Adam Johnson - The Orphan Master's Son

I knew better than to leave important files at home anymore. These were just requisition forms.

I pushed the door shut behind me. It squealed in its arc until the lock clicked tight.

The two of them froze.

“Who is it?” my father asked. “Who’s there?”

“Are you a thief?” my mother asked. “I assure you we have nothing to steal.”

They were both looking right at me, though they seemed not to see me.

Across the table, their hands sought one another and joined.

“Go away,” my father said. “Leave us alone, or we’ll tell our son.”

My mother felt around the table until she located a spoon. She grabbed the handle and held it out like a knife. “You don’t want my son to find out about this,” she said. “He’s a torturer.”

“Mother, Father,” I said. “No need to worry, it is I, your son.”

“But it’s the middle of the day,” my father said. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” I told him.

I walked to the table and closed the files.

“You’re barefoot,” my mother said.

“I am.”

I could see the marks on them. I could see that they’d been branded.

“But I don’t understand,” my father said.

“I’m going to have a long night,” I told them. “And some long tomorrows to follow. I won’t be here to cook your dinner or help you down the hall to the bathroom.”

“Don’t worry about us,” my mother said. “We can manage. If you have to go, go.”

“I do have to go,” I said.

I walked to the kitchen. From a drawer, I removed the can opener. I paused there at the window. Spending my days underground, I wasn’t used to the midday brightness. I observed the spoon and pan and hot plate my mother cooked with. I stared at the drying rack, where two glass bowls caught the light. I decided against bowls.

“I think you’re afraid of me,” I said to them. “Because I’m a mystery to you. Because you don’t really know me.”

I thought they’d protest, but they were silent. I reached to the top shelf and found the can of peaches. I blew on the lid, but it hadn’t been there long enough to gather much dust. At the table, I took the spoon from my mother’s hand and sat, the items before me.

“Well, you won’t have to worry ever again,” I told them. “Because today you’re going to meet the real me.”

I sank the opener into the can and began to cut a slow circle.

My father sniffed the air. “Peaches?” he asked.

“That’s right,” I said. “Peaches in their own sweet liquor.”

“From the night market?” Mother asked.

“Actually, I stole them from the evidence locker.”

My father inhaled deeply. “I can just see them, plain as day, the thick juice they’re in, the way they glow in the light.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve tasted a peach,” my mother said. “We used to get a coupon for a can every month in our ration book.”

My father said, “Oh, that was years ago.”

“I suppose you’re right,” my mother answered. “I’m just saying that we used to love peaches, and then one day you couldn’t get them anymore.”

“Well, allow me, then,” I told them. “Open.”

Like children, they opened their mouths. In anticipation, my father closed his milky eyes.

I stirred the peaches in their can, then selected a slice. Passing the bottom of the spoon across the edge of the can, I caught the dripping syrup. Then I reached and slipped the slice into my mother’s mouth.

“Mmm,” she said.

I fed my father next.

“That, son,” he said, “was a peach.”

There was silence, except for the blaring loudspeaker, as they savored the moment.

In unison, they said, “Thank you, Dear Leader Kim Jong Il.”

“Yes,” I said. “You have him to thank.”

I stirred the can again, hunted down the next slice.

“I have a new friend,” I said.

“A friend from work?” my father asked.

“Yes, a friend from work,” I said. “The two of us have become quite intimate. He’s given me hope that love is out there for me. He’s a man who has true love. I’ve studied his case very closely, and I think the secret to love is sacrifice. He himself has made the ultimate sacrifice for the woman he loves.”

“He gave his life for her?” my father asked.

“Actually, he took her life,” I told him and popped a peach in his mouth.

There was a quake in my mother’s voice. “We’re happy for you,” she said. “As the Dear Leader says, Love makes the world go ’round . So don’t hesitate. Go find that true love. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine. We can take care of ourselves.”

I spooned a slice into her mouth. It caught her by surprise and she coughed.

“Perhaps, from time to time,” I said, “you have seen me writing in my journal. It’s actually not a journal—it’s a personal biography. As you know, that’s what I do for a living, write people’s biographies, which we keep in what you might call a private library. A guy I work with, I’ll call him Sarge, says the problem with my biographies is that no one ever reads them. This brings me to my new friend, who told me that the only people in the world who would want to read his biography were gone.”

I dished out new slices with ample syrup.

“People,” my father said, “meaning the lady that your friend loves.”

“Yes,” I said.

“The lady that your friend killed,” Mother said.

“And her kids,” I said. “There is a tragic aspect to the story, there’s no denying it.”

I nodded my head at the truth of that. It would have made a good subtitle for his biography— Commander Ga: A Tragedy . Or whatever his name was.

The peaches were half gone. I stirred them in their can, selecting a new slice.

“Save some for yourself,” my father said.

“Yes, that’s enough,” my mother said. “I haven’t tasted sweet in so long, my stomach cannot handle it.”

I shook my head no. “This is a rare can of peaches,” I said. “I was going to keep them for myself, but taking the easy way, that’s not the answer to life’s problems.”

My mother’s lip started to quiver. She covered it with her hand.

“But back to my problem,” I said. “My biography, and the difficulty I’ve had writing it. This biographer’s block I’ve been suffering from—I see it so clearly now—came from the fact that deep down, I knew no one wanted to hear my story. Then my friend, he had the insight that his tattoo wasn’t public, but personal. Though it was there for the world to see, it was truly for no one but himself. Losing that, he lost everything, really.”

“How can a person lose a tattoo?” my father asked.

“Unfortunately, it’s easier than you’d think,” I told them. “It got me thinking, though, and I realized I wasn’t composing for posterity or the Dear Leader or for the good of the citizenry. No, the people who needed to hear my story were the people I loved, the people right in front of me who’d started to think of me as a stranger, who were scared of me because they no longer knew the real me.”

“But your friend, he killed the people he loved, right?”

“It’s unfortunate, I know,” I said. “There’s no forgiving him for it, he hasn’t even asked. But let me get started with my biography. I was born in Pyongyang,” I began, “to parents who were factory workers. My mother and father were older, but they were good parents. They survived every worker purge and avoided denunciation and reeducation.”

“But we already know these things,” my father said.

“Shh,” I told him. “You can’t talk back to a book. You don’t get to rewrite a biography as you’re reading it. Now, back to my story.” As they finished the peaches, I relayed to them how normal my childhood was, how I played the accordion and recorder at school, and while in the choir, I sang high alto in performances of Our Quotas Lift Us Higher . I memorized all the speeches of Kim Il Sung and got the highest marks in Juche Theory. Then I began with the things they didn’t know. “One day a man from the Party came to our school,” I said. “He loyalty-tested all the boys, one at a time, in the maintenance shed. The test itself only lasted a couple of minutes, but it was quite difficult. I suppose that’s the point of a test. I’m happy to say I passed the test, all of us did, but none of us ever spoke of it.”