Ji-min Read online

  “What? You-”

  “Not now. Meet me at Okryu-gwan. I’ll have a dining hall reserved for us.” He hung up the line, snatched his cashmere Burberry overcoat from a brass hook fashioned to resemble a Japanese eel, and locked the office.

  A young, petite woman sat at an ornate black lacquer desk in a separate reception area. Her head swiveled to the Minister as he entered, a pleasing smile plastered on her face.

  Minister Pak told her, “Ae-jung, have my car brought around. I’m taking dinner with the Colonel. Have my usual room reserved.”

  “Yes, Minister,” she said.

  He started toward the elevator.

  “It’s out again,” she said.

  He took a deep breath, let it flow out between his lips, then took the stairs.

  #

  Pyongyang’s broad streets were almost deserted, so the trip across town was brief. Minister Pak’s Mercedes-Benz stopped in front of a white, two-story building with a curved green roof. The driver rushed to open the door, and a representative of the restaurant ushered him to a spacious dining hall. It could easily accommodate a score of diners, but this evening was furnished with a single cherrywood table and two place settings. A bottle of Dom Pérignon chilled in a silver ice bucket. Minister Pak let himself drop into the dining chair and lowered his head in contemplation. Yeon-chol, I warned you. Think what you want but dare not speak what you think.

  The Colonel strode into the room. He offered a simple bow and took his place at the table.

  A waiter stepped forward. Minister Pak gestured toward the Champagne. The server opened the bottle and filled their crystal flutes.

  “We’d like cold noodles and beef rib soup. Leave us for now.”

  The waiter bowed and withdrew.

  Minister Pak raised his glass. “To a friend.”

  “To a friend,” the Colonel said, meeting the Minister’s glass. “Gun bae.”

  The men drank.

  “You go back far, don’t you?” the Colonel said. “You and Jang Yeon-chol.”

  Minister Pak absently rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers and studied the amber liquid. “Yes. We were classmates at Wonsan University. He always had a penchant for trouble, and a gift for working his way out of it.” He slammed his free hand on the table. “He’s a skilled man. We can’t afford to lose such talent.”

  “Did you see him much recently?” the Colonel asked.

  “You know my work has consumed me. We last met in person two-and-a-half years ago. It was in this room, celebrating the Armistice Agreement.”

  “Good,” the Colonel said.

  Minister Pak glanced up from his drink.

  “Dear Leader hopefully won’t link you to him. That could be dangerous.”

  Minister Pak nodded then took a hefty sip of Champagne. “Where is the justice? He’s dedicated to his work, dedicated to advancing the nation. He’s guilty only of speaking his mind, saying what should be said. For that, he’s being taken from us. He’s to be killed.”

  Leaning across the table, the Colonel said in a quiet voice, “Dear Leader is dangerous. To the nation, to us.”

  “True. Who can do anything about it? Who dares to try?”

  The Colonel shook his head. “It’s dangerous to make a move and increasingly dangerous not to.”

  After emptying his glass, Minister Pak said, “You may be right. If Dear Leader has the gall to take him, who’s to say we’re not next?”

  Evicted

  Eomma’s corpse rested in the house for three days, as was custom. On the first morning, an elder from a nearby village visited. Curious neighbors crowded in, attentive to his words. He plugged Eomma’s nose and ears with cotton and filled her mouth with uncooked rice.

  “Waste of a meal,” a teenager whispered from somewhere near the door.

  “Shush!” his mother commanded, poking his rib with a sharp elbow.

  The old man rested a scraggy hand on Ji-min’s shoulder. His eyes were weary as if their innate compassion was clouded by witnessing too much death. “Did you make arrangements for your mother?”

  “Arrangements?” Ji-min shoved her hands into her pockets and stared at the man’s feet.

  “For your mother’s burial,” the elder said.

  Smirking, the teenager whispered to his mother, “She doesn’t have money. What’s she going to do? Dump the body in the ravine?”

  The remark earned another jab. “Shh. Do you want the ghost to blame you rather than Ji-min if she’s not properly buried?”

