The Great Storyteller

Translated by: ShawnSuh

Edited by: SootyOwl

Juho took a cookie from the table in front of him. The pleasant sweetness went quite well with tea. Although there was nothing special about its shape, the taste was just the opposite.

While Juho was breaking the cookie in half, Sanders asked, “Is he angry?”

Violinist had witnessed the war in person. He was neither a ruler of a nation nor did he have a sense of justice that drove him to do what he could to save his nation. A war-fanatic, a dictator, neither of those things defined who he was. He was merely an individual. The scene in which Violist witnessed the war showed readers what kind of era the protagonist was living in. When the protagonist came face to face with the brutality of war, there had to be a storm of emotions within him.

“Of course,” Juho said, locking eyes with the translator, who nodded in confirmation. ‘I wonder if this is what it’s like to be interviewed by Santa Claus,’ Juho thought to himself. Hearing Sanders use such a strong word like angry was quite strange. Maybe it was because it wasn’t very Santa Claus-like.

“Sense of void, perhaps?”

“Yes.”

“Overwhelmed?”

“He was.”

“Do you think he’ll grieve what he saw?”

“Not immediately.”

“Does he find himself afraid?”

“Yes.”

There was no time to grieve. The fear was simply too great. Yet, Violist didn’t succumb to it.

“Does he ever grow numb or indifferent toward it?”

“A little later into the story, actually. He gets used to longer-lasting wars.”

“Seems like he’s quite the emotional type.”

“He is. He’s easily influenced. When another person gets upset, he’ll join them in getting upset as well. When they’re calm, he’s also calm.”

While Sanders jotted everything down on his notebook, Juho brought the cookie up to his mouth.

“What’s the strongest emotion he’s experiencing? What should I be emphasizing?”

There was no way the young author could list all the emotions the protagonist was feeling. The character was very much alive in Juho’s mind, and he felt various emotions at once. Describing the character required some decision-making, which involved having to leave certain things out while emphasizing others.

“Why?” Sanders murmured, quoting one of Violinist’s lines from the novel. Standing before a mountain of corpses, the protagonist lets out, “Why?”

“Anger, a sense of emptiness and being overwhelmed, fear, and assimilation. He obviously becomes used to seeing war at some point. So, what’s Violinist thinking and feeling when he says that line?”

The protagonist leaves a myth behind, which will be passed down through word of mouth for years on end. The first thing that Violinist comes to ask himself is: Why does conflict happen?

“You see, Violinist…” Juho said, brushing the cookie crumbs off of his hands. Sanders listened intently. “… wasn’t exactly born under a lucky star.”

At that, Juho saw the translator’s head tilt.

“He’s the epitome of bad luck. Starting with the time in which he was born. Maybe even the fact that he was born human. Or even that he’s the protagonist of my story.”

The protagonist had been born with talents that he could hardly make use of. Despite his grandiose name, the character never lived up to it and became a violinist.

“He’s a hero, yet he didn’t hatch from an egg. He wasn’t born a prince either. He’s just an average joe. Yet, he’s burdened with the task of preventing war without even knowing it. It’s a serious responsibility, really. There tend to be those who make the mess and those who clean it up. And, of course, Violinist gets the short end of the stick,” Juho said, looking down at the reddish liquid in his cup.

(TL’s Note: Juho is referring to a Korean folklore, specifically about Park Hyeokgeose, who had hatched from an egg according to the legend.)

“He leads a life that looks nothing like the one that his name suggests.”

“That can also mean that he escapes his fate and carves his own path in life, can’t it?”

“Yes, you could say that,” Juho said. If anything, he had made it seem as though the character had escaped his fate.

“Actually, I never saw Violinist as a victim of bad luck. If anything, I thought it was the opposite,” Sanders said, looking at the notes in his hands.

“He might have been born in wartime, but he survived. He might be poor, but he’s talented. He might not have become a violinist as his name suggests, but he knows the joy of music. He changes people and how they see things through his writing. It’s an achievement. I’m sure it takes more than luck to turn a tragic existence around,” the translator said, posing an interpretation contrary to Juho’s. In the end, it was a matter of perspective. Juho had been well aware of that even before he had started writing the sequel. In which case, the question became: Which side is right? Juho decided to let the character answer that question, saying, “What matters is how the character thinks and how he makes of his own life.”

“Which means you’d be right in the moment he thinks he’s miserable,” Sanders replied. While he was busy thinking about what the protagonist would have made of his life, Juho took another cookie and split it in half.

“You see, I met him while I was serving in the military.”

“Ah, right,” Sanders said, catching on to where Juho was coming from. He had a general idea of the young author’s writing process.

“When and where was this? What kind of scene were you thinking about?” The translator asked.

“It was during a march.”

“A march?”

“It’s basically running a twenty-five-mile marathon while carrying fifty-five pounds of military equipment.”

“… That sounds like about the right time for it.”

Juho recalled aching all over that time. The protagonist had appeared with different expressions on his face. He would stare dazedly at the marching soldiers, either hiding from them or lingering in front of Juho’s eyes.

“Must’ve been exhausting.”

“I can’t say it wasn’t. I found myself gritting my teeth at one point. Haha,” Juho said. However, Juho hadn’t been the only person under distress. In fact, Violinist had been in a similar state, following him until the end while clearly looking hostile. Then, Juho moved on to talking about the war in the novel rather than his training experience.

“The soldiers must have seemed like they were marching across the border to him,” Sanders said. Violinist came to pick up a pen for the first time as a young man.

“He tried to be mindful of his responsibility and recorded history, but he didn’t exactly look like the writing type,” Juho said. If anything, the protagonist had looked quite vicious, with clenched teeth and the veins on his neck bulging out.

