You Drive Me Crazy

by Anna Premoli

  As the plane begins to roll towards the runway for take off, I start to feel the effect of the pills: I’m much calmer, and my head feels light. I am almost oblivious to the plane’s initial jolts.

  I try to stretch out my legs by extending them at an angle, but I end up kicking Mark’s ankle.

  “Oops, sorry,” I say with a chuckle. I feel almost cheerful, even though I know I’ve got no reason to be. This doesn’t feel like tranquillizers, this feels like something quite different…

  Little Lord Fauntleroy next to me is doing everything possible not to lose his cool, but it’s a tough inner struggle if the frown on his face is anything to go by. Seeing him so focused on remaining unruffled, I just can’t suppress a childish desire to make him lose his temper. You know, just for fun. I have many boring hours to look forward to with little prospect of alternative entertainment.

  Inside my mind I start to develop a strategy: first of all I have to discover his weaknesses. Because even though he appears to have none, the man must be human underneath – he must have other faults apart from being so self-important.

  “Tell me something about yourself,” I ask with feigned affability. “When we met, you said that you were American, but you seem to be totally Korean. And you live in Korea as well.”

  Mark doesn’t appear to want to make conversation, though. He raises his eyes for a moment from the file he pulled out as soon as the plane started to move. He doesn’t seem too willing to put it down, and in the face of my question grips it even more firmly. Is it a kind of shield? Several moments of silence pass, which he uses to try and find a way of shutting me up. But he’s either short on ideas or has decided to venture into hitherto unexplored territory, because from his mouth come words that I would never have expected to hear.

  “I was born in Chicago, where I lived for ten years. Then I moved to Korea with my parents, who have lived just outside Seoul since then. I came back to America to go to university and then I did my master’s there.”

  “Where did you study?” I ask curiously. After all, you have to strike while the iron is hot.

  “At Yale, and I did my master’s at Harvard,” he replies, without hiding his smugness. Great, a total swot. I should have known. It’s painful to admit it, but I’d gloat just as much if I was in his place, though.

  “But then, after graduating, you came back to Korea…” I add, inviting him to continue. There’s still so much he has to tell me, surely he can’t think he’ll get off the hook with so little?

  “Not right away, actually. I worked in America for a bit, and then the company asked me to go to Seoul: there aren’t that many American citizens who speak Korean, and they needed my help,” he explains.

  “Wow, you’ve moved around a lot. That must have been really interesting,” I reply, genuinely impressed. Utmost respect for those who take these things seriously, even though I’m afraid I don’t fit into the category.

  “It’s tiring,” he answers seriously. “It’s not easy being split between two countries.”

  My gaze then falls on his hands. Until now I haven’t noticed that he was wearing any rings, but you never know with men.

  “And are you married?” I ask. I realize that interrogating him like this might make it look as though I’m giving him the third degree, but really, what else can I do to get someone as buttoned up as him to open up a bit? If he’d just tell me everything of his own accord, I wouldn’t need to be questioning him, would I?

  “No,” he replies drily, without saying any more, and then takes refuge behind his file again. I have the vaguest suspicion that I’ve touched a sore spot.

  “And have you ever been?” I ask him, quite shamelessly. My tranquillizers must have melted my conversational inhibitions much more than I’d thought.

  “No.”

  Another curt answer. His tone is a warning. Too bad I was never very good at picking up on them.

  “And why not?” I press him, as insistent as a hunting dog that has scented its prey.

  He snorts, but lowers the sheaf of papers, and seems to be reflecting on what to say. This time he’s probably really going to invite me to mind my own business.

  “And why aren’t you married?” he asks finally, in a voice that’s struggling to sound neutral but clearly hides some irritation.

  A very effective defensive tactic – answering a question with another question.

  “Because I’m always stuck in the office. Because I have never met a man who managed to convince me to consider spending the rest of my life with him. Because part of me doesn’t actually believe in just living together. And because nobody’s ever asked me,” I say, all in one breath.

