The Boy Who Escaped Paradise

by J. M. Lee

  Yong-ae’s face crumpled. “Leave him alone,” she hissed.

  The warden lifted her chin with a finger. Her thin gold necklace glinted in the light. “Oh, come on. I’m his guardian, remember? I have his best interests at heart.” He smiled kindly at me and served me some bok choy.

  THE REINTERPRETATION OF MURDER

  We all relaxed eventually. The warden topped my glass with more Coke. “Let’s try one more time,” he said suggestively. “This time we can make a ton of money in America.”

  Yong-ae frowned.

  The warden kept downing glass after glass of whiskey, his face growing redder and his voice booming louder. It became late. By now, he was completely drunk. He ruffled my hair and hugged me jovially, laughing. He reeked. I shoved him away.

  “Hey! I watched over you after your father died. I made sure you got your resettlement funds when you got to Seoul. I taught you about capitalism!” He had suddenly turned into the warden I had known, with his red insignia and a hand on his leather belt. He grabbed me by the throat and dragged me into the living room. My stomach somersaulted.

  Yong-ae rushed after us, pulling on his sleeve. “Stop! Don’t hurt him!”

  He flung her aside with shocking force. He opened the bureau in the living room and pulled a handgun out. “Back home I used to get rid of dozens like you,” he slurred. “I received the Medal of Honor for that.”

  Yong-ae lunged at him, and he smashed the gun into her temple. She slammed into the ground, blood trickling down her face. He shoved me against the bureau. He pulled her up by the throat and forced her to kneel; he placed the muzzle of the gun to her temple, giggling.

  I caught my breath. I grabbed a golf club leaning against a cabinet. I lifted it over my head but he whirled around; the club missed and struck the hand holding the gun. A shot rang out. Fire shot up my right thigh. The warden dropped the gun, cradling his wrist. I moved toward the gun, but my leg dissolved and I fell. I managed to wrap my hand around the gun.

  The warden’s face darkened. “Gil-mo,” he said gently. “That’s dangerous. Put it down.”

  The warden had sent countless people to their deaths. He had taken all the money I had. He ruined Yong-ae’s life, and now he was trying to kill her. I knew what I had to do to fix it.

  Yong-ae grabbed me around the waist. “Stop, Gil-mo! Put it down!”

  I stood, trying to shake her off. I leaned on the wall. The ground was slippery. She refused to let go, but I pushed her off. She spun in place, hit her head against the wall, and fell. The warden rushed at me.

  Another bang. My entire body was vibrating. Nothing else hurt. The warden fell to the floor. Something red splashed the walls.

  I had kept my promise to Mr. Kang. The warden’s death smelled metallic. I limped to the table, yanked off the tablecloth, and wiped the blood from the wall and floor. I took a bottle of antiseptic from my knapsack, folded a napkin into eighths and wiped the greed and hypocrisy from his face. I closed my eyes and prayed. His death would be delivered to hell, I hoped.

  A dog barked from far away. Sirens wailed and cops were shouting. Blood kept trickling down my leg. I sank into darkness.

  Angela covers her face. She rubs her eyes with the tips of her fingers and sighs. “So, did you kill Steve Yoon?”

  “No.”

  “Then who did?” She sounds relieved.

  “The bullet.”

  Angela lets out a sigh and clasps her hands together. “I don’t know what to think here.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me.”

  She shakes her head. “I may have wanted you to lie, at least this time.” She reaches over to touch my hand but stops, remembering that I don’t like to be touched. She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them and gets up.

  “You don’t need to take my temperature or a blood sample?” I ask.

  “No, not today. You’re well now. Maybe you were always well.” She leaves the room, holding my file against her chest.

  INTERROGATION OF AHN GIL-MO,

  SUSPECT IN THE MURDER OF STEVE YOON

  On February 28, 2009, at 12:30 a.m., suspect Ahn Gil-mo was arrested in a house in Queens, New York, under suspicion of murdering Steve Yoon, the CEO of Friends of Freedom, a North Korean human rights organization. Suspect was held in the infirmary due to a bullet wound to the thigh. He refused to speak. It was determined that the suspect had Asperger’s syndrome. Over seven days, interrogation was held in tandem with psychological counseling.

