Dear Leader (38 page)

From behind me, Cho-rin’s voice sounded very close, as if confirming that we two were the only ones in this part of the house. It seemed that no music could transcend the sound of her voice, but what should I play?

I wanted to play a short and simple piece that would linger. I remembered teacher Choi Liang’s words, which he often repeated in our music history lessons: ‘All his life, Beethoven composed dark music. There was one bright song among them that he wrote for a lover: “For Elise”.’ I began to play this piece for Cho-rin. She seemed
to enjoy the all too familiar tune, but for me, this time it was different. With every phrase, I felt the plight of Beethoven, who had lost his love in life but left his music behind him for eternity.

About half an hour later, Cho-rin’s uncle and aunt came through the door together. Before he had finished taking off his shoes, the father called for his son. At the noise, Cho-rin frowned and went to greet her uncle. It sounded as though she were making a long complaint. The mother said she would go look for the boy, who was probably playing video games in the nearby arcade. But the father replied in an irritated voice that she should not bother. When she brought out the tea, her husband called me into the living room. I took my seat and he asked me to repeat exactly what his son had said to me. Not knowing the context, I did as I was told.

‘
Shabi, wo da si ni! Shabi zai zi!
’

The wife tutted and Cho-rin said agitatedly, ‘See, there’s nothing he won’t say!’

I was curious to know what the words meant, but kept quiet on seeing the seriousness of the father’s reaction. ‘Anyway, that’s that,’ he said eventually, massaging his temples. ‘Is there any news about your friend?’ He spoke kindly, perhaps to change the subject.

‘No, not yet. I called my contact in Yanji this morning and he said he was sending someone to the relative’s house.’

‘Good. I’ve been using my connections too, to find a way through South Korean businesses, so we may have some good news soon. You’ve had a long day. Let me treat you tonight.’ He took 350 yuan from his wallet, and continued, ‘You haven’t been out since coming to stay here. Tonight, why don’t you go out on the town? I’ll allow it just for this evening. Cho-rin, show him the sights of the city!’

‘Good thinking, uncle. Great minds think alike! My fiancé returned today from his business trip to Shanghai, so we’d planned to go out anyway.’ Turning swiftly towards me, Cho-rin said, ‘Let’s all
go out together. My fiancé wants to meet you. He’s richer than me, so he can buy dinner. How does that sound?’

I felt a little embarrassed. In fact, I felt very uncomfortable at Cho-rin’s excitement at the prospect of our night out together, my emotions in turmoil at the thought of spending an evening with both her and her fiancé. I made the excuse that I wasn’t feeling well, so that the two of them could spend some time without me. Cho-rin didn’t reply, but lingered as she did up the buttons of her coat. Her uncle and aunt both urged me to go out with Cho-rin and her fiancé. As I slipped the money into my pocket, I resolved to go, because I could now repay Cho-rin’s kindness one way or another. She had taken the time and trouble to help me, although I’d had nothing to offer her in return. But now, I did have something. It wasn’t so much the money as that, with it, I had regained a dignity that I had lost while on the run with no possessions other than my tattered bundle of poems.

‘Yes, Cho-rin, I’ll join you for dinner.’

Cho-rin was excited to be seeing her fiancé and, now that I’d made up my mind to go with them, I was excited at the prospect of leaving the house for the first time. We were both impatient to leave. When her aunt told her to be careful and avoid attracting the attention of the authorities, Cho-rin waved away her warnings and left the flat first. Five minutes later, she called the house phone and I went down to find a taxi waiting for me outside the building. Cho-rin waved at me through the taxi window, telling me to hurry up. She was wearing mittens. It occurred to me that I might buy her a pair of leather gloves.

As I looked out of the taxi window, I was amazed more by the number of people on the streets than by the brightly lit streetlamps and dazzling neon lights. I asked, ‘Is it a national holiday in China today?’

‘No, why do you ask?’ she replied.

‘Then where are they all headed to? Is there a mass-mobilisation event happening?’

‘We don’t have stupid things like that in China! It’s like this every day. Actually, the crowds are smaller than usual today because of the cold.’

