From the Fatherland, with Love, page 49
Jo lingered for a moment watching her go. Before returning to the car, he wiped his lips, but the sensation remained, as though it were seeping into him. He thought about her question: she hadn’t said “Can I meet you?” or “Do you mind meeting me?” but “Will we—will you and I—meet?” It was a way of speaking he wasn’t used to. Inside the car, he saw the driver staring at him in the mirror. He realized they weren’t yet moving. “Take us to headquarters,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Yes, sir,” the driver replied and started up the engine. Jo’s pulse was still erratic; the small pistol in his jacket pocket moved with every thump of his heart. As they passed Checkpoint C, Ri shifted his sub-machine gun and relaxed. Had he seen them kiss? Jo wondered about it but knew he could scarcely ask. Ri asked permission to smoke, then patted open his pack of Seven Stars, extracted a cigarette, and, after tapping the filter end against his left thumb, offered one to Jo. “She really looks like Ryu Hwa Mi, doesn’t she?” he said, an impish grin on his face.
Ri was giving him a light when his phone rang. “What’s going on there?” It was Ri Hui Cheol, speaking in a grim tone of voice. “We’ll be with you shortly,” Jo told him, exhaling smoke. There had been an incident, the deputy commander said, and quickly briefed him. When he hung up, Ri looked at him anxiously. Jo turned his eyes toward the campground. Engineers had set up two wooden posts next to the assembly area. When Ri saw this, he immediately stubbed out his cigarette, the color draining from his face. “An execution?” he asked. There could be no other explanation for the stakes; any soldier in the Republic would recognize their purpose.
Apparently, Corporal Song Jin Pal had beaten Sergeant Rim Cheong Gye at cards and won the watch that Rim had been issued. Rim then got himself drunk on some whiskey supplied by a Japanese retailer and tried to retrieve the watch by sneaking into Song’s tent, together with an accomplice, Corporal Jo Chun Rae, also of the engineer corps. It seemed that Rim had wanted to make a present of the thing to his older brother, who was with the main force, the scheduled arrival of which happened to coincide with his birthday. Song had discovered the two rummaging about in his tent and threatened to go to the Special Police. They had then held him down and stabbed him with a bayonet that lay at hand. On the orders of an army doctor, the seriously wounded corporal had been taken to the Kyushu Medical Center. A summary court martial was convened, and the two culprits were sentenced to death by firing squad. The execution would serve to tighten army discipline and instill a certain fear in the local population. The men would be shot at sunset the next day.
Jo crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. A court-martial decision was irreversible. The sensation left by Hosoda Sakiko’s kiss was fading away, and the severity of the Republic’s rule was reasserting itself. This severity would become even more evident once the main troops arrived. The cracks in his defensive walls were widening, revealing the outline of something that couldn’t be seen from within the Republic. The car was approaching the hotel entrance. As soon as he got back, he would probably have to prepare a written statement for the local television and newspaper media. This would be sent out only after the execution, to avoid the potential nuisance of civilian onlookers, and would explain that violations of military discipline must be met with swift and unyielding justice. The mood of the campground was noticeably subdued as they passed. Executions always brought home to the troops the sobering thought that they might be next.
Decadence, thought Jo, had nothing to do with desire for a woman. Decadence wasn’t anything seductive. Long ago, his father had told him a Western story about two children who searched everywhere for the “bluebird of happiness” to no avail, only to find on their return that the feathers of the caged bird in their own home were blue. Jo had searched long and hard for the meaning of “decadence.” But it now dawned on him that it was right here, in front of his nose. True decadence wasn’t anything carnal; it was about sacrificing the powerless minority for the sake of the majority. He remembered the Arirang festival. It occurred to him that the games were nothing other than an immense celebration of the majority, and the legitimacy of power. The festival didn’t lack decadence after all—it was decadence itself, on a colossal scale. In a mighty river, one searches in vain for pools or drops of water. An execution witnessed by the entire military assembly would be an unpleasant business, but it was almost certainly a necessity. The measures taken by headquarters were not mistaken. Political principle and administrative rule implicitly called for procedures and instruments for sacrificing the weak. As long as the masses, the military, and the nation were in a state of equilibrium, these instruments could remain dormant and inconspicuous. But in times of crisis, they were employed to the full; those in the minority were sacrificed, and everyone began scrambling desperately to avoid being included among them. And in that instant, decadence showed itself for what it was.
