16
Mia had great fun playing the perfect assistant and grew positively giddy about calling Paul “Mr. Barton” every time she spoke to him. Paul was not so amused.
She stood back during the opening of the Book Fair as flashbulbs popped. It felt good not to be the one in the spotlight for once.
Three hundred people formed a line that stretched out of the bookshop and right down the street. The scale of the reception reminded Mia of her own career—and of Creston, just one more reminder that she should have called him a long time ago. He must be worried sick. She tried to invent a lie that would conceal her whereabouts, but it would have to wait. She hadn’t turned her phone back on since the flight—and she wasn’t ready to.
Sitting behind a desk, Paul smiled and greeted the seemingly endless stream of readers, all the while struggling to spell or even understand the names of those who introduced themselves. The bookseller bent down and whispered his apologies. It was regrettable that his translator was indisposed and could not come.
“Really. What’s the matter with Kyong?” Paul whispered.
“No, I said it’s your translator who is sick.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“No, no. Your translator’s name is Eun-Jeong.”
A sudden surge in the crowd put an end to their conversation. Paul remained frozen in shock while the security guards ushered a few fans out of the building and ordered the public into an orderly line once more.
The lunch break was extended on Mia’s orders. Mr. Barton needed a rest. Paul was escorted to the bookshop café, which had been closed just for him. His eyes darted back and forth in search of the bookseller, but with no success.
“You look worried,” Mia said.
“I’m not used to there being this many people at a signing. So yes, I’m nervous. And exhausted.”
“That’s hardly surprising. You haven’t even touched your food. Eat something—you’ll need all the energy you can get for the second round. Have you realized how wonderful all this is for your career? Your readers are positively beaming about meeting you. Even I’m touched. Do try to smile a little more—though I know it’s tiring. The greatest reward we can ever receive is the love of our fans. It gives meaning to our work . . . to everything we give others. What could be more satisfying than sharing that joy?”
“Have a lot of experience with this type of thing, do you?”
“Of course not, that’s not what I meant.”
“I’m just saying I’ve never experienced anything like this in my life.”
“Well, you may have to get used to it.”
“I don’t think so. I’m not really sure it’s my thing. I didn’t leave California just to go through the same thing abroad. I mean, it’s a pleasant experience, and I’m touched, but . . . I’m definitely not star material.”
“Anyone can be star material. Believe me, you’ll get a taste for it pretty quickly.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Paul replied in a sullen voice.
“Still nothing from her?” Mia asked casually.
“Not a word.”
“It’ll happen. And soon.”
Paul looked up at her.
“Mia, about last night—”
“Sorry, it’s time to see your devoted, adoring public once more,” Mia interrupted, rising to her feet.
The security guards accompanied Paul back to the signing desk, and Mia stayed at the café. Moments later, a young female fan rushed up and stole the glass that Paul had been drinking from.
You seem so helpless in the face of your own success, Mia thought. And so utterly sincere when you say you don’t want fame. And yet you had to meet me, of all people . . . Makes me wonder if two people like us could ever really be compatible . . .
Little by little, the bookshop emptied out. The last reader took yet another selfie with Paul, who smiled his last smile of the day. He heard his bones creak as he stood up slowly from his chair.
“It’s the price of fame,” the bookshop manager said when he came over to thank Paul.
Mia was waiting for him near the exit with Ms. Bak.
“Who exactly was this Ms. Jung you mentioned earlier?” Paul asked.
“Eun-Jeong,” the bookseller corrected him. “I told you: she translates your books. Your success is partly thanks to her, you know. I’ve never met her, but I can tell you she certainly has a remarkable way with words.”
“Kyong. My translator’s name is Kyong!” Paul protested. “I think I would know that.”
“Her name must have been spelled wrong in English—our language is full of subtle nuances—but I can assure you that her name is Eun-Jeong. It is written on the cover of all your books. In Korean, of course. I’m sorry she couldn’t be here today. She would have been so proud.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“A bad case of flu, I think. But it’s time to go now: your day is far from over, and your editor will be cross with me if I keep you any longer.”
A limousine took them back to the hotel. Ms. Bak was sitting in the front passenger seat. Paul didn’t say a word, and Mia began to worry.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” she whispered to him.
Paul pressed a button and the glass partition that separated them from the chauffeur and Ms. Bak slid up.
“Huh. Look at that! Maybe I could get used to this . . .”
“Paul!”
“She’s sick. Bad case of the flu, apparently.”
“Well, that’s good news. Not for her, obviously, but at least it could explain the absence and lack of contact. Now, just think, how long does a bad case of flu last? A week? More? When did she fall ill?”
“How should I know?”
“I thought you might have asked. You must have inquired about her, if you learned she was ill.”
“No. Not at all. It was the bookshop guy who told me. She was supposed to be there today.”
“And what else did he tell you?”
“Nothing—he probably didn’t know more than that.”
“So let’s be optimistic and hope she gets back on her feet in a few days . . . Back on her big, ugly feet . . . Horrid and huge, in fact . . .”
“You’re muttering.”
“I never mutter. Muttering is completely foreign to me.”
