“Look, cosmoses. They are supposed to die when the first frost comes, but this year they stayed in bloom for you,” Dani said. “I always said that this was Luna’s flower. So sweet, and stronger than it looks. Didn’t I once tell you that a bouquet of cosmoses is more beautiful than any other flower?” She tied the stems together with a string and a sash and placed the bouquet in Luna’s soft hands. “It is perfect. Perfect beauty,” Dani muttered, and the women around them sniffled and wiped at their eyes.
*
THE HUNDRED STONE STEPS LEADING up to the cathedral were thinly powdered with snow. JungHo kept his eyes on his feet. The climb, which would have invigorated him in normal circumstances, now only made him feel sullenly that everything in life was both taxing and dangerous. The day before, he had been severely reprimanded by his mentor for the very first time.
Under the tightening noose of surveillance, it had been impossible for MyungBo to go out and meet people. He was simply too prominent in society—even people who were not spying on him intentionally could notice him and spread gossip. So he had asked JungHo to take on the kind of job that was only given to the most trusted and respected members of their organization.
“I need you to go speak to President Ma on behalf of our mission, and win him over as one of our supporters,” MyungBo had said, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Aside from his theater and production company, he is also one of only three Korean owners of a chemical factory in the entire country. As one of our biggest issues is securing arms, he could do so much for our cause. But I don’t know where his loyalty lies—from our acquaintance years ago, I only know that he is extremely self-possessed, even proud. You must be very careful when you speak to him.”
JungHo had nodded and reassured his mentor heartily. He had been trained by MyungBo for years, not just in letters but also in speech, manners, Marx and Lenin, imperialism, the universal rights of human beings, and even a little Japanese. Feeling himself beyond ready, he headed straight to President Ma’s mansion.
A few minutes after JungHo rang the bell, a servant opened the gate by just a foot and peered out.
“Scram! We don’t need the likes of you around here,” the servant said, and then immediately shut the gate. JungHo hadn’t had time to say even a word of his carefully rehearsed speech, and his confusion turned to anger as he started abusing the bell. Several more minutes passed, and then there was the clanking sound of the gate being unlocked once more.
“What the hell are you still doing here? We’re not a poorhouse,” the servant said, setting aside the door a little wider this time.
“I’m not a beggar.” JungHo felt his face burn. “I’m here as a representative of the Honorable Lee MyungBo sunsengnim.” Calmness and peace returned to him as he said his mentor’s name, as if it were an incantation.
“Lee Myung who? We don’t know a man by that name in this household.” The servant laughed, opening his thin-lipped mouth and revealing a set of grayish teeth. The sight of this loathsome creature disrespecting his mentor was too much for JungHo. All MyungBo’s advice and precautions left him in an instant, leaving only blind rage. JungHo grabbed him by the collar like a ragdoll and thrashed him on the ground. Leaving the servant whimpering on the spot, JungHo walked straight into President Ma’s study unimpeded. The businessman looked up from his desk in an expression of shock, which turned to utter contempt as JungHo clumsily recited his speech about contributing to their heroic fight for freedom. Even as he spoke, he was painfully aware that it had sounded so much better in his head. The words rushing out of his mouth bore little resemblance to MyungBo’s eloquence, and even knowing this he felt unable to stop himself. The only recourse was to get through it.
“Are you finished talking?” President Ma said at the end of JungHo’s rambling. From his impassive face, it was hard to tell whether he was moved, frightened, or angered, and JungHo hesitated to speak again. Without waiting for an answer, President Ma picked up his phone and said into the receiver, “Operator, Jongno Police Station please.”
JungHo panicked and lunged at the phone, but the older man held on to the receiver with a surprising grip. “You think you can lay a finger on me? Try, you dirty dog. But the police will be here before you can even wipe the blood on your hands.”
JungHo had no choice but to run out of the mansion as quickly as possible. His heart pounded like it would leap out of his body, not from the fear of the police but from the humiliation and disappointment of failing his first big task. Ever since, MyungBo had been on high alert—the police hadn’t knocked on their door yet, but it could just be a deliberate delay to gather more evidence. The only thing that gave JungHo a sliver of hope was the fact that he had forgotten to mention MyungBo’s name in his speech to President Ma, and the servant was probably too stupid to remember it.