From the Fatherland, with Love, page 51
“The corporal you so kindly treated yesterday was stabbed in the stomach by two men who were trying to kill him. They will be executed this evening,” Pak added, jerking his chin at the two stakes. This time Kuroda clearly heard the word “executed.” As it sank in, the image of blindfolded men bound to stakes floated into his mind. His heart started pounding. Now that he thought about it, the posts were just tall enough to accommodate a man’s full height. The army doctor, Heo Jip, had twisted his body around in the front passenger seat and was watching him, as if to check his reaction. It had been a mistake to think he was immune to the KEF just because he passed through the checkpoint every day on his way to work, occasionally chatting in broken Japanese with the men on guard. It was similar to enjoying a conversation with a yakuza in a bar. Chatting with a gangster about women or golf in a public place was not the same as being summoned to his office because he had something he wanted to discuss with you. Pak was also staring at Kuroda, evidently keen to see how he reacted.
“By execution you mean—” The young officer answered the question before Kuroda finished it: “Firing squad.” Kuroda had heard on a talk show several years earlier that executions in North Korea were made public in order to serve as warnings to others. And those two posts were right out in the open. The hospital’s north-facing windows and balconies overlooked the KEF camp, and the upper floors, particularly from the fifth to the tenth, had wards for seriously and terminally ill patients. What effect would witnessing an execution have on patients with, say, a heart condition?
Kuroda was about to ask whether the execution was going to be made public, but stopped himself. He suddenly felt afraid that the question might cause offense and result in his being locked up, too. These guys were quite capable of it. Until you’d seen them at close quarters, there was no way you could understand the fear they inspired. He was already regretting having come along with them—but what if he’d refused? This, he supposed, was what it was like to be controlled by violence. When you’re under threat of violence, there are no options; your own wishes and judgment are suspended. It’s only when people lose something that they realize how important it was to them. Kuroda felt trapped. It was a feeling he’d never had before, as if his limbs and torso were slowly shrinking. He no longer cared whether the execution was in public or not.
At Checkpoint A, instead of making a U-turn, the car turned right and headed for the tour-party entrance. Heo said something to the driver, who pointed ahead and nodded. Pak put the documents he was carrying into an attaché case. It seemed they were about to arrive. But where the hell were they going? Kuroda had heard that the City Hall staff usually entered via the fourth-floor front lobby, on the Dome side. The entrance to the banquet halls was on the first floor on the opposite side, overlooking the sea, with an underground parking lot down below. It was there on level B2 that the arrested were apparently being held. Seragi had teased him that he’d be arrested himself, but maybe he really was being taken to the detention center.
It was rumored that people had been investigated online. This was a frequent topic among colleagues out drinking together: how the targets were the type who traveled first class on trips abroad and owned holiday homes, yachts, or cruisers, or who were members of exclusive fitness clubs, or owned expensive art objects, or kept secret assets—as well as those who led lifestyles of questionable social morality. Kuroda himself, come to think of it, had flown first class to Hawaii a couple of times, when a travel agent acquaintance had let him know about some special offers. And he co-owned with a couple of fellow doctors a small boat in a marina in Omura Bay. He was also member of a fairly expensive sports club. And he possessed several pieces of Arita porcelain from the Gen-emon and Kakiemon kilns. Then there was that bank account he kept secret from his wife, with a deposit of around 720,000 yen as an entertainment fund—and the hostess from a club in Nakasu he’d had an affair with some fifteen years ago. Kuroda’s insides began to churn. His throat, chest, and belly felt constricted, and he could feel himself sweating at the temples and armpits. Pak peered at him and asked, “Is something the matter?” Heo also turned to look at him. The car passed the tour-group entrance, then the parking-lot entrance, and continued along the road around the hotel, finally pulling up outside the first-floor banquet halls.