  The old man raised a hand and laid it on Ji-min’s shoulder. “I thought as much. A kind woman sometimes visits my village with small gifts. I told her of your plight. She will come with her cart on the third day and bring you both to the mountains, so you can find a beautiful spot for your mother’s grave.” Turning to the neighbors, he said, “Thank you for paying your respects. The time has come for the girl to grieve privately.” The man held no authority, yet no one dared oppose his words. They filed through the door, into the frigid winter.

  “Thank you,” Ji-min told him when they were alone. “For everything. You’ve been so-”

  “Shh,” he said. “I do only what is right.”

  “My neighbors refused the aid that you, a stranger, gave me.”

  “They’re hungry, afraid they may not last until spring. Survival is a powerful instinct.”

  “So is love,” Ji-min said. “Appa had a saying. If you love a stranger as you love yourself, you elevate the world.”

  The man wrinkled his brow and stared at Ji-min. “What do you think of your father’s words?”

  A veil of tears flooded Ji-min’s vision. “Soldiers took him from us because of those words. Because he lived those words.”

  “You believe he was wrong?”

  Ji-min shook her head and looked up at him. “No. Appa was right. If we only think of ourselves…” She gestured outside at the bleak, snow-covered field. “We will all stay hungry. Cold.” The tears overflowed onto her cheeks. “Alone.”

  The man said in a whisper, “Those with love in their hearts are never truly alone.”

  #

  On the third day of her mother’s passing, Ji-min woke at first light. The sun cast a pink glow on the night’s pristine snowfall, and the sky was orange, purple, and red on the horizon and deep blue above. She lit kindling in the stove and laid a piece of plastic trash over the flame. The stench was horrid, but she had to save coal for the night. She warmed a mug of water and steeped the damp leaves from yesterday’s tea. Eyes on the glorious sunrise, she wrapped her fingers around the warm mug and sipped the weak brew. Appa’s gone. Eomma’s gone. How is life worth living without family? How long can I last, alone?

  An old wooden cart drawn by a sturdy horse rolled up to the house. The driver stepped down, bundled in pure white clothes the likes of which Ji-min had never seen. She scratched the horse behind its ear then headed toward the door.

  Ji-min rushed out to greet the visitor.

  The driver threw back her hood, revealing a woman with jet-black hair flowing over graceful shoulders. She seemed not too old, perhaps Eomma’s age. The woman was radiant, not for her physical qualities, but for an inner brilliance exuding from the wrinkles of her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She held a serenity Ji-min had only seen among elders. The hard life everyone lived appeared not to touch this woman.

  How… unexpected. Ji-min bowed, but couldn’t take her eyes off the lady.

  “Ji-min,” she said, “you may call me Unje.”

  “What an odd name,” Ji-min said. Her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “Your name is beautiful.”

  If Unje was insulted, she didn’t show it. “My deepest sympathy, Ji-min,” she said. “I wish I could do more, but at least I will see your mother properly buried.”

  Ji-min took her hand. Such things weren't done, but an overwhelming feeling told her it was right.

  Unje wrapped her other hand around Ji-min’s and pulled her close
. She whispered, “Your path is a difficult one. Don’t forget who you are.”

  Ji-min nodded to be polite. What does that mean?

  “Do you have travel papers?” Unje asked.

  “Travel papers?”

  “The local men want to control comings and goings. And earn extra money when people need papers in a hurry. No matter, I expect we’ll be fine.”

  The two set to work preparing Eomma for her final rest. Unje had brought a fur-lined jacket to keep Eomma warm on the journey to the afterlife, and another to warm Ji-min in the hard days ahead. They struggled to lift her mother’s frail corpse on the cart. Villagers peered through windows. None offered to help.

  Fine snowflakes hung in the air as they began the journey. Though she had never traveled, Ji-min expected the trip to be arduous. Instead, the woman’s cart effortlessly glided over icy roads that were in horrible repair. Farms gave way to forested hills. Ji-min pulled her coat tight as she recalled Eomma’s frequent warning. Bad things happen in the woods. The road rounded a barn-sized rock, then stretched past a small, wooden hut. A white-and-red metal bar blocked the way.

  Soldiers. She grasped Unje’s forearm.

