Princess Bari (3 page)

I made it through the typhoid fever, but for several years, right up until I started school, I remained frail. I started hearing things I hadn't heard before and seeing things that weren't there before. That was also when I started communicating with our mute sister, Sook. Jung, the fourth-oldest, and Sook, the fifth, were only a year apart and were always at each other's throats. It was the same with Hyun and me – as she was the second-youngest after me, I never bothered treating her like an older sister and she was always irritated with me because of it. Jin, Sun and Mi were much older than the rest of us, and they were bigger too. After all, a good three years separated Mi and the next one down, Jung. Anyway, Hyun and I were both treated like babies by everyone else, but Jung and Sook were awkwardly positioned in the family. Whenever an errand had to be run, it always fell to them. Between the two of them, Jung was the easier mark. Since Sook couldn't talk, there was a limit to what she could be ordered to do. For instance, if you told them to run down to the greengrocer at the bottom of the hill and bring back some tofu and green onions, Jung would push her bottom lip out and glare menacingly at Sook.

“I get stuck having to do everything because of
her
.”

Because she couldn't communicate through words, Sook was short-tempered. She would get along with everyone fine for a while, doing what she was told, but the moment she lost her temper she was ripping out clumps of hair and kicking in stomachs – big sister, little sister, none of that mattered when she was on the attack. For that reason, our parents did their best to treat Jung and Sook equally. When they bought us clothes, Jung and Sook were given identical styles and patterns, and even pencils were doled out in identical sets of three.

One morning, my sisters were running around getting ready for school, taking turns going to the toilet, washing their faces and combing their hair when Sook began to shriek. Her face turned bright red from screaming, but since she couldn't speak, no one knew what was wrong. She was holding something in her hand and shaking it: a single scorched trainer. It seemed that the trainer, which had been washed the night before and set on top of the warm, wood-burning stove to dry, had fallen in front of the open flames. Naturally, Sook and Jung wore identical blue trainers. Clever Jung had snatched up the unscathed pair and put them on, claiming they were hers, and left the burned shoe where she'd found it. Sook threw the burned shoe and hurled herself at Jung, grabbing her around the waist and tackling her. Jung squirmed and struggled as Sook pulled the undamaged shoes off Jung's feet. That was her way of saying they were hers. Unwilling to admit defeat, Jung bit her arm. Their screaming and crying shook the whole neighbourhood. Father, who was steaming with anger, changed his mind about leaving for work and made them line up at the edge of the
twenmaru
so he could take a switch to their calves.

“Not a moment's peace in this house on account of you two girls!”

The morning had been ruined for everyone; the entire family stood and watched as Father hit the girls on the calves with the switch. But right then, I heard Sook's voice inside my head:
But it
was
Jung's. Her shoes were on top of the stove. Mine were by the gate. The neighbour's cat has been sneaking into the kitchen to steal dried fish. I saw the cat run off with one last night.
I unconsciously babbled these words, which were buzzing in my ears. Father paused and Grandmother went to check the top of the cupboard next to the stove.

“What happened to that dried pollock I was planning to add to the soup?” she asked.

Relieved, Mother grabbed the switch away from Father and said: “See? It's the cat's fault.”

Father muttered something about “too many damn girls killing me with all this racket” as he picked up his files and documents one by one and left for work, while Grandmother comforted Jung and Sook.

“Why don't we ask your father to buy you two some new shoes on his way home from work? Hurry on to school now.”

After my sisters had all gone, and I was the only one left at home, Mother said: “Well, that was strange. How did she figure out what Sook was trying to say?”

“What'd I tell you? Our Bari inherited the gift.”

Mother blanched.

“Please,” she said, “don't ever mention those old wives' tales of yours in front of their father.”

O
ne day, I think around the time I started school, Hindungi met up with a boy dog and got pregnant, despite being, as Grandmother put it, well into her old-lady years. The grown-ups all clucked their tongues and exclaimed what a disgrace it was, but Hindungi strutted about the courtyard, her sagging belly and teats swaying. She gave birth late one winter night when no one was looking. We were all lying in a row beneath the blankets when we overheard Grandmother and Mother whispering outside the door.

“How many are there?” Grandmother asked.

“One … two … three … What the –!
Seven!
”

“Will wonders never cease? They say flowers can bloom on an old tree, and sure enough this old granny's had herself seven babies.”

The next morning, before Mother could come in, pull back our blankets and smack us on the butt to tell us to hurry, get up, get ready for school, we all rose at once as if on cue. Some of us rushed to change clothes first while the others spilled out into the courtyard in our long underwear. As we crowded in front of the doghouse like a school of minnows at the water's edge, fighting over who would get to stick her face in the tiny doorway first, Hindungi – who had always been so gentle with us – stuck her head out the doorway, bared her teeth and growled. Mother warned us to back away.

“Give her space. She's worried you'll hurt her babies.”

When my older sisters took a hesitant step back, I saw my chance to get a peek inside, so I crouched down in front of the doghouse. Then, with my mouth firmly shut, I spoke inside my head:
It's me. Bari. The seventh. Don't worry. I just wanted to see my little brothers and sisters.

