From the Fatherland with Love Page 3

  It wasn’t because of their criminal records, however. You couldn’t lose your code by committing a crime, but some people were left out of the national system at the time it was created—those who’d been removed from their family registers, for example, or children of radical cult members who refused to register them; and if they had no desire to be let in, they effectively relinquished their codes. Nobue had never seen his. He’d been registered at his parents’ address in Hachioji, Tokyo, but after his arrest along with Ishihara for blowing up a section of Fuchu City, his parents had disowned him. He had no smart cards or credit cards or driver’s license or national-health card. And he didn’t even know his own code number, which was essentially the same as not having one.

  “That’s him, Nobue-san. You talk to him, all right? Tell him he has to leave.”

  The kid was sitting on a lawn chair some distance away, between a meat shop and a stand selling old newspapers and magazines. Nobue left the skinhead and walked toward him. All sorts of shops were crammed together here, and the spaces between them, when there were spaces, served as alleyways. Smoke rose from a stovepipe protruding from a dining tent with a sign that read UDON & SOBA. Noodles had been distributed here free as part of a food-assistance program until two years earlier, when the yakuza-connected NPO arrived. Nothing was free anymore, but prices in Ryokuchi were about half what they were outside. A bowl of udon noodles in broth was three hundred yen. A homeless couple was sharing a bowl now, carefully lifting one noodle to their mouths at a time with disposable chopsticks that had seen better days.

  The noodle stall stood next to a place selling little camping lanterns and candles, and across from that was a tent where you could buy lamp fuel and gasoline. Next to that were stacks of used tires for sale, and then a little stand where a skinny man was refilling pre-owned disposable lighters. Squeezed into a space about two meters wide were four different shops, including a place that repaired portable generators, a used pantyhose emporium, and a stand where you could purchase handmade lip balm. Manning the pantyhose booth was a young woman with a bad complexion and the body of a baby dinosaur. Behind the hut that sold vegetables and pickles stood a pile of raw garbage, which an old man wearing about five sweaters was picking through. As Nobue walked along, the cold seeped into his bones; his hip began to hurt again, and he was conscious of a desire for something hot to drink. He remembered now that he’d been planning to get something right after taking that dump. The warm hand towel had felt so good he’d forgotten all about it.

  “Morning, Nobue-san,” said a man who’d been bellowing through a loudspeaker, hawking Scotch whiskey—Two bottles, only ten thousand yen! He was in his late twenties, had a pretty face, and was wearing the same vinyl windbreaker the middle-aged skinhead had on, with the HARMONY AND SECURITY motto emblazoned on the back. He was half Japanese and half Colombian. “I need a hot drink,” Nobue told him. The man put the loudspeaker on top of the whiskey cabinet and stood at attention. “Yes, sir! What can I get you?” he said. “Anything’ll do,” said Nobue. “Cocoa or whatever. Two of ’em.” It had occurred to him that the kid might like some too. “What if they don’t have cocoa?” the pretty-faced half-Colombian said as he turned to go and fetch the order. “You deaf?” Nobue shouted, scowling. “I said anything’ll do, dammit. Anything’s fine, as long as it’s hot.” Noting the look of displeasure on Nobue’s face, the man dived into the crowd and came running back in a matter of seconds, panting for breath, with two paper cups full of steaming hot chocolate.

  The kid was gazing off into the distance with unfocused eyes. There was a pink swelling on his lip where a cut had festered. The black-leather backpack on his shoulders was of a strange design—flat and L-shaped. Fine, soft-looking hair spilled over his forehead. His age was hard to determine—he could have passed for thirteen or, depending on the angle, late twenties. Nobue held out one of the paper cups, and the focus of the kid’s eyes shifted from far away to the cup, then to Nobue’s hand, and up his arm and shoulder to his face. He looked as if he couldn’t compute what was happening.

