Three tables, a tarpaulin rigged up overhead. Red plastic chairs. A waiter spread a bin bag over the table by way of a cloth, then brought us two glasses of hot water. We were sitting in a draft. Kerrand braced his shoulders against the cold. Did he want to go somewhere else? No, he said, this was just fine. The waiter came back with a simplified menu in English. We didn’t need it, I said, I could read the Korean written on the wall. He ignored me and put the menu on the table.

“Which of your parents is French?” Kerrand asked.

I looked up at him, taken aback.

“I asked the owner of the guest house. Out of curiosity.”

“What did he say?”

“What I thought he’d say. That you were French Korean. And that you spoke perfect French.”

“Park doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he doesn’t speak French.”

I explained that my mother was from Sokcho. I knew nothing at all about my father except that he was working as a fishing engineer when they met. The waiter came to take our order. Grilled fish, a bottle of soju. Kerrand was watching my every move. I stared out toward the kitchen behind him, avoiding his gaze. Tiling, dirt floor, knives clattering, soup gurgling on the stove. I fiddled with my chopsticks. Kerrand drew his chair closer to the table.

“Your cut’s healed nicely.”

“It wasn’t very deep.”

I had to be careful where I put my legs to avoid touching his. The waiter came back with the soju, fish, kimchi, and potato salad. Kerrand ate a spoonful.

“Mayonnaise. American influence, even here …”

“Mayonnaise comes from France, not the U.S.”

He looked up, amused. We ate in silence for a while. Kerrand was holding his chopsticks all wrong. I showed him how to hold them the right way. After a couple of mouthfuls, he went back to his old way of holding them. I didn’t see any point in insisting. He wasn’t saying anything, so I asked him how he was spending his days. Going for walks, exploring the area, looking for inspiration. Had he traveled to all the places he’d drawn for his hero? Yes, to most of them. He’d never been to Korea before.

“So I suppose the last book in the series will be set in Sokcho?”

“You already asked me that.”

“That was two weeks ago. You hadn’t decided then.” “Do you think Sokcho would make a good setting for a story?”

I said it would depend on the story. Kerrand leaned toward the table, as if he wanted to let me in on a secret.

“If I set it here, will you help me?”

“How?”

“Show me things.”

“There’s nothing to do in Sokcho.”

“That can’t be true.”

I took a few sips of soju. My cheeks were getting warm. I was quiet for a moment and then asked him where his interest in drawing had come from. He didn’t know exactly. He’d always read comic books. He spent hours copying his favorite strips when he was little, maybe that’s how it began.