Candy and Caramel

After his meeting with Ambassador Hertz, Ki-jo set the fertilizer plant aside and gave himself wholly to the work. Everything else he left to fortune. Pressing harder would not bring the thing to pass, and he hoped only that it would all move quickly—that a fertilizer plant would rise in Korea soon, no matter whose hands built it.

Of all his ventures, the warehouse business was drawing the most attention, and it had gotten off to a better start than he had expected. The great warehouses were already filling with goods for the Cheongsan Stores, and the medium ones were leasing out briskly as well. That was Ki-jo’s strategy at work.

He had not designed the Yeongdeungpo warehouses as a mere place to stack whatever had been produced. Finished goods would be kept there in safety, yes—but he had bound the business together so the warehouses would serve as a logistics hub, able to send them swiftly into every corner of the country. Anyone who used a Cheongsan warehouse would pay a reduced rate to Cheongsan Transport, the carrier with the greatest shipping capacity in Korea. He had set the terms so that once a firm worked the figures on an abacus, leasing from Cheongsan would bring its overall logistics costs down by more than ten percent. Where there was any trust in Cheongsan, it was a structure that could not fail.

In the 1950s it was common enough, even for a company that owned its own warehouse, to suffer a break-in—or to find its own people quietly carrying off goods and materials. Cheongsan Transport, fortunately, had a name as the sole handler of U.S. military logistics, and as a firm the Americans trusted. It had held that monopoly for four years without a single mishap, so the reputation was no more than its due. Ki-jo had promised compensation on top of it. As an opening promotion, he pledged that for the coming year, if a Cheongsan warehouse burned or flooded, every item stored inside would be paid for at market value, and that anything damaged in transit would be made good as well.

At the same time he joined hands with Park Hee-jun and entered the contest to acquire Dongyang Fire & Marine Insurance. Their rival was Ewha Haktang. Acquire Dongyang Fire, and a year later they would be able to sell insurance to corporations as well. The warehouse business could be grown into a platform binding together the Cheongsan Stores, Cheongsan Transport, and even Cheongsan Fire.

Sunday, April 19. Ki-jo came in to his office and sat over the papers. The leasing of the small warehouses had left him with a great deal to turn over.

The great warehouses were Cheongsan Group’s consolidated logistics base. The medium ones were settling into place as hubs for the client firms. And the small warehouses had suddenly become wildly popular. He had not seen it coming.

Word had gone around that the U.S. military was protecting the Yeongdeungpo Logistics Hub, and that the embassies of the sixteen nations that had fought in the war were using it. At that, it was not companies but private individuals who came looking for a Cheongsan warehouse.

In the 1950s the wealthy kept their cash and their valuables in safes set up inside their own homes. Trust in the banks was low to begin with, and suspicion ran deep that the government might take hold of deposited assets whenever it pleased. People had lived through liberation in 1945, through the U.S. military government, through the Korean War. It was an age that trusted the safe in one’s own house more than any bank.

There was Japan’s example, too. In February 1946, unable to redeem the national bonds it had issued so freely through the Pacific War, and with tax revenue running short, Japan barred its citizens from withdrawing their bank deposits. The reason it gave was the fight against inflation. The true aim was a tax on property. The people’s deposits were frozen, and then they were confiscated.

Korea’s rich, and the men who led the country, knew that story. No one in those days seriously doubted that money placed in a bank could be taken by the state at any time.

Keeping one’s assets at home was no perfect answer either. If wealth gathered by dishonest means came to light, a search of the house followed and the assets were seized. And the 1950s were a time of frequent fires, and of thieves on every side. In such an age, a small warehouse under American protection—well fortified against fire and flood, and solidly built of concrete—was bound to catch the eye of the wealthy.

Ki-jo could not bring himself to welcome that interest. Even granting the character of the times, he did not like the look of the people presenting themselves at the Cheongsan warehouses. They would not say precisely who they were, but they were plainly the families, or the agents, of high officials, politicians, generals, and businessmen. What they demanded, to a man, was the same: a guarantee that the lessee would remain anonymous. They would pay any sum. Only hand over the key. In a season when nominee accounts and nominee dealings in property were commonplace, anonymity was not hard to promise.

Taking them on sat ill with him all the same. Their purpose was nakedly clear—to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lodge somewhere safe the assets they had gathered by foul means. Counseling clients in person, he even came face to face with a general notorious through the Chungcheong region as a pine caterpillar. A pine caterpillar was a general who mobilized his own unit, sent the soldiers into the mountains to poach timber without paying them a wage, and sold the wood to lumber dealers for his private gain. One false step, and in the days after April 19 he might easily be branded a man entangled with those who had amassed illicit fortunes.

