It is more than halfway through their two weeks when the chalet's landline rings, unfamiliar and alarming. It startles them both, each unable to recall whether it has ever done so before. From opposite sides of the spacious-yet-cozy geosil, they share a look of surprise, him from where he is at reading her book of letters to him, making tiny notes in the margins from time-to-time, her from sitting at her viola. Standing, she lays it aside and walks to the telephone, which she answers, the receiver heavy-almost antique-in her hand.
"Hello," she says in English, the language she uses to be understood, here. Her delivery is halting, like that of taking a first step onto an icy pathway. No one in Korea knows this number. Not even her mother.
"Hello, Ms. Yoon!" It is the Swiss contact for the musical scholarship program. "We've had some unexpected developments—"
After several long moments on the phone, her gaze finally breaks out of the middle distance and she looks to see him watching her.
He watches as Se-ri replaces the handset, his face asking the question.
"There is a sickness, a virus," she tells him, as though studying the words. "Have you heard about it?"
He thinks a moment. "There were rumors of sickness—" he says, considering, "I only know of rumors—what can it have to do with here?"
"Countries—many countries-are shutting their borders down," she tells him. "The musical staff here are working to repatriate the visiting non-residential students in the program as quickly as possible. Mr. Keller has called, worried about the NK students."
"Pyongyang is still closed, then?" He works to keep his question devoid of the surprise he feels were it to be true.
"All flights and trains stopped," she says. "In and out of NK."
"To everywhere?" he asks, thinking of China. After a moment, "Could it be so very bad?" he wonders aloud.
Reliably, Se-ri moved quickly to the work needing done, not bothering to speculate on a subject they'd only both been introduced to. "I will have to make arrangements to board the students from these other countries longer-term until they can travel home—until we see what the future holds-" she looked at him. "They'll need a more permanent housing. And looking-after."
He knew she was right. The two-week annual program hosted by Se-ri and her foundation was largely focused on individual recitals and a few seminars. The students attending, particularly from NK, came without being equipped for a longer or in-depth stay of any kind. Translators and chaperones of a longer tenure would have to be engaged for them, and some sort of daily activities or enrichment would need to be invented. "Perhaps the School of Music would allow them to attend some sessions," he offered.
Unlike when she was usually at working out a problem, or working to surmount an obstacle, her eyes remained strongly focused on him. She did not spark to his suggestion, neither approving nor denying it.
He nodded, recognizing her intensity for what it was. "You are thinking, what about me?"
She looked at him, afraid to speak.
His brows came together. "I will contact the embassy in Bern, with a message to my father." He moved as though to close her book in his lap. "Next week," he said, referencing the timeframe of when he was scheduled, as always, to depart.
She felt her own exhale when he spoke, 'next week'.
"Not now, then," she asks for confirmation.
"No, not now," he affirms, and his eyes go back to her letters.