The driver got out and opened the door for him, but Kuroda turned to Pak and in a trembling voice asked, “Am I under arrest?” The Korean gaped at him for a moment, then translated for Heo Jip, whereupon the two of them burst out laughing. “Why on earth would we be arresting you, Dr. Kuroda? Please, go ahead.” Pak indicated the open door and shook his head, still chuckling. “But why didn’t you use the main entrance?” asked Kuroda as he got out of the car. Pak translated this for his colleague, who looked down for a moment before apparently telling him to explain. “The front lobby is closed,” said Pak. “And so are all the floors above it. We have moved our command center here, to the first floor. Three soldiers have fallen ill with a rash, fever, and nausea, and we want you to examine them. Also, we have been infested with insects. We are worried about the possibility of contagion.”
As they passed through the door into the banquet lobby, a pungent odor of disinfectant made Kuroda’s throat and eyes sting. It was probably isopropanol, which was said to be a skin irritant and was hardly ever used in Japan now. He asked Pak about it and was told that a local fumigation man had done the job for them. Apparently the fellow had a whole load of stuff in storage that he didn’t know what to do with, and let them have it for virtually nothing.
The senior officer Kuroda had often seen on TV was there to meet him in the spacious lobby. He was smiling pleasantly, but with a solid build suited to rugby or judo and one ear reduced to a burn scar, his presence was intimidating. Taking Kuroda’s hand in a strong grip, he greeted him in Japanese and gave his name as Han Seung Jin, commander of the Koryo Expeditionary Force. Together with Pak and Heo they sat down on comfortable chairs in one corner of the lobby, and a woman soldier brought them some tea. Kuroda began to calm down. As soon as they were seated, the three North Koreans lit up cigarettes. They didn’t seem at all bothered by the disinfectant. Pak savored the smoke as he exhaled, and then said something to his commanding officer. Han roared with laughter, before saying, “Ah, Dr. Kuroda. Arresting you is the last thing on our mind!” He leaned forward and clapped him lightly on the shoulder with one hand. “We summoned you here because we need your expertise.”
The commander’s Japanese, including his choice of words, pronunciation, and intonation, was excellent. Kuroda gave an embarrassed laugh, shaking his head. But he knew he mustn’t let his guard down with this lot, however friendly they might seem. Along with the tea there was a plate piled with some kind of Korean sweets. They were round and flat, with alternate swirls of white and black sesame. Pressed to try them, he took one to calm his nerves. It was delicious. Here he was, being cordially entertained—all but pampered—by the top leadership of the KEF, but that didn’t mean anything had changed. He must remain alert. These people were treating him like this because he was useful to them, that was all. If he ceased to be useful, no more sweets; and if he ever posed any threat, they would simply eliminate him.
A red carpet led from the lobby, made a right-angled turn to the left, and continued along the grand foyer. At the corner was a series of rooms, each named after a tree: Katsura, Elm, Laurel, Maple, Oak. The double doors of the Oak Room were wide open, and Kuroda could see three bodies laid out inside, each covered with a yellowish-white cloth and tightly bound with a cord of the same color. Flowers had been laid around them. They were the KEF casualties from Ohori Park, he was told. Their burial had been scheduled for this evening, but it was now postponed until tomorrow morning, so as not to coincide with the execution.
On either side of the foyer was a large ballroom. KEF officers, armed soldiers, and some of the City Hall staff were coming and going between the two. These must constitute the command center that Pak had said was moved from the third floor. “Well, shall we get going? I’ll show you around.” Han, the commander, stubbed out his cigarette, straightened the collar of his khaki uniform, and stood up. Pak led the way, with Kuroda following and Heo and Han bringing up the rear. Pak was tall but slim, with narrow shoulders, while Heo was short and had a slight stoop. They got on the escalator by the cloakroom and went down to level B1. “The criminals are on the next floor down,” the commander told Kuroda, again clapping him on the shoulder.
“When the main force arrives, they will be transferred to our new facilities,” explained Pak, stopping before the glass door to the level B1 parking lot. “We recognize that they also have human rights, so—well, the level B2 facilities are not too bad, but sooner or later we’ll probably have a visit from UN Security Council inspectors. It’s quite possible they’ll say it’s inhumane to keep them locked up underground, or something of the sort.” Kuroda wondered if a team of UN inspectors really would come to Fukuoka. And if they judged that the KEF posed no threat to the international community, would that legitimize the occupation? “Dr. Kuroda,” said Han, resting a hand on his shoulder. Perhaps in North Korea body language like this was a way to put a visitor or a subordinate at ease. “China has already approached us independently.”