  Do these tranquillizers contain a truth drug or something?

  “But anyway, we weren’t talking about me,” I remind him, smiling mischievously. “Not to mention that I’m five years younger than you and no British girl is thinking about marriage at my age.”

  I see from his face that he is amazed. “In England a twenty-eight year old girl is considered of marriageable age. In Korea, she’s a hopeless case,” he answers. I’m speechless – how dare he?! Me, desperate?

  Try not to get offended, I repeat to myself. But it’s hard…

  “No sarcastic answer?” he asks, looking at me, clearly happy to have shut me up.

  “I’m under the influence of narcotics, and apparently they are doing a pretty good job since I can’t quite manage to tell you to naff off,” I reply, after recovering my calm.

  “Then maybe I should try this miracle pill myself,” he teases, almost smiling at me. It’s incredible, but when he does there’s a really delightful expression on his face – but it happens so rarely that it’s hard to notice.

  “I’m not used to having this kind of relationship with my co-workers,” he says, suddenly changing the subject. “In Korea, professional relationships are much more formal. The hierarchy is very important in Asian countries. You and John were very open and honest with one another, right?” he asks.

  “John knew everything about me – I even told him about my love life!” I reply sarcastically, and I notice that he stiffens instantly.

  “And do you expect to have the same kind of relationship with me?” he asks, looking visibly worried.

  At that point I smile, revealing that I’m teasing him.

  “No, I don’t expect that,” I reassure him. “But John and I had a really good relationship, which isn’t that common in the workplace. I won’t pretend that I’m not going to miss him. And I did actually tell him about my boyfriends, but it was only a few isolated cases…”

  I suddenly feel saddened by all this talk of my London life, so Mark decides to raise my spirits by picking up our conversation about marriage again.

  “Anyway, I never got married because I work too much, I’ve never met a woman it was worth spending the rest of my life with, and no one has ever asked me either,” he concludes with a hint of a smile. I see that our exchange of views amuses him.

  “And what do your family think?” I ask him.

  “To be honest, they’d love to find me a wife. In Korea, it is traditional for families to organize blind dates for you, and my parents are dying from the desire to interfere in my life,” he admits.

  I look at him in bewilderment. “Hang on, you’re saying that your mum finds you your girlfriend or boyfriend?” I ask, my mouth hanging wide open. In my case, my mother has already done enough damage and I’d like to avoid giving her the chance to carry out the coup de grâce. Not that the choices you’ve made yourself have been all that great, says a little voice in my head…

  Mark is completely unaware of my thoughts. Luckily.

  “At least you know in advance that, if there ever is a wedding, the marriage will be approved of by the family. I mean, it was them who introduced you…” he says.

  “Are there really still parts of the world where arranged marriages are in fashion? And after all the battles we women have fought to be able to decide for o
urselves?”

  “But they’re not arranged marriages! Ok, the introduction is organized by your family, but the interference – if you want to call it that – finishes there. If you like the person, you can keep seeing them in the knowledge that you won’t have to fight to obtain the approval of your family,” he explains, without losing his patience. It is evident that the DNA flowing in his blood is mainly Korean.

  “Of course – they chose them…” I point out.

  “Who knows, they might have chosen wisely.”

  “It wouldn’t work for me, the Western way’s much better: falling in love has to be romantic, not organized, otherwise where’s the fun?” I insist. How on earth could you go out with someone your grandma and mother have chosen for you? I shudder at the idea.

  Mark laughs at my total lack of enthusiasm for arranged marriages. “Look, I feel exactly the same way as you do. I was just trying to explain some Korean traditions. I’m afraid I’ve lived too long in America to be able to put up with a certain way of doing things,” he concludes. He could have said so earlier, for a moment I was starting to worry that I was the only sane person around here.

  “Your family must be very disappointed in you,” I tease him.

