Earlier this week, I wrote about a chapter in my novel,
Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, and how I had devoted this chapter to the day that Diana, Princess of Wales, died. In today's post, I'll share this chapter with you.
Be warned that if you haven't read my book, there are spoilers in this chapter. With the holidays approaching, my novel might be a nice gift for the book lover in your life. Just sayin'...
August 31, 1997
“Oh Roland, why did I come to Seoul?” asked Naomi.
“To be closer to me?”
For that, Tanya elbowed me in the ribs.
Naomi’s eyes grew large, seemingly ready to jump from their sockets; first in shock at my answer, then at Tanya’s reaction. Naomi smiled, then laughed, and her cheeks coloured. “I have to admit, coming to a country where I knew someone was one of my deciding factors, but no, you’re not the only reason I’m here.” She looked at Tanya, seemingly seeking approval for providing the correct answer. The two had warmed to each other over the course of last night, but that was probably helped by the vast quantities of Australian Shiraz we all consumed. Courtesy of the Australian Embassy, which was located in the same building as the First Canadian Bank. As Naomi told us, the Aussies and the Canadians got along quite well, especially with the branch director and the Australian vice-consul being good friends, and every Friday after work the Australian Embassy workers opened their doors to the folks at the bank. A lounge with a fully stocked bar was also opened, and various labels of beer and wine were available for next to nothing. She managed to get her hands on some Penfolds Shiraz, but last night we had shortened her supply by two or three bottles. After a wonderful home-cooked supper, the three of us relaxed, talked, drank, laughed, and drank some more. Today, feeling a little rough around the edges, we decided to stay indoors and not suffer the heat of another of Seoul’s late summer days on top of a hangover.
“I was reluctant to come to Seoul but I wasn't sure about Budapest, the bank's other available branch post,” continued Naomi. She pronounced the Hungarian capital with an sh — Budapesht. Naomi always pronounced placenames the way they were spoken in that country. Mae-hee-ko, Pah-ree, Köln, Moskva, Suh-ool. She was certainly a world traveller who, when in Roma, did what the Romanos did. "Men don't take me seriously. I have to deal with Korean male-macho bullshit, especially when it comes to money and investments or to loans and debt. And it's only been a couple of weeks. I'm going to be here for at least a year."
“I know you, Naomi. You can handle anything they throw at you. You’re a tough cookie.”
Tanya and I had arrived in Seoul yesterday as the first official guests of Naomi’s house in Hannam-dong. It was a spacious house by any standard, but for Tanya and me, it was the biggest residence for a single person that we had been in since either of us had left Canada. A large foyer welcomed guests to a raised and carpeted living room. A fireplace, two huge sofas, a reading area with reclining armchairs, even a small upright piano in the corner adorned this vast space, dwarfing my meagre accommodation in Chŏnju. A balcony that hung off the back of the living room and wrapped around the south side of the house offered views of Namsan Tower one way, the Han River on the other. To the left of the foyer was a powder room and a study; to the right, a door to the garage and a hallway to the kitchen. Off to the right side of the living room was a large dining room, and then onward to the kitchen and a pantry that was half the size of my place, excluding my kitchen and bathroom. Going upstairs, Naomi had a huge bedroom with a large ensuite bathroom and walk-in closet. Another bathroom separated the guest room from a study, and all of the upstairs rooms where accessed through a common area, a rec room, where Naomi had set up a long sofa, coffee table, television, and stereo. Carpeting was laid throughout the main and upper level, with the exception of the kitchen and bathrooms. Red mahogany panelling covered the walls, giving the vast spaces a touch of warmth and without making the space seem smaller.
It was just after lunch. We had made a vegetable soup and finished the salad that was left over from last night’s dinner. Naomi had added goat cheese and pomegranate to a spinach and red onion salad; I had never had that taste combination before and was already looking forward to trying it again. Where I would find goat cheese in Chŏnju, I would never know.