Kuroda thought he’d never seen a military uniform so suit a man before. The visor of his khaki cap was topped with gold braid, the narrow collar of his starched white shirt was complemented by a narrow, deep red tie, and rows of medal ribbons lay across his left breast. His crisp, angular silhouette in the snugly fitting uniform made Kuroda feel quite inadequate in his own white coat. He had been about to take it off before getting into the car, but Pak had told him he was fine as he was. His ID was still hanging around his neck, too. The commander was a little taller than him. His tone was conversational, and he was smiling, his hand still on Kuroda’s shoulder. Kuroda vaguely recalled seeing footage of Kim Il Sung at an award ceremony—or maybe it was Kim Jong Il—putting his hand on a child’s shoulder and smiling benignly, in much the same way.
“You know, Dr. Kuroda, business in China has really been disrupted by your government’s blockade. Korea has been affected too, but it’s worse for China, and they want to resume trade as soon as possible. When the fleet arrives, we intend to hold talks with Fukuoka City about opening the port and airport. We believe that once our main force is here, China will reopen its consulate.” Standing there nodding his fat head, with the commander’s hand on his shoulder, Kuroda felt ashamed of himself. If the fleet was allowed to dock, and if trade with China was independently reopened and UN inspectors gave their stamp of approval, no matter what the government said and whether or not independence was declared, Kyushu might be irrevocably cut off from the rest of Japan.
Pak pushed the glass door open and gave a shout. Inside a small janitor’s office beside the parking-lot elevator hall sat a woman medic, going over some documents. The lot itself contained a couple of abandoned buses and three or four cars that had probably belonged to tourists or fans attending the season opener. When Pak barked at her, the medic bounced up from her chair and hurried over, apologizing. She was wearing a white mask, and she handed all four of them masks of their own, as well as latex gloves and plastic shoe covers. Over her uniform she was wearing a white smock that was more like an apron, and though her face was barely visible beneath her cap and mask, her eyes and forehead suggested she was still in her late twenties—and a doctor, Kuroda decided. Women doctors and pharmacists had a distinctive air, probably because, much more than their male counterparts, they had to sacrifice their youth to intense study. She must have been fairly high-ranking to have been put in charge of this isolation facility, yet she stood at attention when answering questions from Heo, while the men acted almost as if she weren’t there, not even introducing her to Kuroda.
Having put on the protective gear, they entered the parking lot. It was in semi-darkness, illuminated by just one strip of fluorescent lighting. Kuroda felt calmer in the knowledge that the medical examinations were about to begin and he would be able to concentrate on the patients. One of the buses had been turned into a sick bay. Its doors were sealed with plastic sheets and masking tape, and a stepladder stood alongside it. With Pak holding the ladder steady for him, Kuroda was invited to have a look through the window. Some of the seating had been removed and a row of cots set up in its place. The patients lay curled up in blankets, their arms and legs held in tightly, their breathing shallow. Kuroda couldn’t tell their age through the glass. There was little in the way of medical equipment—not even any IV drips or catheters. What did they do to relieve themselves? There was a toilet in the corner of the parking lot, but were they made to walk that far? When he asked, the woman doctor answered directly in halting Japanese, “Me… I do it.” Apparently they were using disposable diapers. The soiled items and any soiled clothing and sheets were placed in plastic bags and taken outside, where they were burned. For the moment it seemed they were focusing on isolation and hadn’t yet given any positive consideration to treatment.
