by Anna Premoli
He’ll find out sooner or later anyway. When the ficus kicks the bucket.
Chapter 4
When Work Is All You Have Left
Finally, my first working week in a foreign country is about to come to an end – today is Friday! Managing three people is no joke, but for the moment I seem to be coping, and I must admit that my team are all pretty obedient. Seung Hee still behaves with excessive timidity and subservience towards her male colleagues, but she’s on the right track towards learning about having more equal relationships, and for my part I’m trying to teach her what little I know. I might not have a clue about doing my job but when it comes to polemics I’m second to none.
Mark turned out to be the tyrant I suspected he was. Outside the office, he doesn’t have a life, he keeps shocking hours and forces everyone else to work until late. I’ve decided not to say anything about it this week, but after the weekend I’m not doing any more late nights in the office. Not that I have anything interesting to do when I’m not locked up in here, but I still have to live. My future resolutions include packing up here at seven o’clock at the latest. I have no intention of putting down roots in the same pot as my ficus – which, for the moment, shows no sign of wilting. In fact, I would almost venture to say that it’s grown even more lush since it’s been with me. Every so often, after making sure nobody’s watching, I talk to it. Jane sent me an email explaining that talking to plants is very important. And if that ficus should happen to die, Mark will have my guts for garters.
The only good thing about this move so far has been that my mother only calls me once a week.
At the moment we are all busy with the boring merger of two steel companies: the usual mega corporation who want to acquire a niche Korean company hired us to analyse budgets, forecast future business plans and establish a fair price for the transaction. The team are re-classifying the last five years of budgets while I’m trying to get an idea for a business plan down on paper.
For the record, I think that our job is very boring. Since I am aware that I seem to be the only one here who thinks that, though, I’ve decided it’s wise to keep quiet about it. Deep down, I’d hoped I’d find an ally in this place, but, just as in London, they’re all quite happy to be doing what they do.
As I feared, the real problem of my first week in Seoul was the food: Korean food is just too spicy for my taste – in other words, it’s awful. I wanted to wait a few days before making a final judgment but if I go on like this, I’ll be as skinny as the models in the CK Jeans adverts in a few months – and I wasn’t that skinny even when I was eighteen.
Me and kimchi don’t get on at all: it’s not just the Chinese cabbage – which is not one of my favourite vegetables, being a cross between a cabbage and a turnip – but it’s the concentration of spices and chilli which they’d even put in your coffee if they could get away with it, that’s giving me a kind of ulcer. The overcooked, unsalted rice that’s the staple diet here is unbearable, and the oily, watery soups with unidentified floating pieces of what they claim are green onions floating on top are, to my mind, a crime against humanity. I’ve also discovered that Koreans love to nibble away at little pieces of pork with limp vegetables. And that leads into some very dangerous territory…
And what about the weird aluminium chopsticks they use? As far as I’m concerned, the only thing they’d be any good for would be stabbing someone in self-defence. They’re far too bloody dangerous to eat with – they’re like a ninja weapon.
The good news is that Andrew does nothing but hang around me, and he does so in a way that’s anything but subtle. I think he’s trying to get up his nerve to invite me out to dinner. I can’t deny that he’s a good looking guy, and he does have his own charm. Yes, he’s a bit full of himself and I suspect that his brain isn’t actually that big, but you can’t have everything. I really ought to make my mind up whether or not to give him a chance, but for some reason I find it really hard to imagine going out with him. Even though I’ve only ever liked blondes! Weird.
I haven’t slept properly since I got here – I still haven’t got used to the new time zone and my mattress is better suited to torturing people than it is for sleeping on. That’s why when the clock strikes eight on Friday night, I’m not only hungry, I’m also absolutely exhausted and feeling awful. I’m fed up of balance sheets that need to be finished so that I can check my report. They can wait until Monday. Or maybe even a week on Monday, if I feel like it.
Irked by the situation and by the turn my life has taken, I get up from my chair noisily, attracting the attention of everyone around me. Their curious eyes fall on my tired face.
The presence of all these witnesses doesn’t dissuade me from making straight for Mark’s office where he, predictably, is on the phone with one of the usual bigwigs. Pretending to be patient, I plop myself down in the huge chair in front of his desk and look on in silence while he finishes his conversation.
Since I’m here anyway, I might as well use the opportunity to eavesdrop on his call: I hear that he’s organising a business trip for next week. Great, he’ll be out of the way. Finally, some good news. I think that after five long days, a break from each other’s company can only do us good.
I am so lost in my thoughts that I don’t even notice he has hung up and is staring at me.
“You have something to tell me?” asks Mark aloud, snapping me out of my trance.
My gaze goes back to him and those unique eyes of his. “Ah, yes… I wanted to inform you that I’m going home. I’m tired. I’m fed up. I can’t handle any more.”
“Well, even I can see that you look awful.” He is staring at the bags under my eyes. They still have to invent a foundation cream that can hide such a monument to insomnia. It’ll take a lot more than high coverage.
“And from next week I’m changing my hours. You’re free to rot away in here all night if you want, but as far as I’m concerned I’m too young to do the same,” I add, slightly hysterically.
