by Adam Johnson
“A chamber pot,” the boy said. “How did that happen?”
“How do you think?” Ga answered.
“Yech,” the boy said.
“Poor Brando didn’t know who had turned out the lights,” Ga said. “Everything echoed inside the pot. He wandered down the road, bumping into things, but the scientists thought he had come to take the tests. How brave of a dog to voluntarily face a bear, the scientists thought. And how smart to put on armor!”
Both the boy and the girl laughed large, natural laughs. Gone was the worry on their faces, and Ga decided that perhaps it was better for the story to have no purpose, that it be nothing other than the thing it was, spontaneous and original as it wandered toward its own conclusion.
“The scientists hugged each other in celebration,” Ga continued. “Then they radioed Pyongyang, reporting that they’d found the most extraordinary dog in the world. When the American spy satellites intercepted this message, they—”
The boy was tugging Ga’s sleeve. The boy was still laughing, there was a smile on his face, but he had turned serious somehow.
“I want to tell you something,” the boy said.
“I’m listening,” Ga said.
But then the boy went silent and looked down.
“Go on,” the girl said to her brother. When he wouldn’t answer, she said to Ga, “He wants to tell you his name. Our mother said it was okay, if that’s what we wanted to do.”
Ga looked at the boy. “Is that it, is that what you want to tell me?”
The boy nodded.
“What about you?” Ga asked the girl.
She, too, glanced down. “I think so,” she said.
“There’s no need,” Ga said. “Names come and go. Names change. I don’t even have one.”
“Is that true?” the girl asked.
“I suppose I have a real one,” Ga said. “But I don’t know what it is. If my mother wrote it on me before she dropped me off at the orphanage, it faded away.”
“Orphanage?” the girl asked.
“A name isn’t a person,” Ga said. “Don’t ever remember someone by their name. To keep someone alive, you put them inside you, you put their face on your heart. Then, no matter where you are, they’re always with you because they’re a part of you.” He put his hands on their shoulders. “It’s you that matter, not your names. It’s the two of you I’ll never forget.”
“You talk like you’re going somewhere,” the girl said.
“No,” Ga said. “I’m staying right here.”
The boy finally lifted his eyes. He smiled.
Ga asked, “Now, where were we?”
“The American spies,” the boy said.
SAD NEWS, citizens, for our nation’s oldest comrade has died at the age of one hundred and thirty-five. Have a safe journey to the afterlife, old friend, and remember fondly your days in the most contented, most long-lived nation on earth! Consider taking a moment today, citizens, to offer a respectful gesture for an older person in your housing block. Carry their ice blocks up the stairs or surprise them with a bowl of chive-blossom soup. Remember: not too spicy!
And a warning, citizens, against touching any balloons that float across the DMZ. The Minister of Public Safety has determined that the gas which floats these balloons and the propaganda messages they carry is actually a deadly nerve agent meant to slay innocent civilians who encounter them.
But there is good news, citizens! The city’s notorious windshield-wiper thief has been apprehended. The presence of all citizens is requested tomorrow morning in the soccer stadium. And more good news—shipments of sorghum have begun arriving from the countryside. See your ration stations for ample portions of this delicious starch. Not only does sorghum fortify the bowel, it also assists with male virility. Distillation of sorghum into goryangju liquor is not allowed this year. Be prepared for random crockery inspections.
Perhaps the best news of all, citizens: the next installment of this year’s Best North Korean Story is here. As we near our tale’s conclusion, already there are cries from the populace for more! But there will be no sequel, citizens. The conclusion of this story is one of eternal finality.
Forget for a moment, citizens, that you’re fabricating vinalon clothing or running an industrial lathe. Picture instead this scene—it is late, the moon’s a sliver above, while beneath it Pyongyang slumbers. One car threads its beams through the city’s towering structures, heading north, on the road to the airport. Looming ahead is the Central Cinema Studio, the largest film-production facility on earth. Here, hectares of Quonset huts link in a chain of unparalleled cinematic capacity. And it is here that the vehicle halted. From it emerged none other than Sun Moon, the woman for whom this facility exists.
