Even If It Were Seoul National

The poster was finished, and the Office of Academic Affairs had said they would put it up. Now I just had to wait for the manuscript.

I left Sinchon and headed straight for Seoul National University. It was the first time I'd been out in ages. Going home already would've been a waste, wouldn't it?

Right. Since I'm out anyway, I might as well look in on Professor Jo Sudeok. I could see how the work had been coming along, and it had been long enough that we were due to unburden ourselves a little. A heart-to-heart, allegedly. Whatever.

Vrooooom!

That eight-cylinder note out of the S-Class—I could hear it a thousand times and it would still knock me flat.

Had I been driving half an hour? The campus I'd once haunted came into view. My visits had thinned out lately, but the old ease settled over me all the same. I followed the broad road in and turned toward the College of Fine Arts.

They've already changed it?

Posters for solo shows and group exhibitions, club recruitment, help-wanted notices, university announcements—the whole wall of them. Maybe it was because I'd just come from putting up a poster of my own. Things I used to walk past without a glance were catching my eye, one after another. And among them was a notice I couldn't quite look away from.

Well. It was Seoul National. Even the special lectures are ridiculous. And not a one-off, either—a lecture every day for a week, starting today.

The greatest writer of the age, showing up to speak every single day? It wouldn't be for the money. Write through those same hours and he'd earn more. Obviously. A sense of duty, most likely.

Hmm. I was curious, I'll give it that.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

In my last life I'd had almost nothing to do with the writer Lee Munhyeok. Our working years hadn't even overlapped. He was of a teacher's generation; of course there'd been no natural point of contact. And it wasn't as if I'd read all that many of his books.

A good chance, sure, but... Going so far as to sit through the lecture would be overdoing it, wouldn't it? I swallowed the regret and made myself walk on, toward Jo Sudeok's studio.

Knock, knock.

Nothing much came back. Maybe he was in the lab.

Knock, knock.

Or maybe he hadn't come in at all. On the off chance, I tried the handle.

Huh?

There was Jo Sudeok's back, standing in front of a canvas. He hadn't heard the knock. He was staring at the canvas as if he meant to bore a hole straight through it. Then, as if inspiration had struck, the brush flew—image after image poured out in a single rushing hand, stacking one upon another until they took on a heavy, sunken weight.

And then the brush. Scritch. Scritch. A stroke that was clear, and had force in it. Scritch. Skrrrt. The moment a color gone half-mad laid itself down over the rest—

"...!"

A scene opened so dimensional I couldn't begin to measure its depth.

In America he had looked, to the life, like a businessman and nothing else. Okay. That is unfairly cool. In that moment Jo Sudeok was an artist, no argument left. I thinned my breathing down to nothing and watched.

How long passed after that, I couldn't have said.

"Ack—!"

Jo Sudeok spotted me and let out a short yelp. A scream, allegedly.

"Representative? When did you get here?"

"Right about when you started in with the yellow."

"That was ages ago..."

I hadn't looked at a clock, but it felt like a good thirty minutes at least.

"You should have said something."

"It was the first time I'd seen you paint. I got curious, and then I just... kept standing there."

"It's nothing special..."

"It was overwhelming."

"Ah, come on. This much is hardly..."

Embarrassed, Jo Sudeok scratched his head. The paint on his fingers turned the back of his skull blue, and he appeared not to mind in the slightest. No wonder. He was paint from collar to cuff. He had a studio apron on, and somehow the clothes underneath it were just as loaded.

He must have felt me looking. He added an explanation.

"Once I sink into it, I forget everything. Black out completely. Sometimes my shoes are soaked through and I don't even notice."

"You'd feel cheated, clocking out spotless."

"Of course. It would mean I hadn't concentrated."

He broke into a pleased smile. It had been a while, hadn't it. The gladness he felt came through to me whole.

"Representative, shall we move?"

"Let's."

We washed our hands in the restroom and went to the lab. Three finished works were already waiting there.

"Mind if I look?"

"Please. If you'd look, I'd be the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one who's grateful."

Every one of them hit hard. Among them, a pair of eyes painted above an ash-gray sky... I could make a fair guess who had sat for those.

"Ah. That one..."

"Did you paint the Chairman?"

Instead of answering, Jo Sudeok laughed, awkward. The reaction lasted only a moment. Then he added a short explanation.

"At first I thought of painting a tiger. Too direct, though. One-dimensional, even. So I kept turning over the feeling I'd had then."

"And this is what came of it?"

"Yes. I lifted my head, and a huge pair of eyes was looking down at me. Exactly that feeling."

"That's chilling."

"Don't you have something more terrifying?"

"Heh heh heh."

When the laugh had run its course, we drifted toward the reception sofa with neither of us leading.

"Four pieces already. That's a ferocious output."

"I'm just... painting. Night and day."

"Isn't that the best possible state for an artist?"

