Critique (3)

60.

After the inaugural issue of Critique was published, I was able to take a week off, weekend included. For an ordinary office worker, it would have been absurdly generous leave, but I was able to make it happen.

I was still officially attached to the Periodicals Department. Only now, having broken away from Editorial Team 1, I was effectively running a separate special team all by myself under the name Critique. In other words, as long as Critique came out properly, my job was done.

That much leave was perfectly reasonable. No, I hadn’t exactly said this to anyone else, but if anything, I felt strangely less busy while making Critique. I had more to read and more to write, sure, but I no longer had all the miscellaneous errands, and most of all, I didn’t have to get dragged into the weekend editorial meetings anymore.

So, while everyone else was working on a weekday afternoon, I headed to Gangnam Kyobo Book Centre. I wanted to see for myself how Critique was being received by the market. Of course, once I went back after my vacation, I’d be able to check the sales trend, but seeing it with my own eyes felt different. Maybe it was because it was a weekday afternoon, but the bookstore wasn’t very crowded.

On the magazine rack, Gyeongseong Geul and Critique were lying there side by side. …Yeah, coming in person had definitely been the right call.

Seeing it like this, I couldn’t help feeling absurdly proud. From there, I went to the bestseller section, where the week’s top sellers were displayed by category.

“Oh.”

The magazine category was fourth. The numbers were encouraging. Having Gyeongseong Geul and Critique wedged in among those mainstream fashion magazines was a good sign in itself.

Next was the literary new releases section.

Objectively speaking, it was the category where I could expect the highest ranking. After all, it counted only new releases, and only among literary books. And for this kind of flash-in-the-pan sales, magazines had a huge advantage.

Thump, thump. With my expectations rising, I checked the board.

Second place. Second place!

“Amazing.” My baby had shot straight up to that spot in one leap. Strong and mighty, my baby.

My chest tightened.

It felt like being rewarded for every bit of effort I’d poured into publishing Critique. I stood there in front of the shelf for a long while, wearing a thoroughly pleased expression. This was a different kind of emotion from having my work appear in Gyeongseong Geul.

So this was what it felt like.

Not the one receiving a commission, but the one becoming the owner of the book.

When I turned away, still warm with that pleased feeling, I stopped short.

Because there it was.

Was I seeing that right?

The Bible, the Bible itself, was in first place. Don Quixote, the book often called the beginning of the novel, was in second. And at the very end of that galaxy of towering classics, there was Critique.

I checked again, but Gyeongseong Geul wasn’t there.

That was because the weekly overall ranking wasn’t based on sales alone. It also folded in a value score assigned by the store’s experts according to their own criteria.

Which meant Critique had been scored very highly indeed by the bookstore’s specialists. Beside each book was a short note explaining why it had been selected.

I crouched down and read the note beside Critique.

“Bridges criticism and the public with ease…”

I didn’t know which expert had written it, but I liked it very much.

That was probably exactly the point that had earned us such a high score ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and put us on this shelf. Click. I took a photo of the selection note. Click. I did the same for Critique, which had made its way into the top ten.

“The kid understood.”

I was planning to ask for Yoon Kyungmin to be hired as a full-time employee. If there was anything I could ask the company for because of Critique’s success, it wasn’t some glossy office or a fancy title.

A proper subordinate. One good employee was worth gold.

And the last person to send a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠photo was Editor Im.

He knew that, in ways I didn’t always see, he had helped persuade President Moon. He checked the photo immediately.

“Good.”

“It’s thanks to you. Thank you.”

“I hear the sales figures have also passed the break-even point comfortably. When you get back, you can go straight into preparing issue two. And you’ll probably need to stop by HR as well.”

It was the sort of message he always delivered with a stubborn, information-first efficiency.

And stopping by HR meant they were probably going to raise my title to editor.

So… officially and on the books.

I had expected as much.

If the inaugural issue succeeded and a second issue was planned, that meant Critique would keep going.

There was no way I could continue doing that as a mere employee. But now that it had actually happened, I felt oddly dazed.

Not even two years after joining the company, and I was going to be an editor.

I’d have to accept it.

Even if this earned me envy inside the company, I could handle it without trouble. I had the clear results to justify my position, and I had my own people.

I picked up a copy of Critique.

Then I paid and left the bookstore. There was someone I wanted to give it to personally.

I slid the inaugural issue of Critique across the wooden table.

My father picked it up with his wrinkled hand and examined it. Flipping through it casually, he said from behind his glasses, “It’s thinner and lighter than I expected.”

“I made it easy for readers to approach.”

“Hmm.”

I couldn’t tell whether he liked it or not.

Given that he’d gone so far as to call it “a cloud in the sky,” he must have thought my plan was pretty grand. Maybe the issue just seemed too thin when it was actually in his hands.

