The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [216]
A troupe of child accordion stars raced forward, and with expert precision, began playing “Our Father Is the Marshal.” Their smiles were uniform, and the crowd knew the moments to clap and shout “Eternal is the Marshal’s flame.”
Sun Moon, her own children behind her, was glued to the little accordionists, all working in perfect unison, their whole being contorted to project glee. Silently, she began to weep.
The Dear Leader took note of her tears, and the fact that she was once again vulnerable. He signaled to Commander Ga that it was time to prepare for Sun Moon’s song.
Ga led her past the crowds to the edge of the runway, where there was nothing but grass, strewn with rusted airplane parts, all the way to the electric fence that surrounded the airfield.
Slowly, Sun Moon turned, taking in the nothingness around them.
“What have you gotten us into?” she asked. “How are we going to get out of this alive?”
“Calm,” he said. “Deep breaths.”
“What if he hands me a knife, what if it’s some kind of loyalty test?” Then her eyes went wide. “What if I’m given a knife and it’s not a test?”
“The Dear Leader’s not going to ask you to kill an American, in front of a senator.”
“You still don’t know him,” she said. “I’ve seen him do things, before my eyes, at parties, to friends, to enemies. It doesn’t matter. He can do anything, anything he wants.”
“Not today. Today, we’re the ones who can do anything.”
She laughed a scared, nervous laugh. “It sounds good when you say things like that. I really want to believe them.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Did you really do those things?” she asked. “Did you really hurt people, kidnap them?”
Commander Ga smiled. “Hey, I’m the good guy in this story.”
She laughed in disbelief. “You’re the good guy?”
Ga nodded. “Believe it or not, the hero is me.”
And here they saw, nearing them at only a couple of kilometers an hour, Comrade Buc atop a low-belly hoist made for lifting aircraft engines. Suspended from its chains was Sun Moon’s changing station.
“I needed a bigger machine,” Buc called to them. “We spent all night building this thing. No way I was leaving it behind.”
When the temple was dropped, the wood shuddered and groaned, but Sun Moon’s silver key turned in the lock. The three of them stepped inside, and Buc showed them how the back wall of the changing station opened on a hinge, like a corral gate, big enough to allow the blades of a forklift to enter.
Sun Moon reached to Comrade Buc. With her fingertips, she touched his face and stared into his eyes. It was her way of saying thanks. Or maybe it was good-bye. Buc held her gaze as long as he could, then turned and ran toward his forklift.
Sun Moon changed before her husband without shame, and while she was tying her goreum, she asked him, “You really have no one?” When he didn’t answer, she asked, “No father for guidance, no mother to sing to you? No sisters at all?”
He adjusted the tail of her bow.
“Please,” he said. “You must perform now. Give the Dear Leader exactly what he wants.”
“I can’t control what I sing,” she said.
Soon, in blue, she was with her husband at the Dear Leader’s side. It was the climax of the accordion number, which found the boys stacked on each other’s shoulders three high. Ga saw that Kim Jong Il’s eyes were lowered, that children’s songs—bouncy, boundless of enthusiasm—truly spoke to him. When the song was finished, the Americans made a clapping motion from which no sound came.
“We must have another song,” the Dear Leader announced.
“No,” the Senator said. “First our citizen.”
“My property,” the Dear Leader said.
“Assurances,” Tommy said.
“Assurances, assurances,” the Dear Leader said. He turned to Commander Ga. “Might I borrow your camera?” he asked.
The smile on the Dear Leader’s face scared Ga anew. Ga took the camera from his pocket and handed it to the Dear Leader, who moved