The Orphan Master's Son (21 page)

Gone was the playful light in Dr. Song's eyes. Comrade Buc looked away.

The driver removed a comb and a pack of cigarettes from his pockets, passed the suit jacket to Jun Do, and began unbuttoning his pants.

“Enough of Commander Ga's exploits,” Dr. Song said.

“Yes,” said Comrade Buc. “Let's see how that jacket fits.”

Jun Do slid into the jacket. He had no way of knowing if it fit or not. The driver, in his underwear, handed over his pants, and then the last item, a silk tie. Jun Do studied it, running his eyes along the fat and skinny ends.

“Look,” the driver said, lighting a cigarette and breathing out smoke. “He doesn't even know how to tie it.”

Dr. Song took the tie. “Come, I will show you the nuances of Western neckwear,” he said, then asked Comrade Buc, “Should we employ the Windsor knot or the half Windsor?”

“Four square,” Buc said. “That's what the young men are wearing now.”

Together, they ushered Jun Do up the stairs. From the top step, Comrade Buc turned to the driver. “File a requisition form with your regional allocations clerk,” he said. “That'll put you in line for a new suit.”

Jun Do looked back to his old clothes on the ground, soon to be scattered among ostrich warrens by the jet wash.

Inside the cabin, gold-framed portraits of the Dear Leader and Great Leader were paired on the bulkheads. The plane smelled of cigarettes and dirty dishes. Jun Do could tell that dogs had been aboard. He scanned the rows and rows of empty seats but saw no sign of animals. Up front sat a lone man in a black suit and high-brimmed military hat. He was being attended by a stewardess of perfect complexion. Toward the rear of the plane, a half-dozen young men were engrossed in paperwork. One of them employed a computer that folded open and closed. Thrown across a few seats, Jun Do spotted a yellow emergency life raft with a red inflation handle and instructions in Russian. Jun Do placed his hand on it—the sea, the sun, a tin of meat. So many days upon the water.

Comrade Buc approached. “Afraid of flying?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Jun Do said.

The engines began to ramp, and the plane wandered toward the far end of the runway.

“I'm in charge of procurement,” Comrade Buc said. “This plane's taken me all over the world—to Minsk for fresh caviar, to France for brandy straight from the caves. So don't worry about it going down.”

“What am I doing here?” Jun Do asked.

“Come,” Comrade Buc said. “Dr. Song wants you to meet the Minister.”

Jun Do nodded and they approached the front of the plane, where Dr. Song was speaking to the Minister. “Refer to him only as Minister,” Comrade Buc whispered. “And never speak to him directly, only through Dr. Song.”

“Minister,” Dr. Song said. “Here is Pak Jun Do, a bona fide hero of the Democratic People's Republic, no?”

The Minister shook his head dismissively. His face was stippled with gray whiskers and hanging clumps of brow obscured his eyes.

“Certainly, Minister,” Dr. Song continued. “You can tell the boy is strong and handsome, yes?”

The Minister conceded this with a nod.

Dr. Song said, “We will all spend more time together soon, perhaps?”

The Minister shrugged and gave a look that said maybe, maybe not.

That was the extent of their discussion.

Walking away, Jun Do asked, “What's he a minister of?”

“Petroleum and tire pressure,” Dr. Song said, and laughed. “He's my driver. But don't worry, that man's seen just about all there is to see in this world. He's strong. His only job is to say nothing on this trip, and to enact the
yes
,
no
, and
perhaps
at the end of my questions. You caught that, yes, the way I guided his response? This will keep the Americans occupied while we work our magic.”

“Americans?” Jun Do asked.

“Didn't those drivers tell you anything?” Dr. Song asked.

The plane pivoted at the end of the runway and began to accelerate. Jun Do braced himself in the aisle.

Comrade Buc said, “I do not think our hero has flown before.”

“Is this true, have you not flown?” Dr. Song asked. “We must get you a seat, then, we're about to take wing.”

With mandarin formality, Dr. Song ushered them into seats. “Here is the safety belt,” he said to Jun Do. “A hero may wear one or not, as he wishes. I am old and have no need for safety, but Comrade Buc, you must apply the belt. You are young, you have a wife and children.”

“Only because of your great concern,” Comrade Buc said, and fastened the belt.

The Ilyushin rose into the western wind, then banked north so that the coast was to starboard. Jun Do could see the shadow of the plane shuddering on the water and, beyond, the blue expanse of the sea. He did not see the water upon which he fished the seasons with the Captain of the
Junma
, but instead the currents that took him on missions to Japan, every one of them a struggle. The worst part was always the long trip back, listening to the abductees down in the hold, yelling, banging around as they struggled to get free of their ropes. He looked around the cabin, imagined a kidnap victim strapped into one of these seats. He imagined dragging away an American, then spending sixteen hours with him inside this plane.

“I think you've got the wrong man for your job,” Jun Do volunteered. “My file perhaps suggests I'm an expert kidnapper, and it's true, I led a lot of missions, and only a couple of the targets died on my watch. But I'm not that man anymore. These hands, they tune radio dials now. They no longer know how to do what you want them to do.”

“So forthright and earnest,” Dr. Song said. “Don't you think, Comrade Buc?”

Comrade Buc said, “You chose well, Dr. Song. The Americans will swoon for such sincerity.”

Dr. Song turned to Jun Do. “Young man,” he said. “On this mission, it is your words, not your fists, that you will employ.”

Comrade Buc said, “Dr. Song is headed to Texas to lay some groundwork for future talks.”

“These are the talks before the talks,” Dr. Song said. “Nothing formal, no delegation, no pictures, no security men—we are merely opening a channel.”

