The Orphan Master's Son (63 page)

“One of our father's flunkies,” the girl said. “No offense.”

“Your father,” Ga said. “That's the first I've heard you speak of him.”

“He's on a mission,” the girl said.

“Those are secret,” the boy added. “He goes on lots.”

After a silence, the girl spoke up. “You said you'd tell us a story.”

Commander Ga took a breath. “To understand the story I'm about to tell you, you need to know a few things. Have you heard of an incursion tunnel?”

“An incursion tunnel?” the girl asked, a look of distaste on her face.

Ga said, “What about uranium ore?”

“Tell us another dog story,” the boy said.

“Yeah,” said the girl. “This time make him go to America, where he eats food out of a can.”

“And bring back those scientists,” the boy added.

Commander Ga thought about it a moment. He wondered if he couldn't tell a story that seemed natural enough to them now, but upon later consideration might contain the kind of message he was looking for.

“A team of scientists was ordered to find two dogs,” he began. “One must be the smartest dog in North Korea, the other the bravest. These two dogs would be sent on a top-secret mission together. The scientists went to all the dog farms in the land, and then they inspected canine warrens in all the prisons and military bases. First the dogs were asked to work an abacus with their paws. Then they had to fight a bear. When all the dogs had failed the tests, the scientists sat on the curb, heads in their hands, afraid to tell the ministers.”

“But they hadn't checked Brando,” the boy said.

At the mention of his name, Brando twitched in his sleep but did not wake.

“That's right,” Commander Ga said. “Just then, Brando happened to be walking down the street with a chamber pot stuck on his head.”

Peals of laughter came from the boy, and even the girl showed a smile. Suddenly, Ga saw a better use for the story, one that would help them now, rather than later. If in the story he could get the dog to America by stowing itself in a barrel being loaded onto an American plane, he could implant in the children basic instructions for the escape tomorrow—how to enter the barrels, how to be quiet, what kind of movement to expect, and how long they should wait before calling to be let out.

“A chamber pot,” the boy said. “How did that happen?”

“How do you think?” Ga answered.

“Yech,” the boy said.

“Poor Brando didn't know who had turned out the lights,” Ga said. “Everything echoed inside the pot. He wandered down the road, bumping into things, but the scientists thought he had come to take the tests. How brave of a dog to voluntarily face a bear, the scientists thought. And how smart to put on armor!”

Both the boy and the girl laughed large, natural laughs. Gone was the worry on their faces, and Ga decided that perhaps it was better for the
story to have no purpose, that it be nothing other than the thing it was, spontaneous and original as it wandered toward its own conclusion.

“The scientists hugged each other in celebration,” Ga continued. “Then they radioed Pyongyang, reporting that they'd found the most extraordinary dog in the world. When the American spy satellites intercepted this message, they—”

The boy was tugging Ga's sleeve. The boy was still laughing, there was a smile on his face, but he had turned serious somehow.

“I want to tell you something,” the boy said.

“I'm listening,” Ga said.

But then the boy went silent and looked down.

“Go on,” the girl said to her brother. When he wouldn't answer, she said to Ga, “He wants to tell you his name. Our mother said it was okay, if that's what we wanted to do.”

Ga looked at the boy. “Is that it, is that what you want to tell me?”

The boy nodded.

“What about you?” Ga asked the girl.

She, too, glanced down. “I think so,” she said.

“There's no need,” Ga said. “Names come and go. Names change. I don't even have one.”

“Is that true?” the girl asked.

“I suppose I have a real one,” Ga said. “But I don't know what it is. If my mother wrote it on me before she dropped me off at the orphanage, it faded away.”

“Orphanage?” the girl asked.

“A name isn't a person,” Ga said. “Don't ever remember someone by their name. To keep someone alive, you put them inside you, you put their face on your heart. Then, no matter where you are, they're always with you because they're a part of you.” He put his hands on their shoulders. “It's you that matter, not your names. It's the two of you I'll never forget.”

“You talk like you're going somewhere,” the girl said.

“No,” Ga said. “I'm staying right here.”