  Across the way was a place selling batteries of all sizes, and scattered on the ground in front of it were dozens of pamphlets advertising a sperm bank and declaring, in big red letters: GRADUATES OF TOKYO UNIVERSITY, KYOTO UNIVERSITY, HITOTSUBASHI UNIVERSITY—GUARANTEED IN WRITING ¥30,000. About ten meters behind the battery shop, in the direction of the south woods, were some makeshift latrines that consisted of cardboard screens placed around holes in the ground, for people who couldn’t afford proper toilets. A fat woman with her hair bleached yellow was doing her business in one of them, struggling with her ragged knit skirt, her fleshy buttocks visible through a gap in the cardboard screen. After a while she stood up, exposing blubbery arms and legs to the world as she wiped herself, but none of the people milling around so much as glanced her way.

  The kid took the cocoa. “Mind if I sit down?” Nobue asked. The kid peered at him for some seconds, then nodded.

  “What’s up with that backpack?” Nobue asked him. “Strange shape. Whatcha got in there?”

  The kid mumbled something, peering down at the ground. “I can’t hear you. Speak up a little, willya? Just a little will do,” Nobue said, and began to laugh, making the cocoa ripple in his cup. In front of the meat shop, pork cutlets, meatballs, and croquettes sizzled in a deep fryer, emitting a smell of boiling oil and scorched flour. Two middle-aged men were eating breaded-meatball sandwiches, crumbs falling from the corners of their mouths as they watched Nobue laugh. “Did I say something funny?” the kid asked. His voice was low and hoarse. “Hell, boy, nobody could understand a mumble like that. It’s like you’re shy or somethin’. No point in bein’ shy in a place like this, where a fat lady’s takin’ a shit right out in the open.” The laughter only seemed to swell with each word he uttered and continued rolling through him for some time. “I’m sorry,” the kid said when it finally subsided. Nobue wiped the tears from his eyes and said, “You don’t need to apologize. Just tell me what’s in the—”

  “Boomerangs,” the kid said, speaking clearly this time.

  “Oh yeah?” Nobue had only a vague idea what a boomerang was. The kid stood up and walked toward the woods, cutting through the alley beside the meat shop, and Nobue followed. Perhaps there’d been a frost: the ground was muddy, and the dew on the grass soaked his sneakers and the hem of his long down coat. From the marketplace to the south woods was vacant land, with only a garbage dump and any number of latrine holes surrounded by cardboard. No one set up tents or huts in the woods because the NPO didn’t allow it, and anyone who tried to was roughed up and sent packing. There was nobody else around, only a crow perched on the rim of an oil-drum garbage can. A crew of homeless people employed by the NPO were supposed to collect the excrement and garbage, but since it was winter they hadn’t bothered to do so lately. This was a service paid for by people who lived in the residential area beyond the trees. The woods were on a gentle slope, and at the top, where the vegetation thinned out, was a barbed-wire fence. The residential district began just on the other side. Sometimes residents out walking their dogs would linger at the fence and survey the park with binoculars.

  The kid stopped short of the woods. He took off his backpack and extracted a crescent-shaped, silvery metal blade. From tip to tip it was about as long as a whiskey bottle. The grip was wound with thread, and the inner edge was honed to a gleaming razor sharpness. The kid adjusted and readjusted his grip and pointed at the oil drum off in the distance. So a boomerang’s something you throw, Nobue was thinking, when the air was cut by a sound like whistling wind, and the blade was skimming low over the grass and rising. It picked up speed as it went, until it was going so fast that Nobue couldn’t follow it with his eyes. All he could see was an occasional flash when the blade caught the sunlight, so that it seemed to be blinking on and off as it whipped across the field, making straight for the oil drum. Nothing flew like this—not birds or planes or bullets or arrows. The thing apparently gained speed from the way it rotated in the air. Something burst apart on top of the oil drum like a popped black balloon. The boomerang appeared to pause in mid-air, then came spinning and blinking back this way at what seemed even greater speed, to stab into the ground at the kid’s feet.