  “Yes, they are…” he admits, “although mine isn’t exactly what you’d call a traditional Korean family.”

  “Oh really?” I’d rather not appear so curious, but I just can’t help it.

  “Yes, my paternal grandmother is American. So my dad is half Korean and half American.”

  “It must be fun to come from a mixed race family. Unfortunately, I come from a very ordinary family.”

  The only one with any pedigree worth speaking of is the cat.

  “Well Korea is the place for you, then – you won’t feel so ordinary there,” he reassures me with a friendly voice. So when he wants to he is able to speak without sounding like a schoolmaster!

  This almost pleasant exchange, however, is interrupted by the plane suddenly and abruptly shuddering. I might be sedated, but a hundred pills wouldn’t be enough to keep me calm in this type of turbulence. I stiffen instantly in my seat, clinging to it with growing panic.

  “Why’s that, then?” I ask, trying to resume the conversation and well aware that my voice must sound a little shrill, now that the terror has returned with a vengeance. I’m starting to feel quite ill, and my head is spinning.

  Mark looks at me worriedly and answers, perhaps to try and distract me.

  “Because in Korea there are no blonde women with big green eyes who are nearly six feet tall…”

  His voice sounds increasingly distant, I can only just hear it, and as I lose consciousness I can only reflect on his words and the fact that it’s not like him to say things like that – not even on his deathbed.

  When I come to, I find that we are still on the plane and still in flight. The cabin is quiet and bathed in a soft light, and when I lean forward I find that most of the passengers are sleeping. At my side even Mark is doing the same: he is sitting in what appears to be a very uncomfortable position, which he must have adopted to try to leave me as much space as possible. The kindness of his gesture brings a smile to my face.

  I notice that the hostess has put two pillows behind my head and laid a blanket over my legs. I appreciate the thought, as the air conditioning has become a bit much. Or at least I hope it was the hostess. I don’t want to end up with too many debts of gratitude towards the man sleeping beside me.

  The good news is that the plane seems to have emerged from the turbulence, and there are none of the bumps that might trigger one of my panic attacks. I try as best I can to stretch and restore some sensation to my atrophied limbs.

  Almost unwittingly my gaze falls again on my future boss. He’s a strange guy, this Mark Kim: he practically always behaves in this very stiff, formal way, because it’s obvious that he’s driven by a powerful sense of duty. He is a man who studied hard and who now works hard. You can see it in his face, and there’s proof of it every time he opens his mouth.

  I try to use the time to observe his face. He has full lips, combined with the type of smooth, glowing skin that all women dream of having and that I personally consider absolutely wasted on a man. Especially one like him.

  He said that his grandmother isn’t Korean – so maybe that’s why his eyes are almond shaped but large and expressive too. He has a straight, not very small nose, which makes him look determined. His eyelashes are long and very black. A cowlick falls on his face. I wonder why he wears his hair so long.

  Trying to assume a more comfortable position, I end up bumping into his seat so much that not long afterwards he opens his eyes. Despite being half asleep, he still looks perfect – I, on the other hand, certainly look more than a little dishevelled.

  “I’m sorry I woke you up,” I whisper so as not to disturb other sleeping passengers.

  “No problem,” he replies in a whisper. He sits up in his seat and asks me “How are you feeling now?”

  “As good as new. Unfortunately, I often get panic attacks like this when I fly. Maybe I should change tablets.”

  “Yeah, that way you’ll be a zombie when you get to Seoul. Don’t even think about doing anything crazy while you’re in Korea. I’m responsible for you, and I absolutely don’t want to have you on my conscience,” he tells me, now that he is fully awake.

  “Oh, rubbish – I’m responsible for myself, and no one has to look after me,” I answer crossly. No one’s ever taken care of me during all these years of professional independence, so I hope he’s not thinking of starting now?

  “I’ll always feel guilty for dragging you away from your beloved homeland, so no funny business,” he says with a vaguely menacing undertone.

