The Orphan Master's Son (57 page)

He could hear the lie in her voice. Her acting, he could recognize it now. But he saw the desperation and vulnerability underneath, and he loved her all the more for it.

“Of course I am going with you,” Ga told her. “I'll always be with you.”

And then came the kiss. It started with the tilt of her head, her eyes flashing to his mouth, a hand slowly reaching to his collarbone, where it rested, and then she leaned in, the slowest lean in the world. He recognized the kiss. It was from
Hold the Banner High!
, the one she planted on the weak-minded South Korean border guard, distracting him while her band of freedom fighters cut the power to the sentry tower and began the liberation of South Korea from the hands of its capitalist oppressors. He'd dreamed of that kiss and now it was his.

Into his ear, she whispered, “Let's escape.”

CITIZENS!
Open your windows and cast your eyes upward, for a crow flies above Pyongyang, its raked beak twitching at every possible threat to the patriotic populace below. Hear the black wings beat, flinch at its sharp call. Observe this master of the air swooping into the schoolyards to sniff all the children for traces of cowardice, then dive, claws extended, to gauge the loyalty of the doves that adorn the statue of Kim Il Sung. Being the only animal with eyes sharp enough to spot virginity, witness our crow circle a Juche Youth Troop, and nod in approval as this illustrious avian performs an aerial inspection of their reproductive purity.

But America's what's really on this crow's mind. It's not hunting chestnut thieves or peering in housing-block windows for the telltale paw-prints of illegal dog farming. No, citizens, the Americans have accepted the Dear Leader's invitation to visit Pyongyang, the most glorious capital in the world. So the dark wings that protectively cast their shadow upon the fields of Arirang are hunting for any hint of capitalist sympathizers. One traitor is all it would take to disillusion a land so pure it knows nothing of materialist greed or war-crime sneak attacks. Luckily, citizens, no animal keeps its benevolent eye on the Korean people like the crow. It won't let ours become a nation where people give names to canines, oppress others because of the color of their skin, and eat pharmaceutically sweetened pills to abort their babies.

But why, you ask, does this crow circle the Chosun Relaxation Footpath? Isn't this where our finest citizens come to stroll, where young people gather to wash the feet of the old and where on a hot day wet nurses volunteer their paps to refresh Pyongyang's finest
yangban
babies? The keen-eyed crow is here, citizens, because it spotted a man tossing a shiny object into the bushes, where some scrambling orphans fought to obtain it. Not only does the giving of coins to orphans rob them of their
self-respect and Juche Spirit, it violates a central rule of good citizenship: Practice Self-Sufficiency.

Looking more closely, the crow noted that as this man spoke to a woman, he made certain gestures that were clear indicators of the discussion of a plan. Tomorrow is a concern of the state, citizens. Tomorrow is the business of your leaders, and you must leave what's to come in their hands. So another rule of good citizenship had been violated: Refrain from the Future. It was then that this crow recognized the violator as Commander Ga, a man who had recently been observed disregarding all the rules of good citizenship: Devote Yourself Eternally to Our Glorious Leaders, Treasure Criticism, Obey Songun Policies, Pledge Yourself to Collective Child Rearing, and Conduct Regular Martyrdom Drills.

It was here, spellbound by beauty, that the crow almost fell from the sky when it realized that the woman speaking to this loathsome citizen was none other than Sun Moon. Wings arresting a free fall, the bird dropped between our mismatched couple. There was a message in the crow's beak, and when Commander Ga bent to retrieve it, the bird leaped high—
Caw!
—and lashed its wings at Ga's face. The bird then turned to face Sun Moon. The note, she saw, was intended for her. When she unfolded the strip of paper, it bore only the name of our Dear Leader Kim Jong Il.

