Acting Lessons (1)
“Japan?”
“I don’t know how an untranslated issue of Pyeong ended up drifting all the way to Japan, either.” Team Leader Byun gave a shrug.
But I had a pretty good idea. Incheon Airport, most likely. Of course, it was an untranslated book, so I wasn’t about to place any serious bets on it. Some foreign reader who knew Korean, needed to get a handle on Korean literary circles, and therefore stumbled across a criticism quarterly and bought it? A slim chance, but worth throwing out there.
If you did nothing, nothing happened.
So the fact that something had hooked so quickly was closer to a beginner’s stroke of luck. It seemed Team Leader Byun didn’t even know that Pyeong had been sold in an airport bookstore.
Editor Ryu from the Overseas Literature Department probably knew, but hadn’t bothered to share it with his team.
That probably meant he, too, had considered the possibility vanishingly small. In any case, Team Leader Byun said to me, “You know writer Nashida Ito, right? The one who won the Grand Prize from the Japan Mystery Writers Association last year.”
“Hmm. I know of him.”
“Right. He’s a pretty well-regarded writer in Japan. People even say no one beats Nashida when it comes to mystery stories that mix in horror or thriller elements.”
“Well, Japan itself is excellent in that area.” I wasn’t especially fond of genre fiction to begin with.
But whether it suited my taste or not, Nashida was unquestionably a good writer.
He had the ability to deliver the fundamental pleasures of a mystery novel with complete assurance. That said, if you asked whether I’d found him deeply moving, the answer was no.
The puzzle pieces clicked into place with unsettling precision, yes—but was there anything else left in the novel beyond the puzzle?
I had trouble finding any lingering resonance, any literary depth. In a single phrase, his fiction felt to me like a perfectly assembled sphere made entirely of mystery.
A work that left no room for added commentary or interpretation through criticism. Maybe that was why.
Nashida’s novels hadn’t become nearly as popular overseas as they were in Japan.
They marketed him as a prize-winning author from Japan, but the books didn’t really stir foreign readers the same way.
“The new novel he just released is being published by our company.”
“You don’t usually handle genre fiction, do you? It must have been a pretty solid book.”
“Well, it isn’t bad, in my opinion. More than that, I thought it might be good to market it off the prize he won last year.”
“Ah.” So they’d signed him because of his fame. “Anyway, our department is handling it, and I’d like to push Nashida a little harder this time.”
“I see. It should have some effect, considering it’s right after he won a major award.”
“But Nashida’s side contacted us yesterday.”
“?”
“They asked whether Pyeong could run a review of his new novel.”
“…I see.”
“It’s already a bestseller in Japan, and as I said, our Overseas Literature Department is paying a lot of attention to it, too. So, officially speaking, I came to ask Editor Mok for your cooperation.” Team Leader Byun subtly raised the formality of his speech.
He wore the expression of someone saying, You understand what I mean, right? The request was simple: with Nashida’s new release coming out, could Pyeong also publish a review to match it?
Since the author himself wanted it, all I had to do was cooperate and it would be a win-win—no, a win-win-win situation.
“Let me take a look first.”
“At what?”
“The manuscript. The one you brought is Nashida’s new manuscript, isn’t it?” I pointed at the document envelope she was holding.
“Uh… yes, but.” She looked a little taken aback.
She must have assumed that if it was the new work of an award-winning mystery writer and an official request from the Overseas Literature Department, then Pyeong would naturally run a review. But Pyeong didn’t work that way. “I can only write a review if the work itself is good.”
“But it’s already a bestseller in Japan, isn’t it? Doesn’t that prove it?”
“Sales are decided by the public. Criticism is judged by experts. Sales don’t matter much. As I said, the work has to be good.” I cut her off cleanly.
When it came to whether to speak formally or not, there was room to be flexible.
But when it came to manuscripts destined for Pyeong, there was no room for that at all.
“So you mean it might not get in?”
“If I don’t see excellence in it, then yes, it won’t be published. And on top of that, it would have to be better than the other novels piling up here now.”
“…I see.”
“In any case, I’d appreciate it if you left the manuscript with me.” Team Leader Byun looked as though she wanted to keep trying to persuade me.
But in the end, she held herself back and set the envelope on the table. “All right… Then please take good care of it, Editor Mok.” She bowed slightly and left the room. I pulled the manuscript out of the envelope.
I checked the title of the freshly translated novel first. Acting Lessons.
“Wow.” Team Leader Byun let out what was almost, but not quite, an exclamation as she left the meeting room. After Mok Hyunsun became editor-in-chief, there had naturally been all sorts of talk inside the company.
No matter how good he was at socializing, how were they supposed to treat a friend who had been an ordinary employee until just the day before as an editor?
The people in the most awkward position were the team leaders.
Employees could grit their teeth and address him like a superior.
The editors could simply treat him like a young colleague with exceptional talent.
But team leaders… how were they supposed to raise the status of a subordinate who had been green as grass only recently?
So Team Leader Byun, who had the least direct contact with Mok Hyunsun among the team leaders, decided to step up and handle it.
Especially since Nashida’s matter had come up.
She wanted to see how Mok Hyunsun treated an old senior from the company.
And smartly enough, Mok Hyunsun didn’t throw his title around.
There were young employees who got promoted quickly and then started swinging their rank around like a weapon.
But that usually only isolated them in the end and left them to wither on the vine.
Mok Hyunsun understood that.
A publishing house was an organization where nothing got done unless everyone helped each other in good faith. So she had finally relaxed… only for something unexpected to happen in a completely unforeseen place.
Let me take a look first. Mok Hyunsun had simply kept Nashida’s manuscript.
