“Your grandpa wasn’t really the first son in the family. In fact, he was the youngest of my three sons — his two older brothers died, and then he was my only son. You, too, have to be careful. You don’t know how scary the Guest can be, do you? Just over the past few years, in this valley alone, hundreds of children have died from it. Even if you survive, I’m telling you, it’s no use — the Guest scars you, it scars your face, leaves you marked for life.
“Once the Guest started spreading, the doctors would only visit the rich — in the countryside you couldn’t even get hold of a blind medicine man. Consulting a shaman was the best you could do. But wine and meat were impossible to find, and unless you had offerings or money you couldn’t even dream of having a full exorcism. You could place a gourd down on top of the water jar and chant a sutra while beating it. When more and more people started falling ill, they built a makeshift shelter outside the village to house them, gave them rice, soy sauce, and salt to live on by themselves. Even family members weren’t allowed to go near them. They were mostly children, you understand, but there were a few adults, too — when a grown-up died the oldest child would take care of the family. And, well, who wouldn’t cherish their own flesh and blood? So some people would keep their sick child until they just couldn’t hang on any longer, and then they’d wrap it up in a skirt or cloth and go up to the mountain in the middle of the night. In the mountain they’d find a tall tree and tie the child to one of the branches, and then they’d come back down. Heaven only knows where all the crows came from, but they’d flock to the babe and peck out its eyes. Sometimes, though, the child wasn’t dead yet — so the parents would stay all night long to keep the birds away. If the death was a long one, the parents would have to guard the tree night after night for days on end. Ever since we were children we have known that the Guest is a Western disease. A barbarian disease, they call it, from the Western country, so it’s certain that it came from the land where they believe in the Western spirit, you see? I had to send away two sons, your grandpa’s two older brothers, with the Guest. So would I be overjoyed, would I be ready to believe in the Western spirit like my one surviving son — or would I be angry at it — angry forever? You tell me. I’m telling you, a man needs to understand where he comes from in order to be truly human, to be blessed.”
Over the years, my grandfather doubled the land he inherited from my great grandfather, and my father managed the orchards of the Development Company very well. By the time we were liberated from Japan, we were one of the richest families in the village. My grandfather and my father, together with the Christian landowners in the neighboring village, went on to build a church in Ch’ansaemgol — Kwangmyŏng Church. It was much bigger and had many more believers than the one already in town. My great-grandmother passed away before the liberation.
Reverend Ryu Yosŏp waited in the front room of the nursing home — it resembled the lobby of a small hotel. He drank cold water from a paper cup. A number of potted ferns lined the hall, and there was an aquarium, too. A middle-aged woman was tapping away at a computer, behind a counter that looked exactly like a hospital reception desk.
Immediately upon his arrival in L.A., Yosŏp had contacted the travel agency to confirm the arrangements for his visit to North Korea, and then he called Pak Myŏngsŏn. Despite some initial hesitation, she gave him the visiting hours and address of the nursing home in which she lived. After arranging to spend the night with a close friend, a younger minister, Yosŏp unpacked his luggage and headed straight for the nursing home. According to one of the attendants, she’d gone out for a walk in the park and was due to return in about twenty minutes.
Tucked in the middle of the rectangular main building was a cozy little garden with a fountain. A line of palm trees stood in single file, their long leaves drooping down low. Every now and then an elderly woman would pass by through the corridor. It was probably some sort of condominium-style nursing home.
“So. Here you are.”
At some point a Yorkshire terrier had sauntered up to him; it was sniffing his knee. Yosŏp lifted his head and saw the old lady who held the other end of the leash. She wore a patternless baggy brown dress and a pair of glasses tinted slightly red. The dog wagged its tail and busily scurried back and forth between its owner and Yosŏp. He got up slowly and bowed to her, bending deep enough at the waist for his hair to fall forward.
“How do you do? I am the younger brother of Presbyter Ryu Yohan.”
Holding the rim of her spectacles in one hand, the old lady slowly scanned Yosŏp from head to toe. Gesturing for him to follow, she led the way to the elevator.
The place was quite large for a studio apartment. The kitchen and living room were essentially part of the same space, but the table and chairs, as well as an armchair and a TV set, had been placed a small distance from the rest of the living area — an arrangement that kept the place from feeling too crowded. There was a door next to the kitchen, and the front part of the living room was screened off with a curtain. Behind it would probably be the old lady’s bed. She seemed to have had a perm some time ago, but now her white hair was cut short, right under the ears, and looked quite tidy. Yosŏp looked around the room, and then, as was his habit, gathered both hands between his knees and said a short prayer under his breath. Standing in front of the sink, the old lady looked at Yosŏp, who was sitting in the armchair, and asked, “Are you praying?”
Without answering, Yosŏp kept mumbling and finished the last phrase before lifting his head. The old lady was looking at him, a curious smile hovering over the corners of her mouth.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if you were praying.”
“Yes, I am a. minister. Aren’t you Christian?”
“I’m not sure if you people have the right to ask such questions.”
Pak Myŏngsŏn, took out some chilled corn tea from the refrigerator and poured it into a glass.
“Well, would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, but I would like a glass of water, please.”
She placed the glass of corn tea on the small table in front of him and returned to the dinner table to sit down.
“So. What was it that you wanted to see me for?”
“Do you know my brother well?”
The old lady turned slightly away from the table and took off her glasses.
“I know both Yohan and you very well.”
Something behind her wrinkled face was vaguely familiar to Yosŏp, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“Have you forgotten the family from Palsan that was so rich with daughters?”
In his mind, Yosŏp tried to clothe this tall, skinny old woman in hanbok. Ah, this was none other than that girl, the lady evangelist, the tall, older girl who’d been the vice chair of the youth group at Kwangmyŏng Church. Palsan was a neighboring village. It leaned up against a different mountain ridge, but the fields of the two villages were connected, so the people of both shared their sorrows and joys through all four seasons. Yosŏp managed to recall the name of a girl his age.
“Now I remember, you’re. In. Insŏn’s big sister.”
“Yes, Insŏn was our fourth.”
A summer day full of towering cumulous clouds. Cicadas drone atop the willow trees as a group of naked children line up to jump from a hillside into a stream, wetting their ears with saliva and holding their noses shut with one hand. There, mixed in with all these boys, is a girl — Insŏn. Evening comes and we’re absorbed in a game of “catch-the-thief,” when suddenly we hear, loud enough to ring through the entire field, “Hey, Insŏn! You’re gonna get it from Mom! Get your butt in here and eat your dinner!” The voice of the older sister, Myŏngsŏn, the eldest in a family teeming with daughters.