JungHo took out his pistol, aimed, and fired.
An officer keeled over with a scream, and the wall was breached. Others onstage instinctively threw themselves on the ground, and one of the guards tried to shield the governor with his own body. JungHo aimed at that guard and fired; the bullet went clear through his forehead and he was felled like a tree. People were screaming around JungHo, pushing to get out of harm’s way, but with so many bodies pressed together no one knew exactly where the shots were coming from.
Another shot was heard, and it wasn’t from JungHo’s gun. No one fell onstage that time. He looked to the right and caught a glimpse of Cho, gripping his pistol with both hands and shaking badly. Another guard was dragging the governor by the arm, taking him offstage. JungHo fired again and saw the old man fall down, clutching his chest.
“Go, Cho, Go!” JungHo shouted to his right. People around him had flattened themselves to the ground and he’d lost his cover. He ran without turning back to see if they were following him. He could hear shouts, screams . . . Above it all, someone yelled “K-Korea manseh!” followed by another gunshot. JungHo stopped in his tracks and turned his head toward the sound. Then there it was—the voiceless whisper in his ear, urging him to flee. He obeyed, changing direction and sprinting to his right. Soon he was shielded by hundreds of spectators on all sides.
Near the edge of the crowd, there was an open space of roughly twenty yards in front of the entrance of a department store. As he was hesitating, JungHo felt a hand on his elbow. In a flash, he aimed his pistol at the man behind him. The green-eyed man said something in his plangent language, taking off his fur hat and pressing it to JungHo’s chest. A Russian. JungHo ducked under people’s heads and took off his fedora. He threw it on the ground, stashed his pistol in his inner pocket, and put on the fur hat. He resisted the urge to run and crossed over the empty street calmly. About fifty yards away, he could see a clutch of soldiers running into the crowd, screaming orders. When he pushed the rotating glass door into the department store, he knew he had made it. He exited out the back entrance onto a side street and crumpled down on the icy stone stairs. “I’m sorry, Cho, so sorry,” he said repeatedly to himself, choking from dry, hoarse cries as though even his tears had frozen.
*
IT WAS A BALMY, EARLY-SUMMER evening when JungHo came back to Seoul. He was more gaunt than ever before, and his old suit jacket was loose on his shoulders. The Great South Gate still stood in its place, but everywhere else had changed. More Japanese flags were hanging from every building and flagpole, yet the streets were eerily deserted and there were no cars or trucks in sight. JungHo knew that there was no more oil anywhere in the city. Japan was pouring all its resources into fighting the United States in the Pacific, and boiling pine roots and cones down to create fuel. This sappy liquid gummed up the engine like taffy after a few hours. As a gasoline-saving strategy, fighter pilots were ramming their planes into American warships instead of flying back to base. The rumor was that in black-green jungles and insidious islands the Japanese troops were fighting to the last man with sharpened bamboo spears. At night, animals of the forest feasted on their flesh.
He had an hour and a half of walking from the station to reach MyungBo’s villa. It was past eight thirty, and there was still a gauze of gray twilight left behind by the sun on the western horizon. JungHo hadn’t eaten anything all day and despite his ability to withstand great physical distress, felt the last remaining strength being drained from his body.
He decided to take a break and leaned against a ginkgo tree. It was calm rather than windy, but the air was cool and fresh. The nearly full moon was rising in the opalescent sky. It was particularly bright and beautiful over a lightless city. Out of habit, JungHo touched the silver cigarette case in his inside pocket. It gave him a sense of comfort, as always. But at that moment, he heard a voice call out from behind him.
“Raise your hands slowly and step away from the tree.”
JungHo pulled out his hand from his jacket and walked sideways out of the tree’s shadow.
“No sudden movements. Don’t try anything stupid,” the voice said, coming closer to him from the back.
JungHo wasn’t carrying a gun with him. If he’d had one, he would have jumped back toward the tree and shot his interlocutor, then fled through the network of narrow alleyways untouched even by the moonlight. But all he had now was a knife hidden on the inside of his waistband, and that would be useless against a man behind him with a gun. He could hear two pairs of feet approaching him; one of them finally reached him and roughly whipped his arms behind his back before cuffing his wrists. When that was done, an officer wearing a thin, slanted mustache came into his view.
“What is this for?” JungHo asked and then immediately regretted his weakness. He’d intended to maintain a stony silence.
“Running away in the middle of the night . . . Avoiding conscription, are we?” the first officer said in Japanese, but based on his features JungHo surmised that the man was in fact Korean. The other officer, who had actually handcuffed JungHo, looked no older than sixteen and almost afraid of his own captive. JungHo kept his mouth shut this time.