Pen and Paper Translations

A man, his face heavy with thought, opened his mouth.

“Maestro, please don’t be too disappointed.”

“Disappointed about what?”

Shaking his head at the consolation, the man flashed a faint smile.

His name was Eden Smith—assistant concertmaster of the New York Philharmonic.

And not just any violinist.

He had practically been born with a bow in his hand, swept international competitions at record-young ages, and received love calls from the world’s three great orchestras—a truly prodigious violinist.

Yes.

Whenever he announced a concert it sold out, and his fee was astronomical.

Good grief—what is this situation?

That very man was now clutching a cheap violin such as beginners might use, sitting in the shade wiping sweat from his brow.

What’s more, passers-by neither recognized him nor even bothered to listen to his playing.

For a full hour.

Of course, there was a reason.

They were in the middle of a hidden-camera social experiment: Eden had purposely been made up to look like a shabby homeless man, and a battered floppy hat was pulled low over his face.

Still, even so… thought the cameraman in charge of the day’s shoot, watching people pass.

A moment when the vanity of art was laid completely bare.

If even such rapturous sound did not move anyone, then perhaps artistic value is decided not by skill but by who holds the bow.

Once you’re famous, people applaud even if you poop on stage—that saying must exist for a reason.

“Shall we wrap the shoot here?”

At the cameraman’s question, Eden rose lightly without the least sign of fatigue.

“No. It feels good to play on the street again, and since no one recognizes me I can play freely. I’d like to go a bit longer, if that’s all right.”

“Of course. Would you like to take the hat off, at least?”

“No. That would be practically asking to be recognized. I’ll stay like this.”

Eden stepped back into the city square alone and raised his violin.

──♫ ♫ ♫

Even after ending his first piece, soaked in the sweltering heat, people only cast side glances—no one truly listened.

In truth, not being recognized as Eden Smith didn’t matter.

Yet the fact that his music had not stopped a single person stung a little—and ignited his competitive spirit.

Fine, let’s play that piece.

Niccolò Paganini’s 24 Caprices, a work so daunting even seasoned violinists tend to avoid it.

──♫ ♫ ♫

He never played half-heartedly, but performances where he pushed until his fingertips tingled could be counted on one hand.

Drip, drip.

Sweat that started on his scalp slid down his jaw to the ground, yet Eden focused every nerve on the bow in his right hand and the strings beneath his left fingers.

Screeech!

With a high swing of the bow, the performance ended.

Sweat poured like rain—yet the breeze across the back of his neck felt cool.

“Hah… hah…”

As rough breaths escaped, a wave of exhaustion hit. Perhaps it was time to stop; the last piece had surely produced good footage.

Just then, as Eden looked toward the hidden camera a distance away—

Clap-clap-clap-clap!

A young East-Asian man was applauding, face alight.

“Thank you,” Eden nodded, though he was not especially grateful; even someone clueless about music should find that performance astounding.

Still, if even one person had listened, that was enough.

Yes, that’s plenty.

He started to move off when the man suddenly blocked his way.

“Are you really homeless?”

“Ah… yes.”

“Did you originally major in violin?”

“Ah—no?”

Eden pulled his hat lower, gauging the stranger. Had he guessed?

“So you’re saying that was an ordinary person’s playing? What are the local Philharmonic folks doing—taking a break? Their intel is garbage.”

Apparently not.

Perhaps that’s fortunate?

“Seems Parisians’ ears aren’t very discerning.”

“Ha-ha, thank you.”

“In that case, I’d like to pay for what I just heard…”

Grinning like a child who’d gotten a new toy, the man rattled on.

“But with one condition.”

“A condition?”

Eden found this conditional offer intriguing.

“I’m a composer working in Korea. Play one session for my piece. I’ll cover all expenses, session fee, and today’s performance fee—whatever amount you name.”

“Any amount? What if I say a million dollars?”

“Are you giving me a discount?”

A small laugh escaped Eden. Did he even know how much a million dollars was? It sounded like wild bluffing—but piqued his curiosity.

Was the man merely a poseur intoxicated with art’s glamour, or someone whose ear truly recognized the value of his playing?

“Do you sincerely believe my performance is worth that much?”

The man looked Eden up and down.

“If you’d been in a tuxedo in an orchestra hall instead of looking like a street bum, everyone would have listened to your violin, I’m sure.”

Eden couldn’t answer—he lowered his head slightly.

Somehow those eyes seemed to see right through him; if their gaze met, he might blurt out who he really was, might be pressed for his impressions of the performance.

Perhaps the man had half-noticed already—that he was a professional violinist disguised as a vagrant, even if he wasn’t Eden Smith.

At length the stranger held out a business card.

“I have to run—think it over and call me.”

Still bewildered, Eden accepted the card and watched him walk away for a long time.

[song writer HS]

So he was serious about the session, serious about naming any price.

Apparently not an idle remark since he’d handed over a card.

“HS…”

Eden examined it front and back with curious eyes when—

“Maestro!”

The cameraman came panting over.

“Did that guy recognize you as Eden Smith?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But you two talked quite a while, didn’t you?”

“He asked me to play a session—said he’d pay a million.”

“W-what? A session? A million dollars? P-pfft—”

The cameraman burst out laughing. Hiring a world-class violinist, offering such a sum—it sounded preposterous. Of course, to book Eden even a hundred thousand wouldn’t be strange, but the young Asian on camera hadn’t looked remotely that wealthy.

