“Maybe.”
“First, there could be a smooth transition to new leadership. That’s what Kim keeps harping on. He’s obsessed with it. So, let’s say Kim’s people do take over, that they don’t screw up more than normal, and that no one around here cares. That’s bad for the Chinese; Pang’s ghost is unhappy and restless, but unless they want to use force, there’s nothing Beijing can do about it.”
Kang thought about it. “Unlikely.”
“Sure it’s unlikely. I didn’t say it was likely, did I? I said it was possible. The reason it won’t happen is because there are too many people who-dissatisfied or not with what they have right now-aren’t ready to bend over and take what the South Koreans are going to give them. The second possibility is more likely. It’s what we might call transition interruptus. That’s Latin. The Pope uses it.”
Kang put his hands together.
“From what I can tell and a few things I read, Pang’s people have plans to move in so quickly that no one knows what hit them. That will be very bad for Kim, bad enough for him to lose his pension. Seoul would be furious but hapless, completely paralyzed.”
“I’d say this second scenario is also unlikely.”
“So would I, because it wouldn’t take more than a week for people up here to decide that even if they’re hungry they don’t want Chinese food every night. They’ll become sullen and from there they’ll go active. It will be messy and the Chinese don’t like mess, so they will bail out as quickly as they can.”
“Give me something likely, will you?”
“Third choice, someone pops up out of nowhere. That’s actually very common and I’d say likely. A skunk colonel decides his star has risen, and that he is tired of listening to old men. Everyone connected with Kim or Pang is eliminated, either in bed or over dessert. That is also very common. Then the whole thing starts over again. In the end, it’s not the worst outcome for Pang’s people; they can live with more of the same. Zhao is terribly unhappy; too bad for him. Kim is unhappy; too bad for him. The Russian in the northeast is found dead of food poisoning-Chinese fish.”
“You figured this out on your own?”
“I had a little help.”
“There’s only one problem, Inspector. You still don’t know what you don’t know. And what you don’t know makes none of it plausible.”
“Irrational, implausible. Who cares? You’re missing the point. What am I going to do about it?”
“What are you going to do about it?” Kang moved around some silverware. “Excuse me, I thought this was about history and the future of tens of millions of people. But no, obviously, it is not. It is about you.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. You know what I meant.”
“No, actually, I don’t know what you meant. I’m beginning to think I made a mistake by getting you involved.” He picked up the spoon and the knife and moved them off to one side together. “When we first met years ago, Inspector, I said I’d been watching you for a long time.”
“We were on the phone. I remember because the operator was playing games with me. You suggested we meet at the Koryo Hotel.”
Kang applauded softly. “Very good, Inspector. What else do you remember?”
“Everyone was watching me in those days, it seemed. People in my sector used to say they always knew when I was around. Streets became busy; sidewalks filled with surveillance teams jostling each other. Sometimes I would turn around and the whole line would trip over itself trying to duck into doorways.”
“Only I wasn’t in that line. Keeping track of where you went or who you saw didn’t interest me. I needed to find out who you became, to watch for signs that the seeds your grandfather planted took root. It was partially his idea.”
There was no sound; it happened silently, in an instant. The past shattered and was gone.
“I didn’t know your grandfather very well. We only met a few times. He told me you had potential, but that it would be slow to show up. Like one of the old gingko trees on the temple grounds, he said.”
I heard Kang, I knew he was telling the truth, but I wasn’t at the table with him. I was above it, hovering, watching autumn’s cruelest trick-the emptiness at the end of time. This was the betrayal. This was the lie, the only lie that could have torn my self from my being, and I never imagined it. I never saw it coming.
“No,” I heard my voice. “I’ll bet what he said was, ‘You’ve got to look at a tree, listen to it, see how it grew, before you know how to use the wood.’ I know how his mind worked. And now?” I was back in the chair. I made sure to sound calm. The core of my existence was suddenly gone, but I could be calm. At least I could preserve that much dignity. “Do you think the time has come to harvest the lumber? What should I become? A writing desk, on which you can sign orders for executions?”
Kang kept his eyes on me. They were lazy, his body slack, still the bear watching the rabbit.
“Or no, not a desk. That’s too obvious. I know! Let’s make me into a table on which to spread the victory meal. Oak is fine for that, better than gingko. Did my grandfather tell you I was to be an oak plank?” I laughed, and that was my mistake. The laughter split the calm in two, and out of the breach slipped a murderous anger I thought I had given up a long time ago. My entire existence nothing but the whim of an old man who had lost his son? Raised for what? No better than my brother mindlessly following sacred political texts, worse than him for believing I was different. Trained, shaped, pruned-why? To be an instrument of what hand, to hold what weapon, to slay what hope in the name of what myth? “Elm! That’s it! I should have known. Elm might split if used too soon. It has to be seasoned.” I held up a hand, my right hand, the one I used to sand the wooden cars and boats smooth to the touch. The hand was old, veined, bent; surely it was not mine. “Tell me, was that part of the plan as well, to wait until I was seasoned?” I picked up a knife from the table and sliced my flesh. “A miter cut is what he always suggested. Makes a strong joint, he would say.” The knife was very dull. I sliced my arm again.
“O!” Kang leaped from the chair and grabbed for the knife.
I jerked it away from him. A little blood came down my arm, not much. “Trees are passive. But I am not. Trees are forgiving. But I am not, not anymore. Do you think I don’t realize what this means?” I laughed again. Another mistake. More anger poured through, it widened the breach. “Let me tell you a story.”
“Not right now.” Kang looked at my arm. “We have other things to worry about.”
“Wrong again. Again and again and again.” I began shaking, shouting, bellowing like an ox, blood boiling, heat burning away shields built during nights of terrible fear. “This is a story of betrayal. It is vast, Kang, and so very complicated.” I knew what I had to say. I didn’t know all the words, but I knew where they would lead.