“How about putting some criticism of my fiction in issue two?”

…The way he said that, maybe he did like it after all.

“If you write something new, I’ll consider it.”

“That sounds like you might not include it.”

“Of course. It still has to clear a certain standard. And for you, Father, the bar is even higher. If we start featuring your work right away, what would people think? Unless it’s a really good piece, it’ll be difficult.”

“...Heartless.”

“That’s what critics are like.”

When I didn’t budge even a little, my father clicked his tongue.

Then he handed Critique back to me and produced a pen, holding it out. “Write an autograph before you go.”

“An autograph?”

“Ah, a critic who rarely gets a book published probably wouldn’t know this.”

He was casually looking down on critics even while saying it. “When your own book comes out, you sign the page after the cover and hand it out.”

He was the one who told me that Critique was my book.

I gave a short laugh and signed it.

And I made sure to add To Father under my signature.

“Please keep it safe. The next issue might be commissioned material, so it may not be entirely my book.”

“Of course. I’ll keep it safe. Who knows, it might be worth money later.”

So that was his plan: sell it off.

The fact that I found my father’s grumbling joke funny probably meant I really had gotten older too.

Anyway, after finishing what I had come to do, I got fed and left my parents’ house.

As I crossed the yard, the aunt who had prepared our meal and stepped away for a moment was coming back.

She was struggling under the weight of a box, so I hurried over. “Let me take that. I’ll move it for you.”

“Oh, thank you. It’s heavy…”

…Yeah. What was in this thing that made it so heavy?

“It looks like books. Did you order books?”

“I think so. People don’t usually buy this many at once.”

I went through the back door with her and into the kitchen.

When I returned to the living room, my father was gone.

He had probably gone straight to his study.

The aunt brought over a box cutter and opened the package.

And then—

“…!”

The box was crammed full of Critique.

No, what was he planning to do with all of these?

“Oh my… He told me to set aside the relatives’ address list and some envelopes. So I guess he meant to send these out.”

The aunt said it without even realizing the books were mine.

I couldn’t help laughing.

“Haha.”

Our father, who couldn’t possibly be honest if his life depended on it.

It was plain as day.

He’d ordered Critique by the carton the moment it came out, hadn’t he?

Acting like he didn’t care in front of me and all the while buying them in bulk.

Well, in that case, I couldn’t just leave it there either. I picked up the pen again.

And I started signing every single copy, one by one.

“What, what are you doing?” the bewildered aunt asked.

“This is what you’re supposed to do when your first book comes out.”

My father had said so, after all, so I had to listen.

He would probably be mortified when he found these autographs later, but even that was amusing to me.

I returned from that honeyed vacation.

And naturally, Gyeongseong Publishing hadn’t changed a bit.

What had changed was my rank.

After rewriting my contract in HR and walking back out, I was officially an editor. Since I had formally accepted the promotion, the official notice would probably go out soon too.

It had been a while since I’d come to work, and I was just about to ease into my duties when someone I hadn’t expected came looking for me.

“Editor Mok.”

It was Team Leader Byun Suhee from the Foreign Literature Department. “Ah, hello, Team Leader.”

“Haha. Hearing honorifics from an editor feels strange.”

“It’s only the title that changed. Just treat me the way you always have. If you suddenly start speaking formally, I’ll feel even more awkward.”

Of course, in the company, rank was everything.

But this was how you kept a social life.

Even if rank was all that mattered at work, the world itself wasn’t that simple. Critique had been like that too.

When we were preparing the inaugural issue, a lot of different teams had helped me without making a fuss.

If you judged purely by rank or departmental duties, they had no reason to support me. But publishing houses had a surprisingly sentimental side to them. Team Leader Byun gave a small snort of laughter.

“If you put it that way, I’m grateful. Still, I’ll keep speaking formally in official settings or in front of your subordinates. I’ll tell the other team leaders too. How’s that?”

“That would be great. But what brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing else. I wanted to talk about Critique.”

The Foreign Literature Department wanted to discuss Critique?

“Do you already have anything decided for issue two? A work or a theme?”

“Not yet. Only that it’ll center on new releases.”

“Then how about covering some foreign literature?”

Foreign literature?

“It’s certainly possible, but that category is a little too broad, isn’t ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it? We’d need something more specific, like a particular country or theme.”

“What if there happened to be a country that had sent a love call to Editor Mok?” she asked, her tone openly playful.

A love call from abroad?

…No way.

Was this because of the result of laying Critique out on the Incheon Airport bookstore shelf?

I could feel it.

The feeling that something interesting was about to happen.

“Which country?”

She enunciated each syllable with slender lips. “Japan.”