“Look at them. You see, even the restaurant signs here have political leanings.”
“Well, then. perhaps KoryŏRestaurant would be something neutral?” The two men exchanged looks and went into the restaurant; as they’d expected, the place was run by Chosŏn folk whose families had immigrated to China several generations ago. The place was quite spacious. The tables were empty, but that might just have been the time of day: a bit too early for dinner and a lot too late for lunch.
“Let’s see, what do I want?” the professor mumbled to himself, perusing a menu that consisted of pieces of paper pasted to the wall.
“I don’t see any toenjang tchigae22. excuse me, can you make the nakchi pokkŭm23 very spicy?”
Hearing Yosŏp’s order, the matronly server approached the table with a pretty little smile on her face.
“You, sirs, you’re from America, aren’t you?”
“That we are! How did you know?”
“People always ask for dishes they haven’t had in a while — not to mention the way you’re dressed.”
“Well, what do people from Seoul do?”
“Oh, they just order anything, like soup and rice.”
“Then we’ll have that, too,” said the professor cheerfully. Then, out of nowhere, he turned back to the woman. “Ma’am, which do you prefer, the South or the North?”
She flashed her friendly little smile again.
“That’s the kind of question you ask to tease small children. ‘Who do you like better, Mommy or Daddy?’ It’s the big nations that carry the guilt. After all, the ordinary, common folk haven’t committed any crimes, have they?”
The professor laughed out loud.
“You have a way with words that would put a politician to shame.”
Walking away from the table, the woman muttered under her breath, “I was wondering when you’d ask.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She turned her head and spoke again in the way Chinese people speak, her words unhurried.
“I’ve repeated that same answer so many times it hurts my lips to say it.” At any rate, Yosŏp’s overall mood at the restaurant wasn’t bad at all. The professor ordered a bottle of chugyŏp ch’ŏngju24 to accompany their meal, and the Reverend, unable to turn him down, ended up emptying three whole glasses. It didn’t take long for him to start feeling the alcohol take effect.
Yosŏp returned to the hotel by himself. The professor wanted to have a look around the business district, but for Yosŏp the combination of a midday drinking bout with his already low tolerance had been more than enough to completely drain his body of any energy he might have had. He told the professor that he needed to rest. The fatigue, in part, was due to the three straight nights he had gone without sleep during his brother’s wake in America. It occurred to Yosŏp that China was in the midst of a whirlwind of change, exactly the way Seoul had been long ago, around the time he immigrated to America. That was why the place felt so familiar. Beyond the main street, lined on either side with apartment complexes and random buildings, there would be back alleyways of old neighborhoods where screeching children black with dirt would run wild and old men would sit around in groups of three or four, maybe playing Chinese checkers. In a way, Yosŏp felt close to home already.
Before my eyes I can see twinkling lights — they shatter like frog eggs, starting out garnet and then brightening into orange, then, slowly, a pale green, then yellow, and then finally blue — and all the while they are merging into one, these twinkling dots, undulating gently like a jellyfish. The thing moves away, fading into the darkness beyond. It is pitch black. Following it, I am sucked up into the darkness, breaking through to the other side. At the far end I can see a pinpoint of light; it grows bigger and bigger as I get closer and closer. Now I’m stepping down into a green meadow filled with sunlight. Each step I take feels nimble on the cushiony grass. There’s a narrow path and the grass stretches all the way out to the top of a little hill, but I can’t see anything beyond that from where I stand. A whitish gray trail of something, maybe fog or maybe smoke from someone’s kitchen fire, is winding its way round and round the hilltop. As I walk up the narrow path the white fog-like stuff envelops me — it’s everywhere — I can’t see a thing. Then, straight ahead, something faint — it resembles a house. As I get closer I realize it is a wooden pavilion, bare, without a trace of lacquer or paint. The dark figure of a man is standing before it, facing me.
Who — who are you? I ask, stuttering in fear.
Me. It’s me.
He takes a step forward, out of the fog, and suddenly I see him clearly, as if he alone has walked into a ray of sunlight. I recognize him at once. It is Uncle Sunnam, a field hand who once worked in our orchard.
Uh, what brings you here, Uncle?
I’ve come to accompany your older brother.
Big Brother Yohan has left already.
He’s still wandering about, like me.
Then you should both repent and hurry on.
Ah, why don’t you go look and see what’s over there.
Through the stark, naked apple tree branches, I see a snow-covered field and a frozen brook glittering under the winter sunlight. It is Ch’ansaemgol, back in the old days. I feel like he is carrying me piggyback.
“The Song of the General” filtered through the speakers as the Chosŏn Minhang airplane took off — just the melody, without the lyrics. The tempo quick, like a marching tune, it had been sung day in and day out at the People’s Elementary and Middle schools in the years that followed the liberation. Maybe that was why it made Yosŏp’s heart convulse. The professor who’d shared his room had trailed after him and taken the neighboring seat. Now, craning his neck, he peered past Yosŏp at the view out the window.
“Would you like to switch seats?” asked Reverend Ryu Yosŏp, not meaning a word of it.
“Oh, no, no thank you. I’ll take a good look around later, when we’re off the plane.”
Despite his protests, however, the professor continued to strain himself, trying to look out the window over Yosŏp’s shoulder. Judging from the panorama of wrinkled mountains that rolled out beneath them, the plane must have been flying over Manchuria. They might be near the Liaodong area. The voice of the captain filtered out from the loudspeaker.
“You are now entering the skies of our mother country. From now on, please remain seated and fasten your seat belts.”
As he gazed down at the mountains and forests that looked so much like miniature models, at the tiny houses in the city, studded here and there like tiny grains of white sand, tears welled up in Yosŏp’s eyes in spite of himself.
The plane flew low, so low that it actually seemed to graze a small hill covered in red soil and stunted fruit trees, and finally landed on the runway. Yosŏp looked out the window and saw a group of elementary school children, each one holding a bouquet, and some personnel from the Koreans Abroad Relief Committee, all lined up and looking bored.
The Homeland Visitors were taken to the Koryŏ Hotel and, in the lobby, introduced to their guides: two men and one woman. The first man, in his fifties, was rather fat and had beady eyes; the other, in his forties, had oiled and neatly combed every last strand of his hair all the way back. This second man was extremely thin and looked particularly high-strung. The woman looked suave, though she, too, was somewhat on the plump side. She had a high soprano voice, took noticeably large steps when she walked, and also seemed to be in her forties. Although they’d all been introduced, Reverend Ryu Yosŏp knew there was no way he would remember their names, so he categorized each one in his mind under a nickname. Number one was “Fatty,” number two was “All Back,” and number three, the woman, was “Soprano.” Fatty didn’t talk much, and whenever his already small eyes happened to meet those of a visitor, he’d squeeze them shut altogether and smile gently. All Back was the one who came forward and handed out the day’s agenda.