The boy finally lifted his eyes. He smiled.

Ga asked, “Now, where were we?”

“The American spies,” the boy said.

SAD NEWS
,
citizens, for our nation's oldest comrade has died at the age of one hundred and thirty-five. Have a safe journey to the afterlife, old friend, and remember fondly your days in the most contented, most long-lived nation on earth! Consider taking a moment today, citizens, to offer a respectful gesture for an older person in your housing block. Carry their ice blocks up the stairs or surprise them with a bowl of chive-blossom soup. Remember: not too spicy!

And a warning, citizens, against touching any balloons that float across the DMZ. The Minister of Public Safety has determined that the gas which floats these balloons and the propaganda messages they carry is actually a deadly nerve agent meant to slay innocent civilians who encounter them.

But there is good news, citizens! The city's notorious windshield-wiper thief has been apprehended. The presence of all citizens is requested tomorrow morning in the soccer stadium. And more good news—shipments of sorghum have begun arriving from the countryside. See your ration stations for ample portions of this delicious starch. Not only does sorghum fortify the bowel, it also assists with male virility. Distillation of sorghum into
goryangju
liquor is not allowed this year. Be prepared for random crockery inspections.

Perhaps the best news of all, citizens: the next installment of this year's Best North Korean Story is here. As we near our tale's conclusion, already there are cries from the populace for more! But there will be no sequel, citizens. The conclusion of this story is one of eternal finality.

Forget for a moment, citizens, that you're fabricating vinalon clothing or running an industrial lathe. Picture instead this scene—it is late, the moon's a sliver above, while beneath it Pyongyang slumbers. One car threads its beams through the city's towering structures, heading north, on the road to the airport. Looming ahead is the Central Cinema Studio, the largest film-production facility on earth. Here, hectares of Quonset
huts link in a chain of unparalleled cinematic capacity. And it is here that the vehicle halted. From it emerged none other than Sun Moon, the woman for whom this facility exists.

The corrugated bay doors parted for her, and a great light emanated from inside. Bathed in this warm glow, waiting to greet her, was none other than the most charismatic figure in all the world, the Reverend General Kim Jong Il. He threw his arms wide to her, and together they exchanged gestures of socialist support.

Strong was the smell of Texan cooking—great slabs of pork torso and the noodle called the
mac-a-roni
. When the Dear Leader led her inside, Sun Moon discovered music, gymnastics, and synchronized forklifts!

“I thought the extravaganza to welcome the Americans would take place at the airport,” she said.

“It will,” the Dear Leader told her. “But our preparations must occur indoors.” He pointed to the sky. “To safeguard against spying eyes.”

The Dear Leader took her arms and squeezed them through the satin. “You are healthy, yes? You are doing well?”

“I want of nothing, Dear Leader,” she said.

“Splendid,” he responded. “Now tell me of the American. How many bars of soap did it take to clean our dirty, dirty girl?” Sun Moon started to speak.

“No, don't tell me, not yet,” the Dear Leader interrupted. “Save your opinions of her for later. First I have something to show you, a little treat, if you will.”

The two began crossing the studio. Near the blast-proof film vaults, the Pochonbo Electronic Ensemble had set up and were playing their latest hit, “Reunification Rainbow.” To this music, a forklift ballet performed with pallets of food aid for America, their loads hoisted high as they circled, spun, and reversed in gay synchronicity with the lively tune. Most impressive, however, was an army of child gymnasts in colorful uniforms. Each limber tot held as his dance partner a hundred-liter barrel. The children had these white plastic barrels spinning like tops, rotating as if on their own and—
surprise!
—the children were atop them, logrolling them in unison toward the forklifts where they were to be stacked and loaded onto the American cargo plane. Tell us, citizens—have the hungry ever been fed with such precision and joy?

When they neared three
choson-ots
displayed on seamstress's dummies,
Sun Moon caught her breath at the sight of their stunning beauty. She stopped before them.

“The gift is too much,” she said, admiring the trio of satin dresses, each flashing almost metallic—one white, one blue, one red.

