Pen and Paper Translations

“Yong-hwi, are you feeling unwell?”

“I’m perfectly fine. For now.”

“No, did I do something to offend you? I’ve let you stage whatever shows you want. I’ve hired whatever actors you asked for. And now you want to put a baby on stage?”

“There you go, exaggerating again. He’s five, not a baby.”

“Five years old, one year old, whatever—are you out of your mind?!”

Gang Yong-hwi casually covered one ear as the troupe leader’s booming shouts stabbed at his eardrums.

Snap.

Whenever someone caused trouble in the troupe, the troupe leader grabbed hold of his nameplate. Now it was clenched in his hand. Every time he did this, he never actually swung it at anyone—but the plate read “Artistic Director Kim Sang-cheol.”

“Ah, Hyung! Calm down; it’s going to raise your blood pressure.”

“Do I look like I can calm down?”

“Didn’t you hear what everyone said? The kid’s really good. I discovered an incredible talent here!”

“Incredible? More like you’re trying to finish me off.”

“Hyung, Sang-cheol hyung. Not only does the kid memorize lines easily, but his emotional range is phenomenal.”

Han Siwoo’s eyes—just thinking about that look sent a thrilling chill from Gang Yong-hwi’s toes to his scalp. It was exactly the living embodiment of “Yeong-soo,” the little boy character he’d originally envisioned back when he first planned The Day I Dreamed of Spring. Exactly the plucky little kid from his imagination.

“If you watch him just once, you’ll understand what I mean.”

“You crazy bastard.”

While Gang Yong-hwi bragged, smirking as though expecting gratitude, Kim Sang-cheol, the head of “Bisangcheolddo 777,” felt like his insides were on fire.

He let out a sigh so heavy it practically shook the floor. Seeing how Gang Yong-hwi was already lost in euphoria, he realized there was no point trying to stop him—he wouldn’t listen.

“So now I have to change diapers in my own troupe.”

“At five, I doubt he’s still in diapers.”

“Would you keep your mouth shut?”

“Aw, come on, Hyung. We’ve never turned away any actor who showed up, remember? This troupe’s name is Bisangcheolddo—”

“You left out the 777.”

“Anyway, I told them to come by tomorrow. We can see for ourselves and decide. Right? There’s still over a month left before the show opens.”

With that, Gang Yong-hwi stood up and left. And once again, Kim Sang-cheol had let it go. Ever since he entrusted direction to Gang Yong-hwi, ticket sales hadn’t been bad. But rarely did a day pass when he didn’t need a glass of cold water.

“That brat—I should’ve known when he lay down in the middle of the road.”

Kim Sang-cheol stomped over to the water cooler in the corner of his office and gulped down a cup of cold water. His 8-pyeong (around 28 square meters) office was modest. He’d never started the troupe to make big money. If there was extra cash, he preferred spending it on the troupe.

Kim Sang-cheol himself had once been an actor—and quite a successful one. He didn’t have the looks often deemed crucial in the acting world, but his skill had brought him notable supporting roles, both on stage and in films. And he always said that his roots lay in Daehak-ro, the heart of Korean theater.

He left stage acting to work in broadcasting, but one day decided to invest his earnings in helping budding actors who dreamed as he once did. That’s how “Bisangcheolddo 777” was born.

“Dream-chasers, take flight. I, Kim Sang-cheol, will be your lotto ticket. Board Bisangcheolddo and hit the jackpot!”

That was the vision behind this troupe.

Hence, Kim Sang-cheol seldom interfered with who joined or left, and he generally went along with Gang Yong-hwi’s outlandish ideas. But:

“A five-year-old, seriously…?”

The more he thought about it, the more it irked him.

When he first met Gang Yong-hwi, he actually had no intention of taking him on. He’d already heard of him beforehand: A fresh, comet-like presence in the Daehak-ro directing scene. From the start, the guy had only done experimental plays. Many in the old guard openly disapproved of him. But strangely enough, everything he touched turned to gold. Even the weirdest, most avant-garde shows flourished under him.

After watching one of these famously successful shows, Kim Sang-cheol decided not to recruit him. He felt bringing such a high-risk director to his newly formed troupe was unwise. But it was Gang Yong-hwi who came to him.

“Director, won’t you let me work here?”

At first, Kim Sang-cheol refused. Then Gang Yong-hwi started showing up everywhere, even lying down in the middle of the road where Kim Sang-cheol passed by. Who knew he didn’t just direct like a madman, but lived like one, too?

In the end, Kim Sang-cheol took him into Bisangcheolddo 777. He was a huge gamble—but also came with high hopes.

“A thorny path… a thorny path…”

From that day on, Kim Sang-cheol never truly had peace. His nerves might have been frayed, but the troupe was thriving. Times being what they were, it was rare for a theater company to turn a profit at all, yet they managed to avoid going in the red. In fact, their success grew beyond expectations.

“Bisangcheolddo 777” was now one of the more desirable troupes in Daehak-ro—something that made Kim Sang-cheol wonder if he should have pursued this path sooner. Of course, credit went to the carefully selected actors and staff members brought in by him and Gang Yong-hwi. Granted, the recruiting process was always drama-filled.

Kim Sang-cheol’s picks were quiet, but the problem was that Gang Yong-hwi never went the normal route. He’d raid other troupes to snatch up actors. He’d randomly bring in freshmen from theater school. The fallout always landed in Kim Sang-cheol’s lap. The amount of indigestion medicine he’d consumed over it all could probably bury this office.

Every time they went out for drinks, he’d vent, but it went in one ear and out the other. Gang Yong-hwi just rattled on about the next production.