“Heavens above, Maddison, did I order you to stay and work every night?” he asks, rising from his chair.
I give him a mean look. He doesn’t think that’s going to get him off the hook, does he?
“No, but over here no one dares go home until the boss does. See what I mean?” And I point to the guys in the other room. They’ve told me that in this country you work even when you’re sick, just to prove that you are, so the odds of employees deciding to stop working on their own initiative are about zero.
“That’s precisely why you are here. If their team leader, a certain Maddison Johnson, decides she’s had enough, they’ll feel free to go home too. I don’t ask anyone else to work the hours I do,” he replies, sounding annoyed.
Am I wrong or is he implying that I have to go home first and that they have in fact taken me on because they know I’m a slacker?
“I’m sort of getting the feeling that I ought to be offended,” I murmur.
“There really is no reason to be, even though you women are experts at it,” he says. It’s a superfluous comment which sounds pretty personal. And that’s not very Mark.
“Sarcastic today, aren’t we? There’s no reason to make sweeping generalisations like that. Although you men are experts at it.” Mark just stares at me with an expression on his face that almost looks like suffering. What the hell is the matter with him tonight?
“And, I mean, you must have your own private life too – you must want to get out of here…” I add.
“Do you really think someone who works twelve to fourteen hours a day can have a private life?” he asks, his voice sounding strange and strangled. So the robot is actually capable of emotion?
I’m not entirely sure his question is really addressed to me. It’s more of a soliloquy to an invisible audience. But since there’s nobody else in the room, I feel it’s my duty to reassure him.
“Yes, I believe it is possible. There are the weekends, there are the evenings,” I reply, giving him a suggestive
wink that I hope conveys my allusion.
The result is not what I had hoped for. Mark laughs, and carries on laughing for quite a while.
“Maddison, when English girls start making jokes about sex, it means it really is time to pull the plug!” he says finally.
I look at him blankly.
“‘No Sex Please: We’re British’? Remember?” He leans out of the door of his office and calls over the rest of the team. “Hey – we’re officially losing the plot – come on, let’s all go out to dinner.” I’m speechless.
The other three jump enthusiastically, like trained seals, at the proposal. Bloody traitors.
“I’ll leave you to it…” I say, trying to get myself out of it. The prospect of more kimchi doesn’t really appeal!
But there’s no squirming off the hook.
“Team dinners are sacred,” declares mancyclopaedia. “They smooth out relationships after days of hard work and help us get to know each other better.”
“Mark, you don’t understand: if I eat Korean food again this lot won’t have a team leader any more, just a pile of bones at my desk.”
He chuckles. “Who said we were going to eat Korean?”
“So where are we going, then?” I ask doubtfully. I don’t trust him at all.
“Italian,” he says softly, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. “How would that be for you?”
At the thought my stomach starts to rumble, and huge plates of spaghetti in tomato sauce materialize before me.
Dong Woo comes over. “Boss, did you say that we were going to the Italian restaurant? We never go to the Italian restaurant,” the nerdy spoilsport complains. He’s just like a boy I was at school with who would never let me copy and always opened his mouth at the wrong moment.
“Well, from now on we’ll be going a lot,” replies Mark, cutting short any further discussion. For a moment – just for the blink of an eye – he was almost nice.
Almost.
Not many things could have improved my mood tonight, but discovering the existence of a French Quarter – or rather, an international quarter – is undoubtedly one of them. Situated on the south bank of the Han River, inside the dong Banpo, there is indeed a small paradise called Seorae Village, also known as Montmartre because of its hills. While we’re on the subway – the mustard-coloured one (not to be confused with the brown one!) this time – Mark briefly explains the origin of the area we are going to visit. It seems that the neighbourhood is called French because in the Eighties the French school relocated there. Those who attended it did the same, followed by bars and restaurants, and so today it’s a very fashionable residential area, popular with Europeans who move to the Korean capital.
After leaving the metro I get a chance to see first hand how un-Korean this place is: it looks like all the city’s foreign businesses – mostly French and Italian restaurants – are concentrated in these few blocks. We walk past a shop selling delicious looking croissants and I try to memorize the street name, because I’m coming back as soon as possible.
“Surprised?” asks Mark smugly, knowing that he’s pulled an ace from his sleeve.
“A little…” I admit, in spite of myself. “Why did I have to wait a whole week to find out about this earthly paradise?”
“You think I’m going to play all my best cards straight away? Where’s your sense of strategy, Johnson?” he teases, with an annoying smirk.
“If John ever fooled you into thinking I had one, that’s not my fault. I’ve been a failure at strategy since I first played Monopoly,” I say.
“I don’t know why, but I was sure you would be,” he replies.
“Listen, Mr-I’ve-planned-everything-since-I-was-two, where’s the dinner I was promised?”
“Right here,” he tells me, gesturing to the restaurant in front of us. Above the entrance is a sign which says Basilico Verde, in Italian. It feels like a minor miracle after the sea of hieroglyphics I’ve been drowning in over the last few days.
