The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [175]
It was here, spellbound by beauty, that the crow almost fell from the sky when it realized that the woman speaking to this loathsome citizen was none other than Sun Moon. Wings arresting a free fall, the bird dropped between our mismatched couple. There was a message in the crow’s beak, and when Commander Ga bent to retrieve it, the bird leaped high—Caw!—and lashed its wings at Ga’s face. The bird then turned to face Sun Moon. The note, she saw, was intended for her. When she unfolded the strip of paper, it bore only the name of our Dear Leader Kim Jong Il.
A black Mercedes suddenly appeared, and a man with a splint on his nose hurried to open the door for Sun Moon. She was on her way to visit the Great General who had discovered her, who had written all her movies, who had spent many a long night counseling her on the proper ways of depicting our nation’s triumphs over adversity. Great leader, diplomat, strategist, tactician, athlete, filmmaker, author, and poet—all this, and yes, Kim Jong Il was a friend, too.
Passing through the streets of Pyongyang, Sun Moon leaned her head against the car window and regarded as if with sadness the rays of sunlight glowing golden in the millet-dusted air of the Central Ration Depot. It looked as though she might weep passing the Children’s Theater, where as a girl she had learned the accordion, the art of puppetry, and mass gymnastics. Whatever became of my old teachers? her eyes seemed to ask, and it was not without tears that she beheld the fanciful spires of the ice rink, one of the rare places her mother, ever mindful of American sneak attacks, would dare to venture. No one upon the ice in those days could do anything but cheer for young Sun Moon, her girl limbs flaring through the leaps, the joy on her face dazzling through a spray of her blades’ ice crystals. Poor Sun Moon! It was almost as if she knew she would never see these sights again, as if she had some kind of premonition of what the savage, remorseless Americans had in store for her. What woman wouldn’t weep all along Reunification Boulevard to think she’d never again see a street so clean, a ration line so perfectly straight, or hear again the crimson banners fluttering a thousand strong in a chain of red flags that extolled every word of Kim Il Sung’s great speech of October 18, Juche 63!
Sun Moon was brought before the Dear Leader in a room that had been designed to put the visiting Americans at ease. Its muted lamps, dark mirrors, and wooden tables were reminiscent of an American “speakeasy,” which is a type of establishment that Americans frequent in order to evade the eyes of their repressive government. Behind the heavy doors of a speakeasy, Americans are free to abuse alcohol, fornicate, and violence each other.
Over his smart jumpsuit, the Dear Leader wore an apron. On his forehead, he sported a green visor, while a rag was draped over his shoulder. He came from behind the bar with his arms extended. “Sun Moon,” he called. “What can I serve you?”
Their embrace was filled with the zest of socialist comradeship.
“I don’t know,” she said.
He told her, “You’re supposed to say, ‘The usual.’ ”
“The usual,” she said.
Here he poured for them modest snifters of North Korean cognac, which is known for its medicinal properties.
Looking more closely, the Dear Leader saw that there was sadness in her eyes.
“What’s got you down?” he asked her. “Tell me the story—I’ll give it a happy ending.”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m just practicing for my new movie role.”
“But this movie is a happy one,” he reminded her. “Your character’s undisciplined husband is replaced with a highly efficient one—soon all the farmers have increased their yields. Something else