I paid a call on him at his apartment, late at night. He had a lot of second-rate silk scarves and windbreakers lying around, draped over chairs and on the bed, along with a woman he said wanted to learn about masonry structures. He said the goods were for family members, and I told him he was under arrest unless he showed me the French-brand suitcase he used to carry all that stuff back from China. The key fit; the money was inside, wrapped in a red and white jacket. The woman got dressed in the meantime and left. I saw her a few weeks later while I was walking down a street in my sector. She was wearing a green scarf, but she didn't say hello.
A white player piano at the entrance to the Koryo's beer hall provides a contrast to the dim, muffled mood that otherwise settles over you as soon as you walk past the doorman into the hotel. The doorman acts friendly and touches the brim of his scarlet hat if he recognizes you or guesses you are important, but he closely questions anyone or anything that looks like it doesn't belong. The piano had arrived by truck one rainy morning. The doorman was about to wave it away until he glanced in the back and found a ten-dollar bill.
At first, the hotel staff only put classical music rolls in the piano, mostly heroic-sounding pieces that made people stride quick-step across the lobby. Now the invisible hands at the keyboard were playing a Beatles tune. I didn't know the title, but I knew it was from the Beatles. The song was the staff's idea of a joke, a pinprick for the puffed-up types who strut past the doorman, stand around the lobby swaying in time with the music, and then stop abruptly when it occurs to them that whatever they are hearing isn't familiar and could, conceivably, get them in trouble. I know it was meant as a joke, because I gave the staff the idea. I also gave them the piano roll, which I'd found by accident in a bin filled with piano rolls outside a small music store down a narrow side street in Berlin. I was looking for Mozart. I came home with the Beatles. Procurement trips were often like that.
Most people would have waited until I arrived, but Kang hadn't. He was already sipping a beer. It might have been bad manners, but I was sure it wasn't. With someone of his rank, it was bound to be calculated, an effort to make me uneasy, to show he didn't care what I thought of him. I stood beside the table, waiting for acknowledgment of my presence.
"Inspector, have a seat." He took a sip from his glass but didn't look up. "I hope you don't mind, but I started without you." I just stood there.
Until he looked at me, I wasn't going to move. Finally, he turned his head and nodded for me to sit. "It's hot in my office, and I was thirsty." This was unexpected. People like Kang don't usually explain themselves.
"Glad you did," I said, and slid onto the bench opposite him. "I'm a little late." Kang looked at his hands. He was older than I was, and senior.
I needed a touch more deference. I hadn't shown any during our first meeting this morning; it wouldn't hurt my case to throw in a little now. "I'm sorry, traffic can be a problem. Used to be, we could zip anywhere we wanted. Just hop in the car, pick any lane, and there you were.
Never even had to flick the turn signals on. No one to see it anyway.
Now, cars and buses and trucks all tangled, trollies holding things up.
This isn't progress." He was still examining his hands. I switched gears.
"I hope I didn't keep you long." I paused. "Sorry."
Kang looked up. "There are two kilometers between your office and the hotel. This isn't downtown Tokyo. Try leaving five minutes early next time. It's only going to get worse, or better, depending on your point of view." Some people would have smiled when they said this, to cover the ambiguity. Kang didn't change expressions. He didn't even blink.
I nodded to the waitress, who knew I ordered only Pyongyang beer when meeting someone from the party. She raised her eyebrows, her way of asking if she should bring a plate of dried fish. She knew I never got it for myself; it was too salty. I nodded again.
"You seem to know the staff here pretty well." Kang had changed his shirt since I had seen him in the morning. "That's good. Staff can be quite observant, very useful for information." Still his face was blank. Not a muscle twitched; there was nothing to read. He wasn't holding a conversation, he was just watching me.
"Mmm, hadn't thought of that. I'll see that it gets in our duty manual." I was going to get riled in a minute, which might be what he wanted. There was no sense in playing his game, so I changed the subject.
"Hotel seems pretty full." At that moment the piano began a new song. I pretended not to recognize it. "Pretty, might be Russian," I said.
"Not Russian. You don't know the tune, Inspector?" I shook my head. "It's the theme song to The Godfather. I brought the piano roll to the staff a few months ago from Berlin. Funny store. All the piano rolls thrown together in a big bin out in front."
According to this game, my next question was supposed to be, "What's The Godfather!" But I wasn't about to spar endlessly with the man. "Ah, that's why it sounded familiar." I laughed. The man's face was never going to give me a clue, so I moved my attention to his hands. "I remember, I saw it in Prague." It's hard for people not to react at all. If they keep their faces under control, they often do something with their hands. Just a finger lifting off the table, one thumb tapping the other, nothing you'd normally notice.
In fact, at that point I'd never been to Prague. I had seen the movie, though, in Budapest. If Kang had done anything more than flutter the pages in my dossier, he'd know I supposedly passed through Prague last year on official business. He might even have skimmed some of my reports, filed from the embassy in Prague thanks to a family friend who worked there and agreed to cover for me after I ignored my orders and went to Hungary instead. Eventually, I figured, I'd get to Prague, maybe the next time I had orders to Budapest. We had a lot of trouble with the Hungarian security ministry; it didn't put up with much, so liaison visits were often necessary to straighten out "incidents."
Precisely because they were unauthorized, my two short days in Budapest had been sweet, the Tokaji warming my blood after dinner, the smell of morning pastries waking me even before room service knocked on my door. Even the constant rain, melancholy as it dripped off the old stone houses, was a welcome change from the relentless downpours that left buildings at home looking sodden and cold. The rain couldn't dampen my spirits, so I was surprised to find what did. What made me lonely was the sound of the signs above the shop doors, creaking and rattling in the wind. There is nothing like it in Pyongyang; the wind blows, but there are no signs.
After I mentioned Prague, Kang sat completely still, his hands resting on the table, not a peep from them. Then, with a strange smile, he turned his beer glass and held it up to the light. "German beer is quite good," he said, "but the Hungarians only make good pastry. Now, why is that, do you suppose, Inspector?"
My stomach gave a little warning lurch. Kang was better than I thought, maybe deeper than I'd guessed. I shrugged. "Something tells me we're not here to discuss pastry, or to compare notes about the outside."