The Newspaper Publishers Association
Under the authorities' arrangement, Korea's six major dailies had been divided into a market of four against two. The evening papers fell to the Dong-A, the Kyunghyang, the Seoul, and the Daehan; the morning papers to the Hankook and the Chosun.
Sensing that the shift called for a common front, the newspaper owners began to move toward founding a Newspaper Publishers Association. When word came asking him to attend the association's meeting, Ki-jo made his way to the Chosun Hotel, a place that prided itself on its old-world facade.
Raised on the site where the Hwangudan, the imperial Round Altar, had once stood, the Chosun Hotel was luxury of the highest order. An octagonal pavilion beside the building gave it an atmosphere at once classical, refined, and intimate. If the Bando Hotel—where English was the language of the house and only dollars were accepted—wore the look of a lodging for foreigners and a block of commercial offices, the Chosun felt like a hotel for the rich who wished to savor fine dining and an aristocratic air.
Ki-jo went up to the lounge and exchanged greetings with the presidents of the six great dailies: Kim Sang-man of the Dong-A Ilbo, Bang Il-young of the Chosun Ilbo, Lee Jun-gu of the Kyunghyang Shinmun, Oh Jong-sik of the Seoul Shinmun, and Kim Yeon-jun of the Daehan Ilbo. Seated among them, he studied the five men who dominated Korea's newspaper market. The ones who stood out, as expected, were Kim Sang-man and Bang Il-young, the pair who had long held the Korean press in their grip.
"Now that the new owner of the Hankook Ilbo is here, let's get down to it."
Bang Il-young of the Chosun Ilbo opened the discussion, and his tone made plain that he already had an eye on Ki-jo as a rival in the morning-paper market.
The first item was who should chair the Newspaper Publishers Association. The mood favored Lee Jun-gu of the Kyunghyang Shinmun. If they meant to defend the papers' interests against the government, the president of the Kyunghyang—the man most willing to lock horns with the authorities—seemed the natural choice. Ki-jo raised no objection to that current. Lee Jun-gu declined a few times and in the end accepted the chair.
The second item was a raise in the reporters' pay. The moment it was raised, the Hankook Ilbo's preemptive wage increase became the talk of the table.
"The Hankook Ilbo ambushed the rest of us with a sharp pay raise and left the other papers in a bind. Heh."
Bang Il-young laughed, looking at Ki-jo. The other presidents and publishers laughed with him, though none of them looked particularly pleased.
Ki-jo knew that, government policy notwithstanding, the papers had been lukewarm about raising reporters' salaries. Only Kim Sang-man of the Dong-A Ilbo, whose circumstances were comparatively easy, wore an unruffled air.
"For now, shouldn't we meet the government's demand, but take our time and raise wages in stages? The Hankook Ilbo has already raised them, so there's nothing to be done there—and some papers may not be in a position to lift reporters' pay this very moment."
It was a proposal, spoken also for the smaller papers not in the room, to spread the increases over several years. Everyone agreed.
"Then I suppose we ought to settle the number of pages, the subscription rates, and the advertising rates. We'll have to pay our people more, so we'll need to cut the page count overall and raise both the subscription fees and the advertising rates."
Lee Jun-gu of the Kyunghyang Shinmun, whose capital was none too solid, put it forward, and the owners and publishers nodded along.
"The president of the Hankook Ilbo agrees, I trust?"
Ki-jo did not answer. At that, the five newspaper men turned their attention on him. He thought it over, then asked:
"Are you proposing that we turn the Newspaper Publishers Association into a cartel?"
The question soured every face in the room.
"The Hankook Ilbo has the Cheongsan Group at its back, so you're well covered. The rest of us aren't. I'd ask you not to think only of your own company, but of Korea's newspapers as a whole."
Bang Il-young spoke as if he were taking Ki-jo to task.
Ki-jo had never intended to join the papers in collusion. Their arrangement would lose its meaning before long, and he objected outright.
