Jia: A Novel of North Korea (12 page)

I looked around at the others and back at him again,
but his eyes didn't move. Sangwoo said, smirking, ` Jia, he
is asking you out. You shouldn't turn him down, he'll lose
face." People chuckled.

Seunggyu blushed up to the tips of his ears and shot a
fiery glance at Sangwoo. "She's the only one who looks
active. That's all. That's why I'm asking her." His face reminded me of a red carrot. "Are you coming or not? If
you want to go, let's go right now before more people rush
over there."

We went on the rides and walked around the zoo, the fountain, and the botanical garden. It had been announced that
outdoor swimming would not begin until the next weekend, but the area was already packed with people. It was
difficult to enjoy those places in a crowd, and I was tired of
walking and standing in long lines.

Seunggyu wasn't very talkative. "I've seen your performances several times," he said finally.

I looked at him with wide eyes, but he was watching
some wolves, lazily napping in their cage.

When we got back to the grass, the others were gone. I
looked around and saw that the bus wasn't there either.

Seunggyu laughed. "Look! The old people left early to
take a nap! Let's go back. I'll take you home."

The next day, when I showed up in the practice room,
dancers rushed up to me in excitement and asked about
what we did, where we went, and how Seunggyu treated
me. I might as well have been an exotic animal at the zoo.
I just joked with them, "Cook Kim was smart-he must
have known I actually would use my legs a lot yesterday. All
I remember is how much we walked."

They giggled. "You can take all of our anchovies at
lunch today," one said. "We're sure he'll make them again
for you."

After our day out, Seunggyu often came to my performances and waited to take me home. Having somebody
wait for me gave me a warm feeling. Since Sunyoung's
arrest, I had become more reserved. I no longer intended to open my heart to others. When each day's activities are
all arranged for you, you simply wake up, go through the
motions, and prepare for the next day; you don't have to
think about anything else. I tried not to notice the emptiness growing inside me.

When Seunggyu came along, the road I had been walking alone was no longer empty. His confidence about life
became mine as well.

At the hotel, I was happy, and there was nothing to worry
about. Sunyoung's story was fading into the past. I danced
for myself, striving to be as professional as the other dancers,
and sometimes I even got the main part in a performance.
After four years at the hotel, I had grown fond of everyone. It didn't take much effort to perform the same dances
for guests and sell the same items at the souvenir shop. I
practiced hard, every day. I was satisfied with everything
around me and was becoming concerned only for myself.

On the way home at night, however, I began to notice
changes. I could feel the light in the city dimming. After the death of our leader, Kim 11 Sung, in July of 1994,
most of our performances depicted sad stories. The sudden
death of the Great Leader had shocked our country-there
was a rumor that people had died from sorrow-but the
tragedy was only the precursor of impending hardships.
There were fewer and fewer performances at the hotel.
People's faces were darkening as well. My neighbors were
becoming reticent. Sometimes they mentioned in passing
that their rations were decreasing; both the quantity and
quality of what we were receiving were going downhill.
Cereals mixed in with rice created digestive problems, and people started selling their household goods at markets to
buy food. We wanted to talk to each other about the problems, but couldn't. All we heard from the government was:
"Trust Kim Jong 11 and the Party." Most of us did; we felt
we had no choice.

When eight dancers didn't show up for work, the hotel
manager said they had decided to devote their lives to being
perfect mothers and wives, but everyone knew the hotel
was simply cutting staff. The number of guests dwindled
and the rules stiffened. The hotel manager warned us not to
wear colorful clothes anymore. Curly hair was still acceptable, but we had to tie it back with thick elastics.

It took me a while to realize that despite my seeming
freedom, I was still stuck in an isolated world. It was simply
of a different design.

Several days of rain had turned everything in the city gray
except the Kaesonmun (Arch of Triumph). I was standing
before it with Seunggyu. My performance that day, meant
to recognize an official's 40 years of military service, was
canceled because several government officials, including
the honoree, had to leave for the countryside in the morning. I asked Seunggyu to take me to the Kaesonmun because I thought its grandeur might cheer me up. At the foot
of Moran Hill, I looked up at the largest arch in the world,
with its 10,500 blocks of shiny white granite. But, against
my expectations, it made me feel worse. Attempting to read
the revolutionary hymn inscribed at the top made me nauseated. I didn't want to touch the white granite, I didn't
want to feel its coldness.

"I'll be away for a couple of weeks, maybe more," Seunggyu said. He looked uncomfortable in his casual clothes. Out of his uniform, he looked much younger than his 27
years; he could pass for a teenager. A pack of cigarettes
stuck out of the chest pocket of his black jacket.

"Because of the flood?" I asked.

One year earlier, in 1995, the flood had been the main
topic of conversation everywhere: so many were dead, houses and property had drifted away. Then, in July and August
of 1996, another round of floods. Aunt Ann's province on
the east coast had suffered the worst damage. She said that
people there had their rations cut off entirely. Seunggyu
and I walked away from the arch toward Moran Park.

"Do you have to command your platoon to assist this
time too?"

Seunggyu snapped some branches from the tree next
to him and grumbled, "I didn't join the army to drag dead
bodies from the water." The year before, his platoon had
been sent to collect corpses in the countryside, and he had
confided that 70 percent of the land had been devastated by
the two years of flooding. The army was worried about the
possible spread of infectious diseases.

"But Seunggyu, that is also an important job for the
people and the country. Think about it we should be
helping each other. Soldiers are helping-isn't that why everyone respects them?" I was trying to smooth his anger.