We sat in the living room, chatting, music piping softly through speakers that were wired from the upstairs stereo. We sipped non-alcoholic beverages. Naomi and Tanya shared a decorative pot filled with green tea. I wanted something cold and carbonated, but not sweet. I had some re-hydrating to do, so Naomi placed a chilled bottle of club soda and a glass full of ice cubes before me. Perfect.
“It seems that we’re all in Korea at an interesting time,” said Naomi. “I don’t know if it’s just that in living here, we’re getting more news about the North, but it seems like Pyongyang is doing a lot more sabre-rattling. Tension is growing in the DMZ.”
The DMZ, or demilitarized zone, is a four-kilometre-wide strip of land running along the border and separating the two Koreas. Its intention is to serve as a buffer zone for the armies, which were technically still at war. In July, fourteen North-Korean soldiers crossed the DMZ, resulting in a heavy exchange of gun and canon fire that lasted for more than twenty minutes. Neither side reported casualties.
“Ever since I made the decision to come to Korea, it seems as though hostilities have been growing more intense for this little peninsula. I remember, in February, as I was securing airfare and finalizing contract paperwork, the CBC was airing more and more bad news. An assassination in Seoul worried my mother. She wanted me to reconsider leaving the safety of Ottawa.” I was referring to the assassination of a high-profile North Korean defector, just three days after another defection by a high-ranking North Korean party official, Hwang Jang-yop. The assassinated victim was the nephew of Song Hye-rim, who in turn was a former wife of Kim Jong Il. He was shot, in Seoul, by two suspected North-Korean agents, though he had actually defected to the South in the early 1980s. Hwang, the latest defector, walked into the South Korean consulate in Beijing. The shooting, it was speculated, was intended to be a warning to Hwang and other would-be defectors.
“What was his name?” asked Naomi.
“Lee Han-yong.”
“How do you know his name?” asked Tanya.
“I’m a news hound. And I have a good memory, sometimes.”
“He also used to work in a job where remembering names was critical,” added Naomi.
“You know, some information about what I did is still classified.” I winked, to show we were in good company. Neither Naomi nor Tanya knew all the facets of my previous career. After a pause, I changed the subject. "So, it looks like the Korean economy might be in for a bumpy ride."
Economics and international trade; two of Naomi’s favourite topics and the reason that the First Canadian Bank had her here. And when she started talking about economics, she always sounded more like a university lecturer than the average Jane, chewing the fat with her buddies. Formal. Instructional. Only her smile betrayed her tone.
“You mean the trouble with the chaebol? Lots of bad loans. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a lot of Korean corporations go under.”
“We’re heading for a meltdown, don’t you think?” I asked. “Already, huge corporations are starting to crumble and the won is slipping. It’s not worth what it was when I got here, that’s for sure.”
“The biggest problem is that these chaebol are heavily invested in export-oriented manufacturing and have neglected their domestic market. If other countries suffer economic downturns, they’re screwed. And these guys are competing with each other; it’s unsustainable. How many car companies are there?”
I started to count. “Hyundai, Kia, Daewoo... ."
"SsangYong," said Tanya.
"Asia," added Naomi.
"And I think I read somewhere that Samsung is getting into the game.”
“Right. That’s six car companies, which is crazy for a country this size. And the chaebol have their hands in so many cookie jars. Look at LG: electronics, construction, and gas stations.”
I thought of one day, in Chŏnju, I was riding a bus that had stopped for a red light. On one corner was an LG gas station. On another corner, an electronics store with a large-screen LG television displayed in the window. On the third corner, a multi-building complex was under construction; some of the buildings were completed and inhabited, as told by the freshly painted side of the building. The circular red LG logo glowing in the sunshine. Kia and Hyundai also had their hands in the construction business. “On one hand, seeing a huge corporation diversified instills a bit of confidence that if one economic sector grows weak, the company can lean on the other sectors. On the other hand, it’s frightening to know a company can own so much.”
