From the Fatherland, with Love, page 13
For fifty years and more
We have done without milk and bread,
All for one precious goal:
To forge tanks and cannon
In the holy war
That will make us whole again…
Jang was struck by how peaceful the setting was. The handsome profile of Ri Gwi Hui sitting beside him, the sweet scent in the air, the warm sunlight through the wisteria forming complex shadows on the tables, the flat, mirror-like sea below, the ships passing leisurely to and fro… And yet something wasn’t right; some signal told him to be wary. Now the others noticed it as well. It was the scent, which had grown stronger and nearer. The branches of some camellia bushes swayed, and from out of their shadows stepped two Japanese men carrying cardboard boxes filled with reddish, oval-shaped fruit. “Ohayo gozaimasu,” said the younger of the two as he approached. The other, a man in late middle age, was apparently his father. The two were both wearing work overalls and baseball caps, with towels around their necks. “Might you folks be wantin’ to buy some of these here papayas?” the younger man asked. “Much cheaper than over at the coffee plantation.” It was clear that they were peddling their fruit, but their way of speaking was unfamiliar. Jang tensed, not knowing what to do, but realized that what they were hearing must be the local dialect. Han returned the greeting, as did his eight subordinates. Jang assumed that their linguistic performance would pass muster, but the two men now seemed wary. They sniffed at a lunchbox on the table, then exchanged glances. “Real good papayas,” said the younger man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, holding out a box for Han’s inspection. “They’re seedless, so the eatin’s easy.” Both he and his father looked nervously around them. Perhaps selling the fruit privately was not permitted. “Sorry, we are not interested,” was Han’s formal reply. The faces of the two men abruptly showed suspicion. “Where’re ya from?” the older one asked Han in a thick voice, as he stared down at him. Perhaps mistaking the tension in the air for alarm on the part of the nine strangers, he put down his box, took out a cigarette, and lit it, eyeing them all the while. He then leaned toward his son’s ear and spoke in a low voice, though perhaps he meant everyone to hear.
“Ya smell that garlic?”
“Where’re they from?”
“China, I’d guess, or Korea.”
“Just a while back some Chinese swiped a bike right in front the post office.”
“We better call a police officer an’ have him come up here.”
“Hae-bwa!” ordered Han. Choi took one step forward and drove the fingertips of his right hand into the son’s face, his index and middle fingers sinking deep into the eye sockets. A sound like the whistle of cold wind came from his victim’s throat. It was not a scream; more as if the nerves themselves were crying out in fear and pain. The father stood there uncomprehending, his mouth agape and all the color draining from his face. Seeing Choi’s fingers buried to the hilt in his son’s eyes, he opened his mouth to scream, only to have Kim Hak Su seize him by the shoulder and crush his jaw with the heel of his hand. There was a cracking sound like that of a dead branch breaking. The force of the blow spun the man’s head halfway around, his body collapsing in the arms of his assailant, who dragged him into the trees behind them. The farmer’s open mouth had been twisted into a smiling yawn. His son was still standing, impaled on Choi Hyo Il’s fingers, his entire body shaking. “You fool,” murmured Han disapprovingly. “Why go for the eyes? You’ve got blood on your jacket.” Choi extracted his fingers and, with the same hand, now covered with blood and yellowish slime, grabbed the young man by the back of the head and snapped his neck, the cervical vertebrae cracking like sticks of chalk. Pak Myeong and Cho Seong Rae picked up this second corpse and carried it off into the trees. Jang Bong Su and Jo Su Ryeon made it their business to ensure that there were no witnesses, scanning the area slowly before giving their leader the all-clear. Han ordered everyone to clean up and move out. Ri Gwi Hui had taken Choi’s jacket, soaked the right sleeve with water from the faucet, and was pounding it against a rock to remove the blood. With the heel of her shoe, Kim Hyang Mok dug a hole for the eyeballs, covering the remaining gore with earth. Back from disposing of the father’s body, Kim Hak Su asked how soon the police would be out looking for the missing men. Han looked at his watch. “It’ll take time. Anyway, there’s no one on this island capable of arresting us.” There was a general feeling of relief, of getting back to normal. “What about the fruit?” asked Kim Hyang Mok, and Han said: “Toss it into the shrubbery.”