The corrugated bay doors parted for her, and a great light emanated from inside. Bathed in this warm glow, waiting to greet her, was none other than the most charismatic figure in all the world, the Reverend General Kim Jong Il. He threw his arms wide to her, and together they exchanged gestures of socialist support.
Strong was the smell of Texan cooking—great slabs of pork torso and the noodle called the mac-a-roni. When the Dear Leader led her inside, Sun Moon discovered music, gymnastics, and synchronized forklifts!
“I thought the extravaganza to welcome the Americans would take place at the airport,” she said.
“It will,” the Dear Leader told her. “But our preparations must occur indoors.” He pointed to the sky. “To safeguard against spying eyes.”
The Dear Leader took her arms and squeezed them through the satin. “You are healthy, yes? You are doing well?”
“I want of nothing, Dear Leader,” she said.
“Splendid,” he responded. “Now tell me of the American. How many bars of soap did it take to clean our dirty, dirty girl?” Sun Moon started to speak.
“No, don’t tell me, not yet,” the Dear Leader interrupted. “Save your opinions of her for later. First I have something to show you, a little treat, if you will.”
The two began crossing the studio. Near the blast-proof film vaults, the Pochonbo Electronic Ensemble had set up and were playing their latest hit, “Reunification Rainbow.” To this music, a forklift ballet performed with pallets of food aid for America, their loads hoisted high as they circled, spun, and reversed in gay synchronicity with the lively tune. Most impressive, however, was an army of child gymnasts in colorful uniforms. Each limber tot held as his dance partner a hundred-liter barrel. The children had these white plastic barrels spinning like tops, rotating as if on their own and—surprise!—the children were atop them, logrolling them in unison toward the forklifts where they were to be stacked and loaded onto the American cargo plane. Tell us, citizens—have the hungry ever been fed with such precision and joy?
When they neared three choson-ots displayed on seamstress’s dummies, Sun Moon caught her breath at the sight of their stunning beauty. She stopped before them.
“The gift is too much,” she said, admiring the trio of satin dresses, each flashing almost metallic—one white, one blue, one red.
“Oh, these,” the Dear Leader said. “These are not the treat. These you’ll wear tomorrow as you dress in the colors of the DPRK flag. The white one when we greet the Americans, the blue one while you perform your blues composition in honor of the Girl Rower’s departure. And red as you escort the Girl Rower to her American fate. That is what will happen, right? Is that what you’ve chosen?”
“I’m not to wear a dress of my own?” she asked. “I’ve already picked which one.”
“I’m afraid it’s been decided,” he told her. “So please, no sad faces.”
From his pocket, he withdrew an envelope and handed it to her.
Inside, she discovered two tickets. “What’s this?” she asked.
“It’s part of the treat,” he said. “A sample of what’s ahead for you.”
Examining them, she saw they were official tickets to the premiere of Comfort Woman.
“These
are for next Saturday,” she said.
“An opera had to be canceled,” he said. “But we must have priorities, yes?”
“My movie,” she said. In disbelief, she asked, “My movie will finally be screened?”
“All of Pyongyang will be in attendance,” the Dear Leader assured her. “If for some reason duty calls your husband on a mission, would you do me the honor, would you join me in my box?”
Sun Moon gazed into the Dear Leader’s eyes. She was almost without comprehension that someone so powerful and generous would assist a citizen as humble as herself. But with the Dear Leader, citizens, remember, everything is possible. Remember that his only desire is to protectively clasp each and every one of you in his everlasting embrace.
“Come,” the Dear Leader said. “There’s more.”
Sun Moon could see that across the studio, a small orchestra was assembled. The two of them walked in that direction, passing through fields of props, all of which were familiar to her—a row of American jeeps and racks of GI uniforms, pulled from dead imperialists during the war. And here was a scale model of Mount Paektu, birthplace of the glorious leader Kim Jong Il, born so close to the sun! Paektusan, may your magisterial peaks ever extend to the heavens!