The car pulled up to the entrance. Jo erased the sensation of Hosoda Sakiko’s tender kiss before making his way toward headquarters.
8
THE EXECUTION
April 9, 2011
DR. KURODA GENJI had just finished the morning ward round. Stepping out into the linoleum-floored corridor, he felt a sudden craving for some Hawks Town ramen. He always ordered the noodles in a thick soup made from pork-bone stock, complete with lard floating on top and a dollop of garlic paste. The stuff didn’t really taste all that great, but now and then he got an irrational craving for it. Now aged fifty, Kuroda worked in the department of respiratory medicine at the National Kyushu Medical Center. Many of the patients at this hospital suffered from intractable or terminal illnesses, and those with problems in their bronchial tubes and lungs, even when still quite young, were emaciated in appearance. Perhaps his taste for those thick, juicy noodles came from examining such patients day in day out.
In any case, it wasn’t possible—the gaudy neon lights of Hawks Town were still off, and the ramen shop wasn’t open. He hadn’t been to the mall since the start of the occupation, but he’d heard that although some of the traders selling clothes, shoes, and medicine were doing business with the KEF, all the eateries there had closed down. They probably had little choice, since they were unlikely to get any customers: the soldiers cooked for themselves, and none of the locals would want to eat out in the occupied area. Late last night a Speed Tribe gang had driven their cars and bikes around the camp waving KEF flags and yelling in broken Korean that they wanted to enlist, and there had been a bit of a ruckus when KEF sentries fired warning shots. But nowadays it was only idiots like that who had the nerve to take any kind of action.
Kuroda shook his head, as if to banish all thoughts of ramen, and walked toward the elevator. He’d grab lunch in the cafeteria instead. Several people were in the elevator hall—a patient wheeling a drip stand, several members of his family, a nurse… and Dr. Seragi. Kuroda quickly turned and tried to retreat, but he’d already been spotted. “Hey, Kuroda! You had lunch?” the older man called out. Resigned to the inevitable, Kuroda walked over and got into the elevator with him. Seragi Katsuhiko was an honorary consultant at the hospital, and a national authority on clinical immunology. This year he would be eighty-three. He was something of a maverick, having distanced himself from the Medical Association, and being from Tokyo he wasn’t part of the Kyushu University clique either. This made him popular with the younger doctors, and also with the residents and trainees. Under the healthcare reforms of recent years, the power of the Medical Association and the university department of medicine had clearly begun to wane. Also, all general hospitals, public and private, needed at least one well-known and respected figure in order to attract the best doctors. This was partly why Seragi was still working at his advanced age.
“How are the wife and daughters?” Seragi asked in the elevator. “I guess they’re doing okay,” Kuroda told him. Kuroda’s wife had been a nurse, and was a close friend of Seragi’s second daughter, an ophthalmologist. Three or four times a year, the latter’s family would get together with the Kurodas for a Chinese meal at a hotel in Tenjin. Seragi himself hadn’t joined them initially, but after his wife died a couple of years ago they’d invited him along, thinking he must be lonely. They had all been surprised by the alacrity with which he’d accepted. He ended up talking and eating more than anyone, and from then on he had dominated the gatherings. He acted as if it were all about him.
Seragi led the medical world in the field of autoimmune diseases. He’d been a champion of healthcare reform, and when public and private practices had been merged into the so-called dual healthcare system, he had held out for independent inspections of medical facilities, which in the end he obtained. Seragi was an excellent doctor, and Kuroda had a lot of respect for him, but he could be exhausting to be with. He was of average size and at first glance looked fairly mild-mannered—if you ignored that unsettling glint in his eye. There probably wasn’t anyone in the Center capable of standing up to him, and when he lost his temper not even the CEO could cope. Kuroda followed him into the cafeteria, thinking ruefully that he’d just wanted to eat lunch alone and in peace. The ramen shop had been perfect for avoiding precisely this sort of situation. The cafeteria was divided into separate areas for staff and visitors, but the menu was the same. As Seragi walked in, a number of doctors and other staff rose to their feet to greet him, and he smiled and nodded, gesturing that they should sit down. Kuroda chose the set meal A, while Seragi placed on his own tray a dish of tofu and rice and a bowl of udon noodles with egg, and headed for a vacant table by the wall. To their right was a small atrium, built to allow in light, but today was cloudy and rather dark.
