Pen and Paper Translations

After finishing the documentary shoot, Eden returned to New York—but the first place he headed was not his own home.

Ding-dong!

He pressed the bell by the front gate, and before long a familiar face appeared.

“Eden!”

The man greeting him was Paul, conductor of the New York Philharmonic and its artistic adviser.

“You just got back from Paris today, didn’t you? You could’ve rested and come tomorrow—what brings you here now?”

Though his words were questioning, Paul’s expression was warmly welcoming as he stepped aside to let Eden in.

“I came to ask you something privately, Maestro.”

“Come inside first—how about a cup of tea?”

“Yes, thank you. Something hot, please.”

Seated on a wide sofa in the living room, Eden slowly looked around.

Wow…

The reputation of being the most influential conductor in America was no exaggeration—the room’s display shelves were packed with trophies.

Inside clear cases stood historic instruments so rare even world-class virtuosi seldom lay hands on them.

They say you can’t get that even at auction…

Just as drool was about to escape the corner of his slightly parted lips—

“Here, drink. The trip from Paris must have tired you; this should help a bit.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d let you enjoy it slowly, but what is it you needed advice on?”

Setting down the untouched cup, Eden began.

“For the documentary, we filmed a hidden-camera experiment. I disguised myself as a homeless man and played violin on the street.”

“What— you, looking like a vagrant, played violin on a Paris sidewalk?”

“Yes, out of curiosity—would people listen if they didn’t know I was Eden Smith?”

“And the result?”

Recalling the scene, Eden gave a wry smile.

“It was brutal.”

“I played for an hour, and no one listened. They glanced then went on their way.”

“Good grief—no one there has an ear? What were the Philharmonic folks doing, taking the day off?”

“But after I finished the last piece, a young Asian man said almost exactly what you just did.”

Paul leaned in, curiosity bright.

“A young man?”

“Yes. I thought you’d be interested, so I recorded it—would you like to see?”

“Please.”

Eden played the clip on his phone.

On screen a ragged fellow began Paganini’s 24 Caprices while indifferent passersby hurried past. Paul chuckled.

He really looks like a bum.

Even I might not have approached—but from a distance I’d have listened.

Concentrating on the sound, Paul suddenly craned forward.

“That young man?”

Eden, noticing the frame he hadn’t before, tilted his head.

“Yes—that’s him…”

Both leaned closer, nearly drawn into the screen.

What’s he doing, sawing air…?

Paul studied the lad’s gestures and fingerings. If he was right, the youth was acting as an accompanist, playing an invisible violin in sync.

Indeed—the way his fingers moved and his head swayed wasn’t mere mimicry; it revealed habits of a real violinist.

In short, the youth was performing an imaginary violin.

“He must actually play.”

“I was so absorbed I never saw him.”

“And you talked with him?”

“Yes. He never said he was a violinist—only that he’s a composer.”

“Composer?”

Paul smiled faintly.

“If he stopped, heard you, accompanied in mid-air, and spoke to you—he must be another music-mad fellow.”

“He asked me to record on one of his tracks, said he’d pay whatever I wished—even a million dollars.”

“A million? Bit of a braggart, then. And he spoke to you the same way I just did?”

“Yes—said the locals must have no ears, asked if the Philharmonic nearby was on holiday.”

Paul laughed.

“Definitely a character. So did you accept?”

“No, I only got his card.”

Examining the card front and back, Paul murmured.

“A composer…”

The name “HS” held his gaze; somehow it piqued interest.

While he stared, the youth’s airy playing replayed in his mind—high-level technique, perhaps good enough for Philharmonic accompaniment.

“I’d like to invite him formally to the New York Phil.”

“This young man?”

“Yes—I want to speak with him.”

Eden’s surprise flickered, then he smiled.

“I’ll contact him right away.”

Paul was quick-tempered; if he said talk, it meant soon.

But life rarely obliges.

Riiing, riiing—

The ringing stretched once, twice, three, four times.

