Instead of answering, the old lady began untying the bundle. Inside was a pair of worn-out underwear, discolored to a darkish yellow, full of holes where the stitches had come undone and blackened all over with large stains.
“It belongs to him. Burn it, and put it together with his bone when you bury it in Ch’ansaemgol. I used it to wrap Tanyŏl when he was born.”
Yosŏp took the bundle in silence and tied it back up. He packed it in the small bag he had brought, with his own underwear and toiletries.
The jeep didn’t arrive until after ten o’clock, carrying the guide from the City Authority. Tanyŏl, his wife, and Yosŏp’s sister-in-law bid Yosŏp farewell from the hedge fence. Tanyŏl and his wife were the first to say good-bye and bow.
“Uncle, come and visit your fatherland often from now on. Don’t forget the warm consideration the Party has given you, and always, the unification of our nation.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. Take good care of your mother and write to me at the address I gave you. Be sure to contact me if your mother happens to fall ill—I’ll send you money or medicine.”
With that, Yosŏp turned back to his sister-in-law.
“Sister-in-law, stay in good health. Next time I come, I’ll bring my wife, too.”
Her voice breaking as she held back her tears, Sister-in-law replied, “Well, see if you can bring his children, too—the ones born over there. One was Samuel, right? And . . . I forgot the other’s name.”
“One’s called Samyŏl and the other Pillip.”
“Yes, that’s right. The world is theirs now. It’s time for us to move on—please, bury it without fail.”
Yosŏp said good-bye once more and went to get in the jeep. His sister-in-law stood in front of the hedge fence for a long, long time, long after the car had driven away, disappearing around the corner at the end of the alleyway.
The first big snowfall hasn’t come yet, but the hill behind the village is covered in a thin blanket of white. The ground has frozen over and thawed out so many times that you can hear the crunch of ice breaking. There isn’t a dog to be heard in the entire village. Ever since the start of autumn, those young men—the ones who’ve been hanging around here, claiming to be guarding the bend in the road—all this time, they’ve probably been gobbling up all the dogs they can get their hands on. For months now, people haven’t been going out. Already there are over thirty empty houses, and these days if you go out into the alley after dark you feel like a pair of bony hands will jump out of one of those empty doorways and grab you by the nape of the neck.
Gunshots start ringing out as evening draws closer, and voices ring out from every direction, calling and searching for one another. I listen to my husband’s warnings and never set foot outside after dark. Father-in-law, my husband, and now little Brother-in-law, too—nobody really comes home too often anymore. Judging from the eerie silence in the main quarter of the house, it seems like they’ve left again. I light the fire to heat the floors and go into the bedroom to lie down and warm my back. I’m so sleepy. Since the start of winter life has become much better than before the war—we have as much rice as we could possibly want and the children can nibble away to their hearts’ content. My husband even brought home a sewing machine and radio from somewhere. My two daughters are only one year apart—they’ve filled their tummies with white rice for dinner and they’re asleep beside me, sprawled out across the floor. My belly is so big, all the way up to my sternum, so big I can’t even turn over in bed anymore. I’m expecting—any day now, but there’s no sign yet.
In the dead of night I’m startled out of sleep by gunfire—a lot of gunfire, coming from somewhere very close by. I am thirsty. It takes me forever to get out of bed and actually stand up. I have to drag my body towards the wall and brace myself against it with one hand, placing the other on my knees to slowly raise myself up. Taking one little step at a time, both hands on the wall, I make my way towards the door. Opening it I come out onto the little wooden veranda. It would be so nice if someone could be here, someone ready to fetch me a glass of water every time I rustle around in bed. Slowly, I crouch down onto the veranda, stretching one foot out, feeling around for my shoes. A sudden, thrusting pain shoots through my lower abdomen. Oh, God. This is it. Frightened, I crawl back to the bedroom. Just barely managing to close the door behind me, I stretch myself out on the warm floor. The pain disappears for a while, but then it’s back; it’s spreading through my entire body. The intervals between the attacks are growing shorter and shorter.
