Chapter 175: Hashish Club [2]
Did I mention physiognomy too? Well, we probably talked about everything under the sun. These people around me now felt like family—my family in London. Whether I was drinking or eating, it was always with them.
Anyway… thank God.
I was genuinely grateful that the people around me were like this.
“Blundell! Have you passed out already?”
“Ugh… I’m dizzy.”
“What do you mean, dizzy? This stuff is incredible!”
No, that was just a junkie, right? Or a cartel boss?
“Alright, I guess I should keep writing.”
Next to me, Victor Hugo, the great author, mumbled those words as he took another hit of hashish. It was such an obvious thing to say, yet hearing that even someone like him, who would write works destined for literary immortality, grappled with the same creative struggles gave me strange comfort.
To be honest…
Nineteenth-century medicine was just too heavy for me. There were countless moments when I felt like giving up. That was what I meant.
Okay… I’ll keep pushing forward.
I nodded, watching Victor Hugo’s serious expression. Whether or not I was in my right mind to be reflecting like this was questionable. It was hitting me hard. According to Pierre, this was not just hashish, but a concentrated form of it. Even if I had not smoked directly, secondhand exposure was more than enough to cloud my senses.
“Hey, how about me?”
I blinked. As I sat between Berlioz and Victor Hugo, chatting and sipping wine, someone on the opposite side of the room spoke to me. He had a striking appearance: large, expressive eyes with dark lids, a broad nose, dark skin, and tightly curled hair.
Mixed race…?
Most likely, he was a person of both white and Black ancestry.
There’s no particular discrimination here… or at least, not in this room.
Come to think of it, this was a strangely warm, welcoming gathering. Maybe it was because these people had already pushed past those racial lines. And it probably had everything to do with the man in front of me, whose eyes were now curiously watching me.
Everyone here had presence. Pierre might have been unknown to me, but given his connection to Liston, he was probably famous in his own right. Berlioz and Victor Hugo needed no explanation.
Paris, France, nineteenth century, mixed-race… there’s only one person it could be.
I was sure. Credit went to my dad’s love of magazines, and the fact that I had grown up reading all kinds of novels.
“I’ve heard of you. You’re Alexandre Dumas, aren’t you?”
“No…?”
Everyone around us was stunned. The most surprised, of course, was Alexandre Dumas himself. The very man who would go on to write The Count of Monte Cristo, one of the greatest works in literature, was now looking at me with a mix of awe and embarrassment.
“M-me? How? Has word of my support for Louis Philippe spread all the way to London?”
Louis Philippe? Sorry, I only know about magazine articles. That name did not ring a bell. I did not feel the need to pretend otherwise.
“Oh, no. I don’t even know who that is.”
“He’s the current King of France. You didn’t know?”
“Ah.”
Wait, weren’t all the kings supposed to have died in the revolution? I dodged the question and tried to change the subject.
“Anyway, I heard you’re highly regarded as a playwright.”
“No, this can’t be real… This is such an honor. You even recognized my appearance?”
“It’s physiognomy.”
“Ah!”
I threw in a buzzword. After all, how often would I get the chance to meet someone like this again? And while I was at it, I figured I would sprinkle in a bit of Joseon mystery. You never knew. Maybe Joseon would one day surpass Japan in development. Besides, Britain and France were the face of imperialism at the time, weren’t they?
“Well, the more you learn about Joseon, the more mysterious it becomes.”
Liston, who had long been fascinated with Joseon, nodded in admiration. Of course, at this point, Dr. Liston was clearly under the effects of hashish, chatting away with Pierre in a language I could not understand. Their conversation sounded meaningless, so I turned back to Dumas and continued talking.
“It’s truly an honor. That said… is there any discrimination against Asians in London?”
“Oh, definitely.”
Honestly, I was not sure. I had not experienced much myself. There had been one guy who tried, but Liston dealt with him long ago. These days, no one dared mess with me, not after word got out that I was in cahoots with Liston and the police. But I could tell that Dumas, sitting in front of me now, probably faced plenty of discrimination.
“This must be hard. I get it. Even as a proud French citizen… it’s not easy.”
“You have nothing to worry about. Forget the literary snobs. Just write good work. Your plays are a hit every time. What else matters?”
