by Anna Premoli
“Aren’t you going to sing?” he asks as he watches the other three.
“Of course I’m not,” I reply. “If I’m here at all, it’s only because you forced me to come.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t like singing?” he says, shifting his gaze to me.
“No, I’m telling you that I can’t sing. I’m completely tone deaf.”
He gives me a sceptical look. “Everyone can sing…”
There’s no point him being a know-all about it, I’m perfectly well aware that I’m a bloody awful singer and I’ve no intention of making a fool of myself tonight. But when the song finishes, Seung Hee approaches threateningly. “Maddison, it’s your turn.”
This girl is completely off her head. She plops down on the sofa between me and Mark, her eyes on our leader, who, as always, seems not to notice anything. Now that I think about it, she’s been watching him surreptitiously all night. I think I might have discovered that little Seung Hee has a soft spot for the strong, silent type. Just like half the women who work in our office.
“I can’t sing,” I say smugly, “I don’t know any Korean songs.”
“I’m sure there’s something in English,” she answers with conviction as she scrolls carefully down the list of available songs. The excited shout that follows makes my blood freeze. “There’s Endless Love!”
No bloody way!
“Oh, it’s a duet. What a shame! I can’t sing it on my own! I’ll have to skip my turn.” I swear, I will use any excuse to avoid getting up on that damn stage.
“Come on! Get your backside off that couch and sing with me,” says Mark. I’m completely taken aback by his words. He jumps up, holding out the microphone to me. Et tu, Brutus!
“You want me to sing Endless Love with you?” I ask incredulously.
“I don’t bite – at least, not while I’m singing,” he answers, pulling me onto the stage by one arm.
“You rotter, you’ll pay dearly for this,” I hiss through my teeth as I hear the song starting.
“What did you expect? I can’t help it if I enjoy seeing you out of your comfort zone…” he says cheerfully.
On the sofa, Seung Hee pulls out her space-age Korean phone menacingly and starts filming the performance. I must remember to make sure all the evidence is destroyed.
The result of our joint effort starts off grotesquely, but half way in I actually start hitting the odd note. Predictably, Mark is very much in tune. Mister Perfection can do everything. I try to follow him as best I can, singing softly in the solo parts and trying to back him up where we have to duet. The result is a burst of heartfelt applause. They’re understandably over the moon not to have to listen to any more of my screeching.
“Wow, not bad!” kind Seung Hee complements me. Suuuuuuure, of course!
Once I’m off the stage I decide that I’ve had enough.
“It really is time for me to go home. I can’t keep my eyes open,” I apologize, hurriedly saying goodbye to everyone.
The others protest, but after my pitiful performance I feel I have hit rock bottom and I don’t want to risk going even lower. I grab my jacket from a corner of the sofa and in a flash I’ve left the room. I’ve had enough for one night.
Now I just have to figure out where I am and exactly how to get back to my apartment. These skyscrapers all look awfully alike. My hope is that if I keep walking, sooner or later I’ll come across a subway station.
I am still walking along with my nose in the air when I hear a voice calling me. “Maddison, you’re going the wrong way!”
I turn around, knowing who I’m going to see.
“Which part exactly of ‘don’t go alone’ wasn’t clear?” he asks, when he catches up with me.
I can never figure out when he’s serious and when he’s making fun of me.
“I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s evening,” I apologize. “You could have stayed.”
“I can’t keep up with those kids. Remember, I’m the same age Jesus was when he died, so I’d better be getting home,” he answers with a hint of a smile. Incredible, he must be in a good mood. A very rare occurrence.
“I’ve already apologized for calling you old, if I remember correctly…”
“Ah, so now I’m actually old! I’m speechless – you Brits are so rude! And you have the nerve to criticize the Yanks!” he teases. He takes my elbow and starts dragging me off in the right direction.
“There’s no need to pull me, I can walk by myself,” I say, pulling myself free.
Luckily the metro is nearby – my feet have really reached the limit of endurance.
“Why do you insist on wearing such uncomfortable shoes?” asks Mark, noticing my grimace of pain as we enter the carriage.
“To be beautiful you have to suffer,” I reply philosophically.
“Not in a country where everyone is about twenty centimetres shorter than you. No more heels in the future, please.”
“Seriously, heels are all I’ve got.”
“What about a pair of trainers?” he asks.
“Errr… I think I bought a pair when they were fashionable a couple of years ago, but I don’t often put them on,” I admit. “Great, so let’s go jogging tomorrow morning to work off what we’ve eaten tonight.”
Is he kidding?
“I don’t need to ‘work off’ anything,” I say.
“You will in a few years unless you start doing some exercise now,” he says, with a critical eye.
“Well moving here has certainly helped,” I snap back. I mean, with all these spices the biggest risk is getting gastritis, never mind putting on weight.
“Tomorrow at eight o’clock sharp,” he insists. It was already obvious that he isn’t the type to give up. But he doesn’t seem to have realized who he’s dealing with.
“I don’t run. Ever,” I say, crossing my arms to underline how definite my refusal is.
“When we were on the plane you told me you would…” he reminds me. It was too much to hope that he would forget all the nonsense I came out with.
