A Corpse in the Koryo (16 page)

Kim would have picked up something, noticed I was gone from Pyongyang, and put out a search bulletin. Someone would have read it and matched me with the man limping beside Kang a few days ago. Once they knew I was in the area, they would have doubled the surveillance.

Maybe that's why Chong followed me up the hill, though it was hard to understand what he was doing operating by himself, without the rest of his team. They wouldn't all be as dumb as Chong. For sure, Kim wasn't dumb. Mean as a snake, but not dumb.

When I got back to my room, there was a note under the door, in Russian. It said: "A fresh jar of blueberry jam arrived today. Perhaps we could go for a picnic. Lena."

Lena. That must be the name she used with friends. Pretty name. A picnic was just what I wanted. Maybe on an old pavilion overlooking a meadow up in the hills, by a stream somewhere, where it was quiet except for the birds and the wind in the treetops. No fish. No trucks. Just Lena.

I looked again at the small card the clerk had given me. Funny name card, blank, no name on it. The back of it was more interesting. There was a portion of a train timetable cut out and pasted on. It listed a train to Kanggye, but that was crossed out; beneath it, underlined, was a train Hyesan-Musan-Najin-Harbin. Except I knew there weren't trains anymore to Harbin. This was an old schedule. The date, in small print along the bottom, was "Year 11 of the Reign of Showa"--1936, the year my grandfather joined the anti-Japanese guerrillas, based not far from Manpo.

I held the card up to the light and thumbed the edges and bent it in the middle to see if there was an extra layer. This wasn't a message from Pak; we'd agreed on codes that had to do with weather reports, not travel itineraries. Pak had gotten through to me; the telex from Wonsan was from him. So who was this card from? Najin was all the way up the coast, near the border with Russia. Why would I want to go up there?

And Harbin. Harbin was out of the question. I didn't have a passport with me, I didn't have Ministry orders allowing me out of the country, and I wasn't carrying enough money to bribe the guards. I put the card on the table next to the bed and lay down to think.

12

The sky was clouding up rapidly, the tops of the hills shrouded in a gray mist; there was a thunderclap that echoed around the mountains with a deep rumble, and then it started to pour. It sounded like a freight train in a tunnel. The rain came in torrents, making it impossible to see anything, not even the trees in the yard. No picnic today. The window leaked as the rain blew against it. On top of everything else, this lousy town couldn't build a tight window frame. In winter, the cold air must pour into the room. My head still ached from the morning, and I needed to sleep.

The rain beating on the window reminded me of the first dinner I'd eaten in Budapest, in a quiet, frayed restaurant where I'd taken shelter from the darkness and the driving wind. The waiter had frowned when I spoke Russian to him, but when he saw I was alone, he softened slightly and assured me I was most welcome. He guided me to a table by the window, where the raindrops drummed against the old leaded panes.

In the candlelight, I watched a couple across the room. The woman cut her food elegantly; he drank some wine and murmured a few words.

She looked up slowly, their eyes locked, and then they laughed as if they hadn't a care in the world.

13

The sun coming through the window woke me, just after 5:00 p.m. The storm had passed, and the trees outside were sparkling. Manpo was still ugly, but the hills had softened in the early evening light. The road down to the river was not crowded. I was late for my meeting, but if they wanted a new truck, they'd wait a few minutes, whoever they were.

What they knew about the compound in the hills, and what else they might want for the information, was anyone's guess. I could throw in another basket of fish if necessary. Hell, I could throw in two baskets.

Twice I checked but could not spot anyone following me. Either the Military Security squad was eating dinner, or they had improved their technique after what happened to Chong.

A few empty Chinese trucks bounced past, racing to get back across the river before dark. Along the road, there were patches of vegetables-- plots the farmers tended on their own, so they worked late there, or sat and smoked if they wanted, leaning against fences they put up to keep out passersby. I stopped to ask the farmer nearest the road for directions to the Chinese restaurant. He didn't respond. When I asked again, this time in a less pleasant tone, another farmer ambled over. "No sense getting angry. He can't hear a word you're saying."

