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.”