I hear footsteps coming through the front yard. Ah, that sound. The sound I won’t be able to forget for another fifty years. I hear my husband, his voice crisp as he calls from the front door.
Hey, hurry up. We have to go.
I can’t even respond. I moan. He bursts through the door.
What’s the matter? Are you sick?
Clicking his tongue, he takes off his army boots in the darkness and puts his gun down, resting it in the corner before he enters the bedroom. He snaps his lighter open and kindles the kerosene lamp with the flame. The room lights up. My entire body is already soaked—my face covered in beads of sweat.
I . . . I think the baby’s coming.
Huh, what timing.
Oh God, oh . . . it’s killing me.
What on earth am I supposed to do? You dying in childbirth is not the issue right now—they’ll kill me if they find me here. Not just me, either—they’ll kill us all. They’ll probably skin us alive.
I clench my teeth. The baby is coming. Gasping, I beg him, please, just . . . help with the baby . . . I’m dying. Just do what you did before.
Oh, shit . . . what the fuck . . . .
Looking around frantically, he reaches over and violently pulls open the clothes chest. Clothes spill out everywhere. Grabbing one of the garments, he delivers the baby with it. I can hear it crying. He starts yelling, suddenly excited, Look! It’s a koch’u,36 a pepper! It’s a boy!
He goes out to the kitchen and brings back a wooden basin full of hot water. I think he’s washing the baby. He lays our first son down beside me and goes out onto the veranda to have a cigarette. Faint gunshots ring out in the distance. Shots are being fired nearby, too—rat-a-tat-tat—like the sound of a billet cracking in a fire. He rushes back into the room to turn out the lamp. The sound of his harsh breathing fills the silent room.
You stay here. I’m going to Sister’s house. I’ll check to see if we can leave the baby with her.
I can’t say a thing. What is there to say? I have given birth to a son! What more can I possibly hope for? I hear his footsteps crossing the front yard and gradually fading away, off into the distance. As the silence grows, I suddenly realize that he’s gone. He’s gone, gone to someplace far away, and he’s never coming back.
8
Requiem
JUDGMENT
THEY HEADED FOR DOWNTOWNSariwŏn to meet up with the guide from Pyongyang once more. He was waiting for them at the city hall.
“Well, Reverend, you certainly are a lucky man. Permission for your second visit has been granted from above.”
Reverend Ryu Yosŏp clasped his two hands together and bowed politely.
“I thank you.”
All Back must have been rushed that morning—his hair was looking a tad bushy, and he kept trying to comb it back with his hand.
“So, what was it like to see your family again?”
Once again, Yosŏp bowed to the guide.
“I was truly surprised. My older brother’s family—well, as you can imagine, we always thought of them as the ones who were left behind—and yet they’re all doing so well. My sister-in-law even seems to be in good health.”
The guide’s response was surprisingly terse.
“They were not directly involved. The present and the future, that’s what’s important to us.”
Hastily changing the subject, All Back opened up his notebook.
“I see here that your uncle, your mother�
��s brother—his name is An Sŏngman. Is that correct?”
An. Sŏng. Man. Yosŏp had to repeat the name several times, muttering to himself, before he could nod his agreement.
“Yes, that’s right.”
It was correct all right, but just as the proper name of his own mother still felt unfamiliar, his uncle’s full name sounded like that of a total stranger. To Yosŏp, his uncle would always be Uncle Some. The guide looked up.
“I am told he is known to be a very fine man indeed.”
