The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [29]
“You didn’t look like a fisherman,” Pak said. “Look at your skin, look at your hands. Take off your shirt,” he demanded.
“I give the orders around here,” the Captain said.
“Take off your shirt, you spy, or I’ll have the Americans take it off for you.”
It only took a couple of buttons for Pak to see that Jun Do’s chest was without a tattoo.
“I’m not married,” Jun Do said.
“You’re not married,” Pak repeated.
“He said he’s not married,” the Captain said.
“The North Koreans would never let you out on the water if you weren’t married. Who would there be to throw in prison if you defected?”
“Look,” the Pilot said. “We’re fishermen and we’re headed back to port. That’s the whole story.”
Pak turned to the Second Mate. “What’s his name?” he asked, indicating Jun Do.
The Second Mate didn’t say anything. He looked at the Captain.
“Don’t look at him,” Pak said, and stepped closer. “What’s his position?”
“His position?”
“On the ship,” Pak said. “Okay, what’s your position?”
“Second mate.”
“Okay, Second Mate,” Pak said. He pointed at Jun Do. “This nameless guy here. What’s his position?”
The Second Mate said, “The third mate.”
Pak started laughing. “Oh, yes, the third mate. That’s great, that’s a good one. I’m going to write a spy novel and call it The Third Mate. You lousy spies, you make me sick. These are free nations you’re spying on, democracies you’re trying to undermine.”
Some of the Americans came up top. They had black smudges on their faces and shoulders from squeezing through tight, half-burned passages. Security sweep over, their rifles were on their backs, and they were relaxed and joking. It was surprising how young they were, this huge battleship in the hands of kids. Only now did they seem to notice all the shoes. One sailor picked up a shoe. “Damn,” he said. “These are the new Air Jordans—you can’t even get these in Okinawa.”
“That’s evidence,” Pak said. “These guys are all spies, and pirates and bandits, and we’re going to arrest them all.”
The sailor with the shoe looked at the fishermen with admiration. He said, “Smokey, smokey?” and offered them all a cigarette. Only Jun Do took him up on it, a Marlboro, very rich. His lighter was emblazoned with a smiling cruise missile whose wing was a flexed biceps. “My man,” the sailor said. “North Koreans gettin’ all bandity.”
Two other sailors were shaking their heads at the condition of the ship, especially the way the bolts for the lifelines had rusted out. “Spies?” one of them asked. “They don’t even have radar. They’re using a fucking compass. There are no charts in the chart room. They’re dead reckoning this bitch around.”
“You don’t know how devious these North Koreas are,” Pak countered. “Their whole society is based on deception. You wait, we’ll tear this boat apart, and you’ll know I’m right.” He bent down and opened the hatch to the forward hold. Inside were thousands of small mackerel, mouths open from being frozen alive.
Jun Do understood suddenly that they’d laugh at his equipment if they found it, that they’d tear it out and drag it into the bright lights and laugh at how he had it all rigged. And then he’d never hear an erotic tale from Dr. Rendezvous again, he wouldn’t know if the Russian prisoners got paroled, it would be an eternal mystery if his rowers made it home, and he had had enough of eternal mysteries.
A sailor came out of the pilot house wearing the DPRK flag as a cape.
“Motherfucker,” another sailor accosted him. “How the fuck did you end up with that? You are the sorriest sailor in the Navy, and I will be taking that from you.”
Another sailor came up from below. His name tag read, “Lieutenant Jervis,” and he had a clipboard. “Do you have any life vests?” he asked the crew.
Jervis tried to mime a vest, but the crew of the Junma shook their heads no. Jervis checked a box on his list. “How about a