Had I really brought up face-reading?
Then again, I'd probably rambled about everything by now. These people around me—weren't they becoming like family, just as my London household had been? We drank together, ate together…
'Still… I'm lucky.'
Lucky to have these people beside me.
"Blundell! Don't pass out already!"
"Ugh… dizzy…"
"Dizzy? With this masterpiece in front of you? What nonsense!"
…Wait.
Was this just a den of addicts?
No—a cartel boss's lounge?
"Well… I should keep writing," muttered the literary giant Victor Hugo beside me, taking another drag of hashish.
Even legends had their struggles, it seemed. Oddly comforting.
Honestly?
19th-century medicine was overwhelming. There were days I wanted to quit.
'Right… push forward.'
I nodded solemnly at Hugo's pensive face—though whether this resolve was sober or drug-induced, I couldn't tell.
This hashish is strong.
Pierre had called it a "concentrated" form of cannabis. I'd only pretended to inhale, yet the secondhand smoke alone had me floating.
"What about me?"
Between blinking fits and sipping wine, I'd been chatting with Berlioz and Hugo when the man across the table spoke up.
He was… memorable.
Round, wide eyes with pronounced lids. A broad nose, dark complexion, and tight curls.
Mixed race?
Likely Black and white.
'Doesn't seem discriminated against here, at least.'
The group was oddly welcoming—probably accustomed to transcending prejudices. The proof sat before me, rolling his expressive eyes.
This was no ordinary gathering. Pierre might've been obscure to me, but anyone close to Liston had to be notable. Berlioz and Hugo? Legends.
Black mixed-race man in Paris… There's only one.
Thanks to Dad's trivia obsession and my childhood reading sprees, I knew.
"I've heard of you. Alexandre Dumas, right?"
"What?"
The table froze.
Dumas himself looked the most shocked. The man who'd later pen The Count of Monte Cristo—ground zero for adventure novels—gaped at me like a cornered rabbit.
"How… How do you—? Did my support for Louis-Philippe reach London?"
Louis-who?
My trivia had limits.
"Ah, no. I don't even know who that is."
"France's current king? You don't know?"
Oh.
Didn't the revolution wipe out royalty?
I sidestepped my ignorance. "Anyway, I've heard you're a brilliant playwright."
"Incredible! Even my face is known?"
"Face-reading," I lied smoothly.
"Magnifique!"
Might as well cement Joseon's mystic reputation.
Who knew? It could pay off someday. Britain and France were imperialism's vanguards. Maybe we'd outpace Japan…
"Joseon grows more fascinating by the day," Liston mused, long since enchanted by my homeland.
Of course, even Liston's iron will had its limits—he and Pierre were now slurring nonsense. Meanwhile, Dumas leaned in eagerly.
"An honor! Though… forgive my bluntness—does London discriminate against Asians?"
"Oh, absolutely."
Not that I'd know.
No one dared around me. Not after Liston's… cleanup. Our ties to the police ensured that.
But Dumas? He'd clearly faced it.
"It's… difficult. I'm a French citizen, yet—"
"Ignore the literary hacks," Hugo cut in. "Talent speaks. Your plays sell."
Spoken like the author of Les Mis.
"Still, I'm delighted! Might I host you properly?" Dumas asked.
"I should host first!" Berlioz interjected.
I didn't mind. We'd be in Paris for a month—travel here took over a week. Rest was mandatory unless you wanted to die.
"We'll perform works by a young musician—Chopin. Quite talented, if you appreciate music."
"Chopin?!"
"You know him? He's just starting—"
"N-No! The name just… stood out."
Chopin's here too?!
For all Britain's imperial bluster, it couldn't match Europe's artistic firepower. As someone who'd attended Seong-Jin Cho's concerts, the thought of meeting Chopin thrilled me.
Maybe that's why—
I overate.
Bad idea.
-•-
Later
"Pyeong. You hogging the privy? Get out."
"S-Sorry!"
"Did you eat street food yesterday? I warned you. Locals build tolerance—foreigners get the shits. And look at Paris. The miasma's worse than London's."
"Ugh—"
"Christ." Liston swore—a phrase he'd learned from me—and backed away.
I was being rude.
19th-century doors were flimsy; sounds and smells leaked freely. But my real crime?
Explosive diarrhea.
"AAAH!"
"What do we do?" Blundell asked.
"Leave him. We've got Thames water—plenty of cadavers here too."
"Fresh ones?"
"Supplier got arrested. Another'll deliver soon."
"Arrested?"
"Released with a warning. This is France. Laws are suggestions. How many revolutions now?"
"Point."
The hotel room was filthy. Even by London standards (not that I'd seen many hotels), this was appalling.
I saw a rat yesterday.
"Rest up, Pyeong. Don't wander—Paris is dangerous."
"But Berlioz invited—"
"He seemed decent, but… Really let him see you like this? I'll explain."
Explain what?
"The shit-stricken Asian"?
Chopin would hear.
Unthinkable.
This wasn't infection—just toxins. No food, only water.
Wait—water's the problem.
Maybe alcohol…?
"I'll recover."
"Doubt it. Anyway, we're off."
"Safe travels, hyung-nim."
"Shit well."
Alone, I endured the privy's horrors. When I finally emerged, I flung the window open to air out the stench.
Huh?
Why… did it still smell?
The river?
The Thames had reeked too, but this was worse. A foul haze hung over the Seine. Passersby gagged.
Paris beats London in pollution.
Med school had taught me about the Great Smog—a crisis decades in the making, masked until mass deaths in 1952 forced change.
London got the infamy, but Paris was no better.
Shrugging, I drank wine instead of water.
Later, Berlioz will take me to Chopin.
That hope alone kept me going.