“Having so many irons in the fire, if I can change metaphors, is also courting an unfathomable disaster. These chaebol are so severely indebted financing their expansions, not only to state industrial banks, but to independent banks and their own financial services subsidiaries. If they cannot honour their debts, the banks can’t write them off without collapsing themselves. Bankruptcies are just beginning. Trillions of won in bad credits has already been extended to the chaebol.”
“There is so much corruption,” said Tanya, finally joining in the discussion. “Politicians who are either friends of chaebol or are chaebol themselves are telling banks to loan huge sums to these corporations or face being closed down.”
“I’m glad I’m not here for the money,” I said.
“You mean you’d work for Kwon for free?” laughed Tanya. I loved her laugh. It was so genuine. She didn’t do it often, and when she did it was a clear indication that she was relaxed. I was glad, and joined in her laugh. We were talking serious stuff, and I was happy to see that it wasn’t getting to her. Already, a few ex-pats in Chŏnju caught a whiff of the impending downturn and were jumping ship. I didn’t want Tanya to worry about money.
Naomi seemed to read my thoughts. “Roland’s father left him a fortune, Tanya. He’s rich.”
My smile left my face. “That’s not information I like to share, Naomi. I told you that a long time ago, when I quit my job with CSIS.”
“I’m sorry, Roland, I thought you would have told Tanya.”
“It’s not something I like to brag about. The fact that I’ve got money doesn’t define who I am.” I turned to Tanya. “I hope I haven’t hurt you by not telling you. You and I never talk about money, and that’s always been fine with me.”
“I’ve always thought we were in the same boat, financially speaking. I know how much Kwon pays you. We both make enough to live on and we both send the extra money home. I’ve never given your financial history much thought. How much money are we talking about?”
“Dad was a stereotypical Scot. He was tight with a buck: deep pockets, short arms. He invested wisely, spent frugally. He had a healthy insurance policy, held lots of company shares, and had very few debts. When he died, he had made sure that his family was well looked after.” I took a sip of the club soda. It wasn’t cold, the ice had already melted, but it still had plenty of fizz to it. “Most of his investments were cashed out when he died, and he left a tidy sum to my mother, to Siobhan, and to me. Of course, his will was written when I had a wife and child and when Siobhan was finishing university, so my share was a little larger that hers. My father left me a little more than a half-million dollars.”
Tanya’s eyes grew very large and her mouth opened, but she said nothing.
I felt I should continue. “My father gave me lots of financial advice when I grew up. When Laura was born, he insisted that Kristen and I draw up wills and get a good insurance policy. We did, but neither of us thought much of it afterwards. When Kristen died, her policy paid off our mortgage and left me with another half-million. Her investments added about a hundred thousand to the pot.”
“Oh my God, Roland,” exclaimed Naomi, “you’re a millionaire.” To Tanya, she said, “You’re dating a millionaire.”
“Don’t,” I said, louder than I meant to. The news seemed foreign to me. I never expressed myself as rich, let alone a millionaire. That wasn’t me, didn’t define me. “They’re ill-gotten gains, as far as I’m concerned. I’d happily return every penny if it doing so could bring back those I’ve lost. I haven’t touched any of it.”
“What about that care package last month? That must have cost you a bundle.”
“I used up my former savings for that, Tanya. At least, I told my mother to debit my savings account to pay for the package. I still haven’t checked, but I have a feeling she paid with her own money. Dad would have been furious at such extravagance.”
A silence fell on the room. An awkwardness. Everyone was avoiding eye contact. Slowly, Tanya extended her arm and gently placed a hand on my bare knee. Her hand was cool from the air conditioning. I wished now that I had brought jeans, but knew that once I stepped outside I would be thankful for my shorts. I placed my hand on hers. I loved her, and now felt bad for not telling her about the money. Not for the money’s sake, but for the fact that I had parts of my life that I still kept to myself. I lifted my eyes and looked into hers. She was trying to look into mine, trying to see what other things I hadn’t told her. Not accusing or showing any disappointment. But with a hint of sorrow. She was looking to empathize with my loss and saw the cost it had inflicted upon me, not the gain.
