The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [81]
She looked at the picture. “How intimate,” she said, and laughed. “You could loosen up a bit, yeah. A smile wouldn’t hurt.”
“ ‘Intimate,’ ” he said. “I don’t know this word.”
“You know, close,” she said. “When two people share everything, when there are no secrets between them.”
He looked at the picture. “Intimate,” he said.
That night, in his sleep, Jun Do heard the orphan Bo Song. Because he had no hearing, Bo Song was one of the loudest boys when he tried to speak, and in his sleep he was even worse, clamoring on through the night in the slaw of his deaf-talk. Jun Do gave him a bunk in the hall, where the cold stupefied most boys—there’d be some teeth chattering for a while, and then silence. But not Bo Song—it only made him talk louder in his sleep. Tonight, Jun Do could hear him, whimpering, whining, and in this dream, Jun Do somehow began to understand the deaf boy. His stray sounds started to form words, and though Jun Do couldn’t quite make the words into sentences, he knew that Bo Song was trying to tell him the truth about something. There was a grand and terrible truth, and just as the orphan’s words started to make sense, just as the deaf boy was finally making himself heard, Jun Do woke.
He opened his eyes to see the muzzle of the dog, who’d crept up to share the pillow with him. Jun Do could see that behind the eyelid, the dog’s eye was rolling and twitching with each whimper of its own bad dream. Reaching out, Jun Do stroked the dog’s fur, calming it, and the whines and whimpers ceased.
Jun Do pulled on pants and his new white shirt. Barefoot, he made his way to Dr. Song’s room, which was empty, save for a packed travel suitcase waiting at the foot of the bed.
The kitchen was empty, as was the dining room.
Out in the corral was where Jun Do found him, sitting at a wooden picnic table. There was a midnight wind. Clouds flashed across a newly risen moon. Dr. Song had changed back into a suit and a tie.
“The CIA woman came to see me,” Jun Do said.
Dr. Song didn’t respond. He was staring at the fire pit—its coals still gave off warmth, and when the wind eddied away fresh ashes, the pit throbbed pink.
“You know what she asked me?” Jun Do said. “She asked if I felt free.”
On the table was Dr. Song’s cowboy hat, his hand keeping it from blowing away.
“And what did you tell our spunky American gal?” he asked.
“The truth,” Jun Do said.
Dr. Song nodded.
His face seemed puffy somehow, his eyes almost drooped shut with age.
“Was it a success?” Jun Do asked. “Did you get what you came for, whatever it was that you needed?”
“Did I get what I needed?” Dr. Song asked himself. “I have a car and a driver and an apartment on Moranbong Hill. My wife, when I had her, was love itself. I have seen the white nights in Moscow and toured the Forbidden City. I have lectured at Kim Il Sung University. I have raced a Jet Ski with the Dear Leader in a cold mountain lake, and I have witnessed ten thousand women tumble in unison at the Arirang Festival. Now I have tasted Texas barbecue.”
That kind of talk gave Jun Do the willies.
“Is there something you need to tell me, Dr. Song?” he asked.
Dr. Song fingered the crest of his hat. “I have outlasted everyone,” he said. “My colleagues, my friends, I have seen them sent to farm communes and mining camps, and some just went away. So many predicaments we faced. Every fix, every pickle. Yet here I am, old Dr. Song.” He gave Jun Do a fatherly pat on the leg. “Not bad for a war orphan.”
Jun Do still felt a bit like he was in the dream, that he was being told something important in a language almost understood. He looked over to see his dog had followed him out and was now watching from a distance, its coat seeming to change pattern with shifts in the wind.
“At this moment,” Dr. Song said, “the sun is high over Pyongyang—still, we must try to get some sleep.” He stood and placed the hat upon his head. Walking stiffly away, he added, “In the movies about Texas, they call it shut-eye.”
In the morning, there were no big good-byes. Pilar filled a basket with muffins and fruit