DURING THOSE SAME TWO WEEKS, Constance extended her knowledge of the city. As she was bored of the sightseeing, her two guides took her to see the movie studios (sets of a spectral Chinese or European or Japanese city, depending on the screenplay for the film that was being shot), to spend the afternoon at the circus (a small circle filled with gym apparatus on which, pretty often, the acrobats fell flat on their faces), to go on a roller coaster at the local amusement park (rusty armrests and handles), or to visit an ostrich farm (ostriches were very useful animals: their flesh was savored by the party bigwigs, and their feathers and skin were sold for high prices to foreign hatters and tanners).
They also organized a few trips outside the capital for her: standard tourist excursions, to begin with, sometimes verdant, sometimes not, but always narrowly circumscribed. Then when she asked to see the provinces, she was told that all towns and cities beyond the capital were off-limits despite Gang Un-ok’s status and his various passes. They stuck to the highways, from which they saw a countryside that was bare, open, uniform, the earth apparently arid and mutilated, as if it had been turned in vain, as if it were exhausted, as if even the trees found it hard to grow here—and most of them were sawed down by the locals anyway, to feed their stoves.
No derivation from the schedule was allowed to visit the villages they saw in the background, and whenever a secondary road took them past one of these villages, they always looked exactly the same: swept by two or three women pointed out to Constance as volunteers, with other volunteers digging in the grass on the roadside; men carrying bags, alone or in small groups, a man herding six goats, another pushing his bicycle. Sometimes an oxcart would go past, or a truck carrying some soldiers standing crammed together on its flatbed. Once, when they were blocked by a broken-down bus, Constance had time to count the eleven soldiers who pushed it out of the way. Maybe they weren’t all soldiers necessarily, but they were all wearing similar types of uniforms, often mismatched, in shades of brown, gray-beige, and dark green. Or perhaps this was just the local fashion? In the end, Constance stopped going on these excursions.
When Gang Un-ok managed to get a day or two off work, they would go to vacation resorts for oligarchs, which—less luxurious than the Leader’s yacht—resembled the palaces of Saddam Hussein as discovered after his fall: successions of large, empty rooms, with monumental gold-fringed couches and coffee tables made of glass and convoluted wrought-iron patterns, of a kind that you can find on Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine in Paris (notably at numbers 2 to 12). The walls were decorated with historical and revolutionary tapestries, which sometimes hung side by side, incongruously, with French paintings from the 1950s, Yves Brayer or Bernard Buffet, once an Utrillo. They went out in the garden to get some air; then they spent most of their time in the basement, in swimming pools or projection rooms, smelling respectively (and very strongly) of chlorine and cresol.
While Gang’s schedule was slightly more flexible now, he admitted to Constance one night that it was part of a reduction—at first barely perceptible—in his responsibilities. His place in the hierarchy seemed to have taken a few blows: sensitive to the tiniest details, with a knowledge of political codes—the obliqueness of a look, a slipped precedence, an extra half smile—he was able to interpret all this, and the news was not good. Having had his hair cut (though perhaps not quite short enough) on the advice of the Leader, he feared he had fallen into disgrace, and soon he was no longer even invited to some Saturday meetings. When this happened, he and Constance went away for the weekend.
On their way back from one of these weekends, Gang’s limousine passed near the airport where Clément Pognel had, at that moment, just landed. Bourgeaud’s services had fabricated a role for him as an agri-food adviser, and his visa was accepted without comment. In order not to risk any interference between agents, they had booked him into the Potonggang, another tourist hotel, far away from the Yanggakdo, where Jean-Pierre and Christian were beginning to feel downhearted, even though their hotel was much nicer than Pognel’s. Because the Potonggang, considerably less expensive than the Yanggakdo, did have a few inconveniences: little hot water most of the time, no water at all at night, frequent power cuts (hence the blocked elevators), an ice-cold bedroom, with the window and balcony sealed shut, disturbing nocturnal noises when Pognel was trying to fall asleep on his granite bed, which was even less comfortable than his tourist-class plane seat.
The presence of Faust did not pose any problems. The inevitable guides, waiting for Pognel at the airport, even seemed amused by the dog, playing fearfully with him, though they did not go as far as feeding him. Unfortunately, two days after his arrival, Pognel would observe upon waking that Faust had vanished, probably abducted during the night by the guides, even if they immediately pretended to do everything they could to make sure he was found. These supposed searches were in vain, however, and there can be little doubt about the poor animal’s fate. While Faust had certainly been taken, first of all, for comestible reasons—because, when well prepared, dog is extremely tasty—it was also, of course, his fur that was targeted, as dogs are almost as versatile in their uses as ostriches. That beagle’s pelt, not big enough to line a coat, would probably be used in the confection of a hat or a muff that would be the delight of some neoliberal Pyongyang lady.
And so a few days later, Pognel, in mourning for his pet, was in a very bad mood when he contacted Constance in accordance with the modus operandi indicated by Objat: in the toilet of the Hotel Koryo, with the two of them escaping the attentions of their guides for a few minutes. Given this context, their meeting was brief. And unbalanced: Pognel, having organized her kidnapping, knew exactly who Constance was, whereas she knew nothing about him at all. Well, Pognel asked, where do things stand with this guy? I think he’s starting to ripen, Constance replied, as in the days when people spoke of her in these terms. Things don’t seem to be going well for him, and I can see that he’s afraid. Perfect, said Pognel. I’ll await instructions and keep you informed. Let’s get back to the others now, before they start having doubts.
And when she returned to the villa, Gang did indeed seem distraught. He had just been moved from the National Defense Committee to a subsection on economic exchange with Syria. He had also been stripped of his functions as an adviser, which did not bode well at all since he had not been informed of this man-to-man, but through cold circumlocutions. But there was even worse news: while Gang’s status before now had allowed him to travel to China as part of various cooperation programs, those authorizations had now been removed, making him seriously worried. Why, Constance asked, did you want to go there?
It’s not that, but it all happens quickly once it starts like that, answered Gang, becoming ensnared in demonstrative pronouns. He then went on: Well, the best thing would obviously have been to take advantage of an official visit. Now, if they won’t let me leave anymore, I don’t know how I’ll manage it. Don’t worry, Constance reassured him, we’ll find a solution. How could you solve this? Gang snapped. You don’t know anything about the system. You have no idea what they’re capable of being capable of.
Constance again noted that, despite his mastery of the French language, the really quite simple syntax of this last sentence had put the dignitary in difficulty. I don’t know yet, she smiled, pulling him toward their king-size bed. We’ll have to see.