Chapter 176: Cholera [1]
“Cadet.”
I could not just lie around. I kept going to the bathroom in between, and it felt like the miasma had entered me. No, let’s call it detoxifying. I tried to word it politely, but honestly, it was just diarrhea. My only real concern at the time was whether I should open the window or not. Clearly, there were molecules—no, particles—of myself floating around in this room. Normally, I would open the window, but judging from the stench outside, would that really help?
Yeah, no…
At times like this, London felt more livable than Paris. Sure, the Seine River was more beautiful than the Thames, but beauty did not equal hygiene.
Knock, knock.
As I was lost in thought, someone knocked. Of course, it had to be Berlioz.
“Ah, yes.”
“How are you… huh? Why do you look so gaunt?”
“Haha… change of water.”
“Ah… That happens. I had a hard time myself when I went to Austria.”
“Ah…”
So Austria was not much different, huh. I did not want to generalize too hastily, but at this rate, I might as well say all of Europe was hell. A microbial hell.
“Anyway, let’s go.”
“Ah, yes. But…”
When I stepped outside, the smell somehow got even worse. Wait. This was not normal, right? No matter how sturdy nineteenth-century noses were, this was a bit much.
“Does the Seine always smell this bad?”
“Ah, no. I mean, yes, it usually does… but it’s gotten worse since yesterday.”
“Since yesterday…?”
“Oh, right! They say Dr. Liston gave a tip-off, and the police finally caught that dismemberment murderer. Turns out he had already killed several people.”
Liston again? No, I guess I should not be surprised. I was involved too, after all, so this naturally piqued my interest.
“Ah… I see.”
“Yeah, so now it’s practically a festival. The new king wants to win over the public, so he’s handing out food and alcohol. People are eating like mad. And you know what happens after that…”
“Ah…”
So it was connected. If I had never left Korea, I probably would not have understood this. What did he mean, “it gets cheap” and flows into the river? But that was how things were in the nineteenth century. And the same river water was used for drinking.
“Anyway, let’s go. The mood is good right now. I think Chopin’s concert will be a hit.”
“Good for him.”
No, more than lucky, he was just incredibly talented. I was already a Cho Seong-jin fan, so meeting Chopin himself felt surreal. The real issue was whether I even knew a single piece by heart, considering Chopin had just turned twenty. But it did not matter. It was Chopin. Of course it would be good.
More than anything, I was excited to see him in person. I kept my excitement in check, though. My stomach still felt shaky. And come to think of it, every person I had met yesterday was a historical giant, including Berlioz standing right in front of me.
At this point, maybe coming here really was a good idea.
Sure, Paris had welcomed me with corpses and poop-stained streets, but despite all that, I could feel something igniting in me. Something artistic. My senses were a bit dulled, maybe from the crowd or maybe the river stench, which, let’s face it, I had contributed to, but the carriage was barreling forward regardless.
I passed by people vomiting on the street, and beside them were countless drunken figures sprawled out. Oddly, it was reassuring. At least they were vomiting from alcohol and not disease… right?
“Ugh.”
“Why are you all so reckless?!”
Someone even tried to jump at the carriage in rage. Covered in filth himself, and he was mad at someone else’s mess? Classic red flag. Not that we were going slow. If we hit anyone, they would be done for.
Anyway, we finally arrived in front of an old building. Berlioz looked up at it with reverence.
“This is the Paris Conservatoire.”
“Ah… here.”
I was genuinely moved. If I had any talent, I would have majored in music. I remained a lifelong listener instead, but this place still felt sacred.
Berlioz… Debussy… and Cho Seong-jin studied here…
I never imagined I would set foot here before Debussy or Cho Seong-jin did.
“You really like music, don’t you?”
“Yes. I think it’s heaven-sent.”
Maybe it was an exaggeration, but given the time period, it was not wrong. Medicine in this era might kill you faster than save you. But music? Music would always offer comfort. And for now, that was enough.