"What's his problem?"

"No problem, he just can't hear. More of a blessing, I'd say. Easier to be content if you don't have to listen to a lot of nonsense in meetings."

He paused and searched my face. "Your first time in Manpo?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"No difference. Just asked. Hard to be from here and not know where that restaurant is."

"So you know where it is?" I realized I'd made a bad mistake.

This might be a farmer, or it might be someone else. For sure, he kept an eye on the road, made it his business to talk to people. For all I knew his friend had perfect hearing. And there was no doubt they'd marked me.

"Over the next hill, the road meets a dirt path along the river.

There's a guard post, mostly young kids. Just ignore them and look for the steps."

"Thanks. And thanks to your friend." As I turned to go, the deaf farmer gave me a smirk.

The sun was setting and still there was plenty of road in front of me. I didn't really want to be at the river when it was dark. The truck traffic was down to one or two, carrying laborers standing in the back, enjoying the breeze. A few waved to me, as if being in the same place at the same time, even here, created a temporary bond. I waved back.

The third truck that passed me going toward the river pulled over, and two men in the back motioned for me to hurry. "Get on if you're going to Old Liu's or you'll miss dinner." I climbed up into the truck bed, just as the driver accelerated. Kang was sitting in the corner, smoking.

He nodded, motioned for me to sit beside him, then looked up at the sky. "Clear night. You planning to walk straight to hell?"

"I thought I was supposed to go to the river for a meeting. Incidentally, you never told me how I was supposed to get into that compound we saw this morning. You people must be very big on improvisation. In the Ministry, we like to plan things just a little. Especially when there are machine guns around."

"Swell. But there's a change of plans." The truck swerved, turned around, and headed back toward town. "You catch the next train to Pyongyang. Pak needs you at home. A body showed up at the Koryo. A foreigner."

"What about helping you?"

"I told you, change of plans."

"But my fish."

"Inspector, you've got no fish. And this truck has bald tires, not to mention a bad transmission."

"I suppose I'm not from Wonsan, either."

"Keep away from the border. You were never here."

"I need to pick up my bag."

Kang shifted his weight, and I saw my bag was under his l
eg.
"The train leaves at two in the morning. More or less. When it stops at Kang gye, stay on. If anyone invites you off, do us both a favor and ignore them."

"What about my bill at the inn?"

"Never mind the inn."

"But the clerk."

"The clerk won't care."

"You know, he gave me--"

"Forget what he gave you. He's dead."

"When?"

Kang's lips tightened, and he shook his head slightly. "Don't ask me.

Probably before they stuffed some filthy video in his mouth. At least I hope so. He gave you something?"

"Didn't you just say to forget what he gave me?"

"Don't be dense, Inspector. A name card, a piece of paper."

"You mean this?" I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out the card with the old train schedule on it.

He took it from my hand. "You never saw this, or anything like it."

"The clerk passed it to me, but he didn't say who it was from."

"You gone deaf? You never saw this card. It wasn't for you."

"It was from Grandma Pak, wasn't it? I didn't connect it at the time, but the clerk mentioned her name."

"Back off, Inspector. Let it be."

"She works for you?"

"You don't let up, do you?"

"What's in Najin?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

I almost laughed, until I saw he had unbuttoned his coat.

The truck rattled up to the front of the railroad station. Kang handed me my bag. "Good luck. Don't worry, I wouldn't have killed you, I'm not deranged. A little too much to think about, that's all." As I took the bag, I noticed it was heavy. Kang sat back. "A jar of blueberry jam," he said.

14

The train to Pyongyang was late. Not like some places, where a late train means twenty minutes, even an hour on a bad day. This train didn't come that day, or the next. People drifted in and out of the station. A few set up housekeeping. There were no station police that I could see, no one checking papers, but everything stayed orderly enough. Jeeps squealed around the corner and passed by every hour, sometimes honking at a trader walking his bicycle, carrying an impossible load too slowly across the road. I kept away from the windows and back in the shadows as much as I could. At night there were no lights, but in the day shafts of sunlight played across the floor. The place smelled moldy, maybe because the roof leaked and the ceiling beams were rotting. There was probably a room reserved for officials, with more light and fewer puddles on the floor, but I didn't want to attract attention or have to answer any questions.

