Adam Johnson - The Orphan Master's Son

Jun Do nodded and they approached the front of the plane, where Dr. Song was speaking to the Minister. “Refer to him only as Minister,” Comrade Buc whispered. “And never speak to him directly, only through Dr. Song.”

“Minister,” Dr. Song said. “Here is Pak Jun Do, a bona fide hero of the Democratic People’s Republic, no?”

The Minister shook his head dismissively. His face was stippled with gray whiskers and hanging clumps of brow obscured his eyes.

“Certainly, Minister,” Dr. Song continued. “You can tell the boy is strong and handsome, yes?”

The Minister conceded this with a nod.

Dr. Song said, “We will all spend more time together soon, perhaps?”

The Minister shrugged and gave a look that said maybe, maybe not.

That was the extent of their discussion.

Walking away, Jun Do asked, “What’s he a minister of?”

“Petroleum and tire pressure,” Dr. Song said, and laughed. “He’s my driver. But don’t worry, that man’s seen just about all there is to see in this world. He’s strong. His only job is to say nothing on this trip, and to enact the yes , no , and perhaps at the end of my questions. You caught that, yes, the way I guided his response? This will keep the Americans occupied while we work our magic.”

“Americans?” Jun Do asked.

“Didn’t those drivers tell you anything?” Dr. Song asked.

The plane pivoted at the end of the runway and began to accelerate. Jun Do braced himself in the aisle.

Comrade Buc said, “I do not think our hero has flown before.”

“Is this true, have you not flown?” Dr. Song asked. “We must get you a seat, then, we’re about to take wing.”

With mandarin formality, Dr. Song ushered them into seats. “Here is the safety belt,” he said to Jun Do. “A hero may wear one or not, as he wishes. I am old and have no need for safety, but Comrade Buc, you must apply the belt. You are young, you have a wife and children.”

“Only because of your great concern,” Comrade Buc said, and fastened the belt.

The Ilyushin rose into the western wind, then banked north so that the coast was to starboard. Jun Do could see the shadow of the plane shuddering on the water and, beyond, the blue expanse of the sea. He did not see the water upon which he fished the seasons with the Captain of the Junma , but instead the currents that took him on missions to Japan, every one of them a struggle. The worst part was always the long trip back, listening to the abductees down in the hold, yelling, banging around as they struggled to get free of their ropes. He looked around the cabin, imagined a kidnap victim strapped into one of these seats. He imagined dragging away an American, then spending sixteen hours with him inside this plane.

“I think you’ve got the wrong man for your job,” Jun Do volunteered. “My file perhaps suggests I’m an expert kidnapper, and it’s true, I led a lot of missions, and only a couple of the targets died on my watch. But I’m not that man anymore. These hands, they tune radio dials now. They no longer know how to do what you want them to do.”

“So forthright and earnest,” Dr. Song said. “Don’t you think, Comrade Buc?”

Comrade Buc said, “You chose well, Dr. Song. The Americans will swoon for such sincerity.”

Dr. Song turned to Jun Do. “Young man,” he said. “On this mission, it is your words, not your fists, that you will employ.”

Comrade Buc said, “Dr. Song is headed to Texas to lay some groundwork for future talks.”

“These are the talks before the talks,” Dr. Song said. “Nothing formal, no delegation, no pictures, no security men—we are merely opening a channel.”

“Talks about what?” Jun Do asked.

“The subject doesn’t matter,” Dr. Song said. “Only the posture. The Yankees want a few things from us. We want things as well—high among them is that they halt the boarding of our fishing vessels. You know we use fishing boats for many important tasks. When the moment is right, you will tell the story of your friend being thrown to the sharks by the U.S. Navy. The Americans are very civil. A story like that will have an impact on them, especially the wives.”

The stewardess brought Dr. Song a glass of juice and ignored Jun Do and Comrade Buc. “She is a beauty, yes?” Dr. Song asked. “They comb the entire nation to find them. Young men, all you care about is pleasure, I know, I know. You can’t lie to me. I bet you’re salivating to meet a CIA agent. Well, I can assure you they don’t all look like the beautiful seductresses in the movies.”

“I’ve never seen a movie,” Jun Do said.

“You’ve never seen a movie?” Dr. Song asked.

“Not a whole one,” Jun Do said.

“Oh, you’ll have those American ladies eating out of your hand. Wait till they see that wound, Jun Do. Wait till they hear your story!”

“But my story,” Jun Do said. “It’s so improbable. I hardly believe it myself.”

To Comrade Buc, Dr. Song said, “Please, my friend. Will you bring us the tiger?”

When Buc was gone, Dr. Song turned to Jun Do. “Where we are from,” he said, “stories are factual. If a farmer is declared a music virtuoso by the state, everyone had better start calling him maestro. And secretly, he’d be wise to start practicing the piano. For us, the story is more important than the person. If a man and his story are in conflict, it is the man who must change.” Here, Dr. Song took a sip of juice, and the finger he lifted trembled slightly. “But in America, people’s stories change all the time. In America, it is the man who matters. Perhaps they will believe your story and perhaps not, but you, Jun Do, they will believe you. ”

Dr. Song called the stewardess over. “This man is a hero of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, and he must have juice.” After she raced to get it, he said, “See?” Shaking his head, he said, “But you try explaining all this to the central bunker.” Here Dr. Song pointed downward, and Jun Do knew he was indicating the Dear Leader Kim Jong Il himself.

Comrade Buc returned with an ice chest. This he handed to Jun Do. “The tiger,” he said.

Inside was a slab of meat wrapped in a dirty plastic bag. Sprigs of grass clung to the meat, which was warm to the touch.

Jun Do said, “Perhaps some ice would be called for.”

Dr. Song smiled. “Oh,” he said. “The Americans, I can see their faces now.”

“Tiger! Imagine their response.” Comrade Buc was laughing. “I would love to,” he said in English, “but I had tiger for lunch.”

“Looks delicious,” Dr. Song said. “Too bad I’m on a leopard-only diet.”

Comrade Buc said, “Wait till the Minister gets in on the act.”

“The Minister would like to cook it personally, yes?” Dr. Song said. “The Minister insists all the Americans must partake, yes?”

Jun Do looked at the cooler, which bore a red cross. He’d seen a cooler like it before—it was the kind they used to get the blood to Pyongyang.

“Two things about the Americans,” Dr. Song said. “First, their minds are fast, and they puzzle over everything. You must give them a riddle to redirect those minds. So we offer them the Minister. Second, they must have moral superiority. They don’t know how to negotiate without it. Always their talks open with human rights, personal freedoms, and so on. But the tiger changes all that. Their horror at the notion that we would casually eat an endangered species will immediately put them on high ground. Then we can get down to business.”

In English, Comrade Buc said, “Here, Senator, let me pass you the platter.”

“Yes, Senator,” Dr. Song said. “You must have seconds.”