“Olalla (Oh my goodness)―!”
Jean-Pierre bit into a piece of braised short ribs and let out an ecstatic exclamation. Naturally, how could it not be delicious when it was made by her hands?
Since Jean-Pierre had flown in from afar to see me, it was only right to treat him to a meal. My mother and even the housekeeper showed proud expressions at the foreigner’s compliment.
“Hyun, this is truly fantastic. This is the first time I’ve ever had such delicious mini T-bone steaks. And look at these noodles. This pasta, rich with Oriental flavors, is truly innovative. If Christian were to taste this dish, he might faint from joy right there.”
He was talking about the japchae drizzled with sesame oil. When I asked who Christian was, he said he was a renowned French food critic.
Incidentally, I was in charge of interpreting, but Jean-Pierre not only spoke English but also used French for his exclamations, making it hard to tell if food was going into my mouth or nose.
Like the Chinese, the French also tend to talk a lot during meals, with meals sometimes lasting over three hours. So, Jean-Pierre’s chatter might be considered mild.
“This is Robert Mondavi blended at the Sauve-Majeure Abbey in Bordeaux. Made from Cabernet Sauvignon, it boasts a rich and deep flavor, characterized by a cedar scent. It’s also a wine enjoyed at the White House. I hope you will accept my heartfelt gesture. Hyun’s family is very precious to me as well.”
Didn’t someone once say that there’s more philosophy in an aged wine than in any book? As expected from a film director, his eloquence and manners were impeccable.
‘What a shame.’
I would have loved to have a glass myself, but I had to console my regret with orange juice.
The table was lively with the presence of a Parisian. At that moment, my grandfather, seated at the head of the table, looked at Jean-Pierre.
“Thank you very much for gifting us such a fine wine. But I’m curious. Why do you want our Hyun so much, even though France is so far from here?”
Jean-Pierre smiled without hesitation at my grandfather’s fluent English question.
“Sir, in France, we have a saying, ‘To those who are worthy, give them the appropriate treatment.’ Considering Hyun’s value, this kind of effort is trivial.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Only then did my grandfather, with a peculiar expression, take a sip from his wine glass. It was a simple conversation, yet why did I feel a cold sweat trickling down my back?
Jean-Pierre suddenly turned to me and spoke in a quiet voice, almost in passing. “Hyun, your grandfather isn’t involved in anything dangerous, is he?”
What was he talking about now?
“Doesn’t he remind you of Don Corleone?”
At that moment, my grandfather sitting at the head of the table indeed looked like the boss from The Godfather.
“Olalla, is this the most famous mountain?”
The lush forest and the cloud-covered peak were awe-inspiring even from the parking lot. Jean-Pierre, who was set to leave the country soon, had expressed a desire to hike in Korea, so we came here together.
I almost felt like I had become Jean-Pierre’s personal guide for the day.
“I didn’t know that Koreans enjoyed trekking so much.”
We were at Cheonwangbong, the highest peak in Jirisan. It was bustling with people from early in the morning on a weekend. In the upcoming autumn, Cheonwangbong had the best scenery, so it was natural for crowds to gather.
But everyone kept glancing at us.
No wonder, as a pale-skinned foreigner was hiking in full gear. In the 90s, when it was still unusual to see foreigners doing such things, the stares made sense.
“Do you hike often, Hyun? Your posture seems very familiar.”
He was referring to my aligned footsteps, knees, and chest. It was a technique to reduce fatigue on the soles by shifting the center of gravity forward.
During my past life as a rookie prosecutor, I had climbed mountains every weekend due to the chief prosecutor, so I knew these tricks well enough to write them down in a notebook.
Jokingly, I was known as the Um Hong-gil of the Western District Prosecutor’s Office.
“When trekking, it feels like my mind clears up. It’s like the thoughts I had while shooting a film converge into one. That’s why, even while working on a film, I sometimes trek up small peaks around the shoot location whenever I have time. It’s very pleasant even if you don’t reach the summit.”
Indeed, there were times during the filming of La Vie en Rose when Jean-Pierre would disappear occasionally. Of course, it was a holiday, so no other staff would intervene.
The difference between hiking and trekking is simple. It’s not about the destination. It’s about blending with nature leisurely and without haste.
“Watching the mountains change with the seasons feels like looking at life. The sentiments I felt while filming the lengthy drama that is a movie are condensed here. No one knows what form my second work will take. It could be a cold winter or a warm spring day. But I definitely want to work on that season with you, Hyun.”
With such a proposal, how could I refuse? Not that I had any intention of refusing in the first place.
“I want to know why you need me so much, Director.”
“In a film about music, the important thing is not the actor. Especially in a movie about Paganini. The simultaneous recording is that important. We need to revive his melodies, lost for centuries, in the present. Sorry to the actor playing Paganini, but in my heart, the lead is you, Violinist Hyun.”
I felt intoxicated by Jean-Pierre’s words, even though I hadn’t drunk any makgeolli. He would probably excel at writing romance scripts.
The twisted pine trees and strange rock formations created a spectacular view. Jean-Pierre took out his film camera.
“Hyun, could you stand over there?”
It was the time when the verdant mountains began to show a reddish autumn hue. The scenery behind me looked like a carpet of green and red. The sound of a babbling brook added to the scene, making it a natural wonder.
“Strike a pose. I’ll take a commemorative photo.”
What pose should I take? Should I go with the Korean trademark “kimchi”?
