The Sorcerer of Pyongyang by Marcel Theroux

Author:Marcel Theroux
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2022-11-29T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

Jun-su unpacked his things and put them away in the drawers. He hung the new clothes that he still barely recognized as his in the huge walk-in closet.

When he’d finished, he picked up the remote control from the bedside table and switched on the television.

It was unlike any television he’d ever seen—and not just because of its extraordinary size and resemblance to a cinema screen.

The set that came to life on the wall of his bedroom had unfettered access to broadcasters beyond North Korea.

It had the BBC News, CNN, music channels, channels from Germany, Italy, and China—and, most eerie of all for Jun-su, channels from South Korea. As he watched, he wondered if, behind the scenes of prosperity and freedom on the screen, South Korea had labor camps where starving men were beaten to death for stealing food.

At noon, a maid knocked on his door and told him lunch would be served downstairs.

He ate alone, on a big glass table in an empty dining room. The meal was enormous—white rice, braised pork, a dozen vegetable side dishes—but the maid kept apologizing for its simplicity. She spoke halting Korean and the two of them had some difficulty communicating. Jun-su would eventually learn that most of the staff in his new residence were from Thailand and Vietnam.

Late in the afternoon, there was the sound of a car pulling up outside and voices in the hall. Sitting in the museum of guitars, reading a book about rock music in English that he’d found on a coffee table, Jun-su felt suddenly anxious. He stood up, sat down, and stood up again.

A woman in a black skirt suit entered the hallway. She was talking loudly on a mobile phone as she took off her shoes.

When she saw Jun-su, she blushed. “I’ve got to go,” she said, and ended her call.

“Hello, Su-ok,” said Jun-su. He marveled at how little she’d changed. During the years of his incarceration, he’d struggled to recall her face. Somehow he could only ever remember it piecemeal: her lips in profile, the smooth skin between her hairline and her temple, her warm, skeptical eyes.

“Hello, Jun-su,” she said. “Let me show you the garden.”

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