Dear Leader (40 page)

I walked further and saw another advert, exactly the same, dancing in the neon lights. I was in a street I did not recognise at all. People were walking everywhere, not caring whether they were stepping on the pavement or road. The overwhelming chaos of pedestrians, combined with the traffic noise coming from all directions, made it even more difficult for me to regain my sense of direction.

Panic overtook me. Today was the first time I had left the house. When we’d arrived at Cho-rin’s uncle’s house, and when we went to the restaurant with her fiançe, we had used cabs. I realised I had no way of knowing which way was which.

The rumble of a train in the distance reminded me that over the rooftops of low-rise buildings, I had been able to see many intersecting rail tracks when I’d looked out from Cho-rin’s uncle’s apartment. If I reached the railway intersection, I thought I might be able to gain my bearings.

I walked for more than half an hour, but realised I was utterly lost. My surroundings turned shabby. Beyond the flyovers tangled like snakes overhead, all the apartment buildings looked the same. I tried to remember where I’d ended up after evading the officers, but it was no good. By the time I returned to what looked like the centre of
Xita, the streets were emptier and there were fewer cars and people. A police vehicle shot past me with its sirens silent and lights flashing.

I was furious with myself. I had let my guard down while staying with Cho-rin’s uncle. How careless I had been, not bothering to prepare for a possible confrontation. How could I hope to make the long and dangerous journey to South Korea?
How could I? How could I? How could I?

That night, I slept in the stairwell of an apartment building somewhere, huddled against the cold, drawing up my knees and pressing my face against them. The position must have been bad for my circulation, because when I opened my eyes, it felt as though ice had started to form inside my body. My teeth clattered uncontrollably. When I tried to stretch my limbs, I thought I could hear the cracks of breaking ice. There was nowhere that did not ache – my arms, legs and back all throbbed with pain. I feared that I might have broken a bone – it was difficult enough to be on the run without a plan, but an injury would be the end of me. When I saw the bruises on my body after last night’s headlong flight, I was relieved to discover the source of my aches and pains.

Watching the sky unfurl into colour with the coming of the dawn, it seemed for a moment that I might find my way back in no time at all. But the city turned out to be much more complex than I had appreciated in the dark. I despaired as the map of familiar places that I had carefully pieced together in my head scattered and was replaced by the chaos of this inscrutable city.

As midday passed into afternoon, my stomach started to grumble. Only when I thought of food did I realise that I was penniless once more. For a panicked few seconds I rushed to retrace my steps, thinking that I had dropped 350 yuan on the ground. I grinned ruefully when I remembered that, of course, I had spent it on a bottle of wine over dinner, and that Cho-rin had appreciated my choice as she read the label. Building on this positive memory, an idea came
to me. I could call Mr Shin: his wife would have the landline of Cho-rin’s uncle registered on her mobile phone. All I needed to do was to retrieve that number, and I would be able to see Cho-rin one last time.

Walking quickly at first in my excitement, I slowed down as I figured out how to find the coins to make a call. One yuan was all I needed. Then I recalled that Cho-rin had mentioned something about Xita Church. A lot of North Korean refugees went there looking for help, she’d said, and South Koreans provided money to help them. One refugee had even received enough to purchase a false passport, and had been able to fly to South Korea. I decided I would make my way to this Xita Church. I wouldn’t be begging for assistance with my entire escape, merely asking for one yuan on compassionate grounds. Anyone could find themselves in that situation, and one yuan wouldn’t be too much to give away. I put on my sunglasses and stood at a crossroads.

I noticed a Korean sign that read ‘Kyonghoeru’. It was a familiar name, which I had come across at the UFD as I studied Seoul. ‘Kyonghoe’ referred to a virtuous meeting between a master and servant, and was the name of a tower built near Kyongbok Palace in Seoul by a Chosun king in the fourteenth century. Just as the history behind the name was grand, the restaurant was large. When I entered, there was only one woman cleaning up, as they had finished serving lunch. Fortunately, she spoke Korean. She kindly gave me directions to Xita Church, and even drew me a map.

