‘She’s from Yanbian,’ the manager said softly. ‘She didn’t
catch your
meaning.’
‘Bullshit. People her age from Yanbian speak Mandarin perfectly well
these days. She didn’t understand me. She’s North Korean.’
‘She’s Korean-Chinese,’ the manager said, with a firm smile. ‘I do
apologize for the mistake. Let me bring you
each a packet of cigarettes,
with our compliments.’
This seemed to calm him down and he dropped the matter.
Later the manager told me that some customers behaved like pigs in
order to get something for free. She told me not to feel upset.
She had not suspected that the man was right.
I fell into a routine. I arrived for work at 8.30 a.m. to set tables, fill salt
shakers
and soy sauce bottles, and waited on tables all day until the last
customers left at 10 p.m. The restaurant was open every day and the
waitresses got one day off each month. It was hard work, but I didn’t mind.
I was proud that I’d solved my problem by myself, even if my situation was
still far from secure. For the first time in my life I had some independence. I
had some money of my own. My Mandarin improved rapidly. I returned to
the dorm after work each evening so exhausted that I’d drop off straight
away. I got used to the nightmares. They still repeated, on an endless loop,
night after night.
The four waitresses who shared the dorm were friendly and talkative, but
I was guarded about what I revealed, especially to the two who were from
Yanbian. One slip, and they might easily guess the truth about me. Despite
this, one of these girls intrigued me, and we became friends. Her name was
Ji-woo. She was putting herself through
a business studies degree at
Dongbei University in Shenyang, and paying her way with waitressing.
This impressed me so much. The only other young person I’d met in China
who’d been through higher education was Geun-soo, but he’d been such an
indifferent student he couldn’t even describe for me what he’d studied. Ji-
woo was fun and intelligent, and like me, loved fashion. I wanted to learn
what she was learning about business models, but her textbooks seemed so
difficult. Several times I was tempted to tell her my secret, but each time a
warning voice in my head said,
Don’t.
I was getting used to another new name. Ji-hae, Min-young, Mi-ran were
behind me. My name was now Soon-hyang and I wore it like a new bud.
After a few months waiting tables, I was assigned to the cash register. I
was good at handling money. My monthly wage was now 500 yuan ($60).
My goal was to save enough for the journey to Changbai. From there I
would try to make contact with my mother and Min-ho.
I was enjoying the job. The people who came to the restaurant fascinated
me. I found
myself observing customers, trying to guess their stories. I
started to see that the world was far less conventional than I’d ever
imagined in North Korea. People were complex and diverse. Many
lifestyles and choices were possible.
As my life became more settled, the memory of how I’d run away from my
uncle and aunt’s troubled me. I’d fled without even leaving them a note.
They had been kind to me. How could I have been so disrespectful? I
realized that a note would have required explaining my feelings, and I was
not accustomed to doing that. Few North Koreans are.
After about six months, in December 2000, I called them from a street
phone. Aunt Sang-hee answered. ‘Mi-ran,’ she said in a gasp. Even she had
forgotten my real name. Once she’d got over her shock I could hear the
conflict
in her voice, between relief, concern for me, and wounded pride.
‘You humiliated us,’ she said. ‘You’re our family. Running away like that
made us all look bad.’
‘I’m so sorry. I couldn’t go through with it.’
She wanted to know where I was. I told her I was waitressing and doing
fine. She invited me to visit, but I sensed that the hurt I had caused was still
raw. I would leave it a while.
‘Don’t you want to know what happened to Geun-soo?’ she said.
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘You must call the family to apologize.’
I brooded about this for two days, but I knew I had to do it. Several times
I started punching in the number only for my courage to fail me at the last
second. Finally, I made the call. Mrs Jang answered. I couldn’t talk at first.
My mouth had gone dry. She was about to hang up when I said: ‘It’s Mi-
ran.’
‘Oh, my God.’ There was a long pause. ‘Where are you?’
I could picture her gesturing furiously to the sisters.
It’s her.
I thought she would be hissing with fury,
but her voice was cool and
controlled. To my great surprise she said: ‘Please come back, Mi-ran. For
my son’s sake. He’s not the same. He’s been very depressed since you left.’
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