Naomi was the first to break the silence with a diplomatic change of subject. “Tell me more about your upcoming trip. What time does your flight leave?”
It was pretty much all we talked about last night, but Tanya and I didn’t mind talking more. We were excited. Tanya and I were taking our first big trip together since Cheju. China. Beijing. The Great Wall. The Korean harvest festival, Ch’usŏk, was on Tuesday, September 16. It was a holiday that was turning out to be a super-long weekend for us — from Saturday, September 13 to Wednesday, the seventeenth. Ch’usŏk typically lasted for three days and was a time when Koreans flocked to their home towns, which were often outside of the larger city centres. It would take a day to drive to your destination, a day of celebrating, and a day to get home. During the celebrations, traditional food was consumed, including songp'yŏn, a half-moon shaped cake made of glutenous rice and filled with a sweet filling of chestnut paste. It was a nice treat, but I always wondered why the cake would be shaped like a half moon when Ch’usŏk was celebrated over a full moon.
Alex had organized another ex-pat trip, and this time he promised that there would be emphasis on the word organized. He had a couple of people who helped him arrange everything from getting the travellers from Chŏnju to Kimp’o, from the Beijing airport to our hotel, and a professional tour company to execute our itinerary. Alex had planned our commute to Seoul with an extra hour as a buffer; we’d leave Chŏnju six hours before our plane was set to depart. After the disaster with our sleepy bus driver, Alex reserved shuttle buses from the Core Hotel, whose drivers were guaranteed to be well-rested. It was also considerably cheaper, since the hotel ran the buses anyways. Alex promised that he had learned a lot from his Cheju mistakes. Beijing was going to be an amazing experience.
Our biggest disappointment about our trip was that Brad and Wilma wouldn’t be joining us. They had recently been to Shanghai and were going to have a quiet, romantic weekend alone in Chŏnju. I read that as sex, sex, and more sex. Brad would only smile when I suggested this. He told me that because Ch’usŏk was infamous for nasty traffic congestion on all major highways, mostly from people leaving Seoul to visit their ancestral towns, he and Wilma didn’t want to risk sitting for hours in Korean traffic. Instead, the two of them would spend time with as few clothes on as possible.
For our trip, Tanya and I were assured that traffic to Seoul would be no heavier than usual for a Friday morning, and that there were bus-only dedicated lanes. The Core Hotel was assuring us of a maximum of three hours to get to the airport. We put our faith in them, if not so much in Alex.
“We fly out at noon,” said Tanya. “We leave Chŏnju early, at six.”
“Who are you flying with?”
“Air China.”
“What’s its safety record?” We all had the most recent air disaster on our mind. The crash of Korean Air Flight 801 in Guam earlier this month. Two hundred and twenty-eight dead, mostly Korean. Press coverage was pretty extensive. It was not something anyone likes to hear just before a flight of their own.
“As far as I know,” I said, “they’re okay. I haven’t heard of any disasters.”
“I’d rather not talk about the flight,” said Tanya, who had told me she was always nervous about flying. “We’re going to have a great time. I’ve always wanted to see the Forbidden City.”
“I guess now that you know I have money, China’s on me... .” We all had a good laugh, even though I meant it. Tanya wouldn't be spending a yuan of her own. My treat.
The phone rang, startling all of us. Naomi reached over to the table next to where she was sitting and casually picked up the phone. In perfect Korean, she said, “Yŏboseyo?” I had a strong feeling that if the person on the other end was Korean, Naomi could competently handle the conversation. “Yes? No, I have some friends over. Why?” Naomi’s voice suddenly turned professional, as though she were just called to attention. “What? When? Thanks, I’ll do that now.” She hung up the phone. Her face looked grim.
“Bad news?” I asked as she stood up.
“That was Tracy, a secretary at the bank.” Naomi stood and started heading towards the stairs that led up. “She said to turn the TV on to CNN. There’s been an accident.”
