The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [204]
When I nodded, Sarge left.
I leaned close to Commander Ga. His skin would frost with goose pimples, then go slack. He wasn’t a hero. He was just a man, pushed farther than any man should be pushed. Looking at him now, I understood the fairy tale he’d told us about the little orphan boy who’d licked honey from the Dear Leader’s claws. The night Ga told us that story, I realized, was the last time my team was whole and together.
“I’m not going to let the bear get you,” I told him. “I’m not going to let them do what they’re planning to do.”
There were tears in Ga’s eyes. “Bandage,” is all he could say.
“I have an errand to run,” I told him. “Then I’ll be back to save you.”
At the Glory of Mount Paektu Housing Block, I didn’t bound up the twenty-one flights to my parents. I took the stairs slowly for once, feeling the labor of each step. I couldn’t get that brand out of my mind. I saw it scalding red and bubbly across Commander Ga, I imagined its scars, ancient and discolored, running down the thick backs of all the old Pubyok, I saw Q-Kee’s perfect body disfigured by it, a burn from neck to navel, splitting the breasts toward the sternum, the belly, and below. I didn’t use my Pubyok badge to board the subway’s priority seating car. I sat with the average citizens, and on all their bodies, I couldn’t help but see “Property of” in raised pink letters. The mark was on everyone, only now could I finally see it. It was the ultimate perversion of the communist dream I’d been taught since childhood. I felt like retching the turnips in my stomach.
I was almost never home in the middle of the day. I took the opportunity to remove my shoes in the hall and ever so silently slip my key in the lock. Opening the door, I lifted up on the knob, so the door’s hinges wouldn’t squeak. Inside, the loudspeaker was blaring, and my parents were at the table with some of my files open and spread before them. They were whispering to one another as they ran their fingers across the pages, feeling the file labels and paper clips, the embossed stamps and raised department seals.
I knew better than to leave important files at home anymore. These were just requisition forms.
I pushed the door shut behind me. It squealed in its arc until the lock clicked tight.
The two of them froze.
“Who is it?” my father asked. “Who’s there?”
“Are you a thief?” my mother asked. “I assure you we have nothing to steal.”
They were both looking right at me, though they seemed not to see me.
Across the table, their hands sought one another and joined.
“Go away,” my father said. “Leave us alone, or we’ll tell our son.”
My mother felt around the table until she located a spoon. She grabbed the handle and held it out like a knife. “You don’t want my son to find out about this,” she said. “He’s a torturer.”
“Mother, Father,” I said. “No need to worry, it is I, your son.”
“But it’s the middle of the day,” my father said. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I told him.
I walked to the table and closed the files.
“You’re barefoot,” my mother said.
“I am.”
I could see the marks on them. I could see that they’d been branded.
“But I don’t understand,” my father said.
“I’m going to have a long night,” I told them. “And some long tomorrows to follow. I won’t be here to cook your dinner or help you down the hall to the bathroom.”
“Don’t worry about us,” my mother said. “We can manage. If you have to go, go.”
“I do have to go,” I said.
I walked to the kitchen. From a drawer, I removed the can opener. I paused there at the window. Spending my days underground, I wasn’t used to the midday brightness. I observed the spoon and pan and hot plate my mother cooked with. I stared at the drying rack, where two glass bowls caught the light. I decided against bowls.
“I think you’re afraid of me,” I said to them. “Because I’m a mystery to you. Because you don’t really know me.”
I thought they’d protest, but they were silent. I reached to the top shelf and found the can of peaches. I blew on the lid, but