The tables and chairs were made of fragrant unvarnished wood, and the tablecloths were cotton, with yellow and white checks. Until four years ago, there had been cheap plywood tables and metal folding chairs. When the dual healthcare system was introduced, however, a budget was made available to improve the eating arrangements. Kuroda’s set meal consisted of tuna salad, grilled chicken, some stewed vegetables, vegetable soup, and rice. “Is that the one for high blood pressure?” asked Seragi, and Kuroda nodded. The tuna was the type preserved in brine, not oil, and the grilled chicken was skinless breast meat, while the stewed vegetable dish contained sweet potato and apple, flavored with lemon. With a steadily aging society, the focus now was on comprehensive medical care aimed at improving lifestyle habits, including diet, and for the past few years, three dieticians had been assigned to the cafeteria. Various menus had been put together to protect people—patients and doctors alike—against high blood pressure, heart disease, and diabetes. Kuroda did wonder, though, whether it was really necessary to make even the young resident and trainee doctors eat things like tasteless, fat-free tofu burgers. Everyone was tempted by some fatty ramen now and then.
Seragi took a mouthful of tofu, his gaze fixed on one of the televisions placed in each corner of the room. The NHK lunchtime news broadcast had been extended and a news anchor, his hair neatly parted on one side, was saying that the ships were setting sail from North Korea. “Each of these dots represents a ship,” he said, pointing at a US military satellite photograph. Anyone would have thought the world was about to end from the expression on his face. Still looking at the screen, Seragi rummaged in the pocket of his white coat and brought out a small Tupperware box. Using his chopsticks, he scooped out some green paste and added it to his noodles. “It’s from Saga, made from the rind of fresh yuzu and green chilies. Want some?” Kuroda shook his head. Yuzu pepper paste didn’t go well with tuna salad and grilled chicken.
Everyone was watching the report impassively as they ate their rather bland meals. According to the satellite picture, ships of varying sizes had first left the four major ports of Rajin, Chongjin, Kimchaek, and Wonsan, and it had been confirmed that others subsequently departed from Tanchon, Ranam, Kyongsong, Riwon, and Sinpo. It was a large fleet with well over four hundred vessels, and it would take some time to close ranks once all the ships had left their respective ports. There were antique-looking Soho-and Rajin-class frigates, Sariwon-and Tral-class corvettes, Taechong offshore-patrol vessels, plus assorted missile boats, all of which had their decks crammed with soldiers. Transport ships, freighters, and even large converted fishing boats also appeared to have been mobilized. In two days’ time, on the morning of the eleventh, they would reach Japan’s exclusive economic zone, and by midday they’d cross into Japanese territorial waters. As the news sank in, a hush fell over the cafeteria. There probably wasn’t a single person in Fukuoka who wasn’t apprehensive about what was going to happen now. Kuroda himself was relying more and more on sleeping pills. Once he started thinking about all those extra troops and what might happen to his two daughters and ailing mother, he just couldn’t get to sleep. This wasn’t the sort of issue about which you could pretend it would all work out somehow. The apparent calm here in the cafeteria wasn’t the result of anxiety and fear shutting down the thought processes; but neither was it because these people were taking the crisis lightly, or thinking that as medical doctors they weren’t likely to be arrested or shot.
Once the KEF had been reinforced with an additional hundred and twenty thousand armed troops, they would probably begin to crack down harder. Things might get very nasty indeed. But what could anyone here do? It wasn’t even possible to escape, with the government blockade still in place. All they could do was get on with the job as usual. The patients couldn’t wait. Yesterday there had been an incident in the KEF camp, and a soldier had been brought in with a serious stomach wound. A KEF army doctor and an officer with good spoken Japanese brought the man but didn’t come inside the hospital; they pulled up to the guards’ station near the entrance and asked to see someone in charge. It had been decided to send Kuroda, who just happened to be in the waiting area by the main reception.
