P.S. from Paris(68)

Shin led Paul down a corridor and into an office.

“We won’t be disturbed here,” he assured Paul, gesturing to a chair.

Paul took a deep breath and tried to find the right words.

“You speak perfect English. And I assume you’re fluent in Korean?”

“Yes, of course. I am Korean,” Shin replied, sitting down opposite Paul.

“Good. And so you’ve read my book?”

“Twice! It had such a powerful effect on me. And every night before I go to sleep, I reread a passage.”

“Fantastic. Shin, I just have a small favor to ask.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t worry, it really is small.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Barton?”

“Tell me . . . what happens in my book.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me right. If you don’t know where to start, just give me a summary of the first few chapters, and we’ll take it from there.”

“Are you sure? But why?”

“It’s impossible for a writer to assess the fidelity of a translation in a language he doesn’t speak. But you . . . are bilingual. So go ahead. It’ll be easy.”

Shin seemed to take Paul’s request at face value. He told him what happened in his novel, starting at the beginning.

In the first chapter, Paul was introduced to a child who had grown up in North Korea. Her family lived in unimaginable poverty, as did all the inhabitants of the village. The dictatorial regime, imposed by a cruel dynasty, kept the entire population in slavery. Their free time was devoted to worshipping the leaders. The school—which most children were not allowed to attend, being forced instead to work in the fields—was merely a propaganda tool designed to mold impressionable minds into thinking of their torturers as supreme deities.

In the second chapter, Paul met the narrator’s father, a university lecturer. In the evenings, he secretly taught English literature to his brightest students, undertaking the perilous task of teaching them to think for themselves and attempting to instill in them the wonderful virtues of liberty.

In chapter three, the narrator’s father was denounced to the authorities by the mother of one of his students. After being tortured, he was executed in front of his family. His students suffered the same fate, and their bodies were all dragged by horses through the streets. The only student spared was the one whose parents had betrayed the lecturer. Instead of being killed, that girl was imprisoned in a labor camp for the rest of her life.

In the next chapter, the heroine of the novel recounted how her brother, who had stolen a few grains of corn, was beaten and locked in a cage too small to stand up or lie down in. His torturers burned his skin. One year later, the narrator’s aunt, after accidentally damaging a sewing machine, had her thumbs chopped off by her employer.

In chapter six, the heroine was seventeen years old. The night of her birthday, she left her family and ran away. Crossing valleys and rivers on foot, hiding by day and traveling by night, eating only roots and wild grass, she managed to sneak past the police officers patrolling the border and at last entered South Korea, the land of resilience.

Shin paused, seeing that the author of the story was just as overwhelmed at hearing the saga unfold as Shin himself had been upon reading it, if not more so. It suddenly hit Paul how insignificant his own prose was.

“What happens next?” Paul asked. “Tell me what happens next!”

“But you already know what happens!” Shin replied.

“Please, just go on,” Paul begged him.

“In Seoul, your heroine is welcomed by an old friend of her father’s, another defector from the regime. He looks after her as if she were his own daughter and provides for her education. After university, she gets a job and devotes all of her free time to informing the world about the plight of her compatriots.”

“What sort of job?”

“She starts out as an assistant in a publishing house, then she is promoted to copyeditor, and finally she becomes editorial director.”

“Go on,” said Paul, through gritted teeth.

“The money she earns is used to pay people-smugglers, and to fund foreign opposition movements, all with the intent of making Western politicians aware of the situation and pushing them into finally taking action against Kim Jong-un’s regime. Twice a year, she travels abroad to secretly meet with these groups. Her family members are still at the mercy of a ruthless regime; if anyone were to make the connection, her mother, her brother, and especially the man she loves would pay a heavy price.”

“I think I’ve heard enough,” Paul interrupted, looking at the floor.

“Mr. Barton, are you all right?”

“You know, I’m really not sure.”

“Can I help you?” Shin asked, handing him a tissue.

“One last question. The main character in my story, my heroine,” Paul asked, wiping his eyes. “Her name . . . is it, by any chance . . . Kyong?”

“Why yes, of course,” said the ambassador’s partner.



Paul found Mia in the drawing room. Upon seeing how pale and haggard he looked, she put down her glass of champagne, apologized to the person she’d been talking to, and came over to him.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, concerned.