  1 Re: Counterfeiting of four passports

  The suspect is a refugee who escaped North Korea and crossed into China. He appears to have possessed passports of various nationalities to escape the instability of DPRK. He did not use a counterfeit passport to enter the United States.

  2 Re: Suspicion of possessing stolen property

  When residing in Pyongyang, the suspect received a notebook from Senior Colonel Park In-ho, the superintendent of the USS Pueblo, but the charge of theft or robbery was not established.

  3 Re: Charge of being an active member of Fierce Dragon Society, the largest gang in northeastern China

  After escaping to China, the suspect was employed in a syndicated bar in Yanji. The owner was the head of the gang.

  4 Re: Activity as drug mule

  The suspect delivered one bag to Shanghai, but it appears he conducted business without comprehending the consequences or knowing the contents of the bag.

  5 Re: Overseeing and laundering funds for Kunlun Corp., a drug gang in Shanghai

  The suspect worked as an accountant in Kunlun Corp. under the name Jiang Jiajie but wasn’t directly involved in raising or overseeing funds. He did not understand the purpose of the funds. He was imprisoned for his participation in the gang and served his sentence. No cause for a charge.

  6 Re: Organizing a fraudulent gambling ring in Macau’s Tomorrow Casino

  While working as a janitor in a casino in Macau, he studied the roulette games and the house edge and won $59,000. It appears that this was earned through mathematical calculations, without the use of violence or fraud.

  7 Re: Participation in a gun battle between illegal gambling organizations on the Macau shoreline road that left eleven dead in February 2006

  The suspect was involved in a physical altercation between illegal gambling organizations. At the time he did not possess a weapon and left the scene.

  8 Re: Inheritance fraud committed in Seoul, South Korea

  The suspect was involved in a fraud organized by Yun Yong-dae (Steve Yoon), who defected from North Korea. Yun, who was active as an unofficial correspondent and contact for separated families, disguised the suspect as a relative of a wealthy man and stole a large inheritance. However, the suspect did not understand the plot and the inheritance was clearly given of the deceased’s own accord. He was cleared of suspicion by South Korean authorities.

  9 Re: Complicity with a North Korean spy active in Seoul

  The suspect has known Kang Yong-ae, who was arrested in Seoul under suspicion of spying, from their time at a prison camp in North Korea. During trial, Kang was cleared of suspicion.

  10 Re: Manipulation of stock prices

  While residing in Seoul, the suspect made large profits through internet stock trading, but these were the results of thorough market analysis. The suspect’s volume did not amount to artificial manipulation of the market.

  11 Re: Illegal entry into the United States

  In 2007 the suspect entered the United States illegally through the Sonora Desert and moved to New York. He is charged with illegal entry to the United States.

  12 Re: Murder charge on February 28, 2009

  The victim Steven Yoon threatened the suspect’s life in prison camp and stole his assets in Seoul before fleeing to the United States. As the victim threatened Kang with a gun, the suspect believed his life to be threatened and fired the victim’s gun during a fight in self-defense. Given that the suspect did not flee the scene, it does not appear to
be calculated and premeditated.

  Of the twelve grave crimes the suspect is charged with, the majority are not merited as they do not meet the requirement for intent or because the suspect acted in self-defense. After treatment over seven days, the suspect showed that he could not separate reality from fantasy. His mental state revealed that he believed his distorted memories were reality. Appropriate psychiatric treatment is needed. Deportation to South Korea is recommended.

  —Angela Stowe, Special Agent, Counterintelligence Division, FBI

  I AM A LIAR

  After I leave the infirmary, I am held at a shelter for deportees. As the bullet missed bone, my injury heals quickly. I won’t have a limp, which would ruin the symmetry of my gait. Over two months, the investigation continues to resolve my refugee status and criminal charges. After numerous psychological inquiries and interrogations, Angela’s report is accepted. Yong-ae and I receive deportation orders.

  I pack my belongings. I put my triangles, my old calculator, and my ruler into my knapsack, along with several pairs of underwear and clothes. I’m reminded of the day I left the prison camp. I flip through Captain Miecher’s notebook. I never did end up getting this notebook back to him. I slide it into the inner pocket of my jacket.

