A Dream of Lights (2 page)

My hands flew over my mouth then over my ears. I strode away and then back. I couldn’t believe he dared even
think
the words coming out of his mouth. I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want those thoughts and words in my head, corrupting me with reactionary lies, challenging my faith in my country, our Fatherland. What he was saying was a crime against the state, an insult to the authority of the leadership that he could be arrested for. That it was my duty to report him for. That
I
could be arrested for if I didn’t.

“I’ve wanted to share this with you for so long, what I think, really I have. For years your grandfather’s been telling your mother that you’re old enough to understand and to know not to say anything. But how could I? You had to believe it all, as if it was all true, every word. If you repeated anything I told you at school, we could all have been killed, the whole family, you too.”

I put my hands over my ears again. “No,” I hissed. “No, I don’t want to hear it. Don’t say it. Don’t. Don’t.”

He pulled my hands away. “Think of that place from your dream, think how different it was from here. It’s real, Yoora, it’s real.”

I closed my eyes so I couldn’t see him, but still he had hold of my wrists and I couldn’t stop his words. So I sang, I recited, over and over –

“
Our future and hope depend on you

The People’s fate depends on you

Comrade Kim Jong Il!

We are unable to survive without you!
”

“Yoora, stop it! Listen to me!” Father hissed.

I kept on chanting, but still I could hear his lies.

“There are places better than this in the world – people aren’t starving everywhere, people are happier. Feel that ache of hunger in your stomach, and the cold pulling at your face, and remember the last time you saw Kim Jong Il on television, a big, fat, round man, with clothes that look new, and a warm furry hat on his head.”

He put a hand gently over my mouth, and I stopped singing.

“You are my daughter, and I can feel the bones in your arms and legs. I can count your ribs, reach my hands round your waist. But I have no more food to give you. In the mornings while you sleep, I stare at your pale skin and your blue lips, and I rest my hand on your face and feel the cold of it, but I don’t have enough fuel to keep you warm. And I can’t get you a new coat or an extra blanket, or even a pair of socks with no holes. And it makes me want to cry. And it’s all because of that man.”

I stared at Father. At his eyes glistening as they filled with tears, at the love I could see in his face as moonlight filtered through the trees and dappled his skin.

So deluded.

“No,” I said, taking his hand away from my mouth and wriggling from his grip. “You’re wrong. It’s because of you. If you worked harder, were a better citizen, then He’d provide us with more food and vouchers to exchange for clothes. It’s not His fault the floods came and washed away so many crops.” I turned and marched towards home, the lamp swinging in my hand.

“What floods?” Father demanded, following me out of the trees.

“The floods in other parts of the country. And He told us about the American capitalists and the Japanese imperialists, how it’s their fault too that we’re hungry and cold and tired. All we need to do is what He tells us – eat two meals a day instead of three; work harder, longer hours; be better citizens.”

“What do you know about the Americans or Japanese apart from the lies you’ve been told at school? Do as He says, do as He tells you, believe what He speaks – it’s all you’ve ever lived by. It’s not your fault. But I’m trying to tell you it’s not right, it’s not true.”

I stopped again and turned to him. “If that place is real, then how did it get in my head?”

He stared at me for too long. Then, without a word, he shook his head.

“I should report you,” I hissed, and I stormed away from him and didn’t look back.

I heard him come into the room that night as I lay under my blankets, but I didn’t turn round to say goodnight. My eyes were closed as I listened to him climb into his bed and pull the covers up around him, but sleep was far from me. I was tired and my head ached, but just as Kim Jong Il’s voice echoed round our house unbidden, so did my father’s in my head. There was no turning it off, no turning it down and no ignoring it.

My body trembled with cold, my stomach grumbled with hunger, and darkness swirled and moved around me, dancing in front of my eyes. And over the background of Father’s shocking words, my own came again and again –
How could he even think that of our Dear Leader? How could he question Him?

And the loudest –
I should report him.

I remembered, back at school, all the songs and poems, teachings and rhymes I had learnt by heart from nursery through to my last year, things that were unrecognisable to me as anything but truth: unquestionable and sacred.

