Adam Johnson - The Orphan Master's Son

“I would have taught him some English. All he had to do was ask. What did he want it for?”

“Oh, he was full of ridiculous plans.”

“To get out?”

“He said the key was a big distraction. He said the Canning Master had the right idea—make a scene so gruesome that nobody wants to go near it. Then you slip away.”

“But the Canning Master’s family, they didn’t slip away.”

“No,” she said. “They didn’t.”

“And after the distraction, what was the plan?”

She shrugged. “I never really wanted out,” she said. “He wanted the outside world. For me, it’s Pyongyang. I finally got him to see that.”

All the exertion had exhausted Jun Do. He pulled the yellow sheet tighter around his waist, but really, he wanted to lie down.

“You look tired,” she said. “Are you ready for your jar?”

“I think I am,” he said.

She got the jar, but when he reached for it, she didn’t let go. The two of them held it, and the candlelight made her eyes look bottomless.

“Beauty means nothing here,” she said. “It’s only how many fish you can process. No one cares that I can sing except the boys who want to take my mind off it. But Pyongyang, that’s where the theater is, the opera, television, the movies. Only in Pyongyang will I matter. For all his faults, that’s something my husband was trying to give me.”

Jun Do took a deep breath. When he used the jar, the night would be over, and he didn’t want that because when she blew out the candle the room would be as dark as the sea and the Second Mate upon it.

“I wish I had my radio,” he said.

“You’ve got a radio?” she asked. “Where is it?”

He nodded toward the window, and the Canning Master’s house beyond. “It’s in my kitchen,” he said.

Jun Do slept all night, then woke in the morning, so turned around was his system now. All of the fish that had been strung through the room were gone, and sitting on the chair was his radio, the loose parts in a plastic bowl. When the news came on, he could feel the entire housing block hum with two hundred loudspeakers. He stared at the place on the wall where the chart had been while he was informed of the coming negotiations in America, of the Dear Leader’s inspection of a cement factory in Sinpo, of the news that North Korea had defeated the Libyan badminton team in straight sets, and finally, a reminder that it is illegal to eat swallows, as they control insect populations that feed on rice seedlings.

Jun Do stood awkwardly and scrounged a piece of brown paper. Then he pulled on the blood-soaked pants he’d been wearing four days ago, when it all happened. Outside, at the end of the hall, was the line for the tenth-floor toilet. With all the adults at the cannery, the line was made up of old women and children, each waiting with scraps of paper in their hands. When it was his turn, though, Jun Do saw the wastebasket was filled instead with wadded pages of Rodong Sinmun , which was illegal to tear, let alone wipe your ass with.

He was in there a long time. Finally, he scooped two ladles of water into the toilet, and when he was leaving, an old lady in line stopped him. “You’re the one who lives in the Canning Master’s house,” she said.

“That’s right,” Jun Do told her.

“They should burn that place,” she said.

The apartment door was open when he returned. Inside Jun Do found the old man who’d interrogated him. He held the pair of Nikes in his hands. “What the hell is on your roof?” he asked.

“Dogs,” Jun Do told him.

“Filthy animals. You know they’re illegal in Pyongyang. That’s the way it should be. Besides, I’ll take pork any day.” He held up the Nikes. “What are these?”

“They’re some kind of American shoes,” Jun Do told him. “We found them in our nets one night.”

“You don’t say. What are they for?”

It was hard to believe an interrogator from Pyongyang had never seen nice athletic shoes. Still, Jun Do said, “They’re for exercise, I think.”

“I’ve heard that,” the old man said. “That Americans do pointless labor for fun.” He pointed at the radio. “And what about this?” he said.

“That’s work-related,” Jun Do said. “I’m fixing it.”

“Turn it on.”

“It’s not all put together.” Jun Do pointed at the bowl of parts. “Even if it was, there’s no antenna.”

The old man put the shoes back and walked to the window. The sun was high but still rising, and the angle made the water, despite its depth, shimmer light blue.

“Look at that,” he said. “I could stare at that forever.”

“It’s quite a lovely sea, sir,” Jun Do said.

“If a guy walked down to that dock and cast a line in,” the old man said, “would he catch a fish?”

The place to catch a fish was a little to the south, where the canning factory’s waste pipes pumped fish sludge into the sea, but Jun Do said, “Yeah, I think he might.”

“And up north, in Wonsan,” the old man said. “They have beaches there, no?”

“I’ve never visited,” Jun Do told him. “But you can see the sand from our ship.”

“Here,” the old guy said. “I brought you this.” He handed Jun Do a crimson velvet case. “It’s your medal for heroism. I’d pin it on you, but I can tell you’re not a medal guy. I like that about you.”

Jun Do didn’t open the case.

The old interrogator looked again out the window. “To survive in this world, you got to be many times a coward but at least once a hero.” Here he laughed. “At least, that’s what a guy told me one time when I was beating the shit out of him.”

“I just want to get back on my boat,” Jun Do said.

The old interrogator took a look at Jun Do. “I think that saltwater made your shirt shrink,” he said. He tugged Jun Do’s sleeve up to look at the scars, which were red-lipped and wept at the corners.

Jun Do pulled his arm back.

“Easy, there, tiger. There’ll be plenty of time to fish. First, we’ve got to show those Americans. They’ve got to get theirs. I hear a plan’s in motion. So we’ve got to get you presentable. Right now, it looks like the sharks won.”

“This is all some kind of test, isn’t it?”

The old interrogator smiled. “What do you mean?”

“Asking about Wonsan like some kind of fool when everybody knows no one retires there. Everyone knows that’s just a place for military leaders to vacation. Why not just say what you want from me?”

A flash of uncertainty crossed the old interrogator’s face. It shifted slightly to measurement and then settled into a smile. “Hey,” he said. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be rattling you.” He laughed. “Seriously, though, we’re both legally heroes. We’re on the same team. Our mission is to stick it to the Americans who did this to you. First, though, I need to know if you’ve got some kind of beef with the Captain. We can’t be having any surprises.”

“What are you talking about?” Jun Do asked. “Never, not at all.”

He looked out the window. Half the fleet was out, but the Junma had its nets spread across the docks, drying them for a mend.

“Okay, then, forget I said anything. If you didn’t say anything to piss him off, I believe you.”

“The Captain’s my family,” Jun Do said. “If you’ve got something to say about him then you’d better say it.”

“It’s nothing. The Captain just came to me and asked if I could put you on another boat.”

Jun Do stared at him in disbelief.

“The Captain said he’s tired of heroes, that he only has so much time left, and he just wants to do his job and fish. I wouldn’t sweat it—the Captain, he’s a capable man, a real solid hand, but you get old, you lose your flexibility. I’ve seen it many times.”