***
I had so rarely watched TV in Korea, and today was my first glimpse at Western media in six months. When Naomi tuned in to CNN, the broadcaster was in the middle of an announcement.
"...in a car accident in Paris. The princess has been taken to an unknown hospital for treatment. The extent of her injuries is unclear at this stage. Reports from France say two other people in the car have been killed, including her companion, Harrods heir Dodi al-Fayed. The driver of the car was also killed. Diana was on a private visit to the French capital; the accident occurred in a tunnel in western Paris, beside the River Seine. Just repeating, Diana, Princess of Wales, has been seriously injured in a car accident in Paris. Her companion, Dodi al-Fayed, has been killed."
“Oh my God, how horrible,” said Tanya as she sat down on the sofa in the second-floor rec room. We all sat down on the sofa, me in the middle, Tanya on my right, Naomi to my left. With another remote control from the one used to turn on the TV, Naomi switched off the music.
On the TV, we saw footage of an underpass. A BMW police station wagon, police van, and cruiser blocked the ramp, their amber lights flashing. A small police bus moving slowly. The camera zoomed in to peek down into the tunnel but revealing very little. People walking about. A stopped vehicle. No obvious signs of trouble. Another shot, from a camera at a different angle. An emergency vehicle in the tunnel. A large white truck.
Speculation from the broadcaster and a reporter as to the cause of the crash. Diana and Dodi were being chased by paparazzi, at high speed, possibly making contact. The car struck a centre-lane support pillar. Questions were raised about whether the passengers were wearing seatbelts. The passenger in the front was a body guard to the princess.
“The poor princess,” said Naomi. “Just when she seemed to find happiness, this happens.”
“My mum is a fan of the Monarchy, and in particular, of the princess. This will be a shock to her. I hope Diana pulls through.” My mother was currently in Scotland, visiting Siobhan, so was probably asleep, oblivious to the tragedy that was unfolding. I would have to call them later today, when they were awake.
New footage. This time, inside the tunnel. It was well-lit. The fluorescent glow giving the corridor an almost antiseptic feel. Men in blue coveralls and bright yellow jackets made the setting look like something from a science-fiction movie. A grey flatbed truck was visible. So was the car. The announcer said it was a 600-series Mercedes, but nothing I saw supported that claim. There was no evidence that the black mass was even an automobile, but what else could something that size be? A black mass of twisted metal. The front end pressed flat. The entire engine compartment compressed to the firewall. The firewall pushed beyond its ability to keep the engine out of the passenger compartment. The bodies inside vulnerable to the violence of the impact and abrupt stop.
I was drawn in to the images in front of me, but I was elsewhere. I wasn’t sitting in Seoul, watching a live transmission of Paris. I was in Canada, near Westport in Eastern Ontario, looking at a twisted mass of black metal, tucked in the underside of a tractor trailer. A Land Rover, not identifiable by its front end. Its engine compartment pressed all the way to the passenger compartment. A yellow tarp over the windscreen. Emergency vehicles crowding the scene.
I could feel that my legs wanted to fail me, but I had to know. I had to move forward. My eyes were mistaken, my brain failed me. But my heart knew. It was Dad’s SUV, scratched, dented, covered in dirt. It was Dad’s blood on the fragments of broken glass. I had to know. The police officer tried to stop me, but I had to know.
Two ambulances. A crying paramedic. A stretcher with a body bag. The pale firefighter.
A warm hand taking mine. “Roland, are you all right? You’re breathing loudly through your nose.” It was Tanya.
Images of Princess Diana on the TV. In a black evening gown and tiara. In her wedding dress, exiting the carriage, the impossibly long train flowing behind her. In a light blue shirt and khakis, in Africa. Tabloid covers with her and Dodi, in swimsuits, on a boat. Video documentation of a woman who was hounded by press, never left alone.
Back to the tunnel. Clearer shots of the car. The back end intact, the unmistakable markings of a Mercedes. A crane arm raised above the car. It was going to be difficult to move it.
