Hwang Sok-yong: Princess Bari

“You’re right. But the kids have been raising it like it’s part of the family …”

I was crouching right behind the cab, holding on tight to Chilsung, so I heard everything they were saying. Judging by the worried looks on their faces, my sisters heard them too. Our mother shook her finger at me, and Grandmother pulled a skirt out from the bundle of clothes and tossed it over. She meant for me to cover Chilsung up with it.

“There are a lot of starving families in the mountains. How is this going to reflect on you, Comrade Vice Chairman?”

“I understand what you’re saying. Once we get to Musan, we’ll decide whether to keep it or give it away.”

I had not forgotten the promise I’d made to Chilsung the day the puppies were born — that whisper inside my head when I said I would keep him safe.

The truck pulled into the train station, and we were directed by a station employee to board the empty passenger car first while our belongings were loaded into the open-air freight car at the front of the train. Travel was still strictly regulated then, so it was an orderly process. Fewer travellers meant more available seats. Later, everything would fall apart: the aisles would be packed with people and the windows would all be smashed out.

As soon as we sat down, I pushed Chilsung under the seat and told him several times inside my head: People will get angry if they see you. I know it’s stuffy, but stay still under there. Of course, Chilsung and I had been communicating with each other through our thoughts since he was a pup; he understood, and lay flat on his belly with his limbs stretched out and his head tucked down, just as if he were lying beneath the porch. Each time I leaned down to see how he was doing, he hadn’t budged in the slightest except for his gently wagging tail.

*

Musan sat at the centre of a wide plain, surrounded by hills on all sides; across the Tumen River to the north, a steep mountain on the Chinese side rose straight up like a wall. We unpacked our belongings in the company housing, which was at the northern end of the city near the government office.

One day — probably in the early summer, the year our Great Leader died — we returned home from school and my sisters and I followed Mi down to the river to wash clothes. Freight trucks were leaving the customs office and heading across the plain for downtown Musan.

“ Ya, ya! A Chinese car!” Mi yelled. “A Chinese car! Pack up the laundry.”

We gave the laundry we were swirling around in the water a quick wringing and stuffed it in the basket, and then we all took off running.

“Here comes Uncle Salamander!”

Jung clapped her hands and skipped. Although Sook couldn’t give voice to it, she was so excited that she ran ahead of the pack. I kept stopping to wait for Hyun and to help her up each time she sank to the ground, too winded to keep up.

“Can’t you run any faster?”

“My heart feels like it’s going to explode.”

When our house was finally visible in the distance, we all slowed to a walk and caught our breath. Uncle Salamander was a department head for a Chinese company in Yanji. He was short, chubby and had a potbelly, and his eyes were big and round like a startled rabbit’s, so you couldn’t help but laugh just to look at him. His real name was Pak Xiaolong, and he and our uncle had gotten to know each other while doing business in Chongjin. Chinese companies both big and small would bring over things like corn or flour or even the occasional rice or clothes and sundry goods, and trade them for seafood or minerals.

Mr Pak got the nickname “Salamander” because of a joke our father had made. A few days after we’d moved in, Mr Pak had come to our house, saying that he wanted to meet his comrade, the vice chairman. He’d brought a case of kaoliang liquor and two sides of pork ribs, and he must have heard there were a lot of kids in our family because he also brought two gift boxes filled with all kinds of cookies and candies. His visits, which reminded me of Grandmother’s tales of club-wielding dokkaebi — goblins that sometimes surprised people with gifts instead of pranks — also inspired Mother and Grandmother to go on and on about how great it was to live near the border and praise our father all the more for his promotion.

People came from the maritime customs office and the People’s Committee, and an oil drum with the top cut off was filled with charcoal and used to barbecue the ribs in the courtyard. After a few rounds of drinks, Mr Pak seemed to take an instant liking to our father, because he went from calling him “Comrade Vice Chairman” to “Father Vice Chairman” and then, after they’d talked some more, simply “Elder Brother”. At any rate, it was true what people said about Mr Pak: he had an unusual knack for getting close to people he’d just met.

“Don’t worry, Elder Brother. I may not look like much now, but I was an officer in the Chinese army. I served in Kunming, right on the border of Vietnam. There’s no part of China I haven’t been to. So if you need anything at all, just say the word. I may not be able to find you monkey horns or girl testicles, but I can bring you things that North Korea at least has never seen or even heard of.”

Father cocked his head, shot glass in hand.

“You say your name is … Xiaolong? That means ‘Little Dragon’, right? But you’re built more like a toad than a dragon …”

“Ah, what’re you talking about, Elder Brother? Nowadays I spend all my time going back and forth across the Tumen, but in my younger days, I was stick-thin and so good-looking that I almost became a movie star!”

“Oh, now I know. Since your name means ‘little dragon’, that makes you a salamander!”

Everyone at the party had a good laugh, and the word salamander spread through the crowd. After that, Mr Pak lost his real name and became known as “Uncle Salamander” to everyone from the customs clerks and officers right down to us kids. Whenever we saw him loading and unloading goods with those bulging eyes of his, we couldn’t help but burst into giggles, even when the situation demanded that we maintain decorum.

While stocking the warehouse behind the company housing, Uncle Salamander also stocked our house full of gifts. He brought our family sacks of flour and rice, and mooncakes, candy and chocolate snack cakes for us kids to munch on. Mother tore a dried pollock into strips and served it with soju , and Uncle Salamander and our father poured each other drinks while we got one chocolate snack cake each.

“Do you kids even know what a treat these are?” Uncle Salamander said. “They come from the South. Grandmother, you should try one, too.”

Grandmother removed the plastic wrapper and took a bite out of the round, dark cake with soft marshmallow filling in the middle. Her eyes widened. “Where’d you say you got this from?”

“South Korea, madam. Isn’t it tasty, kids?”

We were too busy eating to answer. The flavour sent a jolt through me, from the tip of my tongue down to the bottom of my stomach. For days and weeks before Uncle Salamander appeared, we’d had nothing to eat but corn. At school, most of the students went without lunch, and rations for mine workers had already begun to be cut off for a couple of months at a time. Grain trucks would cross the river and head straight for Chongjin. They said there were a large number of remote mountain villages and backwoods towns by then with no one living in them. But since shipments of food passed through Musan, everyone was able to get by somehow, even if they had to miss a meal here and there.

Uncle Salamander lowered his voice and leaned closer to Father. “The Republic will soon be better off,” he said.