The Last Meeting

On December 19, Kijo went with Won Tae-sik, a department head at Cheongsan Heung-eop, to the Pyeonghwa Theater.

The house had belonged to Lim Hwa-soo, and lately it had been looking for a buyer. Cheongsan Heung-eop made films and had no theater of its own to show them in, so Kijo needed to buy one.

In the office he met Son Sam-sul, Lim Hwa-soo's wife, and his eye caught on the infant strapped to her back.

"What's the child's name?"

"Kwon Jeom-rye. She's two now."

The surname was Kwon, not Lim. Lim Hwa-soo's real name had been Kwon Jung-gak. The thought of the man, soon to be put to death, left a bad taste in Kijo's mouth.

"The theater's priced under market. Take it over and you won't lose money."

It did worse business than the other houses for no better reason than that it was Lim Hwa-soo's. And at the revolutionary tribunal he had protested his innocence while shoving his crimes onto the other defendants, which had soured people's opinion of him still further. It was a different posture from Lee Jeong-jae's, executed on the nineteenth of October. Lee Jeong-jae had claimed innocence of the charges against him, too, but he had not laid the blame on anyone else.

Won Tae-sik, who had come along, pressed the price lower still, on the grounds that the Pyeonghwa's fittings were so worn that putting them right would cost a fortune. Sam-sul looked at him.

"Uncle Tae-sik, isn't that a bit much? We're hardly strangers. You're being awfully cold."

Tae-sik ducked his head. He had always gotten along with the gangsters no matter the faction, and Sam-sul seemed to know him.

"The restrooms will have to be rebuilt and the seats replaced. We'll need an allowance for that."

Kijo said it in his place, and Sam-sul turned on him as well.

"You weren't a stranger to my husband either, were you, President Lee? You sold televisions in Dongdaemun. Isn't that so?"

"Yes. That's right."

He admitted it readily. Lim Hwa-soo's wife seemed sick to death of people whose manners had flipped the moment the world turned over. All through the fifties she had been received as a madam; now she was treated as a traitor's wife. He could see why she felt as she did.

"People are too much. They say that if a minister's dog dies, the mourners come — but when the minister himself dies, nobody shows."

Even as she said it, she brought out the seal for the bill of sale. The house in Nakwon-dong where she had lived with Lim Hwa-soo, and the Chunchoojang, had already been taken by the government, and she seemed desperate not to lose the Pyeonghwa as well. Once her husband was executed she feared it would be seized at once; better to sell beforehand.

She pressed the seal down hard. As she did, she wiped the corner of her eye. The death sentence, and the fall of the house, still seemed more than she could believe.

"That's everything, then?"

Kijo and Tae-sik looked the contract over in turn. She had stamped every place that called for a stamp.

"Eat well and live well. Now that you've driven Dr. Rhee out, I can't wait to see how splendid this country gets."

She seemed to hate the age, and to curse the people living in it.

After she had gone, Kijo and Tae-sik met the staff. Everyone who worked the house had gathered — the manager, the painter who lettered the movie boards, the ticket clerks, the barkers who worked the street. They were drawn tight. If the theater failed, or came down, they looked afraid of losing their livelihoods.

"We'll renovate and open again early next year. Everyone working here now will be kept on, so please throw yourselves into the work."

At that, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠relief broke over their faces — we're saved — and they applauded.

Tae-sik set about directing them with an easy hand. He had the painter letter a board announcing the temporary closing, sent the barkers out to advertise the renovation up and down the streets, and told the ushers that from now on they were to be kind to people. They all knew him, and they did as they were told.

With the sale finished, Kijo returned to Cheongsan headquarters. In two days Lim Hwa-soo would be dead, and Kwak Young-joo would be dead, and so would Choi In-gyu, the Minister of Home Affairs who had engineered the fraudulent election of March 15. Men who, in the trials just after the April 19 Revolution, had walked free or drawn only light sentences had been condemned to death after May 16. So this is how an age gets cleared away, Kijo thought.