“Was he influenced by what he saw?”

“Not quite. But, he does have an impressive hearing. The sounds of the battlefield were probably clear as day to him,” the young author said. In the end, the protagonist gives up trying to write and lets his emotions take over, breaking everything around him. Although he kept trying to resume the writing process, it wasn’t long until he gave into his emotions. He couldn’t help himself. At which point, he murmurs…

“Why?”

“So, bloodthirsty?”

“That’s what I saw on his face.”

Violinist had developed a thirst for blood after witnessing war for the first time. With a firm grip on his pen, the translator wrote down the young author’s answer. The story was starting to change, from the nuances to the overall shape. The change brought about a sense of fulfillment to Sanders, which was his favorite part of his work.

“All right, then. Next question.”

“… Do you have a lot more?” Juho asked with a cookie in his mouth.

“At this rate, we’ll get through it in no time,” Sanders said, pulling up closer to the young author. Realizing that there was a lot more talking to do, Juho quietly drank his tea.

—

“Ah! Crap.”

A certain forty-five-year-old Korean man living in Paris was having a particularly bad day, which had been off to a terrible start. Upon leaving the house, he had discovered that his bicycle had been stolen. Then, after getting pickpocketed on his way to the store, he had discovered that the clerk hadn’t given him the proper amount of change, leading him to miss the bus, which meant being late for work and having to be scolded by his boss. On top of that, he had gotten into an argument with a coworker and missed an appointment with his significant other. Unfortunately, his day wasn’t about to look up anytime soon. Upon arriving home, he discovered that somebody had coated the doorknob with glue. At which point, he lost control of himself and started kicking the door frantically, but the landlord caught him in the act. And now, after he finally managed to get into his home, he took a beer from the refrigerator in order to lift his spirits, which proceeded to spill all over the rug.

“Sorry, Bok Ja,” the man said, apologizing to the only member of his family that was around, a six-year-old cat. As he wiped the beer off the rug, the cat moved its tail up and down. ‘Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse,’ the man thought, sighing and rolling up the rug.

It was already dark out when he looked out the window. The day was nearing its end, but it didn’t look like it was going to get better. ‘What a crappy day.’ Sitting still, he decided not to do anything and let the day pass by, hoping that his luck would turn the next day. That day had been simply much too eventful as it was.

“Any good news?”

Finding himself getting bored after about three minutes, the man looked around his house looking for a cigarette, but gave up shortly after. After brief contemplation, he picked up his phone, expecting a phone call. However, there was no sound, and his cat rolled itself up, getting ready to sleep. The man glared angrily at the rug, which had absorbed every drop of his beer. Needless to say, the glare didn’t change anything. His body and mind were exhausted. ‘Why is this happening to me? Why?’

“Damn it,” the man let out, realizing that his phone wasn’t going to ring anytime soon.

“What the hell did I do to deserve this?” he asked his cat, which moved its tail about instead of giving him an answer.

“That prick who stole my bicycle is probably having the time of his life. At least better than mine, anyway.”

At that moment, his phone started vibrating, and the man sprung to check the caller. It was a friend from Korea. Thinking about the time in his home country, the man answered the phone, “Yeah?”

“Did you hear??” the friend asked as if completely oblivious to the man’s indifferent tone.

At which point, the man decided that he just about had it and replied, “What? About the scoundrel who stole my bicycle?”

“Wha? You got your bicycle stolen?”

“Don’t even get me started. I had one hell of a day.”

Then, the man recounted his day to his friend, which felt much more refreshing than a beer or a cigarette ever could. However, after listening to him for some time, the friend cut him off subtly. Of course, the man was well aware of his friends’ tendency. The friend preferred talking over listening.

“Well, my friend, I’ve got just the thing for you.”

“This better be good,” the man said. The friend had rarely been able to make him feel better. However, that was about to change.

“Well, let me finish. It’s about Yun Woo.”

“… What about him?” the man asked, wincing at the mention of his favorite author. Yun Woo had been off the radar for some time now. Thinking of it, the man realized that things had started going wrong when the young author had gone into the military two years prior. Unlike his expectation that the author would come out with a new book upon his discharge from the military, Yun Woo had been nowhere to be seen months after his service. Instead of the author, there were constant mentions of a director called Zara Jenkins, who was known for his movies. Upon watching his recent movie, the man came to realize that the director lived up to his reputation. The first thing he did after watching the movie was go back to the original novel. While reading the story with which he was already familiar, the man had wished that his favorite author would come back soon, and preferably, with a new book.

“What? Is he releasing a new book?” the man asked, sneering.

“His new book is coming out.”

The two different tones of voices overlapped, making it difficult to make out the sentences. After a brief silence, the man sprung up from his seat as the words said by his friend registered in his mind. Caught off guard by its owner’s sudden movement, the cat looked up.

“It is!?”

“It sure is,” the friend said. Although the man wasn’t fond of the tone in his friend’s voice, he decided to let it slide.

“When? Who told you that? Is this only in Korea? Which Book?”

“Hey, hey! One at a time!”

“Spill it!” the man said impatiently, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was midnight. The new day had arrived, and it was off to a great start. The man felt strength welling up from within him. Then, he walked over to the desk and got his laptop.

“The internet’s going crazy right now. Go see for yourself.”

“I’m already looking at my laptop,” the man replied. As soon as the man typed the young author’s name, a series of words came into view, which were Yun Woo, New Title, and ‘Language of God.’

“‘Language of God?'”

“Yep. The sequel!”

“Oh, my!”

Without hesitation, the man logged into a Korean news website. Upon seeing an endless list of articles that included the name Yun Woo, the man shouted with joy.