The Guest

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  Over the years, my grandfather doubled the land he inherited from my great grandfather, and my father managed the orchards of the Development Company very well. By the time we were liberated from Japan, we were one of the richest families in the village. My grandfather and my father, together with the Christian landowners in the neighboring village, went on to build a church in Ch’ansaemgol—Kwangmyŏng Church. It was much bigger and had many more believers than the one already in town. My great-grandmother passed away before the liberation.

  Reverend Ryu Yosŏp waited in the front room of the nursing home—it resembled the lobby of a small hotel. He drank cold water from a paper cup. A number of potted ferns lined the hall, and there was an aquarium, too. A middle-aged woman was tapping away at a computer, behind a counter that looked exactly like a hospital reception desk.

  Immediately upon his arrival in L.A., Yosŏp had contacted the travel agency to confirm the arrangements for his visit to North Korea, and then he called Pak Myŏngsŏn. Despite some initial hesitation, she gave him the visiting hours and address of the nursing home in which she lived. After arranging to spend the night with a close friend, a younger minister, Yosŏp unpacked his luggage and headed straight for the nursing home. According to one of the attendants, she’d gone out for a walk in the park and was due to return in about twenty minutes.

  Tucked in the middle of the rectangular main building was a cozy little garden with a fountain. A line of palm trees stood in single file, their long leaves drooping down low. Every now and then an elderly woman would pass by through the corridor. It was probably some sort of condominium-style nursing home.

  “So. Here you are.”

  At some point a Yorkshire terrier had sauntered up to him; it was sniffing his knee. Yosŏp lifted his head and saw the old lady who held the other end of the leash. She wore a patternless baggy brown dress and a pair of glasses tinted slightly red. The dog wagged its tail and busily scurried back and forth between its owner and Yosŏp. He got up slowly and bowed to her, bending deep enough at the waist for his hair to fall forward.

  “How do you do? I am the younger brother of Presbyter Ryu Yohan.”

  Holding the rim of her spectacles in one hand, the old lady slowly scanned Yosŏp from head to toe. Gesturing for him to follow, she led the way to the elevator.

  The place was quite large for a studio apartment. The kitchen and living room were essentially part of the same space, but the table and chairs, as well as an armchair and a TV set, had been placed a small distance from the rest of the living area—an arrangement that kept the place from feeling too crowded. There was a door next to the kitchen, and the front part of the living room was screened off with a curtain. Behind it would probably be the old lady’s bed. She seemed to have had a perm some time ago, but now her white hair was cut short, right under the ears, and looked quite tidy. Yosŏp looked around the room, and then, as was his habit, gathered both hands between his knees and said a short prayer under his breath. Standing in front of the sink, the old lady looked at Yosŏp, who was sitting in the armchair, and asked, “Are you praying?”

  Without answering, Yosŏp kept mumbling and finished the last phrase before lifting his head. The old lady was looking at him, a curious smile hovering over the corners of her mouth.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked if you were praying.”

  “Yes, I am a . . . minister. Aren’t you Christian?”

  “I’m not sure if you people have the right to ask such questions.”

  Pak Myŏngsŏn, took out some chilled corn tea from the refrigerator and poured it into a glass.

  “Well, would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No, but I would like a glass of water, please.”

  She placed the glass of corn tea on the small table in front of him and returned to the dinner table to sit down.

  “So. What was it that you wanted to see me for?”

  “Do you know my brother well?”

  The old lady turned slightly away from the table and took off her glasses.

  “I know both Yohan and you very well.”

  Something behind her wrinkled face was vaguely familiar to Yosŏp, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “Have you forgotten the family from Palsan that was so rich with daughters?”

  In his mind, Yosŏp tried to clothe this tall, skinny old woman in hanbok. Ah, this was none other than that girl, the lady evangelist, the tall, older girl who’d been the vice chair of the youth group at Kwangmyŏng Church. Palsan was a neighboring village. It leaned up against a different mountain ridge, but the fields of the two villages were connected, so the people of both shared their sorrows and joys through all four seasons. Yosŏp managed to recall the name of a girl his age.