"Collusion won't do any good. What will you do if a paper appears with a backer even sturdier than Cheongsan? Will you invite that paper into the cartel as well?"
His challenge drew looks of disbelief. They seemed to have assumed that Ki-jo, a businessman himself, would of course favor higher subscription and advertising rates.
"What—is some foreign paper about to come into Korea? Will the New York Times put out a Korean edition? Will Le Monde set up shop here?"
Everyone laughed at Bang Il-young's words, and Ki-jo laughed with them. They could not begin to imagine that Samsung would soon found the JoongAng Ilbo and overturn the newspaper market with vast capital—poaching mid-career reporters, handing out premiums, dumping free papers until the Korean press was driven into hell. From the owners' point of view, at any rate.
Ki-jo let the smile leave his face.
"As I understand it, every paper condemned the businessmen who built their fortunes by illicit accumulation. I fail to see how what you're proposing now differs from the men who colluded on sugar, flour, and cement."
At that, Kim Sang-man of the Dong-A Ilbo looked uncomfortable and pressed his lips shut. The Dong-A had the ease of the leading paper, and also the consciousness of an eldest brother: as the strongest house in the trade, it looked after the papers that were struggling. Lee Jun-gu of the Kyunghyang, now chairman of the association, gave voice to his discontent.
"I don't think it's proper to compare a newspaper with an ordinary company. When businesses do this, it's to raise their profits. A newspaper, with its public character, isn't simply trying to make money. It's a matter of survival and of our employees' welfare, isn't it?"
Ki-jo could grant the words, and still a doubt stirred in him. Was a newspaper really a public institution? These were the same papers that talked that way and then joined hands with power for their own gain, reaching for every kind of concession. He set out his position.
"I believe newspapers ought to compete on their own. If you want to raise advertising rates, raise them. If you want to lower them, lower them. There's no need to collude. Let each paper set its rates according to its influence, and the advertisers will decide for themselves."
He added a word on the price of a subscription.
"If a newspaper truly has a public character, then I don't think we should touch subscription rates or the price of the paper—not if we want even one more person reading it."
When he finished, Kim Sang-man turned away from him. Lee Jun-gu looked at him with a face full of displeasure. Bang Il-young spoke as if to himself, loud enough for Ki-jo to hear.
"This is why a company shouldn't own a newspaper..."
Beside the three who aired their discontent openly, the presidents of the Seoul Shinmun and the Daehan Ilbo remained relatively calm. The Seoul Shinmun served as a government organ in any case, so few people read it; its chief income came from government advertising and from subscriptions by government agencies. The Daehan Ilbo had room to spare as well. It was published by the Hanyang Foundation, the foundation behind Hanyang University. Professing neutrality, it was the smallest of the six papers, and it had never set out to turn a profit on publishing.
A brief silence fell. Then Kim Sang-man of the Dong-A Ilbo asked:
"President Lee Ki-jo. What is your purpose in running a newspaper?"
Ki-jo stated the aim with which he was keeping the Hankook Ilbo.
"I'm only looking after the company for a short while in place of former president Chang Key-young. I have no long-term goal. While it's in my hands, I want the Hankook Ilbo to run smoothly, and I want readers waiting each morning for it to be delivered."
"So you're aiming at a popular paper."
Kim Sang-man compressed it into a single line, and Ki-jo acknowledged as much. It was the answer one would expect from the publisher of the Dong-A Ilbo, who had inherited Korea's finest newspaper and never once let its reputation slip. Kim Sang-man was showing himself a man of a different order from the others.
