"There was the other culture, a culture destroyed but still inside us alive. In this sense
I knew, not only with my intellect but with my senses and my body, that the west was
not the only civilization."
- 'The Labyrinth of Solitude', Octavio Paz
Minute by minute we shape the world, and it's not always grand gestures that make the biggest differences. For what it's worth, I still feel a ridiculous sense of pride I was the one who gave a 13-year-old Stanley Kubrick my Graflex camera just to get the little shit out of my hair during chess tournaments in Greenwich Village. On the other hand, I can't quite shake my sense of guilt for telling my socially awkward college roommate Ted Bundy he was handsome enough to have any woman he wanted.
The point is, we can't always predict the outcome of our actions, regardless of their selflessness or good intentions. Who knows what's going to happen in this new spirit of détente between the United States and North Korea, for example? We could be facing a future of mutual trust and cooperation, or a powder keg of resentment and recrimination waiting to blow up in our faces. Either way, I'll be enjoying an extended holiday aboard the international space station until the answer becomes clear.
* * * * *
Prologue: 27th July, 1953
"Will you look at that?" Kim Il-sung exclaims, pointing at William Harrison Jr.'s signature on his copy of the armistice agreement. "What was he writin' with, a bleedin' hammer?"
You should see Atlee's handwriting," I reply. "You'd need a Rosetta Stone just to read one of his Christmas cards."
"It's blindin', though, innit?" Kim smiles. "I've been pushin' for this ever since them bleedin' Yanks turned up. If it weren't for them we'd be sittin' in Seoul right now, polishin' off a couple of light ales."
"There'll be other chances for unification," I reassure him, patting his shoulder. "The important thing now is the peace treaty."
"Are you havin' a laugh?" he snorts. "If I ask for peace I'll be lyin' in a shallow grave covered in quicklime faster than you can say 'My Old Man's a Rice Farmer'. I dunno about you, but that's not how I wanna end up, mate."
"But you can't just leave it at a ceasefire! How're people supposed to know the war's over?"
"Well, it says 'ere, dunnit?" he says, picking up the armistice and putting on his glasses. "'Complete cessation of hostilities by all armed forces'... blah blah blah... 'demilitarised zone'... blah blah blah... 'repatriation of all POWs to the side they belonged to at the time of capture'... I mean, what more d'you want?"
"It's not very clear."
"Who's the Supreme Leader 'ere?" he asks, glaring at me over the rim of his bifocals. "Me or you?"
"You are," I sigh, deferring to yet another one of his ego trips.
"Right. So stop your fuckin' rabbit, yeah? It's gettin' on my tits."
I walk over to the window and look out at the ruins of Pyongyang; a sea of dust rages in the sunbeams projecting themselves over the rubble and scorched wood that used to be the capital city.
"It's gonna cost a few bob sorting this lot out," I say, lighting a cigarette.
"Yeah, well, I spoke to Zhou Enlai this mornin'," Kim says, shuffling some papers on his desk and drawing a line through some of the names in red ink. "He reckons he can get Mao to bung us a few quid. Then there's Moscow, of course. I tell you, when we get the palace done up I'm havin' some of them carpets like they've got at the Kremlin. I dunno if they're sable or what, but just walkin' on 'em's like gettin' a foot massage."
"And what about the people?"
"Well, they can get their own bleedin' carpets, can't they?"
"No, I meant rebuilding the infrastructure."
"...We'll sort somethin' out," he says vaguely. "Socialism isn't just helpin' other people. It's about givin' 'em the power to do it themselves, innit?"
"Well-"
"Right?"
"I suppose..."
"Yeah!" he snarls. "You know I'm right, Rich, everyone knows I'm right; history's gonna prove it, yeah?"
"If you say so."
"Just you wait, mate," he says. "In fifty years' time the Democratic People's Republic of Korea's gonna be the envy of the world! There'll be cinemas in every home, no one's gonna have to work... It's gonna be paradise, yeah? Paradise on Earth! We've just got to put in a bit of elbow grease is all."
General Nam Il suddenly pops his head round the door, still hanging off its hinges.
"All right, Kim? Comin' down the snooker hall?"
"Yeah, go on, then." He rises from his chair, places his hand on his chest and starts bellowing "The Red Flag".
"The people's flag is deepest red / It shroudeth oft our martyred dead / And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold / Their hearts' blood dyed its every fold... C'mon!" he motions, taking out his pistol and aiming it at my forehead. I click my heels and join in.
"So raise the scarlet standard high / Beneath its shade we'll live or die / Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer / We'll keep the red flag flyin' 'ere..."
"Pukka!" he beams.
* * * * *
27th April, 2018
"And then he bites its head off!" Kim Jong-un says, gesticulating wildly as he leans across the table. "And everyone's like, 'Euuuugh!' but he's like, 'I don't care!' And then she's like, 'I wanna go out with you,' and he's like-"
"Oh, Oldboy's a great movie," Moon Jae-in cuts in firmly but cheerfully as he turns to his advisors. "Isn't it, guys-?"