  “Now I remember, you’re . . . In . . . Insŏn’s big sister.”

  “Yes, Insŏn was our fourth.”

  A summer day full of towering cumulous clouds. Cicadas drone atop the willow trees as a group of naked children line up to jump from a hillside into a stream, wetting their ears with saliva and holding their noses shut with one hand. There, mixed in with all these boys, is a girl—Insŏn. Evening comes and we’re absorbed in a game of “catch-the-thief,” when suddenly we hear, loud enough to ring through the entire field, “Hey, Insŏn! You’re gonna get it from Mom! Get your butt in here and eat your dinner!” The voice of the older sister, Myŏngsŏn, the eldest in a family teeming with daughters.

  “Where’s Insŏn living now?”

  Reverend Ryu Yosŏp was smiling at the aged Pak Myŏngsŏn as if they were children once more, but in lieu of an answer she took out a pack of Lucky Strikes from a cabinet drawer. She pulled one out—it had no filter. Lucky Strikes had been an established favorite among soldiers during the Korean War, and even though Yosŏp’s chair was on the other side of the room, he recognized the red circle logo at once. Myŏngsŏn lit the cigarette and exhaled a couple of times.

  “My oldest lives in Philly, and the younger one is here in L.A.”

  His question forgotten, Yosŏp merely listened to the sound of her voice. It was, in fact, Myŏngsŏn who continued, asking him, “You say that Yohan died?”

  “Yes. The day before yesterday, in the evening. It was peaceful, as if in his sleep. I saw your name in his planner, so . . . I called you. You said he arranged a visit?”

  The old lady was still puffing away—a long, deep exhalation.

  “Well, all things come to an end when you die, don’t they,” said the old lady, as if to herself. She turned to Yosŏp.

  “How old were you during the war?”

  “Thirteen or fourteen, I think”

  “Insŏn died awhile ago. Chinsŏn, Yŏngsŏn . . . and the youngest, Tŏksŏn, too. They all died.”

  For a fleeting moment Yosŏp’s dream came back to him, and the countless deaths from the winter of that year whizzed by in front of him like a slide show.

  “So it happened during the war. But . . . didn’t your family attend church?”

  “Just mother and me,” Pak Myŏngsŏn murmured. “I wonder how it ever occurred to Ryu Yohan to come and see me.”

  “You never had any contact with him before then?”

  “He might have kept in touch with the father of my children.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “In Seoul. You’d probably recognize him if you saw him.”

  Nothing surprised Yosŏp any more. Sangho had been best friends with Yohan, and he had a younger brother named Sunho who was around the same age as Yosŏp: two families, two sets of brothers. Back then, Sunho’s family had owned an orchard.

  “Didn’t Sangho come to the States with you?”

  “He didn’t want to. He’s still living in Seoul.”

  For quite a long while the two sat apart from each other, neither one saying a word. Pak Myŏngsŏn glanced at the digital clock that hung on the wall opposite the dinner table. Yosŏp got to his feet.

  “You see, the thing is, I’m actually going home,
to visit.”

  “Where . . . to North Korea?”

  “Yes. If you have anyone you’d like to send word to . . . ”

  The old lady shook her head faintly. Yosŏp turned to leave, but stopped short at the door. Myŏngsŏn didn’t follow him out; she simply got to her feet and stood in front of the table.

  “Do you not go to church anymore?”

  In answer to Yosŏp’s question, she shook her head. It was the most definitive motion she had made throughout the course of their half-hour meeting.

  “No. Never again.”

