by Hyejin Kim
My hatred for the people spreading rumors about Sunyoung expanded like a balloon. I couldn't offer her any comfort, I couldn't say a word. I was a useless friend.
I suggested we get the tape recorder and pictures from Guard Lee by any means. We thought he might keep them in the room he shared with janitor Lee, who was a close friend of Aunt Ann's. That was as far as we got that day.
Sunyoung was relieved. "Oh, Jia, this has taken over my entire life. I feel I have gotten old fast over the past few years. I sleep, but I can't sleep. I wake up in the middle of the night and stare at the wall until morning comes. I really need to resolve this."
I spent a sleepless night plotting solutions; I even considered killing Guard Lee. Was he human? No. What could I do for Sunyoung? I needed to protect her at all cost.
The next day, I rushed to the practice room. I had overslept. The dancers were gabbing quietly. They hadn't begun rehearsing yet. Director Park wasn't there either.
"Good morning, sisters," I said, to no one in particular. "What is going on?"
"Director Park just left with Sunyoung," Sister Min said.
"What happened? Why did they leave together?"
"Sunyoung was just turned in to the police for prostitution and for blackmail with Guard Lee. Director Park didn't believe it, and followed the police; I have never seen her so desperate. Think about it, she lavished such care on Sunyoung. She was the only one who didn't know Sunyoung was a prostitute. Ha! With such a pure face and a radiant smile all the time, who could have imagined? She tricked all of us and disgraced our dancing group. She deserves to be executed."
Sister Oh spoke up with a bang, "Do you remember what I said, Jia? The gossip Guard Kim heard from Guard Lee on that night of drinking? It wasn't just Guard Kim who heard, someone who was there reported it to the hotel. The intelligence bureau investigated Guard Lee's room and found the evidence. They took Guard Lee yesterday night and Sunyoung early this morning."
I was stunned. All I could hear after that was the low hum of voices.
That afternoon, Director Park returned with sloping shoulders. I tried to ask about Sunyoung, but she only murmured, "You'll have a new teacher as of tomorrow." Then she went to her office and didn't come out for the rest of the day.
Several days later, I heard that Sunyoung was sentenced to life in prison and that Guard Lee was scheduled to be executed. That was all anyone heard. Their names were never to be mentioned again-that was the strict order from the hotel manager at the morning meeting. I wouldn't see Sunyoung again in this life.
In the late spring and early summer, the dancers and officers sometimes went out on weekends for recreation. It was a mid June morning when a group of us took the hotel bus for the annual trip to Mt. Taesong Resort. The bus drove through hills for the better part of an hour, and out the window we saw grazing deer and the waterfall on Lake Mich'on. As usual, we first stopped at the Revolutionary Patriot Memorial on the mountain in order to pay tribute to national heroes. It was my fourth visit to the memorial since I'd joined the hotel, but the imposing red granite busts of the martyrs still frightened me.
Arriving at the resort, we saw that several couples were having wedding pictures taken. One bride wore a purple hatibok with white azalea flowers spread all over the skirt. She posed with a big smile, holding her husband's left arm tightly. He had a small build, and the wide skirt of her hanbok overwhelmed him.
"Wow, their first child will be a girl," Youngmi snapped, as we looked at that couple from the bus.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Haven't you heard that if the bride smiles on the wedding day, the couple will have a daughter? Look at her! They'll have a dozen daughters." She pouted, her lower lip sticking out slightly.
"But on a day of celebration, smiling looks much better than a serious face." I wasn't buying it.
We watched them jealously for a while. The weather was good, and people walked, smiled, and played games in groups everywhere. It was on that day that I first met Seunggyu. He was a friend ofJongmu, the hotel manager's son.
As soon as we got off the bus, we sat down on an empty patch of grass and opened our lunch box, prepared by Cook Kim at 5 A.M. According to his logic, people like us, who use our knees and jump around all the time, should eat plenty of protein. His main dishes always contained small anchovies, black beans, and egg roll with rice and kimchi.
"Does he think we'll jump around today too?"
The dancers grumbled about Cook Kim's lunch. Most of them hated anchovies because you could see their eyes.
"Jia, here you go."
I finished off my anchovies at every meal, so the others called me "anchovy girl" and often gave me theirs. I liked Cook Kim's way of frying them with sugar and millet jelly; they were crispy, like a snack. My grandmother would cook them that way, and my sister and I quarreled over who could eat more.
We had almost finished the lunch when Jongmu and Seunggyu came and joined us.
"Why did you guys wear your military uniforms? You're screwing up the relaxing atmosphere," the oldest dancer, Myungha, said, poking fun. Jongmu, a soldier, was like a member of our family. He always boasted that he was the only male dancer and that he had to take care of more than 50 women.
"We had an unexpected training program. You should appreciate it-people will assume we're bodyguards, protecting the pretty women."
"Then don't sit down next to us, stand up and concentrate on your duty," Myungha teased.
"Oh, not you, sister. You don't need our protection; no one would want you."
"You birdbrain-" She shook her head and we all laughed.
