When the Junma left port again, they had new portraits of the Great and Dear Leaders Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il. They had a new galley table, and they also had a new commode, for it was not right for a hero to shit in a bucket, though heroes of North Korea have endured far worse and done so without complaint. They also had a new DPRK flag, which they lowered eleven kilometers from shore.
The Captain was in high spirits. On deck was a new locker, and with a foot upon it, he called the crew together. From the locker, he first produced a hand grenade. “This,” he said, “I have been given in the event the Americans return. I am to drop it in the aft hold and scuttle our dear ship the Junma.”
Jun Do’s eyes went wide. “Why not drop it in the engine room?”
The Machinist gave him a screw you look.
The Captain then threw the grenade into the sea, where it made not so much as a zip as it went under the surface. To Jun Do, he said, “Don’t worry, I would have knocked first.” The Captain kicked open the locker to reveal an inflatable life raft, clearly taken out of an old Soviet passenger jet. It had once been orange, but was now faded to a dull peach, and next to its red handle was an ominous warning against smoking during deployment. “After the grenade goes off, and our beloved vessel slips below the waves, I have been ordered to deploy this, lest we lose the life of our resident hero. I don’t have to tell you the trust that has been placed in us to receive such a gift.”
The Second Mate stepped forward, almost as if he was afraid of the thing, to inspect the Cyrillic writing. “It’s bigger than the other one,” he said.
“A whole planeload of people could fit in that raft,” the Machinist told him. “Or the greatness of one hero.”
“Yeah,” the First Mate said. “I for one would be honored to tread water next to a raft that contained a true Hero of the Eternal Revolution.”
But the Captain wasn’t done. “And I figure it is time to make the Third Mate an official member of our crew.” He withdrew from his pocket a folded piece of waxed paper. Within this were nine fine sewing needles, cauterized together. The tips of the needles were blackened from many tattooings. “I’m no Russian,” he told Jun Do, “but you’ll see I became pretty handy at this. And here we don’t even have to worry about the ink freezing.”
In the galley, they reclined Jun Do upon the table and had him take off his shirt. When the Pilot saw Jun Do’s naked chest, he said, “Ah, a virgin,” and everyone laughed.
“Look,” Jun Do said, “I’m not so sure about this. I’m not even married.”
“Relax,” the Captain said. “I’m going to give you the most beautiful wife in the world.”
While the Pilot and the First Mate flipped through the calendar of the actress Sun Moon, the Captain sprinkled his powdered ink into a spoon and mixed it with drops of water until it was just wetter than paste. The calendar had hung for a long time in the pilothouse, but Jun Do had never really given it much attention because it reeked of the patriotism that came over the loudspeakers. He’d only ever glimpsed a couple of movies in his life, and those were Chinese war movies his unit was shown during bad weather days in the military. Certainly there’d been posters around for Sun Moon’s movies, but they must not have seemed to apply to him. Now, watching the First Mate and Pilot flip through the movie posters, discussing which one had the best image and expression for a tattoo, he was jealous of the way they recalled famous scenes and lines of North Korea’s national actress. He noted a depth and sadness in Sun Moon’s eyes, the faint lines around them bespeaking a resoluteness in the face of loss, and it took everything in him to suppress the memory of Rumina. And then the idea of a portrait, of any person, placed over your heart, forever, seemed irresistible. How was it that we didn’t walk around with every person who mattered tattooed on us forever? And then Jun Do remembered that he had no one that mattered to him, which was why his tattoo would be of an actress he’d never seen, taken from a calendar at the helm of a fishing boat.
“If she’s such a famous actress,” Jun Do said, “then everyone in North Korea will recognize her and know she’s not my wife.”
“The tattoo,” the Captain said, “is for the Americans and South Koreans. To them, it will simply be a female face.”
“Honestly,” Jun Do said. “I don’t even know why you guys do this, what’s the point of tattooing your wife’s face on your chest?”
The Second Mate said, “Because you’re a fisherman, that’s why.”
“So they can identify your body,” the Pilot said.
The quiet Machinist said, “So that whenever you think of her, there she is.”
“Oh, that sounds noble,” the First Mate said. “But it’s to give the wives peace of mind. They think no other woman will sleep with a man who has such a tattoo, but there are ways of course, there are girls.”
“There is only one reason,” the Captain said. “It’s because it places her in your heart forever.”
Jun Do thought about that. A childish question came to him, one that marked him as someone who had never known any kind of love. “Are you placing Sun Moon in my heart forever?” he asked.
“Oh, our young Third Mate,” the Captain said, smiling to the others. “She’s an actress. When you see her movies, that’s not really her. Those are just characters she plays.”
Jun Do said, “I haven’t seen her movies.”
“There you go, then,” the Captain said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“What kind of name is Sun Moon?” Jun Do asked.
“I guess she’s a celebrity,” the Captain said. “Maybe all the yangbans in Pyongyang have strange names.”
They selected an image from Tyrants Asunder. It was a head shot, and instead of staring duty-bound toward a distant imperialist army or looking up to Mount Paektu for guidance, Sun Moon here regarded the viewer with a reverence for all they would have lost together by the time the final movie credits rolled.
The Pilot held the calendar steady, and the Captain began with her eyes. He had a good technique—he’d draw the needles backward, teasing them in and out of the skin with the kind of shimmy you use to cinch a bosun’s knot. That way the pain was less, and the needle tips went in at an angle, anchoring the ink. The Captain used a wet rag to wash away stray ink and blood.
As he worked, the Captain wondered aloud to himself. “What should the Third Mate know of his new wife?” he mused. “Her beauty is obvious. She is from Pyongyang, a place none of us will ever see. She was discovered by the Dear Leader himself and cast in A True Daughter of the Country, the first North Korean movie. How old was she then?”
“Sixteen,” the First Mate said.
“That sounds about right,” the Pilot said. “How old are you?” he asked the Second Mate.
“Twenty.”
“Twenty,” the Pilot said. “That movie was made the year you were born.”
The roll of the ship seemed not to bother the Captain at all. “She was the darling of the Dear Leader, and she was the only actress. No one else could star in a movie, and this went on for years. Also, despite her beauty, or because of it, the Dear Leader would not allow her to marry, so that all of her roles were only roles, as she did not know herself of love.”
“But then came Commander Ga,” said the Machinist.
“Then came Commander Ga,” the Captain repeated in the absent way of someone lost in fine details. “Yes, he is the reason you don’t have to worry about Sun Moon being placed too deeply in your heart.”
Jun Do had heard of Commander Ga—he was practically preached in the military as a man who’d led six assassination missions into South Korea, won the Golden Belt in taekwondo, and purged the Army of all the homosexuals.
The Second Mate said, “Commander Ga even fought a bear.”
“I’m not so sure about that part,” the Captain said, outlining the subtle contours of Sun Moon’s neck. “When Commander Ga went to Japan and beat Kimura, everyone knew that upon his return to Pyongyang, he would name his prize. The Dear Leader made him Minister of Prison Mines, which is a coveted position, as there is no work to be done. But Commander Ga demanded possession of the actress Sun Moon. Time passed, there was trouble in the capital. Finally, the Dear Leader bitterly relented. The couple married, had two children, and now Sun Moon is remote and melancholy and alone.”
Everyone went quiet when the Captain said this, and Jun Do suddenly felt for her.
The Second Mate threw him a pained look. “Is that true?” he asked. “Do you know that’s how she ended up?”
“That’s how all wives end up,” the Captain said.