  Icy mist slides slowly down the black hillside, twirling around the naked branches, and settles down on the ground. I shoulder a knapsack pieced together from an old army uniform and follow him. The first group, the ones lucky enough to make it onto a truck, have already left earlier in the evening. Those who lagged behind have been told to get to the ocean to hitch a ride on a boat. My man is wearing a winter cap and, like me, he’s got a knapsack on his back. My Sangho is carrying his carbine upside down—he’s still in his field jacket with the Youth Corps armband. With two mal15 of rice on my back, it’s tough for me to keep up with him. Every now and then he turns around and hurries me along with an irritated grunt. Our village finally comes into view. We enter a narrow alley and find the whole place blanketed in silence. Taking his carbine off his shoulder and holding it at the ready, Sangho slows his steps. This time, I lead the way—I know the shortcut to my house better. We turn at the stone fence and as I open the bush-clover gate my foot catches on something. My breath catches in my throat and I just stand there nailed to the ground, unable to stop trembling—it’s Sangho who kneels down to try shaking her awake. Even in the dark Mother’s white chŏgori is clearly visible. As if nothing is out of the ordinary, he calmly turns the flashlight towards our little two-room house, sweeping the beam of light into every nook and cranny. I look, too. My younger sisters lie side by side, all dead. The room reeks of blood. Hastily, he turns off the flashlight and the figures vanish, buried in the darkness. Over the years, only the image of Tŏksŏn will stay with me. Her thin wrist rests on the doorsill. Motionless, she is looking in my direction with her mouth slightly open. I try to stifle my cries, to keep from screaming out loud, and Sangho drags me back out into the front yard. Mother, lying prone on the ground, stirs ever so faintly. Mother! Wake up! She motions for me to leave, to run away. Who, who’s done this to you?

  It was around ten o’clock when Yosŏp returned to his lodgings. From the nursing home he had gone to Koreatown for dinner. There, for the first time in a long while, he drank some soju16 all by himself. The younger minister had been waiting for him. Opening the door to let Yosŏp in, the man seemed somewhat bewildered at the smell of alcohol that accompanied his arrival.

  “Did something happen?”

  Yosŏp answered with a smile, saying nothing. To the “Good night” that floated up from the bottom of the stairs, Yosŏp simply raised one hand and graced his host with a grand little wave.

  Collapsing into bed, Yosŏp was overcome by a rather pleasant, hazy sinking sensation—a feeling that was soon interrupted by the realization that something was prodding him in the behind. He rolled over on his side and reached back. The instant he took it out of his back pocket he realized what it was—the leather pouch. His heart pounding violently, he untied the string wound tightly around its mouth and removed the sliver of bone. It was about as big as the joint of a finger and shaped like an ivory tojang, though only half the normal size. Yosŏp held the thing between his thumb and forefinger, turning it this way and that, examining it from every angle. It looked like a compass you might read about, the kind one could use on a journey in some fairy tale. He put it back in the pouch, refastened the string, and tossed it on the nightstand.

  Yosŏp got out of his clothes and slid underneath the sheet. He was right on the verge of falling asleep when something inside his throat suddenly rose up and passed through his neck to his skull, and suddenly Yohan’s soft voice was with him again.

  You knew, you knew all along, and you just kept quiet about it, didn’t you?

  What do you mean I knew? Knew what?

  The things we did during those forty-five days.

  I only know what I saw.

  You’ve been to see Myŏngsŏn, haven’t you? Her family, every last one of them—I did them in. What do you have to say to that?

  What could possibly make you do something that hideous?

  Just . . . well, you’ll understand it all later.

  Sangho, wasn’t he your close friend?

  He was. That little shit took out more people than I did.

  But you two were on the same side, weren’t you?

  Hey, hey, enough of that. We’re not on any side.

  Long, long ago, an American ship called the General Sherman sailed out of Tianjin harbor in China. The owner of the ship, a man named Preston, had heard rumors that precious treasures were buried in the royal tombs of Pyongyang in the Chosŏn kingdom. Acting in concert with a British firm, Meadows and Company, he set out for Chosŏn on June 18, 1866. His ship carried Western goods popular in China at the time and an assortment of weapons, not to mention nineteen sailors, two friends named Wilson and Hogarth, a Danish man named Page who acted as captain, and a Protestant minister of Scottish origins known as Thomas—the designated interpreter and guide.

