The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [157]
I stood at the window. By the merest of starlight, I urinated into a wide-mouthed jar. A sound rose from the street below. And then something happened to let me know, despite the darkness, despite the kilometers between me and the nearest farm, that the nation’s rice stalks were golden-tipped and it was harvest season again: two dump trucks pulled up across Sinuiju Street, and with bullhorns, the Minister of Mass Mobilization’s men rousted all the occupants of the Worker’s Paradise Housing Block. Below, my neighbors in their bedclothes were slowly packed into trucks. By dawn they would be bent over, ankle deep in paddy water, receiving a daylong remedial lesson on the word “toil,” which is the source of all food.
“Father,” I spoke into the dark room. “Father, is it just about survival? Is that all there is?” I could feel the jar warm in my hand as I carefully screwed the lid back on. When the trucks pulled away, the only sound left was the slight whistle of my father breathing through his nose, a sure sign he was awake.
In the morning, another member of my team was missing. I can’t say his name, but he was the one with the thin mustache and the lisp. He’d been out a week, and I had to assume it was more than being pressed into a harvest detail. It was likely I wouldn’t see him again. He was the third this month, the sixth this year. What happened to them, where did they go? How were we going to replace the Pubyok when they retired if we were only a couple of men and a pair of interns?
Nonetheless, we took the gondola to the top of Mount Taesong. While Jujack and Leonardo searched Comrade Buc’s house, Q-Kee and I swept Commander Ga’s residence, though it was hard to focus. Every time you looked up, there through the grand windows was the skyline of Pyongyang below. You had to gasp at the sight of it. The whole house had a dreamlike quality to it—Q-Kee just shook her head at the way these people had their own bedroom and kitchen. They shared a commode with no one. Dog hair was everywhere, and it was clear they kept such an animal simply for personal amusement. The Golden Belt, in its glowing case, was something we were frightened to inspect. Even the Pubyok hadn’t touched it on their initial sweep.
Their garden had been picked clean—there wasn’t so much as a pea to take home to my parents. Had Commander Ga and Sun Moon taken fresh food with them, expecting a journey, perhaps? Or did Ga intend the food for his getaway? In their scrap heap was the rind of a whole melon and the fine bones of songbirds. Had they been more deprived than their fancy yangban house suggested?
Under the house, we found a thirty-meter tunnel stocked with rice sacks and American movies. The escape hatch was across the road, behind some bushes. Inside the house, we discovered some standard hiding compartments in the wall, but they were mostly empty. In one, we found a stack of South Korean martial-arts magazines, very illegal. The magazines were well worn and depicted fighters whose bodies rippled with combat. With the magazines was a lone handkerchief. This I lifted, looking for a monogram. I turned to Q-Kee. “I wonder what this handkerchief is doing—”
“Drop it,” Q-Kee told me.
Right away, I let go, and the handkerchief fell to the floor. “What?” I asked.
“Don’t you know what Ga must have used that for?” she asked me. She looked at me like I was one of the blind new puppies in the Central Zoo. “Didn’t you have brothers?”
In the bathroom, Q-Kee indicated how Sun Moon’s comb and Commander Ga’s razor shared the edge of the sink. She’d come to work sporting a black eye, and