If I don’t see excellence in it, then yes, it won’t be published. The expression on his face when he said that was completely different from the one he’d worn when he’d asked her to stop speaking formally because it made things uncomfortable.
It was the look of someone who would not compromise under any circumstances.
An immovable refusal to care about things like an author’s fame.
A stubbornness that rejected the whole “let’s just keep everyone happy” philosophy outright.
His face, showing all of that so clearly…
“…He really is an editor.”
It looked like the faces of the editors she had known all along.
It was surprising, yes, but there was nothing to resent.
No, maybe it was only natural.
Mok Hyunsun was an editor, after all. He just needed time to make the others accept it.
If Nashida’s work was rejected by Pyeong, the Overseas Literature Department would be in trouble.
But for now, all they could do was stay tense and wait for Mok Hyunsun’s decision.
And so her final assessment was this: “He really isn’t an ordinary person.”
A few days before Mok Hyunsun received the manuscript for Acting Lessons, reporter Yamada visited Nashida’s house.
His home, a traditional Japanese house outfitted with modern conveniences, was quiet and immaculate. It looks expensive. Standing in the gravel courtyard, Yamada took in the place as if he were sightseeing.
With a rasp, the sliding paper door opened to the side, and Nashida appeared. “Yamada. Long time no see. It’s gotten awfully hot, hasn’t it?”
“It’s been too long.” Yamada bowed deeply.
Nashida answered with a wave of his hand. He was slim and handsome enough that he didn’t look his age at all, even in middle age.
His relaxed, monochrome clothes and his oddly loose, unhurried manner.
There were plenty of fans who fell for the ease those things created around him. Nashida pointed to the living room, where the door to the courtyard had been left wide open. “Come in and sit down. I’ve already prepared tea.”
“Ah, yes. Excuse me, then.” The two of them took their seats across from each other in the living room. “It’s a little chilly, but closing the doors would make it far too stuffy. That’s all right, isn’t it?”
“It’s fine. It isn’t that cold.” The two of them had grown close while Yamada was promoting Nashida’s essay collection the previous year.
What had started as a promotional interview had somehow drifted into conversations about literature, theater, and everything in between.
And once they’d shared a drink or two, they’d ended up staying up all night. After that, Yamada became the only reporter Nashida spoke to on a personal basis.
“So you suddenly want me to look at a Korean mystery novel?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Is that really necessary?” Nashida said skeptically. “I know. The Korean mystery market is tiny compared to Japan’s. It’s an environment where good work has a hard time being born.”
“Korea is good at other things. General fiction, poetry, theater, even film… there’s plenty that it does well. I just don’t understand why we have to look at Korean mysteries in particular. Forget it and stay for a drink instead.”
So he asked me over because he wanted a drinking buddy. That’s why he agreed so fast. Of course, Yamada wasn’t about to give up here. “But you’re releasing a new book in Korea this time, aren’t you? Wouldn’t it help both sides if you were tied to that market in some way through this work?”
“Even so, Korea isn’t my main market. And my novels are especially weak overseas, so I’m not sure I have the energy to pour into a Korean launch.” The problem of overseas markets was something Nashida had struggled with for years.
In that situation, he had no spare room to invest effort in a market that wasn’t the United States or Europe.
“Then let’s connect in terms of quality, not quantity. I found a truly excellent piece. I think you’ll be satisfied with it.”
“In terms of quality?”
Yamada opened his briefcase.
Then he took out one thick stack of paper and one thin stack.
He arranged them neatly with his hands and slowly slid them across to Nashida. “A Korean mystery novel I translated myself, and a review of that novel.”
“What? You translated it yourself?”
“Yes. I’d appreciate it if you’d bear with my clumsy skills.”
“Ah… ah, hah! Hahahaha!” Nashida burst out laughing. “Well, with you going this far, I can’t exactly refuse to read it. All right. I’ll take a look. I’m in the perfect season for it, anyway—I’ve just finished clearing out my new manuscript and am free to loaf around.” Taking the pages, Nashida thought, If Yamada went this far, it means he really enjoyed this novel. Naturally, that couldn’t have been his only motive. He probably wants the exclusive interview rights if I end up getting involved with the Korean literary scene in some way, whether for promotion or something else, because I liked the novel.
“You work hard, Yamada.”
“Haha. It’s the calling of a reporter.” Yamada played it off with an easy grin. “Then please read it at your leisure and call me—”
“No.”
“?”
“I’m going to read it now.”
“Now? But….” It’s a full-length novel, isn’t it?
“I read fast. And judging from the thickness, it doesn’t seem like such a long novel, either. Since you’ve come all this way, wouldn’t it be less annoying for you to hear the result before you leave?”
“I mean, that’s true, but….”
“Do you have somewhere to be later?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Good. Have some tea. Since the sun’s out, I’ll read in the yard.” Nashida stood before Yamada could say another word and headed outside.
He slipped on his sandals, crossed the tiny gravel yard with quick, crunching steps, and sat down at the outdoor table.
Then, with a cigarette between his fingers, he started reading the manuscript right there. Yamada was left alone before he’d even had time to react.
It was a little startling, but then again, when had Nashida ever been predictable? …Well, there’s nothing for it. I may as well sit and relax with some tea. He decided to pass the time by sipping slowly from his cup. A while later,
the faint, bitter scent of cigarette smoke drifted through the air.
Nashida had already vanished into the manuscript.
Yamada gazed at the picture-perfect scene.
And a thought—he couldn’t tell whether it was wind or instinct—rose up in his mind. Maybe I’m witnessing a very important moment in the literary worlds of both Japan and Korea.