—I’m not good enough for that.
—Such modesty . . . You’re more than adequate. I came here to learn about French civilization and bring back knowledge that will help Korea. I have never forgotten Korea during my time here. But learning is not enough. It’s just as important to let people here know of our country. And our time of ignoring Western nations has run too long. We’ve let the divide between us grow too wide.
—Korea is all you think of.
—I have other thoughts.
—Such as?
—Of you . . . of Lady Attendant Suh.
Jin let go of Hong’s hand.
The music switched from “The Blue Danube” to Chopin’s Grande valse brillante.
Jin gave Hong a polite curtsey and turned her back to him. She began walking toward the tables. But then she turned and addressed Hong once more.
—I am Victor’s wife!
She needed to make that clear. Her cold voice only made Hong take a step closer.
—In this country, the married people seem more licentious than the unmarried. But he has not even held a wedding in your honor!
Jin left Hong behind with the dancers and returned to her table. Victor wasn’t there. He was dancing. Jin tried to catch a glimpse of his partner’s face, but the other dancers kept getting in the way.
—Madame!
A beaming Madame Planchard approached her and sat down in Victor’s seat.
—Did you know we hold a white sale every February and August?
Jin knew, thanks to Jeanne. They were held after the bargain sales at the beginning and middle of the year, during the period that seemed a little too early for the next season’s new arrivals. Bon Marché and other major department stores sold mostly linen then. Jeanne pleaded with Jin to go to the sale together, saying all of fashionable Paris would be there. Jin had been deeply impressed by the presentation of the wares. The department store looked as if snow had fallen inside, with white muslin descending from the ceiling and wrapped around the banisters of the stairs. The pillars between the displays and the cases themselves were all decorated in white. The women of Paris drifted among them like snowflakes, choosing white underclothes and sheets. Jin purchased white shirts for Victor, along with towels and a tablecloth. All at half-price.
—Do you remember the white fan you gifted me at the opera? The one with the red peonies embroidered on the white satin backing?
Jin’s hands were idle one afternoon, and she had thought longingly of her days at the Embroidery Chamber of the palace and of her roommate Soa. She had removed the lace from an old fan and placed a piece of white satin against the ribs to measure. With the colored thread bought during her sojourns to the arcade with Jeanne, she had embroidered red peonies on the satin and given the finished fan to Madame Planchard as a gift.
—Many who have seen me carry it wish for fans of their own.
—Shall I make another one for you?
It would be easy enough, as long as she had more fan ribs.
—What I mean is, Madame, if you could make more of these satin fans whenever you can, I could sell them for you to these other ladies for a handsome price.
—But that is unnecessary. I am happy to make another fan for any lady who wishes it.
—Everyone asks me where I bought my fan. More than just one or two ladies. And there are many fans already, our department stores have several kinds. But the ones you make are distinguished. They are exotic and stately. I think it is due to your skill with the needle. You have a beautiful touch. Such attention to detail is an art in itself. In fact, I’ve stopped using my fan and had it framed on a wall!
—But how could I possibly accept payment?
—It is only natural to be paid for crafting something beautiful with your hands. I wouldn’t say this if it were only a few ladies who’ve asked. And the ladies in question happen to have impeccable taste. I thought we might sell a few to them and then display the rest at the white sale . . .
—. . .
—I don’t know how you will take this, but I am very intrigued by you, Madame. I wish for you to be enriched through your talents. Don’t think too much about it, just make more fans like the one you gave to me. I shall take care of the rest.
Jin straightened her back and looked at Madame Planchard’s face. Madame Planchard poured champagne into the empty flute placed before Jin. Golden bubbles, clear and bright, rose to the top. Régamey, his interest piqued by what Madame Planchard was saying, leaned toward their conversation as he sliced some roast suckling pig to put on his plate.
—Would you be interested?