“Nine adult tickets please.” Ri paid for them with three one-thousand-yen notes that she took from her brown vinyl wallet, and collected the change. It would be twenty minutes or so until the ferry’s departure. Jang Bong Su was with the others, standing against the far wall of the waiting room. About twenty other prospective passengers were in the small room, which was equipped with only eight chairs. There were two school kids in uniform, a young mother with her baby and a female friend, a middle-aged couple, a tourist group of seven or eight, three construction workers in hard hats, a gray-haired man in a suit, and three Westerners—a young man and two young women, carrying huge backpacks. Jang’s first impression on seeing Japanese people of so many different ages in one place was that there was no sign of any vitality in their eyes. Were these the same people who had occupied and ruled the Peninsula through military superiority? Kim Hak Su and Choi Hyo Il were sitting side by side on two of the chairs, but the Japanese were keeping their distance. One of the helmeted workers, a bearded man, noticed the scar on Jang’s neck and quickly looked away. While no one was staring at them or showed any sign of unease, it was clear to Han that they were hardly blending in, so he indicated to Jang that they should go and have a look at the souvenir shop. Jo Su Ryeon, Ri Gwi Hui, and Pak Myeong went along with them.
The shop, situated across the dock from the waiting room, was stocked with a variety of noodles that were presumably a local specialty, tropical fruit grown in the greenhouses of the coffee plantation, citrus wine, coffee beans and sweets, dried fruit, postcards, and books about the island. Jo picked out a small bag of mixed dried fruit and paid eight hundred yen, plus another hundred and forty yen in sales tax. “Don’t know what this money’s equivalent to,” he remarked, to which Pak Myeong, having done a rough calculation, replied that eight hundred yen was approximately what the commandos earned in a month. “Couldn’t very well stretch out a bag of fruit that long,” said Jo with a wry smile. “How about trying our wine?” the middle-aged saleswoman asked Jang. On a table were some small cups. “Do you speak Japanese?” she asked. “Yes, we do,” replied Jo, which made the woman smile. “This is blueberry wine,” she said, holding out four cups on a tray. Jo glanced out the window toward the waiting room. Han was standing outside, his back to them as he smoked. Kim Hak Su was talking to the two Western girls, relying as much on hand gestures as on words. “One small cup can’t hurt,” said Pak Myeong, and asked the woman whether the wine was strong. “Not at all,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s like fruit juice.” Jang took a cup and sniffed at it. He could detect no alcohol, but there was something old and familiar about the smell. Jo also took a cup and then a sip, and his face instantly lit up. “It’s just like…” Pak completed the thought: “Tuljjuksul!” Jang too had a taste, remembering that it was a Japanese herbalist who in the early twentieth century had discovered blueberries growing at the foot of Mount Paektu, analyzed their medicinal properties, and then developed and marketed blueberry-based drinks and syrups. “Good, isn’t it?” said the saleswoman. The three men nodded.
Inside the souvenir shop was a corner where customers could watch coffee beans being ground, with the beverage then served in handmade ceramic cups for three hundred yen. With time still remaining before the ferry left, Jang and his companions decided to try some. There were milk and sugar containers. Not knowing how much of each to put in, they asked the clerk behind the counter, a young woman who was wearing a scarf and no make-up. “About a spoonful, I’d say,” she replied, “but some people like it black.” Jo muttered that “black” must mean without either milk or sugar, then sampled the brew and declared it delicious. Jang could find nothing the least bit delicious about it; to him, it just tasted bitter. Ri, who had bought a bookmark in the form of a crimson pressed tropical flower, was looking out the window. Her friend Kim Hyang Mok had left the waiting room and was standing just outside. It was said that Hyang Mok had once been married, back in her native town, and had borne a child that later died. Perhaps it was painful for her to be around the young Japanese mother and her baby.
Seen closer up, the cityscape of Fukuoka looked like part of an absurdly immense machine. Jang stood leaning out over the ferry’s railing and gazed at the imposing buildings before him. Next to him stood Pak and Ri. The ship was plowing through the waves, dousing their faces and clothes with spray, but none of them minded it. As the city with which they’d grown familiar during their training got larger, they found themselves focusing on one strangely shaped, round-roofed structure they had often seen photos and diagrams of. “You’ll get soaked standin’ there!” a passing crewman called out to them. Ri pointed at the large structure and asked him what it was.