The choice of name is explained as soon as we get inside: the place is full of basil plants placed on the tables instead of the usual flowers, and giving off a delicious smell. The tables are all laid with red and white checked tablecloths and with real cutlery by the sides of the dishes. The sight of a fork almost brings me to tears.
The place might be Italian, but the waiters are all Korean and struggle to pronounce the names of the dishes that, in theory, they should know perfectly. The owner, however, is Italian, and manoeuvres his large belly and Santa Claus beard impressively between the tables. The prospect of eating spaghetti has revived me – I feel like I’ve been reborn: I can’t stop smiling and I must look almost happy for the first time in many days. Dear stomach – finally, you’re going to eat!
Opening the menu, the first thing I notice is that it is in Korean and in English: even Italian restaurants have to adapt here in Korea.
The others are studying it carefully, trying to decide what to order while Mark looks at me with obvious curiosity.
“What?” I ask. Tonight, not even he is going to spoil my mood.
“You’re odd,” he says simply, as if those words explain everything.
“Don’t be silly. I’m just a woman who’s been starving for a week, and if you don’t mind, that has had an effect upon my mood.”
“You’re still odd,” he repeats, a mysterious expression on his face.
I shrug – let him think what he wants.
I manage to convince everyone to try a mix of pastas, which they let me choose as the nominal expert on Italian food: spaghetti with tomato and basil sauce, penne with gorgonzola and tagliatelle with ragù. Ecstasy. The only oddity is that here the ragù is made with duck – apparently a very common meat around here.
The wait for our food passes quickly as the others vie with one another to tell me about Koreans’ little quirks: it seems that in this enormous city it’s almost impossible to keep pets so people compensate for this by going to cafès where you can pass your time stroking cats or dogs. To say that the Koreans are bizarre would be putting it mildly.
I celebrate the arrival of the food with a spontaneous round of applause: I can’t help myself. And I’m so excited by what we are about to eat that a phrase escapes my lips.
“God, isn’t food so much better than sex?” The table goes silent the moment I utter those words. Everyone turns to look at me.
Mark leans towards me and whispers, “In Korea people don’t talk openly about sex the way they do in Europe or America. They’re all very prudish here,” he instructs me, with a look that resembles reproach.
“Are you kidding me?! Not only do you eat rubbish, you’re all bloody moralists as well!” I exclaim, perhaps a trifle too loudly. The result is that this time I even get looks from neighbouring tables. Perhaps we ought to change the subject…
“Maddison, I must compliment you. You chose really well,” says Seung Hee, quickly cutting into the conversation. Either she is genuinely excited about the food or she has realized that she needs to come to my rescue. “I would have never dared try such exotic food by myself,” she adds.
I stare at her in amazement: Italian food, exotic? But the best is yet to come.
“Shall we go to karaoke afterwards?” asks the girl innocently.
My jaw almost falls into my plate in shock.
“Close your mouth, Maddison,” Mark says, with a laugh. “Too much astonishment might be bad for you.”
“You mean it might kill me…” I correct him. “Did I hear you right? Karaoke?!”
The others nod happily. Happy? To go to karaoke? In London, no one would dare suggest such a thing. Well, not unless they’d been in the pub for quite a while…
After dinner, as we’re leaving the restaurant, my only wish is to go home and enjoy some much deserved rest and the wonderful feeling of having eaten something absolutely delicious. I am sure that tonight I’ll have beautiful dreams – that’s the magical power of carbohydrates.
�
�I’ll say goodbye here, guys. I’m just really far too tired to come to karaoke with you.”
But Seung Hee isn’t going to give up. I don’t understand why she has suddenly decided to show all this initiative at such an inconvenient time. In the office, she never dares to contradict me, so why does she have to pick now to start growing a personality?
“Oh, no, this is the best part of the evening! Please, you have to stay! Mr Kim, you tell her…” she turns imploringly to Mark, who remains on the side lines. He seems surprised to have been roped in, and would probably much rather just get rid of me.
“Come on, Maddison, no more excuses. Come with us. And anyway, we can’t just let you go off on your own in the evening. We’d better all go back together. We won’t stay out late,” he says finally. His voice isn’t exactly overflowing with enthusiasm, but apparently what you say matters more than how you say it over here.
I’m aware that I’m trapped, and therefore, with a reluctant nod, I agree to go with them.
*
The Koreans must be insane to love karaoke this much – and judging by the crowd present in the room, the percentage of people with severe mental health issues is pretty high. The place is crawling with ecstatic looking office workers who stagger about, their ties loosened, already half drunk. Upon entering we encounter a large bar illuminated by soft lighting, behind which are a series of corridors which lead to private rooms, where each group will be free to enjoy this exciting pastime.
The room they take us to is rather small. I let myself fall onto a black plastic couch and try to disappear into it. The rest of them don’t hang about and unhesitatingly launch themselves onto the little stage to take turns at singing Korean songs of which I do not understand a single word. The thing that strikes me most is that they seem to be really enjoying themselves. I can’t see what there is to enjoy about making a fool of yourself in front of everyone, personally. At least I have an excuse not to sing: I don’t speak a word of Korean.
Mark sits down beside me on the couch in front of the small stage – he looks relaxed and at ease.