"By the way, this is my friend, Seunggyu," Jongmu said. "We train together, so I dragged him here." Jongmu patted his friend's back and gave me a smile. I knew Seunggyu by sight; I had run into him several times in the hallways behind the stage.
Seunggyu just nodded his head slightly. A dapper figure, he had big eyes, like a cow, with long eyelashes and no eyelids. I couldn't believe such a pretty face could endure military training.
We sang and danced casually; some dancers tried to copy the moves of others, and the laughter and chatting never stopped. Director Park brought her husband, who looked much older than she, and their daughter. As a couple, they looked more like father and daughter; his good smile and humor must have attracted her.
"I brought paduk. Let's play," Director Park's husband, Sangwoo, said. He took the folded paduk board and two small jars with black and white pieces out of his big backpack. He proudly unfolded the board. "I bought this one when I went to China. It's portable. So convenient!"
Seunggyu stood up and said, "That's for old people. It's a waste of time. You comrades go ahead, but think about it: we're outside to enjoy the sun and fresh air, not to stare at a small square board." He seemed to be talking in my direction, and, dusting off his backside, he suddenly fixed his eyes on me. "Hey. Let's go on some rides." He smoothed his crinkled uniform.
I looked around at the others and back at him again, but his eyes didn't move. Sangwoo said, smirking, ` Jia, he is asking you out. You shouldn't turn him down, he'll lose face." People chuckled.
Seunggyu blushed up to the tips of his ears and shot a fiery glance at Sangwoo. "She's the only one who looks active. That's all. That's why I'm asking her." His face reminded me of a red carrot. "Are you coming or not? If you want to go, let's go right now before more people rush over there."
We went on the rides and walked around the zoo, the fountain, and the botanical garden. It had been announced that outdoor swimming would not begin until the next weekend, but the area was already packed with people. It was difficult to enjoy those places in a crowd, and I was tired of walking and standing in long lines.
Seunggyu wasn't very talkative. "I've seen your performances several times," he said finally.
I looked at him with wide eyes, but he was watching some wolves, lazily napping in their cage.
When we got back to the grass, the others were gone. I looke
d around and saw that the bus wasn't there either.
Seunggyu laughed. "Look! The old people left early to take a nap! Let's go back. I'll take you home."
The next day, when I showed up in the practice room, dancers rushed up to me in excitement and asked about what we did, where we went, and how Seunggyu treated me. I might as well have been an exotic animal at the zoo. I just joked with them, "Cook Kim was smart-he must have known I actually would use my legs a lot yesterday. All I remember is how much we walked."
They giggled. "You can take all of our anchovies at lunch today," one said. "We're sure he'll make them again for you."
After our day out, Seunggyu often came to my performances and waited to take me home. Having somebody wait for me gave me a warm feeling. Since Sunyoung's arrest, I had become more reserved. I no longer intended to open my heart to others. When each day's activities are all arranged for you, you simply wake up, go through the motions, and prepare for the next day; you don't have to think about anything else. I tried not to notice the emptiness growing inside me.
When Seunggyu came along, the road I had been walking alone was no longer empty. His confidence about life became mine as well.
At the hotel, I was happy, and there was nothing to worry about. Sunyoung's story was fading into the past. I danced for myself, striving to be as professional as the other dancers, and sometimes I even got the main part in a performance. After four years at the hotel, I had grown fond of everyone. It didn't take much effort to perform the same dances for guests and sell the same items at the souvenir shop. I practiced hard, every day. I was satisfied with everything around me and was becoming concerned only for myself.
On the way home at night, however, I began to notice changes. I could feel the light in the city dimming. After the death of our leader, Kim 11 Sung, in July of 1994, most of our performances depicted sad stories. The sudden death of the Great Leader had shocked our country-there was a rumor that people had died from sorrow-but the tragedy was only the precursor of impending hardships. There were fewer and fewer performances at the hotel. People's faces were darkening as well. My neighbors were becoming reticent. Sometimes they mentioned in passing that their rations were decreasing; both the quantity and quality of what we were receiving were going downhill. Cereals mixed in with rice created digestive problems, and people started selling their household goods at markets to buy food. We wanted to talk to each other about the problems, but couldn't. All we heard from the government was: "Trust Kim Jong 11 and the Party." Most of us did; we felt we had no choice.
When eight dancers didn't show up for work, the hotel manager said they had decided to devote their lives to being perfect mothers and wives, but everyone knew the hotel was simply cutting staff. The number of guests dwindled and the rules stiffened. The hotel manager warned us not to wear colorful clothes anymore. Curly hair was still acceptable, but we had to tie it back with thick elastics.
It took me a while to realize that despite my seeming freedom, I was still stuck in an isolated world. It was simply of a different design.
Several days of rain had turned everything in the city gray except the Kaesonmun (Arch of Triumph). I was standing before it with Seunggyu. My performance that day, meant to recognize an official's 40 years of military service, was canceled because several government officials, including the honoree, had to leave for the countryside in the morning. I asked Seunggyu to take me to the Kaesonmun because I thought its grandeur might cheer me up. At the foot of Moran Hill, I looked up at the largest arch in the world, with its 10,500 blocks of shiny white granite. But, against my expectations, it made me feel worse. Attempting to read the revolutionary hymn inscribed at the top made me nauseated. I didn't want to touch the white granite, I didn't want to feel its coldness.
