For The Musical Genius (Novel) - Chapter 84

Chapter 84

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“Ooh la la (Mon Dieu)—!”

Jean-Pierre let out a delighted exclamation after taking a bite of the braised short ribs. Well, of course—how could anything made by her hands taste less than perfect? Since Jean-Pierre had flown all the way here just to see me, it was only natural to treat him to a meal. My mother, and even the housekeeper, couldn’t hide their proud smiles at the foreigner’s admiration.

“Hyun, this is truly a fantastical flavor. I’ve never tasted mini-T-bones this delicious. And look at these noodles! Pasta with such rich Orientalism is nothing short of revolutionary. If Christian were to taste this, he might faint from sheer joy on the spot.”

He was referring to the japchae seasoned with sesame oil. When I asked who Christian was, he explained that he was a renowned French food critic. By the way, I ended up acting as the interpreter, but Jean-Pierre’s mix of English and French exclamations made it hard to tell whether the food was going up my nose or into my mouth. Like the Chinese, the French are known for their lively mealtime conversations—so much so that dinners can stretch past three hours. Compared to that, Jean-Pierre was practically restrained.

“This is a Robert Mondavi blend from the Sob Maior Monastery in Bordeaux. Made with Cabernet Sauvignon, it boasts a rich and deep flavor, with a distinctive cedar aroma. It’s even a favorite at the White House. I hope you’ll accept this as a token of my sincerity. Hyun’s family is incredibly precious to me as well.”

As someone once said, old wine holds more philosophy than any book. And true to his reputation as a film director, Jean-Pierre’s eloquence was as polished as his impeccable manners.

‘What a shame.’

I would’ve loved a glass myself, but I had to settle for orange juice instead. The table was lively with the Parisian’s presence. Then, my grandfather, seated at the head of the table, turned to Jean-Pierre.

“Thank you for such a fine gift of wine. But I’m curious—why are you so intent on having our Hyun? France is quite a long way to come, isn’t it?”

Jean-Pierre smiled without hesitation at my grandfather’s fluent English.

“Sir, in France, we have a saying: ‘To those worthy, give their due.’ Considering Hyun’s worth, this trip is but a trivial effort.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

“Of course.”

Only then did my grandfather show a peculiar expression, sipping his wine. It was just a simple conversation, so why did cold sweat trickle down my back? Jean-Pierre leaned toward me and whispered in a fleeting tone:

“Hyun, by any chance… is your grandfather involved in something dangerous?”

What was he talking about?

“He reminds me of Don Corleone.”

At that moment, my grandfather, seated at the head of the table, looked exactly like the boss from The Godfather.

—

“Ooh la la, is this the most famous mountain?”

The dense foliage and the peaks brushing against the clouds were breathtaking even from the parking lot. This was Jirisan, the mountain said to bestow wisdom upon fools. With his departure imminent, Jean-Pierre had expressed a desire to hike in Korea, so we came here together. Somehow, I felt like I’d become his personal tour guide for the day.

“I had no idea Koreans enjoyed trekking so much.”

We were at Cheonwangbong, the highest peak in mainland Korea. The place was bustling even on a weekend morning. With autumn approaching, the scenery at Cheonwangbong was at its finest, so the crowds made sense. But why was everyone sneaking glances at us? Well, it was the ’90s—a time when seeing a foreigner in hiking gear was still a novelty.

“You must hike often, Hyun? Your posture looks very practiced.”

He was referring to my gait—aligning my toes, knees, and center of gravity to reduce fatigue on my soles. Back in my past life as a rookie prosecutor, my boss had dragged me up mountains every weekend. I knew these tricks well enough to write a manual. Jokingly, I called myself the “Um Hong-gil of the Western District Prosecutors’ Office.”

“You know, when I trek, my mind clears up. It’s like all the thoughts I had while filming gather into one. So even during shoots, I’d sometimes sneak off to hike small peaks nearby. You don’t even have to reach the summit—it’s wonderful just being there.”

So that’s why Jean-Pierre occasionally disappeared during the filming of Lavien Rose. Of course, since it was his day off, the crew didn’t interfere. The difference between hiking and trekking is simple: one has no destination. It’s about blending with nature, unhurried and relaxed.

“Seeing the mountain change with the seasons feels like watching life itself. The emotions I felt while filming that long drama called movie are condensed here. No one knows what form my second work will take—it could be a cold winter or a warm spring. But I’d love to share that season with you, Hyun.”

How could anyone refuse such a courtship? Not that I planned to refuse in the first place.

“I’d like to know why you need me so much, Director.”

“In a music film, the actors aren’t the most important. Especially in a film about Paganini. Live recording is crucial—we’re resurrecting melodies lost centuries ago. No offense to the actor playing Paganini, but the true lead in my heart is you, Hyun. The violinist.”

I hadn’t even touched makgeolli, yet Jean-Pierre’s words intoxicated me. He’d probably write romance scripts just as well. The winding paths lined with ancient pines and rugged rocks created a majestic view. Suddenly, Jean-Pierre pulled out a film camera.