So it must be a joke.

Yet Eden’s expression was rather serious.

“Could you send me the footage we just shot first?”

“Why?”

“I quite liked that performance.”

Glancing again at the card, he murmured,

“And I’d like to show it to the concertmaster.”

Yes—he wondered how the concertmaster would judge his playing, and that man.

---

Hyunseung replayed the vagrant’s performance in his mind as he walked, a smile spreading across his face. It had been ages since he’d heard such proper playing.

Definitely not ordinary.

These days many players overuse Romantic-style rubato, but that man—without a conductor—controlled ebb and flow, held the tempo’s breath perfectly.

Paganini’s piece is no easy target even for someone like Hyunseung who can handle a violin. Near the end stamina wanes and tempo control often breaks down.

To exaggerate a bit, it was as if Paganini’s spirit had possessed him. Hyunseung had unconsciously followed along, sawing an invisible violin to provide accompaniment.

Perhaps that “vagrant” had sold his soul to the devil?

Even the dirty hair spilling under the hat swayed like a real violinist’s.

Homeless, huh…

Well, with musical talent like that and a good conductor, buying a house was only a matter of time.

“Oppa!”

Hyuna, who’d dashed out saying ‘hold on a sec’ when she heard violin outside, peppered her brother with questions when he returned.

“Where did you run off to all of a sudden?”

“Casting an instrument.”

“You cast an instrument, not a person?”

“Yeah. A really fine instrument.”

She had no idea what that meant.

Right after coming back, her genius brother drew staff lines at break-neck speed and filled them with notes—how could she understand?

He’s insane about music… she thought, tongue clucking.

But that’s how he’d become Korea’s top composer.

Even now, their father watched Hyunseung only with pride.

---

Ahead of the final Street Again busking shoot, Jayble and Lee Yuju met at a café near the hotel to choose songs.

“Teacher, here’s your coffee!”

“Oh, thanks.”

Because this last busking needed a fresh mix, production had reshuffled vocalists: Jay-le, Lee Young-ah, and Yuju would form one team.

Jayble, eyes fixed on his laptop, answered listlessly.

“I’m so thrilled to team up with you!”

“Mm-hmm, great.”

“Why isn’t Young-ah sunbae coming?”

Looking around for conversation, Yuju asked.

“She said any song is fine—told us to decide and let her know.”

“Right, she can sing anything. Makes sense.”

She drained her iced coffee, brows knitting.

What the…

Young-ah’s absence bugged her. Working with Yoon Jaeyi, the senior had been positively eager; but with Yuju, she left it up to them—clearly she didn’t care for Yuju.

Probably because of Jae-yi.

Why’s she so attached to that girl? I don’t get it…

Nibbling her straw, Yuju glanced at Jayble deep in thought and spoke again.

“How was working with Jaeyi?”

“Why?”

“Must’ve been tiring, adjusting to her.”

Playing it casual, she swirled her coffee.

“I shared dorms with her—I know she’s no ordinary girl.”

“True, she’s not.”

“She guided the song choices her way, grabbed lots of parts—guess our Jaeyi has leadership skills.”

“Leadership? Her?”

“She looked like the team leader.”

“Not how I see it. Young-ah let her pick because she can handle anything; I didn’t care what song because I’m arranging. That probably put Jaeyi in an awkward spot between seniors.”

Conversation not going her way irked Yuju.

Being HS’s rival, Jayble ought to dislike Jaeyi—so she’d thought. Yet he defended her.

Biting her nail, she watched him. Annoying…

Maybe lure him with work talk.

“Teacher, this time could you arrange it so flashy you can’t even recall the original?”

“Flashy, huh?”

“Yeah. Since you were with Jaeyi her stages kept getting better responses—it stings. Honestly, she wasn’t that good…”

Trailing off, she brightened again.

“So for our final busking, let’s add performance flair. Jaeyi’s weak at that; I’m great at it.”

“Can you handle it?”

“Of course! Your dazzling arrangement, Young-ah’s support, my performance—we’ll grab the crowd!”

Abruptly Jayble snapped the laptop shut, eyes narrowing.

“Hey, why are we here?”

“Huh? To plan—”

“Exactly. To work.”

“That’s why I suggested—”

“You’re the exhausting one here.”

His business mask dropped; his face turned fierce.

“Lee Yuju, I’m here to work, not to nurse your ego. Otherwise, why would I sit and sip coffee with someone beneath my level?”

“Why so sudden—”

“If you’re feeling inferior to Jaeyi, get a grip. Instead of scheming, fix your third-rate skills first.”

Yuju’s face reddened. “Third-rate?!”

But Jayble didn’t stop.

“Without your looks and hype, do you think that skill would’ve gotten you to the semifinals of K-Singer Star? Your company greased the wheels to haul you that far.”

Standing, he delivered one last jab.

“I’ll pick the song and let you know. Just practice hard—don’t ruin the final broadcast.”

Yuju watched his back exit the café, fists clenched, body trembling.

What enraged her wasn’t being called third-rate or lobby-pushed.

It was that she had seen Jayble’s true feelings surface—for the first time—because of Yoon Jaeyi, and that fact drove her mad.

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