I managed to find the church without difficulty after about fifteen minutes’ walk. There were several groups of people gathered in conversation outside the church. As I neared them, I could hear fragments of Korean. Recognising my own language, I desperately wanted to join in and become one of them. This group of Koreans seemed to stand out from the Chinese even in the way they dressed, with a distinctive fashion sense of their own. One young man was
wearing a bright jacket and trousers, with a smart white shirt. Nearby, a tall couple engaged in conversation, both wearing smart long black coats. I felt proud that my fellow Koreans looked so good, and felt as if I were already one of them, standing equal among them. Perhaps it was for this reason that I couldn’t countenance the thought of begging from them. Even though I only wanted one yuan, I couldn’t bring myself to ask for money. I remembered what my parents used to say when I was younger, that one must never scrounge from others. It was almost more acceptable simply to ask for safe passage to South Korea.

As I approached the front door of the building with this thought, two men prevented me from entering.

‘Who are you looking for?’

‘I have some business inside.’

‘You don’t look like a member of our congregation.’

‘No, I’ve come from North Korea. I’ve something important to talk about. It’s dangerous out here, I really must go—’

Before I could finish, one of the men seized my arm to stop it reaching the handle and the other shoved me back.

‘Come back on Sunday. We might give you money then. Not today.’

Immediately, I retorted, ‘I’m not here to beg for money. Believe me. I didn’t come to ask for money. I’m not that kind of person.’

‘This isn’t a place for North Korean refugees! And what’s with your sunglasses? Get out of here. Go find a consulate or embassy, you piece of shit. It’s because filth like you keep coming here that the authorities won’t leave us alone. Can’t you hear me? Get out of here, out!’

I fell back. As I moved quickly away, I thought I could hear the tread of military boots behind me. My face was hot with humiliation, and I grew angry as I imagined the crowd outside the building mocking me behind my back. I slowed to a defiantly upbeat pace to preserve my dignity, but inside I was screaming:
Am I not making a
plea for help in a common language? Are we not fellow human beings, speaking the same tongue?

I sat down on a bench in a park not too far from the church. Even when I looked up at the sky’s expanse, there was not a piece of it I could claim as my own. I had imagined that freedom as wide as the universe under these skies would allow me to choose my own life. But freedom turned out to be no more than a shrinking cold hole. Were there certain people that had been set apart as free? Was freedom a predetermined fate that I had no right to enjoy?

I remembered how Young-min said we would never make it to South Korea after we were thrown out of the church in Yanji. Perhaps his purchase of a blade with our last 10 yuan had been the right decision. I fidgeted in desperation, opening and closing my hands inside my pockets, where my fingers found a small crumpled ball of paper. I took it out and threw it to the ground. My gaze rested upon it blankly until I realised it wasn’t just a piece of trash but some precious yuan. I reached to pick it up and found two one-yuan notes. A gift from heaven?

Where had it come from? In my befuddlement, it took a while before my mind came to rest on an image of Cho-rin’s face. It was the change from our cab ride together.

I called out her name: ‘Cho-rin!’

I leapt out of my seat and actually began to run, looking for a phone booth, but instead found an old woman who was on the street selling phone calls from her landline. I handed her my money and took the receiver with my other hand. The number I dialled began to ring, and in the short moment before Mr Shin answered, Cho-rin’s face flashed in my mind.

‘Hello?’ Mr Shin answered.

‘Hi, it’s me. You know that number on your wife’s phone?’ I said quickly, trying to make the message as brief as possible so I could call Cho-rin. ‘I don’t have any more money, so before I run out of minutes
on this phone, you know that number I called from, can you read it out to me? I’ll call you back soon!’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Mr Shin asked. Annoyed, I began to repeat my sentences, but Mr Shin interrupted. ‘Your friend has died. What are you going on about?’

I didn’t respond.

Mr Shin continued, ‘Are you listening? Your friend Young-min – he’s dead.’

I doubted that what I had just heard had been a real voice, and checked that I was still holding the phone.

‘What? What did you just say?’ I managed to say. The receiver was shaking in my hand.