"It is. But, well... sometimes I'm so spent I just collapse on the cot. And then the days in America come back. My body was exhausted, but the work was crowded and alive. I just miss it sometimes. Back then."

He wasn't saying it to be agreeable. Those days came back to me, too.

"So what do you do?"

"I get up and take the brush. Nothing's better for shaking off the loneliness, either..."

"You could call me."

"At dawn?"

"Mmm. Maybe I ought to have a line put in just for my room..."

I hammed it up, and Jo Sudeok let out a stifled little chuckle.

"And how have you been, Representative?"

"Reading. Studying English. Living the way other kids my age live."

"You? Like other children?"

"Why? Am I not allowed?"

"Ah, that's a bit much. Our Representative is a man who runs on the world stage."

Artist Jo Sudeok was... slowly being possessed by the businessman. Sure enough, he went on in that signature slick voice of his.

"No, I'm telling you, the thought does cross my mind."

"...?"

"Does the Representative really have to attend elementary school..."

"It's compulsory education, you know."

"I know. Of course it is. Still, if it were up to me, straight on to university—no. What does he even need school for? Drop him straight into the field and let him rake in foreign currency. Think of the national interest..."

It had been a while, talk like this. You know the kind. People who like each other, trading nonsense back and forth.

"I'll say it plain. Are universities even universities these days? They're job agencies."

We worked through the backlog of conversation, and then I said it.

"Professor. Since we're on the subject of jobs."

"Ah. Yes, yes."

Did he think something important was about to follow? Jo Sudeok drew a small notebook from inside his jacket.

"Could you recommend just one person I could hire?"

"An employee?"

"There's a limit to asking Hyeon-gang every time I need someone. I think it'd be better, all around, to hire my own."

"Something like that, I could do myself..."

"Day to day I'd leave it in your hands. But there are stretches like this one, when you have to give yourself entirely to the work. I need someone who can help me then."

"Mmm. Anyone standing in for me would have to be extraordinarily capable."

How did he get through a line like that without the slightest change of face? And still, the fact that it wasn't grating—that was Jo Sudeok's particular gift. Heh.

"Shall I put out feelers in the economics department? Those kids, the brains on them..."

"No."

"...?"

"I'd like to choose from among your students."

"The doctoral ones?"

"Yes. And if it's someone I already know, even better."

"For instance, one of the ones who came to America with us?"

I nodded. Nodded again. The ones I privately called the comeback warriors. Once he had my meaning, the answer came almost at once.

"Of that group, the one who interpreted is the sharpest. He'd meant to study in the States, but the family was in difficulty, so he stayed in Korea on the condition that he take a scholarship."

So that was why his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠English had been so good. He'd been preparing to go abroad.

"You rarely find a kid who's both diligent and has instinct. You've got a good eye for people."

"I hadn't said a word."

"Ah. Is that right? Then we'll say the good eye was mine."

I'd been waiting for the brag to show up. While I laughed, Jo Sudeok crossed the room and lifted the receiver.

When the call ended, he said it with a satisfied face.

"It's the next building over. He'll be right here."

Five minutes, give or take.

Knock, knock.

A knock, right on cue. And then a man stepped in.

"Professor, you sent for m—"

Jeong Jinwook saw me.

"Oh? The Representative is here too."

Startled, he ducked his head in a rush. Which meant I had to get up and fold myself to a perfect right angle as well.

"Jinwook. It's nothing complicated. Our Representative..."

Jo Sudeok laid the situation out, short and clean. So cleanly that I didn't need to open my mouth. See how a man does one thing and you know the next ten—and at getting things handled, Jo Sudeok was simply the best.

"Jinwook. Your dream was to be a professor, wasn't it?"

"Ah. Yes. It's presumptuous to say this in front of you, Professor, but I wanted to teach."

"And why a professor?"

"I decided that building a stable life as a painter was next to impossible."

"So you wanted a steady income. And that steady income was a professorship?"

"Yes."

"How old are you now?"

"Thirty."

"Mmm. You'll be looking at five years at least as an hourly lecturer, just to pile up a teaching record. Can you last that long?"

"......"

I knew that silence. Graduate school. I'd watched plenty of people dream of a faculty appointment. Finishing the coursework, you manage, somehow. But while you write the dissertation and scramble after ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lectures, the years fill up on you. You hold on anyway, eyes fixed on an appointment—and while the ones who studied abroad walk into the good seats, the ones who stayed home brawl over the last chair in the room. Even then, one in a hundred actually gets hired. The rest can barely keep a lecturer's hours. They end up trailing from drinking party to drinking party, reduced to selling themselves to professors.

Take that brutal road? Or take the offer from the third generation of Hyeon-gang?

Jeong Jinwook did not hesitate. Not for a moment. He had his answer so fast it was almost embarrassing.

"It's a little awkward to say this in front of you, Professor, but..."

"...?"