“Oh, these,” the Dear Leader said. “These are not the treat. These you'll wear tomorrow as you dress in the colors of the DPRK flag. The white one when we greet the Americans, the blue one while you perform your blues composition in honor of the Girl Rower's departure. And red as you escort the Girl Rower to her American fate. That is what will happen, right? Is that what you've chosen?”

“I'm not to wear a dress of my own?” she asked. “I've already picked which one.”

“I'm afraid it's been decided,” he told her. “So please, no sad faces.”

From his pocket, he withdrew an envelope and handed it to her.

Inside, she discovered two tickets. “What's this?” she asked.

“It's part of the treat,” he said. “A sample of what's ahead for you.”

Examining them, she saw they were official tickets to the premiere of
Comfort Woman
.

“These are for next Saturday,” she said.

“An opera had to be canceled,” he said. “But we must have priorities, yes?”

“My movie,” she said. In disbelief, she asked, “My movie will finally be screened?”

“All of Pyongyang will be in attendance,” the Dear Leader assured her. “If for some reason duty calls your husband on a mission, would you do me the honor, would you join me in my box?”

Sun Moon gazed into the Dear Leader's eyes. She was almost without comprehension that someone so powerful and generous would assist a citizen as humble as herself. But with the Dear Leader, citizens, remember, everything is possible. Remember that his only desire is to protectively clasp each and every one of you in his everlasting embrace.

“Come,” the Dear Leader said. “There's more.”

Sun Moon could see that across the studio, a small orchestra was assembled. The two of them walked in that direction, passing through fields of props, all of which were familiar to her—a row of American jeeps and racks of GI uniforms, pulled from dead imperialists during the war. And here was a scale model of Mount Paektu, birthplace of the glorious leader
Kim Jong Il, born so close to the sun! Paektusan, may your magisterial peaks ever extend to the heavens!

As they strolled further, the Dear Leader said, “Now it's time to speak of your next film.”

“I have been practicing my lines,” she told him.

“For
Ultimate Sacrifices
?” he asked. “Throw that script away. I have changed my mind—a story of replacement husbands isn't for you. Come, come see your new projects.”

They came to three easels surrounded by musicians in tuxedos. And here in his tuxedo stood Dak-Ho, the state movie producer. Because of his resonant tenor's voice, he'd performed the voice-overs on all her movies. Dak-Ho removed the linen from the first easel, and here was the lobby card for Sun Moon's next movie. It depicted a ravishing Sun Moon, barely contained in her uniform, wrapped in the embrace of a naval officer, the two of them shrouded by a halo of torpedoes. But surprise, citizens, the officer she embraces wears a South Korean uniform!

“
The Demon Fleet
,” Dak-Ho announced, his voice robust and deep.

The orchestra began playing a theme for the movie-to-be that was tense and brooding.

“In a world of danger and intrigue,” Dak-Ho continued, “one woman will discover that a pure heart is the only weapon that can repel the imperialist menace. The sole survivor of an illegal South Korean assault on her submarine, Sun Moon is ‘rescued' by her sneak-attacker's gunship. As a captive of the dashing ROK captain, she is pressed to reveal the defenses of the DPRK fleet. Slowly, however, she begins showing her handsome captor how he is actually the imprisoned one—jailed by the manipulations of the American regime. In the stunning climax, he turns his guns toward the real enemy.”

The Dear Leader smiled broadly. “The submarine we'll use for the opening scenes is already moored in the Taedong,” he said. “And as we speak, there's an entire naval detachment in the disputed waters searching for the appropriate ROK gunship to capture.”

The Dear Leader snapped his fingers, and the sheet came off the second lobby card.

Soaring violins began a refrain that was strong and inspiring.

“
The Floating Wall
,” Dak-Ho began, but the Dear Leader cut him off.

“This is a bio-pic about the first female Pubyok,” the Dear Leader said,
pointing at the beautiful, determined woman on the movie poster. He indicated the way her badge shone brightly and her eyes were fixed on a better horizon. “In this role, you will get results—cracking cases and proving that a woman can be as strong as any man.”