Dear Leader (10 page)

‘The General? Oh, you know the song, “The Rice-balls of the General”? Just like in that song, he shared a rice-ball with us,’ I mumbled in response.

Even though these were simple country folk who believed whatever the Workers’ Party told them, I could not have imagined that I would be asked this question so soon. I rubbed my hands, sticky with sweat. But the townspeople seemed relieved to hear that the General dined on solid rice-balls instead of porridge; some tutted, while others stood in mute wonder. I heard a voice saying that it was just as the Party cadres had told them, so we had to do more for the Patriotic Rice movement, even if it meant forking out money for the rice. The Patriotic Rice movement was a campaign whereby ordinary North Koreans offered their rice to the state as an act of patriotism.

The townspeople continued to quiz me endlessly about the General, asking anxiously after his health. I was appalled by the fact that they were concerned more for their leader’s well-being than for their own, although they were in a wretched state. I did my best to answer their questions with lies, but found myself disgusted by the man I had become.

The life had been drained out of my townsfolk and there was no comfort from seeing any of their faces again. When I met Soon-yong from next door – I used to have a crush on her and she was always my play-wife in our childhood games of marriage – she had become a disfigured old woman. As soon as our eyes met, she withdrew her gaze and hung her head, revealing her thin, bare neck; another sign of her impoverished state. Myung-chul, once famous for his strength
and envied by all the other boys in town, had turned into nothing but skin and bones. Their prematurely darkened, cadaverous skin and the deep zigzagging wrinkles on their faces were a silent testament to the years of starvation they had endured.

When I asked after some neighbours I could not see in the crowd, the matter-of-fact reply was that each one of them had starved to death. The shock of it felt like a blow to the head. In my memories, these names belonged to those who were alive and well, but they didn’t exist on this planet any more. I mourned the hollowness inside me.

Suddenly, I heard someone yelling outside. Mr Tall-Man Park told me that it was Grandfather Apple-Tree Cottage. He had gone mad. Everyone in our town knew about Apple-Tree Cottage. The house was so called because the grandfather planted an apple tree in their yard when his granddaughter was born, so that they could grow up together. Every autumn, the town’s children would come round and ask, ‘When can we pick the apples?’ Grandfather Apple-Tree Cottage would answer, ‘Come along this Sunday with your mum and dad. Don’t forget, Sunday is apple-picking day!’ Apple-Tree Cottage had always been welcoming to us. I asked why Grandfather Apple-Tree Cottage had become deranged.

Myung-chul answered with a deep sigh, ‘There’s no more apple tree. Grandfather chopped it down after his granddaughter hanged herself from it. Her mother left home to be with some son of a bitch, and her father died a few years ago. The mother never kept in touch, so there was only her grandfather left. He looked after her – how could an adolescent girl fend for herself? But one night, a thief came and picked all their apples. The next morning, the grandfather found that his granddaughter had hanged herself from the apple tree. He went raving mad after that. Says he will eat the thief when he is found.’

The story was already wretched beyond belief, but when Myung-chul finished by saying that everyone still called the old man
Grandfather Apple-Tree Cottage, although there was no more apple tree, I could no longer keep my composure and tears welled from my eyes. I pretended to wipe some dirt off with the back of my hand. I felt deeply sorry that I was hiding my own tears from them, but I was too ashamed of myself to show them my tears. How could I, with my privileged existence, express my misery in front of those who had nothing left, who had been deprived even of the means to express their misery?

With these thoughts, I was overcome by an impulse to hide my hands and sat down. The lives of my townsfolk were threatened by their not having enough to eat, and it was mortifying that my hands had been employed for literature when the nation was in such a state. Or rather, I needed desperately to hide my hands from my old neighbours. My very hands seemed to me to embody my arrogance and selfishness, and their soft skin to expose how I had used them to secure my own existence at the expense of countless other lives.

