1945 the issue of nobility was long dead and buried. Maybe it was odd, in this day and age, to be worried about nobility. But that some people would still claim royal blood didn't seem strange to me. Every other person with a foreign accent in the United States claims to be related to a king or a count or a rajah.
"All right," I said. "So this woman has some blood from the rulers of an old Chinese dynasty. What's the big deal?"
The old man let his head sag. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
"Some people haven't given up." The leather of his neck quivered and he sat down on a stool. "They still think they can get it all back."
"Get what back?"
"The Dragon Throne. They think they can overthrow the Communists in Beijing and seat someone of royal blood on the Dragon Throne of China."
BACK IN THE JEEP, ERNIE WAS PISSED THAT WE WEREN'T GOING to Happy Hour. But the old antique dealer had given us the name of the yoguan— the Korean inn—where Lady Ahn had been staying. We had to check it out. And check it out now.
"It's in the Sodae-mun District," I told Ernie. "It'll only take a minute."
"Damn," Ernie muttered. "All the hors d'oeuvres will be gone."
He jammed the jeep in gear and the wheels swished through the wet streets.
For over four thousand years, Korea had been a separate country, at least by Western standards. What wasn't widely understood was that throughout that time, sometimes to a greater or a lesser extent, Korea had snuggled beneath the protective wing of the Chinese emperor. Although the Korean monarch ruled his kingdom without interference, Korean foreign policy always was conducted while looking over the royal shoulder for the approval or disapproval of the emperor sitting on the Dragon Throne of China. Even in official documents, Korea proclaimed itself a "little brother" of China. Their relationship was a filial one. The subordinate to the superior.
To give this relationship concrete form, the Korean king, every year, sent a convoy of dignitaries to the Dragon Throne in the Forbidden City in Beijing. The dignitaries presented tribute to the Chinese emperor consisting of thousands of taels' worth of magnificent goods.
During much of the Yi dynasty, before 1911, the Koreans were probably as independent as they'd ever been. But this was because of the growing power in the Far East of Japan and Russia. And the weakness of the Chinese Empire, which was being carved up by foreign powers and ravaged by the scourge of opium.
When the antique dealer had told us that Lady Ahn was from nobility that predated the Yi dynasty, he was speaking of traditions that were ancient indeed.
THE WOODEN STAIRS CREAKED AS HERMAN AND I WALKED UP the short flight of steps that led to the Beik Hua Yoguan, the Inn of the White Flower.
Immaculate varnished floors and railings led to a small foyer with a vase of white peonies and a display with a black-and-white photo of someone's ancestor in traditional dress. The odors of incense and ammonia wrestled in the dust-speckled air. We found the owner squatting on the vinyl
"You're afraid of this woman because she's a yangban?" I asked.
The old man chortled at that. "No. f am yangban also. She's more than that."
"Then what is she?"
"She is Sung Cho."
It didn't compute. "You mean Yi Cho," I said. From a prominent family of the Yi dynasty, the dynasty that had ruled Korea for over five centuries.
The old man waved a withered hand. "No. Sung Cho." From the Sung dynasty.
"In China?"
He nodded.
For a moment I thought he was kidding me. The dynasty of the Sung emperors in southern China had been overthrown by the Mongols more than seven hundred years ago.
I let that sink in. In 1911 the Japanese had deposed the last king of the Korean Yi dynasty. The Crown Prince was taken against his will to Japan and forced to marry a Japanese woman. Later, he renounced any claim to the throne, and when Korea became a republic in 1945 the issue of nobility was long dead and buried. Maybe it was odd, in this day and age, to be worried about nobility. But that some people would still claim royal blood didn't seem strange to me. Every other person with a foreign accent in the United States claims to be related to a king or a count or a rajah.
"All right," I said. "So this woman has some blood from the rulers of an old Chinese dynasty. What's the big deal?"
The old man let his head sag. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
"Some people haven't given up." The leather of his neck quivered and he sat down on a stool. "They still think they can get it all back."
"Get what back?"
"The Dragon Throne. They think they can overthrow the Communists in Beijing and seat someone of royal blood on the Dragon Throne of China."
BACK IN THE JEEP, ERNIE WAS PISSED THAT WE WEREN'T GOING to Happy Hour. But the old antique dealer had given us the name of the yoguan— the Korean inn—where Lady Ahn had been staying. We had to check it out. And check it out now.
"It's in the Sodae-mun District," I told Ernie. "It'll only take a minute."
"Damn," Ernie muttered. "All the hors d'oeuvres will be gone."
He jammed the jeep in gear and the wheels swished through the wet streets.
For over four thousand years, Korea had been a separate country, at least by Western standards. What wasn't widely understood was that throughout that time, sometimes to a greater or a lesser extent, Korea had snuggled beneath the protective wing of the Chinese emperor. Although the Korean monarch ruled his kingdom without interference, Korean foreign policy always was conducted while looking over the royal shoulder for the approval or disapproval of the emperor sitting on the Dragon Throne of China. Even in official documents, Korea proclaimed itself a "little brother" of China. Their relationship was a filial one. The subordinate to the superior.
To give this relationship concrete form, the Korean king, every year, sent a convoy of dignitaries to the Dragon Throne in the Forbidden City in Beijing. The dignitaries presented tribute to the Chinese emperor consisting of thousands of taels' worth of magnificent goods.
During much of the Yi dynasty, before 1911, the Koreans were probably as independent as they'd ever been. But this was because of the growing power in the Far East of Japan and Russia. And the weakness of the Chinese Empire, which was being carved up by foreign powers and ravaged by the scourge of opium.
When the antique dealer had told us that Lady Ahn was from nobility that predated the Yi dynasty, he was speaking of traditions that were ancient indeed.
THE WOODEN STAIRS CREAKED AS HERMAN AND I WALKED UP the short flight of steps that led to the Beik Hua Yoguan, the Inn of the White Flower.
Immaculate varnished floors and railings led to a small foyer with a vase of white peonies and a display with a black-and-white photo of someone's ancestor in traditional dress. The odors of incense and ammonia wrestled in the dust-speckled air. We found the owner squatting on the vinyl
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