The Guest

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  “Look at them. You see, even the restaurant signs here have political leanings.”

  “Well, then . . . perhaps KoryŏRestaurant would be something neutral?” The two men exchanged looks and went into the restaurant; as they’d expected, the place was run by Chosŏn folk whose families had immigrated to China several generations ago. The place was quite spacious. The tables were empty, but that might just have been the time of day: a bit too early for dinner and a lot too late for lunch.

  “Let’s see, what do I want?” the professor mumbled to himself, perusing a menu that consisted of pieces of paper pasted to the wall.

  “I don’t see any toenjang tchigae22. . . excuse me, can you make the nakchi pokkŭm23 very spicy?”

  Hearing Yosŏp’s order, the matronly server approached the table with a pretty little smile on her face.

  “You, sirs, you’re from America, aren’t you?”

  “That we are! How did you know?”

  “People always ask for dishes they haven’t had in a while—not to mention the way you’re dressed.”

  “Well, what do people from Seoul do?”

  “Oh, they just order anything, like soup and rice.”

  “Then we’ll have that, too,” said the professor cheerfully. Then, out of nowhere, he turned back to the woman. “Ma’am, which do you prefer, the South or the North?”

  She flashed her friendly little smile again.

  “That’s the kind of question you ask to tease small children. ‘Who do you like better, Mommy or Daddy?’ It’s the big nations that carry the guilt. After all, the ordinary, common folk haven’t committed any crimes, have they?”

  The professor laughed out loud.

  “You have a way with words that would put a politician to shame.”

  Walking away from the table, the woman muttered under her breath, “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She turned her head and spoke again in the way Chinese people speak, her words unhurried.

  “I’ve repeated that same answer so many times it hurts my lips to say it.” At any rate, Yosŏp’s overall mood at the restaurant wasn’t bad at all. The professor ordered a bottle of chugyŏp ch’ŏngju24 to accompany their meal, and the Reverend, unable to turn him down, ended up emptying three whole glasses. It didn’t take long for him to start feeling the alcohol take effect.

  Yosŏp returned to the hotel by himself. The professor wanted to have a look around the business district, but for Yosŏp the combination of a midday drinking bout with his already low tolerance had been more than enough to completely drain his body of any energy he might have had. He told the professor that he needed to rest. The fatigue, in part, was due to the three straight nights he had gone without sleep during his brother’s wake in America. It occurred to Yosŏp that China was in the midst of a whirlwind of change, exactly the way Seoul had been long ago, around the time he immigrated to America. That was why the place felt so familiar. Beyond the main street, lined on either side with apartment complexes and random buildings, there would be back alleyways of old neighborhoods where screeching children black with dirt would run wild and old men would sit around in groups of three or four, maybe playing Chinese checkers. In a way, Yosŏp felt close to home already.

  Before my eyes I can see twinkling lights—they shatter like frog eggs, starting out garnet and then brightening into orange, then, slowly, a pale green, then yellow, and then finally blue—and all the while they are merging into one, these twinkling dots, undulating gently like a jellyfish. The thing moves away, fading into the darkness beyond. It is pitch black. Following it, I am sucked up into the darkness, breaking through to the other side. At the far end I can see a pinpoint of light; it grows bigger and bigger as I get closer and closer. Now I’m stepping down into a green meadow filled with sunlight. Each step I take feels nimble on the cushiony grass. There’s a narrow path and the grass stretches all the way out to the top of a little hill, but I can’t see anything beyond that from where I stand. A whitish gray trail of something, maybe fog or maybe smoke from someone’s kitchen fire, is winding its way round and round the hilltop. As I walk up the narrow path the white fog-like stuff envelops me—it’s everywhere—I can’t see a thing. Then, straight ahead, something faint—it resembles a house. As I get closer I realize it is a wooden pavilion, bare, without a trace of lacquer or paint. The dark figure of a man is standing before it, facing me.

  Who—who are you? I ask, stuttering in fear.

  Me. It’s me.

  He takes a step forward, out of the fog, and suddenly I see him clearly, as if he alone has walked into a ray of sunlight. I recognize him at once. It is Uncle Sunnam, a field hand who once worked in our orchard.

  Uh, what brings you here, Uncle?