A black Mercedes suddenly appeared, and a man with a splint on his nose hurried to open the door for Sun Moon. She was on her way to visit the Great General who had discovered her, who had written all her movies, who had spent many a long night counseling her on the proper ways of depicting our nation's triumphs over adversity. Great leader, diplomat, strategist, tactician, athlete, filmmaker, author, and poet—all this, and yes, Kim Jong Il was a friend, too.

Passing through the streets of Pyongyang, Sun Moon leaned her head against the car window and regarded as if with sadness the rays of sunlight glowing golden in the millet-dusted air of the Central Ration Depot. It looked as though she might weep passing the Children's Theater, where as a girl she had learned the accordion, the art of puppetry, and mass gymnastics.
Whatever became of my old teachers?
her eyes seemed to ask, and it was not without tears that she beheld the fanciful spires of the ice rink, one of the rare places her mother, ever mindful of American sneak attacks, would dare to venture. No one upon the ice in those days could do anything
but cheer for young Sun Moon, her girl limbs flaring through the leaps, the joy on her face dazzling through a spray of her blades' ice crystals. Poor Sun Moon! It was almost as if she knew she would never see these sights again, as if she had some kind of premonition of what the savage, remorseless Americans had in store for her. What woman wouldn't weep all along Reunification Boulevard to think she'd never again see a street so clean, a ration line so perfectly straight, or hear again the crimson banners fluttering a thousand strong in a chain of red flags that extolled every word of Kim Il Sung's great speech of October 18, Juche 63!

Sun Moon was brought before the Dear Leader in a room that had been designed to put the visiting Americans at ease. Its muted lamps, dark mirrors, and wooden tables were reminiscent of an American “speakeasy,” which is a type of establishment that Americans frequent in order to evade the eyes of their repressive government. Behind the heavy doors of a speakeasy, Americans are free to abuse alcohol, fornicate, and violence each other.

Over his smart jumpsuit, the Dear Leader wore an apron. On his forehead, he sported a green visor, while a rag was draped over his shoulder. He came from behind the bar with his arms extended. “Sun Moon,” he called. “What can I serve you?”

Their embrace was filled with the zest of socialist comradeship.

“I don't know,” she said.

He told her, “You're supposed to say, ‘The usual.' ”

“The usual,” she said.

Here he poured for them modest snifters of North Korean cognac, which is known for its medicinal properties.

Looking more closely, the Dear Leader saw that there was sadness in her eyes.

“What's got you down?” he asked her. “Tell me the story—I'll give it a happy ending.”

“It's nothing,” she said. “I'm just practicing for my new movie role.”

“But this movie is a happy one,” he reminded her. “Your character's undisciplined husband is replaced with a highly efficient one—soon all the farmers have increased their yields. Something else must be bothering you. Is it a matter of the heart?”

“I only have room in my heart for the Democratic People's Republic of Korea,” she said.

The Dear Leader smiled. “That's my Sun Moon,” he said. “That's the girl I miss. Come, look, I have a present for you.”

From behind the bar, the Dear Leader produced an American musical instrument.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It's called a
gui-tar
. It's used to perform American rural music. It's said to be especially popular in Texas,” he told her. “It's also the instrument of choice for playing ‘the blues,' which is a form of American music that chronicles the pain caused by poor decision making.”

Sun Moon ran her delicate fingers across the strings of the
guitar
. It produced a muted groan, as if a vibrant
gayageum
had been wrapped in a blanket and doused with a bucket of water. “The Americans have much to be sad about,” she said, plucking another string. “But listen to it. I can make no song with this.”

“But you must, you must,” said the Dear Leader. “Please make it perform for me.”

She strummed. “I regret that my heart …” she sang, “… is not as big as my love …”

“That's it,” he said.

She strummed. “For the most democratic nation …” she went on, “… the Democratic People's Republic of Korea.”

“That's good,” he said. “Now less birdlike. Sing with the heat of your blood.”

On the bar, she placed the
guitar
flat on its back, the way a proper stringed instrument is played. She tried to finger the strings so that different notes might sound.

