Un-su Kim - The Plotters

“If you’re not warmed up yet, a touch of whiskey’ll get you the rest of the way. You can’t go hunting until daybreak anyway.”

“Does tea go with whiskey?” Reseng asked.

“Why not? It’s all the same going down.”

The old man wrinkled his eyes at him. He had a handsome face. He looked like he would have received a lot of compliments in his younger days. His chiseled features made him seem somehow tough and warm at the same time. As if the years had gently filed down his rough edges and softened him. Reseng held out his cup as the old man tipped a little whiskey into it. The scent of alcohol wafted up from the warm tea. It smelled good. The dog sauntered over from the other end of the living room and lay down next to Reseng.

“You’re a good person.”

“Pardon?”

“Santa likes you,” the old man said, gesturing at the dog. “Dogs know good people from bad right away.”

Up close, the dog’s eyes were surprisingly gentle.

“Maybe it’s just stupid,” Reseng said.

“Drink your tea.”

The old man smiled. He took a sip of his spiked tea, and Reseng followed suit.

“Not bad,” Reseng said.

“Surprising, huh? Tastes good in coffee, too, but black tea is better. Warms your stomach and your heart. Like wrapping your arms around a good woman,” he added with a childish giggle.

“If you’ve got a good woman, why stop at hugging?” Reseng scoffed. “A good woman is always better than some boozy tea.”

The old man nodded. “I suppose you’re right. No tea compares to a good woman.”

“But the taste is memorable, I’ll give you that.”

“Black tea is steeped in imperialism. That’s what gives it its flavor. Anything this flavorful has to be hiding an incredible amount of carnage.”

“Interesting theory.”

“I’ve got some pork and potatoes. Care for some?”

“Sure.”

The old man went outside and came back with a blackened lump of meat and a handful of potatoes. The meat looked awful. It was covered in dirt and dust and still had patches of hair, but even worse was the rancid smell. He shoved the pork into the hot ash at the bottom of the fireplace until it was completely coated, then skewered it on an iron spit and propped it over the fire. He stirred the flames with the poker and tucked the potatoes into the ash.

“I can’t say that looks all that appetizing,” Reseng said.

“I lived in Peru for a while. Learned this method from the Indians. Doesn’t look clean but tastes great.”

“Frankly, it looks pretty terrible, but if it’s a secret native recipe, then I guess there must be something to it.”

The old man grinned at Reseng.

“Just a few days ago, I discovered something else I have in common with the native Peruvians.”

“What’s that?”

“No refrigerator.”

The old man turned the meat. His face looked earnest in the glow of the fire. As he pricked the potatoes with a skewer, he murmured at them, “You’d better make yourselves delicious for our important guest.” While the meat cooked, the old man finished off his spiked tea and refilled his cup with just whiskey, then offered more to Reseng.

Reseng held out his cup. He liked how the whiskey burned on its way down his throat and radiated smoothly up from his empty stomach. The alcohol spread pleasantly through his body. For a moment, everything felt unreal. He would never have imagined it: a sniper and his target sitting in front of a roaring fire, pretending to be best friends … Each time the old man turned the meat, a delicious aroma wafted toward him. The dog moved closer to the fireplace to sniff at the meat, but he hung back at the last moment and grumbled instead, as if afraid of the fire.

“There, there, Santa. Don’t worry,” the old man said, patting the dog. “You’ll get your share.”

“The dog’s name is Santa?”

“I met this fellow on Christmas Day. That day, he lost his owner and I lost my leg.”

The old man lifted the hem of his left pant leg to reveal a prosthesis.

“He saved me. Dragged me over nearly five kilometers of snow-covered road.”

“That’s a hell of a way to meet.”

“Best Christmas gift I ever got.”

The old man continued to stroke the dog’s head.

“He’s very gentle for his size.”

“Not exactly. I used to have to keep him leashed all the time. One glimpse of a stranger and he’d attack. But now that he’s old, he’s gone soft. It’s odd. I can’t get used to the idea of an animal being this friendly with people.”

The meat smelled cooked. The old man poked at it with the skewer and took it off the fire. Using a serrated knife, he carved the meat into thick slices. He gave a piece to Reseng, a piece to himself, and a piece to Santa. Reseng brushed off the ash and took a bite.

“What an unusual flavor. Doesn’t really taste like pork.”

“Good, yeah?”

“It is. But do you have any salt?”

“Nope.”

“No fridge, no salt—that’s quite a way to live. Do the native Peruvians also live without salt?”

“No, no,” the old man said sheepishly. “I ran out a few days ago.”

“Do you hunt?”

“Not anymore. About a month ago, I found a wild boar stuck in a poacher’s trap. Still alive. I watched it gasp for breath and thought to myself, Do I kill it now or wait for it to die? If I waited for it to die, then I could blame its death on the poacher who left that trap out, but if I killed it, then I’d be responsible for its death. What would you have done?”

The old man’s smile was inscrutable. Reseng gave the tin cup a swirl before polishing off the alcohol.

“Hard to say. I don’t think it really matters who killed the boar.”

The old man seemed to ponder this for a moment before responding.

“I guess you’re right. When you really think about it, it doesn’t matter who killed it. Either way, here we are enjoying some Peruvian-style roasted boar.”

The old man laughed loudly. Reseng laughed, too. It wasn’t much of a joke, but the old man kept laughing, and Reseng followed suit with a loud laugh of his own.

The old man was in high spirits. He filled Reseng’s cup with whiskey until it was nearly overflowing, then filled his own and raised it in a toast. They downed their drinks in one gulp. The old man picked up the skewer and fished a couple of potatoes from the hot ashes. After taking a bite of one, he pronounced it delicious and gave the other to Reseng. Reseng brushed off the ashes and took a bite. “That is delicious,” he said.

“There’s nothing better than a roasted potato on a cold winter’s day,” the old man said.

“Potatoes always remind me of someone …” Reseng started to babble. His face was red from the alcohol and the glow of the fire.

“I’m guessing this story doesn’t have a happy ending,” the old man said.

“It doesn’t.”

“Is that someone alive or dead?”

“Long dead. I was in Africa at the time, and we got an emergency call in the middle of the night. We jumped in a truck and headed off. It turned out that a rebel soldier who’d escaped camp had taken an old woman hostage. He was just a kid—still had his baby fat. Must’ve been fifteen, maybe even fourteen? From what I saw, he was worked up and scared out of his wits, but not an actual threat. The old woman kept saying something to him. Meanwhile, he was pointing an AK-47 at her head with one hand and cramming a potato into his mouth with the other. We all knew he wasn’t going to do anything, but then the order came over the walkie-talkie to take him out. Someone pulled the trigger. We ran over to take a closer look. Half of the kid’s head was blown away, and in his mouth was the mashed-up potato that he never got the chance to swallow.”