Hyejin Kim - Jia - A Novel of North Korea

“I haven’t tried North Korean food before. Oh, but I like bibimbab and naengmyeon, or whatever you call that cold noodle dish. If you know how to make them, would you, sometime?”

I didn’t answer. So long as I didn’t know what he really wanted from me, I knew I couldn’t feel secure. My head was spinning. I should be ready to bolt, just in case. That’s the lesson I’ve learned in my life. Why did he buy me? Does he want me to be his sex slave, like the other men? Is that why he brought me here, to this isolated place? My fear returned with a rush.

Staring at his back, I said, “I was in that hell against my will. Don’t be confused and think you can do whatever you want just because you bought me.”

He continued washing the pans in silence for a moment, then said quietly, “You’d better learn Chinese. I know it’s hard to learn a foreign language as an adult. But if you can’t speak Chinese, you’ll live in fear of being arrested. You speak English, but it’s not perfect either. If you meet Chinese people, you can tell them in English that you are from South Korea. But if you run into South Koreans, they’ll know. Living here without speaking Chinese isn’t difficult—you can go to the Korean-Chinese districts if you need something. But you are in China now. Learning Chinese will be better for you.”

I replied, as if he had not spoken, “You don’t have to pretend you are a nice guy. I know every man wants one thing. I’ll kill myself if you try to force yourself on me, but I’ll kill you first, I’m warning you.”

He dropped the pan in the sink with a clatter. Swinging around, he glared at me, his face twitching. “You know what? I am not starving for sex. If I really wanted it, I would have taken it already. Finding women here is not at all difficult, and you are not as attractive as you think.”

He left the kitchen, and I stood holding on to the chair with one hand.

“Come here,” he called from the next room. “I’ll show you around the house.”

He pointed to the bathroom and then took me to a room on the second floor. “This is your room. These are some clothes you can wear—I didn’t know your size. If they are too big or too small, let me know. I can return them and exchange them for the right sizes.” He continued, “The second floor is all yours. I’ll use the first floor. Take a rest tonight. If you have any question, you can call me. Good night.” He started down the stairs.

“Why are you helping me like this? I know nothing is free, and I really need to know what you want from me.”

He looked at me, frustrated. “I don’t want anything from you. If you want to run away, you can. I just wanted to help you. But, whatever you do, stay away from the police. First of all, think about how you can survive here. I didn’t promise I could help you forever—you’ll have to find a way to stand on your own feet. Good night.” He closed the door.

I watched the door for a while. Everything had happened so fast; I had been in hell only hours ago. I locked the door and pushed the bed in front of it, so he couldn’t get in. I lay down with my head next to the door, so as to hear the slightest sound on the other side. As soon as my body hit the bed, I realized how tired I was.

I didn’t want to think anymore; it didn’t get me anywhere. Tomorrow, I would ask one more time what he really wanted from me. My mind still swirling, I fell asleep.

The morning sun flooded in through a window. When I opened my eyes, I realized I hadn’t even changed my clothes, or covered myself with a blanket. My body no longer ached. Getting up, I opened the door slightly and stole a peek down the hall. It was perfectly quiet. The shadows of trees played on the floor and wall opposite a window. He seemed to have left already.

I found a message fastened to the door:

Dear Miss X,

Just now I realized I don’t even know your name. I hope you will tell me later. I had to leave—I will probably be back late tonight. You can have a rest. There is food in the kitchen and some books that I bought for you to study Chinese. They are all written in Korean. Have a look at them.

I’ll talk to you later. Have a good rest. Oh, by the way, I don’t recommend that you go outside. We can walk around together when I return.

I hope you have a restful day.

P.S. My name is Jin Xuezhen, in Chinese, which is Kim Hakjin in Korean.

He had the most common Korean surname—his father must be Korean, so perhaps he wasn’t lying.

I shut the door and looked around the room more closely. Like the rest of the house, it smelled of new furniture, and everything was white, ivory, or transparent. I found some Chinese textbooks and tapes on the desk. I might as well study this strange language, I thought. When I opened the ivory closet next to the desk, I discovered clothing hanging inside. I checked the clothes piece by piece, until I got to a pair of blue jeans. I had always wanted to try on jeans, but it was impossible at home; the government didn’t allow them because they are symbols of the West and not suited to “feminine modesty.” One of my coworkers always sighed with envy when we had the chance to watch Western television programs for language classes. She’d say, “I want to try on those tight blue pants, too. Don’t you think they look nice?”

Thinking of her, I smiled to myself. I took the jeans and a white shirt off their hangers. Closing the closet, I went to a corner of the room and hid behind a chair; I was scared out of habit. The jeans weren’t as tight as I had seen on TV, but they fit, and I felt comfortable in then.

I went downstairs, scouring the house for people. On my tour of the house the night before, my nerves had kept me from paying attention. It was hard to believe all that space was for just one person. I wondered what kind of job could maintain such a fancy house. In the living room, he had covered two entire walls with many kinds of small cars on ledges. A huge TV stood against the third wall—it was about as big as the one in the reception hall of the hotel where I had worked in Pyongyang.

There were several photographs along the hall to his room. I inspected them carefully, as though looking at a person’s entire history. Jin’s thick eyebrows were hereditary. One picture showed him with his parents. I couldn’t tell that his father was Korean and his mother Chinese; I just saw then as people, like me. It became clear why he had such dark skin; most of the pictures were taken at the beach. In several of them he was with foreigners, a big smile on his face.

I realized I didn’t have that kind of record of my life. I had no pictures with my grandparents or my sister, and their figures were vanishing from memory. All my pictures were taken during dance performances, when I was in thick makeup and wore a feigned smile. I had burned them all before coming to China.

There was a photo of a woman with a wide smile, her arms wrapped around Jin’s neck from behind; they looked happy. She might be his girlfriend or wife, I thought, and if he had wanted to seduce me, he would have taken that picture down.

I went back to the sun-filled living room. The sunshine tempted me sorely, and I decided to leave the house. If the door was locked, it would mean he wanted to shut me up in the house, and I would have to run away. Nervously, I gripped the doorknob. It twisted open smoothly.

Right, I thought. Maybe he really doesn’t care. It’s possible. A rich person might help a desperate woman out of fleeting sympathy, like buying a dog on the street. I felt so sad; I was becoming distrustful of everyone.

I stepped outside and looked up at the sky, letting my face bask in the sun. From the outside, the house looked like a simple two-story brick edifice. I walked around for a while. To the left was a wide green field dotted with ponds. The houses could be counted on two hands. I walked toward the ponds. A few people appeared in the distance, and I scrambled back to the house, seized with fear.