  Yong-ae and I have checked in at the airport when we notice Angela. She came to say goodbye. We have about ten minutes before we have to go. We go to a small café. Yong-ae helps me take my knapsack off and put it in my lap. Angela brings over two coffees and a Coke. “I wanted to apologize,” she begins.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m not a nurse, I’m an FBI agent.”

  I look out the window at the runway. Airplanes glide down and float up, and move in slow motion toward the terminals.

  “I was brought in because the sequences and symbols at the scene weren’t easily decipherable. I majored in math, and I’ve cracked codes. That’s why I pretended to be a nurse. To try to engage you with math. I’m sorry. I used the love you have for numbers to trick you.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I knew you were fooling me from the very beginning.” I look off into the distance.

  “You knew? You didn’t say anything!” She’s quiet for a moment. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. I do have a final question, though. You wrote, ‘I am a liar’ next to the body. The first sequence revealed your talent for math and the second told me you like prime numbers and symmetry. Were you riffing off the liar’s paradox with the sentence?”

  The phrase I am a liar is meaningless, but a paradox emerges in the process of proving its veracity. If the sentence were true, then the speaker would be a liar. But since he would then be telling the truth, the speaker couldn’t be a liar. On the other hand, if the sentence were false it would mean the speaker was not a liar, but the sentence itself would then be a lie. The sentence always produces a contradictory result. “It’s also an illustration of Gödel’s incompleteness theorem,” I tell her.

  Gödel had proved the liar’s paradox through numbers. His first incompleteness theorem posited that as long as a calculation-based system was not contradictory, there was always one problem that could be neither contradicted nor proven. His second incompleteness theorem stated that if a system satisfying the conditions of the first incompleteness theorem claims it is consistent, one couldn’t prove or disprove that.

  “So you’re saying that you wrote that to trick the investigators. To trick me.” Angela looks pained.

  I nod quietly.

  She smiles bitterly. “If it’s true that you’re a liar, then you’re a liar. Your story is a lie. But since we figured that you were truly saying you were a liar, it means you’re not a liar. If the sentence is supposed to be a lie, then you’re not a liar. So that’s how you get away with it.”

  “Not everything was a lie,” I correct. “I wanted to tell the truth. I told lies only to show the truth.”

  “So what was a lie?”

  “I can’t explain all that. I guess I’d say that they were all truths. All for one lie.”

  “You mean when you said you killed Steve Yoon.”

  I nod.

  “Why did you lie?”

  A thin line appears between Yong-ae’s brows.

  “It wasn’t Yong-ae, either,” I explain. “She was just tussling with him, her hand on his hand holding the gun.”

  Angela’s eyebrows twitched. “So you thought she would have to rot in prison her entire life. And that’s why you decided to say you did it. What a sacrifice!”

  “It wasn’t a sacrifice.”

  “So what’s the truth?”

  I look up at the ceiling and sip my Coke. “There are things that are true but can’t be proven, remember?”

  She lets out a long sigh.

  I pull out the notebook from my pocket and hand it to her. “This is Knight Miecher’s notebook. I’ve had this for the last ten years. You should have it. I won’t be back in America, and if he’s alive he’s probably in the United States somewhere. If you take it there’s a higher chance that he’ll get it back.”

  She flips through the dog-eared notebook. An announcement blares on the PA system. I put my knapsack over my shoulder and get up. Angela gets up, too. She reaches over but stops herself. I give her a hug. She smells warm. I finally let go and Yong-ae and I walk to the gates. I don’t look back.

  THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL

  It’s early morning in September. The mist over the Aare River drifts over the streetcar tracks as buses trundle along wet streets and bicycles glide by. On Spitalgasse, men and women in suits hurry along. The clock tower bell chimes, and bears and acrobats pop out and begin dancing. We pull into the square and head east as the bell rings for the tenth time. Credit Suisse provided us with a luxury car because of Yong-ae’s VIP status, with $8 million on deposit. Two weeks ago, we made an appointment to withdraw everything and close the account. The car stops in front of the main branch. A guard runs down the stone steps to greet us as our driver gets out of the car and fixes his black cap. The guard opens the back door. I push my sunglasses up my nose and get out. Yong-ae follows suit, smiling at the driver. We follow the guard up the stairs, through the heavy revolving doors, and into the quiet lobby topped with tall ceilings and crystal chandeliers. Paintings surround us—are they Klimt? We cross the large marble hall, Yong-ae’s heels tapping out a cheery beat.