“
Loyalty and devotion are the supreme qualities of a revolutionary.
”

“
We have nothing to envy in this world.
” But what about Father’s loyalty and devotion? And why would
anyone
question what we lived by? Why would anyone not believe?

But Father didn’t.

I should report him
, I thought again.
He should be taken away for re-education, to learn again how good our Dear Leader is, how to follow Him, to do what is right by Him.

And I remembered all the stories too, that we had been taught about our Dear Leader; how when He was born a bright star appeared in the sky, and a double rainbow, and a swallow flew down from heaven declaring the birth of a general who would rule all the world; that His mere presence could make flowers bloom and snow melt; that when His rule of our nation began it caused trees to grow and a rare albino sea cucumber to be caught.

How can Father not believe those stories?
I thought.

For a second, just a second, my head was clear and I stopped.

I told myself the stories again, but this time I really listened and really heard the words, better than I had ever done before, and whether because of the stories or Father’s words or the images from my dream, I allowed the smallest grain of something to settle in my head. Not of doubt, or disbelief. No. It was more like curiosity, or a desire to understand, a continuation of something that had begun a year earlier, when I met Sook.

That, for me and for my family, was the beginning of the end.

One year earlier

Winters were long and cold, came fast and left slow. Every year school stopped for four months from November until the beginning of spring, yet still our days were filled, with homework – books about the childhood of our Dear Leader to learn by heart, quotas of paper or of metal to collect for recycling – or jobs for my parents, searching for food to bulk out our rations.

There was little time to do anything else, and little else to do.

The year before my dream, which we called Juche 97 – ninety-seven years since the birth of our Great Leader, Kim Il Sung – was the harshest winter even my grandfather could remember. We struggled through every day of it, waiting for spring to come while we watched helplessly as the cold made victims not only of our crops, but also of our neighbours. Too many times we dug into the frozen soil to bury our dead.

It was drawing into December and I stepped from my bed with feeble sunlight straining through the ice on the inside of the windows behind me, the cold clawing at me, icy and damp and unwelcoming. I pulled long socks up my legs, a jumper over my head, watching Father rushing to relight the fire, his body shaking through his layers of clothing.

We were the first up, my mother and grandparents waiting for some warmth to slide across our two rooms before their strained faces emerged from their blankets and duvets. A little while later I stepped from the house into air so cold it hurt your skin like a million needles and made your eyes stream, and I longed for spring and the summer following, the warmth of sunlight on my face, green shoots in the ground promising food, coloured petals opening into a smile.

I walked across the village towards the public toilets in near silence, a metal bucket swinging in one hand, an old spade and a pick in the other, listening to the crunch of stones under my feet, the breeze rustling at bare tree branches and my breath heavy in my ears. No birdsong – it was too cold – and no cars roaring or buses rumbling.

I loved the quiet, the calm and the stillness; no awkwardness to it, just spacious and free; and I loved the countryside, even in winter with its covering of frost over empty fields of mud, rows of houses with wisps of smoke from their chimneys, leading off into the sky and over the tops of trees.

It was rough and it was basic, but it was home and it was beautiful.

It was Monday, my usual day for collecting night soil, a time I liked because I knew no one else would be up yet. But that day, as I turned the corner, someone else was already standing there, his legs stretched over the ditch, his head bent low, his hands scrabbling at chunks of frozen faeces. I stared at him, not believing quite how tall he was, or how filled out his face was, or how developed his muscles looked, how bright his skin. Or, as he glanced up at me and smiled, how friendly, how content and at ease he seemed to be.

Most of us children of whatever age – no,
all
of us – were slender verging on skinny, were short to the point of being stunted, had skin that was dry and hair that was brittle, nails broken, muscles thin.

He stood upright, and I looked away from him quickly, not wanting him to know I was watching.

“Hello,” he said, inclining his head.

I gave a courteous smile and a slow nod back, but didn’t look up to meet his eyes. I moved to the ditch closest to me, trying to think who he was. I didn’t recognise him, didn’t know him from school, couldn’t place him in the village, what house he lived in or who his parents were. I couldn’t understand how he looked so healthy, where he could be getting food from.

