Adam Johnson - The Orphan Master's Son

“Why are you helping me? I asked her.

“ I am an old woman , she said. That’s what old women do .

“ Yes , but why me?

“Mongnan rubbed her hands in the dirt, to get the smell off. You need it , she said. The winter took ten kilos from you. You don’t have that to give again .

“ I’m asking , why do you care?

“ Have you heard of Prison Number 9?

“ I’ve heard of it .

“ It’s their most profitable prison mine—five guards run a prison of fifteen hundred. They just stand at the gate and never go inside. The whole prison is in the mine , there’s no barracks , no kitchen , no infirmary—

“ I said I’ve heard of it , I told her. Are you saying we should feel lucky we’re in a nice prison?

“Mongnan stood. I heard there was a fire in Prison 9 , she said. The guards wouldn’t open the gates to let the prisoners out , so the smoke killed everyone inside .

“I nodded at the gravity of her story, but said, You’re not answering my question .

“ That minister is coming here tomorrow to inspect our mine. Think how his life is going right now. Think how much shit he’s been eating . She grabbed me by the shoulder. You can’t be talking to your hands and feet at self-criticism. You can’t be throwing the guards stupid looks. You’ve got to stop debating the old man in the infirmary .

“ Okay , I said.

“ And the answer to your question is this: why I’m helping you is none of your business .

“We made our way past the latrine benches and leaped the piers of the gravity sewer. There was a pallet where people who died in the night were stacked, but now it was empty. As we passed it, Mongnan said, My tripod gets to sleep in tomorrow . Still and clear, the night smelled of birch trees, which a detail of old men had been cutting into cane strips. Finally we came to the cistern and the ox that turned its great pump wheel. It had kneeled down on a bed of birch bark, very pungent. When the beast heard Mongnan’s voice, it stood. She turned to me, whispering, The fish eggs , that’s once a year. I can show you where the tadpoles arrive in the streams , and when the trees by the west tower give their sap. There are other such tricks , but you can’t count on them. There are only two constant sources of nourishment in the camp. One I’ll show you later , when things get difficult , for it is quite distasteful. Here is the other .

“She touched the beast on the nose, then patted the black plates between its horns. She fed him a piece of wild ginger—it breathed sharply through its nostrils, then chewed sideways. From deep in her pockets, Mongnan produced a medium-sized jar. An old man showed me this , she said. The oldest man in the camp at the time. He must have been sixty , maybe more , but very fit. It was a cave-in that killed him , not hunger or weakness. He was strong when he went .

“She ducked under the ox, already hanging long and red. With a tight grip, Mongnan began stroking him. The ox smelled my hands, looking for more ginger, and I looked into its wet, black eyes. There was a man a few years back , Mongnan said, from under the ox. He had a little razor , and he would make cuts in the beast’s hide , to drink the blood when it leaked. That was a different animal. The beast didn’t complain , but the blood trickled out and froze , which the guards noticed , and that was the end of the little man. I photographed his body after the punishment. I went through all his clothes looking for that razor , but I never found it .

“The ox snorted—its eyes were wide and uncertain, and it swung its head from side to side as if looking for something. Then it closed its eyes, and soon Mongnan emerged with a jar, nearly full and steaming. Mongnan drank half at one go and handed it to me. I tried to take a sip, but when a little rope of it went down my throat, the rest hung on, and it all swam down at once. The ox knelt again. You’ll be strong for three days , she said.

“We looked at the lights glowing in the guard buildings. We looked toward China. This regime will come to an end , she said. I have studied every angle , and it cannot last. One day all the guards will run away—they’ll head that way , for the border. There will be disbelief , then confusion , then chaos , and finally a vacuum. You must have a plan ready. Act before the vacuum is filled .

“We began to make our way back toward the barracks, our stomachs full, our pockets full. When we heard the dying man again, we shook our heads.

“ Why won’t I tell them what they want to know? the dying man moaned, his voice reverberating through the barracks. What am I doing here? What is my crime?

“ Allow me , Mongnan said. She cupped her hands and moaned back, Your crime is disturbing the peace .

“Oblivious, the dying man moaned again. Who am I?

“Mongnan made her voice low and moaned, You are Duc Dan , the camp’s pain in the ass. Please die quietly. Die in silence , and I promise to take a flattering last photo of you. ”

In the cafeteria, one of the Pubyoks pounded the table. “Enough,” he shouted. “Enough of this.”

Commander Ga stopped his story.

The old interrogator knotted his hands. “Don’t you know a lie when you hear one?” he asked us. “Can’t you see the way this subject is playing you? He’s talking about Kim Duc Dan, trying to make you think he’s in prison. Interrogators don’t go to prison, that’s impossible.”

Another old-timer stood. “Duc Dan’s retired,” he said. “You all went to his going-away party. He moved to the beach in Wonsan. He’s not in jail, that’s a lie that he’s in jail. He’s painting seashells right now. You all saw the brochure he had.”

Commander Ga said, “I haven’t gotten to the part about Commander Ga yet. Don’t you want to hear the story of our first encounter?”

The first interrogator ignored him. “Interrogators don’t go to prison,” he said. “Hell, Duc Dan probably interrogated half the people in Prison 33, that’s where this parasite got Duc Dan’s name. Tell us where you heard this name. Tell us how you know about his milky eye. Confess to your lie. Why won’t you tell us the truth?”

The Pubyok with the shoe stood. He had jagged scars in his neat gray hair. “Enough storytime,” he said, and looked at our team with a disgust that left no doubt about his thoughts on our methods. Then he turned toward Ga. “Enough fairy tales,” he said. “Tell us what you did with the actress’s corpse, or by the blood of Inchon we’ll make your fingernails tell us.”

The look on Commander Ga’s face made the old men grab him. They poured piping hot pu-erh in his facial wounds before dragging him off, leaving us to race to our office to begin filling out the forms that we hoped would get him back.

IT WAS MIDNIGHT before Division 42 approved our emergency memos. With our interrogation override authorization in hand, we went down into the torture wing, a place our team rarely went, to rescue Commander Ga. We had the interns check the hot boxes, even though the red lights were off. We checked the sense-dep cells and the time-out tanks, where subjects got some first aid and a chance to catch their breath. We lifted the floor hatch and descended down the ladders into the sump. There were many lost souls down there, all of them too far gone to be Ga, but still, we checked the names on their ankle bracelets and lifted their heads long enough to shine a light in their slow-to-dilate eyes. Finally, with trepidation, we checked a room the old-timers called the shop. It was dark when we swung open the door—there was only the occasional winking glint of a slowly turning power tool, suspended from the ceiling by its yellow pneumatic hose. When we threw the power switch, the air-recirc system started up and the banks of fluorescents flashed to life. The room—spotless, sterile—contained only chrome, marble, and the white clouds of our own breath.