Ordan (3)
54.
An hour earlier.
“Absolutely not. Do you think starting a new quarterly magazine is easy?”
“If it were easy, I wouldn’t have come all the way here to say it.”
“Leaving the editorial board because you’re too famous is a smart decision. But asking us to make you your own quarterly? Does that even make sense? You’d be better off asking for a bonus.”
“I’ll say it again: if money was enough to persuade me, I wouldn’t have come this far.”
“Editorial Director Im, for heaven’s sake!” Critic types never gave an inch, not even once. Representative Moon was a man who seemed to fear nothing in the world.
The title of representative, his massive build, that hot-blooded temper of his—on top of that, people at Gyeongseong Publishing usually knew enough to lower their tails on their own.
But these former critics never bothered to flatter anyone, not even for a second. “Anyway, you did pull off one thing with Soop.”
“…Tch.” When the rumor about Soop had started to spread, Representative Moon had secretly been thrilled. If things went well, maybe he could absorb Soop into Gyeongseong Publishing—that had been his thought.
But absorb it? No. The man wanted his own island built for him. “Should I go have a drink with Mr. Mok and try to sweet-talk him?”
“That would be the worst possible move. Mr. Mok wouldn’t fall for that. And if it backfired and an ugly rumor started spreading, that would be a real disaster.” Not even behind-the-scenes pressure would work, apparently.
Then what, exactly, were they supposed to do?
“I think he’s reached the point where, if we don’t grant the request, he’s prepared to leave Gyeongseong Publishing entirely.”
“What? The ungrateful little—! After everything we’ve done for him!”
“But Mr. Mok has done plenty for us as well. For one thing, didn’t he shine in that Yongin City relic excavation case?”
“He did, I suppose.”
“And the book about that process, Someone’s Heart, rose to second place in preorders in the general nonfiction category. It’s rare for a government-funded book to do that well.”
“...I know that. You think I don’t? It’s just...” Representative Moon let the sentence trail off. Well, Mok Hyunsun’s never done anything bad for the company. The investors are all saying a treasure has dropped into our lap. In a calmer voice, he said, “I do want to give Mok Hyunsun a chance. But I’m skeptical that it has to take the form of a quarterly magazine.”
“Is it because of the capital?”
Now we were talking about money. Representative Moon folded his arms and said defensively, “It’s not just about money, but even if it were, this headache is my problem. Your job is simply to make sure the quality of Gyeongseong Geul stays where it should be.” That, too, was one of his management principles.
The editor should think only about writing. The representative should think only about management. In other words, he intended to handle Mok Hyunsun himself.
Creating a quarterly was, after all, a management issue. Editorial Director Im thought it over for a moment, then spoke. “...Actually, I came because I thought I should at least approach this positively.”
“?”
“After all, it’s the sort of thing a critic might dream of at least once. A quarterly where criticism is the owner, so to speak.” That was why the editorial meeting had ended without a conclusion.
If it had sounded like utter nonsense, they would have shut it down on the spot. No one had said so aloud, but Mok Hyunsun had touched something in the critics who were there.
Something like their pride, perhaps.
The problem was that it had very little to do with the pride of a businessman like Representative Moon.
“Absolutely not. A new quarterly? No matter how you look at it, how can you even think of such a reckless gamble—”
At that moment, the fax machine suddenly started up. Whirr—whirr—. Already on edge, Representative Moon snapped irritably, “What now?” He shot to his feet and walked over to the fax machine.
Then he picked up the freshly printed paper and looked it over. “...”
“Where did this come from?”
“...Hm.” Without answering, Representative Moon looked up at the ceiling.
For a long while he seemed to be thinking about something.
Then he let out a meaningless sigh. “Tell Mok Hyunsun to come see me tomorrow.”
“!”
“And tell him I’m not agreeing to anything yet, so he shouldn’t get his hopes up.”
Representative Moon wanted to see me. Strangely enough, the first thing that came to mind was the heavy, wok-lid-sized hand of his that had once thumped my back with enough force to make me stagger.
Surely he wasn’t going to slap me for being insolent. When I arrived at the company, I printed the proposal packet without drawing attention to myself. Whirr—whirr—sheets and sheets of paper spilled out of the multifunction printer.
Honestly, it would have been better just to send the file, but Representative Moon preferred things the old-fashioned way. Yang-sunbae, passing by, asked, “What are you printing so much of?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Well, all right then.” Apparently deciding he didn’t care at all, Yang-sunbae wandered off.
He’d never guess that if things went badly today, I might end up leaving Gyeongseong Publishing.
Thinking that made even that frivolous retreating back look a little wistful. In any case, I finished printing the proposal, took the elevator, and headed straight to the top floor.
It was my first time going higher than the editorial meeting room on the fifth floor.
Just stepping onto this floor’s corridor made it feel painfully clear that I had set something big in motion. Guided by the secretary, I went inside, where Representative Moon was waiting for me.
“Sit.”
“Yes, sir.”
We took opposite seats on the sofa.
He looked at me with a crooked expression, as if he had a headache. “I’ve heard the gist from the editor. I also heard you were considering changing jobs over this matter. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Most people would deny it to my face, if only as a courtesy. Even if they planned to stab me in the back later.” He probably thought that was courtesy; in truth, it was fear.
Of course I was afraid too. But, “It’s also courteous to state your position clearly.”
“You don’t give an inch, do you? You really are a critic.” After muttering that, he looked at me with an expression heavy with thought.
Then, as if he had made up his mind, he spoke. “Good. Let’s get to the point.”
