Adam Johnson - Fortune Smiles - Stories

DJ said, “Even if he’s not to be found, it matters that you looked, right?”

Mina seemed uncertain. “I suppose.”

“You can’t stop playing your accordion,” he said. “That’s one thing I’m sure about. That’s who you are. Why not just learn new songs? Or better yet, write your own.”

Mina laughed at this. “And what do you think I should sing about?”

“How about a woman searching for her husband? She never gives up. In fact, she plays her accordion at every subway stop in Seoul.”

“You think that would make a good song?”

“Are you kidding?” DJ asked. “It would get you on one of those contest shows. A beautiful woman makes a daring escape and then scours a new country, playing North Korean tunes in search of the man she loves. There wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house.”

Mina started playing again. “I only said I had to find my husband,” she said. “I never claimed to love him.”

—

I never claimed to love him . DJ heard those words through an entire dishwashing shift. The water was scalding hot. It penetrated his hands, gave him focus. And the racks of dishes never ended. DJ didn’t have to think about them — the dirty plates came, clouds of steam rose, and there were Mina’s words. The other guys in the back of the restaurant swapped stories all night, tales about chasing virgins, Gangnam District dancers and episodes of slapstick in the jimjilbang . DJ enjoyed the stories, though he never joined in. What would he have to contribute about nightclubs, steam rooms or even the topic of women? Plus, he’d never told a story in his life, at least not about himself.

In his bunk that night, DJ lay studying the South Korean lottery tickets Sun-ho had given them. Back when he and Sun-ho counterfeited Chinese tickets, they’d run off thousands, then deal them to peddlers across the border. Their press wasn’t very sophisticated, so on one print run, all the tickets would be winners. On the next, everyone was destined to lose.

DJ noticed the guy in the next bunk staring at him. He was one of the young veterans. “So, you’re from the North?” the veteran asked.

“That’s right,” DJ said.

“That’s fucked up,” the veteran said. “I guess you’ve seen it all. The famine and the mind control and the Dear Leader — all that shit’s for real, huh?”

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” DJ said.

The veteran nodded. He was quiet a moment. “So you’re into the lottery?”

“I take an interest,” DJ said. He offered the veteran a ticket. “Try your hand?”

“No, thanks,” the veteran told him. “You only get so much luck in life.”

DJ nodded. It was getting late. Around them were the sounds of men clicking off lamps and closing metal lockers. When he reached to turn off his light, the veteran spoke.

“You know who’s crazy for lottery tickets?” he asked. “Malaysians. All our contractors were Malay. Over in Iraq, I mean. They were Muslim, but friendly, I guess, so they outfitted our base. I was Zaytun Division. Anyway, they couldn’t gamble, but the lottery was somehow okay. That’s all they seemed to care about. Come Friday, there was a sandstorm of discarded tickets blowing around the base.” The veteran tossed him a coin.

“What’s this for?” DJ asked.

“That’s a scratcher, right? You need something to scratch with.”

DJ rolled to his side so the veteran could see. The ticket had three columns, and you got to scratch a jewel from each. DJ picked a diamond and then a sapphire and then another sapphire.

“What’s the verdict?” the veteran asked.

“I lost.”

“Believe me,” the veteran said, “that’s a good thing. Don’t ever waste your luck. When I was over there, everything was booby-trapped. Man, all I wanted was to get out. We weren’t in combat or anything. That was the Americans. But anything you came across might blow up — a car, a Dumpster, a pile of trash. And shit blew, trust me, I saw it. I had to take pills to sleep. The funny thing is, now I can’t stop thinking about that place. When I close my eyes, Iraq is all I see.”

DJ studied the losing ticket. He scratched away the remaining top coating and saw that South Korean tickets were different. If he had picked a diamond, a sapphire and an emerald, the card would have paid twenty thousand won. Every ticket was capable of winning if you played it right, which meant your fate was no one’s but your own.

—

The next day DJ met Mina in front of his dormitory. They’d agreed to work the Black subway line, heading toward Onsu, but when she arrived, she seemed in no hurry. She sat on the smokers’ bench, accordion case in her lap.

“What kind of men sleep here?” she asked. “Are they scoundrels? Are they hiding out?”

DJ hadn’t seen the question coming. “I think they’re just guys with problems,” he said.

“Do you believe in second chances?” she asked. “Can people change their nature?”

DJ leaned against the bus shelter. “Those are two different questions,” he said.

“This is the kind of place my husband would stay in,” Mina said. She watched a couple of haggard-looking men emerge from the dorm and wince from the cold. “When I was a girl, I was known as someone who would push back. If you took my food, I would return the favor and then some. People knew not to cross me. That was my whole reputation. When my husband left, people shook their heads. When he disappeared with our savings, they clucked their tongues and said, ‘That poor man. Mina will hunt him to the ends of the world.’ That’s who I was. And that’s what I did.”

“Yeah?”

“The funny thing is, no one here knows me. I don’t have to be that person.”

“Quit looking for him, then. Quit playing the subways.”

“But then who would I be?” she asked.

DJ had no answer for that.

From down the street came honking and shouting. They turned to see a black BMW sedan slowly making its way toward them. It was headed the wrong way down a one-way street, its driver yelling at everyone in his path. When the car pulled up, they saw Sun-ho at the wheel.

A driver pulled up in front of the BMW and lifted his arms in confusion. Sun-ho leaned on the horn and left-handed a fistful of chicken bones onto the guy’s hood.

DJ approached the sedan. “You trying to get yourself killed?”

“No,” Sun-ho said. “It’s lunchtime.” He held up a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

“It’s not Friday,” DJ said.

“Tell that to the wind,” Sun-ho said. “It’s blowing north today. Get in before it changes its mind.”

The backseat was packed with balloons, so Mina and DJ squeezed in front with the accordion. Sun-ho dropped the car in gear and raced into oncoming traffic. Pressed up against Sun-ho, DJ noticed the new down coat he was wearing.

“Looks like someone’s been shopping,” DJ said.

“One of those sexy Gangnam moms took me to the Shilla duty-free store. I still haven’t recovered. Plus, those ladies keep giving me their old Samsungs,” Sun-ho said, handing DJ and Mina each a phone.

“What do I do with this?” DJ asked.

“Do I need to explain everything?” Sun-ho asked. “When you acquire a Samsung, you’re deemed a good defector. You’re granted immediate citizenship. Next the government gives you a Hyundai, a flag and a Bible.”

DJ lifted his hands. “Who pissed in your porridge?” he asked.

“With a Samsung,” Sun-ho said, “you can update your speed-dating profile and receive texts from Yesu-Nim Himself. With that blessing, you’ll become an important South Korean businessman and start your own Internet. Finally, you’ll achieve celebrity defector status. Yes, you’ll start your own show, The DJ Hour . Here you’ll have soulful interviews with beautiful defectors like Mina here.”