As they strolled further, the Dear Leader said, “Now it’s time to speak of your next film.”
“I have been practicing my lines,” she told him.
“For Ultimate Sacrifices?” he asked. “Throw that script away. I have changed my mind—a story of replacement husbands isn’t for you. Come, come see your new projects.”
They came to three easels surrounded by musicians in tuxedos. And here in his tuxedo stood Dak-Ho, the state movie producer. Because of his resonant tenor’s voice, he’d performed the voice-overs on all her movies. Dak-Ho removed the linen from the first easel, and here was the lobby card for Sun Moon’s next movie. It depicted a ravishing Sun Moon, barely contained in her uniform, wrapped in the embrace of a naval officer, the two of them shrouded by a halo of torpedoes. But surprise, citizens, the officer she embraces wears a South Korean uniform!
“The Demon Fleet,” Dak-Ho announced, his voice robust and deep.
The orchestra began playing a theme for the movie-to-be that was tense and brooding.
“In a world of danger and intrigue,” Dak-Ho continued, “one woman will discover that a pure heart is the only weapon that can repel the imperialist menace. The sole survivor of an illegal South Korean assault on her submarine, Sun Moon is ‘rescued’ by her sneak-attacker’s gunship. As a captive of the dashing ROK captain, she is pressed to reveal the defenses of the DPRK fleet. Slowly, however, she begins showing her handsome captor how he is actually the imprisoned one—jailed by the manipulations of the American regime. In the stunning climax, he turns his guns toward the real enemy.”
The Dear Leader smiled broadly. “The submarine we’ll use for the opening scenes is already moored in the Taedong,” he said. “And as we speak, there’s an entire naval detachment in the disputed waters searching for the appropriate ROK gunship to capture.”
The Dear Leader snapped his fingers, and the sheet came off the second lobby card.
Soaring violins began a refrain that was strong and inspiring.
“The Floating Wall,” Dak-Ho began, but the Dear Leader cut him off.
“This is a bio-pic about the first female Pubyok,” the Dear Leader said, pointing at the beautiful, determined woman on the movie poster. He indicated the way her badge shone brightly and her eyes were fixed on a better horizon. “In this role, you will get results—cracking cases and proving that a woman can be as strong as any man.”
The Dear Leader turned to her for a reaction.
Sun Moon pointed to the poster. “But her hair,” she said. “It’s so short.”
“Did I mention it’s a true story?” he asked. “A woman really was hired at Division 42 not long ago.”
Sun Moon shook her head. “I cannot act with hair of this length,” she said.
“The character is Pubyok,” the Dear Leader said. “So it must be short. You’ve never been one to shy from authenticity, you practically live your roles.” He reached and touched her hair. “It’s beautiful, but sacrifices must be made.”
The last movie poster remained veiled as Sun Moon’s face saddened. Despite her best efforts, she began to weep. Arms crossed, she started walking away.
Look, citizens, at how delicate are her sensibilities. The attentive citizen can see that no one else is pure enough to play these roles, that if anyone thieved Sun Moon from us, they would be stealing these powerful characters as well. Why, the movies themselves would be swiped from posterity. Kidnapped would be the very future of our nation’s cinema, which belongs not only to our patriotic citizens, but to the entire world!
The Dear Leader neared her. “Please say that these are tears of joy.”
Weeping, Sun Moon nodded.
“What is it?” he asked. “Come, you can tell me.”
“I weep only that my mother won’t be able to make the premiere of Comfort Woman,” she said. “Since retiring to Wonsan, she never writes, not once. I was just imagining her at the reception for Comfort Woman, seeing her own mother’s story large across the screen.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll solve this. Your mother probably lacks only for typing paper, or perhaps the stamp deliveries to the east coast have been delayed. I’ll make a call tonight. Trust me, I can make anything happen. You’ll have typed letters from your mother by sunset tomorrow.”
“Is it true?” she asked. “Can you really do anything?”
