The Boy Who Escaped Paradise

by J. M. Lee

  “I don’t want to be rich.”

  “You’re a good kid, Gil-mo. You’re smart. Listen carefully, okay? Your grandfather felt guilty his entire life about leaving his wife and son behind. There aren’t that many days left ahead for him. You’re his only blood relative from North Korea. The portion of his estate meant for his first wife and son would go to you. Gil-mo, it’s an enormous amount. Even considering his South Korean family’s portion! Think about it. Wouldn’t it be a kind thing to relieve him of his guilt? Wouldn’t that help him go to heaven in peace, when it’s time?”

  I understood. It was important to deliver any death, to clean the dead’s face and put a stamp of prayer on. Of course I wanted the same for my newfound grandfather. I agreed to go for a visit.

  My grandfather sat in a shiny silver wheelchair, gazing into the distance. He was pale, quiet, and slow. The sprinklers swished every few seconds, showering the geometric garden in large arcs. A lawyer stood next to the old man. The warden took out a bundle of documents, attesting to my identity, my family history, and where I lived in North Korea. The lawyer examined the documents then whispered something into my grandfather’s ear.

  “Say hello to your grandfather,” the warden murmured, smiling.

  I bowed.

  Grandfather looked at me with cloudy gray eyes shrouded by damp eyelashes. He took out a faded photograph from his white linen jacket. His pregnant first wife was looking out resentfully. He looked between me and the picture. He put it back in his pocket slowly and stared at me. Grandfather’s hazy pupils trembled. Was he disappointed that I wasn’t how he’d imagined?

  “I’m different,” I blurted out. “I live in my own world.”

  “I see,” Grandfather said haltingly, tears rolling down his face. “Everyone’s different in some way, and some people don’t even know how they’re different.” His gaze was warm, and I closed my eyes, basking in the warmth.

  After that day, the warden and I went to Grandfather’s every Tuesday and Thursday. We spent the afternoon there, looking out at the quiet garden.

  “Tell me a story,” Grandfather said to me one day.

  “What kind of story?”

  “Any story. About your father, or about you.”

  To me, stories were something old people told the young. It made sense, since they had seen and heard a lot. I supposed I also saw and heard a lot, even though I was young. I told him about running along the Taedong to see the USS Pueblo, about the senior colonel, Kunlun’s large grandfather clock, the slot machines at Megasquare, and the satellite I launched, still orbiting in space.

  “That was just an image in the mass games,” Grandfather corrected me gently. “It didn’t really go into orbit.”

  “It did,” I told him. “It launched into the sky and entered orbit, all according to my calculations.”

  Grandfather looked at me for a moment. “Memories play tricks sometimes. Things that didn’t really happen are remembered as though they did. Small occurrences can feel like amazing events. I can see your grandmother, even now, the way she was standing there as I left.”

  I wanted to prove that I wasn’t lying. That night, I brought him out to the garden.

  “What is it?” asked Grandfather. “Why do you want me to come out here?”

  “I want you to see my satellite.” I pointed up at the sky. “The North Star appears near the end of the Big Dipper. But it’s actually about seven times farther away.”

  Grandfather looked up.

  “And the star to its right is the Kwangmyongsong-1. That’s the satellite I launched. The orbit is 128 degrees southeast due north right now.”

  Grandfather frowned straining to see. My satellite was small, almost invisible; it was a faint red. He shook his head.

  “Father used to say to me that it isn’t important whether something really happened or not. It’s more important to believe that it did.”

  Grandfather turned to look at me.

  Grandfather seemed to believe that our family’s misfortune was his doing. He felt increasingly guilty, and as that feeling grew, the portion of my inheritance grew along with it. The more time I spent with him, the more his family grew upset. They had never welcomed me with open arms, but they grew overtly hostile. His son began arguing with him in front of me. “Father, you’re being conned!” he cried. “Who knows who this kid really is? That crook Yun Yong-dae is toying with your emotions. He knows how much you miss your family up north.”

  Grandfather waved his cane to stop him. “That boy is definitely my grandson! Don’t you dare stop him from visiting me.”

  When they couldn’t persuade him otherwise, his children offered a compromise. “Let’s take a DNA test,” his son suggested. “We can determine for certain whether he’s related to us.”

  Grandfather shook his head in annoyance. “There’s no need for any of that. He’s already proven himself.”

  “How could he possibly have done that?”

  “With stories.”

  “Stories? What goddamn stories?”

  “My stories,” Grandfather retorted. “Things I told my wife before I left. I rubbed her belly as she was wrapping three rice balls for me to take. She was worried we would be parting forever. I took her hand and reassured her that it wasn’t important whether we meet again or part forever; I told her what was most important was believing we would see each other again. That was the last thing I told her. Could my son have overheard us? Because fifty years later, that same story came out of that boy’s mouth.”

  His son scoffed. “That’s no proof! The kid probably just said whatever popped into his head. You may have told him that story without realizing it!”

  “I’ve never told anyone that story until just now. My first wife is the only one who knew that story. Maybe she told my son that, and then he . . .”