"I'll be away for a couple of weeks, maybe more," Seunggyu said. He looked uncomfortable in his casual clothes. Out of his uniform, he looked much younger than his 27 years; he could pass for a teenager. A pack of cigarettes stuck out of the chest pocket of his black jacket.
"Because of the flood?" I asked.
One year earlier, in 1995, the flood had been the main topic of conversation everywhere: so many were dead, houses and property had drifted away. Then, in July and August of 1996, another round of floods. Aunt Ann's province on the east coast had suffered the worst damage. She said that people there had their rations cut off entirely. Seunggyu and I walked away from the arch toward Moran Park.
"Do you have to command your platoon to assist this time too?"
Seunggyu snapped some branches from the tree next to him and grumbled, "I didn't join the army to drag dead bodies from the water." The year before, his platoon had been sent to collect corpses in the countryside, and he had confided that 70 percent of the land had been devastated by the two years of flooding. The army was worried about the possible spread of infectious diseases.
"But Seunggyu, that is also an important job for the people and the country. Think about it we should be helping each other. Soldiers are helping-isn't that why everyone respects them?" I was trying to smooth his anger.
"Not for those people," he snapped. Seunggyu didn't like anything that cast shadows on his bright future. I felt sad and distant from him.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Who knows? I just follow orders. Maybe the mining regions-they got it the worst this time." His eyes glowed. "I'm wasting my time on useless vermin. We're no better than janitors-we just take away bigger trash than they do."
"What do you mean?" I looked at him as he flung a branch toward the pond with all his might.
`Jia, who lives in mines and isolated mountain villages? Trash, reactionary elements. Everyone knows we don't need these people in this society. We're just going there to throw trash away."
"You think they're not worthy of sleeping in a cemetery?" I tried to conceal my emotion. His eyes followed the branches as they fell on the pond.
"Jia, you don't know about those people. You haven't seen them, that's why you're generous to them. But I have: they are like zombies. They don't think, they just walk and eat."
I wasn't able to defend then, having left the mountain myself and hidden my early life. But, looking at Seunggyu's contemptuous profile, I was reminded of my maternal grandfather. "Don't say that. They're still human, they feel happiness and sadness like you do. How do you know what they think? Have you ever talked with them sincerely?" I was indignant.
"What's wrong with you, Jia? I'm talking about useless people. I have seem them; you haven't. Why are you so angry? " Seunggyu dusted off his hands and stepped toward me.
I lowered my head, trying to swallow the rage in my throat. "I'm sorry, I don't like hearing you talk with such contempt."
Seunggyu took my hand and shook it lightly. "Let's go. You are disappointed about the cancellation of the performance today. It'll be fine. I have never seen you mad like that, Jia. I know you have a good heart, but you should learn when to show it, and for whom."
There was no one on the street. The gloomy sky had driven everyone away, and we headed to the subway, the pride of Pyongyang. For the festival in 1989, I had memorized an introduction to the subway system in Russian and English, to show off these underground palaces to our foreign visitors.
Kaeson Station had always been full of young couples going home after dates in Kaeson Youth Park, where the Great Leader, Kim II Sung, made his first speech after liberation from the Japanese in 1945. But today the subway no longer seemed magnificent to me. I felt I was being sucked into the darkness pouring out of my heart.
The Limitations of Human Beings
ne morning the following year, I had to stop at Saesal- lim Street on my way to the hotel, before crossing the Taedong River. Lines of people chained together marched past me, their heads hanging low. The policemen leading them shouted that they had committed crimes against the nation, and they had to walk around in public to demonstrate the consequences of their crimes.
Someone behind me whis
pered, "The line is getting longer. They ran away to China for food, but got caught. They'll be punished harshly. Oh, look at those little children." I turned back and saw two middle-aged women talking. As soon as our eyes met, they turned and left hastily.
By 1997, the country still had not recovered from the floods of the previous two years, and countless numbers had succumbed to cholera and paratyphoid fever. Seunggyu, observing the pile of dead bodies, said that it was impossible to count the dead. On TV and radio, the government told us the nation had recovered from the natural disasters, but the situation only seemed to be worsening. The appearance of the city had changed completely; instead of going to work, people wandered all day. The streets teemed with people carrying big bags on their shoulders, as they went into alleys to sell their belongings. The police couldn't control the black market. Never had street markets been so popular, nor the goods so various. Groups of people sitting on the sidewalks displaying their belongings had become fixtures in the residential areas. Houses were emptied, and the sellers far outnumbered the buyers.
Beyond downtown Pyongyang, across the Taedong River, I would often see groups of children in the street markets. These children were called kko jebi, which means "flower swallows." Their name suggests lovely lives, but their lives consisted of watching other people eat. If someone didn't finish his or her food, the fastest kko jebi would snatch the bowl and gulp down the leftovers. Sometimes, begging for food and money, they offered to sing and perform "black art." They called their performances black art because the performances might endanger their lives, but it was worth the risk.