Chapter 263:


    263


    Art ss (1)


    I spent thest month of summer traveling and painting around France with Cha Si-hyun, Fabre, and Rabani. Before I knew it, August was over.


    Paris weed autumn with a calm and peaceful atmosphere. The heat had disappeared and a cool breeze made it a perfect day for painting.


    On such a day, I was happy to run with Grandpa every morning.


    We ran farther than usual and settled on a bench.


    “Here.”


    Grandpa handed me a baguette sandwich and grape juice he bought from ngery Utopia1


    The sandwich tasted sweeter than honey as I ate it under the morning sun, gazing at the sparkling Seine.“Yum.”


    Out of all the sandwiches Utopia sold, I especially liked this duck one.


    The baguette was superb, the tomato and onion were fresh, and the smoked duck was juicy. It was impossible not to like it.


    “Si-hyun must be sad to leave.”


    “I can see him anytime I want.”


    Thankfully, Cha Si-hyun had a lot of fun in the past five weeks.


    He became friends with Fabre and Rabani, yed pranks with them, and even learned some French.


    “He said he’s going to study French. He wants to talk better with the kids next time.”


    “That’s good.”


    Fabre and Rabani, who could only say hello and thank you in Korean, also said they would study. I hoped they could have a good conversation without me next time.


    “Mm.”


    I bit off a mouthful of sandwich and chewed it well. Then I noticed someone sitting on the next bench.


    He was drawing something on a sketchbook.


    “There’s someone else painting here.”


    “I guess so. Maybe it’s because of the nice view.”


    I didn’t know this before, because I rarely came this far, but there were murals along the riverbank.


    I turned my head and saw a purple phrase that said JEUNE ET COOL (Young and cool)2


    Youth and boldness.


    I pondered the meaning of the two words and finished my sandwich.


    “Shall we get going?”


    “Yes.”


    We put the trash in the bag and retraced our steps.


    Walking along the Seine in the autumn morning, I felt like something good would happen today.


    I stopped by the house, washed up quickly, and headed to Henri IV Middle School.


    It was the first day of school and kids my age were holding their parents’ hands and gathering in front of the gate.


    They were all much bigger than me.


    I was supposed to enter CM1 (fourth grade in Korea), but I skipped CM1 and CM2 by taking a test and entered middle school (6EME ≒ sixth grade in Korea, first grade in France) right away.


    I was also a year older and the French kids grew faster, so there was a big difference in size.


    “I’ll be back.”


    “Should I go with you?”


    “There’s no entrance ceremony.”


    “Still.”


    I had received a notice in advance and there was nothing about the entrance ceremony on it. I asked Marso and he said there was no entrance or graduation ceremony in France.


    “It’s not my first time going to school. Don’t worry.”


    “Hmm. Let’s stay together for a while.”


    He didn’t say it outright, but he seemed to be worried about racial discrimination.


    It was something Grandpa had experienced and since 2020, hate crimes against Asians had been increasing, so he must have been uneasy.


    All I could do was reassure him.


    If the kids bothered me, I would embrace them with love.


    I eventually became friends with the yground kids, so the school kids wouldn’t be any different.


    “It’s time.”


    Grandpa looked at his watch and said.


    The gate was still closed.


    There must have been people inside, but they kept the gate tightly shut. They seemed to care a lot about security.


    “It’s time to open the gate.”


    “Can we go in together?”


    “Mom, I don’t want to go.”


    The kids and parents who were starting school today were also confused and restless. Then the gate opened.


    Two teachers and four security guards came out and greeted the kids.


    “I’m going in.”


    “Okay. Call me if anything happens. I’ll pick you up when you’re done.”


    “I want to take the school bus.”


    “Are you sure?”


    “Yes.”


    I followed the guide and entered the school gate.


    Some came with their parents, and some came alone like me.


    Nichs Foussaint, the principal who interviewed me, called out our names one by one and assigned us to our sses.


    “Ko Hun, you are in Madame Amantine Margo’s ss.”


    I was assigned to Margo’s ss and stood in front of them. The kids stared at me.


    “Hi.”


    As I greeted them, they approached me.


    “Weren’t you on TV?”


    “Did you draw with Henri Marso?”


    “You’re cute.”


    “You’re a painter.”


    I was flustered by the sudden attention, but Margo pped her hands and diverted their gaze.


    “Alright, everyone. Let’s move to our ss. Follow me.”


    They kept asking me things on the way to the ssroom.


    “How old are you?”


    “Why are you so small?”


    “Where are you from?”


    “Are you really friends with Henri?”


    “Of course, we hang out together.”


    “Don’t you know him? He drew The Castle of Stone.”


    “Really? You look younger than me.”


    It seemed like this would continue for a while.


    I was already tired.


    When we arrived at the ssroom, Margo handed out the school notebooks (Ca demunication).


    “You have to have this notebook with you when you go to and from school.”


    “What if I leave it at home?”


    “Just tell the teacher at the gate. But don’t forget to bring it with you. It’s for your own good.”


    The reason they checked the notebook at the gate was probably to prevent outsiders from entering without permission.


    It was an existing rule, but Marso told me that they managed it strictly because of the frequent crimes against students and teachers.


    I followed the instructions and downloaded the textbooks on the tablet, got assigned a locker, and got a tour of the school facilities. The morning passed by quickly.


    The bell rang.


    “It’s lunchtime. You all know where the cafeteria is, right?”


