The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [60]
The Mercedes had windshield-wiper blades, something you never saw, and the radio was factory, capable of picking up broadcasts from South Korea and Voice of America. Breaking that law alone could get you sent to a mining camp, unless you happened to be above the law. While the men spoke, Jun Do observed that their teeth had been fixed with gold, something possible only in Pyongyang. Yes, the hero thought, this might be his ugliest assignment yet.
The two men drove Jun Do inland to a deserted air base. Some of the hangars had been converted into hothouses, and in the meadows surrounding the runway, Jun Do could see broken-down cargo planes had been pushed off the blacktop. They lay this way and that in the grass, their fuselages now serving as ostrich warrens—the birds’ small heads watched him pass through clouded cockpit windows. They came to a small airliner, engines running. Descending its steps came two men in blue suits. One was older and quite small—like a grandfather wearing the dress clothes of his grandson. The old man took a look at Jun Do, then turned to the man next to him.
“Where’s his suit?” the old man asked. “Comrade Buc, I told you he must have a suit.”
Comrade Buc was young and lean, with round glasses. His Kim Il Sung pin was perfectly placed. But he had a deep vertical scar above his right eye. It had mishealed so that his eyebrow was broken into two pieces that didn’t quite line up.
“You heard Dr. Song,” he told the drivers. “The man must have a suit.”
Comrade Buc ushered the smaller driver to Jun Do, where he compared their shoulders. Then he had the taller driver stand back-to-back with Jun Do. When Jun Do felt the other man’s shoulder blades, it began to really sink in, that he probably wouldn’t be upon the sea again, that he’d never know what would become of the Second Mate’s wife, beyond the image of the hem of her yellow dress being fingered by an old warden from Sinpo. He thought of all the broadcasts he’d miss, of lives continuing beyond him. His whole life, he’d been assigned to work details without warning or explanation. There’d never been any point in asking questions or speculating on why—it never changed the work that had to be done. But then again, he’d never had anything to lose before.
To the taller driver, Dr. Song said, “Come, come, off with it.”
The driver began to shed the jacket. “This suit’s from Shenyang,” he complained.
Comrade Buc was having none of it. “You got that in Hamhung, and you know it.”
The driver loosened the shirt buttons and then the cuffs, and when he had it off, Jun Do offered in return the Second Mate’s work shirt.
“I don’t want your lousy shirt,” the driver said.
Before Jun Do could don the new shirt, Dr. Song said, “Not so fast. Let’s have a look at that shark bite of yours.” Dr. Song lowered his glasses and leaned in close. He touched the wound very delicately, and rotated Jun Do’s arm to examine the stitches.
In the sunlight, Jun Do could see the redness around the sutures, the way the seams wept.
“Very convincing,” Dr. Song said.
“Convincing?” Jun Do asked. “I nearly died from that.”
“The timing is perfect,” Comrade Buc said. “Those stitches will have to come out soon. Will you have one of their doctors do it, or would it speak louder if we pulled them ourselves?”
“What kind of a doctor are you?” Jun Do asked.
Dr. Song didn’t answer. His watery eyes were fixed on the tattoo on Jun Do’s chest.
“I see our hero is a patron of the cinema,” Dr. Song said. With a finger, he rapped Jun Do on the arm as a sign to get dressed, then asked him, “Did you know Sun Moon is Comrade Buc’s girlfriend?”
Comrade Buc smiled, indulging the old