"...That's right, Mr President," foreign minister Kang Kyung-wha nods awkwardly, flashing a look of desperation at unification minister Cho Myoung-gyon. "I love it."
"I love it, too," Cho says, grinning blankly at Kim.
"He likes his movies!" Kim Yo-jung smiles, patting her brother's head.
"Well, it certainly sounds like it!" Moon chuckles, turning to face Kim. "But there is something very, very important I think Mr Kim wants to talk to me about. Would you like to talk to me about it, Mr Kim?"
"Maybe," Kim says sheepishly, crossing his arms and burying his chin into his chest.
"I think you do, Jongie," his sister says softly. "Would you like to tell the nice Mr Moon what you want to talk about?"
"Armistice," Kim mumbles. "Want to talk about the armistice."
"What about the armistice, Jongie? Hmm-?"
"End it," he says, studying the scuffmarks on his shoe caps.
"Well, I think that's a wonderful idea, Mr Kim!" Moon replies, leading his ministers in a round of applause. Kim's face lights up and he giggles happily.
"Our proposal is a simple one, Mr President," Vice Chairman Kim Yong-chol says. "That is, denuclearisation along the Korean Peninsula and an end to the American military presence in your country."
"Well, we'd have to consult our delegation in Washington before drafting any such motion," Kang Kyung-wha clarifies.
"Do you think the United States would be amenable to this action?" North Korean foreign minister Chou Son-hui enquires.
"We'd have to confirm the details of the peace settlement first," Moon says, "but I don't think-"
"Spike Lee remade Oldboy!" Kim cuts in. "It wasn't as good, though."
"No, I- I gather it wasn't," Moon says softly. "But anyway, as I was saying, once we've negotiated full terms it's entirely likely President Trump would-"
"Have you met him?" Kim asks.
"Yeah. It's entirely likely he-"
"You've met the President of the United States-?" Kim says, genuinely astonished. "Like, the actual President?"
"Yes, I have," Moon replies, his patience clearly starting to waver.
"Do you think I could?"
"I don't know," Moon shrugs. "Maybe if you prove to him you're serious about denuclearisation, perhaps?"
"Wow!" Kim gasps. "Did you hear that, Rich?"
"I did, yeah," I reply, returning to my crossword book discreetly tucked between my minutes of previous inter-Korean summits.
"Meeting the American President would be, like, the coolest thing ever!" he says. "No, even cooler than that - it would be ice ice baby! Ding-ding-ding-ding-diddle-ing-ding! Ding-ding-ding-ding-diddle-ing-ding..."
Kim jumps from his seat and starts bouncing around the room, punching the air as he launces into Vanilla Ice's masterpiece.
"All right, stop! / Collaborate and listen / Jongie's back with my brand new invention..."
As the entire room watches Kim with horrified fascination, Kim Yo-Jung turns to the President of the Supreme People's Assembly, Kim Yong-nam.
"It's gonna be a bitch getting him sleep tonight," she sighs.
* * * * *
12th June, 2018
"Now remember what we rehearsed, Mr President," I say, brushing some dandruff off Trump's shoulder. "You walk up to Kim, greet him formally on behalf of the United States, and-"
"Has anyone ever told you you're a real pain in the ass?" he growls, snatching my hand away. "I'm the fucking President, okay? A statesman. I don't need some pussy like you telling me how to conduct myself."
The North Korean delegation arrives, flanked by an entourage of dangerous-looking men in sunglasses and imitation Armani suits. At the centre of the throng is Kim, eyes wide, panting with excitement as he stares open-mouthed at the President. He walks slowly towards Trump, his tongue practically hanging out.
"Shalom!" Trump says, raising his hand in a Vulcan greeting. The North Koreans stare blankly at us for a moment before conferring amongst themselves.
"What gives, Dicky Boy?" Trump whispers, eyes narrowing in confusion. "I thought you said these guys were Jewish?"
"No, Mr President," I sigh, "Juche. It's a sort of hybrid of Stalinism and North Korean nationalism that-."
"Yeah, whatever," he booms, turning to face Kim again. "It's all just Fu Manchu talk to me, anyways. How're you doing, Rocket Man?"
"OH MY DAD!" Kim squeals, grabbing Trump's hand and shaking it wildly as he turns to address the men and women of the world's media. "IT'S THE PRESIDENT! I'M WITH THE ACTUAL PRESIDENT!"
"The one and only," Trump smiles, pulling his hand away and wiping it on his lapel.
"I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD!" Kim shouts, waving triumphantly as his advisors fidget uncomfortably.
"Yeah, well, let's not get ahead of ourselves, kiddo," Trump replies, his mouth twisting into a smirk.
"Will you sign this for me?" Kim asks, signalling one of his delegates, who reaches into a briefcase and takes out a laminated publicity still of Trump doing his "You're Fired!" pose from The Apprentice.
"My pleasure!" he says, setting to work with a marker pen.
"That's Kim with an 'i', sir," I offer helpfully.