Lunchtime was drawing near when a sound came from the secretarial office, and Hyeon-gyeong stepped into his.

"That madam is here, sir."

From the look on her face he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could guess who it was. He rose and went out himself.

Shin Ok-gyun, Kwak Young-joo's wife, was waiting. Kijo bowed.

"Welcome, madam. Please come in."

He received her exactly as he always had, no differently than in the days when Kwak Young-joo had ridden high. But she, unlike then, was drawn in on herself. He seated her on the sofa, brought tea, and sat across from her. She spoke with her head lowered.

"President, I'm sorry to come asking another favor. I think this will be the last..."

She could not lift her face.

"My husband has been sentenced to death, and even though we're family they won't allow a visit. They just keep putting it off, day after day. I know he committed a great crime. Please, just let us see him one last time. I beg you..."

Her voice was scraped raw. She did not weep as she once had. There were, perhaps, no tears left.

"These past few nights he's come to me in dreams and only says to look after the children. I don't have to see him myself. Just let our son see his father once more. Please."

She rose from the sofa and dropped to her knees on the floor. Kijo lifted her back up.

The execution would be carried out two days later, on the twenty-first. After tomorrow, Kwak Young-joo would no longer be a man of this world. Kijo disliked him, but the plight of his family was so pitiable that he could not feel easy about it.

"I'll look into it. I'll call on you at home before long."

"Thank you. Truly, thank you."

She spilled out no further tale. As if her husband's crime were her own, she only repeated that she was sorry, begged Kijo's pardon, and left.

He wanted Kwak Young-joo to see the faces of the people who were truly precious to him. The one who had cherished him most was not Mi-hyang, gone to France, nor Syngman Rhee in Hawaii.

He went at once to Seodaemun Prison. There was no time.

His request to see the warden was refused. The prison was packed to bursting with men of influence: senior officials of the Rhee government, locked up after the April 19 Uprising, and, since the May 16 coup, Chang Do-young and the rest of the so-called counterrevolutionary faction. Plenty of them had once thrown real weight around. Requests for visits could hardly have been few.

With no other choice, Kijo produced the paper warrant Chairman Park had given him and showed it. The official's manner changed at once.

"One moment, please."

The civil servant who had shot up from his chair and vanished came back all courtesy, and showed Kijo into the warden's office. The warden greeted him with a smile.

"I was curious what brought you to me."

Kijo came straight to it. He wanted to see Kwak Young-joo. The warden looked troubled.

"Well... that's..."

At a loss, he tried again.

"Could you give me a few days' grace? There's a situation..."

Kijo thought he knew what the situation was. The Shin Jeong-sik escape.

Shin Jeong-sik was a serious offender who, during the April 19 Revolution, had killed Choi Gi-tae — a student of Gyeongseong Electrical Technical High School, demonstrating in front of Lee Ki-poong's house — by striking him in the head with an iron hammer. While Shin was serving his time at Seodaemun, his wife, Lee Ok-ja, had come on a visit and secretly slipped him a pass. A suit had been smuggled in the day before. Changed into it, pass in hand, Shin Jeong-sik had walked out of the prison at his ease. He was caught fifty-two hours later, and from then on visits to those convicted of crimes from the April Revolution were forbidden. That, Kijo supposed, was why Shin Ok-gyun had been turned away, and why the warden was in a bind.

But he could not afford to let the matter drag.

"Telephone the Supreme Council. Five people know I carry this certificate, the Chairman among them."

He named them: Lee Seok-je, chairman of the Legislative and Judiciary Committee; Chae Myung-shin, chairman of the Inspection Committee; Oh Jeong-geun of Finance; and Park Tae-joon of Commerce and Industry. The warden begged his pardon and chose to confirm it by telephone. The man he called was Inspector Chae Myung-shin. Once they were connected and had spoken, the warden held out the receiver.

Kijo handed the receiver back. Having heard Chae Myung-shin, the warden at once called in a subordinate and ordered the visit prepared. Then he apologized.

"It isn't that I doubted you and had to check by phone. It's only that he's such a grave offender..."