  I’ve come to accompany your older brother.

  Big Brother Yohan has left already.

  He’s still wandering about, like me.

  Then you should both repent and hurry on.

  Ah, why don’t you go look and see what’s over there.

  Through the stark, naked apple tree branches, I see a snow-covered field and a frozen brook glittering under the winter sunlight. It is Ch’ansaemgol, back in the old days. I feel like he is carrying me piggyback.

  “The Song of the General” filtered through the speakers as the Chosŏn Minhang airplane took off—just the melody, without the lyrics. The tempo quick, like a marching tune, it had been sung day in and day out at the People’s Elementary and Middle schools in the years that followed the liberation. Maybe that was why it made Yosŏp’s heart convulse. The professor who’d shared his room had trailed after him and taken the neighboring seat. Now, craning his neck, he peered past Yosŏp at the view out the window.

  “Would you like to switch seats?” asked Reverend Ryu Yosŏp, not meaning a word of it.

  “Oh, no, no thank you. I’ll take a good look around later, when we’re off the plane.”

  Despite his protests, however, the professor continued to strain himself, trying to look out the window over Yosŏp’s shoulder. Judging from the panorama of wrinkled mountains that rolled out beneath them, the plane must have been flying over Manchuria. They might be near the Liaodong area. The voice of the captain filtered out from the loudspeaker.

  “You are now entering the skies of our mother country. From now on, please remain seated and fasten your seat belts.”

  As he gazed down at the mountains and forests that looked so much like miniature models, at the tiny houses in the city, studded here and there like tiny grains of white sand, tears welled up in Yosŏp’s eyes in spite of himself.

  The plane flew low, so low that it actually seemed to graze a small hill covered in red soil and stunted fruit trees, and finally landed on the runway. Yosŏp looked out the window and saw a group of elementary school children, each one holding a bouquet, and some personnel from the Koreans Abroad Relief Committee, all lined up and looking bored.

  The Homeland Visitors were taken to the Koryŏ Hotel and, in the lobby, introduced to their guides: two men and one woman. The first man, in his fifties, was rather fat and had beady eyes; the other, in his forties, had oiled and neatly combed every last strand of his hair all the way back. This second man was extremely thin and looked particularly high-strung. The woman looked suave, though she, too, was somewhat on the plump side. She had a high soprano voice, took noticeably large steps when she walked, and also seemed to be in her forties. Although they’d all been introduced, Reverend Ryu Yosŏp knew there was no way he would remember their names, so he categorized each one in his mind under a nickname. Number one was “Fatty,” number two was “All Back,” and number three, the woman, was “Soprano.” Fatty didn’t talk much, and whenever his already small eyes happened to meet those of a visitor, he’d squeeze them shut altogether and smile gently. All Back was the one who came forward and handed out the day’s agenda.

  “First, everyone will go to his assigned room and unpack. After lunch, you wi
ll have one hour in which to rest. In the afternoon, we will go on a tour through downtown Pyongyang, and when you return from the tour you will have dinner. This evening, to help you relax and get over the fatigue of such a long journey, we will take you to the Kyoye Theater. Please complete your luncheon between one and two, and be back here by three o’clock.”

  This time, fortunately, each person was assigned a separate room. It wasn’t that Yosŏp actively disliked the professor who’d been his roommate in Beijing—it was just that inconveniences became unavoidable when men of that age were forced to share a small space together.

  The hotel itself consisted of a set of twin towers, each about forty stories high. Considering the huge number of rooms available, there seemed to be very few guests in residence. The lobby and the coffee shop were bustling with people, but when Reverend Ryu got out of the elevator on the twelfth floor to find his room, not a single trace of human habitation could be seen anywhere. He was hesitating in the dark corridor when a young woman in an apron suddenly poked her head out of a doorway and rushed over to him.

  “What room number?”

  Instead of answering, Yosŏp held out his key. The young woman led him to his room. To his amazement, the room was quite luxurious. The front door opened onto a living room and the bedroom was further inside, separate from the main room. In place of carpeting, the floor had been covered with patterned mats—a famous Kaesŏng product—and a stream of cold air flowing down from a vent near the ceiling revealed that the entire place had central air-conditioning.