"Go fuck yourself," Trump mutters, returning the photograph to a delighted Kim.
"This is AMAZING!" he squeals again, holding the autograph close.
"It must be a real honor for you," Trump says, winking for the cameras. "Betcha thought you'd never meet a living, breathing President of the US of A."
"Dad met Bill Clinton once!"
"Clinton-?!" Trump snorts. "He was a lousy President!"
"Oh no, he wasn't President then. It was after he got kicked out for lying about an affair."
"Was it?" Trump asks flatly.
"Oh yeah!" Kim continues. "He was a bad man. Meeting you is a much bigger deal! They say in your country this is like Nixon going to China."
"Well," Trump grins, puffing out his chest. "Who am I to argue with history?"
"He got kicked out, too," Kim says. "He pretended not to know about some people making his opponents look bad."
"Whatever!" Trump barks impatiently before pointing at the door to the conference room. "Are we gonna do this thing or not?"
As Kim nods and dashes on ahead shouting "¡Arriba, arriba! ¡Ándale, ándale!", Trump leans over to me with a raised eyebrow.
"Call Melania: tell her I'll be home sooner than expected..."
* * * * *
13th June, 2018
As the credits roll on Rocky IV, I lean over and tap the snoozing President on his shoulder.
"Don, can I ask you something?"
"Shoot, Dicky Boy!"
"What was all that really about with Kim?"
"Diplomacy!" he smiles, stretching his arms in a massive yawn. "You should try it sometime. Start by changing your aftershave: it smells like an explosion in a shit factory."
"Ah, c'mon, Don!" I reason with him. "Everyone else may have you pegged as a boorish, brain-dead arsehole but I know you better than that."
"Look, they asked for a summit and they got one," he snarls, staggering to his feet and cracking open a can of Pepsi from the Air Force One minibar. "If you're looking for self-interest you're pissing into the wind, kiddo."
"Bullshit," I reply, helping myself to a miniature bottle of Jack. "Everything you do is about putting The Don first."
He watches me take a swig, then holds out his hand and coughs. I reach into my pocket and hand him five dollars.
"Okay, then," he says, taking a seat at his desk. "Trumpology 101: you tell me what you think this is all about, Dicky Boy."
"You agree to lift sanctions if they go ahead with denuclearisation," I offer, "but we both know damn well Kim won't do that because his little firework collection's the only thing standing between him and a bullet in the head."
"Ooh!" he hollers sarcastically. "You learn fast, Dicky Boy!"
"You expect him to break the deal, don't you?"
"I'm counting on it!" he chortles, picking up a paperweight and tracing his fingers around the Presidential seal. "Unless it's slipped your attention, kiddo, there's a trade war coming. What, you think I'm just gonna bend over and let China ream us in the ass?"
"So rather than get into a straight trade war with China - one you couldn't possibly win in the long-term - you get Kim to agree to a settlement he won't be able to keep so you'd have the option of slapping secondary sanctions on China for providing North Korea with economic support?"
"What can I say?" he grins, spreading his hands. "That's the art of the deal, Dicky Boy!"
"How much are you worth?"
"Why, how much d'you want?"
"No, I just wanna know. Three billion?"
"Three point one."
"How much better can you eat? What can you buy that you can't already afford?"
"The future, Dicky Boy! The future! They say in fifty years those little yellow bastards are gonna be four times richer than us. When I meet the Gipper in the great ranch in the sky I don't wanna have to explain why that Marxism-Leninism crap wasn't finally put on the ash-heap under my watch. At least this way I get to slow 'em down. And you know what's so sweet about it, Dicky Boy? I didn't have to do anything to get the ball rolling - not a goddam thing!"
"As little as possible..."
"Exactly!" he smirks, leaning back in his chair. "I tell ya, I can almost smell that Peace Prize. Well, that and your aftershave."
"Do you really think you deserve it?"
"Shit, if that fat-assed Kraut can get it for bombing the hell out of Cambodia I stand a pretty good chance, don't you think?"
"You nasty, self-serving son of a bitch!" I yell, launching myself across the desk and grabbing his pudgy, thick throat with both hands. Mike Pompeo and John Kelly rush over and try to loosen my grip as Trump's eyes practically pop out of his ugly, fat, orange head. Suddenly I feel cold metal pressing into the back of my neck.
"It's not worth it, son," a federal agent says, cocking the gun and brushing it against my ear. "It's really not worth it..."
I let go of Trump and place my hands behind my head. As the security staff lead me to my seat to handcuff me in I look over my shoulder at Trump, who beams back at me as he loosens his collar.
"Forget it, Rich," one of the feds whispers. "It's Singapore."
An awkward silence washes over us as the President rises to his feet.
"You're a grand old flag, you're a high flyin' flag," he starts singing, "And forever and ever you'll wave..."
"You're the emblem of the land I love / The home of the free and the brave..." the chiefs of staff join in.
"Every heart beats true 'neath the red, white and blue / Where there's ne'er a boast or brag / Should auld acquaintance be forgot / Keep your eye on the grand ol' flag..."