Riiing, click—cut off.

“No answer?”

Paul paced in circles, foot tapping.

Making a decision, he sat and spoke calmly.

“If he won’t pick up, we’ll send formal notice to the company on the card.”

“I’ll request it immediately.”

Until Eden came and showed the video, Paul’s afternoon had been serene.

Even now it was serenely quiet—

“I hope we can meet him soon.”

Like the calm just before a storm in Beethoven’s Fifth—quiet as the depths, yet charged with oncoming thunder.

---

Deputy Director Choi’s morning was sour.

Executive Director Park—the rival he least wished to see—had invaded Team 2’s area.

“Director Park, what brings you to Team 2?”

“I’ve a business question.”

“You could’ve called—”

“I know you’re busy, so I came myself.”

Choi forced a smile as Park gestured him into a small conference room.

He sighed softly and followed.

Park likely came begging for something.

Sure enough—

“Director Choi.”

“What.”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

After a pause Park spoke.

“HS—about that solo album, when’s it coming out?”

“You came here just for that?”

“It’s no good if Team 1 releases at the same time.”

Park almost wagged his tail like a dog—but cute he was not.

Choi enjoyed the moment; mighty Park treating HS like an obstacle was satisfying.

“I’d love to, but nothing’s set.”

“Don’t be stingy.”

“Need to ask after his vacation.”

Park’s face showed doubt.

Knock knock.

A Team 2 staffer slipped in.

“Sorry, Director Choi—”

“Can’t you see we’re talking?”

The worker flinched.

“So what is it?”

“A fax arrived—thought you should see it.”

Park snatched the papers.

“Now step out.”

After the door closed he resumed.

“If you get an estimate, let me know.”

“Why should I?”

“Keep it up and I’ll—”

“Steal that too?”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Funny, months ago you were.”

“Not anymore.”

Choi’s retort stung yet he felt odd; Park had changed.

“Director Park.”

“What?”

“Change that tacky tie.”

“You bought it.”

“Twelve years ago.”

The banter felt like their rookie days.

Just then—

“Didn’t HS go to Europe?”

Park squinted at the fax.

“So?”

“Why’s New York looking for him?”

“What?”

“Are my eyes bad?”

Choi grabbed the papers.

At the top: “New York Philharmonic.”

Unbelievable…

It was a formal invitation for HS to visit, expenses paid, signed by artistic adviser Paul Porter.

How had that kid stirred this?

“Director Choi…”

“Why…”

“You ever get a fax from the New York Phil?”

“Never.”

“Me neither.”

They stiffened before the unimaginable letter.

“What on earth…”

Through the door came a familiar voice.

“Director Choi!”

Speak of the tiger—no, the tigress.

“Come in.”

Manager Kim entered, bowed and started to leave seeing Park.

“It’s fine, stay,” Choi said, handing him the fax.

Kim read—and his face drained.

“That brat…”

The paper slipped from his hand.

“I told him not to flirt around Switzerland; now New York?”

Muttering to himself—

“So it’s New York now…”

Park thought Kim looked like a boyfriend catching his girl cheating, but kept silent.

With a deep sigh Kim forced a smile.

“I’ll confirm with Hyunseung.”

“Let us know.”

Outside, Kim called—phone off.

Maybe the Phil wants him as composer. Most likely.

[ Didn’t I tell you to behave? ]

[ New York is scouting you now. ]

[ I’ll have nightmares again. ]

He typed furiously—

[ If they offer steak, just don’t go… ]

Deleted.

“Forget it.”

Respect whatever he chooses.

He had no money to bind the boy, nor could he say life with him beat the Philharmonic.

“Stay cool, be the adult—go if you must!”

He texted simply:

New York Phil sent a letter—call me when you see this.

Then added,

When are you back in Korea? Want me to pick you up?

If you return I’ll give you all my cafeteria meal tickets.

I’ll buy you venti coffee every day—no, trenta.

So much for being the cool manager.

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