Adam Johnson - The Orphan Master's Son

“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.”