He interacted with KEF guards every day when he came to work, and wasn’t particularly nervous about this. Both the doctor and the officer translating for him were exceptionally polite. They asked if the wounded man could be operated on here, since they lacked proper facilities themselves. Kuroda immediately contacted the emergency room, and the soldier was put on a stretcher and taken straight into ER, just as any Japanese would be. Kuroda had seen the surgeon this morning, who told him matter-of-factly: “The damage to the kidneys was the worst part. He’s in Recovery now, but he won’t ever be a soldier again.”
The TV was now showing a press conference with the Chief Cabinet Secretary, deputizing for the Prime Minister, who was apparently in an emergency Cabinet session and unable to appear before the media. Chief Cabinet Secretary Shigemitsu strongly censured North Korea for allowing the fleet to leave port, and kept repeating that the ships would not be allowed to enter Japanese territorial waters. “Does that mean they’ll be attacked if they try?” asked a reporter, to which Shigemitsu replied in typically evasive fashion: “That would be a last resort.” The coastguard and Maritime SDF had already dispatched ships to the boundary line, and fighter planes were ready to scramble at a moment’s notice. Another journalist wanted to know whether the US forces in Japan would be asked to lend support. It was an odd question coming from a major newspaper known for being anti-American, but Shigemitsu ducked it by saying that this wasn’t a simple act of aggression. “A hundred and twenty thousand foreign troops have set sail for Fukuoka, and you’re saying that’s not an act of aggression?” asked the reporter sharply. “The US State Department has described them as armed refugees,” Shigemitsu replied in a much louder voice than usual. That meant that the US government didn’t consider the KEF an invasion force.
A few days earlier, Kuroda had read up on the US-Japan security treaty. He’d never had much interest in international politics or economics, and aside from the occasional mystery novel when he was on an international flight, he never read anything other than specialist papers in his own field. He read the treaty carefully, all the while thinking he would never have done this if it weren’t for these KEF characters showing up. The full title was “Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security between the United States and Japan,” and he read it carefully. He also pored over the Japan-US defense cooperation guidelines, issued toward the end of the Nineties. Nowhere in either of these documents was it written that if Japan came under attack the US forces based here would automatically counterattack. He’d been surprised at first, but then realized that of course you couldn’t just take military action on another country’s sovereign territory unless that country asked you to, even if you were allies. The cooperation guidelines stated that in the event of Japan coming under armed attack and acting independently to resist it as quickly as possible, the US would lend appropriate assistance. Any sovereign nation in these circumstances would obviously take independent action—and yet the Japanese government still hadn’t made any demands of the KEF, at least not publicly. In fact, all they had done was dispatch an SAT unit, resulting in almost a hundred casualties, most of them civilians.
There had been a cross-party call to allow the immediate transport of medical supplies to Kyushu after a patient at a private general hospital in Saga had died from urinary poisoning due to insufficient dialysis fluid. Even in Fukuoka they were running short of dialysis fluid, not to mention blood for transfusions, antibacterial drugs for surgery, disinfectant, insulin, anesthetics, and so on. But it was a medical NPO based in Kobe, not the government, that got things moving. The government recognized the need to get the distribution of medical supplies up and running again, but they refused to negotiate with the KEF. The NPO had therefore chartered seven trucks and filled them with medicines, intending to drive to Fukuoka and negotiate directly with the KEF, who issued a statement saying that they had no intention of obstructing or preventing any nongovernmental vehicles or airplanes distributing medical supplies—or any other goods, for that matter. However, the SDF soldiers manning the blockade at the entrance to the Kanmon undersea tunnel were shown on TV stopping the trucks from crossing into Kyushu. The resulting barrage of criticism at home and abroad eventually forced the government to allow the transportation of medical supplies there, but even after this incident they still had no means of directly negotiating with the KEF.
