The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [70]
The Minister turned to them. He addressed them in English. “The Good,” he said, blowing smoke from the barrel, “the Bad, and the Ugly.”
The ranch house was single-level and half hidden by trees, deceptively sprawling. A nearby corral contained picnic tables and a “chuckwagon” grill, where several people were lined up for lunch. The cicadas were active, and Jun Do could smell the cooking coals. A midday breeze stirred, heading for anvil clouds too distant to promise rain. Free-roaming dogs leaped in and out of the corral’s fencing. At one point the dogs noticed something moving in a distant bush. They stood at attention, bristling. Walking past, the Senator said, “Hunt,” and at the command, the dogs raced off to flush a group of small birds that ran quickly through the brush.
When the dogs returned, the Senator gave them treats from his pocket, and Jun Do understood that in communism, you’d threaten a dog into compliance, while in capitalism, obedience is obtained through bribes.
The food line favored no rank or privilege—standing together were the Senator, the ranch hands, the house servants, the security agents in their black suits, the wives of Texas officials. While the Minister took a seat at a picnic table and was brought his food by the Senator’s wife, Dr. Song and Jun Do lined up with plates made from paper. The young man next to Jun Do and Dr. Song introduced himself as a PhD candidate from the university. He was writing a dissertation on the North Korean nuclear program. He leaned in close and said, quietly, “You know the South won the war, right?”
They were served beef ribs, corn grilled in the husk, marinated tomatoes, and a scoop of macaroni. Dr. Song and Jun Do made their way to where the Minister ate with the Senator and his wife. Dogs followed them.
Dr. Song sat with them. “Please, join us,” he said to Jun Do. “There is plenty of room, no?”
“I’m sorry,” Jun Do told them. “I’m sure you have important matters to discuss.”
He sat alone at a wooden picnic table that had been vandalized with people’s initials. The meat was both sweet and spicy, the tomatoes tangy, but the corn and noodles were made most foul by butter and cheese, substances he knew only from dialogs they’d heard recited over tapes in his language school. I would like to buy some cheese. Please pass the butter.
A large bird circled above. He didn’t know its variety.
Wanda joined him. She was licking a white plastic spoon.
“Jesus,” she said. “Don’t miss out on the pecan pie.”
He had just finished eating a rib and his hands were covered with sauce.
She nodded to the end of the table, where a dog sat patiently, staring. Its eyes were cloudy blue, and its coat was marbled gray and brindle. How could a dog, obviously well fed, capture the exact look of an orphan boy, relegated to the end of the line?
“Go ahead,” Wanda said. “Why not?”
He threw the bone, which was snapped from the air.
“That’s a Catahoula dog,” she said. “A gift from the governor of Louisiana for helping out after the hurricane.”
Jun Do lifted another rib. He couldn’t stop eating them, even when it felt as if the meat was backing up in his throat.
“Who are all these people?” he asked.
Wanda looked around. “A couple think-tankers, some NGO folk, various lookey-loos. The North Koreans don’t visit every day, you know.”
“What about you?” he asked. “Are you a think-tanker or a lookey-loo?”
“I’m the shadowy intelligence figure,” she said.
Jun Do stared at her.
She smiled. “Come on, do I look shadowy?” she asked. “I’m an open-source gal. I’m all about sharing. You can ask me anything you want.”
Tommy crossed the corral holding a cup of iced tea, coming from wherever he’d stored the poles and pistols. Jun Do watched Tommy line up and get served, offering a bow of the head when he was handed his plate.
Jun Do said to Wanda, “You’re looking at me like maybe I never saw a black person before.