Joy Brigade (12 page)

By now, we were through with the stunts. Maputo and I engaged, kicking, punching, parrying, setting a pace and gauging the speed of the other man. His kicks were just as quick and vicious as before, but against me they weren’t landing with the same devastating effect. In South Korea, I’d sparred with true experts, and they’d taught me much. Mainly, they’d taught me how to survive.

The first round ended without any decisive points
being scored by either of us. We rested a minute and then were back at it. Maputo tried his side kick again, but I sidestepped it and caught him flush on the chest with a roundhouse of my own. Not a lethal blow but enough to score what might’ve been the first major point of the tournament. Frowning, Maputo attacked, trying combinations now. In each case I avoided his blow and managed to keep him off balance enough that much of the power of the kicks was wasted in trying to adjust his stance to keep up with my movement. But then, just as I was about to sidestep another kick, Maputo hopped in the air, switched to his other leg, and caught me with a short quarter side kick in the solar plexus. There was a gasp from the crowd. It was a clear blow, the best of the battle so far. I grabbed the lapels of his
dobok
, jerked him forward, and resisted the urge to punch his face in, only feigning the punch, scoring one or two minor points in the process. Then we were kicking again. His combinations were better than mine, and that one blow to the solar plexus had given him a substantial lead. Desperately, I tried another roundhouse, but at the last second he managed to parry and it glanced off his elbows. The whistle sounded. I returned to the sidelines. I stood by Hero Kang and, breathing heavily, placed my hands on my knees.

“Only one more round,” he said. “Maputo is beating you.”

“Yes.”

“There are more security guards now.”

I followed his eyes. The contingent had doubled in size. Still, no Senior Captain Rhee.

“Is there another way out?” I asked.

“There is no way out of here,” Hero Kang told me, “except to win.”

I looked at Maputo. He was limbering up, bending forward at the waist, long arms dangling toward the floor. Above, the old general beamed, enjoying the match immensely. Commissar Oh continued to smoke, staring pensively at the rows of uniformed young women on the far side of the gymnasium.

“All right,” I said. “Then I must win.”

“Maputo is ahead,” Hero Kang said, “and he knows it. He will be cautious. He won’t attack. He’s afraid of your countermoves.”

“Then I have to offer him something. Something to make him come out. Something he can’t resist.”

“Like what?”

“What do they offer the leopard to get him to expose himself?”

Hero Kang thought about that. “A goat.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t have a goat.”

“No,” I replied. “I only have myself.”

The whistle sounded and we returned to the center. We bowed once again and the referee told us to begin.

Earlier, Hero Kang had explained the Joy Brigade.

Almost the entire country of North Korea was militarized, including a meticulously selected unit of young women. A cadre of operatives was sent into the country to audition middle school girls. Those who were most talented, and most beautiful, were brought to Pyongyang for
additional training. After high school graduation, those who made the final cut were organized into something called
Kippum jo
, the Joy Brigade. The women who’d massaged Hero Kang and washed me were members of the Joy Brigade, although lesser minions. The most beautiful and charming young women entertained the elite Communist cadres of North Korea, all the way up to the Dear Leader, Kim Jong-il, and, it was rumored, to the Great Leader himself, Kim Il-sung. Some of the lesser members of the Joy Brigade, those who were maybe not so young or not so beautiful, or those who’d fallen into disfavor, entertained foreigners. This could include foreign diplomats or visiting dignitaries or even foreign athletes. A woman within the Joy Brigade had some weeks ago contacted Hero Kang. She was in possession of information concerning the plans to eliminate the Manchurian Battalion. This was the person I somehow had to find.

Doc Yong had warned me never to mention to Hero Kang what she was about to tell me.

“Why not?” I’d asked.

“Because it is a great shame. The woman who will contact you is more than just an acquaintance of Hero Kang. She is his daughter.”

“She’s the one holding the secrets?”

“Yes.”

“Why is he ashamed?”

“Because she serves those who have betrayed the people. But you must never mention it. Even though she is his daughter, he refuses to acknowledge it.”

“He’s Korean,” I said. “He can’t turn his back on family like that.”

“Here in North Korea he can. She is no longer his daughter. She is now a servant of the Great Leader. And a wife to whomever the Great Leader chooses.”

“But now she’s going to help save the Manchurian Battalion,” I said.

“Yes. That is her redemption.”

I launched a side kick that Maputo easily sidestepped. I launched another and missed again. But this time I feigned fatigue and allowed the kick to drift off to my left. When I regained my footing, my body was turned slightly toward Maputo, completely exposed. He didn’t attack. Hero Kang was right, he was being very cautious.

In desperation, I tried roundhouse kicks. Again, Maputo warded them off easily, circling around me, seeming to want only to protect himself. I watched his eyes. There was still something in them, a hunger. A greed for glory, something that all young men have—at least those who are worth a damn. The audience was quiet now. Too quiet. This match, which had started off so well, had now become boring. Everyone knew the outcome. Maputo had scored some good points, he was ahead, and now all he had to do was hang on. I wanted to glance at Commissar Oh to see if he and the old general were bored, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off Maputo. He sensed it too. He’d beaten all his other opponents decisively. Bloodying them. Humiliating them. He’d begun this third and final round probably thinking that he wouldn’t be able to do that to me—I was too wary of his tricks. But he did think he’d win on points.