  “If there’s anything you need, just give us a ring.”

  After the woman left, Yosŏp sat down on the sofa in the living room, held his hands together, and said a brief prayer to himself:

  Our Father in Heaven, I am now back in my homeland. Though these people may be different from us, though they may be a crowd of heathens, please, God, help me to overcome any hatred in my heart towards them. Give me the power to have confidence as a Christian without ever trespassing a whit upon Thy will. Might Thou be with me until the day I leave this place to return home, and through the Holy Spirit, I implore thee, allow Thy humble servant the blessing of faith. In the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ, amen.

  Inside the Ch’ŏlima25refrigerator Yosŏp found an array of drinks including a pear-flavored soft drink, omija26 water, Ryongsŏng Beer, Kŭmgang Draft Beer, mineral water, and Sindŏk Spring Water. On the dinner table lay two melons, two apples, a glass, a thermos made in China, green tea, a box of milk crackers, and a bag of old-fashioned candy. The bedcovers had a bluish design and looked like silk, but they were probably synthetic.

  When it was all said and done, every object in the room struck Reverend Ryu as being somehow unfamiliar—each item seemed like a physical testament to all the lives that had lived in this place over the past forty years during his absence. The doorbell rang. Yosŏp went to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s the guide, sir.”

  Yosŏp thought the sudden visit odd but opened the door. All Back stood in the doorway. Uninvited, he entered the room as brazenly as if it were his own and sat down, straddling the arm of the sofa.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” he said, as if he were the host. And so, their roles reversed, Yosŏp took the chair opposite All Back and sat down rather tentatively.

  “There are a couple of things we need to check with you.”

  All Back took out a document from one of his inner pockets and opened it.

  “Ryu Yosŏp . . . you are a minister, correct?”

  “That’s right. How do you know that I’m a minister?”

  All Back glanced up at Yosŏp for a second then returned to his document.

  “At the time of application, you put down Sŏn’gyori, Pyongyang, as your hometown, correct?”

  “Well, yes, but I’ve forgotten the exact address.”

  “Is anyone in your family still living in our republic?”

  Reverend Ryu shook his head firmly, although, in that instant, it occurred to him that his uncle, one of his older sisters, his sister-in-law, and his oldest nephew, Tanyŏl, might still be alive somewhere in Sinch’ŏn.

  “No.”

  “Not a single one?”

  “No, not one. Our entire family moved to the South.”

  “What is the name and age of your late father?”

  “Let me see, if he were still alive, he would be over ninety. His name was Indŏk. He passed away in the South.”

  “Ryu Indŏk? He, also, was Christian?”

  “He was a Protestant presbyter.”

  “I see. And there’s no one, no relative or friend that you are interested in being reunited with?”

  “No,” Yosŏp answered curtly.

  “Ah, well, that is all. Please excuse the interruption. Get some rest.”

  “Actually, I was just about to leave. Isn’t it time for lunch?”

  “So it is.”

  Yosŏp left the room with All Back and got on the elevator. Leaning against the opposite wall of the elevator, All Back stared Yosŏp directly in the face.

  “I don’t quite understand the purpose of your visit to the motherland.”

  “I’m old. I just wanted to come and see my hometown.”

  His expression icy, All Back grinned, the corners of his mouth curving slightly up.

  “And yet, you say that you have no one, no one at all, to go and see in your hometown?”

  Yosŏp stood quietly, his eyes burning a hole through the elevator doors.

  The restaurant was bustling with people. Aside from the Homeland Visitors the hotel apparently had guests from Japan and Europe, as well as a number of technicians from Russia. The menu, a traditional Korean lunch, was the same for everyone in the group; it had been planned that way in advance, a typically North Korean way of doing things. The food was a little bland—not spicy enough, but tolerable. When Yosŏp sat down, the professor, who’d been sitting at a different table altogether, sprang up and hurried over to take the seat across from him. Lowering his voice, he whispered to Yosŏp, “Someone searched my bag. I say, these guys really are keeping a close eye on us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I came out of the shower, I found the zipper on my bag open and my underwear all crumpled.”

  “They probably just did a thorough inspection when we passed through customs.”

