From the Fatherland, with Love, page 48
Cape Changsan was enveloped in fog, the immediate landscape was desolate, and it was easy to lose one’s footing in the strong sea wind. Jo was caught in the rain and drenched to the skin, his boots covered with mud. Though it was summer, the beautiful shoreline was empty, the beach being blocked off by barbed wire. Here and there were signs warning of landmines. He walked along the red dirt road, now as boggy as a rice paddy, until he reached the inn. The sign advertising the restaurant was tilted, its paint was chipped. There were no other guests, and Jo was told that there hadn’t been any in three weeks. The innkeeper poured him a cup of soju from a large crock, saying that it would do him good. While the bathwater was being heated, the rain eased off, and distantly, from somewhere outside, came a husky male voice singing a traditional pansori. The innkeeper told him that the singer had been imprisoned as a partisan in the South during the Liberation War and sent to a POW camp on Jeju Island, later opting to go north when prisoners were exchanged. He was out there in the empty field down the way, the innkeeper said, if Jo was interested in meeting him. Pansori had vanished in the Republic, having been banned long ago, and Jo had never heard anyone actually perform any of the famous old narrative-style songs.
He walked along the muddy, utterly deserted path, following the voice. Out in the open field formed from a flattened hill of reddish soil was what looked like a dilapidated construction shed, and beneath its rotting eaves an old man was sitting on a sofa, singing for a young boy who sat next to him. The old man was dressed in a ragged overcoat, and he twisted and turned as though doing a kind of dance as he chanted a passage from the well-known story of Chun Hyang. It was the sad scene in which Chun Hyang and Mong Ryong symbolically exchange a jeweled ring and a mirror as they part, vowing to meet again: “A pure man’s heart shines like a mirror; a faithful woman’s conviction shines like a jewel.” It was said that performers of pansori trained their voices by singing directly into freezing winds, and the rough poignancy of the man’s voice touched Jo to the quick and seemed to move even the clouds and the tide-scented air. And as he listened, the words of his dying father echoed in his mind, intertwined with the melody: “Write poems that stand side by side with the reader.” At last Jo felt that he understood. Find a way through! That’s what his father had meant. Analyze thoroughly how the reader will interpret what you write. Anticipate what those in power want. Find a way through!
A year later he had composed the revolutionary verse that everyone now knew:
I walk the road to a united land,
Guided by the Guards’ red arrow…
For fifty years and more
We have done without milk and bread…
If he had written of rice and meat soup, he might well have been arrested by State Security agents. In order to make any reference to the food shortages he’d had to resort to items that were foreign to the Republic, so that he was only indirectly addressing the suffering of the Party and the people. And when he entered the State Security Department himself, poetry had, in various senses, provided a way through. Even now, when he wrote poetry, he remembered the desolate landscape of Cape Changsan and the voice of that pansori singer.
“Here we are,” said Hosoda Sakiko. The car had stopped in front of a cheap eatery with a soiled noren curtain at the entrance. It was situated behind the park where they’d seen the boy with the dog and the old woman. Across the way was an unsavory-looking establishment called Mademoiselle. “It’s a bit of a dump, but the gyoza here are delicious,” Hosoda said as she opened the car door and started to get out. “Wait!” said Jo. “I can’t go in there. It’s against regulations.” Still gripping the door handle, the young woman cast her eyes down and was silent. The car was parked snugly against the entrance. Without turning, his hands still on the steering wheel, the middle-aged driver now spoke up, looking at Jo in in the rear-view mirror: “I think this place is all right, sir.” His voice was soft and hesitant. “Forgive me. I know it’s not my place to be putting in an opinion, but… This building is going to be torn down soon. I think Hosoda-san wanted you to see what the old part of town is really like. I won’t move the car. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know right away. And at this time of the day there aren’t likely to be any other customers. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“All right, but only for ten minutes,” Jo said to Hosoda. “In ten minutes, no matter what, we’re going back to the campground.” She clapped her hands together and thanked him, her usual smile returning, then marched inside. Jo and Ri followed, after first making sure no one else was in the alley.