Still, the hunger for glory was there and I’d shown him how to get it. He saw that when I threw a side kick I would leave myself open. We stood with probably less than a minute left in the final round. I stared at him, sneering, and launched a side kick. He stepped back, his eyes igniting. When I launched the next kick, he sprang forward like a cat, his front foot raised. But I held the kick, lowering my foot, and, twisting to my right, I grabbed the heel of his raised foot and lifted it into the air, twisting his entire body skyward. I hopped forward, lifted my right foot, and brought it down to rest on his neck as he slammed to the ground. I held it there, making it clear that had I put all my weight into it, I could have snapped his neck like a twig.

The auditorium exploded in applause. Burning with rage, Maputo scrambled to his feet. We faced each other as the referee was about to wave us back into combat, but just then the final whistle sounded. Maputo groaned and stomped his feet and waggled his forefinger at me. In English he said, “I kill! In real life, I kill.”

The referee ordered us to face the judges. They conferred and passed judgment, and the referee raised my arm in victory.

After he lowered my arm, I held out my right hand toward Maputo. He slapped it away, marched past me, and, grabbing a towel from a bench, stormed out of the gymnasium.

Hero Kang hurried toward the judges. Everyone glanced at the old general, who was being helped to his feet, shrugging off hands. He started to hobble out of the bleachers, heading toward the exit, Commissar Oh following.

Frantically, Hero Kang spoke to the judges. One of them, the senior judge, scurried across the floor and caught the attention of Commissar Oh. The two men talked, glancing back toward me. Commissar Oh shook his head and started to walk away. Hero Kang met the returning judge and received the news.

The commissar thought the match between me and Maputo had been amateurish, like a schoolyard brawl, and had not reflected well on the great tradition of Taekwondo, nor on the glory of the Great Leader. Therefore, even though I’d won the foreigner’s tournament, I would not be invited back to the people’s banquet activities this evening.

The old general and Commissar Oh had their backs turned toward us. Hero Kang stood with his arms at his side, defeated. The security guards at the exits started to advance. The beautiful Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook reappeared out of one of the side doors. Hero Kang and I spotted her at the same time.

We would fight. I looked around for weapons. There were none, except for a rickety straight-backed chair. I could break it apart and make a club for each of us. We would go down fighting. That would be better than imprisonment, or torture.

Just then, like a man electrified, Hero Kang turned away from the approaching security people and walked toward the departing general. His booming voice filled the gymnasium.

“Wait!” he shouted. Everyone stopped and turned to listen. “The officer,” he said, pointing back at me, “the officer from Romania, the winner of the foreigner’s tournament, he wants to offer a challenge.”

Commissar Oh raised his cigarette to his lips. It was an effeminate move, reminding me of a manicured housewife absorbed in her favorite soap opera. While everyone waited, Commissar Oh said, “Oh yes, Great Hero Kang? And what sort of challenge does this officer from Romania have to offer?”

“He was unable to display the full measure of his skills,” Hero Kang replied, speaking so everyone in the hall could hear him. “He was forced to compete against an inferior opponent and under such circumstances true expertise cannot come to the fore.”

I believe at this moment Commissar Oh had already anticipated what Hero Kang was about to say. A half smile twisted his fleshy lips.

“This officer from Romania,” Hero Kang continued, “asks the permission of the great general of the people, and the permission of our Great Leader, for another match.” Hero Kang waved toward the white-clad Koreans who were about to put on a display of true expertise for the assembled audience. “The officer from Romania challenges the champion of the People’s Army First Corps!”

A murmur of disbelief rippled through the crowd. Commissar Oh smiled and then conferred with the general. Enthusiastically, the old man nodded his consent. Hero Kang exhaled deeply as General Yi and Commissar Oh returned to their seats.

A phalanx of Taekwondo experts approached the center of the gym. Their leader, a muscular man with a face and a body of stone, stepped forward. Hero Kang hurried to my side.

“His name is Pak,” Hero Kang told me. “Fifth-level black belt.”

“I have to beat
him?
” I asked.

“Yes. If the Manchurian Battalion is to survive, if you are to make Doctor Yong In-ja your wife, if you are to save the life of your son, then you must win.”

“And if I don’t?”

Hero Kang shrugged. “It is over.” He glanced toward the beautiful Captain Rhee. She stood leaning against a wall, her arms crossed and the brim of her black leather cap pulled down low over her eyes.

I studied my opponent. Slowly, easily, he was limbering himself up, not bothering to look at me. Legs spread apart, he touched his forehead to the floor, and finally the champion of the First Corps raised his gaze. His eyes were black and I saw in them nothing but determination. Determination and death.

5

W
hen First Corps champion Pak’s foot came down on my forehead, I literally did not see it coming. Later, my mind recreated the blur of the foot rising and crashing down on me, but by then it was too late. Too late for a lot of things.

The referee allowed me to get back to my feet, but then the attack started again, unrelenting and impossible to stop. I was nowhere close to being in this man’s league. I held up my arms, circled backward, did my best to stay out of his range, but all I was doing was running. First Corps Champion Pak could land a blow whenever the spirit moved him.