He refused such clients with courtesy. He told his staff that unless an applicant was a corporate customer, they were not even to accept the paperwork. The small warehouses had been meant, from the first, for small enterprises short of capital.

He was still going through the particulars of those who had applied when the telephone rang. It was Kwak Young-joo.

Kwak lit into him without so much as a greeting. So that was it, Ki-jo thought—the trouble had come of turning away the powerful men who wanted to lease the Cheongsan warehouses.

“Well, Chief, the thing is…”

He wondered whether one of those would-be tenants had been a man from Gyeongmudae.

“Chief, is something wrong?”

“Yes. If this is about the Cheongsan warehouses…”

“His Excellency is asking for me?”

Ki-jo gripped the receiver.

“I have not, Chief.”

“Understood.”

Ki-jo set out for Gyeongmudae at once. He had watched Syngman Rhee from a distance, and he had been near him, but the two of them had never faced each other and spoken. The summons was a weight. Even so, when the final boss of the age called, there was no refusing him and no putting him off.

He drove to Gyeongmudae in a rush and found Kwak Young-joo there. Kwak had come out to the main gate himself, and was waiting.

“My office first.”

The moment Kwak climbed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into the jeep, the gate swung open. Once they were inside the police station on the Gyeongmudae grounds, he laid out from A to Z the manner of a private audience with Syngman Rhee. Keep both hands folded neatly in front. Answer only what you are asked, and ask nothing yourself. Always use the title His Excellency the President, and agree with the President in everything, without exception. Wear a faint, easy smile at all times. If a favor is bestowed and you can manage to weep, then shed tears. And more in that vein.

“And if he asks about me—you know, don’t you?”

Kwak’s eyes bore hard into his. It sounded like a warning. Should this prove to be some bad business, Ki-jo was not to mention him under any circumstances.

“Yes, Chief. I understand.”

“Good. That’ll do.”

Kwak clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. The smile was there, but the strain lay plain across his face. Not knowing why the President had sent for Ki-jo, he seemed at once vexed and worried. He set Ki-jo’s clothes to rights, and then he led him in.

It was a Sunday morning, and Syngman Rhee sat on the second-floor balcony of the Gyeongmudae building. Dressed in a hanbok, settled in a rattan chair, he was gazing out over the grounds. From behind he had the look of an aged king, benevolent past all measure.

Kwak gave a light cough, brought his hands together before him, bent slightly at the waist, and addressed him.

“Your Excellency. I have brought Lee Ki-jo, president of Cheongsan Enterprises.”

At Kwak’s words, Rhee turned his head a little.

“Is that Lee Ki-jo?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

As he had been instructed, Ki-jo bent slowly until his back made a right angle.

Rhee laughed, a soft indulgent heh-heh, and beckoned him closer.

A few steps on, Ki-jo saw them—the dress shoes of someone seated at Rhee’s side. The instant he saw the shoes, he knew who it was. Above the elegant, costly leather a trouser leg came into view, the crease razor-sharp, the cuff long enough to cover the shoe and yet not so short that the ankle showed. The style declared itself at a glance.

It was Lee Byung-chull.

Led on by Kwak until he stood near the President, he found Byung-chull seated at Rhee’s side, sure enough.

“Kwak. You may go.”

“Yes, Your Excellency. I’ll withdraw.”

Kwak bobbed his bow and slipped quietly out.

Ki-jo did as he had been taught. He said nothing. He kept his hands together, and he stood ten paces off from Rhee.

Through the silence, birdsong moved inside Gyeongmudae.

“I like it, sitting here. The birds come to me. The birdsong of a liberated country is brighter than it was in the days when Japan had taken me away. You will have heard the birds yourself, under Japanese rule.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Sweat gathered in the palms he held so carefully folded. He neither revered Syngman Rhee nor thought highly of him, and yet the man drew him taut whether he wished it or not. So this, he thought, was the force that power held.

“Sit down, Mr. Lee.”

He offered no separate greeting to Lee Byung-chull beside him. Kwak had advised him that no matter who might be sitting next to the President, he was to pay them no mind and fix himself on Rhee alone.

“Not long ago, Dr. Hertz of West Germany paid me a call. Do you know Dr. Hertz, Mr. Lee?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. I have met him several times.”

Rhee called Ambassador Hertz doctor. In the 1950s the word carried a peculiar authority that the title of ambassador did not, and the newspapers themselves sometimes styled him so.

“Dr. Hertz tells me the West German government can help in building a fertilizer plant in Korea. Are you aware of this?”

“I am aware, Your Excellency.”

He said it with his eyes lowered, just as Kwak had taught him.

“Good. And how much would we need to bring ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back?”