  “It was my carry-on bag—I’ve been holding onto it ever since we got off the plane.” The professor shook his head in indignation. “I specifically requested to be reunited with my family members. I think that might be why they’re watching me like this.”

  “Well, then your family must be alive and well. It’s only natural that they would try to find out everything about you before they allowed you to meet them, don’t you think?”

  The professor nodded. “Ah, you do have a point there, Reverend.”

  Reverend Ryu had entertained the notion of leaving the hotel, just walking out through the main doors and taking a stroll down the street, but he soon thought better of it and returned to his room. He felt somehow that he and this street were not a part of the same reality. As a minister with his own parish, Yosŏp hadn’t really traveled much. He had, however, visited Europe on several occasions to attend some church-related conferences, and, naturally, he’d been to different parts of America. Finding himself in a faraway, unfamiliar city like Amsterdam or Copenhagen, he would wander through the streets by himself and sometimes go into a restaurant and enjoy a delicious meal all alone. If he had time, he might visit a museum or an art gallery. So why did this place strike him as being so strange? He felt as if he were being observed, examined from every angle, right, left, above, below, front, and back—all by another version of himself. He dropped his hand just as his finger was about to touch the elevator button, fancying that he heard the murmurings of his other self, that it was right beside him. He took one last look around before finally stepping into the elevator. It was only after he reac
hed his room, locked the door, and sprawled out on the bed that he was able to calm himself down a little.

  That afternoon, the group of Homeland Visitors boarded the tour bus that would drive them around downtown Pyongyang and stop at several historical sites. Yosŏp ended up sitting by the professor, who had claimed the seat with the best view, the one directly behind the driver. The professor was already waiting and saving a seat for him by the time Yosŏp climbed aboard. So, what sights did Yosŏp see? He began by reading the strange signs and billboards, muttering to himself the way he did in any new city when he spotted something written in English, Japanese, or German. It was his way of trying to reconcile himself to his alien surroundings, to avoid a sense of disharmony

  Industrial Products Store, Agricultural Products Store, Fish Market, Vegetable Store, Butcher Shop, Dog Meat Shop, Noodle Shop, Rice Cake Shop, Ice Cream and Soda Shop, Barbershop, Beauty Parlor, Bathhouse, Bakery, Home Appliance Repair Shop, Clothing Store, Tailor Shop, Rice Soup Restaurant, Bookstore. Then there were all the propagandistic slogans spelled out with crude neon letters in primary red and blue, as yet unlit. Live Life Our Way! Mobilize, Annihilate, Expedite! Beautify Pyongyang, Capital of the Revolution! Long Live Our Great Leader, Comrade Kim Il Sung! The Party Decides, We Act! Revolution and Construction, Anti-Japanese Guerrilla Style!

  The bus coasted through the sparsely peopled streets at a leisurely pace. Every now and then it would stop in front of the Arch of Triumph, the Tower of Self-reliance, the People’s Palace of Culture, or the Pyongyang Department Store. The Homeland Visitors, listening to their guides and lecturers, were forced into single file and stood in vacant admiration before these impressive buildings and monuments, these heaps of marble, cement, and tile.

  Reverend Ryu much preferred to simply sit by the window and watch the passersby. An old grandmother walked by carrying a bag and in a great hurry to get who-knows-where; young people in twos and threes crossed the street chattering back and forth; groups of students marched by all lined up with a gait that spoke of having places to be and things to do. It was a weekday, and most people wore working clothes, their collars buttoned up at the neck. Every now and then a man in a suit would come into view. High school and junior high school students’ uniforms were the color of persimmons, complete with hats that resembled Lenin caps. The elementary students walked by in orderly lines wearing jumpers, overly colorful shirts with huge red ribbons, or red Boy Scout kerchiefs tied around their necks. The women all wore fairly similar two-piece outfits—the only noticeable difference between old and young was that the younger women’s dresses were slightly brighter and their heels slightly higher. Every now and then you might spot a young woman with a stylish hairdo wearing a short skirt or a Western-style dress and holding a parasol, but then there were also some women still in their work clothes, wearing sports caps with long visors. Weighed down with sacks of green onions and vegetables, they were probably on their way home from the grocery store. A housewife, carrying one child on her back and holding another by the hand, hurried towards a streetcar stop.