“Talks about what?” Jun Do asked.

“The subject doesn't matter,” Dr. Song said. “Only the posture. The Yankees want a few things from us. We want things as well—high among them is that they halt the boarding of our fishing vessels. You know we use fishing boats for many important tasks. When the moment is right, you will tell the story of your friend being thrown to the sharks by the U.S. Navy. The Americans are very civil. A story like that will have an impact on them, especially the wives.”

The stewardess brought Dr. Song a glass of juice and ignored Jun Do and Comrade Buc. “She is a beauty, yes?” Dr. Song asked. “They comb the entire nation to find them. Young men, all you care about is pleasure, I know, I know. You can't lie to me. I bet you're salivating to meet a CIA agent. Well, I can assure you they don't all look like the beautiful seductresses in the movies.”

“I've never seen a movie,” Jun Do said.

“You've never seen a movie?” Dr. Song asked.

“Not a whole one,” Jun Do said.

“Oh, you'll have those American ladies eating out of your hand. Wait till they see that wound, Jun Do. Wait till they hear your story!”

“But my story,” Jun Do said. “It's so improbable. I hardly believe it myself.”

To Comrade Buc, Dr. Song said, “Please, my friend. Will you bring us the tiger?”

When Buc was gone, Dr. Song turned to Jun Do. “Where we are from,” he said, “stories are factual. If a farmer is declared a music virtuoso by the state, everyone had better start calling him maestro. And secretly, he'd be wise to start practicing the piano. For us, the story is more important than the person. If a man and his story are in conflict, it is the man who must
change.” Here, Dr. Song took a sip of juice, and the finger he lifted trembled slightly. “But in America, people's stories change all the time. In America, it is the man who matters. Perhaps they will believe your story and perhaps not, but you, Jun Do, they will believe
you.
”

Dr. Song called the stewardess over. “This man is a hero of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, and he must have juice.” After she raced to get it, he said, “See?” Shaking his head, he said, “But you try explaining all this to the central bunker.” Here Dr. Song pointed downward, and Jun Do knew he was indicating the Dear Leader Kim Jong Il himself.

Comrade Buc returned with an ice chest. This he handed to Jun Do. “The tiger,” he said.

Inside was a slab of meat wrapped in a dirty plastic bag. Sprigs of grass clung to the meat, which was warm to the touch.

Jun Do said, “Perhaps some ice would be called for.”

Dr. Song smiled. “Oh,” he said. “The Americans, I can see their faces now.”

“Tiger! Imagine their response.” Comrade Buc was laughing. “I would love to,” he said in English, “but I had tiger for lunch.”

“Looks delicious,” Dr. Song said. “Too bad I'm on a leopard-only diet.”

Comrade Buc said, “Wait till the Minister gets in on the act.”

“The Minister would like to cook it personally, yes?” Dr. Song said. “The Minister insists all the Americans must partake, yes?”

Jun Do looked at the cooler, which bore a red cross. He'd seen a cooler like it before—it was the kind they used to get the blood to Pyongyang.

“Two things about the Americans,” Dr. Song said. “First, their minds are fast, and they puzzle over everything. You must give them a riddle to redirect those minds. So we offer them the Minister. Second, they must have moral superiority. They don't know how to negotiate without it. Always their talks open with human rights, personal freedoms, and so on. But the tiger changes all that. Their horror at the notion that we would casually eat an endangered species will immediately put them on high ground. Then we can get down to business.”

In English, Comrade Buc said, “Here, Senator, let me pass you the platter.”

“Yes, Senator,” Dr. Song said. “You must have seconds.”

They laughed until they saw Jun Do's face. “You do understand,” Dr. Song said, “that in this cooler is only cow flank. The tiger part is only a story. That's what we're really serving them, a story.”

“But what if they eat it?” Jun Do asked. “If they believe it is tiger, yet out of a wish not to offend, they eat it and feel morally degraded, won't they take it out on you in the talks?”

Comrade Buc turned in anticipation of Dr. Song's response.

“If the Americans use their senses and keep their heads level,” Dr. Song said, “then no tiger story will fool them. They will taste that this is cow. But if the Americans are just toying with us, if they don't plan on seeking the facts and negotiating seriously, then they will taste tiger.”

“You think if they believe the tiger story,” Jun Do said, “then they'll believe my story.”

Dr. Song shrugged. “Yours will certainly be the tougher meat to chew,” he said.

One of the young men on Comrade Buc's procurement team came forward with three identical watches. Comrade Buc took them. “One for the Minister,” he said, and handed the others to Dr. Song and Jun Do. “They're set to Texas time. Everybody gets the same one. It sends a message to the Americans about Korean equality and solidarity.”

“What about you?” Jun Do asked. “Where's your watch?”

Comrade Buc said, “Oh, I've got no business in Texas.”

“Sadly, Comrade Buc won't be joining us,” Dr. Song said. “He has another mission.”

Comrade Buc stood. “Yes, I should go prepare my team.”

The stewardess passed by with hot towels and handed one to Dr. Song.

“What do I have to do?” Comrade Buc said after she'd left.

“She cannot help it,” Dr. Song said. “Women naturally respond to the allure of an older gentleman. It is a fact that only an older man can truly please a woman.”

Comrade Buc laughed. “I thought you always said only a small-statured man can please a woman.”

Dr. Song defended himself. “I'm hardly small-statured. I have the exact dimensions of the Dear Leader, even my shoe size.”

“It's true,” Comrade Buc said. “I procure for the Dear Leader. They are two of a kind.”