“Oh, all I’ve been doing is playing, then?” Mia said crossly, turning to face him.
“Sorry, I’m nervous. I’m talking out of my ass. I should just keep my mouth shut.”
“Once, after hearing a young actress boast that she never got stage fright, Sarah Bernhardt said: ‘Don’t worry, it comes with talent.’”
“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”
“Take it however you want. There’s the hotel. You should have a bath—it would do you a world of good. After that, get changed, and don’t think about anything but your characters, your friends . . . the things that reassure you. You can’t ignore your nerves, but you can fight to overcome them. As soon as you get out on that set, they’ll disappear.”
“I don’t get how you know all this,” Paul said in a lost voice.
“I just do. Trust me.”
Paul lay for a long time luxuriating in the hot, foaming water. He put on the suit and the white shirt Mia had picked out for him. Cameras hated blue, he was learning, and men who wore blue had less presence on television. Mia claimed everyone knew that. Around six p.m., she ordered a snack and Paul forced himself to put something in his stomach. She then made him learn a short introduction by heart, being sure to thank his Korean readers, telling them how touched he was by their warm welcome, what an amazing city Seoul was, even if he hadn’t had time to see all of it yet, and, of course, that he was delighted to be visiting the country. Paul reeled the phrases off in parrot-like fashion, eyes fixed on the television clock as it counted down the minutes. And as time ticked by, his anxiety grew, tying his stomach in knots.
At six thirty sharp, they were ready and waiting in the limousine, per the schedule.
Halfway through the ride, Paul suddenly knocked on the glass partition and begged the chauffeur to stop the car.
He rushed outside and threw up his snack. Mia held him by the shoulders. When the spasms had calmed down, she gave him a tissue and some chewing gum.
“Marvelful,” said Paul, straightening up. “Clammy hands on the plane and now I vomit all over the sidewalk. You really hit the jackpot, coming to Korea with me.”
“All that matters is that your jacket isn’t stained. How do you feel?”
“Like a million bucks. How do you think I feel?”
“Well, at least you didn’t vomit up your sense of humor. Shall we?”
“Let’s. Can’t be late for the slaughterhouse.”
Back in the car, Mia turned to Paul abruptly and said, “Look me in the eyes . . . I said in the eyes! Does your mother watch Korean television?”
“She’s dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What about your sister?”
“I’m an only child.”
“Do you have any other Korean friends?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Perfect! Kyong is bedridden with flu, and when you have flu, even the glow from a nightlight can make your headache unbearable. So there’s no risk that she’ll be watching telly tonight, and nor will anyone else you know or love. In other words, this programdoes not matter. So it doesn’t mean a thing if you’re brilliant or pathetic. Besides, anything you say will be translated anyway.”
“So why bother going?”
“For the show, for your readers. So you can describe the experience in full detail in one of your future books. When you go out on that set, try telling yourself that you’re one of your characters. Try to act the way he would, and you’ll be perfect.”
Paul looked at Mia for a long moment.
“What about you? I assume you’ll be watching.”
“Not a chance.”
“Liar.”
“Now spit out that chewing gum, will you? We’re here.”
