That night, in his sleep, Jun Do heard the orphan Bo Song. Because he had no hearing, Bo Song was one of the loudest boys when he tried to speak, and in his sleep he was even worse, clamoring on through the night in the slaw of his deaf-talk. Jun Do gave him a bunk in the hall, where the cold stupefied most boys—there’d be some teeth chattering for a while, and then silence. But not Bo Song—it only made him talk louder in his sleep. Tonight, Jun Do could hear him, whimpering, whining, and in this dream, Jun Do somehow began to understand the deaf boy. His stray sounds started to form words, and though Jun Do couldn’t quite make the words into sentences, he knew that Bo Song was trying to tell him the truth about something. There was a grand and terrible truth, and just as the orphan’s words started to make sense, just as the deaf boy was finally making himself heard, Jun Do woke.
He opened his eyes to see the muzzle of the dog, who’d crept up to share the pillow with him. Jun Do could see that behind the eyelid, the dog’s eye was rolling and twitching with each whimper of its own bad dream. Reaching out, Jun Do stroked the dog’s fur, calming it, and the whines and whimpers ceased.
Jun Do pulled on pants and his new white shirt. Barefoot, he made his way to Dr. Song’s room, which was empty, save for a packed travel suitcase waiting at the foot of the bed.
The kitchen was empty, as was the dining room.
Out in the corral was where Jun Do found him, sitting at a wooden picnic table. There was a midnight wind. Clouds flashed across a newly risen moon. Dr. Song had changed back into a suit and a tie.
“The CIA woman came to see me,” Jun Do said.
Dr. Song didn’t respond. He was staring at the fire pit—its coals still gave off warmth, and when the wind eddied away fresh ashes, the pit throbbed pink.
“You know what she asked me?” Jun Do said. “She asked if I felt free.”
On the table was Dr. Song’s cowboy hat, his hand keeping it from blowing away.
“And what did you tell our spunky American gal?” he asked.
“The truth,” Jun Do said.
Dr. Song nodded.
His face seemed puffy somehow, his eyes almost drooped shut with age.
“Was it a success?” Jun Do asked. “Did you get what you came for, whatever it was that you needed?”
“Did I get what I needed?” Dr. Song asked himself. “I have a car and a driver and an apartment on Moranbong Hill. My wife, when I had her, was love itself. I have seen the white nights in Moscow and toured the Forbidden City. I have lectured at Kim Il Sung University. I have raced a Jet Ski with the Dear Leader in a cold mountain lake, and I have witnessed ten thousand women tumble in unison at the Arirang Festival. Now I have tasted Texas barbecue.”
That kind of talk gave Jun Do the willies.
“Is there something you need to tell me, Dr. Song?” he asked.
Dr. Song fingered the crest of his hat. “I have outlasted everyone,” he said. “My colleagues, my friends, I have seen them sent to farm communes and mining camps, and some just went away. So many predicaments we faced. Every fix, every pickle. Yet here I am, old Dr. Song.” He gave Jun Do a fatherly pat on the leg. “Not bad for a war orphan.”
Jun Do still felt a bit like he was in the dream, that he was being told something important in a language almost understood. He looked over to see his dog had followed him out and was now watching from a distance, its coat seeming to change pattern with shifts in the wind.
“At this moment,” Dr. Song said, “the sun is high over Pyongyang—still, we must try to get some sleep.” He stood and placed the hat upon his head. Walking stiffly away, he added, “In the movies about Texas, they call it shut-eye.”
In the morning, there were no big good-byes. Pilar filled a basket with muffins and fruit for their plane trip, and everyone gathered out front where the Senator and Tommy had pulled up the Thunderbird and the Mustang. Dr. Song translated the Minister’s farewell wishes, which were really invitations for them all to visit him soon in Pyongyang, especially Pilar, who would be hard-pressed to return from a worker’s paradise if she did.
To all, Dr. Song offered only a bow.
Jun Do approached Wanda. She wore a jogging top, so he could see the power of her chest and shoulders. Her hair, for the first time, was down, framing her face.
“Happy trails to you,” he said to her. “That’s a Texas good-bye, no?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Do you know the response? It’s ‘Until we meet again.’ ”
The Senator’s wife held a puppy, her fingertips moving through the soft folds of its skin.
She considered Jun Do for a long moment.
He said, “Thank you for tending to my wound.”
“I’ve taken an oath,” she said. “To assist all in medical need.”
“I know you don’t believe my story,” he said.
“I believe you come from a land of suffering,” she said. Her voice was measured and resonant, the way she’d spoken when she’d talked about the Bible. “I also believe your wife is a good woman, one that only needs a friend. Everyone tells me I’m not allowed to be that friend to her.” She kissed the puppy, then held it out to Jun Do. “So this is the best I can do.”