    “Yes.”


    It was lunchtime, the second thing I looked forward to after Foussaint’s art ss.


    I wondered what kind of food they would fill the long hour and 45 minutes with.


    I put my bag and tablet in the locker and got up. Some kids came up to me.


    “You’re a painter, right?”


    “Are you really close with Henri? Do you know his phone number?”


    “Did you really draw The Castle of Stone? How?”


    They seemed to be the ones who were interested in drawing, Marso’s fans, or the ones who watched the movie .


    “Yes.”


    As I exined things to them, I felt some kids’ eyes on me.


    They didn’te close, but just red or scowled at me from afar.


    It was probably because I was Asian.


    I felt it when I lived with my grandfather in Paris. I met some ridiculous people, like a store owner who wouldn’t sell me anything for no reason, or someone who bumped into my shoulder as I was standing.


    It was amazing and sad that someone could hate someone else just because they looked different.


    “Do you want to eat with me?”


    “Sure.”


    “Then do you draw after school?”


    “Most of the time.”


    “Today too?”


    “Today I’m going to see somend.”


    “Land? Why are you looking atnd?”


    “Just to see if there’s any goodnd.”


    The kids looked at me strangely.


    I finished my first day at Henri IV Middle School and was about to get on the school bus, but the kids didn’t get on the bus. They were looking at the other side.


    “What is it?


    “Whose car is that?”


    “I don’t know.”


    I turned my head and saw Arsen standing next to one of Marso’s most modest sedans.


    He waved at me when he spotted me.


    I wondered what was going on and approached them.


    Marso rolled down the window.


    “Get in.”


    Before I could even ask why he was here, the students made a fuss.


    “It’s Henri!”


    “Henri! Henri!”


    I was surprised that a painter could be so popr, but it made sense considering his fame in France.


    Marso waved his hand at the students.


    There were kids who screamed, and kids who rolled on the ground.


    I got in the car and asked.


    “What’s going on?”


    Arsen started driving.


    “Here.”


    Marso threw a document at me.


    It was rted to the Munster Sculpture Project, part of the Grand Art Tour.


    “Are you okay?”


    “Yeah.”


    I had to participate because of the contract with Bugrenelli Shopping Mall, but the Munster Sculpture Project had already decided on the participants, so I had to contact the curator, Casper Koenig, separately.


    I requested to join Marso’s team, who was already scheduled to participate, and luckily he epted.


    I flipped through the document.


    It contained a message weing me to join, and a request to submit the work n by the end of the year.


    “Have you not submitted it yet?”


    I was puzzled that the meticulous Marso had not yet nned his work.


    “On hold. We have to make it look good, right?”


    He had nned a coborative work to allow me to join, so he put his original n on hold for now.


    Well, he had no choice but to do this, otherwise he couldn’t add another name to the already fixed spot.


    “Thank you.”


    “You just have to follow my instructions.”


    “No way.”


    I read the brochure more and found out that we had to install our work in a public space in Munster, Germany.


    It was an event created to bridge the gap between public art and the masses, so understanding the ce and the people was essential.


    “I guess I have to go and see. Munster.”


    “Go this weekend.”


    “Will one day be enough?”


    “Stay for the weekend.”


    I nodded, thinking of asking my grandfather.


    “So. How was it?”


    “What?”


    “School.”


    “It was amazing. They were very careful about security. And the food was delicious.”


    The elementary school in Korea had great food too, but Henri IV Middle School was different.


    It operated on a buffet system, so I could eat whatever I wanted as much as I wanted.


    “The kids.”


    “They were cute.”


    Marso frowned.


    “What’s wrong?”


    “Because they’re cute.”


    All kids are cute.


    “…No one bullied you?”


    “No.”


    “Good.”


    The conversation stopped.


    I wondered what he meant, but then I realized why he had bothered toe to the school.


    “Did youe on purpose?”


    “What.”


    He pretended not to know.


    He probably came to warn them not to mess with someone rted to him.


    My grandfather and Marso might be worried about me, since I was a 12-year-old kid with a small staturepared to my ssmates, but they were overreacting.


    “I think I’ll suffer more from tomorrow.”


    “Why.”


    “They already asked me how close I was to Marso, and now you did this. You saw it, right? It was a mess.”


    "I bet you think this is glorious."


    "It is glorious."


    Marso frowned.


    He always acted so smug, and I always agreed with him. It made him even more arrogant.


    But it was fun to see his reaction every time.


    "What''s the n for today?"


    "We''re going to look at somend."


    "Land?"


    "Yeah, we''re thinking of opening a gallery."


    * * *


    1) There are two main types of bakeries in France.


    Bongeries that sell bread for meals and patisseries that sell pastries for snacks.


    Croissants, pain au choct, pain aux raisins, baguettes and other breads are usually sold at bongeries.


    2) Nowadays, cool is used to mean ‘easygoing'', ‘awesome'', or ‘sophisticated'', but Go-hoon understood it as ‘bold''.


    Originally, cool was an adjective that meant ‘quiet'', ‘calm'', ‘rational'', or ‘indifferent'', but in 1825, it was used to mean ‘calm'' or ‘bold''.


    Then, the modern colloquial meaning of ‘easygoing'', ‘awesome'', or ‘sophisticated'' started in 1933.


    It was a ng word used by African Americans that became popr through the famous saxophonist Lester Young in the 1930s and 1940s.