He was the eldest son of Inchon, Kim Seong-su. And what sort of man had his father been? In 1919 he had founded Gyeongseong Spinning and led the campaign to encourage native goods; in 1920 he had founded the Dong-A Ilbo; in 1932 he had acquired Bosung College, the forerunner of Korea University. He had a record of cooperating with Japan under colonial rule, but by the standards of those days it was a record people could understand. After liberation he had joined Kim Gu, Cho So-ang, and others in leading the movement against the trusteeship. A great landowner, he had nonetheless cooperated actively with Syngman Rhee's land reform, taking heavy losses in the service of setting the country to rights, and when the government was established he had even served as vice president. But when Rhee, in the midst of the Korean War, went so far as to abduct and confine National Assembly members in Busan in order to amend the constitution and seek reelection, Kim Seong-su stepped down from the vice presidency. After that he joined the Comrades for the Protection of the Constitution in opposition to Rhee and took part in founding the Democratic Party, the united opposition—a man who had done a great deal without sorting the world into left and right.
Perhaps because he was the eldest son of such a house, weight rested on every word he spoke. His authority remained high even now; not even Chairman Park could treat him lightly. He was the owner of Korea's foremost newspaper and of Korea University, the nation's foremost house of learning, and that was why. After the May 16 coup, the military government had pursued a policy of cutting the enrollment of university students who were "idling and living off others," yet the one quota it could not touch was Korea University's. Yonsei, founded by foreigners, felt the knife without mercy; Seoul National was meddled with; Ewha and the other private universities were dealt with sternly—but national Korea University, said to have led the April 19 Revolution, they could do nothing about. The prevailing view was that the Dong-A Ilbo–Korea University network was so powerful that the regime itself watched Kim Sang-man's mood.
Reverence for the Dong-A house was not confined to soldiers. Chaebol heads and politicians sought his favor and longed to marry their sons and daughters into his line, so coveted was a bond with that family. To such a man, Ki-jo spoke calmly.
"It will be a popular paper, but I intend to run the company as a press that reports the facts accurately and serves the national interest."
"You won't be withdrawing from the newspaper association, will you? Given the Hankook Ilbo's standing, I would like you with us."
"Of course."
Ki-jo had no thought of leaving the Newspaper Publishers Association. Collusion, however, did not suit his nature.
"Then let us do it this way. We'll set a floor for both advertising rates and subscription rates. I would ask the Hankook Ilbo to honor at least that floor."
"By a floor, do you mean keeping the present rates?"
"It isn't for me to decide alone. We should settle it here and now. I'd be glad if you, President Lee, as a member of the association, would abide by its decision."
No one dared object to Kim Sang-man's mediation. Only Bang Il-young of the Chosun Ilbo looked at Ki-jo without pleasure. Under the proposal, the floor for subscriptions was frozen at the current rate, with a ceiling of double; the floor for advertising was set at ten percent above the present rate, with no ceiling at all.
Once the main business was settled, the mood of the meeting softened considerably. Over the French cuisine and wine that were the Chosun Hotel's pride, they fell to talking of the times in the manner of idle conversation.
"Since Chairman Park's visit to America, the military government seems to have mellowed. Even men who seize power with sharp swords and guns grow duller, as time passes, before the pen and the force of culture. They're human beings too. Won't the day come when they speak with us openly?"
Bang Il-young offered the view that civilian strength outmatched the military government, and Lee Jun-gu of the Kyunghyang agreed heartily.
After the French meal they decided to clear the palate with a glass of beer. The Chosun Hotel's menu listed Denmark's Tuborg and Dutch Heineken, then among the finest beers in Europe and hard to find on the open market. Unlike the others, Ki-jo ordered a Crown, from Chosun Beer, and the waiter was briefly flustered to hear a guest ask for something that was not on the menu. He went off saying he would see, then returned to report that there was no Crown—only American Budweiser—so Ki-jo drank that.
When the glasses were nearly empty, Bang Il-young proposed a second round.
"Well, it isn't often we gather in one place like this. Come drink with me and unburden yourselves. I'll see that you're properly looked after."
Kim Sang-man declined the offer gently. Ki-jo, too, decided not to go on with him. The rest followed with anticipation in their faces.
