Woke Up Lonely A Novel - By Fiona Maazel Page 0,115

Pyongyang. The kind that molests the confidence of a heart called up from the minor leagues.

Next: a few hours in Kanggye, home to Plant 26, where many of the country’s nuclear aspirations are pursued underground.

Finally: Pyongyang. For the ride in, I’d upgraded my face and clothes to reflect the outsized prosperity of the city’s demographic, at least compared to the north. I wore leather pumps, which cost six months’ salary at the jangmadang, and notably false eyelashes, because augmentations of beauty meant wealth. Ah, irony: I was a Western woman wanting to look like a Korean who wanted to look Western.

56. We rolled in at noon to music pumped from loudspeakers at a square nearby. I think it was the anthem “No Motherland Without You,” in which one hundred men chorus Kim Jong-il’s glory to mesmerizing effect. With the trumpets, horns, voice of the people risen up as one, I left the station all in favor of the socialist state, too. The majesty of this place was undeniable—the giant courtyards, monuments, imperial architecture—and dwarfing of whatever private aspirations you woke up to. I bowed to the wind and headed south, toward the river. The music trailed off. We cannot live without you, Kim Jongil. Our country cannot exist without you. The people believe in you. It was a festive time to be in Pyongyang, close to the New Year, when the city dolls up. No power for most of the night, but plenty to train footlights on Kim Il-sung, whose likeness was cloned in statues across the country. A big guy, Kim Il-sung, or so the statues would have you believe. The chest is pumped; the gut is jut.

I moved on. Most roads are too wide to traverse if there’s traffic, which there never is, but still, you have to underpass your way across town. The city is almost as built underground as over. The metro is but a quarter of the action down there. Bunkers, escape routes, and residencies for when the shit hits—at 350 feet below ground, you can build most anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if the architecture under Cincinnati once looked to the North for inspiration.

57. Martin was waiting for me near the Chungsong Bridge, on a park bench by the water. We were conspicuous for being outside in this weather, but inconspicuous for the same reason: No one trying to hide would present themselves thus. Martin was too tall to make like a Korean, so we’d agreed on Russian Here for Business. We couldn’t talk for more than three minutes in the open, just enough time to discuss where he’d set up shop. He said I was late. He said he needed eight hours for our Glorious General Who Descended from Heaven face. I said we had six. He said Kim Jong-il was the hardest face we’d ever done. I said we had six, let’s go.

58. We reconvened in a café near the hotel district where foreigners are a common sight. The proprietress showed me to the basement without comment; she might have been more surprised if we’d sat down and ordered lunch. Martin had his gear arranged on a blanket. For light we had a kerosene lamp plus dapple from a window that gave us the shoe view from above. He sat me on the floor. Glorious General Kim Jong-il has four look-alikes in his employ, probably more. Some have had plastic surgery; others were just born with it. I had Martin. Martin plus six hours plus the high handicap of having to impersonate an impersonator, sartor resartus, which took the pressure off. Or so you’d think.

He said, “It’s Popsicles down here—how can you be sweating?” Nonplussed Martin. Swabbing my cheeks. “My fingers are numb. These conditions are terrible.”

“Get some tea.”

He snorted. “I don’t think we paid her to serve us.” Though, judging from the contraband all over the basement—like that aerial wasn’t snatching broadcast news from Seoul every night—the lady of the place did business of all kinds. “Just relax,” he said. “We’ve done this a thousand times.” He applied powder. Blew on my skin.

“Seriously,” he said. “Whatever it is, shut it down. I can’t work like this. You need to stop sweating.”

And what could I say? Was I supposed to tell him that, after all this, it seemed possible I might not be able to breathe in the shared car space of my ex-husband?

59. Eyes closed. And when they open, it is to a handheld mirror, eye level. Hello, I say. Greetings.