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.”