  “Father, get a grip on yourself,” the son hissed. “These crooks are trying to take your money with these ridiculous stories.”

  “These aren’t ridiculous stories,” snapped Grandfather. “A story remains even after someone dies. Don’t you see? It’s all I have left of my first wife.”

  The warden grinned as he told me the news that I wouldn’t need to undergo a DNA test. He and Grandfather’s lawyer began to prepare the inheritance paperwork. By the time everything was finalized, the grass was no longer green, and the wind blew dry, brown leaves around. Grandfather died. I prayed in front of his body, clad in brown hemp clothing and laid out in a white room, hoping he would be delivered safely to heaven. I hoped he would meet his first wife and son there.

  The warden became my legal guardian because I was still a minor. “Such a generous man,” he whispered. “I’m sure he’s gone to heaven.” Grandfather had left me a little over 200 million won, mostly in bank accounts and some in mutual funds. The warden promised he would oversee the funds and invest it wisely until I turned twenty, the age of adulthood in South Korea.

  Angela cocks her head. “A satellite reflects sunlight like a star, that’s true. But it moves so quickly that it’s got to be nearly impossible to see with the naked eye.”

  “No,” I say. “In the middle of the night, the satellite is in the shadow of the earth. Before sunset or sunrise, you can see satellites that shine from the light they get from earth. When the USSR launched Sputnik 1, many people saw it with their naked eye in the early evening and early morning. They would see a bright dot speeding among the other stars in the sky.”

  “Even so, what you were looking at with your grandfather wasn’t a satellite. It was probably a different star. Or a meteor or passing airplane.”

  “Kwangmyongsong-1 never moves,” I correct her. “It’s always in that same spot.”

  “It may look like it’s always in the same spot because it’s in the same orbit as earth, but it’s at 35,810 kilometers above the equator. Without a telescope or binoculars, you just can’t see it.”

  “We saw it that day.”

  “Fine,” Angela finally acquiesces.
“If it’s important for you to believe you did.”

  “I can show you where it’s going to be tonight. I just have to calculate its orbit.”

  She nods but she still looks suspicious. “If you’re telling the truth, then why did they want you for fraud?”

  “After Grandfather died, his family accused us of committing fraud.”

  “What exactly was the charge?”

  “They said we deceived Grandfather, and claimed that he was feebleminded and unable to make decisions. They said we stole part of their inheritance.”

  “And what’s the spying charge about?”

  I think back to Seoul, 2006.

  CAN YOU HEAR THE SOUND OF TIME PASSING?

  Mr. Jang and Mr. Cho were sitting on the narrow veranda and playing go. The cashier lady was doing laundry, while Su-min and the other girls flounced around in short skirts. The men sneaked glances at them from time to time. I still hadn’t heard any news of Yong-ae. Seoul wasn’t small like Macau. What was the probability that I would find her among ten million people? I wondered what she was doing. She must have achieved her wishes to have a wealthy, fabulous life. I could still feel a centrifugal force binding the connection between us. I felt this tug even when I sat on the veranda in the sun, even when I looked at other girls. Where was she? How had she changed? It turned out I didn’t have to wonder for much longer. One day, I spotted her picture in the paper that Mr. Cho was reading.

  Female Spy Embedded in Seoul Exposed

  A female spy disguised as a defector was caught contacting military generals and government workers for secrets. The joint investigation headquarters composed of the military intelligence unit, National Intelligence Service, and the investigative agency announced that 22-year-old Yun Mi-ra was charged with violating the National Security Law for handing secrets over to the North Korean government. One Captain Lee, age 27, was charged with providing classified information while dating the suspect.

  Yun, a spy working for the North Korean State Political Security Department, entered the country in 2005 via Macau and approached Lee and several others under the pretext of romantic interest. She confessed to giving her handlers information she obtained from them and receiving operational funds and orders from the North. Yun also gave twenty-odd talks, spreading Northern propaganda, including that its nuclear development is for its own use, and smuggling out sensitive documents about military unit locations and the settlement of defectors.

  Investigator Kim Dal-hwa of the joint investigation headquarters said, “We found it suspicious that Yun dated military personnel and government workers, obtaining documents. After an extensive internal investigation, we were able to bring charges of espionage.”

  Yong-ae was smiling in the photograph. Her face still contained the golden ratio. I didn’t know whether to be happy that I had found her or shocked that she had become a spy.

  Mr. Jang and Mr. Cho continued to place their black and white stones on the go board. Black and white, opposites—life, too, was composed of opposites—smiles and tears, joy and sorrow, meeting and parting, love and hate, truths and lies. All of this formed a life. I ruminated on this for a while as Mr. Jang and Mr. Cho continued their game, the stones clacking on the board as chrysanthemum flowers faded in the yard.

  The warden’s car drove down an unfamiliar street and stopped under a tall wall topped with black CCTV cameras. Disoriented, I was sucked through the enormous steel gates. Twelve minutes later, the warden tapped me on the shoulder and pushed me toward the peeling door of the visiting room. Another door opened on the other side of the glass partition. Yong-ae walked in, wearing a white long-sleeved shirt and loose sweatpants. Her face was clean, without a trace of makeup. I was reminded of the first day we met. The wind was blowing snow off branches, and the ground was black under half-melted snow.