“Fukuoka Dome,” he replied, adding that a baseball game was to be played there that day—the “season opener.” Would they be going to see it?
“Perhaps we will,” Ri replied vaguely. Yes, Jang said under his breath, we’ll be going there all right. But not to watch baseball.
3
A HERD OF ZOMBIES
April 2, 2011
WE ought to be occupying this hotel rather than the baseball stadium. Kim Hak Su was in his room, adjusting the sheath of his combat knife, when the thought occurred to him. They had been prepared for a skirmish with the Coast Guard or the Self-Defense Force, but except for the two farmers they’d been obliged to eliminate on the island, everything had gone off without a hitch. He’d even had a conversation with two Australian girls on the ferry. They told him they were going on to Seoul and asked if he knew of a cheap hotel there, and Kim told them he was from the countryside and didn’t know Seoul well. The talk had then shifted to Korean arts and taekwondo. When the ferry landed, he and his eight comrades had split up into three groups to take cabs to their hotel. Strangely, even disconcertingly, it had an English name: Sea Hawk. On the way there from the landing he had also seen from the cab English lettering on restaurants and signs, including LIQUOR SHOP and RICE SHOP. He asked the driver whether this was an American residential area. “Nah,” the elderly driver had said with a deprecating chuckle. “But nowadays ya see English just about everywhere.”
In a corner of their minds, the educated classes in the Republic all combined a deep-seated hatred of the Japanese with an uncomfortable sort of respect for a country that had once fought so fiercely against the West. The same sentiment was probably shared by people in China, South Korea, Vietnam, and Indonesia as well. In the Republic the most prominent factories, roads, bridges, and tunnels had all been built by the Japanese during the occupation. The Chongjin Steel Company, the chemical-fertilizer company in Kamhung, and the bridge linking Korea and China on the Tumen River were also largely constructed by the Japanese. Yet even if this mixture of animosity and grudging respect was common in East Asia as a whole, what did it matter anymore? Japan had degenerated into a country that was little more than America’s servile, tail-wagging lapdog. While Han was checking them in, Kim and his comrades took in their surroundings. The lobby’s ceilings, walls, and floors were all made of marble, as if it were a palace. People were coming and going in every direction, while others sat conversing idly in the coffee bar. Many of the men and women looked vulgar, with hair dyed in the manner of Westerners, absorbing the effluence of decadent Western music, and consuming Western food and drink. There was even a man with an earring, as though he were a woman.
Heeding Han’s warning that they should be prepared to fight if the police were summoned because of any problems concerning registration, Kim had his hand on the pistol inside his backpack. The hotel staff, however, merely bowed and grinned. Han later noted wryly that they weren’t even asked for their passports. A bellhop came to take Kim’s baggage; though Japanese, he was dressed as an African. Kim was tempted to punch the man. He seemed to have stepped out of some sort of comedy film or come directly from a costume party. Kim had once visited several Eastern European countries when they were still part of the Soviet bloc. In the first-class hotels there, the bellhops had worn simple tuxedos or high-collared uniforms, with bow ties. He glared at the “African” until the poor man started profusely apologizing for what he took to have been some breach of courtesy on his part. When Han later asked his second-in-command what had happened, Kim told him that the bellhop had been dressed in an African costume. “Wasn’t that insulting?” Han explained that the Sea Hawk was known for having international themes to its various levels, and that the floor the nine of them were on was supposed to represent Africa. Any disrespect was unintentional, he said.
The decor did indeed smack of something African. The bedcovers were of a tie-dyed fabric, the chair backrests shaped like horns, and the walls decorated with native spears and shields. As Kim unpacked his knife, pistol, and machine gun, he complained to Pak Myeong, his roommate, asking why a Japanese luxury hotel would give itself an African flavor. “Does it matter?” asked Pak, checking the safety catch and magazine of his own gun and then slipping the first hand grenade into his hip belt. “Africa, Mars, Hades—what difference does it make?” He went on calmly inspecting his equipment. This, thought Kim, is a very cool-headed young man. There were few people in the SOF who would say anything to Kim when his temper was up, and even the most stalwart did so with some trepidation. The only exception was Han Seung Jin, a man Kim trusted and respected more than any other officer. But here Kim was turning red with rage, and this youngster Pak Myeong didn’t seem intimidated and didn’t try to mollify him. At the age of twenty-three, Pak had made quite a name for himself with the 907th Battalion when, while serving for six months as a propaganda broadcaster in the demilitarized zone, he managed to persuade no fewer than three officers from the South to defect.
