Ugh…
The stench of tobacco…
The place Dr. Pierre led us to reeked of smoke even from outside. No—literally, fumes seeped through the closed door cracks. For a gathering of so-called intellectuals, this was absurd… but then again, people in this era still believed tobacco was a tonic.
'Endure it, lungs…'
Come to think of it, my father had been a chain smoker too, yet lived just fine. Maybe genetics would save me. Though in this era, "living long" meant 60, or 70 if you were lucky.
"Hm?"
As I pushed the door open, strange sights greeted me.
"Ah."
Dr. Liston, ever the considerate one, noticed my confusion and explained—unsurprising, since he was the only one among us who'd mingled with the French.
"Some here enjoy tobacco… like this."
He pointed rudely at a man snorting what looked like shredded leaves through his nose. The man glared, but what could he do? This was Liston.
"Oh…"
"Personally, I find pipes more refined. But don't worry—our Hashish Club doesn't smoke tobacco."
The whole scene was bizarre.
Wait…
Not cocaine, but—why snort it?
Pierre seemed to share my thoughts, sighing and shaking his head. He even looked skeptical about tobacco itself. A small mercy. Secondhand smoke was already toxic enough; if everyone lit up, I'd have to join in. "I'm just a kid" wouldn't fly here. Kids smoke too.
"Y-Yes. Very… sophisticated," I forced out, earning a pleased grin from Pierre. He strode ahead to a waiter.
"Ah, Doctor! Everyone's already inside. Right this way."
"Good, good."
Clearly a regular, Pierre was ushered into a backroom the moment the waiter recognized him.
Something felt off.
Why?
Because smoke seeped from this door too.
Not tobacco, though.
Not that it was any better—it smelled like rotten candy.
Creeeak.
The door swung open despite my dread, revealing a room of dazed patrons. No alcohol in sight.
What were they intoxicated by?
The answer was obvious.
"Hah! I wondered if 'Hashish Club' was just a name, but you really meant it!" Liston laughed, plopping down and lighting a rolled cigarette without hesitation. The same foul sweetness filled the air.
Then it hit me.
I've smelled this before.
Los Angeles—that medical conference!
A professor had whisked me straight to his home in Orange County, so I'd only seen Irvine's suburbs. I'd thought, America's nice.
Then we hit downtown LA.
People smoked weed everywhere. My head throbbed just remembering…
This was that smell.
Hashish—cannabis.
"Quality stuff," Liston remarked, exhaling.
"Ottoman imports. Top-grade," Pierre bragged.
"Hah! Coming to Paris was worth it. Oy, don't just stand there! Sit, try it. This is the good shit."
Our esteemed Dr. Liston, London's leading physician and our mentor, was enthusiastically partaking. Worse, he urged us to join.
A drug lord in disguise.
The others, oblivious to narcotics' dangers, obeyed cheerfully. Even Alfred, ever sociable, greeted the man beside him.
"Hello! I'm Alfred. You don't… speak English?"
"Mais bien sûr! It's basic."
"Oh!"
"I once collaborated with British musicians—picked it up then. Ha!"
"Collaborated…?"
Luckily, he was fluent. Intrigued by the word "collaboration," I sat nearby. The sparse seating made it easy.
"Ah, I forgot introductions. Berlioz."
Berlioz…?
I knew that name.
Where…?
My puzzled expression drew stares—especially Pierre's, who glared as if I'd insulted them.
"You've heard of him?"
Ah. He'd assumed we medical types were uncultured. Fair, but this era's intellectuals had a thing about being polymaths. Personally, I'd rather master one skill than dabble in ten.
Still, Liston's expectant look spurred me to flex.
Thank you, Dad—king of trivia.
Back in Insa-dong, they'd called him "Professor." (Never mind he was jobless—just knew too much.)
"Of course. Didn't you perform Symphonie Fantastique during July's revolution?"
"Quoi?"
"You—you know me in England?"
Berlioz gaped. Even Pierre's bloodshot eyes widened.
Total genius. Composed his masterpiece within four years of formal training.
Thanks to Dad's music rants, I'd scored a point.
"I've always loved music," I added.
Joseph, Alfred, and even usually polite Colin stared blankly. No matter—Blundell was already swaying beside me, clearly a few puffs from oblivion.
"Hah! Our London doctors are cultured! Symphonies! I've heard 'em too!" Liston boasted, bizarrely unaffected by the hashish. Or maybe he was always like this.
Berlioz, deeply moved, rambled:
"Perhaps I'd have been a doctor too, had I studied in London."
What kind of logic—?
Turns out, it wasn't nonsense.
"I attended medical school until 18. My father… insisted."
"Ah…"
Tiger parents existed even then.
Frankly, I didn't get it.
In the 21st century, doctors saved lives. Prestigious, well-paid.
But now? You could die from a cadaver's mystery plague—or get stabbed by a patient's family.
This guy doesn't look sturdy enough to survive.
Liston could kill a thousand and walk away, but Berlioz? Without equestrian skills, he'd have lasted maybe a decade.
"I remember—he hated dissection," Pierre cut in, clapping Berlioz's shoulder.
"Vomiting, fainting… When he quit, I was relieved. No surgeon could faint at that and live."
Says the man whose dissection room had rats and maggots.
Who's the weird one here?
Half my med school peers would've failed by their standards.
"But look at him now—a famed composer! Only rising stars join this club."
Pierre kept laughing, though nothing was funny. Maybe the secondhand high got to me—I giggled too.
Then it hit me.
Hashish…
That Assassin's Creed game!
The zombie-making elixir!
'Heh. I've taken the elixir!'
I've smoked something legendary!
"Hehehe."
"Pyeong's enjoying himself," Liston noted.
"Hah! One puff, and even grief vanishes," Pierre said, patting my back.
Buoyed by the haze, I turned to the brooding man beside me.
Normally, I'd avoid someone this intimidating—especially alone. But courage (or stupidity) struck.
"Hello. I'm Dr. Pyeong of London's Noble Kim."
"Ah. Victor Hugo."
…What?
"Know me?"
Les Misérables.
The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.
The Man Who Laughs.
Just his greatest hits.
Problem: I couldn't recall when he'd written them. He looked Berlioz's age.
'How'd he write so much? Oh… right. Drugs.'
A reader's comment surfaced: Author, what are you ON?
Chills ran down my spine.
What if he really wrote high?
"You know me?" he pressed.
Les Mis lingered on my tongue, but my shaky timeline knowledge failed me.
Should've listened to Dad more.
I shook my head.
"No, but your name… It sounds like a writer's."
Flattery worked—he looked stunned. Liston, still weirdly sober, laughed.
"Ah! In Joseon, they have face-reading! Quite accurate!"
Mystic points: +1.