Your Republic Is Calling You (36 page)

Ki-yong doesn't reply. Jong sits there without saying anything for a while. He throws away the empty pistachio bag. The ground is covered with pistachio shells. He takes a cream-filled pastry out from his pocket and rips open the plastic wrapper. "Excuse me. They cut out a part of my stomach because of cancer, and now I have to eat constantly like a starving man," he explains.

"No, go ahead," Ki-yong says.

Jong bites off a chunk of the pastry and chews. Ki-yong tosses in his mouth the remainder of the pistachios Jong gave him, the nuts having turned damp in his sweaty palms. It doesn't taste like much of anything. "Supervisor Jong, I don't think you understand what kind of man Kim Ki-yong is," Ki-yong says.

"What do you mean?" Jong asks.

"When I was in junior high, when I was sixteen years old—I was Hyon-mi's age—I came home to find my mother had committed suicide. After that I had a hard time going home ... You probably don't know what that feels like. Your house feeling like a prison, that really is a terrifying thing. I don't know why I'm telling you this, but even now, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, thinking that I'm in the Pyongyang apartment I grew up in. In my dreams I'm still sixteen."

"That must be very difficult."

"There's no need for you to be sarcastic. I think the most important part of being a parent is to create as many beautiful memories as possible for your children. But I haven't been able to give that many to Hyon-mi—maybe I haven't been the best dad. I think that the even more important thing about being a parent is not to give any horrible memories to a child. This is why I don't want to do it. I don't want to hurt my daughter by going home, digging into my wife's affair, arguing and attacking her, which would lead to her attacking me—revealing everything—and end with our hating each other. Do you understand? My wife's right. If I'm the only one who gets sacrificed, everything will be fine."

"I do know what you mean. But it all depends on how you do it. You have to go back home."

"Look, I'm telling you I can't!" Ki-yong shouts, frustrated.

Jong looks uncomfortable. "Okay, okay, calm down, Mr. Kim. I'm already convinced, really. Believe me. But I'm just the low man on the totem pole at the Company. Do you know what I mean? I'm just the messenger."

Ki-yong is momentarily taken over by a fantasy of all the blood in his veins flowing slowly, like thick porridge. A pervasive sense of powerlessness sticks to his skin like wet clothes. He can't figure out how to fight, with whom to argue, or even discern where the end to all this may be. Perhaps this is the beginning of the end. If he acquiesces to these demands, he has the feeling that he will, like Kafka's characters, busily and repetitively wander through a complicated maze, experiencing events that are tragedies for him but ridiculous comedies for everyone else. These men will observe him and his every act in a detached way, like biologists studying animal behavior, watching him mate, raise his young, work, and play. "So you're saying that I have no choice in the matter," Ki-yong says.

"Yes, exactly. For now, you should just go home. I mean, married life has its good parts and bad parts, right? Marriage is all about living together despite knowing each other's faults, overlooking them and understanding each other. So you should go back, work on the problem, and just live like you always have."

"Like I always have? Do you really think that's possible after this?" Ki-yong's voice betrays bitterness.

Jong isn't moved. "Of course it is. This is a bit embarrassing, but at the beginning of my marriage, when my wife got pregnant—you know, you can't really sleep with your wife when she's pregnant—I was sleeping with another woman and got caught. Well, I was actually sleeping with my sister-in-law, my wife's sister. It just happened, somehow, I don't
know. These things happen, you know? Obviously it was a huge deal. Even now I have no idea how my wife found out. She went crazy, screaming at me that she'd get rid of the baby. But now, you'd never know that happened. I'd like to tell you, as someone who's lived a few more years than you have, it all tends to work out in the end."

"What happened to your sister-in-law?"

For the first time since Ki-yong met Jong, he hesitates, opening then closing his mouth without saying anything. But he starts speaking again. "She committed suicide. Oh, no, don't get me wrong, it wasn't because of that. Her husband ran a business, manufacturing parts like bike pedals and seats, but it went under so their whole family took poison and killed themselves in a motel room. The kids were really cute..." He stops talking and sits in silence.

It's late—the noise of the cars whizzing by on the big thoroughfare adjacent to the apartment complex is no longer discernible. The sound of the TV in a nearby apartment is now louder than the cars.