  “Look, equal rights for women have been around for centuries now. I’m sure you wouldn’t be feeling so protective if it were a man sitting next to you,” I say sharply.

  I’m not compromising on these issues – at the end of the day, I am my mother’s daughter, after all. All that brainwashing of hers must have had some effect on me.

  “Maybe,” he admits, “but you’re a woman and I guess we’ll never know how things would have gone if you’d been a man.”

  Neither of us seems willing to back down on the matter.

  “Listen, you don’t need to give me special treatment just because I’m a woman,” I say firmly. “Behave just as you would with any of your male colleagues.”

  He laughs. In fact, he laughs at me.

  “So does that mean that when we get there you’ll handle your three suitcases by yourself?” he asks, emphasising the number.

  “I can manage them perfectly well!” I reply in the same tone, attempting to mask a certain hesitation. If my father hadn’t undertaken to haul them all the way to the airport for me, I’d have collapsed after the first few steps. This morning, I could barely even lift one of them. They must weigh tons.

  And he knows it. Oh yes, he knows it alright. He gives me a look and says no more, but is unable to hide a smile of derision.

  “Ok. I’ll admit that I might need some help with the bags, but no more than any other colleague who is moving lock, stock and barrel to another continent.” It’s better to just admit it, because I’ll never manage to carry those suitcases, and something tells me that Mark would be quite willing to let me be crushed to death under their bloody weight.

  Hearing this only makes his grin spread even further across his face.

  “But that doesn’t mean anything. We London girls are used to looking after ourselves,” I feel compelled to point out. This is a fight that I’m not going to lose.

  I see that I haven’t managed to convince him, though – there’s still a challenging gleam in his eyes. And if he doesn’t answer me directly it’s only because he knows that he’d just be wasting his breath.

  All these years of women fighting for equality and then along comes this gentleman who thinks I need a nanny…

  “Look, I’ve even been to
self-defence classes,” I say determinedly and sounding not a little petulant.

  He looks at me doubtfully. His refusal to talk is driving me crazy.

  “What is it?” I ask angrily, trying to provoke some reaction.

  “I’ll have you on the mat whenever I want,” he says sharply, after a moment of reflection. “Like most Koreans who practice taekwondo. It is the national sport.”

  Who the hell does this windbag think he’s dealing with? “Well, that just means that I’ll sign up for a course of tae… won… dee, then!”

  Ok, I don’t even know how to pronounce it, but it doesn’t matter. These sports are all the same: give your opponent a good old fashioned kick and Bob’s your uncle.

  Mark is looking at me as if to say ‘try it and we’ll see’.

  “It’s called taekwondo, and I would be happy to find you a gym that holds courses near to the office, if you like…”

  His tone expresses all his doubts unequivocally. It’s obvious that he doesn’t think I’ll go through with it. Well, he’ll see who he’s dealing with!

  *

  The food on the plane is as poor as always, but at least it’s free. He just nibbles at his while I guzzle down everything. With the tip of his plastic fork he continues to shift those poor potatoes from one side of the tray to the other without ever actually deciding to eat one. God, they’re only potatoes, not bloody rat poison!

  “Do you mind if I eat yours too, seeing as you obviously don’t want it?” I ask, pointing to his still half full tray. Yes, I know, it’s not good manners, but stress always makes me absolutely ravenous.

  “Please, go ahead,” he says, looking at me curiously and passing me his tray. “But how do you manage to stay so thin if you always eat so much?” he asks impertinently.

  I can’t tell if it’s a compliment or an insult. Not to mention that counting today he’s only seen me eat twice, the other time being at the Italian restaurant. Not exactly a reliable sample size to get a statistic from. Ok, maybe I did go a bit over the top with the pasta, but the events of the day called for a plate of exceptional proportions. Does he really think that only men are allowed to eat large portions or something? The mountain of carbohydrates I ate that day literally saved me from utter despair over having to move to bloody Korea.