The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [212]
A contentment settled over Ga as he listened to them sing, as if something long-ago was finally being fulfilled.
“Take wing, Girl Rower,” Sun Moon sang, “and leave the sea alone.”
The girl answered her. “Fly away, Rower Girl, and leave the eighth one be.”
“That’s good,” Sun Moon said. “Let’s try it together.”
The girl asked, “Who’s the Rower Girl?”
“We’re driving to bid her farewell,” Sun Moon said. “Now all together.”
Then the family sang as one, “Fly away, Rower Girl, and leave the eighth sea be.”
The boy’s voice was clear and trusting, the girl’s was graveled with a growing awareness. Combined with Sun Moon’s longing, a harmony arose that was nourishing to Ga. No other family in the world could create such a sound, and here he was, in the glow of it. Not even the sight of the soccer stadium could diminish the feeling.
At the airport, Ga’s uniform allowed him to drive around the terminal to the hangars, where, to welcome the Americans, throngs of people were assembled, all of them conscripted from the streets of Pyongyang, citizens still holding their briefcases, toolboxes, and slide rules.
The Wangjaesan Light Music Band was playing “Speed Battle Haircut” to commemorate the Dear Leader’s military achievements, while a legion of children in green-and-yellow gymnastics costumes practiced logrolling large white plastic barrels. Through a haze of barbecue smoke, Ga could see scientists, soldiers, and the Minister of Mass Mobilization’s men in yellow armbands arranging a large crowd into rows by height.
The Americans finally decided it was safe to land. They heaved the gray beast around, wings broader than the runway, and brought it down through the gauntlet of Antonov and Tupolev fuselages abandoned along the greenways.
Ga parked near the hangar where he and Dr. Song had been debriefed after his return from Texas. He left the keys in the ignition. The girl carried her mother’s dresses, while the boy led the dog by its rope. Sun Moon took her guitar, and Commander Ga carried the guitar case. He could see in the late morning sun several crows idling in the distance.
The Dear Leader was conferring with Commander Park as they approached.
At the sight of Sun Moon, the Dear Leader gestured for her to raise her arms so he could behold the dress. Nearing him, she spun once, flaring the shimmering white hem of her chima. Then she bowed. The Dear Leader took her hand and kissed it. He produced two silver keys and swept his hand to indicate Sun Moon’s changing station, a miniature replica of the Pohyon Temple, with its red columns and its swaying, scrolled eaves. Though no bigger than a travel-document control booth, it was exquisite in every detail. The Dear Leader handed her one key, then pocketed the other. He said something to Sun Moon that Ga couldn’t hear, and Sun Moon laughed for the first time that day.
The Dear Leader then noticed Commander Ga.
“And here is the taekwondo champion of Korea!” the Dear Leader announced.
A cheer went up from the crowd, making Brando’s tail wag.
Commander Park added, “And he brings with him the most vicious dog known.”
When the Dear Leader laughed, everyone laughed.
If the Dear Leader was furious, Ga thought, this was how he showed it.
The jet lumbered toward them, slowly negotiating access strips designed for much smaller aircraft. The Dear Leader turned to Commander Ga, so they could speak in relative privacy.
“It’s not every day that the Americans visit,” he said.
“I have a feeling today will be quite rare,” Ga responded.
“Indeed,” the Dear Leader said, “I have a feeling that after this, everything will be different, for all of us. I love those opportunities, don’t you? New beginnings, a fresh start.” The Dear Leader regarded Ga with a look of wonder. “You never did tell me, there’s one thing I’ve always been curious about—just how did you get out of that prison?”
Ga thought about reminding the Dear Leader that they lived in a land where people had been trained to accept any reality presented to them. He considered sharing how there was only one penalty, the