  “It’s a weapon, then?” Nobue asked when they reached the oil drum, where the crow lay on the ground in two blood-drenched sections. “Correct,” said the kid. He wiped the gore and dirt off the blade before returning it to his backpack. His eyes were different now. They had the same look Sugioka’s had had after he murdered the woman with the jiggly ass. This kid probably only really feels alive when he’s bringing something down with that boomer-thang, Nobue thought to himself. Best to send him to Ishihara’s place down in Fukuoka. If he stays here, he’s sure to end up killing somebody.

  PROLOGUE 2

  FROM THE FATHERLAND

  March 21, 2010

  Pyongyang, Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

  PAK YONG SU had been told late the evening before that he was to report to Building 3, which housed the Party Secretariat’s Frontline Bureau for National Unification, the body responsible for operations directed against the South. To be given an order after ten at night was in itself a bad omen. Moreover, the summons had been delivered personally by Jang Jin Myeong, second-in-command at the Ministry of Culture. While Jang had been Pak’s classmate at Kim Jong Il Political-Military University many years ago, this was quite unprecedented. Over the thirty years that Pak had spent in the harsh world of politics, he had learned to be wary of anything out of the ordinary. Jang had specialized in Eastern European Art Theory, and after entering the Party’s Organization and Guidance Department had been handpicked for a position in the Ministry of Culture. For his part, Pak
had studied philosophy and English before joining the General Political Bureau of the People’s Army. Attached to the Fifth Division of the Special Operations Forces Guidance Bureau, he had studied Japanese for sixteen years. For the past four years he had been teaching the language at his alma mater.

  “It’s been quite a while,” said Jang as he entered the room. “You seem to be doing well.” These warm words of greeting were contradicted by the cold expression in the eyes behind his glasses. It had been perhaps as long as ten years since the two had last met. Jang was normally a man who never let down his guard, but Pak couldn’t remember ever having seen him so disconcertingly tense. His blue jacket was of the too-tight sort worn by film comedians, his polyester necktie was scarlet, and on his shirt, above a bulging belly that made him look a bit like the famous giant lizard in Pyongyang Zoo, was a yellow stain. He was mopping perspiration from his forehead and cheeks with a handkerchief, although the temperature in Pak’s office wasn’t nearly sufficient to make even a man as fat as Jang sweat.

  When informed by a security guard via his telephone extension that Jang was on his way, Pak had hastily switched off the laptop computer on his desk. He’d been reading the homepage of the Japanese Cabinet Office, but though obviously entitled to do this, having official access to all such sites, he couldn’t assume that his colleagues were necessarily allies. It had recently become all the more imperative to be cautious about everything one did or said within the GPB. Over the last three years, the United States, under a Democratic administration, had softened its position toward the Republic; and with the rapprochement, political interests vis-à-vis the US had subtly shifted, resulting in the rise of a reformist faction and the fall from grace of the hardliners. Those advocating dramatic change and economic liberalization had likewise been purged.

  There had been recurring rumors that the Dear Leader, Comrade General Kim Jong Il, might relinquish power, but handing it over to the hawkish military was out of the question, and among the reformist leaders there was no one with any charisma. Neither the Americans nor the Chinese wanted whatever shift occurred to trigger turmoil. Whether the reformists moved forward to take the reins or the hardliners staged a comeback, the replacement of Kim Jong Il by a collective leadership was still a distant prospect. The Dear Leader had himself stated twice, in the press and on television, that “the spring thaw is still far off.” He had also referred to the saying: “The mushrooms of March are poisonous,” meaning that acting or speaking prematurely could well be harmful to the body politic. Some had engaged in loose talk about it now being Japan and no longer the United States that was the national nemesis, but Pak needed no reminding how dangerous this could be. Aligning oneself with either the reformists or the traditionalists was equally hazardous. Maybe Jang had at this late hour, without going through their respective secretaries, come looking for a sacrificial goat, one that was stuck in the middle of the road; maybe he was there to ferret out from Pak’s work or attitudes some surreptitious link with the Americans.

