The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [213]
But Ga said, “I put on the Commander’s uniform and spoke as the Commander spoke. The Warden carried on his shoulders a heavy stone. That’s what he was concerned with, getting permission to set it down.”
“Yes, but how did you force him to do what you wanted, to turn the key in the lock and open the prison gates? You had no power over him. He knew you were the lowliest of prisoners, a nameless nobody. Yet you got him to set you free.”
Commander Ga shrugged. “I think the Warden looked into my eyes and saw that I’d just gotten the better of the most dangerous man alive.”
The Dear Leader laughed. “Now I know you’re lying,” he said. “Because that man is me.”
Ga laughed, too. “Indeed.”
The tremendous aircraft taxied near the terminal. Drawing closer, however, its engines simmered and the plane came to a halt. The crowd stared up at the dark cockpit windows, waiting for the pilot to advance toward two airport workers who were beckoning it with orange batons. Instead, the craft ramped its starboard engines and, pivoting, turned back toward the runway.
“Are they leaving?” Sun Moon asked.
“The Americans are insufferable,” the Dear Leader said. “Is there no trick too petty? Is nothing beneath them?”
The jet taxied all the way back to the runway, turned to position itself for takeoff, then shut down its engines. Slowly the great nose of the beast opened and a hydraulic cargo ramp lowered.
The plane was nearly a kilometer away. Commander Park began berating the assembled citizens, to get them moving. In the sun, the scar tissue on his face shined translucent pink. Scores of children began rolling their barrels toward the runway, while masses of beleaguered citizens fell in behind. Ghosting among the people was a small fleet of forklifts and the Dear Leader’s personal car. Left behind were the bands, the barbecue pits, and the exhibition of DPRK farm equipment. Commander Ga saw Comrade Buc on his yellow forklift try to move the temple where Sun Moon was to change, but it proved too unwieldy to raise. But there was no looking backward with Commander Park bringing up the rear.
“Can nothing inspire the Americans?” the Dear Leader asked as they shuffled along. “Uplift, I tell you, is unknown to them.” He indicated the terminal. “Look at the grand edifice of Kim Il Sung, supreme patriot, founder of this nation, my father. Look at the crimson-and-gold mosaic of Juche flame—does it not seem truly ablaze in the morning light? And yet the Americans—where do they park? Near the stewardesses’ outhouse and the pond where the planes dump their waste.”
Sun Moon began to perspire. She and Ga exchanged a glance.
“Will the American girl be joining us?” Ga asked the Dear Leader.
“Interesting you should bring her up,” the Dear Leader said. “It’s fortunate that I find myself in the company of the most Korean couple in the land, the champion of our national martial art and his wife, the actress of an entire people. May I seek your opinion on a matter?”
“We are all yours,” Ga said.
“Recently,” the Dear Leader said, “I have discovered there is an operation by which a Korean eye can be made to look Western.”
“For what purpose?” Sun Moon asked.
“Yes, for what purpose,” the Dear Leader echoed. “Unknown, but the operation exists, I’ve been assured of it.”
Ga felt this conversation veering into a territory where wrong moves could unknowingly be made. “Ah, the miracles of modern medicine,” he said in a general way. “Too bad they should be applied for cosmetic purposes when so many are born lame and cleft in South Korea.”
“Well spoken,” the Dear Leader said. “Still, these medical advances might have a social application. This very dawn, I assembled the surgeons of Pyongyang and posed to them the question of whether a Western eye could be turned Korean.”
“And the answer?” Sun Moon asked.
“Unanimous,” the Dear Leader said. “Through a series of procedures, any woman could be made Korean.