The Investigation (19 page)

‘These guys never cared about winning,’ Sugiyama said with a faint smile, nodding over at the yard. ‘They just wanted the kite to go beyond the walls.’ Sugiyama kept
looking at the descending kites in the distance.

Dong-ju imagined himself looking down at the ground from the sky, down at the vast ocean, the endless sea-foam coasting in with each wave, the port twinkling in the sunlight, the workers on
deck, the children flying their kites, and the wooden guard post, in front of the large dome of the main ward, glistening brassily in the setting sun. Perhaps now he’d be able to write
again.

Every Tuesday Dong-ju flew the kite in the prison yard. Through the slender line, he sensed the girl on the other side of the wall – her pink cheeks, her firmly closed
mouth. The goal wasn’t to win, but to see how long he could endure. The blue kite seemed to cross lines, not to fight but to engage in conversation. When Dong-ju unspooled more line, the girl
did too, and when he reeled it in, she did as well. When Dong-ju’s kite staggered, the blue kite tugged at its line to give it wind. The two kites crossed lines and detached, reeled down and
went back up and teased each other. They approached and stepped back, tangled and fell. If Dong-ju’s kite spiralled down, the blue kite flew up, spinning in the opposite direction. If
Dong-ju’s kite flew sluggishly, the blue one dragged along with it. Their beautiful dance embroidered the clear sky. A gust of wind would carry Dong-ju’s kite far away, and the
prisoners watching would feel better, imagining their dreams flying far away with it. The two kites’ solemn waltz was the only beautiful scene at Fukuoka Prison.

Sugiyama stood against the cold brick wall. He took out a worn piece of paper from his inner pocket and opened it. Winter sunlight fell onto his clumsy handwriting:

Each word beaded in his heart. Dong-ju’s skeletal form blocked the sun. Sugiyama looked up, carefully folding the piece of paper and sliding it back into his pocket.

‘Why do you have that poem?’ Dong-ju demanded.

Sugiyama didn’t know what to say. As he was the one who’d burned Dong-ju’s poems, he couldn’t tell him that the poem had healed his battered heart. He couldn’t
confide in Dong-ju that, when he read the poem, he felt as though he’d found something he’d been desperately searching for. He felt that he was the only person who could save the young
man’s poems; he’d begun memorizing them hungrily, reading as though he were praying, reciting them to himself reverently, fingering the copies deep in his pockets.

‘Since these poems helped me, they could help many others,’ Sugiyama managed to reply. ‘I know they could make everyone feel better.’

Dong-ju closed his eyes. He could hear crows flapping their wings on top of the poplar trees. His face seemed to be made of thin ice about to shatter. ‘It’s possible that the book of
poems is still around.’

Sugiyama’s eyes gleamed. If a copy of the manuscript was intact somewhere, the poems would be, too. His guilt could lessen. He grabbed Dong-ju’s shoulders and shook them.
‘Where?’

Dong-ju gazed up at the empty sky. ‘I don’t know. They left my hands a long time ago.’

During Dong-ju’s time at Yonhi College, he wrote poems fervently, read books and listened to music. He spent his afternoons going on pilgrimage to used bookshops and
music cafes, and on his return to the dormitory he stayed up all night reading. His shabby bookcase was stuffed with literary magazines and books. Between the pages he dried perfect leaves he found
on his walks, writing down the place and date he found them. In those days, everything glistened with possibility.

But he wasn’t spared the cruel clutches of war. The four years he spent in Seoul were harsh and ruthless; young men were dragged off to war and the citizenry was impoverished by the
allocated collections for war goods. He had to leave the dormitory and move into a boarding house run by the novelist Kim Song, blacklisted by the Special Higher Police. Kim’s boarders were
targets of inspection; detectives watched the students’ every move at all hours of the day. Like clockwork, they burst in every evening to scribble down the students’ book titles and
confiscate letters from their desk drawers. Dong-ju packed his bags again, but there was no place for him to go. No matter where he went, he wasn’t safe from brutal restriction and watchful
eyes. Several of Dong-ju’s friends were conscripted, a red band tied around their tonsured heads; others were brought into the police station, beaten within an inch of their lives and sent to
prison. For Koreans, there was no future. Every night Dong-ju sat before his tiny desk and threw himself into the darkness. Unfinished poems piled up, along with crumpled, discarded pieces of paper
smudged with eraser marks and slivers of words.

With graduation looming, Dong-ju made three copies of a manuscript containing nineteen poems. He asked his friend Jeong Byeong-uk to safeguard one copy, kept one for himself and took the final
copy to his professor Lee Yang-ha. He explained his desire to publish a couple of dozen copies and asked Professor Lee to write a foreword. His mentor shook his head; the book of poems would be
considered seditious. The Special Higher Police detectives would bare their teeth if they saw poems like ‘Cross’, ‘Sad Tribe’ and ‘Another Home’. Professor Lee
suggested that they wait for a better time.