"It's all right."

Kijo said it evenly.

He was waiting in the warden's office while the arrangements were made when a knock came. Park Tae-joon entered, and the warden rose to meet him. Tae-joon said that he, too, would have to see Kwak Young-joo, and produced a paper warrant of his own.

"The visit is nearly ready. Please wait just a moment."

While the warden stepped out to give the orders himself, Kijo asked:

"What brings you here, Commissioner Park?"

"Commissioner Chae told me. So I came."

"What business do you have with Kwak Young-joo...?"

"None with him. I was afraid you'd catch it from the Chairman."

"What?"

"Go in alone and he'll tear into you and only you, won't he? Demanding to know whether he gave you that warrant to spend it on something like this. But if I say I saw the man too, the scolding gets split in half, and you'll catch less of it. Isn't that so?"

Tae-joon grinned. He did not even ask why Kijo wanted the meeting. He was a loyal man.

When the preparations were finished, the two of them went to the visiting room. The moment they stepped in, Kwak Young-joo, in prison clothes, saw Kijo and his eyes went perfectly round. His face lit. He shot to his feet.

"Kijo, little brother — come in, come in. I've been waiting to see when you'd show. You..."

His voice broke.

"You, at least, will believe me. That I never gave the order to fire. I didn't. All I did was try to protect His Excellency. I only guarded Gyeongmudae by the book..."

Kijo said nothing. There was no hard proof that Kwak Young-joo had ordered the troops to fire on the demonstrators. Still, it seemed certain that if the crowd had forced its way into Gyeongmudae, he would have given exactly that order. Park Tae-joon, standing behind Kijo, seemed to dislike the excuse; he stood with his arms folded and his eyes shut.

Kijo said only what he had come to say.

"Brother, tomorrow I'll send your wife and the children here. See them. Talk with them."

"Yes! I'll do that. Thank you, Kijo. Truly, thank you."

His hands bound by the prisoner's rope, Kwak Young-joo wanted to take Kijo's. Kijo hesitated a moment, then reached out and gave it to him. Kwak wept as he spoke.

"Please, save me. Just put the execution off a few years and the truth will come out. The real man who gave the order to fire will turn up. I don't deserve to die. If I were dying for a crime I'd actually committed, I'd have nothing to say — but I didn't do it..."

The tears fell steadily as he pleaded. Kijo gripped his hand once, hard, and let it go.

"The debt I owe you, I'll repay to your family."

"Yes, Kijo. When that Pine Caterpillar General's crew — the ones out stealing timber — stormed your office, didn't I step in for you? I tried to set a rotten country right, too. People ought to know that. You tell them. I'm asking you."

Anxiety and frustration seemed to keep the words coming.

"When is His Excellency coming home? Do you know who's guarding him now? Has he said anything about me?"

He still fretted over Syngman Rhee — and seemed to hope that if Rhee bestirred himself, he himself might yet live. Kijo listened without a word. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠In the middle of the long, tumbling speech, Kwak suddenly broke into a piteous sob.

Kijo could not hold his eyes for long. The wasted face was too wretched to look at.

After begging for his life a while, Kwak wiped the tears and came back to himself.

"Even your coming like this is enough to thank you for. And letting me see my family — I'm grateful for that, too. I owe you a great deal. I'll repay that debt somehow."

As if ashamed of the ugly spectacle he had made, he pulled himself together.

"Brother, I'll be going."

Kijo stood. Sorry to see him leave, Kwak looked up with a wistful light in his eyes and reached out. The hand was trembling. Kijo took it lightly, then left the room.

Tae-joon, following him out, wore the look of a man sparing his words. To watch someone who had once lorded ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it over an age crash all the way to the bottom seemed to have left him heavy-hearted.

"They say no flower stays red for ten days. Power is just as fleeting. The only things that last, I think, are the people and the nation."

Kijo agreed. Power is brief. What remains is the country, and the people who live in it. Give your loyalty to power, and Kwak Young-joo was showing them what a man might do — and how he might end.