Adam Johnson - The Orphan Master's Son

A black Mercedes suddenly appeared, and a man with a splint on his nose hurried to open the door for Sun Moon. She was on her way to visit the Great General who had discovered her, who had written all her movies, who had spent many a long night counseling her on the proper ways of depicting our nation’s triumphs over adversity. Great leader, diplomat, strategist, tactician, athlete, filmmaker, author, and poet—all this, and yes, Kim Jong Il was a friend, too.

Passing through the streets of Pyongyang, Sun Moon leaned her head against the car window and regarded as if with sadness the rays of sunlight glowing golden in the millet-dusted air of the Central Ration Depot. It looked as though she might weep passing the Children’s Theater, where as a girl she had learned the accordion, the art of puppetry, and mass gymnastics. Whatever became of my old teachers? her eyes seemed to ask, and it was not without tears that she beheld the fanciful spires of the ice rink, one of the rare places her mother, ever mindful of American sneak attacks, would dare to venture. No one upon the ice in those days could do anything but cheer for young Sun Moon, her girl limbs flaring through the leaps, the joy on her face dazzling through a spray of her blades’ ice crystals. Poor Sun Moon! It was almost as if she knew she would never see these sights again, as if she had some kind of premonition of what the savage, remorseless Americans had in store for her. What woman wouldn’t weep all along Reunification Boulevard to think she’d never again see a street so clean, a ration line so perfectly straight, or hear again the crimson banners fluttering a thousand strong in a chain of red flags that extolled every word of Kim Il Sung’s great speech of October 18, Juche 63!

Sun Moon was brought before the Dear Leader in a room that had been designed to put the visiting Americans at ease. Its muted lamps, dark mirrors, and wooden tables were reminiscent of an American “speakeasy,” which is a type of establishment that Americans frequent in order to evade the eyes of their repressive government. Behind the heavy doors of a speakeasy, Americans are free to abuse alcohol, fornicate, and violence each other.

Over his smart jumpsuit, the Dear Leader wore an apron. On his forehead, he sported a green visor, while a rag was draped over his shoulder. He came from behind the bar with his arms extended. “Sun Moon,” he called. “What can I serve you?”

Their embrace was filled with the zest of socialist comradeship.

“I don’t know,” she said.

He told her, “You’re supposed to say, ‘The usual.’ ”

“The usual,” she said.

Here he poured for them modest snifters of North Korean cognac, which is known for its medicinal properties.

Looking more closely, the Dear Leader saw that there was sadness in her eyes.

“What’s got you down?” he asked her. “Tell me the story—I’ll give it a happy ending.”

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m just practicing for my new movie role.”

“But this movie is a happy one,” he reminded her. “Your character’s undisciplined husband is replaced with a highly efficient one—soon all the farmers have increased their yields. Something else must be bothering you. Is it a matter of the heart?”

“I only have room in my heart for the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea,” she said.

The Dear Leader smiled. “That’s my Sun Moon,” he said. “That’s the girl I miss. Come, look, I have a present for you.”

From behind the bar, the Dear Leader produced an American musical instrument.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s called a gui-tar . It’s used to perform American rural music. It’s said to be especially popular in Texas,” he told her. “It’s also the instrument of choice for playing ‘the blues,’ which is a form of American music that chronicles the pain caused by poor decision making.”

Sun Moon ran her delicate fingers across the strings of the guitar . It produced a muted groan, as if a vibrant gayageum had been wrapped in a blanket and doused with a bucket of water. “The Americans have much to be sad about,” she said, plucking another string. “But listen to it. I can make no song with this.”

“But you must, you must,” said the Dear Leader. “Please make it perform for me.”

She strummed. “I regret that my heart …” she sang, “… is not as big as my love …”

“That’s it,” he said.

She strummed. “For the most democratic nation …” she went on, “… the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Now less birdlike. Sing with the heat of your blood.”

On the bar, she placed the guitar flat on its back, the way a proper stringed instrument is played. She tried to finger the strings so that different notes might sound.

“The Yankees are happy,” she sang and strummed hard. “The Yankees are sad.”

The Dear Leader beat the rhythm on the bar top with his fist.

“Our nation doesn’t see the difference,” she belted. “Satisfaction’s all we’ve ever had.”

Together, they laughed. “I miss all this,” he said. “Remember how we used to speak of movie scripts late into the night? How we professed our love of country and embraced reunification?”

“Yes,” she said. “But all that changed.”

“Did it? I used to wonder if,” the Dear Leader said, “if something happened to your husband on one of his many dangerous missions, if we’d become friends again. Of course your husband is alive and well and your marriage is better than ever, I’m sure. But if something had happened to your husband, if he’d been lost on one of his many heroic missions for our nation, would I have been right to think that we would become close again, that we would again stay up into the night sharing notions of Juche and Songun scholarship?”

She pulled her hand from the guitar . “Is something going to happen to my husband? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Is there a dangerous mission you must send him on?”

“No, no, banish the thought,” said the Dear Leader. “Nothing could be further from the truth. Of course I could never say for sure. It must be stated that the world is a dangerous place, and the future is known only to high-ranking officials.”

Sun Moon said, “Your fatherly wisdom always did have the power to soothe my female fears.”

“It is one of my gifts,” replied the Beneficent Leader Kim Jong Il in all his Glory. “I must make note,” he continued, “that you do call him husband. ”

“I don’t know what else to call him.”

The Dear Leader nodded. “But you do not answer my question.”

Sun Moon crossed her arms and turned from the bar. She took two steps, then turned back. “I, too, yearn for our late-night conversations,” she said. “But those days are past, now.”

“But why?” the Dear Leader asked. “Why must they be past?”

“Because I hear you have a new confidante now, a new young pupil.”

“I see someone has been speaking to you, sharing certain things.”

“When a citizen is given a replacement husband, it is her duty to share certain things with him.”

“Have you?” the Dear Leader asked. “Have you been sharing with him?”

“Only high-ranking officials know the future,” she said, and smiled.

The Dear Leader nodded in appreciation. “See, that’s what I’ve missed. That right there.”

Sun Moon took a first sip of her drink.

“So who is this new pupil?” she asked. “Does she appreciate your subtleties, your humor?”

The Dear Leader leaned forward some, happy to have her engage him again. “She is no you, I can tell you that. She has none of your beauty, your charm, your way with words.”