“I never said I would as soon as I arrived, though. I’m still in the phase of adapting to new things.”
“I’m getting the feeling that in your case this story of adapting to Korea might go on forever,” he retorts.
We continue bickering until we are in front of our building.
“You don’t sing, you don’t eat, you don’t run – what the hell do you do apart from be defensive about the fact that you don’t want to do anything?” Mark asks, when we’re going up in the lift.
Does he think he can catch me out with his word games?
“It’s useless, I’m not going to bite. Good night,” is all I say, as I turn towards the door to enter my secret combination.
“I can’t believe it, you still haven’t changed it!” he shouts, when he sees what I’m doing.
“I’ve been busy…” I mutter. God, what a fuss… They’re all so bloody perfect here that I doubt I’ll ever find a dangerous thief in the flat. And even if I did, what would there be for them to steal except for all my clapped out size 6½ high heels?
“Very irresponsible of you,” he snaps at me, as he approaches.
“This door is mine! Stay where you are and don’t you dare change my combination!” I warn him, lifting a threatening index finger.
He freezes, as though surprised by how determined I sound.
“Whatever you want. If you like being easy prey for criminals…”
He is about to turn round and leave when he thinks of something else and stops.
“And just to answer your unfortunate comment earlier in the evening, making love properly is better than any food,” he whispers. “Even Italian food. Good night.”
He hurriedly enters his flat, leaving me standing in shock on the landing. I always knew that Americans were rude. And now I have the proof.
*
Obviously I was still dreaming. And it must have been a terrible nightmare, otherwise I wouldn’t hear a
nyone knocking at my door. What an absurd situation. The only person who would dream of waking me up so early is my mother, and she’s thousands of miles away, luckily. I turn over in bed, already annoyed and trying to remember the dream I was having only moments earlier. I close my eyes again, sigh deeply and have almost succeed in going back to sleep when I hear that sound again, disturbing the silence of my room.
“Come on, Maddison, move your ass! Get out of bed and put on your trainers!”
It’s Mark’s voice, speaking from the other side of the door. I abandon any hope of ignoring him, raise myself to a sitting position on the bed and take a look at my bedside clock. He must be joking – it’s only eight in the morning and it’s Saturday. Fat chance of me getting out of bed!
But he continues stubbornly banging at the door. “I should remind you that I know your access code. You could have changed it, of course, but you haven’t…”
Right now I’m really annoyed with myself for not having done it. And since I think I know him by now, I’m sure he won’t give up easily. So I give up and stumble out of bed to go and open the door. He could easily open it himself, but I know that he won’t, despite his threats.
I realize I’m wearing some silly pyjamas decorated with little flying sheep and cows. Not really the ideal attire for greeting guests in.
It’s no big deal, he will understand I don’t want to go running. Sleepy and with my eyes half-closed, I somehow manage to open the door. Mark is wearing a tracksuit and looks at me curiously, the strange expression growing on his face looks dangerously like a smile.
“No way, I’m going back to sleep,” I say abruptly. I’m about to slam the door shut, but he blocks it with a foot.
“Stop complaining and get dressed,” he orders.
“You don’t know me very well, so I’m going to give you a piece of advice: don’t you dare wake me up early on Saturdays. I bite.”
He struggles hard not to laugh at the sight of my bad mood. “I’ll take the risk. Come on, you know I’m not leaving until I’ve seen you put your tracksuit on.”
I move away from the door in exasperation and collapse onto the sofa to try and decide what to do. Anyway, I’m wide awake at this point, and my delightful neighbour, who has followed me in, is in no hurry to leave.
“Let’s make a deal,” I say to him, stretching my arms. “Today I’ll come running with you, but in return you won’t bother me for at least a month.”
He ponders for a moment, then answers: “Ok, it’s a deal. Anyway, you might like it so much that next weekend you’ll decide to wake up at dawn of your own accord. Come on, let’s go,” he urges me, trying to extract me from the sofa.
After some searching, I manage to find my tracksuit: I had brought it with relaxing at home in mind – I hadn’t actually been thinking of working out. Trainers and I don’t get on very well, I can’t even remember when I last wore them. If I have actually ever worn them. They look so new that I’m not totally convinced.
After eating half a piece of bread and drinking a quick coffee, and still in a very bad mood, I follow Mark out of my apartment. Humanity, I reflect, can be divided into two categories: those who are wide awake and hard at work in the morning, and those who would like to abolish the morning altogether. Well, I think Mark belongs to the first category, while I’ve always been a member of the second: as far as I’m concerned, mornings are meant to be spent in bed.
The man who never sleeps drags me to Yeouido island, on foot this time, until we reach the entrance to a park with the same name as the island.
“Once this place was covered in tarmac, but luckily at the end of the nineties they decided to transform it and build a park,” he explains to me. He then approaches the map by the entrance and points out different areas. “The park is divided into several areas: the traditional Korean Forest, the grass area, the place for cultural events and the forest reproducing the natural ecosystem.”
“Interesting…” is the only thing I say. The park is really beautiful, but my bed was so comfortable.
