He drives the car, unused to traveling such a long distance unaccompanied. His memory flashes to many places; sitting alongside Gwang Boem on many an assignment—to the pleasant accompaniment of Se-Ri as driver or passenger since they became entangled in this lockdown. It is common for him to travel, as need be, between the chalet and his classrooms—or the NK hostel students, but those are trivial distances comparatively.
This is a trip of three hours, today, and he chooses against public transport, though it is available. He is feeling wary in his NK-mindset-still, even after all the passed time—and would rather not find himself tracked easily to his destination, prefers to avoid CCTVs and ID checks.
He thinks of his farewell to Se-Ri, back now at the chalet, once more ensconced in the workings of Se-Ri's Choice and a host of MicroSoft Teams meetings and civic approvals needed for her new boutique shop in the village. He gives each of the dogs a head rub that borders on roughhousing as they circle about her on the front deck area of the chalet.
Nearly an entire week since their return, he finds it necessary to make use of a guest lecturer in order to cobble together enough time for this unexpected long weekend. As Se-Ri sees him off on his way, sunshine and summer conspire to get them both squinting, and, dizzy, she tumbles-perhaps more easily than usual-into his arms, and an unexpected embrace. The proximity to her lifeforce, the smell of her hair, the sparks as always in her eyes, and his kiss goodbye morphs in response, more impassioned than he has permitted himself since their time in the borrowed cottage. There is a momentary pivot, a birthed intensity like that of a soldier, headed for war and privation. But even that pivot cannot become insistent, with any immediate follow-through available to it, neither does she try to make hers so. Time, and the burden of things yet to be resolved, still hang like a weighted curtain between them—but a translucent one, thankfully. One, thankfully, through which they can still comprehend each other, still be present for.
In the car, knee close beside the gearshift, he feels a burning flare with the memory of that farewell, settled somewhere around the perimeter of his mouth. In reaction he brings his fingers off the shift's knob and up to his lips. He considers many things, easily thinking them through and over again, and again, as his three-hour travel time allows.
He thinks of Se-Ri's kept doctor appointment, the waiting room an unfamiliar place packed with women's magazines, free samples, pregnant bellies and fresh newborns in carriers, the occasional grandmother. He cannot say how well he might fit into such a space, but he finds an intrigue to it—an interest at the very least. After Se-Ri's exam (which she attends alone) they find themselves in a true office—desk and bookshelves and all—along with the doctor. She praises Se-Ri for having brought him, her partner, and outlines a series of possible contraceptives so rapidly and efficiently his head (and possibly Se-Ri's) is left swimming from the speedy influx of Swiss German and unfamiliar medical terms. The doctor mentions everything from vasectomy for him to various implants for Se-Ri, and it seems most other options in-between.
He thinks of the collection of pamphlets Se-Ri was given to take away with her, for them to consult in their decision. They're now within the front flat pocket of his luggage, even though he will educate himself by looking up their topics on Korean-language medical websites, in hopes of gaining best comprehension in the matter.
He has brought them along because he knows whether they come with him or he leaves them behind, their content—their intent—hangs about his mind either way. His trip is for a short visit with Eliaz, a friend he has reconnected with from his time here at university. Eliaz (real name Ilya) a Russian organist from near Vladivostok, had been the rare fellow student able in some ways to understand something of what being from NK and studying abroad might be like, while the bulk of Jeong-Hyeok's other classmates could not have readily recalled that he was even from there. And he certainly hadn't wished to remind them.
Eliaz has likewise found himself away from his homeland and under lockdown travel restrictions—though he has been a Swiss resident happily for many years now, a wife and family to his credit—and, a passion for the organ so pronounced his friends and classmates teased it was the deciding factor in his choosing a holy profession: minister.
He stays with the family overnight twice, arriving in the early evening on a Friday, leaving Sunday in the early afternoon. He enjoys seeing Eliaz and the life he has made. The fact that the time they have been apart makes neither Eliaz nor his family comfortable or familiar perhaps helps—perhaps occupies Ri's mind in a way that sidelines other, now overly well-trod worries and concerns.
He phones Se-Ri for a longer call on Saturday, when she is usually more free from work concerns. They discuss his travel, his accommodations—even, his friend. Eliaz has taken him for a private concert of sorts, on one of the city's most impressive pipe organs. He is in the middle of telling her more about it when he abruptly cuts himself off and pivots. The cellphone feels weighty in his hand as he asks—"those long-term methods," he says by clumsy way of introducing context, "are they what you want to do? Are they it?"
"You were not easy to locate," Eliaz had told him, as they stood just below the organ, observing its pipes and the beautiful Swiss architecture of the cathedral that housed it.
Curious, Ri turns to him.
"I don't think those in power meant for me to find you that time," Eliaz elaborates, recalling what he had thought a casual visit to NK following their time together in school those years ago. "If my own father had not had the important connections he had, I don't think we would ever have connected to meet up even briefly in that coffee shop in Pyongyang. Do you remember it?"
"Of course, I do," he says. "You were my only visitor for seven years."
Eliaz's eyes flick, interested but not surprised, his own father politically powerful, and doubtless not above preventing him meeting from unvetted individuals when on his home turf. "Were there no letters from anyone, even?"
"I'd been instructed not to share any contact information beyond the embassy-If there were, I don't remember them. It was—" he undersells his abrupt return to NK, his drawn-out mourning, "an unfortunate time."
Eliaz knows well enough that his school friend is underselling the truth behind those days. "I remember you said you weren't playing anymore. For what little good it could have done, I worried for you. Long after I returned to Russia, I worried."
"I was never in any danger," he tells him. It is on-the-whole true.
"No, but you were—not in the best place for you. I prayed, several times, that something like an angel would come to you—even if you would ignore it unless it fell straight from the heavens."
Eliaz does not understand his laughing. He does not elaborate on it.
"What will you do, Ri Jeong-Hyeok?" he asks, "when this time-out comes to an end?"
"That is the question for today," Ri agrees with him. "Anymore, for everyday."
"Those long-term methods," he says out-of-nowhere to her ears, as without fanfare or warning he brings up their informative session with the OB-GYN, "are they what you want to do? Are they it?"
She wonders if he can hear over-the-phone what must have been—at least were there anyone nearby her—an audible gasp. She transfers her eyes away from the expansive view from their front balcony of the lake below and the mountains beyond—brings what she can survey and be distracted by into check—wills herself to concentrate and solely look at the ordered paneling of the wall, its uninteresting, regular grains. He is asking her about surgical solutions like tying her tubes, scheduling himself a vasectomy. Her eyes for a moment shoot heavenward—why is he doing this now? Why in this way?
She is of an age, she knows—feels-where it matters.
"No, Ri Jeong-Hyeok-sshi," she answers bluntly, if somewhat muted in her volume. She knows such measures would solve any future hiccups or panics. She is informed and understands that she could avail herself of freezing ovum for some future, unannounced date. But she also knows the fewer complications to overcome, the more likely the successful outcome (that she has come to realize aside from his freedom, from Unification) she most longs for.
"No," she says again, to fill the space she cannot bring herself to add words or explanation to.
She waits for his response, knowing if she could see his face, the set of his brow, that he is thinking, processing her refusal. Perhaps there is no response for him to give—no truly acceptable response other than showing himself in accord with hers. He makes no suggestions, does not offer to submit to surgical intervention for himself, asks nothing on the topic further.
"I am going to invite Eliaz for a short visit in two weeks," he tells her when he does speak, seemingly moving on. "Can we do it?"
She agrees to welcome his friend. They share their goodnights. The next day he returns home. Three days later, the muscle aches begin.