Jin looked into Madame Planchard’s eyes, which were full of good intent. She took a sip of champagne. There were, sometimes, such kind gazes, even among the Parisians who gawked at her. Maupassant’s was one of them. Maupassant was also prone to say that lack of interest in one’s own life was the death of hope, and lack of interest in the lives of others was the beginning of sin. But he himself seemed uninterested in his own life as well as anyone else’s. He hated places where people congregated. If someone praised him, he would riposte that such words were better addressed to rotting cheese. Jin wondered how such a man could bring himself to come to a reading held at the Bon Marché reading room.
—Why do you think I should be enriched, Madame? Do I seem poor?
—Have I offended you?
—No. I am only curious.
—Madame, you seem mysterious, not poor. But you never know what the future holds. No one can know that. Money is safety. Even if a need to spend it never arises, you can always give it away, or buy whatever you desire, and more than anything else, you will have freedom.
Freedom. Could Madame Planchard, said to have come up alone from the provinces to become a shop girl at a boutique at Magasin de Nouveautés on the Left Bank, have obtained her freedom in such a way? Jin glanced at Victor, who was waltzing with a woman she didn’t know and thought over that word, liberté, which Madame Blanchard had just spoken. Fish tend to gather in deep waters. Madame Planchard’s considerate nature attracted many people around her. Whether it was from the champagne, Hong’s words questioning the validity of her marriage, or Madame Planchard’s generosity, Jin’s face was a touch flushed.
—May I ask a favor?
Madame Planchard leaned forward, ready to listen.
—We have a servant boy named Vincent. He’s clever and hardworking and optimistic, he makes everyone happy around him. His dream is to be a sales attendant at Bon Marché. I’ve been watching him, and I am convinced he could be an asset to your department store.
Madame Planchard, who had been tense as she listened, let out a laugh.
—How odd you are, Madame! Who would try to find her own servant another position?
—Vincent is not our servant, strictly speaking. He helps Victor. He’s the son of the cheesemonger at Plancy, Victor’s childhood home. He stays with us because he has no other relations in Paris.
—But it will inconvenience you to lose him.
—I shall persuade Victor. I want Vincent to live the life he wishes. Will you help us?
—Ah, then! We shall put him in charge of the vendor for your fans!
—Are you serious about putting my handiwork up for sale?
Régamey spoke up for Madame Planchard.
—Let her do so, Madame. Talent should not be hidden. I don’t know about Korea, but here, the judgment of the market plays an important part in the shaping of talent.
—Here you all are.
Boex seemed to have just arrived at the ball, which prompted a flurry of greetings. Planchard came up to them and escorted his wife to the clearing for dancing. Boex sat down in the seat she had vacated. He put down a large envelope next to the roasted veal and looked around, mentioning that he was searching for Hong Jong-u.
Jin was also taking a look around at the ball. She didn’t see Hong, but Victor came into view. Who was he dancing with? Jin had never seen the woman’s face before.
r /> —There he is.
Jin looked where Boex pointed and saw Hong walking toward the minister, who was visiting each table, talking to his guests. Jin, Boex, and Régamey looked at Hong at the same time. They were in for a surprise. Hong had just knelt before the minister. His white robes covered the flagstones in the garden. The minister in his tuxedo and Hong in his Korean robes on his knees before him resembled a scene out of a play. Hong kissed the minister’s hand. But the subtlest method of insult is to ignore. Despite Hong’s earnest show of respect, the minister simply stared down at him for a moment and moved on to another table. The insult was obvious to everyone. Hong remained on his knees upon the flagstones, even when the minister and his wife ignored him. Jin half stood out of her seat but sat back down. Her heart was filled with a pity she had never felt toward Hong before.
Régamey stood up and walked over to Hong.
—What just happened?
Jin had to ask as she poured Bordeaux, said to be indispensable among gatherings of diplomats, into Boex’s empty glass.
—Monsieur Hong thought the minister would know him. Hong had wished to see him for a long time but had never been given leave to, so he came to this party despite being uninvited, and now he’s being treated like a pest. I do hope I’m not found out, I don’t have an invitation, either.
—Why would Hong wish to see the minister?
—Well, he’s the Minister of Foreign Affairs, so Hong would want to make his acquaintance. Hong told me he was introduced to the minister when France signed their treaty with Korea. They say he worked under the King. Did you know?
