Adam Johnson - The Orphan Master's Son

“I can’t say my husband has any distinguishing features,” she continued. “Like a scar or a birthmark. He is a normal man, about forty-five, with hair going white.”

Ga held his side in pain. Sun Moon, impatient, said, “Please leave us.”

“Yes, yes,” the woman said. She looked at Ga. “Do you think you ever saw him, in that place where you were?”

Ga set the glass down. “In the place where I was?” he asked.

“There are rumors,” the woman said. “People know where you came from.”

“You confuse me with someone else,” he told her. “I’m not a prisoner. I’m Commander Ga. I’m the Minister of Prison Mines.”

“Please,” the woman said. “I must have my husband back, I can’t … there’s no point without him. His name was—”

“Don’t,” Sun Moon said. “Don’t tell us his name.”

She looked from Sun Moon to Ga. “Is it true, I mean, have you heard there’s a lobotomy prison?” she asked. She held a shrimp in her shaking hand, and it wriggled mindlessly.

“What?” Ga asked.

“No,” said Sun Moon. “Stop.”

“You’ve got to help me find him. I’ve heard all the men are given lobotomies when they enter—they work like zombies forever.”

“No surgery is needed to make a man work like that,” he told her.

Sun Moon stood. She took Ga by the arm and led him away.

They blended into the crowds, mingling near the food. Then the lighting dimmed and the band began to tune its instruments. “What’s happening?” he asked her.

She pointed to a yellow curtain that hung across a second-floor balcony.

“The Dear Leader will emerge there,” she said and took a step away. “I must go talk to people about my movie. I must learn what happened to Comfort Woman .”

A spotlight hit the yellow curtain, and instead of “We Shall Follow You Forever,” the band began a rousing version of “The Ballad of Ryoktosan.” The tenor began singing of Ryoktosan, the baby-faced giant from South Hamgyong! The farmer’s boy who became the fighting king of Japan! The baby-faced giant who bested Sakuraba! Belt on his waist, all he longed for was home. His only desire a hero’s return to his sweet place of birth, Korea! But our champion was stolen and murdered, stabbed by the shamefaced Japanese. A Japanese knife, dripping with urine, brought the great Ryoktosan to his knees.

Soon, the crowd joined in. They knew when to stomp their feet and double clap. A throng of cheers rose when people heard the rolling, blast-proof doors open behind the curtain. And when the yellow parted, there stood a figure, short of stature, round-bellied, wearing a white dobok and a mask fashioned to resemble the big baby face of Ryoktosan. The crowd went wild. Here the tiny taekwondo fighter made his way down the steps on nimble feet to run a victory lap through the crowd. He grabbed someone’s cognac and swilled it through the hole in his mask. Then he made his way to Commander Ga, bowing with the utmost formality before assuming a taekwondo stance.

Commander Ga didn’t know what to do. The guests began forming a large, loose circle around himself and this short man with his fists high. A spotlight was suddenly on them. The little man bobbed up and down, then approached Ga quickly, within striking distance, before backing away. Ga looked around for Sun Moon, but all he could see were the bright lights. The tiny fighter danced up to Ga and performed a series of air strikes and shadow kicks. Then, out of nowhere, the imp punched him—a quick, snapping shot to the throat.

A cheer went up, people began singing along with the ballad.

Ga grabbed his windpipe and bent over. “Please, sir,” he said, but the little man had moved to the edge of the circle, where he leaned against someone’s wife to catch his breath and have another drink.

Suddenly the little man backcircled in for another shot—should Ga block the punch, try to reason with the man, run?—but it was too late. Ga felt knuckles rake his eye and then his mouth was stinging and fat and then his nose went electric. He felt the hot flush, inside his head, and then the blood poured out his nose and back into his throat. Then little Ryoktosan did a dance for everyone’s pleasure, such as the Russian sailors do when on night leave from their submarines.

Ga’s eyes had watered, and he couldn’t see well. Yet again the small man came close—he connected with a left hook to Ga’s body. Ga’s pain responded on its own, sending a fist into the man’s nose.

You could hear the plastic mask crumple. He took a few stagger-steps backward as blood trickled from the nostril holes and a collective gasp went up from the assembled guests. They placed him in a chair, fetched a glass of water, and then lifted his mask to reveal not the Dear Leader but a small man, weak-featured, disoriented.

The spotlight lifted to the balcony. There, clapping, was the true Dear Leader.

“Did you think it was me?” he called. “Did you think that was me?”

The Dear Leader Kim Jong Il came down the stairs, laughing, shaking people’s hands, and accepting congratulations for a prank well done. He stopped to check on the little man in the dobok , leaning in close to inspect his wounds. “He is my driver,” the Dear Leader said and shook his head at the man’s nose. But a pat on the back was in order, and the Dear Leader’s personal physician was summoned.

People grew quiet as the Dear Leader approached Commander Ga.

Ga saw Sun Moon turn sideways to make her way closer, so she could hear.

“No, no,” the Dear Leader said. “You must stand up straight to stop the blood,” and despite the pain in his midsection, Ga straightened. Then the Dear Leader took hold of Ga’s nose, pinched the nostrils shut above the bridge, and drew his fingers down to squeeze out all the blood and snot.

“Did you think it was me?” he asked Ga.

Ga nodded. “I thought it was you.”

The Dear Leader laughed and slung the mess off his hands. “Do not worry,” he said. “The nose is not broken.”

A handkerchief was handed to the Dear Leader. He wiped his hands as he addressed his guests—“He thought it was me,” he announced to the delight of the room. “But I am the real Kim Jong Il, I am the real me.” He pointed at his driver, whose eyes went suddenly wide. “He is the imposter, he is the one who pretends. I am the real Kim Jong Il.”

The Dear Leader folded the cloth and gave it to Ga for his nose. Then he lifted Ga’s arm. “And here is the real Commander Ga. He has beaten Kimura, and now he will defeat the Americans.”

The Dear Leader’s voice rose, as if he were speaking to all of Pyongyang, all of North Korea. “In need of a real hero, I give you Commander Ga,” he said. “In need of a national defender, I give you Commander Ga. Let’s hear it for the holder of the Golden Belt!”

The applause was grand and sustained. Within it, the Dear Leader spoke to him in a low voice. “Take a bow, Commander,” he said.

Hands at his sides, he bent at the waist, holding it a moment, observing drops of blood as they fell from his nose to the opera house carpet. When he rose, as if on cue a small fleet of beautiful servants emerged with trays of champagne. Above, Dak-Ho began singing “Unsung Heroes,” the theme song from Sun Moon’s first starring role.

Commander Ga looked to Sun Moon, and her face confirmed that she now understood that it didn’t matter if her husband was alive or dead—he had been replaced and she would never see him again.

She turned, and he followed.

He caught her at an empty table, where she took a seat amid other people’s coats and bags. “What about your movie?” he asked. “What did you find out?”

Her hands were shaking in front of her. “There will be no movie,” she said. The sadness was pure on her face, it was the opposite of acting.