  “You’ve become famous,” I said. “Your picture in the paper was huge.”

  She laughed, making me smile. “It’s better to be a famous villain than to have a boring life, isn’t it?”

  I avoided her gaze and looked down at the small pendant necklace hanging at her throat.

  She followed my gaze and smiled. “The only thing my father left me,” she said, touching the gold.

  She didn’t look worried. Was she—was she excited?

  “I won’t be in prison long,” she said in a low voice, leaning forward.

  “What will you do?”

  “You can sell anything in this country. Anything from knowledge and skills to lies to liquor. I wouldn’t have any problem selling my dirty underwear if I could make money off it.” She winked.

  “What did you sell them to get those secrets?” I whispered.

  She thought for a moment. “My past. Also my trust and vulnerability.” She paused. “But never my dreams.”

  “What are they?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get out of this place.”

  I didn’t doubt that she would leave this place soon. I knew she could make her dreams come true.

  I felt trapped while Yong-ae was imprisoned. I thought about her constantly. To distract myself, I turned on my computer and went to a stock market site, watching tame numbers appear on the screen. Through graphs and tables, I herded them to a meadow by a calm stream. They listened to me and grazed where I directed them. If I fed them the right kind of interest rates and stocks, they ballooned; if I fed them the wrong kind, they shrank. I looked down at the hazy city from my room at night, listening to the roar of time passing. I thought of what I had lost and gained and of the people who were no longer with me. I watched over my growing flock resting in my blue account books. I was good at this. My numbers grew, multiplying.

  “Gil-mo, you’re practically a genius,” the warden praised.

  “I’m not practically a genius,” I said. “I am a genius.”

  He laughed, his features turning soft. “Yes, of course. You most certainly are a genius. Even fund managers with ten years’ experience wouldn’t be able to get such good results. You’re our great hope, Gil-mo. You’re a North Korean but you’ll become richer than most South Koreans!”

  I looked over the big numbers printed in my account book. “I’m just growing numbers.”

  “Right,” the warden said heartily. “It’s all just numbers. Take good care of them.” He reached over to pat my head.

  I darted away.

  “Sorry, sorry. I forgot. I’m just so proud of you.”

  Six months later, Yong-ae was released on probation after trial. The cashier lady handed me a block of tofu as I headed out to pick her up. “You feed tofu to people who leave prison,” she explained. “It’s to wipe the slate clean and start over. Blank, like tofu, you see?”

  Would my life have turned out differently if I had eaten tofu the night I escaped from the camp?

  Just outside the gates of the prison, Yong-ae took a bite of the tofu I handed over. She gave it back to me. Her red lipstick had left a mark on the soft white mass. I took a bite, too. She took another mouthful. White curds bloomed in our dark mouths.

  “I want to go to America,” she told me.

  I couldn’t understand her. “But we’re citizens of South Korea now,” I said, puzzled. “We won’t be able to communicate there. They’ll look down on us.”

  “We’re second-rate citizens here anyway,” Yong-ae retorted. “It’s foreign here, too. We can’t really communicate, and people look down on us. At least I won’t hear them cursing at me or know when they’re taking advantage of me if I don’t understand what they’re saying. There’s more freedom there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The Statue of Liberty is in New York. That’s where I’m going to go. So I can look up at her every day.” She had a faraway look on her face. She turned and pulled me into a hug; I couldn’t breathe.

  MY BODY, CARVED BY TIME

  A week later, I discovered that my bank account had been drained. The many zeros had disappeared; a sole zero was left behind. This disobeyed all
mathematical principles. I looked into the account details; all of my numbers had been taken out in a single withdrawal. I called the warden but he didn’t pick up.

  When I told Mr. Cho and the cashier lady, they ran to the bank with me. A teller in a navy suit told me it would be hard to recover the money, but that I should file an official report. Mr. Cho took me to the police station. A balding detective in a shapeless jacket combed his hair over his pate. “You’re saying over 500 million won disappeared from his account? Then shouldn’t we focus on how he made that much money to begin with? In any case, we’ll take a look and see what happened.”

  Three days later, he walked into our yard, sweating profusely. He took out a blurry photo from his back pocket. “Do you recognize this person?”

  Of course I did. I knew her better than anyone else in the world. I took out her crumpled, faded photograph from my pocket.

  The detective nodded. “I figured it would be someone you knew. We checked the CCTV in the bank, and it turned out that this girl brought in your account book, seal, and power of attorney, and showed the deposit slip.”

  “But how could they let someone who isn’t the account holder leave with all that money?” Mr. Cho cut in.

  “She even knew the PIN. You told it to her?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. She didn’t even know I had those numbers. The warden had told me he would keep my account book and stamp safe for me, and that I shouldn’t tell anyone my PIN.

  The detective explained that Yong-ae had given the correct PIN and hadn’t roused any suspicions. “Don’t worry,” he reassured. “We’ll find her soon.”