“A heartfelt gesture,” Dr. Song said, smiling. “Unfortunately, canines are not legal in Pyongyang.”
She pressed the dog into Jun Do’s hands. “Don’t listen to him, or his rules,” she said. “Think of your wife. Find a way.”
Jun Do accepted the dog.
“The Catahoula is bred to herd,” she said. “So when that puppy’s mad at you, he’ll bite at your heels. And when he wants to show his love, he’ll bite at your heels.”
“We have a plane to catch,” Dr. Song said.
“We call him Brando,” the Senator’s wife said. “But you can name him whatever you like.”
“Brando?”
“Yes,” she said. “See this mark on his haunch? That’s where a brand would go.”
“A brand?”
“A brand’s a permanent mark that says something’s yours.”
“Like a tattoo?”
She nodded. “Like your tattoo.”
“Then Brando it is.”
The Minister began walking toward the Thunderbird, but the Senator stopped him.
“No,” the Senator said. He pointed at Jun Do. “Him.”
Jun Do looked to Wanda, who gave a nodding shrug. Tommy had his arms crossed and wore a satisfied smile.
Jun Do took a seat in the coupe. The Senator joined him, their shoulders almost touching, and slowly they began moving down the gravel road.
“We thought the talkative one was manipulating the dumb one,” the Senator said. He shook his head. “Turns out you were the one all along. Is there any end to you people? And controlling him with yeses and nos at the end of sentences. How dumb do you think we are? I know you’ve got the backward-nation card to play and the I’ll-get-thrown-in-a-gulag excuse. But coming all this way to pretend to be a nobody? Why tell that cockamamie shark story? And what the hell does a minister of prison mines do, exactly?”
The Senator’s accent was getting stronger as he spoke, and though Jun Do couldn’t catch all the words, he knew exactly what the Senator was saying.
“I can explain,” Jun Do said.
“Oh, I’m listening,” the Senator told him.
“It’s true,” Jun Do said. “The Minister is not really a minister.”
“So who is he?”
“Dr. Song’s driver.”
The Senator laughed in disbelief. “Christ a’mighty,” he said. “Did you even consider playing level with us? You don’t want us to board your fishing boats, that’s something to talk about. We sit down in the same room. We suggest that you maybe don’t use fishing boats to smuggle Taepodong missile parts, counterfeit currency, heroin, and so on. Then we reach an agreement. Instead I’m wasting my time talking to the chumps, while you were what, getting a gander?”
“Suppose you had dealt with me,” Jun Do said, even though he had no idea what he was talking about. “What is it you would have wanted?”
“What would I want?” the Senator asked. “I never heard what you had to offer, exactly. We’d want something solid, something you can mount above the mantel. And it would have to be precious. Everyone would have to know it cost your leader dearly.”
“For something like that, you’d give us what we wanted?”
“The boats? Sure we could lay off them, but why? Every damn one of them is freighted with mayhem and compassed toward trouble. But the Dear Leader’s toy?” A whistle came from the Senator’s teeth. “That’s a different prospect. To hand that thing back, we might as well take a piss on the Prime Minister of Japan’s peach tree.”
“But you admit,” Jun Do said, “that it belongs to the Dear Leader, that you’re holding his property?”
“The talks are over,” the Senator said. “They happened yesterday, and they went nowhere.”
The Senator then took his foot off the gas pedal.
“There is, however, one more issue, Commander,” the Senator said as they drifted to the side of the road. “And it has nothing to do with the negotiations or whatever games y’all are playing.”
The Mustang pulled beside them. From its passenger seat, her hand hanging out the window, Wanda spoke to the Senator. “You boys all right?” she asked.
“Just getting a few things straight,” the Senator said. “Don’t wait for us—we’ll be right along.”
Wanda slapped her hand on the side of the Mustang, and Tommy drove on. Jun Do caught a glimpse of Dr. Song in the backseat, but he couldn’t tell if the old man’s eyes were crinkled in fear or narrowed by betrayal.
“Here’s the thing,” the Senator said, and his eyes were locked into Jun Do’s. “Wanda says you’ve done some deeds, that there’s blood on your file. I invited you into my house. You slept in my bed, walked amongst my people, a killer. They tell me life isn’t worth much where you’re from, but all these people you met here, they mean an awful lot to me. I’ve dealt with killers before. In fact, I’ll only deal with you next time. But such dealings don’t take place unawares, such people don’t sit down to dinner with your wife, unbeknownst. So, Commander Ga, you can give a message direct to the Dear Leader, and this is on my letterhead. You tell him this kind of business is not appreciated. You tell him no boat is safe now. You tell him he’ll never see his precious toy again—he can kiss it good-bye.”