“Wait until you see it in spring: this place is famous for its blossoming cherry trees. It’s a unique sight,” he continues, insensitive to my indifference. We walk along quickly for a few hundred metres and then we are almost running. To my immense surprise, I notice that the paths of the park are full of joggers. Obviously they all suffer from sleep disorders. After the first two hundred, maybe three hundred, metres, I start gasping and my breath becomes irregular because of the effort. After about five minutes of jogging I am in a complete state: my face must be burning from lack of oxygen.
“Enough, I give up,” I shout to Mark, while watching his back moving away. And then, unfortunately, coming back.
“You can’t have the stamina of a seventy year old woman,” he scolds me, not at all softened by my ravaged appearance.
“Of course I can,” I reply, annoyed. I sit on the grass by the path, breathing hard.
“Come on, let’s start walking again,” he proposes, offering me his hand.
“You go on, I’m staying here,” I answer, ignoring his hand. I’ve only just sat down and I’m going to need some time before I can resume breathing again at a rhythm normal for humans.
But he doesn’t care. He grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet.
“Let’s walk, at least,” he says slowly. “Stopping suddenly like that is bad for your muscles.”
For the record: I don’t think I’ve ever had muscles in my life. And I feel offended by his manners: he can’t always keep treating me like a spoilt child. But I don’t have enough breath to complain, so I give up and follow him. We set off slowly, increasing the speed gradually as we walk. I’m starting to feel better now, but I’m not going to admit this to him, or even talk to him at all.
“Are you offended, now?” he asks, amused. I’m happy that my discomfort makes him so happy. I glare at him. “Your body will thank me. And I was thinking of inviting you to lunch, later,” he informs me. Food always appeals to me.
“Where?” I ask curiously.
“At my place,” he says.
“Can you cook?” I ask, astonished.
“Of course I can cook. Any person who lives alone can cook,” he answers.
That’s not exactly true, I’ve lived alone for ages and I can’t really cook anything. I can only eat. “Ok, then, but no Korean food, please,” I beg him.
“How about steak and salad?”
“That would be great!” I say, impressed. The idea of having a real steak is making my mouth water, to the point where I find myself running to our destination without even realising it. A few hours later I’m sitting at Mark’s elegant dining table, wondering why on earth I accepted his invitation. The food is appealing, but apart from that, you should never dine with your enemy. And even though Mark has been trying to be nicer to me over the last two days, to me he will always be guilty of not helping me remain in London. Not to mention that he’s been teasing me since we met and that he thinks I’m some sort of vacuous Barbie on heels. I must make sure I never forget his real nature, never let my guard down – it could be dangerous. People like him are insidious and they strike when you least expect it.
“So, what do you think about the run? Have I managed to convince you? I know you were finding it a bit tough at the beginning, but then you did fine…” he says, while finishing off cooking the steaks.
“Let’s make one thing clear: today was the first and last bit of jogging I’ll be doing in my life. I don’t want to do it ever again! I can’t understand why you people think it’s such jolly fun. All that sweating and hard work for nothing.”
“Isn’t my steak a fair reward?” he teases me, as he serves me up a real American steak, of proper dimensions.
Well, come to think of it, this delicacy might in fact be a sufficient reward. But I will never admit that.
“Don’t get me wrong, but no, it isn’t enough,” I reply, as I start avidly tucking into the gorgeous meat on my plate. “By the way
, how did you get meat like this in Seoul?” I ask, curiously. I haven’t seen anything like this in the supermarket.
“I have secret sources,” he answers, pleased with himself.
“You could actually share this privileged information, you know…”
He seems to ponder this for some time, raising his chin and assuming a thoughtful expression.
“Hmm, I could, but I don’t think I’m going to. I prefer keeping that particular ace up my sleeve.”
“The same old killjoy. Listen, I’m loving the food, but what did you really hope to achieve by inviting me over?” I answer, putting my fork down and becoming serious.
Mark swallows quickly and gives me a penetrating look.
“Do you think I have an agenda?” he asks.
I nod with conviction.
“And what makes you think that?”
Luckily his tone seems more curious than anything else.
“Simple: you don’t like me one bit, not as a person and not as a woman. So this must be some sort of scam.” I think I’ve explained my point of view quite clearly.
“What makes you think that I don’t like you?” he asks in surprise.
My expression is eloquent enough, but if he prefers hearing me talk I am quite happy to oblige.
“Come on, I don’t think it’s offensive. Not everybody likes me, it’s normal. Anyway I don’t like you either, so we’re even.”
He looks at me and laughs. Is that a positive sign?
“I swear I have never met a woman like you before.”
Is it an insult or a compliment? I can’t say. “I would thank you, but I’m not sure how to interpret what you say,” I admit.
“It’s an honest compliment.” He’s serious again, but he’s still staring at me.
I feel my cheeks go bright red against my will. Something in his expression is making me uncomfortable.
“So? What is your secret motivation?” I prompt him. I think that my intuition about it is spot on, and I don’t want him to evade the question.
“You really are persistent, aren’t you? Well, since you insist… You should pack a small bag, because tomorrow afternoon we’re going to Bung Ha,” he announces.