“Hyun, could you stand over there?”

The lush green mountains were just beginning to blush with autumn reds. The scenery behind me looked like a carpet of green and crimson, with the babbling stream adding to the natural masterpiece.

“Strike a pose. I’ll take a commemorative shot.”

What pose should I do? I considered the classic Korean “kimchi” pose, but instead—

Zing.

I raised my arms as if holding a violin. Jean-Pierre’s satisfied smile widened. Just as sunlight streamed through the trees—

Whoosh.

A breeze swept by, carrying a sound reminiscent of a violin’s melody. The scene was immortalized in the camera.

—

Lately, something felt off—starting with Director Jean-Pierre.

“A pillar of the music world?”

The excessive praise left me flustered. This was my first solo interview since Brussels. With interview requests piling up daily, I had no choice but to accept. But was it just me, or did this interviewer seem like a die-hard fan?

“They say there are two stars in Korea’s classical music scene right now! Baek Jeong-hoon for piano and Kang Hyun for violin. Isn’t it fair to call you the next maestro?”

“Baek Jeong-hoon might deserve it, but I’m still inexperienced. I’ve only won one competition.”

“That one was the Queen Elisabeth—the one every violinist dreams of, and you were the youngest winner!”

The interviewer was practically vibrating with excitement. With a face like that, you’d never guess he could kill with a pen. I’d learned in my past life to measure my words around journalists. Back when I was preparing for elections, I found them even more daunting than voters.

“I’ve strayed off the path quite a bit. Between album work and live recordings, I haven’t done anything noteworthy in the past two years. Comparing me to Baek Jeong-hoon is unfair.”

It wasn’t a lie. While Baek Jeong-hoon had pursued classical studies abroad and dedicated himself to performances, I’d never held a solo recital—a rarity among international competition winners. Then—

“That’s odd. Baek Jeong-hoon mentioned that you were the biggest help in preparing for his recital—providing sheet music and even personal coaching. At his Seoul recital, he called you his ‘friend and teacher.’ Didn’t he?”

Baek Jeong-hoon had a knack for putting me in awkward spots. Why on earth would he call me his teacher in front of everyone? But I’d dealt with journalists before—I wasn’t about to crumble over this.

“In music, the line between friend and teacher is paper-thin. I think Baek Jeong-hoon meant it in that spirit.”

“Oh, and he had one more thing to say.”

What now?

“For his upcoming Seoul recital, he hopes you’ll perform a duet with him. Baek Jeong-hoon called you his ‘teacher’—so what is he to you?”

Don’t panic. Journalists thrive on flustered reactions. But “no comment” wasn’t an option either—they’d just spin their own narrative. I forced a light smile, keeping it natural.

“He’s a musician of integrity. It takes relentless effort to reach where he is. Reading his music is like reading Beethoven’s scores.”

—

A few days after Jean-Pierre returned to France,

There was still time before filming began. In a way, it worked out—I had unfinished scores weighing on my mind. Then—

“Hyun—!”

A familiar voice rang out as a familiar figure burst into my studio. It was Baek Jeong-hoon, back from his provincial recital tour. Judging by his panting, he’d rushed here in a hurry.

“How could you praise me so extravagantly? My phone’s been blowing up!”

In his hand was a music magazine—my interview must’ve been published today. The headline was visible from a distance, so it seemed the journalist had quoted me verbatim. Who told you to embarrass me like this?

“Consider it my little payback, hyung.”

Baek Jeong-hoon gaped at me, his expression saying, “I didn’t know you could be this petty.” He flopped onto the sofa and stared.

“So, what’s your answer?”

“Answer to what?”

“Come on, I messaged you about the duet.”

Pfft. Calling a public interview a “message”? This shameless pianist was getting bolder by the day. “Maestro of Iron Will” didn’t suit him—”Maestro of Audacity” was more like it.

“When’s the Seoul recital?”

“In two weeks.”

“That’s not enough time to prepare. It’s disrespectful to the audience.”

Unless I did nothing but practice, pulling off a duet wasn’t easy. And ensemble work was no joke—I couldn’t afford to disappoint the audience with a sloppy performance. But Baek Jeong-hoon wasn’t one to back down.

“Just one piece. That’s all.”

One piece?

“Hyung, why are you so set on performing with me?”

Most violinists would jump at the chance to play with Baek Jeong-hoon—Korea’s most famous pianist, who donated his recital proceeds to charity. A textbook example of noblesse oblige—though he was from a chaebol family.

But his answer surprised me.

“Maestro Hirose once told me that every musician eventually meets a mountain they must overcome. For me, that’s you.”

Lately, it felt like I’d been hearing confessions that weren’t quite confessions. But Baek Jeong-hoon’s expression was dead serious. My gaze drifted to the piano bench—where he’d once sat for hours, hammering out Iron Will. Even for one piece, I wanted it to be perfect. And for that—

“Don’t even think about going home tonight.”

Finally, Baek Jeong-hoon cracked a faint smile.