Adam Johnson - The Orphan Master's Son

Whatever was going through the Girl Rower’s mind, the strength of Sun Moon’s words moved her to act. The Rower, too, began speaking with some force, trying to get Sun Moon to understand something vital. The American went to a small table with a lamp and many notebooks. She brought to Sun Moon one of the inspirational works of Kim Jong Il in a clear attempt to help guide Sun Moon to the only wisdom that had a chance of alleviating the actress’s woes. The Rower shook the book and then began speaking fast, a rapid gibberish that was impossible for Sun Moon to make out.

Citizens—what was this poor American Rower saying? We didn’t need a translator to understand she was despondent at the prospect of leaving North Korea, which had become a second home to her. No one needed an English dictionary to feel her anguish at the idea of being torn from a paradise where food and shelter and medical care were free. Citizens—feel her sadness at having to return to a land where doctors chase pregnant women with ultrasounds. Sense her outrage at being sent back to a crime-laden land of materialism and exclusion, where huge populations languish in jail, sprawl urine-soaked in the streets, or babble incoherently about God on the sweatpants-polished pews of megachurches. Think of the guilt she must feel after learning how the Americans, her own people, devastated this great nation during the imperialists’ sneak-attack war. But despair no more, Rower Girl, even this small taste of North Korean compassion and generosity might see you through the dark days of your return to Uncle Sam’s savagery.

I WAS tired when I arrived at Division 42. I hadn’t slept well the night before. My dreams were filled with dark snakes whose hissing sounded like the peasants I’d heard doing intercourse. But why snakes? Why would snakes haunt me so, with their accusing eyes and folded fangs? None of the subjects I put in the autopilot ever visited me in my sleep. In the dream, I had Commander Ga’s cell phone, and on it kept flashing pictures of a smiling wife and happy children. Only it was my wife and my children, the family I’ve always felt I should have had—all I had to do was discover their location and make my way through the snakes to them.

But what did the dream mean? That’s what I couldn’t fathom. If only a book could be written to help the average citizen penetrate and understand a dream’s mysteries. Officially, the government took no position on what occurred while its citizens were asleep, but isn’t something of the dreamer to be found in his dream? And what of the extended open-eyed dream I afforded our subjects when I hooked them up to the autopilot? I’ve sat for hours watching our subjects in this state—the oceany eye sweep, the babyish talk, the groping, the way they were always reaching for something seen with a faraway focus. And then there are the orgasms, which the doctors insist are actually seizures. Either way, something profound takes place inside these people. In the end, all they can remember is the icy mountain peak and the white flower to be found there. Is a destination worth reaching if you can’t recall the journey? I’d say so. Is a new life worth living if you can’t recollect the old one? All the better.

At work, I discovered a couple of guys from Propaganda sniffing around our library, looking for a good story, one they could use to inspire the people, they said.

I wasn’t about to let them near our biographies again.

“We don’t have any good stories,” I told them.

Man, they were slick, with their gold-rimmed teeth and Chinese cologne.

“Any story would do,” one said. “Good or bad, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah,” his sidekick added. “We’ll add the inspiration later.”

Last year they swiped the biography of a lady missionary who’d snuck in from the South with a satchel full of Bibles. We were told to find out who she’d given Bibles to and if more like her walked amongst us. She was the one person the Pubyok couldn’t crack, except for Commander Ga, I suppose. Even when I hooked her up to the autopilot, she had the strangest smile on her face. She had a thick set of spectacles that magnified her eyes as they pleasantly roamed the room. Even when the autopilot was in its peak cycle, she hummed a Jesus song and beheld the last room she’d ever see as if it were filled with goodness, as if in the eyes of Jesus all places were created equal and with her own eyes she saw that this was so and thought it good.

When the Propaganda boys got done with her story, though, she was a monstrous capitalist spy bent on kidnapping loyal children of the Party to work as slaves in a Bible factory in Seoul. My parents were addicted to the story. Every night I had to listen to their summary of the loudspeaker’s latest installment.

“Go write your own tales of North Korean triumph,” I told the boys from Propaganda.

“But we require real stories,” one told me.

“Don’t forget,” the other added. “These stories are not yours—they’re the property of the people.”

“How’d you like me to take your biographies?” I asked them, and they didn’t miss the implied threat.

They said, “We’ll be back.”

I stuck my head in the Pubyok lounge, which was empty. The place was littered with empty bottles, which meant they’d pulled an all-nighter. On the floor was a pile of long black hair. I knelt down and lifted a lock, silken in the light. Oh, Q-Kee, I thought. Inhaling slowly and deeply, I smelled her essence. Looking up to the big board, I saw that the Pubyok had cleared my cases, every one of them except for Commander Ga. All those people. All their stories, lost.

That’s when I noticed Q-Kee in the doorway, watching me. Her head was indeed buzzed, and she wore a Pubyok-brown shirt, military pants, and Commander Ga’s black boots.

I dropped the swirl of hair, and rose from my knees.

“Q-Kee,” I said. “Good to see you.”

She said nothing.

“I see a lot has changed since I was conscripted to help with the harvest.”

“I’m sure it was voluntary,” she said.

“Of course it was.” Pointing at the pile of hair, I added, “I was just using my investigative skills.”

“To determine what?”

There was an awkward silence.

“It looks like you’ve got the Commander’s boots there,” I said. “They should fetch a good barter at the night market.”

“Actually, they fit me pretty well,” she said. “I think I’ll keep them.”

I nodded, admired her boots a moment. Then I caught her eye.

“Are you still my intern?” I asked. “You didn’t switch sides, did you?”

She reached out to me. There was a folded slip of paper in her fingers.

“I’m handing you this, aren’t I?” she said.

I opened the paper. It was some kind of hand-drawn map. There were sketches of a corral, a fire pit, fishing poles, and guns. Some of the words were in English, but I could make out the word “Texas.”

Q-Kee said, “I found this inside Ga’s right boot.”

“What do you think it is?” I asked her.

“It might be the place where we find our actress.” Q-Kee turned to go, but then she looked back. “You know, I’ve seen all her movies. The Pubyok, they don’t seem to care about really finding her. And they couldn’t get Ga, or whoever he is, to talk. But you’ll get results, right? You’ll find Sun Moon. She needs a proper burial. Results, that’s the side I’m on.”

I studied the map a long time. I had it spread across the Pubyok Ping-Pong table and was contemplating every word and line, when Sarge came in. He was soaking wet.

“Been doing some waterboarding?” I asked him.