It took hours to pry Dad’s Land Rover from the transport truck. Regional Road 42 between Noonan Roads North and South were closed until the next morning, until investigators had finished gathering evidence and road crews were able to remove both vehicles and major debris. By the time the Monday-morning commuters had to get going, the road would show no sign of the carnage of the day before.
Police were detaining photographers. Film was being confiscated. Who would want to see the images that their film held? The news cameras showed people on the small bus. Paparazzi being detained.
A story about my family’s accident ran in the Ottawa Citizen, in the Kingston Whig Standard, the Perth Courier, the Smiths Falls Record News, but thankfully there had been no photographers. There was no photo record of the event. No image would change what I saw. No photo could ever capture the emotion at the scene. A Citizen photographer had asked my mum for pictures of the victims, but had declined the request. It would be too painful for her to see her loved ones in that context. The reporter respected her feelings. No pictures accompanied the story.
A hand rubbing my back. I felt light-headed, hot. I was in Seoul, but I was light-headed.
We were jumping between broadcasts of CNN, BBC, and Sky News. A BBC broadcaster was on the screen, talking to a reporter, who was in Paris.
The broadcaster asked, “What is your view of what is now happening at the hospital?”
The reporter was Stephen Jessel, according to the by line and photograph. “Well, I’m... I’m... worried... um... by the lack of any news or any statement; however, there are reports that she’s in a reanimation area of the hospital, which suggests that maybe she is in a slightly more serious condition than we had thought before. I think it is slightly disturbing that we haven’t had some sort of official communiqué, giving her... giving the state of her health and giving some indication of what might happen next... I don’t think that’s terribly... encouraging sign.”
Kristen didn’t die right away. She lived long enough to see her faceless father-in-law, to know her three-year-old daughter was dead, to talk to the truck driver — who repeatedly reassured her that she would be okay and that help was on its way. Kristen told the firefighters what had happened, what she witnessed first-hand. Kristen grew weak as the minutes drew on, as the firefighters crawled through the front windshield and cut away at the metal that had trapped her, had crushed her lower torso and legs. They were gentle with her and were reassuring with her, as the driver of the truck had been, but both the rescuers and Kristen knew that she wouldn’t make it. She was fading too quickly for them to get her to the hospital, let alone get her out of the vehicle in time to save her life. An air ambulance had been dispatched to the scene, but before it reached its destination, Kristen was gone. The pilot was told to turn around. A tricky landing on a remote stretch of road was unnecessary. When Kristen’s lifeless body was finally extracted from the Land Rover, one of the ambulances on the scene would be able to transport her at a leisurely pace, along with her daughter and father-in-law.
The television showed a darkened view of a building with an ambulance parked in front of the doors. According to the news banner, it was the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital, where Diana had been taken. News officials were still speculating on the condition of the princess. Images jumped between the hospital and the Mercedes-Benz, which was being lifted onto the flatbed truck.
The news anchor interrupted the report: “Stephen, I have to interrupt there... um... because within the last few moments, the Press Association in Britain, citing unnamed British sources, has reported that Diana, Princess of Wales, has died. This is not yet confirmed by any official source.” The anchor paused. I wished that they would show his name. He was staying professional, but I could see that deep down he was grieving. We all were. Even though he stressed that the report was not yet confirmed, we knew. Just as when I approached the ambulances, I knew. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew that everyone in Dad’s SUV was dead. You never want to believe it, even if the harsh truth is staring you in the face. The evidence for Diana was there too.
The anchor licked his lips and continued: “So, an unconfirmed... uh... source... from the Press Association... is that Diana, Princess of Wales, has died.”
Breathing was difficult. My legs were weak. But I had to move forward. I had to see them. I remembered the smell of water drying on pavement, of gasoline, of burned rubber, of warm engines. The sound of idling vehicles, of radio dispatchers. The sight of flashing lights, of serious faces. It was hard to speak.
