The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [131]
“What?” Ga asked.
“No,” said Sun Moon. “Stop.”
“You’ve got to help me find him. I’ve heard all the men are given lobotomies when they enter—they work like zombies forever.”
“No surgery is needed to make a man work like that,” he told her.
Sun Moon stood. She took Ga by the arm and led him away.
They blended into the crowds, mingling near the food. Then the lighting dimmed and the band began to tune its instruments. “What’s happening?” he asked her.
She pointed to a yellow curtain that hung across a second-floor balcony.
“The Dear Leader will emerge there,” she said and took a step away. “I must go talk to people about my movie. I must learn what happened to Comfort Woman.”
A spotlight hit the yellow curtain, and instead of “We Shall Follow You Forever,” the band began a rousing version of “The Ballad of Ryoktosan.” The tenor began singing of Ryoktosan, the baby-faced giant from South Hamgyong! The farmer’s boy who became the fighting king of Japan! The baby-faced giant who bested Sakuraba! Belt on his waist, all he longed for was home. His only desire a hero’s return to his sweet place of birth, Korea! But our champion was stolen and murdered, stabbed by the shamefaced Japanese. A Japanese knife, dripping with urine, brought the great Ryoktosan to his knees.
Soon, the crowd joined in. They knew when to stomp their feet and double clap. A throng of cheers rose when people heard the rolling, blast-proof doors open behind the curtain. And when the yellow parted, there stood a figure, short of stature, round-bellied, wearing a white dobok and a mask fashioned to resemble the big baby face of Ryoktosan. The crowd went wild. Here the tiny taekwondo fighter made his way down the steps on nimble feet to run a victory lap through the crowd. He grabbed someone’s cognac and swilled it through the hole in his mask. Then he made his way to Commander Ga, bowing with the utmost formality before assuming a taekwondo stance.
Commander Ga didn’t know what to do. The guests began forming a large, loose circle around himself and this short man with his fists high. A spotlight was suddenly on them. The little man bobbed up and down, then approached Ga quickly, within striking distance, before backing away. Ga looked around for Sun Moon, but all he could see were the bright lights. The tiny fighter danced up to Ga and performed a series of air strikes and shadow kicks. Then, out of nowhere, the imp punched him—a quick, snapping shot to the throat.
A cheer went up, people began singing along with the ballad.
Ga grabbed his windpipe and bent over. “Please, sir,” he said, but the little man had moved to the edge of the circle, where he leaned against someone’s wife to catch his breath and have another drink.
Suddenly the little man backcircled in for another shot—should Ga block the punch, try to reason with the man, run?—but it was too late. Ga felt knuckles rake his eye and then his mouth was stinging and fat and then his nose went electric. He felt the hot flush, inside his head, and then the blood poured out his nose and back into his throat. Then little Ryoktosan did a dance for everyone’s pleasure, such as the Russian sailors do when on night leave from their submarines.
Ga’s eyes had watered, and he couldn’t see well. Yet again the small man came close—he connected with a left hook to Ga’s body. Ga’s pain responded on its own, sending a fist into the man’s nose.
You could hear the plastic mask crumple. He took a few stagger-steps backward as blood trickled from the nostril holes and a collective gasp went up from the assembled guests. They placed him in a chair, fetched a glass of water, and then lifted his mask to reveal not the Dear Leader but a small man, weak-featured, disoriented.
The spotlight lifted to the balcony. There, clapping, was the true Dear Leader.
“Did you think it was me?” he called. “Did you think that was me?”
The Dear Leader Kim Jong Il came down the stairs,