A Corpse in the Koryo

The station platform at Manpo at three in the morning is filled with people, but it is eerily quiet because none of them speak. When they move, they are no different than the fog drifting past the naked bulbs that flicker on the low wooden ceiling overhead. It was August, but colder here than in Kanggye, and I wasn't dressed for it.

Later in the morning, maybe I could find a jacket; for now I needed a place to stay and something to eat. I had a few meal coupons with me, some dirty Chinese currency, and about a hundred wrinkled dollars, but at this hour there probably wouldn't be anything open.

I squeezed through the crowd and emerged onto the square in front of the station. I did not expect to find anything, and I didn't. The vendors were all gone. Out of the darkness I heard a voice behind me, low and close. "You want a girl?" In Pyongyang, I would have grabbed the voice by the throat and pushed it against the wall. One thing I didn't allow in my sector was pimping out in the open. I couldn't stop it in the clubs or the hotels, but I drew the line at the street, and after a couple of months nearly everyone got the word. Once in a while someone came in from out of town who didn't know the rules. They learned, or they sashayed into another section of the city. Here, though, I had no jurisdiction. I turned around slowly. The voice belonged to an old man.

The sleeves of his shirt were too long for his arms, while his trousers were too short and the waist, too big, was cinched tightly with a rope belt. When he raised his hands, a gesture to show he meant no harm, I saw that both of his sleeves were torn at the elbows. He dropped his hands to his sides, then put his thumbs through his belt and smiled. I was amazed to see he had all his teeth. "Nice girls." He smiled again, not a leer, no hint of anything lascivious, just a friendly observation.

"Grandfather, I want a place to stay and something to eat."

He kept smiling. "So do we all, my friend. So do we all." He paused.

When he turned slightly, I saw that despite the worn elbows, his shirt was crisp, freshly pressed, not a wrinkle on it, and on his chest was a badge, a small round portrait of Kim II Sung. It was from maybe twenty-five or thirty years ago, the sort ranking cadres used to wear.

"How the mighty have fallen." He watched me closely, the unwavering smile no longer necessary, past time to fade. Most people smile quickly at a stranger and are done with it.

The air was getting unpleasant as the fog thickened. It passed through my mind that standing in the damp, holding a conversation with this old man, was not what I wanted at this hour of the morning, yet there was something hypnotic about him. He glanced down at the badge, then back at me. "The sun rises, the sun sets. It only seems brighter at noon," he said, and grunted softly. "Yet right now, it is very dark." After the barest breath of a moment, the smile left his lips and his face became a portrait of indifference. Too blank, too fast. I felt my stomach tighten. He looked past me. "Not much open at this hour, but I know a restaurant. A few Russian girls. A few Chinese girls. You'll have to buy them drinks. If you like, after that, there may be a place to stay."

"No, thanks. Too complicated. I'll just walk a little."

"I wouldn't advise that." He didn't look thin or old anymore. Something stern passed over him, as if he suddenly recalled a time when he was obeyed immediately and without question. "This isn't Pyongyang."

Just as the last word was spoken, I felt the back of my head explode, the dim light behind the old man went red, and my knees buckled. The left one went first, so I knew that, as usual, I would wrench my back. As I slipped to the ground, I wondered if there was any tea where I was going, and then I was gone.