‘When would that be?’ Dong-ju asked.

His mentor couldn’t give him an answer.

Dong-ju wondered if such a day would ever come, and whether his nineteen poems would survive until the day the world changed.

‘Are you saying that there are two more copies of the manuscript in Korea?’ Sugiyama demanded.

‘That was three years ago. Who’s to say that someone else could save the poems I myself couldn’t protect?’ Dong-ju was less concerned about his poems than for Byeong-uk,
who’d been enlisted as a student-soldier. He also didn’t wish his professor to be put in danger for owning a seditious manuscript.

But Sugiyama wanted to believe that they had protected those poems from the gale.

Dong-ju changed the subject. ‘The stars will be in the sky tonight too, right?’ He sounded parched.

Sugiyama nodded. Every night, from the eastern sky, Venus rose without fail, and the Big Dipper circled the North Star like an enormous waterwheel in the sky. The Milky Way and the sharp
twinkling stars giggled and whispered and fought like children. Stars didn’t appear in Dong-ju’s sky. Each night he lay in his cell and drew an imaginary constellation on the ceiling.
Sugiyama couldn’t blame Dong-ju for wondering whether light had disappeared from the world and whether stars no longer twinkled in the sky.

That night at 10 p.m. Sugiyama stood in front of the cells. The steel doors opened with a screech. He walked down to Cell 28 at the end of the corridor on the right. ‘645! Interrogation!
Regarding seditious writings.’

The prisoners turned around in their cots and hurried back into slumber. Men called out in the middle of the night rarely came back whole. The guard on duty unlatched the lock and opened the
door, then tied Dong-ju’s arms together. Sugiyama signed off on the prisoner log and prodded 645 with his club. He could feel Dong-ju’s protruding ribs through the tip of his club. The
long, winding corridor heading towards the interrogation room was dark. The two passed the interrogation room. The shackles clacked and shrieked. Dong-ju was afraid. Where was Sugiyama taking
him?

They stood in the prison yard, spotted with white light as though salt had been scattered over it. They heard the watchtower machine gun readying. The cool searchlight stopped over them.

‘Sugiyama Dozan, Guard Department!’ Sugiyama shouted. ‘Interrogation of the scene with Prisoner 645.’

The guard above them checked his files; he found paperwork signed by Maeda that had been submitted earlier. The searchlight returned to its normal pattern, circling the premises. Sugiyama and
Dong-ju could hear the wind against the branches of the poplar trees as they rose like soft, leavening bread. They sat against a tree, side-by-side. The wind blew cold air on Dong-ju’s pale
cheeks and temples. He could hear his own heart beating. Sugiyama loosened Dong-ju’s ties and took off the handcuffs. The cold night air smelled sweet. Dong-ju inhaled deeply and murmured
words Sugiyama couldn’t understand; he was reciting a poem in his mother tongue, the same language he shouted in as he played in the mountains and fields of his hometown. The language
he’d had to repress now burst out through his lips.

A shooting star raced over their heads. Dong-ju had too many wishes to pick only one. Not Sugiyama; he asked that this poet pass safely through this cruel era. He gazed up at the stars as they
traced concentric circles along the sky and wondered if they made a noise as they orbited, or whether they gave off a gentle rustle. He wanted to hear it. The wind blew; his cheek was wet and
cold.

Back in the interrogation room, Sugiyama opened the report form. Dong-ju began to speak, translating ‘Night Counting Stars’ into Japanese. The poem emerged as fragile as candlelight
in a gale. Sugiyama wondered: how could he not blame himself if he couldn’t usher these poems past the end of the war? He was the only person who could protect this young man’s legacy;
there was no one else. Sugiyama dipped his pen in ink and began transcribing the words, which floated like stars on the dark paper:

Sugiyama carefully folded the report form and slid it into the inner pocket of his uniform.

Warden Hasegawa and Director Morioka were immersed in Midori’s playing, their eyes closed. Hasegawa began to clap when she finished. ‘Wonderful performance, Miss
Iwanami! Thank you in advance for your efforts in preparing for the concert. The entire city of Fukuoka is waiting with anticipation.’ He laughed loudly, revealing molars capped in
silver.

Thanks to the newsworthy concert, the Interior Minister and high-level officials in attendance would be favourably inclined towards him, Hasegawa thought. Reporters from leading newspapers would
rush in; he might become a nationwide celebrity. He planned to invite the ambassadors of allied countries, Germany and Italy, as well as the foreign press; his fame might stretch beyond national
boundaries. He couldn’t keep the pleasant thoughts away or tamp down his gleeful smile.

Midori spoke up, taking advantage of the moment. ‘I have one request.’

Hasegawa nodded eagerly.