That night, at the dinner prepared by Young-nam’s mother, I had to choke back my tears again. She proudly explained how she was able to offer me, her guest, a half-full bowl of rice – she had stashed away ten grains of rice at every meal. In addition to the rice, there was a small dish of salted cabbage and pickled anchovies, which were presented to me as if they were an expensive delicacy. When I asked how long it had taken to save up the rice, she replied, ‘Three months.’ I could not believe that they were eating rice by the grain, instead of in servings. I muttered an excuse, saying that I had indigestion after eating lunch on the train.

Almost as soon as I left the table, Young-nam’s father scolded his wife severely, saying that she had put me off my food. He brought me my spoon, forcing me to grip it and pleading with me to join them at the table again. From my rucksack, I took out my imported liquor
and tinned meats, the ones I had brought with me from Pyongyang as parting gifts.

‘Look, don’t worry about me. I’m not refusing because there’s not enough food,’ I blurted.

Although I had brought these food items as gifts, I was at my wits’ end when it came to explaining my possession of such extravagant luxuries to a family who ate rice by the grain. When Young-nam’s father lifted the bottle of cognac and marvelled in wonder, I felt even more overwhelmed by a sense of foreboding.

‘Ah, I haven’t seen Western liquor for years,’ he sighed. ‘You know, when we first arrived in North Korea from Japan, I had so many of the bottles that I gave them out as gifts whenever I could.’

The mother, suddenly embarrassed by her own meagre offering in comparison to the gifts I had brought with me, sheepishly nudged the bowl of rice towards her husband. ‘You have the rice,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I should have saved it for another time.’

The bowl of rice was passed to the son by the father, then by the son back to the mother. Young-nam’s mother eventually took it back into the kitchen to keep it for her daughter, who had gone out to work a nightshift at the fabric factory. My chest felt tight, but I was also moved by the love that led this family with so little rice of their own to offer the last of it to an outsider.

Young-nam’s father continued to gaze in wonder at the bottle of imported liquor I had brought. When I told him that it was given to me by Dear Leader, his mouth dropped. Kim Jong-il gave special gifts to his senior cadres three times a year: on New Year’s Day, Kim Il-sung’s birthday, and his own birthday. These might include suit fabric from Italy, rare medicinal herbs or shoes, all especially imported. But while other items might change, the liquor was always a key feature.

The custom of imported liquor gifts was instituted because many cadres, previously unfamiliar with these drinks, had been
mesmerised by them, drinking excessively at state banquets or during foreign postings, and committing social gaffes. Generally speaking, the alcoholic gift pack consisted of two bottles each of three types of cognac – six bottles in all. For a North Korean cadre, the gift of imported liquor was effectively the gift of foreign currency, as each bottle sold easily for around US$100 on the black market. But anything sold on to traders on the black market eventually wound its way back into cadres’ hands as bribes, so the gift of cognac was worth much more than its face value. This was also the reason why prices of imported liquor in North Korea plummet around the time of the three state holidays mentioned.

Young-nam’s father seemed interested in more than merely drinking the contents of the bottle; he was transfixed by the foreign label, and perhaps wanted the bottle as a keepsake. He asked outright if I would give it to him as a present. When I said yes, he rushed to find himself an empty glass and filled it with the cognac, as if to get rid of the drink as quickly as he could. Young-nam’s Osakan father savoured his cognac, explaining that it reminded him of his past. But after draining two glasses, he lost control.

‘You know that Yamaha piano you had at home? I gave that to your family. You know that? Right? And our house, you know your father gave me this. You know that too, right?’

‘Yes. Yes.’ I could do nothing but respond monosyllabically, and I could feel the blood surging to my head.

‘I’m forever designated a Jappo, so I’ve never been allowed to have a real job. You know, around this time last year, your father came to sleep over at our place. We hadn’t eaten for days. I was hungry. I was so hungry that I contacted your father. You know, I realised that a friend is better than the homeland. It’s thanks to your father’s support that we were able to survive for one more year. I made him promise not to tell you.’

Young-nam’s mother tried to calm him down. ‘You’re drunk. Stop talking about the homeland in that way in front of the kids. Besides,
we decided to move to North Korea at your bidding. What good is it to regret the decision now?’