He must be an excellent citizen
, I thought.
And his family too.

I rested my bucket nearby, my shovel next to it, and lifted my pick, swinging it in my hands, crashing it down.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said. “We never had to.”

I tried not to frown, didn’t understand why he wouldn’t have had to do this. “It doesn’t smell as bad when it’s frozen,” I offered, “but it takes longer.”

We continued in silence, and occasionally I risked a glance upwards, stopping to catch my breath, rubbing my aching back, watching his arms. With those muscles, they should’ve been so much more capable than mine, but they seemed surprisingly weak. My eyes drifted across the village and I noticed a woman watching me – someone else I didn’t recognise. As I struggled to lift the pick above my head and bring it down into the ditches of frozen excrement, her eyes never strayed from me. And it wasn’t until I’d finished, when I’d thrown the last lump into the bucket, bringing the level to the top, that she unfolded her arms and walked away.

First this strange boy
, I thought,
and now a peculiar woman
.

“Can I walk with you?” the boy asked. “I’m not sure where to go.”

I stared at him. A simple request. A few words. But it felt like more. I nodded my reply, though, and we struggled down the path, alongside the fields and away towards the buildings, and I watched his feet walking, his fingers stretching round the handle of the bucket, and I listened to his laboured breathing next to me.

I was an innocent fifteen, had never had a boyfriend, never kissed, never held hands, or even thought that way about anyone. I didn’t know about sex, or how babies were made. We had no dating culture, just marriages, arranged usually through parents. Our Dear Leader gave special instruction that men should marry at thirty, women at twenty-eight, and children should be had only in marriage.

But as I walked with this unknown boy, I felt the possibility of something – something I didn’t understand.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice warm in the cold air, “why do we have to do this?”

My heart smiled at his naivety. “They use it as fertiliser for the crops,” I replied, my own voice quiet and trembling with nerves. “Every family provides a bucketful each week, then it’s defrosted and spread on the fields. But we don’t have any toilets at home.” I shrugged, took a breath, gathered my thoughts and glanced again at his face. “We used to be given a chit in exchange. Then when we handed the chit over, we’d be given food. But that doesn’t happen any more.”

“Why?”

I paused a moment. I’d never thought why. “I don’t think there is much,” I replied. “Food, that is.” But the second the words were out, I regretted them. What would he think I was saying about our Dear Leader? That He couldn’t provide for us, the Father of our Nation? I hadn’t intended that meaning, but I didn’t know who this person was; he could be a spy, reporting back those not faithful, who would then be arrested and disappear. All for an innocent comment misconstrued.

“Because of the floods and the cold weather,” I said. “And the bastard Americans,” I added for good measure.

He nodded.

I wanted to ask him where he’d come from. Why he was here. What life was like outside the village. Who his parents were. What they did. If he knew that woman who’d been watching me. But I didn’t dare.

I struggled along with my bucket and spade and pick, my fingers stiff from the cold and the metal handle of the bucket burning my skin. Every now and then I sensed the boy’s head turn and his eyes rest upon me.

We reached the building without another word and it was strange, not because it felt awkward, but the opposite; because the silence between us didn’t feel empty, it felt comfortable and natural, like there was no need to speak.

Our buckets were emptied when we arrived, our chits, despite them being unnecessary, were given and together we wandered out.

“My name’s Sook,” he said, tilting his head towards me.

“Yoora,” I replied.

He smiled, and I watched his eyes flit over me. “You look hungry.”

I didn’t reply. Weren’t we all?

“Here,” he said and pulled his hand from deep inside a trouser pocket.

My eyes struggled against the cold, trying to focus, frowning at a bun sitting in his palm. I shook my head. Nobody,
nobody
, gave food away for free. “I can’t take that,” I said.

“Please,” he whispered.

“But… where did you get it? The… the markets are miles away and you’d need a permit to go… and…”

“My mother bakes them. Then sells them.”

“But I don’t have any money.” I knew how valuable it was, was sure she’d miss even one.

“Just take it,” he said.