“The plant must be at least ten times the size of the one already built at Chungju. For that, we would have to borrow forty million dollars at a minimum, and as much as fifty million.”

“So…”

At the sum of fifty million dollars, Rhee did not so much as blink.

“A great deal of money, yes. But ours is a nation entitled to receive that much. Are we not holding the communists back, out on the front line of the free world?”

“We are, Your Excellency. Entirely just.”

Ki-jo put Kwak’s lesson to careful use. Whatever Rhee said, he agreed.

“Is it possible to borrow the whole of the money from Europe? Mr. Lee?”

He hesitated over the answer.

Mr. Lee. The address took him in. It took in the Lee seated beside him as well.

“Come now. Give me your answer.”

Ki-jo lifted the gaze he had kept lowered, and found Rhee looking at him.

“It is possible. If the dollars fall short, I will borrow the rest from the United States, Your Excellency.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Good. A most excellent attitude.”

Rhee’s laugh rolled out, big and loose.

“See here, Mr. Lee. Are you aware that in the Republic of Korea, even a small sum in dollars may not be spent without my approval?”

“Yes… Your Excellency.”

He felt a small sting. In principle, dollars could not be used without the President’s sanction, and yet for some time now Ki-jo had borrowed a CIA account and spent them with relative freedom. What he used inside the country was hardly a difficulty. The privilege lay in the remittances he sent abroad. To send dollars overseas without the President’s approval could bring even a sentence of death. Whether Rhee knew that he had been remitting so freely, though, he could not tell.

“And you know, I trust, that going abroad, and bringing home a commercial loan, are alike impossible without my leave?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. Of course I know.”

He turned only his eyes, and stole a look at Lee Byung-chull beside him. Byung-chull was watching the exchange, his face composed. To be discussing, in front of that man, the loan that would build a fertilizer plant felt acutely awkward.

Rhee leaned in toward him.

“Is your English any good?”

He had asked it in English. Ki-jo answered in English as well.

“Yes. I speak it.”

“Then shall we try conversing in English?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

He knew it was a discourtesy to carry on in English with Lee Byung-chull sitting there. Byung-chull’s English was poor. But this was no moment to be considering Lee Byung-chull. It was a time to fix every nerve on Syngman Rhee, and on him alone.

“Mr. Lee, should you borrow fifty million dollars from any single country, whether in Europe or in America, I should be pleased enough to want you for my adopted son.”

“I would be honored, Your Excellency.”

“And yet no one country is likely to lend the whole of fifty million so readily, I imagine.”

“That is very likely.”

Rhee nodded. He flicked a finger toward Lee Byung-chull and went on.

“I was speaking a little while ago with President Lee of Samsung. Borrow a commercial loan from West Germany, he tells me, and one must bring in West German plant equipment; take a loan from Italy, and one must buy Italian equipment. Is the man correct?”

Ki-jo glanced at Byung-chull. Byung-chull could not follow what was passing between them, and yet his face stayed perfectly calm.

“President Lee Byung-chull is correct. It is very likely. Which is why I had thought to take cash from one country, and from another the equipment—”

“No. There is no need to complicate the matter. The two of you have only to go out and each bring back a commercial loan.”

Rhee cut across him and supplied his own remedy.

“West Germany, Italy—go wherever you please, and borrow the money. Decide between yourselves which of you goes where. I shall give each of you the authority to negotiate a loan.”

There was nothing for it but to accept. Ki-jo had no choice.

“Thank you, Your Excellency.”

The moment he accepted without condition and offered his thanks, Rhee broke into a booming laugh and returned to Korean.

“Ha, ha, ha. The younger Mr. Lee is every bit as pleasing, every bit as keen, as the elder Mr. Lee. One might well call the two of you brothers.”

Ki-jo let the praise go by. They were pushing forward work of a similar kind, and that, he supposed, was why Rhee had called them brothers.

“And the younger Mr. Lee—of which line of the Lees is he?”

“The Yangju Lees, Your Excellency.”

He did not know his own lineage. But Yangju, the first place he had settled, the place where he and Sunrye had made a home, he held for his hometown. So he had simply answered that he was a Yangju Lee.

“A pity. Lee Byung-chull is a Gyeongju Lee, and I am a Jeonju Lee, and here we are gathered—Lees, all of us, and none of us the same…”

He called it a pity, and yet he was looking at Ki-jo with a bright, open smile. The fluent English seemed to have pleased him. Syngman Rhee was fond of a man who spoke English well.

He seemed to set his thoughts in order. Then he spoke.

“The two of you will listen well to me.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Ki-jo and Lee Byung-chull answered in the same breath.

He said it in the tone of a man who has sat two children down and told them to decide who will have the candy, and who the caramel.