The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [194]
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?