With his thumbs, the Dear Leader wiped away her tears. “It’s hard to believe how far you’ve come,” he said. “Sometimes I forget that. Do you remember when I first laid eyes on you?” He shook his head at the memory of some long-ago moment. “You weren’t even named Sun Moon then.” He reached into her hair and touched her ear. “Remember that you have no secrets from me. That’s what I’m here for, I’m the one you reveal yourself to. Just tell me what it is you need.”
“Please,” she said. “Give me the joy of seeing my mother at the premiere.”
Citizens, citizens. Ours is a culture that respects the elderly, that grants them their need of rest and solitude in the final years. After a life of labor, haven’t they earned some remote quietude? Can’t the greatest nation on earth spare a little silence for the aged? Certainly, we all wish our parents were spry forever, that they’d never leave our side. But Sun Moon, listen to the people cluck their tongues at you. See how selfish it is to burden your mother with an arduous journey, one on which she might perish, simply to satisfy your own personal pleasures? But we throw up our hands. Who can deny Sun Moon? Ever the exception, so pure of emotion is she.
“She’ll be sitting in the front row,” the Dear Leader told her. “I guarantee.”
Citizens, if the Dear Leader says it, that settles it. Nothing could prevent Sun Moon’s mother from attending that movie premiere now. Only an utterly unforeseeable occurrence—a train mishap, possibly, or regional flooding—could stand in the way of this joyous reunion. Nothing short of a diphtheria quarantine or a military sneak attack could keep Sun Moon’s dreams from coming true!
In a gesture of socialist support, the Dear Leader placed his hand upon her.
“Haven’t I followed all the rules?” he asked.
She was silent.
“I have to have you back,” he said to her. “We must return to our arrangement.”
“It was an agreement,” she said.
“So it was, and haven’t I lived up to my side, haven’t I followed your rules?” he asked. “That I never force you to do anything, isn’t that rule number one? Answer me, have I ever gone against your will? Can you name one thing I’ve made you do?”
She shook her head.
“That’s right,” he told her, his voice rising. “That’s why you must choose to come back, you must choose right now. The time has come.” His voice had turned sharp, such wa
s his paternal concern for her. He gave himself a moment of pause and soon his charming smile returned. “Yes, yes, you’ll have a new set of rules, I’m sure. They’ll be whoppers, impossibly complicated rules—already I can imagine the joy on your face when you spell them out to me, but I agree to them right now, I accept all your new rules in advance.” He held his arms wide with possibility. “Just come back. It will be like old times. We’ll play Iron Chef with the kitchen staff, and you’ll help me open my fan mail. We’ll ride my train to no place in particular and spend all night in the karaoke car. Inventing new kinds of sushi rolls, don’t you miss that? Remember playing chang-gi by the lake? We could have a tournament, this weekend, while your children zoom past on my Jet Skis. Did you bring it?”
“It’s in the car,” she said.
The Dear Leader smiled.
“Where were we in our series?” he asked. “I can’t remember our tally.”
“When we left off, I think I was down a few games.”
“You weren’t letting me win, were you?” he asked.
“Assure yourself, I show no mercy,” she said.
“That’s my Sun Moon.”
He wiped the residue of her tears.
“Compose a song of departure for our Night Rower. Please sing her away from us. Wear that red choson-ot for me, won’t you? Tell me you’ll wear it. Just try it on, try it on and tomorrow we’ll send that American girl back to whatever forsaken place it was that bred her.”
Sun Moon cast her eyes downward. Slowly, she nodded.
The Dear Leader, too, slowly nodded. “Yes,” he said softly.
Then he lifted a finger, and who should briskly arrive astride a forklift but Comrade Buc, sweat dripping from his brow. Do not gaze upon him, citizens! Avert your eyes from the puppetry of his traitorous smile.
“To guard the modesty of Sun Moon,” the Dear Leader said, “she’ll need some type of changing station at the airport.”
Comrade Buc took a deep breath. “Nothing but the finest,” he said.