Read Online Your Republic Is Calling You by Young-Ha Kim, Chi-Young Kim - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Young-Ha Kim, Chi-Young Kim
Ads: Link
that this was the real Ki-yong.
In the spring of 1985, he went to a government office in Yongsan and renewed Kim Ki-yong's expired identity card, got fingerprinted, and received a brand-new card, assuming the identity of a man he'd never met. The North Korean mole stationed at the office was a dejected middle-aged man, not the young man impassioned with revolutionary fervor Ki-yong had expected. After the conclusion of their official business, they drank coffee in the hallway. The man addressed him in a nonchalant tone, "So you made it. I thought they had forgotten about me." He didn't seem all that pleased with Ki-yong appearing out of the blue. His tone was curt and rude.
"What do you mean 'forgot'?"
"It's been a while since a customer came by." The man glanced at Ki-yong. He stubbed out his cigarette in the sand on top of the trash can. "I've been meaning to go up but haven't had the chance."
"Do you still have someone over there?"
"Yeah."
"Who?"
"My mother lives near Sunan district in Pyongyang and my uncle is probably in Chongjin."
"I hope you'll be able to visit one day."
The man hawked and spat into the ash can. "If I go now, after all of this, will I be able to live happily? Is that possible?"
"What?"
The man's mouth twisted and he smiled as if to say, What does a kid like you know? He sighed. "Nothing. Good luck." He crushed the paper cup in his hand and tossed it in the trash can, then headed back into the office. He looked like a man who had seen all of his dreams and hopes sputter and managed only to survive, powered by the few drops of cynicism left in the bottom of his fuel can. Ennui dripped down his pant legs with his every step.
For Ki-yong, who had just graduated from the Operations Class of Kim Jong Il University of Political and Military Science, commonly called Liaison Office 130, the man's defeatist attitude was surprising. How could he live in enemy territory without being alert? How could he let go of his animosity toward the South, where the great enemy Chun Doo Hwan massacred thousands of people in Kwangju in broad daylight? Later, he realized the South specialized in lifelessness and defeatism. Indiscriminate weariness was prevalent. Ki-yong knew what ennui was, but this was the first time he personally observed it. At home, it was an abstract idea batted about when criticizing capitalism. Of course, there was ennui back home, too. But in a socialist society it was closer to boredom. And it was really a matter of inadequate motivation; a bit of stimulation could change the feeling of
boredom. But the prototypical capitalist ennui Ki-yong encountered for the first time in the South was heavy and voluminous. Like poisonous gas, it suffocated and suppressed life. Mere exposure to it prompted the growth of fear. Sometimes you encountered people who inspired in you an immediate primal caution, something that made you say, I don't want to live like that. That civil servant in the office had this effect on Ki-yong. He represented depression, emptiness, cynicism. Unattractive and dressed shabbily, the man triggered a feeling of discomfort in Ki-yong even though they spent only a few minutes together.
Ki-yong ended up seeing him again years later, in a completely different situation. It was the summer of 1999. A man wearing a red cape stood on a small wooden box in Chongnyangni station, screaming. The cape was embroidered with a black cross with a gold border, which made it look like a college cheerleading uniform from far away. Sweat trickled down his face and black flies buzzed around his head. Ki-yong stood in place, staring at him for a long time. The man had changed immensely. He was thinner and his eyes were glowing. In a reverberating voice, he boomed that the end of the world was near. How did the spy steeped in ennui become an eschatologist? Had he really become one? Frozen in the square, which was crisscrossed by prostitutes, cops, college students, and laborers, Ki-yong gawked at the
In the spring of 1985, he went to a government office in Yongsan and renewed Kim Ki-yong's expired identity card, got fingerprinted, and received a brand-new card, assuming the identity of a man he'd never met. The North Korean mole stationed at the office was a dejected middle-aged man, not the young man impassioned with revolutionary fervor Ki-yong had expected. After the conclusion of their official business, they drank coffee in the hallway. The man addressed him in a nonchalant tone, "So you made it. I thought they had forgotten about me." He didn't seem all that pleased with Ki-yong appearing out of the blue. His tone was curt and rude.
"What do you mean 'forgot'?"
"It's been a while since a customer came by." The man glanced at Ki-yong. He stubbed out his cigarette in the sand on top of the trash can. "I've been meaning to go up but haven't had the chance."
"Do you still have someone over there?"
"Yeah."
"Who?"
"My mother lives near Sunan district in Pyongyang and my uncle is probably in Chongjin."
"I hope you'll be able to visit one day."
The man hawked and spat into the ash can. "If I go now, after all of this, will I be able to live happily? Is that possible?"
"What?"
The man's mouth twisted and he smiled as if to say, What does a kid like you know? He sighed. "Nothing. Good luck." He crushed the paper cup in his hand and tossed it in the trash can, then headed back into the office. He looked like a man who had seen all of his dreams and hopes sputter and managed only to survive, powered by the few drops of cynicism left in the bottom of his fuel can. Ennui dripped down his pant legs with his every step.
For Ki-yong, who had just graduated from the Operations Class of Kim Jong Il University of Political and Military Science, commonly called Liaison Office 130, the man's defeatist attitude was surprising. How could he live in enemy territory without being alert? How could he let go of his animosity toward the South, where the great enemy Chun Doo Hwan massacred thousands of people in Kwangju in broad daylight? Later, he realized the South specialized in lifelessness and defeatism. Indiscriminate weariness was prevalent. Ki-yong knew what ennui was, but this was the first time he personally observed it. At home, it was an abstract idea batted about when criticizing capitalism. Of course, there was ennui back home, too. But in a socialist society it was closer to boredom. And it was really a matter of inadequate motivation; a bit of stimulation could change the feeling of
boredom. But the prototypical capitalist ennui Ki-yong encountered for the first time in the South was heavy and voluminous. Like poisonous gas, it suffocated and suppressed life. Mere exposure to it prompted the growth of fear. Sometimes you encountered people who inspired in you an immediate primal caution, something that made you say, I don't want to live like that. That civil servant in the office had this effect on Ki-yong. He represented depression, emptiness, cynicism. Unattractive and dressed shabbily, the man triggered a feeling of discomfort in Ki-yong even though they spent only a few minutes together.
Ki-yong ended up seeing him again years later, in a completely different situation. It was the summer of 1999. A man wearing a red cape stood on a small wooden box in Chongnyangni station, screaming. The cape was embroidered with a black cross with a gold border, which made it look like a college cheerleading uniform from far away. Sweat trickled down his face and black flies buzzed around his head. Ki-yong stood in place, staring at him for a long time. The man had changed immensely. He was thinner and his eyes were glowing. In a reverberating voice, he boomed that the end of the world was near. How did the spy steeped in ennui become an eschatologist? Had he really become one? Frozen in the square, which was crisscrossed by prostitutes, cops, college students, and laborers, Ki-yong gawked at the
Similar Books