Had he? Jin had no idea what work Hong had done in Korea. She had only known him because of Victor, who frequented Hwang Cheol’s photography studio. He had occasionally accompanied them on their jaunts with Hwang Cheol, but Hong never deigned to look her in the eye, and his manner was like thorns. Jin had avoided speaking to him as much as she could. If Hong had never held an office in Korea, how could he have been at the treaty signing? Jin stared at Hong, who remained kneeling. The minister, who gave him no notice, lingered for a long time at Henri Philippe’s table. The laughter of the two could be heard all the way to where Jin was sitting.
—Is this not Monsieur Boex?
Victor, returning from his waltz, greeted Boex, his dancing partner nowhere to be found.
—Monsieur Hong wanted to see me. His book has been published.
Boex took out a bound volume from the envelope he had set next to his veal and handed it to Jin. Jin gazed at the cover, emblazoned with the title Fragrant Spring, as Régamey came back to the table with Hong.
—Here it is!
Hong, as if he’d already forgotten the minister’s insult, shouted triumphantly as he practically snatched Fragrant Spring from Jin’s hands. He stared at the book for a while before laughing his characteristically boisterous laugh.
—Look at Chunhyang!
Hong held out the book to Jin with the pages open to an illustration of Chunhyang. The woman Suh had once told her, “Books are friends that can never betray, always keep them close.” Jin looked down at the illustration. Régamey, a painter himself, also bent over it in curiosity before speaking.
—What seems to be the problem? Marold is an excellent illustrator.
The drawings were said to be a collaboration between Marold and Mittis.
—The drawings are fine. Except the illustrators have never seen a Korean woman. The pictures are of a Korean woman of their imagination.
Hong laughed, much amused. Boex, the publisher of the book, smiled at him as if in agreement. The Chunhyang of the book wore Korean clothes, but her features, skin, and hair were closer to that of a Western woman.
—If they had only one glimpse of you, Madame, it would’ve helped tremendously.
Hong had just addressed Jin as “Madame,” perhaps because Victor was present. Victor smiled as he looked at the illustration.
—I believe it is thanks to Monsieur Hong that Lee Mongryong looks like a proper Korean gentleman.
Hong nodded at Victor’s critique.
—Everyone at this table are good friends, but others cannot even imagine what Koreans look like. There is much work ahead to strengthen the friendship between our countries.
As they made these exchanges, Jin looked closer at the conical hat one of the characters wore. She caught a glimpse of Yeon in these illustrations of Koreans; why had she not had photographs taken of Yeon and the woman Suh? She felt a wave of regret. If only she had done so, to look upon them whenever she missed the two.
As the others thumbed through the book in merriment, gaslights started lighting up one by one in the garden of the house. The servants brought out vanilla ice cream with strawberry jelly to place on each table, as well as mille-feuille with their countless layers. Henri Philippe in his trendy striped trousers jauntily approached them. Hong greeted him, and Régamey introduced him to Boex and Victor.
Henri Philippe nodded politely to Jin.
—We meet again. Madame is more beautiful than ever. And is that a Korean book in your hands?
Henri Philippe had asked Jin, but Hong replied in her stead, saying it was the first Korean book to be translated into French. Jin passed it to Henri Philippe. Interested, he flipped through Fragrant Spring on the spot and looked up at both Jin and Hong.
—Would you like to come to the Explorers Club to introduce the work to the people? I think our members would be fascinated by the fact that it is the first Korean book published in France. Many were impressed by Hong’s passionate lecture that afternoon.
Hong smiled brightly at Henri Philippe’s words and bowed to him again. Henri Philippe turned to Jin.
Victor, who hadn’t known about Jin’s sojourn to the Explorers Club, gave Jin a look that said, What is he talking about? Just then, the minister approached their table. Régamey, afraid Hong would fall on his knees again, discreetly restrained him. The minister passed Hong and spoke to Henri Philippe and Boex.
—It is impolitic for French persons to deal with Koreans as if they were equals.
