P.S. from Paris(65)
“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.
17
Mia was awoken by the creak of a door. She opened her eyes. Paul was pushing a room-service cart into the room. He went to her side, saying good morning.
“Coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice, pastries, hard-boiled eggs, and cereal. Would the lady care for anything else?”
He poured her a cup of coffee.
Mia sat up and arranged the pillows behind her back.
“To what do I owe all this special treatment?”
“Nothing special about it. Now that I’ve fired my assistant, I’m going to have to do everything around here myself,” Paul replied.
“That’s strange, I heard she resigned.”