Then, would you believe it? Hindungi staggered to her feet and stepped right out of the doghouse. The puppies, so tiny they could have fit inside my own tiny hand, were clustered together with their eyes shut tight on scraps of straw sacks. I stuck my hand into that warm puppy pile, gently pulled one out and cradled it against my chest. I could feel its heart beating softly against my fingertips.
So you're the seventh one too, just like me
, I thought.

I was so engrossed with the puppy in my arms that I forgot anyone else was even there. When I finally looked back, Mother, Grandmother and all my sisters were standing in a semi-circle around me, staring silently down at the puppy and me. Even Father was standing at the edge of the
twenmaru
in a daze, but then he broke the silence.

“Don't tell me they're all girls, too.”

“Hey, hey,” Grandmother shook a broom at him. “Don't ruin the morning with your grumbling.”

My sisters went back to arguing and crowding around the doorway to the doghouse, but Hindungi growled and blocked them with her body. Jung raised her hand as if to hit the dog.

“You stupid dog, why are you playing favourites?”

Hindungi got angrier and started to bark loudly. I put the puppy I was holding back in the doghouse.

I'll keep you safe
, I said inside my head.

Hindungi went back into the doghouse, tucked her babies between her legs and lay with her body curled around them. I could hear Jin, my oldest sister, muttering behind me: “Bari is so weird. Now she's talking to dogs?”

No one had anything to say to that; at some point, they had all caught on to the fact that there was something different about me. But no one, not even Mother and Father, ever said anything out loud about my behaviour, because Grandmother would glare at them and take my side. That day stands out in my memory, but how I met Chilsung – the youngest of Hindungi's litter – is only part of the story. You see, that was also the day our mother's brother came to town.

Hyun and I were playing marbles in the courtyard when the wooden gate cracked open and someone stuck their head in and peered around. We took one look at that grown-up head, with its shaved hair on top of what had to be a very tall, gangly body, and we flung the marbles away and drew back to the far end of the
twenmaru
. Hyun was so scared that, although she refused to admit it later after we were all grown up, I was sure I saw pee trickling down her calves.

“Hey kids, where's your mother?”

Undaunted, I took a step forward and demanded: “Who're you?”

He peered around the courtyard some more and then stuck his whole upper body inside the gate.

“Assuming this is the right house, I might be your uncle.”

Mother, who'd been preparing dinner, stepped out of the kitchen as if on cue and ran over with her arms open.

“
Aigo
, look who's here! When did you get into town? Are you on leave?”

At last our uncle stepped all the way into the courtyard, clasped our mother's outstretched hands and gave them a shake.

“I'm out of the army now. How's my brother-in-law …?”

“He'll be home soon. Come sit.”

He was dressed in an old, faded work uniform and carried a canvas rucksack and an accordion. Before following our mother into the house, he gave each of us, still cowering in fright, a rough tousle on the head. He probably meant for it to be an affectionate pat, but it made me angry. Much better were the gifts that came out of his rucksack later, but first he stuck his hand in his pocket and snickered.

“I picked up something for you on the way here.”

Our uncle opened his hand and a black something or other leaped out at us. I took a few steps back, but Hyun fell right on her butt and shrieked.

On the ground next to her was a huge toad the size of a grown man's fist. Its eyes bulging like brass bells, it inflated its throat and let out a loud
gwaak! gwaak!
. I grabbed Hyun under the armpits and dragged her away – her eyes had rolled up inside her head, and the whites were showing. Mother ran over and scooped Hyun up into her arms.

“Just got here, and already you're causing trouble! When're you going to grow up?” Our uncle snorted with laughter and tousled my hair again. Later, when he handed out the military hardtack and jawbreakers he had stuffed in his rucksack to us as a show of apology and reconciliation, Hyun refused to eat any of it and sat as far away from him as possible. Even when he gave an exciting performance on the accordion in a second attempt to befriend his little nieces, Hyun would only watch indifferently from the other side of the door.

Our uncle lived with us for several months until he found a job, and I got to know him a little better. He was good at the accordion. He was well known back in secondary school for his performances in the school band, and even in the army, instead of having to do labour, he was sent from base to base to perform propaganda songs for the soldiers. Every time he leaned up against the wall of the house and played his accordion, one leg splayed and stamping out a rhythm against the ground, all the neighbourhood kids came swarming. His eyes would flutter as he lost himself in the music, shoulders rising and falling as he filled the bellows with air and pushed it out again. Our father would take one look at that and grumble to Mother:

“He's got no sense. Who'd want to employ a joker like him?”

“Someone will. Everyone says he's bright and has a good personality.”

With Father's help and the recommendations of several members of our neighbourhood unit, our uncle got a job at a trading company.

During my second year in school, things started to go downhill. It wasn't just our family but the entire city of Chongjin. The grown-ups whispered among themselves that even Pyongyang was worse off than it had ever been. The cookies and candies that had been distributed to children on every holiday and at every memorial were, of course, cut off, and our rations of white rice were mixed with chopped-up corn until the rice gradually ran out; there were more and more months when we received only corn.