They opened the door of the bus and passed one by one under the thick plastic curtain. Pak remained outside. It was hot in there, the air heavy with fever. There was no ventilation, but he was told that now and then they turned on the engine to run the air conditioning. Six cots had been lined up in the small space at the center of the bus, and the seats that had been removed were piled up at the back. “We now have three here, but it will be more if… contagious,” said the woman medic. The patient in the bed nearest them, a soldier with a shaven head in his mid to late twenties, was lying on his side. He wore a hotel bathrobe over his T-shirt and diapers, and his right arm had been covered in gauze and bandaged. Beside his cot was a long, narrow table spread with hotel bath towels on which had been laid out a kidney tray and stethoscope, tweezers and gauze, nursing diapers, a plastic washbowl, tissue paper, bandages, oilpaper, wooden spatulas, a flashlight, and some bottled water. There was also a thermometer and an ultrasonic sterilizer. The latter had been donated by a local home appliances company but was sitting there unused, for want of an electricity supply.
The medical supplies included Isodine antiseptic, alcohol disinfectant, a gray ointment labeled in Hangul, some antibiotic capsules—probably ampicillin—and a white powder in a bottle. The woman doctor told him the latter was hydrochloric acid ephedrine, a medicine mostly used in cases of bronchial asthma and administered to prevent airborne infection caused by coughing. Kuroda commented that it was dangerous to give it to patients with a fever because of its strong side effects, but Heo shouted through his mask, and the woman doctor translated: “Yes, we know that. It is only for emergency.” Kuroda asked her to take the patient’s temperature, while he himself checked his breathing: sixteen breaths in thirty seconds, and shallow. However, there was no discoloration of the hands and feet, and no typical indicators of a respiratory disease. The man’s temperature was 39.4 degrees. When he asked whether the fever was constant or varied periodically, the woman took out her notes and answered that it had been high since the onset of the illness. On being questioned, Heo told him that the patient was bandaged due to an ulcerative rash. The man in the next cot down was bandaged from the ankles to the knees, and the one beyond him had gauze on his neck and chest, and both arms were bandaged.
Kuroda had the woman remove the bandages from the first patient’s arm. The combination of a high fever and a rash made diagnosis difficult, the range of possibilities being almost unlimited, from the trivial to the life-threatening, but he had to consider the possibility of a viral or bacterial infection. The patient’s arm was red and swollen from the wrist to the shoulder. Kuroda first shone the flashlight at it, but found the red spots easier to see in just the fluorescent light. The skin on the fingertips was swollen in a maculo-papular rash, with blisters on the back of the elbows, and ulceration around the wrists and the back of the upper arm. He asked if the patient was in pain, and was told that the joints and muscles all over his body hurt. The conjunctiva was bloodshot and the lymph nodes on his neck were swollen. There was a red rash on the tongue. Kuroda pulled down the patient’s pants and diaper to check his penis; the lack of discharge precluded a sexually transmitted disease. He asked whether there was any nausea or vomiting, taking a moment to explain the word “nausea” to Han, but the patient replied that no, he didn’t feel sick.
With the patient still lying on his back, Kuroda palpated the space between the lungs and the liver, but didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. When Heo and the woman doctor tried to raise him to a sitting position, he moaned in pain. Kuroda picked up the stethoscope. It was an ancient contraption of the sort not found even in the remotest parts of Japan these days, with spots of rust on the aluminum chest piece and rubber tubing that had stiffened and cracked. The man’s pulse was rapid, and there was a slight murmur in the lower left atrium, although it was impossible to say just by listening to it whether this might indicate a faulty valve or a coronary aneurism. The commander asked whether it was a contagious disease, and Kuroda told him that it was very possible. Beads of perspiration showed on Han’s forehead. Kuroda too was sweating, and the woman doctor dabbed at his forehead with a tissue as he worked. A small insect alighted on the window, an odd little thing, of a sort Kuroda had never seen before. Heo squashed it with the tip of a gloved finger. Once the examination was over, the patient lying on the cot asked the woman if Kuroda was a doctor, then raised his head and thanked him. He was so weakened that he must have found it comforting just to have someone check him over. Kuroda wanted to reassure him, but he didn’t have any satisfactory medicines to offer, the man’s nutrition was insufficient, and the environment was awful. Worse still, he couldn’t identify the illness. All he could do was tell the patient to rest. The man nodded and did his best to smile.