‘Stay calm. Just listen to what I’m saying. Yesterday, I got a call from Young-min’s uncle, asking to meet me urgently. He wouldn’t say why. When we met, the man was too distressed to speak. Then he broke down in tears, telling me that his nephew had died, and that it had been a terrible end. He said that Young-min was taken away in a car by the Chinese authorities, and they were driving over a mountain pass when he apparently asked to relieve himself by the side of the road. He used the opportunity to kill himself by jumping off the rock face. Young-min had been on the streets for a week before he was caught near the house. The uncle was asked to identify his body, which he did.’

I couldn’t hear what Mr Shin said after that. I lowered the receiver. Even when the old woman took the phone away from me, complaining that I had gone beyond my allotted time, I felt nothing.

The evening sun was reflected on the glass buildings all around us. As the world drowned in a tide of red, I felt certain I had seen this sky before. It was the same sunset that Young-min and I had seen on that first night, on the way to stay with Chang-yong’s mother-in-law. It had been a beautiful sunset, full of hope. From that distant place, I felt the presence of Young-min drawing nearer. As he became clearer
in my eyes, my vision clouded. Young-min could not have died. It could not be true, even if his own father had been the one to identify his body. How could he be no longer here in this world with me? I bit my lip to stop myself from crying. If I cried, it would seal the truth of his death. But if I held back my tears, I knew he would come back to me.

I walked a few steps and then collapsed to my knees when I remembered how Young-min had desperately wanted to buy a drink in Yanji market. All he had wanted was to lose himself for a moment as we fled from our pursuers. But I had denied him even that small final comfort. Even if it meant abandoning our hopes of freedom, even if it meant surrendering, I wished, in vain, that we had shared that one last night of drunkenness.

Filled with bitter regret, I knelt down on the pavement and wept. I was not there with him to the end. He had thrown himself off that rock face because I was not there to take his hand. What pain did he feel as he knew he was going to fall? What did my kind friend pray for in those last few moments? I groaned, and the tears would not stop. What had I been doing as Young-min killed himself? I was playing the piano, making music, though that music truly belonged to him.

I wept in an agony made all the more bitter by not having anything left for Young-min, not even a drink with which to toast his memory. I had nothing left to my name. All I had as an offering for Young-min’s ghost were my own wretched tears.

DAWN CAME. THE
new day offered me a challenge, and I snapped the bridge of my sunglasses, tossing the broken halves on the ground and crushing them underfoot. After Young-min had confronted death itself, I couldn’t justify my timidity, my remaining hidden behind dark glass to conceal myself from the world. If I remained hidden, Young-min would mock me from above. I was ashamed of being alive without him, and it was a worse betrayal to continue in cowardice.

From that moment on, I was no longer a fugitive. I was no longer fleeing out of terror, but fighting for my freedom, so that I could expose the lies of Kim Jong-il. I wasn’t afraid to die if I died a free man, and this released me from fear. I did not even flinch when I passed a police officer. If I must follow the path Young-min had taken, so be it. Silently, I swore at each passing officer:
Shabi, wo da si ni! Shabi zai zi!

I had two paths to choose between. Not the way I had come and the way I would go, but a path I knew and a path that was unknown. I wanted to confront the latter, and I would find a way to Beijing. When I came across the Korean restaurant sign ‘Kyonghoeru’ again, I felt I would try whatever had been put in my way.

When I opened the door, I spotted the woman who had given me directions to Xita Church the day before.

‘Come on in,’ she said. She recognised me, and even asked whether I had managed to find the church all right.

‘Yes, I did. You were so kind to me. Thank you.’

The woman smiled shyly at my compliment. ‘What would you like to order?’ she asked.

‘I’m not eating, thanks. Would you please call the owner of the restaurant?’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Please tell him someone would like to meet him, thanks!’

‘Sir! Sir!’ The woman’s voice became distant as she ran off to fetch the owner. It was too early for lunch, so there were no other customers. I looked at my reflection in the window and patted my hair down. I brushed the dust and grime off my shoulders as best I could, rubbing spit into the cloth of my jacket to darken the marks.