  “Don’t worry, young lady. Like I said, we’ll be fine.” With two tongue clicks, Unje commanded the horse to stop as they neared the checkpoint.

  A pair of guards emerged from the hut, smiling. The barricade lifted, and one guard waved them through.

  Who is this woman? Is she one of them? One of the elite, the powerful who control the country? No, not one of them. They wouldn’t care about Eomma. Or me. But she does.

  It took hours to reach the mountains, yet the time passed easily. They found a spot with a splendid view of the valley below. Snow dusted the trees, catching the orange light of late afternoon. Unje dug Eomma’s grave. Although the ground was beginning to freeze, she made steady progress. Ji-min laid her mother to rest as the sun dipped below the hills far to the west.

  “Eomma, what now?” Ji-min asked. “What do I do now? What will become of me?” She wept until no more tears came then collapsed, exhausted.

  Unje comforted her and allowed the time she needed to say goodbye.

  On the ride home, the cart’s bouncing and shaking rocked Ji-min to restful sleep. She only awoke as they reached the family house. Her house, now.

  Unje took Ji-min’s hand. “Don’t lose sight of who you are.”

  Ji-min nodded. One doesn’t hug strangers, it’s not done. Ji-min hugged Unje.

  Unje hugged her back. It was a long, comforting embrace. “Here,” Unje said, “for good fortune.” She handed Ji-min a coin-sized talisman, wood painted bright yellow with a red inscription. A loop of string ran through a hole, so it could be worn around the neck.

  “The letters are beautiful. What do they mean?”

  “It’s spirit writing. Roughly, it means a benevolent spirit will watch over you.” Unje held both of Ji-min’s hands. “Take care of yourself.” She mounted her wagon and whistled a command. The horse started down the path.

  Ji-min went inside and watched the unusual woman and her cart disappear into a flurry of snow.

  #

  A mechanical rumbling roused Ji-min from a deep sleep. She pulled her new fur-lined jacket tight and found her shoes. A pungent smell wafted through the thin walls. Diesel. A truck. The harvest is done. Why a truck? Did something happen?

  There was a knock at the door. She opened it.

  “Ji-min,” a neighbor said. It was the mother who had silenced her teenage son with elbow jabs. “A house isn’t for one girl alone.”

  “Of course it is,” Ji-min said. “This is my house, and I’m alone.”

  The woman stabbed the air with her open hand. “If you can’t work a fair share of the farm, you can’t occupy a farmhouse.”

  “I can do my share of work,” Ji-min said, crossing her arms.

  “My son needs this house to start a family,” the woman said.

  Ji-min’s mouth hung agape. That’s what Eomma meant. That boy’s horrible. How could she want me to marry him?

  “I will not marry your son,” Ji-min said.

  The woman laughed. “Who said anything about you? You’re a child. I paired him with a fine young lady from the next village.” The woman tugged at Ji-min’s shoulder. “A house is for a working family, not an orphan girl.”

  Ji-min shook her off. “This is my home.” My home. The only place I belong.

  A burly man, a government official wearing a frayed uniform and a dark scowl, watched the exchange from a huge, olive-drab truck parked a few meters away. “I don’t have all day,” he said. With the motor still running, he climbed down and slammed the vehicle’s door shut.

  “I’m trying to tell her-” the neighbor said.

  “Enough!” The man stormed into the house, ripped the threadbare blanket from the bed and draped it over the table, threw Ji-min’s meager possessions into it, and tied the bundle together. “Let’s go.”

  “But… where?” Ji-min asked, her face burning, her pulse drumming in her ears. “Where should I go?”

  “To an orphanage, stupid child,” the neighbor said, her eyes angled with contempt.

  “An… orphanage?”

  “You’re an orphan, girl. Of course-”

  The official held a hand aloft. “Into the truck with you!” He herded Ji-min into the vehicle. They drove in silence, first over white paths covered with unblemished snow, then over charcoal-gray roads lined with dingy, crusted chunks. For the next hour, they traveled bumpy country roads. Ji-min shivered and cried.