Ki-yong breaks the silence. "Okay."

"What?"

"Give ... give me the watch," Ki-yong replies, calmly.

"Oh, that? Oh, good. Let me tell you, you made the right choice." Jong signals behind him and Chol-su appears and uncuffs Ki-yong.

Jong says apologetically, "It will be much more comfortable than the cuffs." He hands the electronic bracelet to Chol-su, who presses a couple of buttons and hands it back.

"It's ready," Chol-su announces.

"Oh, great. So we don't have to reset it?"

"No."

Ki-yong holds out his left arm and Jong presses the bracelet to his wrist. The device instantly clamps around his wrist.
It feels like a cold-blooded animal, like a snake, against his skin. Ki-yong shivers despite himself.

Jong smiles, more relaxed, relieved. "Now that you've put that on, there's one last thing you have to do before you go home."

Ki-yong doesn't reply, staring down at his left wrist.

K
I-YONG SEES
the levee stretching straight out toward the lighthouse far away, like a piece of bamboo, but the middle of it is bent, curving toward the artillery of the inner harbor at a fifteen-degree angle, as if children horsing around damaged it. The harbor lies two and a half miles away from where Ki-yong is standing, dotted with a few lights that probably belong to restaurants still open for business. The faint light flickering in the harbor is reflected in the dark sea, dancing among the waves. It's a dark night, the moon and the stars hidden out of sight. Crouched behind a rock, Ki-yong looks at his watch. The lighthouse is shooting a ray toward the open ocean, and on the shore, far from the harbor, searchlights sweep the ground where sea and land meet, aimlessly drawing irregular arcs.

Ki-yong knows that in the dark ocean far away, someone is watching the black shore through binoculars. He knows that the crew—whose nerves are on edge because they have spent days in the cramped midget submarine, sustained only by bits of raw ramen—will be waiting inside, fighting the
urge to go to the bathroom and fingering in their pockets the poison-filled capsules to swallow in an emergency. The lead unit will be waiting for the hatch to open, wearing flippers.

At 3:00 on the dot, Ki-yong takes a small Maglite from his pocket and turns it on and off toward the pitch-black sea, as if he were signaling into the depths of the universe. A little later, a somewhat incomplete response bounces over the peaks of waves. This communication makes his heart pound—they've come to get him, risking their lives. They are waiting for him below the surface of the water. They've come from far away, certain of the righteousness of their mission. Well-trained comrades are only a stone's throw away. Nostalgia unexpectedly envelops him. Regardless of whatever Liaison Office 130 has done to his life, he spent his youth there. He was twenty years old, missing his family and the girl he left behind in Pyongyang, uncertain of his own future. He was perpetually covered in sweat and his uniform always stank. He was hungry all the time, but was confident in his toned muscles and alert instincts. He believed that he had found comrades he would gladly die for, that he was working toward revolution, immersed in a lifetime of work they would achieve together. He believed, though briefly, that one man could change another, and that changed people could transform the world. Huddled behind a rock on the Taean peninsula, he realizes once again how far he's come from all of that, how different he is today. How different he is now, compared to twenty years ago, when he swam onto this very shore. The Maglite signal puts him face-to-face with his twenty-year-old self, separated by only a shoreline.

The members of the lead unit are swimming toward the beach by now, pushing against the current with their shoulders, kicking with all their might. Or maybe they are using a propeller with an electric motor. Ki-yong listens. He
thinks he can sense the faint vibration of a machine cutting through the rhythmic waves. He trembles. The wind is getting stronger and its dampness chills the tip of his nose. He rubs his nose with the hand that isn't holding the light.