Ki-jo thought he understood why Kim Sang-man had refused. Bang Il-young was so deeply versed in the culture of the night that Chairman Park called him the president of the night. He had entertained the Chairman many times at the gisaeng houses, winning his favor and building a familiarity, and he boasted that he had put up the hair—seen to the debut—of every gisaeng in Seoul. Chairman Park liked those houses himself and kept company with him often. Kim Sang-man must have known the man's tastes, and declined for that reason.
As Ki-jo came out of the Chosun Hotel meaning to walk home, Kim Sang-man asked:
"You didn't bring a car?"
"The house is close."
"Allow me to see you home. Ride with me."
Ki-jo declined a few times, then got into Kim Sang-man's car. On the way, Kim Sang-man said:
"I hear you took on the Hankook Ilbo because you're particularly close to Chairman Park, and on good terms with President Chang Key-young as well. Even so—the pride of the Hankook Ilbo, shall we say..."
Guessing where the sentence was bound, Ki-jo smiled faintly.
"It won't become a second Seoul Shinmun."
"Ha ha. That isn't what I meant..."
Kim Sang-man laughed, a little awkward, and turned the talk aside.
"I hear you've filled a whole page of the Hankook Ilbo with fiction and poetry. Are you thinking of gathering readers with novels?"
"Yes. I mean to serialize five novels a day. Treating men of letters well is a tradition of the Hankook Ilbo."
Ki-jo was enlarging a tradition Chang Key-young—once an aspiring writer himself—had established by favoring Kim Dong-ri and printing his work, and by running a poem in the paper every day. He meant to heighten the Hankook Ilbo's appeal by offering readers who loved fiction novels of many tastes: historical novels, contemporary novels, romances, martial-arts tales—popular fiction strong enough that, if the taste matched, a reader would not be able to do without a subscription. In the amusement-starved sixties, he judged, it would take well enough.
"A fine idea. Korea has far too many papers of political argument."
By that he meant the sort of sheet given over to political articles, editorials, and commentary.
The distance was short, and soon it was time for Ki-jo to get out. Kim Sang-man seemed to find it curious that he lived in an ordinary neighborhood; Ki-jo saw him taking in the alley around them. When the car stopped, Ki-jo offered his thanks and stepped out.
"Well then, go in safely. I'll see you again."
"I enjoyed today."
Kim Sang-man returned the courtesy, and the car pulled away.
Keeping company with people who belonged to Korea's aristocratic class had left Ki-jo a little burdened. Businessmen had money, but they were not respected as journalists were. The men who held both wealth and fame were the men of the press.
When he opened the gate and went into the house, Yeong-eun was in the yard with a kitten in her arms.
"Dad! Butterfly came into the house crying! Mom said I can keep her if you say yes!"
Ki-jo looked at the yellow kitten trembling in Yeong-eun's arms.
"Butterfly's very pretty. Let's keep her."
At his words Yeong-eun nearly jumped for joy. Sunrye and the boys came out to welcome him, and he went inside with the family. They could not have finished their meal long before; the smell of soybean-paste soup still lingered in the room. Ki-jo liked the scent of the Korean food his family had eaten better than the fragrance of the French cuisine at the Chosun Hotel.
When Yeong-eun hesitated to bring the cat into the room, he told her to come in.
"I can keep the cat in the room?"
"Of course you can. Long ago even the king liked cats and kept them indoors."
"Really?"
Sunrye was astonished. In those days a cat was supposed to live outside the house, and many people even tied them on a leash like dogs. Ki-jo took the kitten from Yeong-eun's arms. The small, warm life was shivering, and the sight went to his heart.
"Dad will make a toilet for the cat. Set out a bowl of sand, and a cat will do her business there on her own."
"Wow! Even a baby this little?"
Yeong-eun's eyes went round.
"That's right. And a kitten's eyes will change color soon, too. They're black now, but no one knows whether they'll turn yellow or green."
"Really?"
Yeong-eun was full of wonder. Ki-jo spent the evening with her, looking at the cat. Being with his family was the very reason he had come back, and it was the happiest time he had.