Uncle Some was a common farmer. The younger brother of Yosŏp’s mother, he, too, was the son of a minister. As such, he’d been baptized as an infant. In his youth, Uncle Some had left his home and gone off to Haeju, where he stayed all the way through middle school. Upon graduation, he came straight back home and started farming his father’s land. Yosŏp’s maternal grandfather had been deeply disappointed by the fact that his son did not go on to join a seminary. Yohan had always believed that Uncle Some might still be alive, even after he had given up hope and begun thinking that all the other relatives left behind were surely dead. That was why Yohan had told Yosŏp to go to Uncle Some in order to find out where the rest of their family had been buried. It was difficult for Yosŏp to picture what his uncle’s face might look like in old age. There’d been certain features in his sister-in-law’s old face that had pretty much matched his expectations, but Yosŏp had a hard time even remembering what his uncle had looked like as a young man. What little he did remember from his childhood was that his uncle was a quiet man and that when he visited his grandparents during the school holidays his uncle would simply stand behind Grandmother, grinning. With his nimble hands, Uncle Some used to make all sorts of toys for Yosŏp, using nothing more than a block of wood and a kitchen knife, or maybe a scythe. Once, he made Yosŏp a boat with royal gold sails to float in and out of Usanp’o Port. After the war broke out, though, Uncle Some never, not even once, came to Yosŏp’s house. Every now and then, though, Yosŏp’s mother would mention running into her brother somewhere in town. Yosŏp remembered most clearly the years that came after liberation, and by then his maternal grandfather had already passed away. Meanwhile, there’d been no news at all about his maternal grandmother. Everyone simply assumed she would be living in Some with her son, the aptly named Uncle Some.
“It is my understanding that your uncle used to be the managing director of his Cooperative Farm. I hear the people there still think very highly of him,” the guide continued, getting into the car.
Whenever the conversation turned to the topic of her family, Yohan and Yosŏp’s mother would always take a moment to brag about her younger brother. According to her, even as a child he’d been a grown-up. He was so thoughtful and openhearted that their father had wanted him to become a minister. “And to think he’s turned into such an ox of a man!” she used to say, lamenting the loss.
It was right around lunchtime when the group entered Sinch’ŏn once more, just as it had been on their first visit. This time, though, the car drove straight through the downtown area, racing north for a good fifteen ri37or so until they reached the wide open fields of Ŏruri. Soon after that they found themselves at the base of a low mountain—a largish hill, really—that rose gently up from the middle of the fields. They were in Some. A Cooperative Farm village with the mountain at its center, the place was completely surrounded by rice paddies. The paddies were already beginning to turn gold and, with just the right amount of clouds up in the sky, the breeze, too, was agreeably cool.
The Some Farm was somewhat larger than Tanyŏl’s village. Single-story houses and cement brick duplexes lined the streets. Most of them appeared to be empty, probably because it was harvest season and the majority of the villagers were out in the fields. What looked like some sort of community center but turned out to be the farm office was situated in the center of town, along with a library and a public nursery. Grass lawns and rows of trees bordered either side of the concrete walkways, giving the whole scene a parklike look. Wooden benches had been placed here and there, and when they got out of the car they spotted a couple of old men straddling one of the benches, playing changgi.38 The managing director, a woman, came out of the office to meet them. She exchanged a few words with the Pyongyang guide, greeted Reverend Ryu, and took them over to the elderly changgi players. One of them, his eyes meeting Yosŏp’s instantly, slowly got to his feet. The woman introduced Yosŏp to the old man.
“Grandfather, your nephew has come to see you. This person right here is—”
Before she had a chance to finish, the old man broke in, a big smile lighting up his face.
“You’re Yosŏp, aren’t you! But why are you here alone?”
The voice and expression alone were more than enough for Yosŏp to know that this old man was, indeed, his uncle. Uncle Some’s back was still straight, and his face didn’t look any darker than it had in the old days. He had obviously begun balding, but he’d dealt with this by shaving the rest of his head to match—meanwhile, on the other end of his face he’d managed to grow himself quite a fine beard.
“Uncle! Have you been well?”
As Yosŏp bent at the waist to offer up a deep bow, his uncle grabbed him by the arms and drew him in for an embrace. Pulling away slightly, he looked into his nephew’s face with reddened eyes.