Victor Hugo offered those words of comfort. He really did seem like the kind of man capable of writing Les Misérables.
“I’m so glad to meet you. May I treat you to something properly sometime?”
“Of course. Let’s keep in touch.”
This time, Berlioz also chimed in. I had no idea what was going on, but I figured I would be staying in Paris for at least a month. The journey here had taken more than a week, so I was not leaving anytime soon. You needed downtime when traveling in the nineteenth century. Otherwise, you would burn out.
“We’re also going to perform a piece by a young musician named Chopin. He’s brilliant. Since you’re into music…”
“Yes? Chopin?”
“You know the name? He’s just getting started…”
“Oh, no. It’s just… it’s a unique name.”
“Haha, right. Anyway, do come when you can.”
“Yes, yes.”
Chopin too? Wow. Britain might brag about being the empire, but mainland Europe’s artistic pedigree was on another level. I had once attended a concert by Cho Seong-jin, so hearing that I might see Chopin himself got me excited.
In hindsight, that must have been why I overindulged in the food.
“Be careful. I can switch to water anytime. Outside proper restaurants, I only drink alcohol—or hashish.”
I had completely forgotten Liston’s warning. The fact that we were in Paris had dulled my caution. Paris. The supposed cultural capital of the world. The people I was surrounded by were all legends in the making. I had already forgotten the disgusting view of the Seine I had seen earlier, thanks to my drunken euphoria.
“Pyeong, are you using the bathroom alone again? Come out!”
“Sorry, sorry!”
“Did you eat something yesterday? I told you not to. This is what happens. One wrong meal in a foreign place and boom—diarrhea. And just look at Paris. Don’t you think it reeks of miasma, like London?”
“Oh my god.”
“Shit. Literally.”
Liston muttered the Korean curse word he had learned from me, backing away in horror. I admit I was a bit rude. The flimsy nineteenth-century door could not contain the smell or the sound. But honestly, right now, my biggest problem was diarrhea.
“Waaah!”
“What should we do?”
“What can we do? People are weak. Let’s just go on without him today. It’s not like he’s doing surgery right now anyway. He can just drink the Thames water he brought. Plenty of bodily fluids around here too.”
“Didn’t you say a new body was arriving?”
“Oh, that. I heard the supplier got caught. But if we wait, more will come.”
“What?! Is that okay?”
“They say it’s just a disciplinary measure. Don’t worry.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“This is France. No one cares about the law. They’re the ones who started the July Revolution. How many times is this now?”
“Still… it’s a mess in here.”
From the conversation, I figured Blundell was inspecting the room. It was definitely a hotel, but the mess was indescribable. I had not been to a hotel in London, so I had nothing to compare it to, but surely it should not be like this. I even saw a rat yesterday.
“Anyway, Pyeong. Just rest. Don’t go out alone. It’s dangerous here.”
“Ah, yes. But Berlioz later—”
“He seems trustworthy… but do you really want to show your explosive diarrhea side to someone you just met yesterday? I can go in your place.”
What should I say? Should I say I’m “Mr. Poop”? And then that would get passed on to Chopin, wouldn’t it? That was not happening. I just had a gut feeling. This was not an infection. It was a toxin. I just needed water and to stop eating local food.
Then again, was water even safe?
Should I just stick to alcohol?
“Oh, no. I think I’ll be fine.”
“I doubt it… Anyway, we’re heading out.”
“Okay. Have a good trip, hyung.”
“Alright. Rest well.”
Everyone left, leaving me alone. I was stuck in the bathroom for a while longer. After what felt like a war, I emerged, flung open the window to revive my nose, and tried to spare future guests the smell.
“…Huh?”
Something was off. When I opened the window, it still smelled like a toilet.
Oh… maybe it’s because it’s near the river?
Yeah, the Thames had a similar scent. But was it this bad? I saw odd wisps of steam rising from the Seine. A person walking by the riverside even stopped to gag.
Paris might be worse than London.
I had learned about pollution in medical school. The textbook example was the London Smog Incident. It was not just a one-time event. It happened repeatedly for decades and only stopped in 1952, after a huge number of deaths. People always pointed fingers at London, but Paris seemed just as bad.
I did not think much of it and just sipped more wine. I was still waiting for Berlioz. I had a feeling we were going to see Chopin.