“Please do.” That was what I wanted too. “Running a literary publishing house is a little peculiar, unlike publishing exam prep books or practical nonfiction. People think literary presses survive on money or artistry. What do you think? What do you suppose keeps a literary publisher going through a recession?”
The special strength of a literary publisher that could endure hard times.
Two words floated up in my mind: money. Artistry. The two things people immediately associate with literary publishing houses.
It wasn’t that those things didn’t matter. It was just that there had to be a higher concept that included both of them. I widened my perspective. What do you gain when you make money and earn artistic recognition?
Or, if you make money and earn recognition for artistry, what follows after that? Just then, something hazy began to emerge above those two words.
One grand word, gleaming gold.
“Honor, I think.”
“!” Representative Moon’s eyes widened slightly.
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
He clearly hadn’t expected me to get it right. “Exactly right. That’s it—honor. Especially the honor of publishing books at the very front lines of the literary world. In that sense, the greatest shame for a publisher isn’t running a deficit, and it isn’t even being cursed out by critics or readers. The greatest shame is... shutting down a quarterly you’ve been publishing all along.”
“!” So that was it.
“You’re saying putting out a quarterly isn’t the important part, but failing to maintain it and closing it down is.”
“Exactly. As you know, closing down a quarterly business means... complete defeat in the literary world.”
Well, yes.
I thought of the few quarterlies that had failed to adapt to the market and disappeared. It was a ruin on an entirely different scale from a few books simply failing.
I could understand why Representative Moon wanted to stop me. But if you counted up all the failures in the world, there would be no end to them. “That’s a reasonable explanation. But by that logic, a criticism-focused quarterly could never exist in the world.”
We had exchanged enough arguments. Now I meant to lay out the proposal. If he refused to read it, then Gyeongseong Publishing and I were finished here.
But then Representative Moon said something unexpected. “Then persuade me properly. I’ll at least give you the chance to try.”
“!”
“Forget your ambitions and your grand feelings. Show me a practical plan. What works are you going to handle, and how? Be specific. Make it visible to my eyes.” His logic was impossible to track.
He looked as though he were giving me a chance only because someone had pushed him into it.
But no matter who had pushed him, I had to seize it. Rustle. I pulled the thick proposal from the document envelope and, without hesitation, slid it across the table.
“Please read this.” His eyebrows twitched.
His face clearly said, Why is this proposal so thick? But the fact that I had come prepared at least meant I hadn’t failed before the first question.
Flap, flap. After turning through a few pages, Representative Moon frowned.
“Wait. The proposal itself should be two pages, right? And the rest...?”
“Yes. I’ve already written the first piece that will go into the quarterly.”
“!”
“About thirty pages. The target work is writer Park Jeong-shin’s new novel, Ordan.” Representative Moon looked at me, dumbfounded.
“Park Jeong-shin’s new novel? I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Of course not. He sent it to me only yesterday.”
“...Then you read an entire book and wrote a thirty-page critique in a single day?” I nodded.
He lowered his head, as if deciding to read first and judge later.
Flap, flap, flap...
His hands kept turning the pages without pause.
Every so often I heard a soft swallow.
I was confident in the piece, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous.
After all, a thirty-page critique was probably something he had never seen or even heard of before.
Flap, flap, flap...
His eyes raced across the critique.
The eyes of a publisher seemed different from those of a writer or critic. They didn’t linger and savor an interpretation; they searched quickly and instinctively for the point.
Then the last of the thirty pages was turned over.
“...Impressive.”
Maybe it was just my imagination, but his voice seemed to tremble at the end.
He looked as though he wanted to say something, then stared at me, then seemed about to say something again, only to let out a long breath.
He was conflicted.
In any case, my writing had shaken him.
“I’d like to regulate the length of the critiques this way. I’m also planning to include independent magazine pieces, along with film criticism and reviews. If you need more material—”
“No. This is enough.” He spat the words out, then chewed on his lip.
After that, he looked at me again, almost resentfully.
Thump. He jabbed a finger at my manuscript.
“I thought you were just spouting vague nonsense up until now.” But then? “This... is a real surprise. I can feel it. It’s practical. It could actually work. Do you know why?”
“...”
“Because you make me want to see Ordan desperately. And at the same time... it feels like I’ve already seen Ordan! On top of that, this depth, this richness... I’ve seen plenty of top-tier criticism in my time, but this is different. How on earth did you do it?” He looked at me as if he might devour me on the spot.
His temples shone with sweat. “Simple. It’s the length.”
“!”
“I just said everything I wanted to say. At breadth and depth, without being constrained by length. There’s no way this could be reduced to ten pages.” He probably understood it too.
With the length of conventional criticism, there was no way to produce that kind of depth.
“To put it bluntly, if this length hadn’t been allowed, I would have had to leave out Waiting for Godot.” Then the critique would have been thinner, shallower. “Of course, at the editorial meeting I was advised to turn it into a webzine piece because of the length, but... I’m sorry, a webzine doesn’t satisfy me. This piece—”
“It’s worth keeping in book form. I know that without you saying it.” Representative Moon finished my sentence for me.
By then, his eyes had gone bloodshot.
I couldn’t tell whether he had caught the scent of money, the scent of art, or perhaps the scent of “honor.”
What I did know was that he had caught a scent of some kind. As a businessman.
At last, as if to confirm it one final time, he asked me, “Can you really write criticism like this every season? Are you confident?”
The answer was already decided.
“I’ll make it possible even if it isn’t.”
“Good. Then go ahead.” Just like that, he gave his approval so abruptly that it almost felt unreal.
He reached for the file folder at the corner of his desk, then slapped it down onto the table with a sharp crack.
What was this?