Camilla Lee
Monsters of Oslo, 1987
On Wednesdays, North Korean Agent Rhee had only one mission: to deliver a message to the Russian embassy in Oslo. He had spent Monday and Tuesday memorizing the coded twenty pages by heart. He would repeat it to Gleb, his contact there. They never exchanged small talks. It was all quite straightforward and simple, really. Nothing ever went wrong, and it was never supposed to.
As always, he took a tram from his embassy to the other side of Oslo, off Gamle Ringeriksvei Boulevard where the grim Russian building stood right next to the South Korean embassy. He often wondered if the Norwegian government had intentionally placed the South next door to the Russians, and the North quite near the Americans. Was this some arrangement to balance the political powers on its soil, or did they simply mix up the Republic of Korea from the Democratic People’s Republic, as most Westerners do? His supervisor, Comrade Koo, told him that those kinds of questions were unnecessary. The ride took forty minutes.
Winter was already settling in mid-October. Rhee glanced at his watch. Five minutes past two. The tram was empty apart from a few people slouched over the green plastic chairs. A teenager in front of him was listening to A-Ha on her Walkman: the melody buzzed from the large orange headphones. Earlier this year, the Norwegian group’s song Take on Me topped the charts all over Europe, and the catchy tune could be heard everywhere. Rhee was familiar with the song. In fact, he had to send a tape back for one of the high officials’ daughters. The official said the request was for research on socialism and pop songs, but they both knew it was an excuse.
He observed without surprise that he was the only Asian in the car. Although he sat with his back straight against the seat, he felt engulfed by tall Norwegians who gave him cursory glances. Only a few seemed to notice the tiny badge of the Great Leader Kim Il Sung’s grinning face pinned to the lapel of his dark green jacket. The pin was only taken off for cleaning and the cloth was compressed all around it.
Halfway through the journey, during which the pleasant cradling silence was only interrupted by a pre-recorded, lyrical female voice announcing the names of the approaching stops, the children entered the tram through the front. The two of them trailed behind a bunch of teenagers, scrambling aboard right before the door closed. As soon as he saw them, Rhee started to make his way towards the exit on the other end of the tram, almost tripping over a man who grunted as he let Rhee pass. But the door had already closed and the tram was lurching towards the next destination. Reluctant to return to his seat, Rhee turned sideways, grabbing a pole as to avoid facing the South Korean children.
Rhee had seen the girl and her younger brother a few times before, but usually at a later time. He had always managed to spot them before they entered the tram and escape unnoticed. He moved behind a woman and peeked sideways at them from his hiding place. They must have been let out of school early today.
Back home in Pyoung Yang, Rhee had a boy and girl also, similar in ages to them. His children attended a government-run dormitory school specifically designed for the offspring of agents. His wife could meet them once a month. His children were not like these South Korean ones, who stood tall, with apple cheeks shiny from good food and rosy from the cold. They wore sky blue Helly Hansen goose feather down coats, sturdy ankle-length duck boots, and carried backpacks with British School of Oslo, Norway stitched across the navy canvas. Underneath their open coats, they wore distinctive school uniforms in tartan patterns.
The younger one, the boy, wore a clip-on tie that he took off and played with, twirling it around his fingers. His sister, who seemed to be nine or ten, wore her hair in pigtails. One tail was always fatter and hung lower than the other. Her mother must be a fan of asymmetry, something his wife would not have tolerated in their children. Rhee noticed that one of the argyle knee socks had rolled all the way down to her ankle. He was annoyed at how she would not pull it back up and just leave it hanging loosely around her boot. He wanted to straighten it up for her. The children chatted loudly, clutching the handles of the seats with one hand and metal lunchboxes with the other. They seemed to want to sit together. The boy’s lunchbox had a picture of robots and the words Transformers in silver. The girl’s displayed a picture of a unicorn and My Little Pony.
“Joon, give me your tie. You are going to lose it like the last time and Daddy is going to get so mad at me,” said the girl.