It still didn’t make sense to me. In Pyongyang, the busiest time of the day was the evening rush hour, between 7 and 8 p.m. Within one or two hours at most, the streets cleared like a tide gone out. And because everything in North Korea ran according to a centralised system, you couldn’t go out for a meal just because you wanted to. Even Pyongyang’s famous Okryugwan cold-noodle restaurant shut at 8 p.m., and you couldn’t just pay with cash. To enter the restaurant you needed a special coupon issued as a privilege by the Light Industry Section of the Workers’ Party. This coupon system first appeared around 1992, when food rations began to shrink. The system was introduced in an attempt to uphold the integrity of state-determined prices, which were the pride of North Korea’s Socialism. But from 1994 onwards, by which point the ration distribution system had completely collapsed, many of the state-run shops and restaurants that accepted special coupons and state prices began to close down.

As prices determined by market forces took hold in the economy and overrode the prices set by the state, the notion that a state salary could support one’s livelihood was undermined. The average monthly salary of around 150 North Korean won became so worthless that it could not feed one person for even a day, let alone for a whole month. Unable to provide for its people, the Party had no choice but to turn a blind eye to illegal trade and the markets that popped up all over the country. But as this ‘grey’ economy quickly mushroomed and ordinary North Koreans stopped turning up for their state jobs in order to fend for themselves, the situation became a black hole that sucked in the Party’s ability to retain control over its people.

On 1 July 2000, North Korea announced the 7.1 Measures in a
desperate attempt to claw back its monopoly of control, as channels of livelihood spiralled beyond its reach. Ironically, the international community welcomed the measures, referring to them as evidence of North Korea’s willingness to consider reform. In reality, the non-state-controlled economy had had a declaration of war made against it by the Party, which had become drawn into a battle that continues today, as it struggles to retain its monopoly of control in the face of unplanned market forces.

The 7.1 Measures implicitly acknowledged that there was a discrepancy between state prices and market prices, by increasing the average state salary from 150 won to 2000 won. The Party urged the people to return to their state jobs, saying that it would actively oversee the regulation of market prices. But the toxic combination of sudden salary rises and severe crackdowns on market prices resulted in soaring inflation. As prices spiked along with the rise in salary, an average monthly income from the state could buy just five eggs. Finally the Party could impose some form of control over the markets only by legalising some of them, charging rent and restricting opening times.

In Pyongyang, the Party’s powerbase, none of the pedestrians out on a dark night could have been mistaken for individuals out to enjoy the evening. Instead, all of them – including children, university students and soldiers – would be citizens mobilised for political events or training exercises such as Pyongyang’s Gathering of One Million, Arirang Mass Games or a Troop Review. Seeing the busy streets of Shenyang and marvelling at the combination of lights and people, I wondered how this could possibly be a regular occurrence and not a festive exception. How did all these people earn enough to live like this? How did the Chinese Communist Party come to tolerate it? It was astonishing to me.

Lost in these thoughts, I realised too late that we had arrived at our destination and that Cho-rin had handed over the cab fare. If
Cho-rin insisted on paying for the small things today, I told myself, I would pay for the large things.

‘Cho-rin, when are we meeting your fiancé?’ I asked.

‘Seven-thirty. We still have some time.’

‘Is there a department store nearby?’

‘Why? Would you like to have a look round inside?’

‘Yes. You did say we had time.’

The department store was close by, not more than fifty metres away. On the side of the building, a large Coca-Cola advertisement lit up the surrounding area. The entrance was a set of revolving doors. Full of excitement, I led the way, then panicked and turned back, coming out as I had entered. I had almost fallen into the arms of a police officer with a pistol guarding the entrance. Cho-rin looked puzzled, then playfully nudged my arm and giggled.

‘He isn’t a real officer, dummy! He’s just a security guard! The pistol’s probably a dummy too, just for show.’ I felt mortified, thinking that Cho-rin might now take me for a coward. I took the lead again. In Pyongyang too there were department stores selling imported goods, but they only accepted foreign currency and most ordinary people could not shop there. The first department store I saw in Shenyang had more goods on sale than the ones in Pyongyang, but I was disappointed to see that these were not foreign imports, but products made in China. I noticed a stall displaying leather gloves, and walked quickly towards it. To redeem myself for having fallen for a fake, I picked out a pair of genuine leather gloves.