I found a dry spot against the wall, put the bag under my head, and tried to sleep. The jar of blueberry jam kept me awake. When I reached to move it aside, I realized what I should have known. There were some slices of black bread and a bottle of beer as well--and also a note: "Sorry about the picnic. Already I miss what might have been. Lena."

Attached to the note was a blue button.

About two in the afternoon on the second day, the stationmaster shuffled past. I figured he might know something. "Any chance of a train, old friend?"

He stopped and looked down at me. "Always a chance, but they'll have to lift the hold first."

"What hold?"

"Whole line is shut tight, some official party traveling around the province, so they just stopped traffic. Nothing in. Nothing out. Nothing moving."

"And what do we do? Stay here forever?"

"No danger of that, is there. You may lose a couple of days, but sooner or later we always get a train. What's your rush, anyway? Where do you need to get that can't wait awhile?"

I thought it over for a minute. He took my hesitation for evasion.

"You know where you're going? Or is it a secret? Let's see your ticket."

I patted my pockets, looking for the paper that Kang had given me at the last moment. "This will get you on the train," he had said. "It might even get you some fruit or dried fish." I asked if it would work for a cup of tea. Kang laughed as the truck pulled away. "Plenty of tea in China," he shouted, and waved his hand. Just before the truck disappeared around the corner, his head popped up again. "Books," he yelled, "in French."

15

"Your grandfather used to take the train all the time from here." I looked up suddenly. The stationmaster was peering at me intently. "You don't much resemble him. Except when you're not listening."

"Don't you have a station to supervise?"

"See, that's what I mean. When you talk to people, your face gets official, kind of hard, but when you're staring off, like remembering someone, then your face falls into place. It's the eyes, I suppose. You have his eyes."

What was this? Suddenly every old person I met thought I had my grandfather's eyes? "I don't know what you're talking about. How about you just tell me when a train is due?"

He laughed and put his hand on my shoulder. "Tough guy. I remember when you were little. Just after the war. Things were dirty and confused. People milling around what was left of this station, looking for relatives, military police barking orders, Chinese everywhere, and I mean everywhere. There was one wouldn't leave my office. I told him he couldn't see the train schedules. Didn't matter how good an ally they was, the schedules belonged to us. We might not have much left, I said, but what we got is ours, and the schedule was not his business. He said troop trains were moving and transports and food, and if he didn't get the schedule, there would be a mess and I'd get shot."

Suddenly I was interested in this old man. He was telling a story I'd heard from my grandfather a dozen times over the years. "So," I said, "you pulled a big revolver from your belt and laid it on the table."

He was quiet a moment. "That table, your grandfather made it for me before the war."

"It was maple, with round legs, and golden oak trim inlaid along the top."

"That Chinaman put his boots on the table. I told him, 'Boots off the table, now, or your brains go on the floor.' "

"What did he do?" I knew, but I wanted to hear the old man tell it.

The stationmaster rubbed his eyes. He took off his hat and scratched his head, enjoying the memory. "The bastard told me to screw myself. Then he spat against the wall and left my office."

"My grandfather said that table had a secret drawer."

"It still does."

"You have that table? Here in the station?" I wanted to touch the wood, know what my grandfather had felt as he sawed and smoothed and found the heart.

"Why don't you come and see?" We crossed the main hall, stepping around people sleeping soundly on the floor, their packs of Chinese goods held in their arms like lovers. The stationmaster took out his key to unlock the door to his office, then stopped. The door was open. He gave me a puzzled look, stepped into the room, and groaned. There, on the table, was a fish, gasping to breathe, pinned by a knife meant to gut a goat. I pulled out the knife, and the fish flopped to the floor.