I reached out my hand, my fingers long, stretching, daring, and I didn’t care who his mother was or where she got the ingredients from or whether this was going to get me into trouble or not. I just saw food, and I just wanted to eat.

Hunger does strange things to a person, and I had been hungry for a long time.

I held the bun in my fingers, turned away from Sook and lifted it to my mouth and nose, closed my eyes and smelt it, stretched out my tongue and touched the crust, gently. My mouth watered and slowly, slowly I sank my teeth into it.

It was so good.

“I have to go,” I heard him say. “My mother will be expecting me.”

I turned to him, not chewing, just holding the piece of bun in my mouth, enjoying it for as long as possible.

“I live up there.” He pointed to the biggest house in the village, with far more rooms than the two we had. I knew the house: it used to have an orchard in the back before the village kids destroyed it looking for apples, stripping off the fruit and the leaves and the bark and everything. It had been empty since the last family were taken away for treachery. “We moved in yesterday,” he said.

He paused a second and I watched him look left and right and back to me. “Meet me sometime,” he whispered.

My eyes shot to him.

“After the sun’s gone down.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I simply stared at him, not believing what he’d said. But I caught movement behind him and I saw her, the woman from earlier. She was marching towards us, her black hair scraped away from her face, her hooded eyes piercing.

I didn’t stop to reply, or wait to see who she was, or what she wanted. Instead I muttered an apology, spun round and walked away.

I headed home thinking of my family: my mother and father who would be going to work, both thin and tired, hardworking despite the hunger in their bellies that was never sated. I thought of my grandparents: at home all day, too old, too weak to work, their skin stretched like old leather across their bones, their eyes hollow with sadness and disappointment, my grandfather’s stomach growling with hunger like a beast inside slowly dying.

I should share this bun with them
, I thought, staring at it in my hand.
But how can I explain where it came from? What will they think?

I took a guilty bite, and another, and before I even realised, there was too little for me to take home. So I finished it, and it was wonderful: the anticipation as I lifted it to my mouth, my senses screaming as I sank my teeth into it, that wonderful thick feeling as it slid down my throat. I missed proper food so much, couldn’t remember what a full stomach felt like, or what it was like to not be hungry.

When I neared the house I could hear voices, low and mumbling, lifting and dropping again, and I slowed my pace, trying to make out what they were saying as they spoke over each other. I stepped closer, resting my hand on the door. The wood creaked.

The voices stopped, and I stood for a moment, waiting for someone to speak again. But nothing came. I took a breath, steadied my face and stepped into the house.

The tension was palpable; my mother standing next to a cupboard, pushing the drawer shut as she watched me, my father at the fireplace, my grandparents seated at the table. I felt their eyes, all of them, upon me, all with the question behind them –
What did she hear?
But the guilt I was trying to hide was from eating the bun all by myself, not from overhearing their conversation. Yet I knew for the first time, as I stood watching them, that
something
, some secret, was being shared in my house, only it was not being shared with me.

It scared me.

“I’ve met somebody new in the village,” I said, hoping for the tension to ease. “He lives up in the big house.” I looked around, expecting curious glances and inquisitive faces, but instead saw my father fidget, heard my grandfather’s intake of breath, saw their eyes shoot to each other, and my mother’s almost imperceptible shake of her head.

“Stay away from him,” hissed my grandmother, her eyes narrowing at me as if they could see the smile he’d brought to my face earlier. “We don’t have any business with them. Remember your place, Yoora.”

Uncomfortable, I looked away, and saw my grandfather’s eyes drop. “His mother’s the new
Inminbanjang
,” he whispered.

“What?” I asked, staring at him.

But my mother was marching towards him, wagging her finger in his face. “No,” she whispered. “She doesn’t need to know. She’s only fifteen.”

“Know what?” I whispered back.

Over her shoulder my grandfather was shaking his head, and I could hear his mutterings. “Fifteen. She’s nearly a woman. She leaves school this year. She’s old enough to know the truth, and to be trusted. She
should
know.” Calmly he stood up, tucking the chair under the table and striding from the house. Nobody stopped him. Nobody said a word.