Mia turned to the window and stared out at the landscape passing by.
“Forget Kyong, at least for tonight . . . Or go ahead and forget her, full stop! What you need to do is focus on your very first television appearance.”
“I don’t want to do it. I’m sick of all this. I just want to go back to the hotel, order room service, and go to bed.”
Tell me about it . . . “Paul, don’t be childish. This is your career we’re talking about. Pull yourself together and act professional. The show must go on.”
“You’re supposed to be playing assistant, not taskmaster.”
“Oh, all I’ve been doing is playing, then?” Mia said crossly, turning to face him.
“Sorry, I’m nervous. I’m talking out of my ass. I should just keep my mouth shut.”
“Once, after hearing a young actress boast that she never got stage fright, Sarah Bernhardt said: ‘Don’t worry, it comes with talent.’”
“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”
“Take it however you want. There’s the hotel. You should have a bath—it would do you a world of good. After that, get changed, and don’t think about anything but your characters, your friends . . . the things that reassure you. You can’t ignore your nerves, but you can fight to overcome them. As soon as you get out on that set, they’ll disappear.”
“I don’t get how you know all this,” Paul said in a lost voice.
“I just do. Trust me.”
Paul lay for a long time luxuriating in the hot, foaming water. He put on the suit and the white shirt Mia had picked out for him. Cameras hated blue, he was learning, and men who wore blue had less presence on television. Mia claimed everyone knew that. Around six p.m., she ordered a snack and Paul forced himself to put something in his stomach. She then made him learn a short introduction by heart, being sure to thank his Korean readers, telling them how touched he was by their warm welcome, what an amazing city Seoul was, even if he hadn’t had time to see all of it yet, and, of course, that he was delighted to be visiting the country. Paul reeled the phrases off in parrot-like fashion, eyes fixed on the television clock as it counted down the minutes. And as time ticked by, his anxiety grew, tying his stomach in knots.
At six thirty sharp, they were ready and waiting in the limousine, per the schedule.
Halfway through the ride, Paul suddenly knocked on the glass partition and begged the chauffeur to stop the car.
He rushed outside and threw up his snack. Mia held him by the shoulders. When the spasms had calmed down, she gave him a tissue and some chewing gum.
“Marvelful,” said Paul, straightening up. “Clammy hands on the plane and now I vomit all over the sidewalk. You really hit the jackpot, coming to Korea with me.”
“All that matters is that your jacket isn’t stained. How do you feel?”
“Like a million bucks. How do you think I feel?”
“Well, at least you didn’t vomit up your sense of humor. Shall we?”
“Let’s. Can’t be late for the slaughterhouse.”
Back in the car, Mia turned to Paul abruptly and said, “Look me in the eyes . . . I said in the eyes! Does your mother watch Korean television?”
“She’s dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What about your sister?”
“I’m an only child.”
“Do you have any other Korean friends?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Perfect! Kyong is bedridden with flu, and when you have flu, even the glow from a nightlight can make your headache unbearable. So there’s no risk that she’ll be watching telly tonight, and nor will anyone else you know or love. In other words, this program does not matter. So it doesn’t mean a thing if you’re brilliant or pathetic. Besides, anything you say will be translated anyway.”
“So why bother going?”
“For the show, for your readers. So you can describe the experience in full detail in one of your future books. When you go out on that set, try telling yourself that you’re one of your characters. Try to act the way he would, and you’ll be perfect.”
Paul looked at Mia for a long moment.
“What about you? I assume you’ll be watching.”
“Not a chance.”
“Liar.”
“Now spit out that chewing gum, will you? We’re here.”
Mia stayed with Paul during makeup, intervening twice to prevent the makeup artist from concealing the laugh lines around his eyes.
When the floor manager came seeking Paul, Mia followed them through the backstage area and dispensed her final piece of advice just before he went on set.
“Don’t forget—the most important thing is not what you say, but how you say it. On TV, the sheer musicality of words is more important than their meaning. I know what I’m talking about. I am a . . . die-hard talk-show fan, after all.”
The banks of spotlights snapped on, the floor manager pushed Paul forward, and he walked out onto the set, eyes dazzled.
The presenter invited Paul to take a seat in the chair across from him, and a technician approached to fit him with an earpiece. It tickled Paul’s ear, causing him to wriggle. The sound mixer had to try three times before he got it right.
“See? He’s going to be fine.” Mia sighed backstage as she watched the color return to Paul’s face.
Paul heard the voice of his interpreter introducing himself in his ear. The translation would be simultaneous, so he asked Paul to speak in short sentences, with pauses in between. Paul nodded, which the presenter took as a hello and felt obliged to return.
“We’re going to begin soon,” the interpreter whispered from the control room. “You can’t see me, but I can see you on my control panel.”
“Okay,” Paul said, heart pounding.
“Don’t address me or reply to what I say, of course, Mr. Barton. Please only respond to Mr. Tae-Hoon. Watch his lips and listen to my voice. The viewers won’t hear yours.”
“Who is this Mr. Tae-Hoon?”
“The host of the show.”
“Ah. Right.”
“Is this your first time on TV?”
