‘No.’ Ayami shook her head vigorously but, again, pointlessly. ‘She said it was a secret. She said she’d signed a written pledge to keep it absolutely confidential until the product came on the market. She can’t hold them responsible for anything, either. Not any side effects – nothing. In fact, she shouldn’t even have told me that.’
‘Anyhow, even if she does start having chemotherapy, it doesn’t mean she won’t be able to see anyone.’
‘I don’t know. But if the poet’s coming here to write, he must intend to stay for a little while.’
‘And so …’
‘… he’ll probably see Yeoni every now and then.’
‘Didn’t Yeoni once work as a temporary secretary for a famous writer, a long time ago, when she was studying abroad? He wanted to write a novel about Korea, so she looked up various documents and translated them for him. But then the writer changed his mind, so the book never saw the light of day. He was pretty famous, and for each new project he’d pick a new secretary who fitted the theme.’
‘Really? A temporary secretary – perhaps that’s the proper name for the work I’ll end up doing. But I can’t think of any theme I’d be especially suited to.’
‘That’ll be for the writer to decide. When would you start?’
‘Early tomorrow morning so, really, you could say later tonight. That’s when I have to go to the airport.’
‘You know, I met a poet today. It’s an odd coincidence, now I think about it. Though to be precise, I would have to say I met “poets”, plural.’
‘Today at the foundation?’
‘Yes. Today at the foundation.’ Perhaps the director nodded. ‘A while ago they announced a programme to support the work of various poets – but you probably already know this. Today was the launch event. I had nothing to do with it myself, but I’d dropped by to see someone from the arts team and they asked me to stick around.’
‘I never realised the foundation was involved with that kind of thing.’
‘I assumed you knew …’
‘How would I, when it’s nothing to do with my work, and I don’t know anyone at the foundation? I’ve never even been there.’
‘Right, you told me; I keep forgetting.’
‘So, did the poets all have their own secretaries?’
‘Secretaries!’ the voice exclaimed, its laughter sounding cold, mocking. Just then, the main course arrived. Ayami picked up the strong smell of roast lamb.
‘Secretaries!’ the voice repeated. The director’s cutlery clattered against the plate; he seemed to be prodding at his fish, worried about the possibility of bones. ‘Try some, Ayami. I’d never seen so many poets in one place. It was the first time they held this kind of event. Of course, I’ve caught a glimpse of a famous writer now and then. At a public reading or a lecture, that kind of thing. I’m probably more familiar with their photographs in the newspapers. Though when I was studying abroad I crossed paths with Ko Un while he was visiting Europe. We even exchanged a few words. I doubt he would remember me now.’
‘And did Ko Un have a secretary with him?’
‘Possibly,’ the voice replied, somewhat curtly. ‘There was one woman always by his side but apparently she was his wife, not his secretary. So today, when I saw all those poets gathered in one place – there must have been dozens of them, all in the same room – I couldn’t tell they were poets at first. Because more than half of them … it’s not easy to put into words, maybe this was a subjective impression, but more than half, most, in fact, if I’d passed them on the street I would have taken them for someone self-employed who’d gone bankrupt after the IMF crisis, wandering around with no home and no family. I wouldn’t have been all that surprised if they’d asked me for a little money, just to buy something to eat; that was how they looked to me. But … no, it wasn’t their appearance exactly, it would be more precise to say that they followed a physical mould, which made me feel a certain way towards them.’
‘I can’t imagine it.’
‘Well, that’s how it was; at least, if I’m to be honest, it’s the impression I had.’
‘Do you mean it was like a gathering of hipster poets?’
‘I’ve never heard that phrase used to describe a particular group or movement. I know hippies used to be a thing, though; is it something like that? I’ve no idea what kind of poetry they write, but from the looks of them I’d have to say they were just ordinary, run-of-the-mill poets.’
‘Sometimes, on my days off … I wear scruffy clothes … like ripped jeans or a shabby T-shirt with the neck all stretched.’
‘Ayami, I’m not talking about anything as literal as that!’
‘Maybe poets have just never been concerned about dressing smartly? I’ve never met any writers, apart from a playwright at the theatre, ages ago. He always wore ordinary jeans and a T-shirt. There was nothing to distinguish him from the actors. Now I think of it, he did act sometimes as well. And he didn’t even have long hair. Well, no longer than the actors, I mean. Anyhow, he was no different from us. But, judging from books and films, a lot of artists like to look distinctive, so I think I understand what you mean.’
‘No, Ayami, you’ve misunderstood me. As I said, the issue wasn’t what they were wearing. They all seemed to have chosen outfits they hoped would make them look very conservative, very civilised. As they did, in most cases.’
‘What was the issue, then?’
‘Well, describing a strong impression in a handful of words is more their territory than mine – poets, that is. I wasn’t born with that talent, unfortunately. But I’ll give it a go. When I first saw them, I was struck by how old, how grey, how bleak they seemed, almost without exception. It was so pronounced that at first I felt shocked. It wasn’t just abstract, it was a physical sensation coming from their bodies, as though they were emitting particles. When they gathered in the lecture hall even the lights seemed to lose their radiance, becoming dull, making the room gloomy. I don’t actually recall whether they were especially old, biologically speaking. What I do remember is their faded grey hair, their bent, almost hunched backs, their listlessly bowed necks, the glinting spectacles shielding their myopic eyes, their fatigue-inflamed irises, the harsh scent of cheap fabric, fake leather bags, facial muscles stiffened into a mask of long-suppressed frustration and sadness, overlaid with an innate ugliness, bodies all either fatter or more stunted than average, all kinds of external symbols of poverty, swollen feet threatening to burst from shoddy shoes, beads of saliva dangling from shabby lips … They, they were like dead people!’
‘If I’d become a poet …’ Ayami murmured dreamily. ‘If I had … of course there’s no way I could be, I’ve neither the ability nor the motivation, but if I had, even if my external appearance was no different from what it is now, perhaps I would have looked to you like those you saw today. In that case you would have described me as an objectively hideous woman, a woman with a pockmarked face, a person incapable of being loved, who seemed dead even when she was living; as a person who draws on that negative energy to produce their poetry.’