The place was small and cramped, and smelled of garlic and chives. There was a counter with eight or ten stools and a table for two in the corner. A woman with bleached-blonde hair was sitting at the middle of the counter, munching on gyoza and drinking beer. Next to the entrance was a steep, narrow set of stairs leading up to the second floor. A small, thin man behind the counter said, “Saki-chan! Bit early tonight, aren’tcha?” His face paled when he saw Jo come in behind her, followed by Ri; and the bleached blonde jumped to her feet, her mouth still full of food. A middle-aged woman standing beside the small man—his wife, presumably—turned to look, and when she saw Ri, with his sub-machine gun, she tottered and let out a muffled cry. The blonde covered her gaping mouth with her hands, as bits of fried dumpling dribbled out. Ri looked at the stairs, told Jo he’d check the second floor, and started up, still wearing his boots. “Wait!” said Jo, and turned to the proprietor: “Is anyone up there?”
“Nobody right now. Some regulars from a construction company may be here around seven-thirty, and there’s another group with a reservation, but it wouldn’t be any trouble to turn ’em away. I’ll do it now, in fact. Just need to telephone. No problem at all.” His face looked frozen with tension as he reached for the phone. “Don’t worry about it!” Hosoda said, laughing. “We won’t be staying long.” She pulled out stools for Jo and Ri. Jo sat down; Ri didn’t.
A number of shallow iron pans were stacked on a shelf behind the counter. Hosoda greeted the blonde woman, who in a daze was wiping up the mess she’d made. “Wasn’t expectin’ this,” she said. “Ya scared the stuffin’ outta me.” She drained her beer and reached into her silver-colored handbag, removed a long, thin cigarette from a flat case, and tried to light it, a task made difficult by her trembling hands. Holding his sub-machine gun, Ri continued to peer outside, making no move to sit down. “I’m sorry,” Hosoda said to the owner, “but would you mind closing up for about a quarter of an hour? If other customers were to come in now…” They’d be bound to collide with Ri, and any resulting commotion would attract onlookers—and possible trouble. The proprietor nodded at his wife, and she ducked under the counter, went outside, took down the noren, and pulled the plug next to the sign.
“What’s the point of turnin’ off the sign?” she grumbled, coming back. “We get no customers this early in the evenin’ anyway.” She looked toward Ri, who was standing in front of the curtain cord. He moved aside, realizing that she wanted to close the curtain, but she was apparently intimidated by the gun and remained motionless, so he closed it for her. She thanked him, and he bowed in return. “Could you make us six helpings right away?” Hosoda asked the proprietor. “And three more to take home to Granny.” She beckoned to Ri to sit down, but he only nodded, remaining as vigilant as ever, staring out through the narrow gap he’d left in the curtains. The wife kneaded and stuffed the dough, while the husband began frying the morsels, which were no larger than an adult’s little finger. He laid them in the skillet, then added a dash of water and covered it with a wooden lid. As the pork dumplings sizzled, the room filled with a mouth-watering aroma.
After first explaining to Hosoda how traditional funeral customs in Korea differ from those in Japan, Jo asked her how she thought Fukuokans would react to burial. Before offering her own opinion, she turned to the proprietor. Sweat was dripping off his forehead as he stood by the fire watching over the dumplings. “So,” he said, “in Korea, ya bury ’em just like that, do ya?” Cooking oil had left brown stains on his white apron. “As long as ya take care with where ya do the buryin’, I don’t suppose it matters much.” He then turned to his wife standing beside him: “What d’ya think?” She shook her head and didn’t reply. It took her about two seconds to work the meat into the dough with a spoon and fold the little packet that would go into the pan. “I guess she don’t know,” her husband said. “That’s right,” she said. “I dunno nothin’ about that. But it seems to me that if a body dies and isn’t buried in keepin’ with his country’s ways, he can’t very well get to heaven.” Her hands did not stop moving as she spoke.