I showed them to Cho-rin, ‘Here, try these.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

When I replied that I wanted to buy her a pair, she shook her head and told me not to be so silly. She said she had several pairs at home; and, anyway, I mustn’t waste my money on useless things. When I looked at the price tag, I was deflated. Four hundred yuan for a pair of gloves? Feeling mortified yet again, I could only follow Cho-rin
meekly out of the store as she urged me on, saying that now we would be late.

Just inside the main entrance I noticed a toy stall. I picked out two toy swords from the display. They were modern ones with batteries in the handles and, when you pressed the button, lights flashed in different colours. I imagined that when Cho-rin’s cousin saw the swords, he would be delighted and we would make up our differences. A moment later, Cho-rin appeared by my side and pinched my arm, saying that she had gone outside and, thinking she’d lost me, panicked and rushed back to look for me. Then, when she saw what I’d bought, she told me off and asked me to get a refund. I struggled to convince her, insisting that it was part of my teaching method.

Outside, Cho-rin became even more excited than I was, grinning and slicing a toy sword in arabesques through the air. Every time the sword flashed, Cho-rin looked more beautiful.

Cho-rin had arranged to meet her fiancé at an expensive restaurant where waiters greeted us in a long entranceway. I was startled to see them bowing, as it seemed as if they were grovelling. When we followed two waitresses to our table, we found that Cho-rin’s fiancé was waiting for us in a private room. Even from first impressions, he seemed to be a good man. His name in Korean pronunciation was Ju Yun-bal. Cho-rin introduced us, adding that he had the same name as a famous Chinese actor. I liked his smile very much, and his youthful good looks seemed to confirm that couples are often similar-looking people. Although the only Chinese I’d picked up was the greeting
Ni hao!
he seemed very pleased with that one phrase of mine. He was well mannered, helping Cho-rin take off her coat and smoothing its shoulders before hanging it up. He would clearly make her a wonderful husband.

When the waiter brought us the menu, Cho-rin glanced at it and then handed it to me. I was intending to pay for dinner, and began to flick through the pages with pleasure. Although I couldn’t read
the Chinese characters, I despaired at the numbers next to each item – a starter was priced at 50 yuan upwards. I had 340 yuan left after buying the toy swords.

I passed the menu to Cho-rin’s fiancé who called the waiter and ordered dish after dish. I asked Cho-rin in Korean, ‘I wanted to buy dinner, but this is all I have. What can we order?’

‘Forget it,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t bring you out for that reason.’

She then changed the subject, as if warning me not to mention payment again. Cho-rin explained that in China, ordering food was for show in many ways. For example, if you asked for beer, they would understand it not as one bottle but as a box of ten. I wondered whether this was related to China’s size, or a result of economic reforms leading to a show of purchasing power serving as the marker of status.

Soon the large round table was filled with all kinds of dishes. There was far too much for the three of us, and probably more than enough for nine. I guessed that the bill would be over 1500 yuan. And sure enough, they did us a box of ten bottles of beer, just as Cho-rin had said.

I excused myself to use the bathroom and rose from the table. I remembered that when we entered the restaurant, we had walked past a glass cabinet displaying wines. Although I couldn’t afford the food, I wanted at least to buy them a nice bottle of wine, especially after Ju Yun-bal’s generous orders, even if it was really just for show. Fortunately, there was a reasonably good-looking bottle of wine for 350 yuan. I showed the waiter my money and, although he saw that it amounted to 10 yuan less than the asking price, I was relieved that he accepted the notes and handed me the bottle with a smile.

I suddenly recalled the argument I had had with Young-min in an alleyway in Yanji over a paltry 10 yuan, and felt guilty that I was spending this money on wine when he might be hungrily wandering
the streets. When we met again and he discovered how I had been getting on without him, he would surely feel let down by his friend. I quickly prayed that the 400 yuan I had left with Mr Shin in Yanji would be delivered to Young-min, and that he would arrive safely in Shenyang with the money. As I compared that sum with what I was paying for the wine, the bottle felt even more precious. Still, thinking how I had nothing to my name when I met Cho-rin, I felt proud that I could at least afford to buy her this bottle of wine by way of thanks.