"Not for those people," he snapped. Seunggyu didn't like
anything that cast shadows on his bright future. I felt sad
and distant from him.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Who knows? I just follow orders. Maybe the mining
regions-they got it the worst this time." His eyes glowed.
"I'm wasting my time on useless vermin. We're no better
than janitors-we just take away bigger trash than they do."

"What do you mean?" I looked at him as he flung a
branch toward the pond with all his might.

`Jia, who lives in mines and isolated mountain villages? Trash, reactionary elements. Everyone knows we don't
need these people in this society. We're just going there to
throw trash away."

"You think they're not worthy of sleeping in a cemetery?" I tried to conceal my emotion. His eyes followed
the branches as they fell on the pond.

"Jia, you don't know about those people. You haven't
seen them, that's why you're generous to them. But I have:
they are like zombies. They don't think, they just walk
and eat."

I wasn't able to defend then, having left the mountain
myself and hidden my early life. But, looking at Seunggyu's
contemptuous profile, I was reminded of my maternal
grandfather. "Don't say that. They're still human, they feel
happiness and sadness like you do. How do you know what
they think? Have you ever talked with them sincerely?" I
was indignant.

"What's wrong with you, Jia? I'm talking about useless
people. I have seem them; you haven't. Why are you so angry? "
Seunggyu dusted off his hands and stepped toward me.

I lowered my head, trying to swallow the rage in my
throat. "I'm sorry, I don't like hearing you talk with such
contempt."

Seunggyu took my hand and shook it lightly. "Let's go.
You are disappointed about the cancellation of the performance today. It'll be fine. I have never seen you mad like
that, Jia. I know you have a good heart, but you should
learn when to show it, and for whom."

There was no one on the street. The gloomy sky had driven everyone away, and we headed to the subway, the
pride of Pyongyang. For the festival in 1989, I had memorized an introduction to the subway system in Russian and
English, to show off these underground palaces to our foreign visitors.

Kaeson Station had always been full of young couples
going home after dates in Kaeson Youth Park, where the
Great Leader, Kim II Sung, made his first speech after liberation from the Japanese in 1945. But today the subway no
longer seemed magnificent to me. I felt I was being sucked
into the darkness pouring out of my heart.

ne morning the following year, I had to stop at Saesal-
lim Street on my way to the hotel, before crossing the
Taedong River. Lines of people chained together marched
past me, their heads hanging low. The policemen leading
them shouted that they had committed crimes against the
nation, and they had to walk around in public to demonstrate the consequences of their crimes.

Someone behind me whispered, "The line is getting
longer. They ran away to China for food, but got caught.
They'll be punished harshly. Oh, look at those little children." I turned back and saw two middle-aged women talking. As soon as our eyes met, they turned and left hastily.

By 1997, the country still had not recovered from the
floods of the previous two years, and countless numbers
had succumbed to cholera and paratyphoid fever. Seunggyu, observing the pile of dead bodies, said that it was impossible
to count the dead. On TV and radio, the government told
us the nation had recovered from the natural disasters, but
the situation only seemed to be worsening. The appearance of the city had changed completely; instead of going
to work, people wandered all day. The streets teemed with
people carrying big bags on their shoulders, as they went
into alleys to sell their belongings. The police couldn't control the black market. Never had street markets been so
popular, nor the goods so various. Groups of people sitting
on the sidewalks displaying their belongings had become
fixtures in the residential areas. Houses were emptied, and
the sellers far outnumbered the buyers.

Beyond downtown Pyongyang, across the Taedong
River, I would often see groups of children in the street
markets. These children were called kko jebi, which means
"flower swallows." Their name suggests lovely lives, but
their lives consisted of watching other people eat. If someone didn't finish his or her food, the fastest kko jebi would
snatch the bowl and gulp down the leftovers. Sometimes,
begging for food and money, they offered to sing and perform "black art." They called their performances black art
because the performances might endanger their lives, but it
was worth the risk.

I once saw a little boy boast of his talents in a loud voice
as he grabbed the clothes of passersby. He insisted he could
put needles through his ears, and some people stopped in
their tracks to look at him. He produced two rusty, long
needles and slid one through each ear, though his face didn't
show any pain. When a young woman took a closer look,
she cried out, "My God, look at them-his ears are covered with holes and scabs." All at once, the spectators pushed forward to look at his ears, then in consternation they left
without giving him any money. Some women gave him bread
or rice, out of compassion. The food seemed to satisfy him.

Walking through a street market to the hotel early one
morning, I saw a small kko jebi being dragged away by two
policemen. He twisted with all his plight to get out of their
hands, wailing, "Sir, I'm not kkotjebi! I have parents waiting
for me at home. I need to go back!"

The policeman holding his two legs under his arm
snarled, "Cut it out, you stinky brat, I've been watching you
for days." The other held the boy's neck at his waist, pressing
it hard, until the boy's face turned red and he stopped resisting. His body looked like a small tree, carried between two
men. No one in the market paid the slightest attention.

A familiar voice, shouting at the top of her lungs, caught
my attention. She cried out at the people passing her food
stall, "Three rolls for ten won! You can't find them cheaper!"
A stain spread over the front of her grimy whitish shirt, attracting my gaze. She had been one of my teachers at the orphanage. She was nice to everyone; sometimes I even slept in
her room. She had taught sex education to the girls when we
gathered in her room-things we couldn't learn from other
teachers. In those days, she was pretty, passionate, and determined to bridge the distance between teacher and student.