“Haha, come inside. You can eat too.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Coming from cold, damp London, Paris felt warm, even if it was not objectively so. My clothes were not great, so I moved around a bit outside, soaking in the atmosphere. I soon felt a chill, but thankfully, it was quite warm inside. As expected from the capital of art, they spared no expense. I could already hear the orchestra rehearsing.
“You must have heard. This is Doctor Pyeong, a noble from Joseon.”
“Ah… Hello, I’m Chopin, from Austria.”
“Ah, I’ve heard a lot about you.”
And there he was.
Chopin.
To be honest, I never cared much about what he looked like. I had only ever associated him with Cho Seong-jin’s face.
He’s so thin… must be around one hundred seventy centimeters?
That might seem short now, but in this era, it was fairly tall. Schubert, who died two years ago, was reportedly in the one-hundred-fifties. Chopin was not towering, but he had height. That said, compared to Dr. Liston, who was nearly one hundred ninety centimeters with the build of a grizzly bear, everyone looked small.
“What are you thinking about?”
Oops, I spaced out. But I could not say I was thinking about Liston, right? So I improvised.
“Oh, nothing. Just thinking… you’re really thin.”
“Huh?”
“He’s a famous doctor in London.”
“Ah, I see.”
There was nothing stranger than telling someone not to listen, and Chopin clearly did not. He nodded politely after Berlioz vouched for me. I continued to watch Chopin carefully.
It hasn’t started yet.
People dying young was not unusual then. Berlioz would live into his sixties, but Chopin would not reach forty. Why? Tuberculosis.
Effective tuberculosis drugs didn’t even exist until the mid-twentieth century.
I had to try. Tuberculosis killed more people than most wars, and in this era, prevention was the only real weapon.
“They say thin people are more susceptible to tuberculosis. You know, coughing, coughing up blood.”
“Ah… That’s terrifying. Are you saying I’m at risk?”
“Yes.”
In fact, probably everyone here was at risk. But Chopin, more than anyone else, was vulnerable.
“Eat well… and avoid crowds if you can. If you feel symptoms, please contact me. You can reach the London School of Medicine or Dr. Liston. He’ll help.”
“Ah, yes. I’ll remember that.”
He said he would, but who knew if he actually would. It was hard to expect young people to care about their health until they got sick.
Anyway, after chatting for a while, we went in to listen to the music. The main program featured the orchestra, and since Chopin was not yet widely known, he only played a few piano pieces. One of them was Étude Op. 10. It was brilliant.
I felt a little better.
Wreeeeh.
Woooorgh.
But on the way back to the hotel, I noticed even more people vomiting than earlier. Practically everyone. It flowed and flowed, right into the Seine. And that water? It was going back into households through pipes.
I mean… they drank, then vomited, right?
I tried to stay positive. But the ominous feeling would not go away. Fewer people seemed drunk, and more were just… vomiting.
Wait a sec…
And then, through the darkness, I spotted a few people squatting with their pants down. Even in the nineteenth century, would someone defecate in public unless it was truly urgent?
“Is something wrong?”
Berlioz seemed to notice my grim expression. We were both looking at the same scene, but somehow I was the only one reacting this way.
“Ah… I think those people are sick.”
“Haha, no, no. That’s just how drunk people act. And this is Paris. We’re romantic like that. People get drunk watching the sunset over the Seine.”
“…Right.”
Romantic my ass. Getting sentimental over shit? This really was the Romantic era, I guess. As a twenty-first-century person, the scene was just absurd. But hearing Berlioz’s explanation helped, at least temporarily.
Only for a while.
“Ah, Pyeong, you’re back! Today was a blast.”
At the hotel, Liston greeted me, looking flushed and smelling like last night’s Hashish Club. Pierre must have been out of luck again.
“What happened?”
“They dared me to drink Thames water, so I told them the Seine was worse. If we’re experimenting, we’re doing it the French way!”
“Ah…”
Pride was good, but this was not the right time for it.
“But now everyone’s vomiting and running to the toilet. It’s a full-blown mess. Definitely feels like a miasma outbreak.”
“Really? How many people got sick after drinking?”
“Who cares? A French guy literally crapped in front of me!”
“…Ah.”
Should I leave now?