James Church - A Corpse in the Koryo

With the train stopped and the sun climbing, the air in the car became even hotter. The windows on the colonel's side were still shut, but I finally managed to tug the one at my seat open just as the taller of the railway policemen shouted, "And don't let me catch you again, or I'll shoot." He turned to his companion. "Or I would if I had any ammunition."

He waved to the locomotive, and the train inched forward. A trio of goats alongside the tracks looked up as we moved by. The smallest scampered away; the other two watched without interest, then turned back to a row of newly planted fruit trees, which they were slowly stripping bare of leaves.

The girl was starting to perspire. I could see her makeup was already suffering. She leaned toward me. "Go ahead," she said, "open the window on his side." She nodded toward the colonel. "Don't worry about waking him."

"You two know each other?"

She sat back and smoothed her dress. "We are acquainted, yes."

The colonel opened one eye. "I want that window shut. Even if this car reaches the boiling point, the window stays shut, understood?"

I stood up. "Makes no difference to me. Broil if you want to. I'm going to get some air." I opened the door to the platform between the cars.

It was crowded with people, most of them dozing, a few hanging off the side. The one nearest me moved slightly so I could step around him.

"This is reserved space." He turned his head, and his left eye looked past me, into the sky, while the other searched my face. "Moreover, it is illegal to ride between the cars of any train, at any time."

"Strictly forbidden." An older man beside him spoke into the hot wind. I stood silent; the others turned to me, one or two expectantly, the rest with blank faces.

I took out my notepad and flipped it open. "All right, I shall have to arrest each of us, once we get back into my jurisdiction." Just then the door to the car behind me opened, and the two railway police stepped through.

The first one, the one without any ammunition, glared at the group.

"Not one of you has a ticket, and it is strictly forbidden…"

"… to ride between the cars," the man with the roaming eye muttered, and his older companion finished, "of any train."

"I'd push you off here, but it's not worth my time." The second policeman, smaller, with a cap that went over his ears, meant to sound tough but only managed to be shrill.

The first one eyed me suspiciously, taking in my clothes and the pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket. "Looks like we've got a comrade here, riding with the masses. You know the regulations, brother?"

I pulled three cigarettes from the pack, handed one to him, one to his small partner, and crumbled the third into the wind. He knew what it meant: You and the breeze, my friend, have equal standing as far as I'm concerned. He shook his head. "From Pyongyang, sure enough.

Terrible wasteful, you people are. Not all that smart, either." He had the accent of someone from the tiny valleys buried among the mountains of Yanggang, close to the Chinese border. Whenever these people slipped into Pyongyang, it meant trouble. They were all crooks. The security patrols in the city complained that it was hard to deal with them because you couldn't understand their accent, and they always had long, complicated stories to tell about the loss of their travel permits, or why they were wearing so many watches.

"That's enough." The man with the bad eye addressed the policemen, whom he obviously knew and certainly didn't fear. He was much taller than he seemed at first. Tall and thin, with a crooked eye but a straight back. "You stand around, he'll crumble another, all to loss, and we'll none of us be better off." This was no peasant; he spoke with an elegant, learned cadence that had no connection with his worn appearance.

The conversation tailed off as we passed through the next station, a wilted place with a deserted platform. There was not even a signboard.

You either knew where it was and got off because you had no choice, or you didn't bother. I could see the stationmaster slouched in a chair in his hut; he didn't even wave at the train as we crept by. The two policemen puffed on their cigarettes; the others went back to watching the countryside pass. I smoked part of a cigarette but tossed it away into a ditch running along the tracks and spent the rest of the journey chewing on a rice cake I'd bought at the Pyongyang station. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the piece of persimmon wood, smoothing it in time to the sound of the wheels clacking over the tracks. I didn't want to think about how long it had been since I'd had any tea.

The Irishman reached over turned off the tape recorder. "All stop. I'm not paid to go on any train trips. I told you, we're supposed to be talking about Kang."

"Relax, Richie. I'm getting you there."

"I'm relaxed. You're the one whose fingers are drumming on the table."

"I didn't know the Irish were so observant."

"I hadn't heard Koreans were so transparent." He stood up from the couch and stretched. "Seems like a lot of people in your country talk quietly."

I didn't say anything.

"Any special reason? Fear, maybe? Must be a quiet place."

"I realize some cultures see a virtue in being boisterous. We don't. Public decorum has a lot to recommend it."

"Especially if you need to be invisible." The Irishman pointed to the wall. "See that clock? It says 2:40. Know why? After a while, they figure maybe you won't realize how much time has passed. They figure you won't be checking your watch. But I know you already did that, twice. Maybe you have an appointment, planning on meeting someone?" He waited, but I didn't, respond, so he went on. "Psychologically, it's supposed to be a good time for this sort of meeting-2:40, i mean. Midway to nowhere. You ever awake at that time of the morning? Gives me the shakes." Moving to the clock, he reset it to 11:15. "That's better, huh? You might say it's not long until lunch, or about time to cuddle, depending on your a.m. or your p.m."

He sat down again, this time at the other end of the couch. "Tell me about your chief inspector, Pak. I'm guessing he knows Kang better than you do."

"There's nothing to tell. Pak is dead." I felt the coffeepot. It wasn't even lukewarm. "Anyway, Pak is not your business."

"That so?" Lines creased his forehead, then went away. "Let's review, shall we? Kang is dead. Pak is dead. Everyone who touches you dies, is that it? Anyone else I should cross off my list?"

"Since when do you have a list?" I stood and wandered around the apartment. It was sterile; no one ever lived here. My little room back home had more character, though this one had the advantage of a lamp.

"Go ahead, get the urge to ramble out of your system. Feel better? Alright.

Forget Pak." The Irishman fiddled for a moment with the tape recorder.

He sighed and pounded his shoulder a few times. "Kim, give me something on Kim. You don't like him, I got that much. I take it he is still alive."

"A sad state of affairs, Richie, when men like Kim are left standing."

I sat down again and poured myself half a cup of coffee. It looked cold.

"Kim is a problem in search of a solution."

"Couldn't tell by me. So far, his only sin is a bad haircut."

The Inn of the Red Dragon in Kanggye was a two-story building that had given up the struggle with the weather. The roof sagged, its windows were cockeyed, and the exterior cement facing was chipped and cracking where it wasn't streaked with water stains. A few blocks east of the train station, the inn sat alone, across from the burned wreck of what used to be a clinic, according to a sign on the boarded-up door.

I had asked at the station whether there was an inn nearby. There were several, according to an old lady who leaned against the wall with a blanket spread in front of her, selling cigarettes stacked in two small pyramids-one Korean, one foreign-a circle of rice cakes, and a few pieces of fruit. A pile of party newspapers sat beside her; the one on top was old but in remarkably good shape, an edition for Kim II Sung's sixtieth birthday, dated April 15, 1972. She also had four or five children's books in English, brightly colored, one of them with a duck in pants and a hat on the cover.