Victor glanced at Jin. The minister gave a pretense of talking in a whisper, but of course Hong and Jin, standing behind him, heard every word he said.
—It is perhaps best to ignore Korea and Koreans. Ah, but I do not mean you, Madame. You are a true Parisian through and through.
The minister, his manner one of bestowing a great honor, smiled at Jin, sitting right beside Victor.
Loneliness swept through Jin’s heart; she felt she couldn’t recognize a soul around her.
She was overwhelmed by the feeling that she was going uphill when everyone else was going down. Jin quickly brought a hand to her belly. Her ears filled with music, whispers, the sound of a knife falling on the flagstones of the garden, the sound of wine being poured, and the occasional sound of laughter. She tried to contain the pain unleashing itself in her stomach, her face turning white from the effort.
—I saw you dance the waltz a few moments ago. You dance it better than any woman who was born in Paris. I am glad you learned our ways.
The sounds of the dancing, chatter, and laughter were receding from her like a lie.
—Well. Enjoy.
Jin’s eyelids trembled from her worsening abdominal pain. The minister gave her a courteous parting look and moved on to his other guests. His wife, following a step behind, looked back at Jin. Jin could feel sweat beading on her scalp underneath her felt hat. She caught the eye of the minister’s wife, who gave a friendly smile before trotting after her husband.
Dusk fell over the garden.
Despite the strange mood between Régamey and Hong Jong-u, perhaps brought on by the minister’s words, the dancers, bathed in soft gaslight, looked more romantic than ever.
—Victor.
Jin quickly dabbed away her sweat and called for Victor in a low voice, but Victor was too preoccupied with talking to Henri Philippe about China.
—Madame?
Boex was trying to
get her attention.
—I have already talked about it with Monsieur Hong, but we are looking for the next Korean book to publish after Fragrant Spring. Is there a work you would recommend?
Boex slid a plate of mille-feuille toward her. Hong was filling his own wineglass, and Régamey was listening in to what Boex was saying as he dipped a spoon into his ice cream and strawberry jelly. Boex, in his considerate way, was trying to change the mood at the table.
—Would you be interested in trying your hand at translation, Madame? I can help you. I’m sure we won’t have any problems.
Jin was silent with pain as Boex poured more champagne into her flute. Régamey, who had been silent since the minister’s pause at their table, spoke up in a somewhat exaggeratedly cheerful voice in his own bid to lift the mood.
—Let’s go to Montmartre to celebrate our new book. Yes, why don’t we go to the Moulin Rouge? We shall stay out all night. Shall we?
Hong seemed enthused by the idea.
—Have you been to the Moulin Rouge, Madame?
Jin shook her head at Boex’s question. She had read in the papers about how cafés and dancehalls—of a markedly different style than the ones on the Saint-Germain or in the Latin Quarter—were popping up in Montmartre. Among the bustle of the party, Jin looked down at her belly, which once again seemed to contort itself in agony. The twisting would seem to subside for a bit, but when the sweat on her forehead cooled, the sudden stabs of pain would begin again.
Régamey was rapturously describing the virtues of the Montmartre district to Hong.
—There’s a new, joyful Paris being born at Montmartre, and something fascinating to see in every alley. As for the Moulin Rouge, all sorts of people seem to go there. We might meet Toulouse-Lautrec. He always sits in a corner like the Buddha, drawing the dancing girls.
The others had arrived at a consensus as to going to the Moulin Rouge while Jin sat in silent struggle.
She knew she wouldn’t be able to withstand the worsening pain for long, but she nevertheless tried to keep upright in her chair.
Régamey, Boex, and Hong continued to talk of the Moulin Rouge cabaret at the foot of the Montmartre hill. Jin had heard of the Moulin Rouge from Maupassant. He had also told her about Toulouse-Lautrec. He was a very short painter whose legs had failed to grow since suffering an accident as a child. He showed up every evening at the Moulin Rouge and sketched the dancers. Maupassant had also told her that the artist would likely want to sketch Jin’s form if he ever saw her dance.