“Fine. You’re welcome.”
Mia broke free from his grip and walked resolutely toward the exit.
Back at the hotel, Mia fell straight asleep. On the other side of the bolster, Paul lay with his eyes wide open, trying to make sense of the day’s bizarre developments. Failing to do so, he began worrying about what the next day would hold.
17
Mia was awoken by the creak of a door. She opened her eyes. Paul was pushing a room-service cart into the room. He went to her side, saying good morning.
“Coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice, pastries, hard-boiled eggs, and cereal. Would the lady care for anything else?”
He poured her a cup of coffee.
Mia sat up and arranged the pillows behind her back.
“To what do I owe all this special treatment?”
“Nothing special about it. Now that I’ve fired my assistant, I’m going to have to do everything around here myself,” Paul replied.
“That’s strange, I heard she resigned.”
“Well, she had the right idea. I would much rather lose an employee and keep a friend. Sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
“And as I am now my own assistant, I took a few liberties this morning. All of today’s appointments have been canceled. Our only obligation is the reception at the embassy. The rest of the day is free. Seoul is ours to explore until this evening, so let’s make the most of it. Every last moment.”
“You canceledallyour appointments?”
“Postponed them until tomorrow. I said I was coming down with something. After all, I can’t let Murakami monopolize the flu. It’s a question of status.”
Mia caught sight of the newspaper lying folded on the breakfast table and quickly made a grab for it.
“Your photo’s on the front page!”
“I know. They didn’t get my good side. Awful. Looks like there’s about ten pounds more of me than there should be.”
“Come on, you look good. Have you called your press officer to ask her to translate the article for you? A front-page photo—that’s a big deal!”
“For now, I have no way of knowing if the coverage is positive or negative, but I do have a creeping suspicion the whole thing might actually be about Murakami’s latest novel and not mine.”
“Where did this obsession with Murakami come from? That’s the second time you’ve mentioned him in the past five minutes.”
“There’s no obsession. Although, after last night, I’d have good reason to be obsessed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I half wish youhadwatched the thing. It was so surreal. Getting interviewed by a journalist who hasn’t read my books is one thing, but nothing could have prepared me for an interview with someone who was mixing up my book with somebody else’s!”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“Last night! The moron kept asking me questions that were obviously intended for . . . I’m not going to say his name, or you’ll accuse me of being obsessed again. There I am, alone on the set, sitting across from the host. ‘So, what led to your interest in the fate of the North Korean people? How did you find out so much information about the lives of those oppressed by Kim Jong-un’s regime? Why are you so committed to this cause in particular? Do you think the days are numbered for the dictator’s reign? In your opinion, is Kim Jong-un a puppet leader appointed by an oligarchy or is he really, truly in control? Are your characters inspired by reality or did you invent them?’ Et cetera,et cetera. . .”
“You can’t be serious!” said Mia, unsure whether to laugh or show sympathy.
“That’s exactly what I said to the interpreter talking to me through that stupid earpiece. Those things really do itch, you know. I thought it might be some kind of prank. That seemed like the most logical explanation. At first, I told myself I wasn’t going to let them put one over on me, not that easily, but after twenty minutes, the joke was getting pretty stale. Except it wasn’t a joke. Those jackasses somehow got their authors mixed up, and the interpreter was too scared to tell them.”
“That is flat-out crazy,” Mia replied, covering her mouth with her hand to suppress the laughter she could feel welling up inside her.