  “Comrade Pak, I apologize for my sudden visit at this time of night,” said Jang, still wiping his forehead as he looked at his watch. It was a silver Rolex, with the Dear Leader’s initials inscribed on the rim. Thanks to Jang’s contacts in the world of European cinema, the Fatherland had received technical assistance from a Swedish semiconductor maker, along with some Rolex watches.

  “No trouble at all,” replied Pak. “As you know, I’m still a bachelor, even at my age. Besides, as they say, ‘winter butterflies are rare visitors.’”

  Though this flattery was born of wariness, he felt a twinge of shame as he compared his visitor—fiftyish, fat, and ugly—to a butterfly.

  “Thank you. And old acquaintances matter most of all. But what a splendid view you have of the Taedong River! The lights are finally back on Chungsong Bridge. They may still be a bit dim, but one should see them as a symbol of the last decade—and of the soundness of our Comrade General’s leadership.”

  The curtains at the window were half open to the moist March air. From there Jang had a view of the gently flowing river and, hazily illuminated by the streetlights, the bridge that for ten years had languished in the dark. Recently there even seemed to be a modest increase in the number of boats plying the river during the day. Perhaps, as Jang suggested, the worst was over, even if this wasn’t because the economy had improved but because assistance had come from the United States and China, both concerned that the Republic was on the verge of collapse.

  “By the way, Comrade Pak. Do you always work so late? I’ve heard your eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”

  Was he teasing him for being unmarried and remaining at heart a sort of eternal student? Or was this veiled criticism aimed at his use of the computer late at night, despite a state of national destitution that included chronic power shortages?

  Jang was a Pyongyang native, whereas Pak was from a small village at the foot of the Puksu and Paek mountains in the northeast. Since primary school, the hardworking Pak had not slept more than four hours a night. His reason for never marrying was Ri Sol Su, a classmate with whom he’d fallen in love, only to lose her to tuberculosis. Born in Kaesong, she had been a clearheaded, affectionate girl. The conviction that there was no one to match her had kept him single. It was true, as Jang had hinted, that Pak’s eyesight had rapidly deteriorated since he had begun using the computer. But the GPB had been providing him with costly lamprey-liver oil to combat the problem. Why was Jang, who was obviously aware of all this, probing the reasons behind Pak’s obsession with his work?

  “I live on my own,” Pak replied with an artificial smile. “I have no other purpose in life.”

  There was a knock on the door, and a security guard came in with tea. The cluttered desk left him not knowing where to put the cups. He nonetheless kept his gaze unfocused, aware that it was strictly forbidden to look around the room or pay any attention to visitors or the computer. Pak pushed some papers aside to make space. The guard put down the cups and slipped out of the room as soundlessly as a shadow on the wall.

  Pak took a sip of his tea, then remarked, “Recently there has been an overwhelming amount of material to be read and analyzed.” This was true. Since the American presidential election, the situation in East Asia had drastically changed.

  “I’d like to hear about your research,” said Jang, turning away from the window and looking at him with a serious expression on his face. “What should we make of trends in Japan?”

  Pak could well understand Jang’s interest in the subject, but he was puzzled why it was necessary to conduct this discussion so late in the evening. Besides, wasn’t Japan’s ongoing collapse being constantly monitored by that country’s mass media? Perhaps, thought Pak, this was simply a leading question.

  “I was just looking at the Japanese Cabinet Office’s homepage. This week their government has decided on a plan to raise the consumption tax by another 2.5 per cent, bringing it to 17.5 per cent. They also apparently intend to announce that a massive expansion of the military is possible without amending the Constitution. The opposition parties have come up with a slogan that calls for replacing US lapdog patriotism with anti-US patriotism. And this general mood is spreading, not only among the poor but also the hard-pressed middle class and even segments of the upper-class intelligentsia. The government is apparently feeling the pinch and so is desperately looking for a compromise with the opposition and its supporters by acquiescing on the constitutional issue.