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.
“Do you think there’s an emergency exit in this building?” he said numbly. “Or in life in general, preferably . . .”
“You’re white as a sheet.”
“I need a drink. A stiff one.”
Mia grabbed a martini from a tray held by a passing waiter and handed it to Paul. He downed it in one gulp.
“Let’s go somewhere quiet and you can tell me everything.”
“Not now,” Paul replied, his jaw clenched. “I can’t just keel over and faint right before the ambassador gives his speech.”
During the meal, Paul couldn’t shake the vision: a family could be starving to death only a hundred miles from this room where waiters proffered lavish trays of petits fours and foie-gras canapés. Two worlds, separated by a border. His own world had ceased to exist one hour earlier. Had Kyong planned this all along? Mia kept trying to catch his eye, but Paul couldn’t see it. When he left the table, Mia followed him. He thanked the ambassador and apologized for the fatigue that forced him to leave.
Shin accompanied them to the door. He shook hands with Paul for a long time on the steps of the mansion. Seeing his gentle, sad smile, Paul felt certain Shin had pieced together some of the truth of the situation.
“What in the world could have put you in this state? Did something happen to Kyong?” Mia asked as the limousine drove away.
“Yes, sort of. It happened to both of us, apparently. My success in Korea was never real. My novels never really existed here, and Kyong was a hell of a lot more than just a translator.”
Mia listened in shock as Paul went on.
“She kept my name on the covers of the books, but that was all. Under that front, she published her own novels—her story, her battles. That TV host yesterday wasn’t a moron at all, and neither was the interpreter. I’ll have to be sure to apologize to them. And, you know, all this would be like one gigantic farce, if the real subject of my Korean novels were not so tragic. To think . . . for years I’ve been living off royalties from books I didn’t even write. You were right to tender your resignation—you were working for an impostor. My only excuse is that I didn’t know a thing about any of this.”
Mia asked the chauffeur to stop the car.
“Come on,” she said to Paul. “You need some fresh air.”
They walked side by side in silence until Paul started speaking again.
“I have every right to hate her for what she did. But behind all the betrayal and deception is something noble. If she had published those books under her own name, it would have been a death sentence for her family.”
“What are you planning to do?”
“I don’t know. I need to think. All throughout dinner, I was trying to wrap my head around it. I guess I’ll have to play along, at least while I’m here. Otherwise, I risk putting her in danger. When I get back to Paris, I’ll send her the money she’s owed and cancel that contract. Cristoneli’s going to be just thrilled: I can see it now, him having a conniption right at the Deux Magots. And when the dust settles, I’ll have to figure out a way to make a living.”
“Nothing is forcing you to do any of that. That money came from Korean publishers, and they must have made a fortune off your books.”
“Not my books. Kyong’s.”
“If you really decide to go through with this, you’re going to have to give some kind of explanation.”
“We’ll see. Anyway, at least now I understand why she’s been MIA. I have to find her so we can talk about this. I can’t leave without seeing her.”
“You do love her, don’t you?”
Paul stopped and shrugged. “Let’s go home. I’m freezing. God, what a weird night!”
In the elevator that took them up to their suite, Mia stood in front of Paul. She gently stroked his face and then abruptly slapped him. Paul snapped out of his stupor. Mia pressed him against the wall and kissed him.
They were still kissing when the doors opened and they continued kissing out in the corridor, his back pressed against the wall, sliding from door to door until they reached their room.
They were still kissing as they got undressed, and didn’t stop even as they fell onto the bed together.