Chapter 83 (2) - The Mysterious Art Museum
I stepped out of the alley, slightly bowed my head, and walked briskly towards the entrance of the club. Suddenly, I noticed a woman with a fan and a dress smoking at the entrance and sidestepped her. Just then, I heard her voice.
C'est ma faute.
Wait, did she just say 'c'est ma faute'?
That's a phrase I learned in high school French class. It means 'It's my fault.'
I looked up at the woman. She was stepping back, flicking off cigarette ash. I looked around, but at this moment, I was the only one near the club entrance.
'Was she talking to herself?'
Of course, she must have been.
I shook my head in disbelief and turned back towards the club.
Just then, a loud voice was heard.
"Oh! Is that a Japanese person?"
What? Why would there be a Japanese in Paris in 1892?
Japan might have been leading the way in modernization since the Meiji era, but they had little interaction with France, hadn't they?
I was surprised to think that a Japanese person would be in Paris at this time and looked around curiously.
'What? There's nobody here?'
The club entrance was empty.
Only a woman I had passed earlier, smoking a cigarette, stood by the street.
"Hey, over here."
What? A voice from the ground... huh?
I looked down and gasped, discovering a dwarf standing in front of me.
A small dwarf, about 152cm tall.
He was Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
Actually, he was quite tall for a dwarf.
Even in our country, it's not too difficult to find women of that height.
But most of them have body proportions suitable for their height. However, the man in front of me had a large upper body and abnormally short lower body, making his proportions mismatched.
Yet, his dark brown eyes and stylish beard.
His handsome face and his sly, charming smile were quite appealing.
'But is he talking to me?'
Surely not.
I'm invisible to people.
Based on my experience with Teacher Mucha, it seemed that only those on the brink of death could see me.
"Hey, don't you speak French?"
Shockingly, he was looking straight at me. Could he really see me?
I pointed to my face with my index finger and asked.
"Do you mean me?"
"Who else would be here? Lucky you speak French!"
"."
Did I know French?
I took a second foreign language class in high school, but I never scored above 40 in the exams.
No! That's not the issue right now.
It seems he really can see me.
Toulouse-Lautrec patted my leg and said.
"Which port did you come through? You came over from the Netherlands, right?"
".."
"I've never heard of a Japanese ship arriving in France."
"Oh, well... haha."
"I've always been interested in Japanese art. I saw someone like you and had to speak! Since we've met like this, let me buy you a drink! Come on, let's go in!"
He hastily grabbed my arm and dragged me into the club. What's going on?
As Toulouse-Lautrec flung open the club doors, loud music and the heat of people hit me.
Elegantly dressed gentlemen in well-groomed mustaches and shining shoes dancing with ladies, some already drunk men joyfully dancing with other men.
Modest ladies in dresses sitting demurely until they accepted the hand gestures of gentlemen proposing a dance, responding with bashful smiles.
Toulouse-Lautrec, holding my hand, strode deeper into the club. I noticed a pen falling from his front pocket and quickly picked it up, saying,
"Excuse me, Monsieur! You dropped your pen."
Toulouse-Lautrec turned around, took the pen with a wide smile.
"Oh! I've dropped my cane, haven't I."
"."
Cane? That's a pen.
He seemed to mock himself with a sarcastic joke.
What does it mean? Why would he belittle himself when others' belittlement would infuriate?
At that moment, men drinking nearby laughed at us.
"Look there! A dwarf has brought a monkey! Must be a circus act!"
"Ha ha ha! Indeed!"
What, you bastard. Did you just call me a monkey?
In our era, you'd be branded a racist on social media, shamed and pointed at for life. Remember your face, you drunk fool.
I felt anger rising but it quickly subsided.
Because the women occupying half of the bar were casting curious glances at me. Their clearly interested gazes made the mockery from those men feel like jealousy.
'Hmph, ugly things.'
The racist joker had a punched nose, half-bald head, red face from intoxication, and a protruding belly. It's clear he won't even get a whiff of women's perfume after a night here.
"A dwarf and monkey circus troupe, what a funny joke! Ha ha!"
Lautrec, leading me, laughed heartily. Hey, that wasn't a funny joke; it was demeaning. Why are you laughing?
Lautrec led me to a relatively quiet spot, away from the loud music. But why does this place look like VIP seating? What's with this luxurious, large sofa?
Most club guests are standing.
The club is designed with high tables for standing and drinking. Only a few spots in the corners have such sofas, and this green velvet sofa looks very luxurious.
'Ah, he's a noble.'
I had forgotten that, despite his disability, he was born into a French comital family.
He seated me and asked with a broad smile.
So, monkey! What's your name?"
Seriously, I'm not a monkey.
My name is Ban Jeong-hoon.
Lautrec's eyebrows twitched.
Ban!? Oh! That's the same name as my closest friend!
.
I thought of someone upon hearing his words. The great master Vincent van Gogh, who shared a friendship with Lautrec beyond the boundaries of age. [T/N: Korean doesn't have a V sound so they tend to replace them with B, So MCs name might have been Van/Ban].
He must have remembered him upon hearing my name.
Lautrec, with an exaggerated and comical bow like a circus dwarf, introduced himself.
"Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec Montparnasse is my name. It's too long, isn't it? Just call me Henri."
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