The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [46]
It was difficult to tell how long the old man had been working on him. All his sentences ran together to make one sentence that didn’t make sense. Jun Do was there, in the water, he could see the Second Mate. “I was trying to grab the Second Mate,” Jun Do said, “but his body would pop and jag and shift, and I knew what they were doing to him, I knew what was happening below the surface. In my hands he didn’t weigh anything, it was like trying to rescue a seat cushion, that’s all that was left of him, but still I couldn’t do it.”
When Jun Do had cordoned off the pounding in his eyes, and the hot blood in his nose, when he’d stopped the split in his lips and the sting in his ears from coming inside, when he’d blocked his arms and torso and shoulders from feeling, when that was all blocked off, there was only the inside of him, and what he discovered was a little boy in there who was stupidly smiling, who had no idea what was happening to the man outside. And suddenly the story was true, it had been beaten into him, and he began crying because the Second Mate had died and there was nothing he could do about it. He could suddenly see him in the dark water, the whole scene lit by the red glow of a single flare.
“My friend,” Jun Do said, the tears streaming down his face, “I couldn’t save him. He was alone and the water was dark. I couldn’t even save a piece of him. I looked in his eyes, and he didn’t know where he was. He was calling for help, saying, I think I need a rescue, his voice calm and eerie, and then my leg was going over the side and I was in the water.”
The old man paused. He stood there with his hands held high, like a surgeon. They were covered with spit and mucus and blood.
Jun Do kept going. “It’s dark, I don’t know where I am, he said. I’m here, I told him, listen to the sound of my voice. He asked, Are you out there? I put my hand on his face, which was cold and white. I can’t be where I think I am, he said. A ship is out there—I can’t see its lights. That was the last thing he said.”
“I can’t see its lights? Why would he say that?” When Jun Do said nothing, the old man asked, “But you did try to rescue him, didn’t you? Isn’t that when you got bit? And the Americans, you said their guns were on you, right?”
The blood bag in Jun Do’s hand weighed a thousand kilos, and it was all he could do to keep it aloft. When he managed to focus his eye he saw that the bag was empty. He looked at the old man. “What?” he asked.
“Earlier you said his last words were All praise Kim Jong Il, Dear Leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea? You admit that’s a lie.”
The candle had gone out. The flame, the glow, the darkness—they were all suddenly gone and now there was nothing. Kimsan never talked about what to do after the pain.
“Don’t you see? It’s all a lie,” Jun Do said. “Why didn’t I radio for help? Why didn’t I get the crew to mount a real rescue? If the whole crew worked together, we could’ve saved him. I should have begged the crew, I should have gotten on my knees. But I didn’t do anything. I just got wet. The only thing I felt was the sting of my tattoo.”
The old man took the other chair. He poured fresh tea, and this time he drank it. “No one else got wet,” he said. “You don’t see anyone else with a shark bite.” He looked around the building as if wondering for the first time what kind of place this was. “I’m going to retire soon,” he said. “Soon all the old-timers will be gone. I don’t know what’s going to happen to this country.”
“What will become of her?” Jun Do asked.
“The Second Mate’s wife? Don’t worry, we’ll find someone good. We’ll find someone worthy of his memory.”
From his pack, the old man shook out a cigarette and with some struggle, lit it. The brand was Chollima, the kind they smoked in Pyongyang. “Looks