“The Yankees are happy,” she sang and strummed hard. “The Yankees are sad.”

The Dear Leader beat the rhythm on the bar top with his fist.

“Our nation doesn't see the difference,” she belted. “Satisfaction's all we've ever had.”

Together, they laughed. “I miss all this,” he said. “Remember how we used to speak of movie scripts late into the night? How we professed our love of country and embraced reunification?”

“Yes,” she said. “But all that changed.”

“Did it? I used to wonder if,” the Dear Leader said, “if something happened to your husband on one of his many dangerous missions, if we'd
become friends again. Of course your husband is alive and well and your marriage is better than ever, I'm sure. But if something had happened to your husband, if he'd been lost on one of his many heroic missions for our nation, would I have been right to think that we would become close again, that we would again stay up into the night sharing notions of Juche and Songun scholarship?”

She pulled her hand from the
guitar
. “Is something going to happen to my husband? Is that what you're trying to tell me? Is there a dangerous mission you must send him on?”

“No, no, banish the thought,” said the Dear Leader. “Nothing could be further from the truth. Of course I could never say for sure. It must be stated that the world is a dangerous place, and the future is known only to high-ranking officials.”

Sun Moon said, “Your fatherly wisdom always did have the power to soothe my female fears.”

“It is one of my gifts,” replied the Beneficent Leader Kim Jong Il in all his Glory. “I must make note,” he continued, “that you do call him
husband.
”

“I don't know what else to call him.”

The Dear Leader nodded. “But you do not answer my question.”

Sun Moon crossed her arms and turned from the bar. She took two steps, then turned back. “I, too, yearn for our late-night conversations,” she said. “But those days are past, now.”

“But why?” the Dear Leader asked. “Why must they be past?”

“Because I hear you have a new confidante now, a new young pupil.”

“I see someone has been speaking to you, sharing certain things.”

“When a citizen is given a replacement husband, it is her duty to share certain things with him.”

“Have you?” the Dear Leader asked. “Have you been
sharing
with him?”

“Only high-ranking officials know the future,” she said, and smiled.

The Dear Leader nodded in appreciation. “See, that's what I've missed. That right there.”

Sun Moon took a first sip of her drink.

“So who is this new pupil?” she asked. “Does she appreciate your subtleties, your humor?”

The Dear Leader leaned forward some, happy to have her engage him
again. “She is no you, I can tell you that. She has none of your beauty, your charm, your way with words.”

Sun Moon feigned being startled. “She has no way with words?”

“You tease me now,” he said. “You know she speaks only English. She is no Sun Moon, I grant you that, but don't underestimate her, this American girl. Don't think my Rower Girl doesn't have her own special qualities, her own dark energy.”

Now Sun Moon leaned forward, so that over the bar, the two were close.

“Answer me this, my Dearest Leader,” she said. “And please, speak from the heart. Can a spoiled American girl handle the grand notions that emanate from a mind as great as yours? Can this girl from a land of corruption and greed comprehend the purity of your wisdom? Is she worthy of you, or should she be sent home so that a real woman can take her place?”

The Dear Leader reached behind the bar. He produced for Sun Moon a bar of soap, a comb, and a
choson-ot
that seemed cut from pure gold.

“That's what you're going to tell me,” he said.

Citizens, observe the hospitality our Dear Leader shows for all peoples of the world, even a subject of the despotic United States. Does the Dear Leader not dispatch our nation's best woman to give solace and support to this wayward American? And does Sun Moon not find the Girl Rower housed in a beautiful room, fresh and white and brightly lit, with a pretty little window affording a view of a lovely North Korean meadow and the dappled horses that frolic there? This is not dingy China or soiled little South Korea, so do not picture some sort of a prison cell with lamp-blacked walls and rust-colored puddles on the floor. Instead, notice the large white tub fitted with golden lion's feet and filled with the steaming restorative water of the Taedong.