“You are so bossy, Seia. I am not going to lose it,” replied Joon. He examined a stain on the tie that resembled tomato sauce, and stuffed it into his coat pocket.
“Let’s go to the back near the double seats,” Seia said suddenly, nudging Joon with her lunchbox. She stumbled towards the back of the tram. Rhee inched close to another man, but apparently his proximity had annoyed the Norwegian and his Scandinavian sense of personal space. The man stepped swiftly away from Rhee and shifted towards the front, leaving him exposed and facing the children. Seia’s eyes met his. At first, they lit up in a friendly way upon meeting a fellow Asian in a tram full of white people, but then they glanced down towards his Kim Il-Sung badge, and shot back in alarm.
“Oh, my God,” cried Seihwa in Korean. “Look, Joon, a North Korean!” The boy let out a shriek as if he’d seen a monster, and some passengers jerked their heads towards them and gave them puzzled glances. Seia grabbed Joon by his arm, shushing him.
“Ahnyoung ha se yo?” she bowed. Rhee bowed back. He turned and fixed his glance out the window at the passing rooftops of the houses along the boulevard. The tram stops were spaced several kilometers away from each other. He noticed familiar shops and statues outside. Most likely, the next stop was only a few minutes away.
“You should bow too, Joon, did you forget your manners?” Seia urged her brother, pressing the back of his head with her palm. The boy bowed, his eyes darting between Rhee’s stone face and the smiling badge.
“He looks just like us!” he hissed to his sister. Rhee sighed. Their anti-communist propagandas were not too different from North Korea’s anti-South-and-American-Capitalism campaigns. Each side called the other monsters. In fact, a few months ago, Koo had brought in a quite recent South Korean pamphlet and shown it to Rhee. The flier was dated from 1983 and depicted a story about some North Korean military spies who encountered a young boy and his family in a small village, deep in the rural mountains of South Korea. The spies slaughtered the boy and his entire family because he had bravely shouted anti-communist slogans at them. The story ended with a picture of the boy’s statue, located in some plaza, waving a flag. Under his feet, on the pedestal, was written: I hate Communists. They are monsters!
The tram lurched to a sudden stop. The kids screamed in unison. Joon grabbed Rhee’s arm for balance as Seia clutched his other arm. Rhee almost fell forward due to their combined weight. He could detect a whiff of children’s lotion as Joon’s head burrowed into his stomach.
“What is happening?” Joon asked. Rhee peered outside and saw that they had stopped in the middle of the tracks. He heard the male conductor announce something in Norwegian, and then in heavily-accented English. Rhee knew Russian, German, and some English, but the conductor spoke too fast for him.
“You North Koreans don’t learn English, right?” Seihwa asked with a cheeky smile. “He is saying that there is an accident causing a blockage on the tracks. He is saying all passengers must vacate the tram. Adults should accompany minors out the door.” Her grip on his arm became firmer.
The conductor, a giant over six feet, walked over to the back of the tram. He nodded to the three little Asians and said in English, this time slowly,
“Children stay close to your father, jah?”
Rhee almost objected to the conductor but stopped himself. Comrade Koo’s voice echoed in his head: “When in public, do not draw attention to yourself. Never be part of a scene. Be invisible.”
“He thinks this man is our father!” Joon said in Korean to Seia.
“We now have a North Korean friend!” squealed Seia.
Rhee cleared his throat. The trio joined the passengers towards the front door, where the conductor was counting them as they evacuated the tram. It must be a Norwegian safety procedure.
Rhee said in Korean, “Little Comrades, we must say good bye once we are outside. I am sure you have places to go to.” Joon’s grip weakened, but Seihwa held on to his wrist like a spider.
“If you shake us off, I will scream,” she said.
“What? Why would you do that? I am actually going to North Korea today. Do you want to come with me?” Rhee asked, trying to remain calm.
“No. You lie. We know you are going to the Russian embassy. Everyone at the South Korean embassy knows that. My father told me that once a month a person with Kim Il Sung badge visits the place. We know that all North Korean ‘diplomats’ are actually agents. I am going to scream in English and say that you are trying to hurt us. Or, scream that you are my father but trying to abandon us.”