Even though Kim Sang-cheol personally swept and cleaned the troupe’s premises since day one, observing each rehearsal, things had only just started running smoothly. But then…

“Ah, my head.”

He ended up pulling out a bottle of headache pills from his desk drawer.

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“Tomorrow, too? You want to take Siwoo out again?”

Dinner was peaceful. Mom slid a piece of broiled hairtail into my mouth, then turned to look at her younger brother. Mmm, nice and tender. Content, I scooped up a spoonful of rice and chewed. Rice was the staple here in the East, and it really did stick to my taste buds more than I expected. I must truly be an Easterner now.

“I was thinking of bringing Siwoo with me to work…”

“You hand out flyers. Why bring Siwoo along?”

Mom casually plucked some rice from my cheek and ate it, glancing at Uncle as she asked. Meanwhile, I opened my mouth wide like a baby bird, waiting for the next bite of fish.

“That’s right, you’re eating so well,” she cooed.

“Mhm.”

I continued munching, recalling how different this was from the grilled sea bass I used to have daily in Battenberg Castle. Hairtail was currently my favorite side dish.

“Well, it’s not flyers this time. I actually got a role in The Day I Dreamed of Spring… so, uh…”

Hang in there. Our fate depends on your silver tongue.

“Uh… Sis, Bro-in-law… don’t freak out, okay?”

“Yes?”

“Siwoo got cast in it. A bigger role than mine, too!”

“… …”

“… …”

Silence descended on the table.

“He got what now?”

“…Cast.”

Uncle hung his head sheepishly. I swallowed my food and glanced at Mom and Dad. They looked at each other, then shook their heads in disbelief.

“We do think Siwoo’s cute, but… what do you mean he got cast?”

“Haha, Dong-wook, come on. Casting a five-year-old?”

“Right. I won’t ask you to babysit again. Enough. Let’s just finish dinner.”

Clearly, they found it unbelievable. I scowled at Uncle, feeling anxious, and he quickly continued.

“N-no, Sis! I promised to bring Siwoo to the troupe tomorrow. The director is really famous, and he personally asked for Siwoo. He even said he’d persuade the company leader. Siwoo agreed, too!”

“What? Siwoo, did you?”

Gulp. That traitor. He acted like he’d handle this on his own, yet now he’s turning the heat on me. I swallowed and nodded slightly.

“Everyone was blown away by Siwoo’s acting, seriously. So they want to let him perform. But he’s only five.”

“Exactly, Dong-wook. Five is too young.”

“Ugh, you just haven’t seen Siwoo perform. You can’t tell he’s five at all.”

At least he’s got an eye for talent. Still, this was our biggest hurdle. I glanced up; Mom and Dad still looked worried. Perhaps it wasn’t going to happen.

My fists, clenched under the table, trembled slightly.

“It’s ridiculous. Sneaking out like a rat to do what? Acting?”

“You’re shaming the Battenberg name. Do you know how much of a laughingstock we’ll become?”

“I can’t stand the sight of you. Get out of my sight.”

I froze momentarily. Those memories belonged to my past life—my previous mother’s icy voice echoing. There’d always been a gulf between us I could never bridge.

“Siwoo.”

Then another voice drifted in like a warm spring breeze.

“Siwoo truly enjoyed it?” Mom asked Uncle.

“That’s what I’m saying. He jumped in and performed without me even asking!”

Dad’s gentle tone followed.

“Dear, if Siwoo likes it that much, maybe we can let him try.”

I pictured my new mom’s warm embrace and my dad’s rough hands, always reeking of cooking oil but carefully washed before touching me.

“Time for bed, Siwoo.”
“You really like this, huh?”
“Our boy should do whatever he wants.”

Unlike my previous life, these five years had been filled with such warmth. Maybe this time things would be different.

“To be, or not to be. That is the question.”

A solemn voice. My words were still a little lisped, but my British accent was clear enough.

“Huh?”

“Siwoo?”

Mom, Dad, and Uncle all turned to stare. I met their wide eyes and repeated, putting my heart into it:

“To be, or not to be. That is the question.”

Shakespeare was always adamant about re-creating lines:

“If you use them exactly as is, there’s no meaning. An actor must fully reinvent them.”
“Is that something a playwright should say?”
“Heh, that’s what makes the performance interesting, isn’t it?”

In that spirit, “To be, or not to be. That is the question.”—existence, or non-existence?

Back when I was still Noah Battenberg, those words meant “Will I live, or will I die?” I barely remember my final thoughts before death, but I’m certain it was all about acting. So I can’t afford to let this opportunity slip away.

Uncle gaped at me in astonishment. Mom and Dad simply blinked in confusion. Then Mom glanced at Dad.

“That’s from Hamlet, right?”

“Yeah, I think so. Wow, Siwoo! That’s amazing!”

“Where…where did you learn that by heart?”

I couldn’t possibly say, “While prepping for a show 400 years ago.”

“It was on TV.”

I pointed toward the living room television, and my parents visibly relaxed.

“Son, how did you do that?”

What do you mean, how? I practiced with Shakespeare 400 years ago. But seeing the worry vanish from their faces, I knew this was my moment.

“Mom, Dad. I wanna act. I wanna go on stage.”

Hearing that, Mom placed her hand over my trembling little fist. She looked down at me with warm eyes and asked:

“Siwoo, do you really want to perform?”

I gave her a slight nod in response. Asking if I want to act is like asking if I want to live. How could I say no?

“All right. Then tomorrow, I’ll go with you to Uncle’s theater.”

She lifted me into a comforting hug. At some point, the trembling in my hand had completely vanished.

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