  The city was a maze of multi-story buildings, smoke-churning factories, and massive warehouses. Oily fumes tainted the air around some buildings. Others stood still, abandoned. They drove past the most enormous mosaic of Dear Leader she had ever seen. It covered the entire wall of a sizable dwelling. Wiping tears away, Ji-min watched the city roll past. The city. It’s huge. Confusing. What are these buildings? The truck picked its way through tiny roads and sputtered to a stop in front of a single-story beige building with a fading, red tile roof.

  “Ring the bell.”

  “Ring the bell?” Ji-min said, confusion etched in her features.

  “Push the white button next to the door,” the official said. “Out with you!”

  She gathered the blanket holding her worldly possessions and stepped down from the truck, slipping on the sideboard, and landing in a heap of dirty snow. Wet flakes swirled around her and stuck to her face and neck. She gaped at the driver.

  He leaned across the cab and grasped the door handle. “Good luck,” he said, slamming the door shut. The truck rattled its way down the road, disappearing into the light snowfall.

  Ring the bell. She studied the door and found a round piece of cracked, ivory-colored plastic circled by tarnished, brassy metal. She pressed on it. A klaxon sounded somewhere inside. Ji-min released the button with a start. Nothing happened. She waited. The wind bit at her nose and numbed her cheeks. Is nobody here? She pressed the button again, holding it for a long while. The door opened a crack.

  A woman with white hair and deeply wrinkled skin peered out. “Yes? What do you want?”

  “I’m Ji-min.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “My… my parents are dead. A government official brought me here to live.”

  “Here? There must be a mistake. We can’t take on more children. We can barely feed the ones we have.”

  Can’t take on more children? Hot pricks jabbed Ji-min’s skin. Her jaw fell open. “But, I have no home. Where should I go?” A tear rolled over her cheek, warming it, turning cold as the wind picked up and froze the moisture. Where do I belong? How will I survive?

  The woman shook her head. She didn’t close the door, she didn’t open it. Leaning through the opening, moist eyes glistening in the fading light, she said, “I’m sorry. I’ve taken in more than I can feed. If only I could help you, help you all.” Regret deepened the lines of her face.
>
  How can I demand of her what she doesn’t possess? Ji-min raised a hand, rested it on the woman’s cheek. “I understand.”

  The woman nodded, her chin quivering.

  “But where am I to go?”

  “Wait here,” the woman said. She shut the door.

  Ji-min heard it lock. Did she abandon me? She seemed so-

  The door opened again. “It’s not much,” the woman said, pressing a canvas bag into Ji-min’s hand. “Food for a day, two if it must last that long. Matches, so you can start a fire if you can find a dry place. There are orphans in the forest, near the mill on the edge of town.” She pointed down a street. “Perhaps you can find safety with them.”

  “Thank you for-” Ji-min said.

  The woman closed the door. It locked with a heavy clunk.

  Embargo

  Minister Pak lounged in a small, open pavilion atop a knoll in the garden of his estate. The Taedong River meandered by, its water a drab green under a gray sky. A pair of geese wandered the shore, plucking grass from between patches of crusty snow. Manicured trees grew closer to the main house and out toward the gate. Portable heaters forged a pocket of comfort within the chill of late fall. The Minister plucked a grape from a silver platter of assorted cheese, fruit, and fish cake balls. His assistant served him a cappuccino, its frothy foam topped with cinnamon and dark chocolate shavings.

  “Just the thing for this bleak weather. Wouldn’t you say, Ae-jung?” Minister Pak asked.

  The servant bowed slightly. “Yes, Minister.”

  Minister Pak sipped the coffee, allowing the silky liquid to linger on his palette. Bitter aftertaste. I’m the Minister of Finance and can’t even get exchange grade beans anymore. When will this ridiculous feud with the Americans end?

  An immaculate Mercedes-Benz SUV rolled up the winding drive, making its way past trees laden with red-and-gold Fuji apples. It parked next to the obligatory bronze statue of Dear Leader, a constant reminder to the nation’s wealthy of the true source of their power. The Colonel emerged from the vehicle, lit a cigarette, and strode toward the garden. He took two drags then tossed the burning butt toward a gardener who scurried to remove it. The Colonel offered a shallow bow to Minister Pak.