  Prior to this journey, while doing missionary work in Shandong, Thomas had encountered two men from Chosŏn who claimed to be believers of the Catholic faith. The Reverend Thomas longed to spearhead the first Protestant mission in Chosŏn, known then as a mysterious hermit nation. Setting out with this goal in mind, he eventually reached Paengnyŏng Island, off the west coast of Hwanghae Province. There he remained for two and a half months, handing out sixteen copies of the Bible (translated into Chinese) to the islanders. Apparently under the impression that Chosŏn was some kind of tiny, feudal realm, Thomas reportedly tried to meet the king in person in order to get direct permission to carry out his sacred mission. He was, however, unable even to find his way to Seoul. As it was his first time in the country, he promised himself he would one day return and headed back to China. With that first event serving as the impetus, the Reverend Thomas applied himself to studying the Korean language. Eventually, he became competent enough to communicate directly with native Koreans. He even gave himself a Korean name, Ch’oe Ranhŏn, using Chinese characters.

  Due to a minor disturbance caused by the invasion of a French fleet a few months before the General Sherman’s arrival, the royal court of Chosŏn was adamantly against the entry of foreign ships into any of the nation’s ports. On the night of July 11, the General Sherman sailed up the Taedong River and dropped anchor at Sinjangp’o in Ch’oribang, Pyongyang Prefecture. A great commotion ensued, as the general populace understandably assumed that the French fleet, which they heard had retreated, was mounting another attack. The governor of P’yŏngan Province dispatched his number one man to ascertain the purpose of the ship’s visit to his shores and to observe its general movement. When the man arrived, Ch’oe Ranhŏn, that is, Reverend Thomas came forth to act as the interpreter. Thomas introduced his company, explained that their sole aim was that of commercial trade, and suggested the friendly exchange of various Western goods with Chosŏn articles such as gold, ginseng, paper, and fur. In addition, Thomas clarified that his party consisted not of troublemaking Catholics but of peaceful Protestants. The governor’s man replied that Chosŏn law not only prohibited trade with all Westerners, it explicitly forbade the presence of Protestants as well as Catholics. He asked for their immediate departure, even supplying food to replenish their stores, as per their request, in the hopes that this would send them on their way. On July 13, however, the General Sherman simply sailed farther up the river and dropped anchor again at Turodo, slightly below Man’gyŏngdae, and sailed up and down along the river in a small boat, observing the state of affairs in the city of Pyongyang.

  The official Protest
ant stance, however, is slightly different. They insist that from the outset, they mistook the Taedong River in Pyongyang for the Han River in Seoul. Upon his arrival, they say, the Reverend Thomas came ashore at Changsap’o, in the vicinity of Sŏkhojŏng, and began handing out Chinese translations of the Bible along with various missionary pamphlets to a crowd who had gathered on a hillside to get a glimpse of the General Sherman. It is likely that the governor’s men, who had a duty to fulfill, felt the need to put a stop to this activity. On the sixteenth, these Korean officials were taken aboard the General Sherman and held as hostages.

  On this last point, too, the Protestants have their own story. The Reverend Thomas, they say, tried to reason with the governor’s men, reiterating the purpose of their visit to Chosŏn: “We did not come to your nation to do harm; we have no underhanded schemes. We only aim to, first, share Christianity with you. Second, we hope to trade wonderful goods with you, and third, we wish to appreciate the beautiful scenery and famous historic sights of your land.”

  It was during this discourse, according to the Protestants, that an official document was found on one of the governor’s men, a document containing an order to the effect that the crew of the General Sherman was to be lured onto land and massacred. They say the crew was so outraged by this discovery that they took the men hostage, and not for any other reason.