Rhee swallowed and said, “Little Comrade, nobody is going to believe that. Also, adults can definitely tell when children lie. You will get into trouble. You will be punished. Why are you doing this? What do you want?” He worked out in his head how fast he could shake them off and dash away. Yes, he could run, but that would most likely raise a scene. What if the Norwegians really think that an Asian father was abandoning his kids? These people were always weirdly interfering with what they considered to be a human rights violation or world peace. What if someone tried to block him? He could punch the person and escape, but that would be an assault and cause a scene. He shook his head, scattering the thoughts, and addressed the bourgeois devil-children.
“You have nothing to gain from clinging onto me. Your father will not find this funny. He will be sent back to South Korea because of you.”
“Oh, are you going to enter our embassy and tell him? Isn’t that defecting? Listen, why don’t you buy us sweets and we will let you go? Hey, Joon, stop looking over there. Hold on tight to this nice…Uncle,” Seia replied.
Rhee knew exactly how much he had in his wallet. 540 Krone. His entire fortune since he did not own a bank account. Forty
Krone was for his own use and 500 was a fund allocated by Comrade Koo for a one-way cab fare back to the North Korean embassy. This money was not to be used unless there was some kind of emergency that required him to return as soon as possible.
When they stepped off the tram, the cold wind slapped his face. The trio crossed the road towards the pavement with the other passengers. Some started walking towards the direction of the next tram stop. Others walked on to wherever their destinations lay. No one paid attention to them. If he suddenly bolted—
As if reading his thoughts, Seia tightened her grip using both hands. Her fingers interlocked over his thin wrist.
“Where is this candy store?” Rhee asked.
“I know exactly where to find one,” Seia answered promptly. “I know every single candy store on this route. There is one right at the corner of this block.”
“Don’t your parents give you money for treats?”
“We spent all our weekly allowance two days ago,” she replied.
“On candies!” chipped in Joon.
“If I buy you one candy each, will you let me go?” he asked. They nodded. “You will not follow me, call out for me, or pretend to know me in public? Not just for today, but also in the future?” Both nodded vigorously.
Rhee had sampled the heavenly Norwegian candies at a different store before. One summer day, on his way back, he had noticed how there was always a candy store near a tram stop. He had slipped into one out of curiosity, and felt guilty about it afterwards. But he did not confess to Comrade Koo during their weekly self-reflection.
On that day, when the bronze bells attached to the store’s door jingled as he opened it, he almost bolted the other way. Luckily, there was only one customer in the store, a small blond child with red ribbons. As the shop owner served her, Rhee had stood waiting his turn, taken aback by the abundance and beauty of the interior. The wall-to-wall wooden shelves behind the counter were stacked with large glass jars filled with rainbow-colored gummies, rock candies, chocolates, cookies, and licorice. In all shapes, colors, and sizes. The owner, a gruff old man with a goatee, scooped the candies using an elegant silver serving spoon or grabbed them using golden claw-shaped tongs. He measured them on a bronze scale, wrapped them in triangle-shaped paper bags, fastened them with red wool strings, and mumbled the price.
At the time, Rhee bought just two gummies shaped like feet and three pink candies in the shape of watermelon slices. He saved the pink ones for his children. They remained hidden in the apartment that he shared with Comrade Koo, in the dresser, inside one of his socks, still in the original bag. It displeased the owner that Rhee bought only a few items, but he wrapped them carefully nonetheless, wool strings and all. He did not even measure them on a scale but had muttered, his eyes transfixed on the Kim Il Sung badge, “Five Krone.” Rhee handed over the bills in silence, and hurried out of the store without saying Tak, the bells singing after him.
As Seia and Joon tugged him down the street, Rhee thought about the 540 Krone in his wallet, folded twice and nestled next to his identification card, along with a black and white photograph of his son and daughter. He looked down at the two monsters wrapped around each wrist, and wondered how long it might take him to snap their necks.