Another nod, immediately returned by Tae-Hoon.
“We’re on the air now.”
Paul focused on Tae-Hoon’s face.
“Good evening, we are pleased tonight to welcome the American writer Paul Barton. To our great regret, Mr. Murakami has the flu and cannot be with us tonight. We wish him a speedy recovery.”
“The flu, of course,” said Paul. “First, it hits the only woman in the world I care about, now Murakami. Oh, shit. Don’t translate that, please!”
Hearing this, Mia removed her earpiece and stormed out of the backstage area. She asked the floor manager to accompany her to Mr. Barton’s dressing room.
“Mr. Barton,” said the presenter after a brief hesitation, “your books have been a huge success in our country. Could you explain to us what led you to embrace the cause of the North Korean people?”
“North Korean . . . I beg your pardon?”
“Was my translation unclear?” asked the voice in his ear.
“The translation wasn’t the problem; it was the question.”
The presenter coughed and went on.
“Your latest novel is very powerful. It describes the life of a family under the yoke of dictatorship, trying to survive the repression of Kim Jong-un’s regime, and it does so with an accuracy that might seem surprising from a foreign writer. How did you manage such in-depth research on the subject?”
“Houston, we have a problem,” Paul muttered to his interpreter.
“What’s the problem?”
“I haven’t read the latest Murakami yet, but I have a feeling Ms. Tae-Hoon has mixed the two of us up. Please don’t translate that either!”
“I had no intention of translating it, but I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I have never written a single word about the North Korean dictatorship in my life, not one goddamn word!” Paul hissed, forcing himself to keep smiling.
The presenter, receiving no reply in his earpiece, mopped his brow, apologized, and announced that they were experiencing a small technical problem that would soon be resolved.
“This is not the time or place for jokes, Mr. Barton,” the interpreter said. “This show is being broadcast live. Please answer the questions seriously—my job is on the line here. If you keep acting like this, you’ll get me fired. I must say something to Mr. Tae-Hoon now.”
“Well, you can start by saying hello from me, and warning him that he’s made a mistake. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“I have personally read all your books. I cannot understand your attitude.”
“You have got to be kidding—is this a hidden-camera thing, or what?”
“The camera is in plain sight, directly in front of you. Have you been drinking?”
Paul stared at the lens and the red light blinking above it. Mr. Tae-Hoon seemed to be losing his patience.
“I would like to take a moment to thank all my Korean readers, from the bottom of my heart,” Paul said. “I’m very touched by the warmth of their welcome. Seoul is an amazing city, even if I haven’t had time to see all of it yet. I am overjoyed to be here visiting your wonderful country.”
Paul heard his interpreter sigh with relief before translating his words into Korean.
“Excellent,” said Tae-Hoon, “I think we have resolved our technical difficulty. So I will now put the same two questions to our author, and this time, he will be able to provide his answers.”
While the presenter was speaking, Paul muttered to his interpreter: “As I have no idea what he’s talking about, and as you’ve personally read all my books, I’m just going to recite my Parisian butcher’s recipe for beef stew over and over again, and you, my friend, can reply directly to Mr. Tae-Hoon’s questions on my behalf.”
“That’s impossible! I could never do such a thing,” the interpreter whispered.
“You’re going to have to. Your job is on the line here, remember? On TV, the musicality of words is more important than their actual meaning, I’ll have you know. So don’t worry, you do the talking and I will try to keep smiling.”
And so the program went on. The interpreter translated the interviewer’s questions into Paul’s ear, while the interviewer persisted in questioning the author about books that he hadn’t written, all of which seemed to revolve obsessively around the condition of the North Korean people, and Paul, with a smile glued onto his face, said anything that came into his head, keeping his sentences short, with pauses in between each of them. The interpreter, unable to translate this into anything intelligible, became the author for the night, responding brilliantly in Paul’s place.
The nightmare lasted a full sixty minutes, but no one suspected a thing.
Walking off the set, Paul looked around for Mia. The floor manager guided him to the dressing room.
“You were wonderful,” Mia assured him.
“Yeah, I killed it. Thank you for keeping your promise.”
“What promise was that?”
“Not to watch the show.”
“I watched enough. What a pity . . . you were so looking forward to meeting Murakami. First, the ‘only woman you care about’ comes down with flu, then him.”
“Look, I didn’t mean that.”
“Let’s go. You’re not the only one who is exhausted by the day’s events,” she said as she left the dressing room. “By the way, I’m afraid I have to tender my resignation, effective immediately.”
Paul rushed after her and caught her arm.
“Mia! I didn’t mean a word of it.”
“But you said it.”
“Well, it was crap. And believe me, it wasn’t the only crap I spouted tonight!”
“I’m sure you were excellent.”
“The only reason I survived at all tonight was because of you. So . . . thank you, from the bottom of my heart. And I really do mean that.”
“Fine. You’re welcome.”
Mia broke free from his grip and walked resolutely toward the exit.
Back at the hotel, Mia fell straight asleep. On the other side of the bolster, Paul lay with his eyes wide open, trying to make sense of the day’s bizarre developments. Failing to do so, he began worrying about what the next day would hold.