Behind her words, there lay many other words that could not be said.

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ her husband replied. ‘I’m sorry for bringing us to this country. But tonight, I’m a happy man. With you here, it feels like we’ve had ourselves a proper meal. Do you have any idea what we’ve been doing for food? You know, this wife of mine, she puts rice water on the table and calls it rice. She boils wild shoots and serves the liquid broth as if it’s a proper stew. There’s never any real food on the table, but she still demands we sit at the table for our meal. And why not? We can pretend we’ve eaten proper food and feel better about our lives.’

Young-nam sat with his head in his hands, glaring at his father from between his fingers, as if thinking that his father was ruining the last remaining shreds of dignity in their lives. When I noticed the signs of starvation on the crown of his head, it rent my heart.
Young-nam, I didn’t know. Forgive me for my ignorance.

The next morning I packed my bags to leave. I had planned to stay for two more days but made up an excuse, saying I was needed urgently at work. When I saw the tattered shoes that Young-nam put on as he hurriedly followed me out of the house, I was glad I had made the decision to leave. Wanting to buy him a new pair of shoes before I went back to Pyongyang, I said we should go by the market. As we walked, I stole a glance at his dangling earlobe. It had dry white patches of flaky skin, which spread down to his neck. I felt bitterly sorry for all the times I had pinched him as a child.

‘So, how does it feel to be back home? Is it much different from Pyongyang?’ His voice was feeble and sounded as if it was coming from afar.

‘People live the same anywhere you go. I even get told off at work all the time.’

‘I want to move to Pyongyang. At least you can get a job there. Even meet the General like you did.’

I faltered, searching for words that might comfort him. Just walking alongside him was mortifying, and I felt guilty that my visit had thrown his life into disarray. But he started to pour his heart out. ‘You don’t get it, do you? There’s no future for me. At least you’re in Pyongyang, where you can get on in life by working hard. You even got to choose your own career. Here, scrambling for the next meal is the best I can do. Even if I make it today, there’s the next meal to worry about. And the next. All my waking hours are spent fearing whether I will be able to eat again. We live no better than animals. You saw with your own eyes at the station. You know how the standard greeting used to be, “Have you eaten?” But now, you can’t say that, because what can you say in response? “No, I haven’t and what the fuck can you do about it?” Can’t you see? It’s different outside Pyongyang. And you don’t have those in the capital city either, do you?’

I looked to where he was pointing. The walls on either side of the marketplace entrance were plastered with black-lettered slogans instead of the usual prices of goods. ‘Death by firing squad to those who disobey traffic rules!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who hoard food!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who waste electricity!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who cut military communications lines!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who hoard state resources!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who spread foreign culture!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who gossip!’ I hadn’t realised that there had been so many new regulations introduced in our nation. The slogans implied that any and every mistake would lead to death by firing squad.

In Pyongyang, to avoid the eyes and ears of foreigners and tourists, new regulations were announced internally, through workplace and residential unit meetings that all North Koreans are required to attend. I realised I had never before seen a regulation posted in a publicly visible place. It took me a while to remember why we had come to the market in the first place. Once I’d regained my composure, I wanted to buy the shoes as quickly as possible and get
out of this place; and so I took the lead, holding Young-nam by the hand.

There were more people hanging around than were actually buying or selling. As we made our way through the crowds, the stench was suffocating. ‘Take care with your wallet!’ Young-nam warned me. I walked even faster, and finally found a shoe stall. I asked Young-nam to pick a pair of shoes he liked. He resisted, saying he was sorry enough not to be able to treat me well as a guest and he couldn’t possibly receive a gift on top of that. As he reluctantly picked out a cheap pair, I asked the vendor for the most expensive pair he had. Even that turned out to be of mediocre quality, a pair made in China.

Young-nam recalled a Korean saying: ‘They say that if you buy shoes as a parting gift, you’ll never see each other again.’

‘You think I’m your lover or something? What do you mean, “never see each other again?”’ I said.