Buzz.
I struck a pose as if lifting a violin. Jean-Pierre gave a very satisfied smile at the sight.
In that moment, as the brilliant sunlight shone through the trees.
Whoosh.
A wind blew, and with a sound resembling the melody of a violin, a picturesque scene was captured on the film camera.
Starting with Director Jean-Pierre, things have been strange lately.
“A pillar of the music world?”
Such excessive praise made me feel uneasy. Since Brussels, this was my first solo interview. I had reluctantly accepted the interview request that kept coming day after day.
But I couldn’t help feeling like I was meeting one of my hardcore fans.
“They say there are two stars in the current South Korean classical music scene! One is pianist Baek Jung-hoon, and the other is violinist Kang Hyun. Isn’t it fitting to call Kang Hyun the next great master?”
“Even if Baek Jung-hoon is deserving, I still lack experience. My only achievement is winning a single competition.”
“That one time was the Queen Elisabeth Competition, which every violinist dreams of winning, and you were the youngest ever to win it―!”
The interviewer seemed overly excited.
Even if he looked unassuming, he was a journalist who could kill with his pen.
From my past experience, I knew to be cautious in front of a journalist. When I was preparing for a nomination, journalists wielding pens were more challenging than voters holding ballots.
“I’ve been straying off the beaten path quite a bit. I’ve been working on albums, and even doing simultaneous recordings. In the past two years, I haven’t shown any significant activity, so I think it’s inappropriate to compare me to Baek Jung-hoon.”
It was true. While Baek Jung-hoon had been focusing on performances after his classical studies abroad, I hadn’t even held a solo recital.
It was an unusual situation compared to most international competition winners who usually hold congratulatory solo recitals. At that moment.
“That’s strange. Baek Jung-hoon mentioned that the person who helped him the most while preparing for his solo recital was Kang Hyun. Not only did you give him the sheet music, but you also personally tutored him. And didn’t he refer to you as both a friend and a mentor during his recent solo recital in Seoul?”
Baek Jung-hoon had a knack for putting people in awkward situations. Why did he have to refer to me as a mentor at that moment?
But I wasn’t one to be easily swayed by this. I had enough experience dealing with journalists.
“In music, I believe the line between friend and mentor is as thin as a piece of paper. I think that’s what Baek Jung-hoon meant by his words.”
“By the way, Baek Jung-hoon also mentioned something else.”
What?
“For his upcoming solo recital in Seoul, he said he would love for his mentor to collaborate with him. Baek Jung-hoon referred to you as his mentor. How would you describe pianist Baek Jung-hoon?”
I mustn’t be flustered. Interviewers enjoy it when their subjects waver.
But neither could I say “no comment.” The interviewer might take liberties with their imagination and report false information.
I put on a faint smile. As naturally as possible.
“He is someone who practices honest music. You can’t reach his position without tremendous effort. I would compare him to Beethoven’s sheet music.”
A few days after Director Jean-Pierre returned to France.
There was still some time before the crank-in. In a way, it was good for me. There were still unfinished scores weighing on my mind. At that moment.
“Hyun-ah―!”
With a familiar voice, a long-time acquaintance hurried into my workspace. It was Baek Jung-hoon, who had just returned from his regional solo recital tour. Judging by his panting, he seemed to have rushed over.
“How could you say such excessive compliments? I’ve been getting calls left and right.”
Baek Jung-hoon was holding a magazine, and it seemed my interview had been published today.
The headline was visible from a distance, and it seemed the journalist had used my words without any filtering.
Who told him to put me in such an awkward position?
“I was just planning an event, hyung.”
Baek Jung-hoon looked at me with an open mouth. As if to say, ‘Hyun, I didn’t expect you to hold such a grudge.’ Finally, Baek Jung-hoon flopped onto the sofa and looked at me.
“So, what’s your answer?”
“What answer?”
“I sent you a message asking if you could collaborate with me.”
Ha, calling a journalist’s article a message. What an unfathomable pianist.
He seemed to become more nonchalant as the days went by. The nickname ‘Iron-blooded Maestro’ seemed less fitting now, ‘Nonchalant Maestro’ would be more appropriate.
“When is the solo recital in Seoul?”
“In two weeks.”
“Then there’s not enough time to prepare. It wouldn’t be respectful to the audience.”
Of course, if we dedicated every free moment to the collaboration, it might be possible, but setting the repertoire was not an easy task.
Moreover, it was a collaboration, not a solo performance. We couldn’t afford to disappoint the audience with a sloppy performance.
But Baek Jung-hoon wasn’t one to give up easily.
“It’s just one piece for the collaboration.”
One piece?
“Hyung, why do you want to collaborate with me so badly?”
Someone of Baek Jung-hoon’s caliber would be welcomed with open arms by any violinist. He is currently the most famous pianist in South Korea.
Additionally, he used the proceeds from his solo recitals to help the less fortunate, a prime example of noblesse oblige. Even though he was part of a chaebol family, he was still a chaebol.
But his answer was unexpected.
“Professor Hirose told me, as you grow as a musician, you will encounter a mountain you must overcome. For me, that mountain is you.”
Haven’t I been receiving confessions of sorts these past few days? But Baek Jung-hoon’s expression was more serious than ever.
I glanced at the piano bench. Baek Jung-hoon had sat there for hours, playing the piano when we worked on Iron-blood.
Even if it was just one piece, I wanted it to be perfect.
To achieve that.