  The teller greets us behind the gleaming oak window. Yong-ae fixes her makeup and slides her small mirror back in her Hermès crocodile bag.

  The teller slides across a sheet of paper. “Please write down your PIN and we’ll be able to assist you with your transaction.”

  Yong-ae glances at me. I write down: 9643052178. The magic spell Mr. Kang talked about, one that reveals the numbers you don’t know, just like a dictionary. It has to be the one that unlocks the bank account in Yong-ae’s name. She trembles in anticipation. I tap a finger on my thigh. Time ticks by slowly.

  The teller taps on his keyboard and hits enter. Eight million dollars shoots through cables into Yong-ae’s Citibank account. “Here’s your receipt.”

  Yong-ae takes off her gloves and counts the zeros. Exactly six. “Thank you.” She puts her gloves back on.

  We cross the lobby. Yong-ae’s shoes sound more confident than when we entered. The guard opens the large glass doors and we step outside. Yong-ae slides into the back seat. She takes her sunglasses off. “To Central Square, please.”

  The car takes off over cobblestone streets. The radio is playing ABBA’s “The Winner Takes It All.” ABBA, that perfect symmetry.

  The gods may throw the dice / their minds as cold as ice. / And someone way down here / loses someone dear. / The winner takes it all. / The loser has to fall. . .

  Who is the winner? Me? Yong-ae? Both of us? Who was the loser? Yun Yong-dae? Fate? Did we really take it all? Outside, hard stone pillars and marble buildings pass by. Yong-ae hums along. We turn a corner. We spot the red awning of an outdoor café. Yong-ae asks the driver
to let us out in front of the café.

  We sit side by side under the sun. Her black dress fits her perfectly. Her eyes are bruise-free. Her bangs are in perfect symmetry. She orders an espresso. I order one, too, and also hot water and an empty cup. I pour the espresso into the empty cup and use the espresso cup to pour in three and one-sixth cups of hot water. The ratio of 1:3.14 between coffee and water is the most harmonious. We take in the sunlight, people strolling by, the scent of the breeze. A long time later, she gets up and checks her makeup with her small mirror again. “I’m going to go to the bank and make sure the money came through.” She finishes the rest of her espresso and walks away without looking back. Her shadow glimmers for a long time after she turns the corner. I sip my cooling coffee.

  Thirty minutes pass. One hour. She isn’t back yet. The sun is setting and the dome on the other side of the street glistens in bronze. She’s still not back. The wind turns chilly. People hurry home. The waiter comes around several times in exasperation. I take out a notepad and a pen.

  Dear Yong-ae,

  The waiter asked me how long I was planning to stay. I told him I was waiting for you to come back. He suggested it would be better for me to wait for you at home instead of sitting here alone. Nobody’s ever alone, are they? The clock tower in the square ticks every second, people are walking by, the street cleaning car comes by, the dolls pop out of the clock tower at the top of every hour to dance, and people are playing chess on the board drawn in the street. I’m not alone, see?

  The waiter suggested that you weren’t coming back, then shook his head and left. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you won’t come back. After all, you have a lot of money in your name. You used to leave without warning, without hesitation. But I know you’ll come back in the end. So I’ll just wait here for you.

  Remember Captain Knight Miecher? I called Angela a few days ago to see if she was able to find him. There was no such name on official lists for the USS Pueblo, POWs who returned home, or those who died in battle. As she cross-referenced names, she came across a man who had been on the USS Pueblo, Graham Johnson. His wife’s name was Elizabeth—the “abeth” referred to in his notebook. Angela tracked down her address in Atlanta, and visited to give her the notebook. She found out that Captain Johnson had died three years ago. And since the senior colonel didn’t know English, the greeting, “Nice to meet you!” sounded to him like a name. See, the world isn’t too big, and everyone knows each other somehow.