“You have your answer there, don’t you?” Hosoda said. She took out three sets of wooden chopsticks from the stand, removed their paper wrappings, and broke them apart. One pair she gave to Jo. “I’m putting your chopsticks here,” she said to Ri, and began mixing some sauce for the dumplings. Ri remained where he was but nodded, saying in Korean: “Kamsa-hamnida.” Even he couldn’t help glancing at the fragrant steam that billowed from the skillet. “You say I have my answer,” said Jo, “but what is it?” Hosoda was pouring a mixture of soy sauce, vinegar, and a reddish oil into three small bowls. “The issue may not be burial itself but rather where it’s done,” she said, still holding the bottle of oil. “There are a surprising number of shrines and temples in this town, and people probably wouldn’t like the idea of your men being buried on sacred ground. But my guess is that anywhere else would be fine—except residential areas, of course. It might be a good idea to pay a courtesy call on the nearest shrine or temple before you do anything, though.”
With a swooshing sound, a pan of gyoza was set before them. “It’s very hot, so don’t be touchin’ it,” said the proprietor, wiping his forehead. Hosoda ordered a bottle of Kirin beer, poured a glass for Jo, and urged Ri to join them, but he again shook his head. The bite-size dumplings were fried to a crisp. Jo had eaten dumplings before, steamed or in soup, but this was the first time he’d eaten them fried. “How is it?” Hosoda asked, as the proprietor and his wife looked on expectantly. “Very good,” he replied. He drank some beer but stopped at half a glass. He was glad that he’d decided to pose his question to her. The municipal workers would only have said what they thought the KEF wanted to hear, and he’d never have been able to elicit the opinion that the temples and shrines in the vicinity should be advised. When he returned to headquarters tonight, he would have to prepare a report. He’d also need to decide on a burial site. As for talking to the local clergy, he thought he could handle that himself, without involving his superiors.
The proprietor turned a switch on a wall control panel, and the room was filled with music. Jo took it to be jazz. American music was banned at home, but he had often heard it as part of his research into enemy culture. To him it was sloppily arrhythmic. The combination of trumpet, saxophone, bass, and drums was turgid; and the voice of the singer on this tune had a rasping quality. He looked at Hosoda beside him, wondering whether she liked this kind of music, but her face was hidden by her hair, from which came a faint scent of fruit or flowers. “You’d be so nice to come home to,” the vocalist sang. Performers in the Republic (he was thinking of the Pochonbo Electronic Ensemble, for example) invariably had clear voices. Could the huskiness of this jazz singer’s voice be regarded as a bit decadent? There had been a similar quality to the voice of the pansori singer he’d heard on Cape Changsan. He could make out the words “Under an August moon burnin’ above… ” It was a love song. A possible line for a poem took shape in Jo’s mind: Her voice, like a hungry caress, leaves a sweet wound on my heart. He immediately rejected it, however, as too direct and simple.