“Roland, are you okay? You’re shaking.” I heard the voice, but couldn’t place it. I felt ill. Nauseated. The sight of the emergency vehicles, of the damaged Mercedes on the flatbed. It brought back the past.
I stood up, but my legs were weak. But I had to move. I forced my way forward, past the faceless people. I walked into the bathroom, to the toilet, where I threw up.
***
We continued watching, rivetted to the set, late into the afternoon. At approximately 6:00 a.m., Greenwich Mean Time, CNN took us from their coverage to a live feed from the BBC. Britons were waking to the news that their Princess was gone. On the TV, the Union Jack fluttered, half-staff, held in a steady breeze. Slowed down, as though time itself was taking a pause to process the devastating news. God Save the Queen played, the music slow and somehow saddened by the occasion. At the bottom of this image, white text emerged to explain the change to the programming schedule.
Diana, Princess of Wales
1961 – 1997
A fade to black, held for only seconds but which seemed like ages.
A somber Martin Lewis of the BBC appeared. His white hair neatly combed. His glasses helped focus serious eyes. A newscaster appropriately dressed in a grey jacket and solid, black tie.
"This is BBC Television from London. Diana, Princess of Wales, has died after a car crash in Paris. The French government announced her death just before five o’clock this morning. Buckingham Palace confirmed the news shortly afterwards. In a statement, the Palace said: “The Queen and the Prince of Wales are deeply shocked and distressed by this terrible news.” Normal programs have been suspended throughout the morning while we bring you the latest news and reaction."
“I have to call my sister.”
“We have to go back to Chŏnju, Roland,” said Tanya, “it’s getting late.”
“It won’t take long. We can take a taxi to the subway station.”
“You need to eat,” said Naomi. “Roland, make your call while I prepare something. You can take it with you.” To Tanya, she said, “Come give me a hand, it’ll go faster.” She handed me the cordless phone, which she had carried from downstairs to the TV when she first got the call. She provided a prefix to dial before I punched in Siobhan’s number. It put the call through a line that reduced the cost.
Siobhan answered the phone. Mum was still asleep, but my sister was getting ready for work. She hadn’t yet heard the news. In a way, I was glad it was me who broke the news. I told her to tune into the BBC, that the princess was dead, and that I’d call again when I returned to Chŏnju. Siobhan was understandably shocked. She had loved Diana since the wedding in 1981. I remember a poster of a young Diana on Siobhan’s bedroom wall. She thanked me for the call, asked me how I was, and said she would tell Mum. She said she loved me and rang off before she started crying.
***
Tanya and I said very little on the bus ride to Chŏnju. We were in shock and exhausted. We felt as though we had just learned of the loss of a relative. Diana had been known as the people’s princess, and the people who recognized her as their princess spanned the globe. She was, indeed, a family member. The family known as the human race.
We said little but I held on tightly to Tanya. She had been wonderful throughout my ordeal at Naomi’s. She helped me at the toilet, rubbing my back, telling me it would be all right. She cleaned me up, made sure the bathroom was also left clean. She packed my backpack with my used clothes and shaving kit. She led me to the bus station and into my seat. She fed me the ham sandwiches that she and Naomi had made while I was telling my sister the sad news.
I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. In watching the news coverage, I had relived my own horror. But this time, Tanya was with me, held my hand, ran her fingers through my hair, told me I was all right. On the bus, she held me the whole way, and without words told me that everything would be all right.
When we arrived in Chŏnju, We walked the short distance to my flat. It was 10:00, and I asked her to stay the night with me, to stay with me while I called my mum. She agreed.
“I love you,” I said, looking into her deep, beautiful blue eyes.
She smiled. “I love you too, Roland.”
“Move in with me. You don't need to live alone at Wilma's flat. And I don't want to live alone in mine.”
More smiles and only a slight pause while she considered the proposal carefully. “Yes, I think that would be very nice.” We kissed and I hugged her tightly.
Tanya was right. Everything was going to be all right.
