MyungBo couldn’t explain all of this to JungHo, uneducated as he was. But it was clear that he was intelligent in his own way, having survived the unthinkable while leading his underlings, who were as loyal to him as a pack of wolves. MyungBo had always trusted first impressions, and he saw something very rare in JungHo’s plain, unremarkable face. It was the exact quality that MyungBo sought the most from people—honesty.
MyungBo had long been fascinated by how nearly everyone considered themselves honest. People were wonderfully clever and subtle when they needed to rationalize their actions, and so quick-witted that they didn’t even realize they were fooling themselves. But JungHo somehow was different. The young man was obviously capable of hurting people without even pausing for breath. There was very little in the way of checks and balances in him. But he would never betray people—and that was the main reason he seemed so unlike almost everyone else. This straightforwardness, combined with his raw and compulsive energy, was the reason followers flocked to JungHo and trusted him with their lives.
MyungBo sat up straighter, drawing a deep breath. “Have you heard of Russia, Mr. JungHo? Though it feels far away, our country shares a border with it in the North.”
“I’m from the North—of course I know that,” JungHo said. “I’ve met some Yankees and the Chinese, but never anyone from Russia. Do they look like us, or like the Yankees?”
“It depends. When I went to Russia, I saw many people who looked Eastern and had golden skin and black hair—not so different from us—and others who looked like Europeans, with big blue eyes and light hair.”
“That bearded fellow up there.” JungHo pointed at the framed photograph on the wall. “He looks sort of queer, almost half Eastern and half European. Is he Russian?”
“Ah, yes.” MyungBo smiled sadly. “He is Russian, and I’ve had the honor to meet him in Moscow before he passed away. His name was Vladimir Lenin. I will have to tell you more about him next time you visit. Soon, I hope.”
“Master Lee, I can see that you’re a good person—I really do,” JungHo said, shaking his head. “But I am not trying to save the country, or anyone else, really. What does that have to do with me? It’s the gentry like you who have brought us to this point, so you can figure out how to get us out of this mess. I only care about how my brothers and I can make some money.”
MyungBo sighed, resting his eyes on the sideboard and collecting his thoughts. “People think they want money, but generally I find that they actually want something else,” he said slowly, thinking of SungSoo and other wealthy men in their circles. “They say that being rich is their goal, because that feels safer to admit than what they actually wish for . . . Do you understand what I mean?”
In amazement, JungHo stared at his host’s weathered yet appealing face. The younger man blushed again, this time at having his deepest secret being laid bare.
“I can also see that you’re a good person, Mr. JungHo,” MyungBo continued. “If you and your friends would work for me and my cause, I can’t guarantee that you will become rich, but you will likely get whatever you actually need to be happy. And that’s not anything money can buy.”
At MyungBo’s last word, Jade’s image again flashed before JungHo’s eyes. He was surprised how everything MyungBo was saying made so much sense. Not communism, Russia, Japan, or Korea, ideas and maps that had no bearing on him, but attaining true happiness. In the heart of his heart, JungHo only wished to share his life with someone who loved him. Without having explained himself, he felt that MyungBo would appreciate and even respect this wish. He had never felt so understood by anyone, let alone a stranger he had just met for the first time. If someone as genuine, intelligent, and powerful as MyungBo couldn’t lead him to what he wanted, no one else could.
“So what is it that you have to do to become a Communist?” JungHo asked.
14
Some Men Are Good and Some Men Are Bad
1925
AFTER THE CURTAIN FELL, JADE RETURNED TO HER DRESSING ROOM and sank down on the tufted settee, surrounded by flowers. She sat very still and heavy for a few minutes, languishing in the fatigue that overtook her at the end of every performance. Gathering a bit of energy, she pulled on the ribbon of her snug traditional blouse and shrugged it off her shoulders. Unlacing the chima pressing down on her chest allowed her to inhale deeply, and feeling more relaxed, she plucked a rose from the nearest bouquet and breathed in its fragrance.