Oh! I have to tell you what happened to Hindungi, her puppies and little Chilsung. I told you that Hindungi had seven babies. Well, despite our attempts to stop her, our mother couldn't stand the sight of those squirming pups, so she put them in a basket to take to market. I happened to be coming home from school just as she was leaving, and I clung to the basket with both hands and shook my head and cried.

“No, you can't!”

“Child, how are we supposed to raise
seven
dogs? I've got my hands full already trying to keep you girls fed.”

“Grandma, stop her!”

Grandmother came running out and tried to calm us down: “How about if we keep just one dog and sell the others?”

I chose Chilsung because he and I had been friends from the start. Mother tried to snatch him back, but Grandmother put her arm around my shoulders and turned me away from her. The whole time our mother was collecting the puppies, Hindungi lay slumped in her doghouse and didn't budge. They were ready to be weaned, after all, and besides, Hindungi knew it was coming.

One day, around the time that Chilsung's legs had just grown long and his ears were standing up, Mama Hindungi disappeared. Of course, by that I mean that Mother and Grandmother gave her to someone, not that she left on her own. Hindungi was moving sluggishly with age and had some kind of skin disorder: the hair on her rump had fallen out and the pink skin underneath was showing. Bathing the dog in water used to boil adzuki beans was supposed to help, but by then we were well into the days when rice cakes piled high with the sweet mashed beans were a thing of the past, so how were we supposed to find so much as a single adzuki bean? I no longer resent my uncle, but back then, after hearing that he was the one who'd dragged Hindungi away, I stopped offering him any nice words in response to anything he tried to say to me. (That wasn't the only reason. It didn't happen until much later, but he was also the reason our family got split up.) Grandmother told me what happened when Hindungi left.

“Your uncle said he would give her to some men he works with. She must be at least fifteen years old now – that's a long life for a dog. How can we bear to watch her suffer? So I told him to take her. When your uncle put the rope leash on her, she fought it and dug in her heels. I stroked her head to calm her down and told her: ‘You're sick. He's taking you somewhere to make you all better, so go on.' That's when she gave in and tottered after him. But she kept looking back at me after every few steps.”

When we heard that Hindungi had followed our uncle because Grandmother told her he was taking her to get healed, but still had to be dragged away because she suspected it wasn't true, my sisters and I turned our backs on our grandmother and burst into tears. There was no mystery about what middle-aged men planned to do with an old dog. They would gather on a riverbank somewhere, pass around bottles of cheap
soju
, light a bonfire, fill a big iron pot with water and get it boiling as they laughed and cackled …

Fortunately, we still had Chilsung. Grandmother had named him after the seven stars in the Big Dipper, because he was the seventh pup, just like me. He took his mother's place in the old doghouse, and from then on luck began to smile on us. Of course, it wasn't all good news: our uncle got out of the army and came back. Jin got married and moved to Wonsan, and Sun enlisted in the army, which was good – but the best thing by far that happened to us was that our father got promoted and we moved into a new house. Mother and Grandmother were so delighted that they never once got annoyed while packing our things. They went along with whatever Father wanted and didn't raise their voices at us either.

Chongjin had always been known as the best city to live in. The high mountains that surrounded the city like a folding screen blocked the cold north winds and kept us in firewood, wild greens, and all kinds of fruit; delicious rice grew in fields fed by the Suseong Stream, which never dried up even during the worst droughts; and the waters were rich with seafood, which was why, whenever I told people from other parts of the country that I was from Chongjin, they said: “Ah, you grew up in Paradise.”

But best of all, it wasn't too far from the border, which meant there was a frequent exchange of goods, and even ordinary citizens could easily get their hands on things from the outside world. Sons and daughters who'd moved to other parts of the country after getting married used to send word to their families in Chongjin asking them to buy various things for them from over the border. But once rumours started going around that the Soviet Union had collapsed some years earlier, the grown-ups began whispering about the poor shape the Republic was in. Chongjin had it better than other cities, though not as good as Pyongyang, of course; even so, there were times when rations were cut off for two months and then three months, and shabbily dressed people who'd left the countryside in search of food began showing up in the market streets.

Father became a vice chairman in Musan. The city of Musan produced a lot of iron ore and coal and various minerals, and our mother boasted proudly over and over that there was no one better suited than our father at trading the seafood that came out of Chongjin and the minerals that came out of Musan with China in exchange for food. That was probably because Father had worked in the trade sector since he was young and, as Grandmother liked to brag, Chinese and Russian flowed from his mouth like water.

The Party chartered a truck to haul our belongings to Chongjin Station, but in fact our luggage was minimal given the size of our family. All we had packed was bedding, a big bundle of clothes, pots and pans and the like. As the company housing came furnished with cupboards and wardrobes, we gave those items to our neighbours and asked our uncle to sell the electrical appliances, such as our fan, refrigerator and black-and-white television. According to our uncle, Father would be posted right on the border, so we would be able to buy the latest models very cheaply. The truck was necessary simply because there were so many of us.