The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [61]
“In Pyongyang?” Jun Do asked. Immediately, he knew the question marked him as a rube. To cover his ignorance, he said, “Then you know her husband Commander Ga?”
Dr. Song and Comrade Buc went silent.
Jun Do went on, “He was the winner of the Golden Belt in taekwondo. They said he rid the military of homosexuals.”
Gone was the playful light in Dr. Song’s eyes. Comrade Buc looked away.
The driver removed a comb and a pack of cigarettes from his pockets, passed the suit jacket to Jun Do, and began unbuttoning his pants.
“Enough of Commander Ga’s exploits,” Dr. Song said.
“Yes,” said Comrade Buc. “Let’s see how that jacket fits.”
Jun Do slid into the jacket. He had no way of knowing if it fit or not. The driver, in his underwear, handed over his pants, and then the last item, a silk tie. Jun Do studied it, running his eyes along the fat and skinny ends.
“Look,” the driver said, lighting a cigarette and breathing out smoke. “He doesn’t even know how to tie it.”
Dr. Song took the tie. “Come, I will show you the nuances of Western neckwear,” he said, then asked Comrade Buc, “Should we employ the Windsor knot or the half Windsor?”
“Four square,” Buc said. “That’s what the young men are wearing now.”
Together, they ushered Jun Do up the stairs. From the top step, Comrade Buc turned to the driver. “File a requisition form with your regional allocations clerk,” he said. “That’ll put you in line for a new suit.”
Jun Do looked back to his old clothes on the ground, soon to be scattered among ostrich warrens by the jet wash.
Inside the cabin, gold-framed portraits of the Dear Leader and Great Leader were paired on the bulkheads. The plane smelled of cigarettes and dirty dishes. Jun Do could tell that dogs had been aboard. He scanned the rows and rows of empty seats but saw no sign of animals. Up front sat a lone man in a black suit and high-brimmed military hat. He was being attended by a stewardess of perfect complexion. Toward the rear of the plane, a half-dozen young men were engrossed in paperwork. One of them employed a computer that folded open and closed. Thrown across a few seats, Jun Do spotted a yellow emergency life raft with a red inflation handle and instructions in Russian. Jun Do placed his hand on it—the sea, the sun, a tin of meat. So many days upon the water.
Comrade Buc approached. “Afraid of flying?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Jun Do said.
The engines began to ramp, and the plane wandered toward the far end of the runway.
“I’m in charge of procurement,” Comrade Buc said. “This plane’s taken me all over the world—to Minsk for fresh caviar, to France for brandy straight from the caves. So don’t worry about it going down.”
“What am I doing here?” Jun Do asked.
“Come,” Comrade Buc said. “Dr. Song wants you to meet the Minister.”
Jun Do nodded and they approached the front of the plane, where Dr. Song was speaking to the Minister. “Refer to him only as Minister,” Comrade Buc whispered. “And never speak to him directly, only through Dr. Song.”
“Minister,” Dr. Song said. “Here is Pak Jun Do, a bona fide hero of the Democratic People’s Republic, no?”
The Minister shook his head dismissively. His face was stippled with gray whiskers and hanging clumps of brow obscured his eyes.
“Certainly, Minister,” Dr. Song continued. “You can tell the boy is strong and handsome, yes?”
The Minister conceded this with a nod.
Dr. Song said, “We will all spend more time together soon, perhaps?”
The Minister shrugged and gave a look that said maybe, maybe not.
That was the extent of their discussion.
Walking away, Jun Do asked, “What’s he a minister of?”
“Petroleum and tire pressure,” Dr. Song said, and laughed. “He’s my driver. But don’t worry, that man’s seen just about all there is to see in this world. He’s strong. His only job is to say nothing on this trip, and to enact the yes, no, and perhaps at the end of my questions. You caught that, yes, the way I guided his response? This will keep the Americans occupied while we work our magic.”
“Americans?” Jun Do asked.
“Didn