When the song ended and an instrumental piece came on, Jo happened to look up at the proprietor, who was staring at Hosoda with a puzzled frown. Her head was down, her shoulders quivering. Jo hadn’t noticed because he was sitting right next to her. “Saki-chan,” the proprietor said in a worried tone. She slowly stood up and turned to Jo. Tears were running down her pale cheeks. What could be wrong with her? She took a deep breath and then, astonishingly, sank to her knees on the wet concrete floor. The blonde woman had been applying lipstick but now froze; the proprietor and his wife too looked on dumbfounded; and even Ri gasped as he eyed the kneeling figure, her hands pressed together as if begging for mercy
“Please don’t kill any more people in Fukuoka! I have no idea what’s going to happen from now on, but, please… don’t kill or hurt or torture anybody… People here are far from perfect, but there’s a good side to them too. And they’re terrified. Believe me, we’re all scared to death! Please. Spare the lives of the people in Fukuoka—and Saga, Nagasaki, Kumamoto… Don’t kill anyone in Kyushu. A lot of us hate Tokyo, but we don’t want you to hurt anyone there either. Please don’t kill us Japanese.” The proprietor came out from behind the counter and, together with the blonde woman, helped her to her feet. Ri was still looking at her in bewilderment. Jo’s immediate reaction was: So that’s why she brought me here. He felt a mixture of anger and disappointment. At the same time, he couldn’t help thinking that nobody else had dared to confront him or his comrades in this way. In the presence of armed soldiers, no Japanese official from either the central or local governments had ever said this sort of thing. Only her…
Ri motioned to Jo that it was time to leave. Hosoda was standing up now. Her knees and the hem of her dress were grubby, her face still wet with tears, as she attempted a broken apology. Jo didn’t know how to react. He paid the bill, and the three left the restaurant. No one was on the street. The driver got out and started to open the front door on the passenger side, but Jo stopped him and performed the task himself, allowing Hosoda to get in. The proprietor, his wife, and the blonde woman came out, looking on anxiously. Suddenly remembering something, the man ducked back inside and reemerged holding a plastic bag, which he shoved through the open window: the dumplings Hosoda had ordered for her grandmother. Jo took the package and handed it to her. She tried to thank him, but all that came out was a garbled sob.
Once they’d left Nakasu and were heading west on the Kokutai Road, traffic thinned out and the car picked up speed. No one spoke. Hosoda sat with her head bowed. Jo was still contending with a mixture of resentment and exasperation. “How many Koreans did Japanese policemen and soldiers torture and kill during the colonial period?” he wanted to shout at her. “Don’t you know what you Japanese did to us? Ask any Korean!” It was partly disappointment too, that she’d chosen this occasion to make a scene, just when he’d begun to enjoy the food and beer and light conversation. The proprietor had been friendly, and his wife might easily have been a Korean omoni, simple and straightforward. Hosoda had ruined it. We’re all scared to death of you and the KEF! The only reason she’d taken them there was to tell him that.
They were now approaching Jigyohama. As Checkpoint C came into view, Hosoda said “Could you let me out here?” Jo checked with Ri before agreeing. When the car pulled up in front of a gasoline station, she slowly opened the door. “There’s something I want to tell you,” she said, and stepped outside. The driver looked at Jo in the rear-view mirror, waiting for further instructions. Should he have him drive off, or should he get out and talk to her? Reminding himself that he was still going to need her cooperation, he got out of the car. Hosoda was standing in the shadow of the large sign of a scallop shell. She had her back to the car, her hands clasped behind her holding the sack of dumplings and her handbag. At the sound of the door slamming shut, she turned around and came toward Jo, her eyes cast down. There was nobody else on the street, no other cars. The gasoline station had already closed and was now likewise deserted.
“I’m so sorry that I lost it like that,” she said. Her large eyes were moist. The sea breeze was gently playing with her dark hair. Her white checks were stained with tears, and the bottom of her white dress was smudged. “I didn’t intend to say what I did,” she continued, dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief. “But when I think about what’s in store for Fukuoka, for my family, I can’t even sleep. I guess I let my feelings get the better of me. I suppose it was childish of me to turn to you, but who else could I talk to?” Jo didn’t know what to say, though part of him felt that there were many things he wanted to tell her. His anger had vanished without a trace. In its place was a painful, choking feeling. If only he could keep this woman at his side for good…
“I have to ask you directly,” she said, anxiety showing on her face. “Will we meet again tomorrow?”
She was staring earnestly at him. Her worried look and slender figure made her seem so helpless that he felt the urge to take her by the shoulders and embrace her. He could scarcely breathe; his throat was dry. All he could do was nod again and again. He coughed and was about to say “Sayonara,” when Hosoda dropped her dumplings and handbag onto the pavement, put her hands around his neck, and kissed him. She then whispered in his ear: “I’m so glad.” Her lips were cool and soft, the sensation was overwhelming. Jo thought for a moment that he would lose his head completely. Hosoda drew back and picked up her things. “Till tomorrow then,” she said. With a wave of her hand she turned, her back now to the campground, and quickly walked away.