On reflection, Kim could see that Pak was right. They had taken rooms in the hotel so they could check their equipment and go over operational plans prior to carrying out the mission, and the decor was nothing to get worked up about. Nodding slightly at the boy, he raised the cuff of his trousers and began to attach the knife sheath to his ankle. But deep down he still thought they should be taking over the hotel. He would have liked to slit the throats of those Japanese baggage carriers dressed as Africans. The sight of those buffoons bowing and scraping before foreign tourists was mind-boggling. Where was the Japan, he grumbled aloud as he finished securing his knife, that once shook not only Asia but the entire world? His whole perception of the country was being warped.
As he tucked a fourth grenade into his belt, Pak reassured his superior that he quite understood his feelings. It was the Japanese, he said, whose perceptions had become warped. His eyes turned toward the television set, which the bellhop had left on after explaining its various functions. A man in a yellow wool sweater, his fingernails painted and his face daubed with make-up, appeared on the screen along with a small dog. The dog had long hair, a pointed muzzle, and extraordinarily large eyes; and around its torso was a sweater just like its master’s. In response to the emcee’s question about the dog’s favorite food, the man grinningly replied that it was a meat broth delivered by a specialty restaurant for pets. Pak looked away from the screen. “After losing the war,” he said, “Japan became America’s mistress and managed to become rich in a hurry. Now that the economy’s in a shambles, it’s starting to feel bitter about a lot of things. That’s on top of its usual sense of inferiority and guilt. The Japanese have nothing to look forward to and no plan of action. A country that knows what it wants, and knows what it needs to do to achieve that, wouldn’t dress up its workers as Africans.” Kim thought admiringly that he was quite right about this. His respect for Han’s choice of men grew all the more. Looking again at the dog on the screen, Pak remarked quite seriously: “Much too scrawny to go into a tan’gogi soup.” Kim had to agree.
The attack on the baseball stadium was to begin at 19:00. Kim and Pak joined the other members of the team in Han’s room for a final cross-check. Designed for two people, it was crowded with nine. Han sat in a chair by the window. Next to the table beside him stood Jo Su Ryeon. Kim sat in a chair on the other side of the table, the remaining six on the bed and floor. This was the final run-through; they had already gone over all the details ad nauseam. The first team, consisting of Han and Jo, would enter the stadium from Gate 3, immediately occupy the broadcasting booth, announce the military seizure of the area, and simultaneously convey the KEF’s demands to the Japanese government. The remaining seven would be divided into three teams. Second-in-command Kim Hak Su and Ri Gwi Hui would enter from Gate 2 and seize the first-base infield seats; Jang Bong Su and Kim Hyang Mok would enter from Gate 4 and cover the third-base infield seats; and Choi Hyo Il, Cho Seong Rae, and Pak Myeong would enter from Gate 8 and take control of all the outfield seats. The stadium had a total of thirty-two exits, and obviously they couldn’t cover them all. Therefore, anyone attempting to leave despite orders to the contrary would be warned with a show of small arms. Anyone disregarding that warning would be shot. Han handed out a transceiver to each of them. It seemed there was some danger of the cellular networks overloading if everyone in the Dome tried to use their phones at once.
The sun was beginning to set. From their rooms they could see the streets of Fukuoka and the sea. Beyond the city, as far as the hills, stretched row upon row of private homes and office buildings. Han was saying that he would signal the withdrawal from the stadium by transceiver. The hostages would then all be released. Were there any questions? Choi was the first to put up his hand: What should be done in the case of mass resistance? Tonight’s Pacific League opening game would attract more than thirty thousand fans. If they took the risk of fighting back, weapons would be useless against them. The scenario was improbable, Han explained, but if this happened, they should retreat and join up with the first team in the broadcasting booth, temporarily holding back the crowds with random machine-gun fire.
