“He was nearly frozen to death, when a Japanese officer found him and revived him—this officer was the one who corroborated the next part of the story, when I met him by sheer chance decades later. He described my father perfectly and said I looked like him.
“As my father and the officer were making their descent, they realized that a tiger was following them. A gigantic one, judging by its footprint. All of a sudden, it came leaping out of nowhere, ready to attack. But my father drove it away just by shouting—it saw him, turned around, and ran back into the woods. A tiger like that should have killed my father with one jump.”
“Why did it not want to hurt your father?”
“My father always thought the tiger was my mother, reborn.”
JungHo looked into Jade’s eyes, her only feature that still looked the same as when they were both young. He ached to discover that even inside the hourglass there was something untouched by time.
“I don’t know if that’s true—it’s just what he believed, that she loved him so much that even in another life she wanted to protect him. Because, Jade, everything is inyeon in this world. It’s true what they say, even brushing the hem of one’s coat on the streets is inyeon. But the most important inyeon of all is that between husband and wife. That’s what I regret . . . that I didn’t get to be with you.” JungHo smiled sadly. With everything they both knew, and experienced together and apart, he was no longer afraid of putting her off with this truest statement of his life.
“I’m sorry . . . I regret it too,” Jade said, wiping at her stinging nose.
“If I were to come back in another life, I would find you and marry you. Even if I don’t come back, and I’m stuck somewhere in the eternal twilight . . . or heaven or hell . . . I will float around, looking for you.” JungHo laughed quietly.
“If you ask me again, I will say yes. I promise,” she said. Drops of tears were turning into streams along her cheeks.
“Wait, hold on.” JungHo let go of her hands and started fumbling with his pant pockets. “I want to give you something.”
He held out something small in his hand. It was a silver ring of the rounded, garakji type.
“How ever did you keep this in here?” Jade whispered.
“Hidden inside my waistband.”
“It looks exactly like a ring my foster mother used to have, back in PyongYang. Since then I’ve never seen another one like this. Where did you get it?”
“My father gave this to me before he passed away. It must have belonged to my mother . . . He loved her very much. Here, give me your hand.”
JungHo slid the ring on her once-slim, now knobby finger.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” she said between sobs. “Do you know, this is the only ring I’ve ever received. I always wanted one just like this.”
“I only wish I could’ve given this to you a lot earlier. If I could go back, I would give you all the jewels in the world . . .” he said, looking away behind her ear so that he wouldn’t cry, so he wouldn’t burden her with his tears.
27
The Walk
1964
THE NEXT MORNING, JUNGHO WAS WOKEN UP BY HIS GUARD, WHO handcuffed him and led him to a door guarded by soldiers on either side. It was a dank room of concrete walls, and at the front there was a raised dais where a man in military uniform was writing something down on his notepad. He was one of those unremarkable, flat-featured men whose appearance is substantially improved by the addition of headgear, which was for him a camouflage cap. To his right, there was a secretary in front of a typewriter; to his left, there was an empty wooden chair. In the center of the room stood a stool, which was casting multiple faint shadows from the bare bulbs hanging on either side of the room. JungHo took his seat and looked stolidly at his interlocutor.
“Nam JungHo, you’re here on charges of treason, espionage, collusion with the enemy, and antipatriotic beliefs. How do you plead?” the man in camouflage asked.
“Not guilty,” JungHo said hoarsely.
“Listen, Nam JungHo. I read in the report that you were born in PyongAhn province. As was I—not sure if you can hear it in my accent,” the man continued, stabbing his pen into his notepad several times for emphasis.
“I also read that you have two sons. One’s fourteen, and the youngest is just ten. Wonderful age. I have children too, myself. So be very careful how you respond . . . I don’t like tearing up a young family, but I have to do my duty to the country, and the case is stacked against you completely.
“If you plead guilty, you’ll get sentenced to twenty-five years. But if you behave in prison, renounce your antipatriotic beliefs, and prove your reformation, you’ll go on parole. You could be a free man after—say, ten years, max. If President Park feels up to it, you may even get out after five. At that point, your youngest will still only be fifteen. You’d be able to raise your family.” The camouflaged man had the manner of explaining something patiently to a child. JungHo glared at his face.
“If you deny the charges, I can’t guarantee any such leniency. You may never see your family again. Why be so foolish?”
“I never had any contact with anyone in North Korea.”
“Nam JungHo, you have an extensive and widely acknowledged history of Communist and antipatriotic activity all your life. You were a follower of Lee MyungBo, the one-time head of the Koryo Communist Party. Do you want to end up like him?”
“I renounced all ties with him back in 1948 when he went to trial. I’ve been absolved of all of that.” JungHo closed his eyes at the mention of MyungBo’s name. In his mind, his mentor’s gentle face flashed like a beacon and then vanished, leaving him alone in the darkness of shame.
“It’s not so simple, Nam JungHo. You weren’t just a follower—it seems you were almost a foster son to him. He personally taught you how to read and write. You lived in his guesthouse for years.”