At that moment, the searchlights all begin to focus on one particular point, instead of lazily sweeping the shore. At first, it looks like it's a random accident, but soon the columns of light swing along the curving shore to meet on the imaginary arc that links Ki-yong to the submarine. Then flares shoot up from behind dunes with a swoosh. The flares, bursting up to the sky, brighten the area like it's daytime. Gunfire concentrates on the spot where all the searchlights meet. Bullets from automatic rifles fly through the waves toward the submarine. The shore, illuminated by the flares, looks surreal. The sky is black but the world below is bright. Like René Magritte's
Empire of Light.
There are no shadows on the sandy dunes, which shine brightly. Bullets spray into the sea from the bunker behind the dunes, and the searchlight on top of the rocky hill throws a dazzling brightness on everything, refracting off the surface of the dark ocean. Ki-yong looks away from the fight erupting on the water and reflects on his long day. From far away, he hears the rat-tat-tat of machine guns, but it doesn't sound threatening at all. Soon he doesn't even hear that. Only the flares shoot up again and again toward the dark sky and fall back to Earth, leaving behind gorgeous trails.

Ki-yong hears Jong through his earpiece. "Okay, I think that's enough. You can come back now."

Ki-yong gets up and walks through the shadows, avoiding the slope of the rock, away from the shore.

"The midget submarine has probably gone back safely. I doubt they'll suspect you of betrayal after all of the gunfire," Jong says.

A searchlight spots Ki-yong, still walking, and illuminates his figure. He stops, trapped in a strong beam. His expression is peaceful and gentle, that of a man who has finally accepted his fate. But if one looks closely, one might catch something like tears coursing down, following the grooves in his face. He looks like a ghost, the shadows on his face erased. The searchlight glides away, back toward the dark sea.

C
HOL-SU GETS
out of his car and walks toward Motel Bohemian. The heavy, humid air still hangs low in the dark of the early morning. He enters the lobby and walks to the end of the hall without stopping. The speaker mounted on the ceiling blares something at him, but he ignores it. At the end of the hall, he pushes what looks like a wall with his foot, and it opens. The room behind it is shabby and sparsely decorated, unlike the ornately designed vestibule outside. A man in his sixties, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, is sleeping inside the room. He bolts up and grabs his remote control, yelling, "Who the hell are you?"

Chol-su wrests the remote away from him. Nine 14-inch monitors fill one wall. The man, fumbling, now grabs his wallet. Chol-su slides his ID out of his own wallet and flashes it at the man.

"Give me everything you've recorded since nine
P.M.
We need it for investigative purposes."

"We don't record anything," the man stammers, looking at Chol-su suspiciously. Chol-su steps into the room with his
shoes still on and scans the wires attached to the monitors. He quickly finds several tapes. He silences the man with a glare and examines the tapes.

"You fucking pervert," Chol-su spits.

"I'm going to report you!"

"Do it, you bastard," Chol-su snaps, and sweeps the tapes into his bag. He walks out of the hallway, through the doors, and gets into his car. He tosses the bag onto the passenger seat, the tapes clattering inside. One falls out. He picks it up and puts it back in the bag. He starts the car and steps on the gas.

H
YON-MI'S ROOM
faces east. Bright sunlight shimmers through the open curtains, stabbing her eyes. She gets up, squinting, and ventures into the living room. Ki-yong is sitting on the sofa with the paper.

"Did you sleep well?" she asks.

"Yeah, what about you?"

"You look tired, Dad," she comments.

"Do I?"

"Yeah."

"I had a lot of work to do."

"You pulled an all-nighter?" Hyon-mi asks sleepily, plopping down on a stool next to the couch. "Oh, Dad, did you come to school yesterday?"

"No," Ki-yong says, forgetting that he did.

"Really?"

"Why?"

"This guy looked exactly like you, and drove the same car, too."

"Sonatas are very popular cars."

Hyon-mi scratches the back of her neck, leaving behind a red mark. "Oh, no wonder."

"What?"

"I figured you'd stop by and see me if you came, right?"

"Of course."

"Mom's not up yet?"

"No, don't wake her up. I think she's tired."

"Yeah, but she still has to go to work." Hyon-mi suspects that something happened between her parents last night. Did they have some serious sex last night? She could always detect a special mood hanging in the air in the morning after a night like that. Dad always looked a little depressed; Mom was bright and softer. Mom would sleep in while Dad got up early to make breakfast or read the paper. They would talk less than usual, but she would catch them giving each other flirty glances or being more playful, and everything would seem at peace. But today it feels a little different. She can't put her finger on it, but today isn't like yesterday or, actually, like any other day.