“Your mother . . . ?”
“She passed away—long ago.”
“And Yohan? Where does he live?”
“He also . . . he died a few days ago.”
The old man blew his nose with a resounding honk and thumped his nephew on the back.
“Come, let’s go home. The whole family’s waiting for you.”
Yosŏp looked around, trying to see if he could remember his maternal grandparents’ old home, but nothing in his line of vision seemed familiar aside from the low mountain in the open fields. Walking along at his uncle’s side, Yosŏp said, “Thank you, Uncle, for taking such good care of Tanyŏl and his family.”
“Well, well, so you’ve seen your sister-in-law, have you?”
“Yes, sir. I stayed with them last night.”
“She’s been through a lot over the years. I hear you’re a minister now, is that right?”
When his nephew answered to the affirmative, the old man nodded several times.
“How old are you now, Uncle?”
“Me? I’m eighty-five.”
Uncle Some walked ahead, going to the front of a two-story duplex and pushing open a side gate attached to the low hedge fence, just like the one at Tanyŏl’s house. The small front yard, which led into a vegetable garden, was filled with people. Uncle Some introduced his son, a man in his mid-forties who stood towards the front of the small crowd, as well as his daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Inside the house, someone had already set the table for lunch—just as it had been at Yosŏp’s sister-in-law’s. His uncle had always been an extremely quiet person by nature, and his entire family seemed to take after him. They must have felt rather awkward in the presence of Yosŏp, who was essentially a stranger; whenever their eyes met his they would simply respond with a broad, innocent smile. No one dared to actually speak throughout the entire meal.
That afternoon, Yosŏp followed his uncle to the Farm Management Office and took a look around the Farm Library where, he was told, his uncle worked part-time. Uncle Some briskly informed Yosŏp that the library held some three thousand volumes, many of which were donated by households belonging to the farm. The rest had been sent from different locations throughout the country. There was no bragging nor supplementary information—it was a far cry from the flowery explanations Yosŏp had gotten used to from the other guides.
In the evening, the managing director brought over some alcohol. Though Yosŏp declined initially, he eventually ended up accepting a few glasses, feeling somewhat obligated by the presence of his uncle. It had apparently been a while since Uncle Some had had any soju; the old man busied himself making up for lost time by putting back glass af
ter glass. His face, looking so healthy and flushed, belied his age. His laughter grew more and more frequent.
“Let’s move on up to the second floor!”
Picking up a pair of candles, Yosŏp’s uncle walked out into the front yard. Without a clue as to what was going on, Yosŏp followed him out and discovered that a series of cement steps had been attached to the outer wall of the house. The door at the top of the staircase was thrown open to reveal a three-room apartment. It was identical to the one downstairs in terms of its layout—the second floor entryway was really the only difference. A single, faint thirty-watt bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling in the main room.
“Is this place yours, too?”
Uncle Some laughed.
“Ha, ha, so it would seem, at least for now. A family was supposed to move in, but they were reassigned at the last minute, so this little apartment is still vacant. It’s cool here all through the summer, like one of those royal villas from the olden days.”
With that, he put the candles down on a small, round wooden table that was marred by a number of scorch marks. He lit them.
“Why the candles? It’s not even that dark yet.”
“The lights go out after nine. Lately they’ve been going out even earlier—they have to send the electricity to the factories first, so there’ve been cuts out here in the rural communities—”
In the middle of his sentence, the lightbulb actually sputtered and blinked out. It seemed dark at first, but once their eyes began to adjust, the space around the table seemed brighter than ever.
“So. What was it that killed Yohan?” his uncle asked, out of nowhere.
“Well, I don’t really know. He was quite healthy—he only started looking a little worn out these past few years . . . his sons left, you see, after his wife passed away. They moved to other cities and started their own families. He was living all by himself.”
“How old were you then?”
“I’m sorry? When?”
“When do you think? During the war.”
The Guest Page 17
