The Model House

Lee Ki-poong had called him one of the family.

It was Lee Si-hyeong's doing. Of that Ki-jo had no doubt.

So the talk was true—he'd been in and out of the clan association. And now he's written me into the genealogy of the Jeonju Lees.

Lee Ki-poong was regarding him with the gratified air of an uncle surveying a nephew ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠who had made good.

"You must come and see me sometime."

Ki-jo answered him perfunctorily.

"We'll be on our way."

At that, Lee Si-hyeong bowed and scraped and led him off, for all the world as if he were ushering the president himself.

Ki-jo could not get a read on the man's game. What did he hope to gain, binding him to Lee Ki-poong as kin? He frowned after the two of them as they vanished down the street.

For now, focus on the model house.

He put the uninvited pair out of his mind, stepped inside, and gave himself over to the tour. To the visitors he sang the praises of the Cheongsan Model House—its materials, its bones, all of it.

"The greatest advantage of a Cheongsan house is the bathroom. Waterproof tile covers every inch of the floor and the walls, so you may use water as freely as you please."

He turned on a shower brought in from Hong Kong and sent water sheeting across the tile. It ran away cleanly through the drain.

"And the moment you turn the faucet, the water comes out hot."

Behind the house stood a large-capacity briquette boiler built by Professor Kim Moon-hwan. He had given an entire firebox over to hot water alone, so that two hundred liters could be kept warm at all times. Ki-jo brought the visitors in one by one and let them put a hand beneath the spray. The boiler's heat was low by nature, and the water was nothing like scalding—but a pleasant warmth ran over their fingers all the same. Even so, the people of the 1950s were astonished. Hot water from a household tap the instant you turned it was a thing known only in a first-class hotel.

"Well! This is remarkable. Hot water, the moment you open the tap?"

"Yes. The tank holds two hundred liters. Use too much of it, and the next person will have cold water, so I ask you to be sparing."

"Ha—yes, of course."

"The size of the tank depends on the boiler you choose. Install an oil boiler, and we provide a larger one."

"An oil boiler? Is Cheongsan Development making those?"

"Yes. We are."

Professor Kim Moon-hwan was already at work on the design. When the explanation was finished, the visitors flushed the Western toilet and studied their own faces in the mirror above the standing basin.

The second room he showed them was the kitchen. He opened the tap at the standing sink and washed a dish where they could see it, and the women could not help but marvel.

"There is no longer any need to bend your back to work in a kitchen."

Once the demonstration was done, they paced the length of it, tracing the line of the work with their eyes. They were matrons of wealthy houses; the washing would fall to maids in any case. Even so, they looked pleased. A Western kitchen was a splendid space in which to show off before guests.

He took them upstairs and opened the wide master bedroom to them—a room with a fine prospect, and great windows giving onto the terrace of the second floor. It was a story made to complete everything the rich longed for in a Western life. With the floor lamp lit, he drew the blackout curtains and let them fall again, so they might see how the room changed its mood between day and night.

"You ought to charge admission to this. You could run it as a lodging and take a fee by the night. It will be one of the sights of Seoul."

Laughter went around the room at the suggestion. Another visitor put a question.

"You mean to build these and sell them, don't you?"

"Yes. We are considering sales."

He had raised the model house in the first place to promote Cheongsan brick. Once the partnership with Lee Seong-ryong was settled, he had turned the venture toward selling. She had insisted there would be a demand for luxury houses, and now he could see for himself that she was right. Every wealthy matron who had brought her husband here had been gathered by Lee Seong-ryong. On the spot, the questions about buying a Cheongsan house began.

"What are you thinking of asking?"

"Well. Prices are swinging so wildly just now that I can't name a figure, but it will not be as dear as you imagine. The cost will vary enormously, according to the bathroom you choose, and the boiler, and the kitchen."

He was careful to say that the price would move with the options.

"May we choose the size freely?"

"We mean to offer standardized models, in three sizes."

The ondol—the underfloor heating—would not let him give them a free hand with the plan. Between the boiler's limited store of hot water and the pipes that had to run beneath every floor, he could build only to fixed designs and fixed dimensions, the way a later age would build its apartments. Had he the flexible XL pipe of modern ondol, he might have shaped the rooms however a buyer pleased. This was the 1950s, and he had to use cast iron.

Cast-iron pipe meant joints, and the joints were the danger. The fewer he used, the fewer failures would come later. Let laborers on a site bend the pipe as they liked and couple it where they pleased, and within a few years, at the present level of the craft, the heating lines would leak. A leak would put a deep crack in the name of a luxury house. He had no choice but to standardize the size of every room, and its shape.

"And what options go into the house?"

"Built-in closets, storage rooms, and the like. If you would prefer imported furniture, or an exterior finished in stone rather than brick, we can consult with you."

Those invited to the dedication were men of means. The war had driven nearly everyone deeper into poverty, and yet it had also handed a very few the chance to grow rich. These were those fortunate few. Even in the immediate wake of the fighting, they had the money to buy a house of luxury.

Chung Shin-yung missed none of the exchange between Ki-jo and the visitors. He was taking it all down in his notebook.

"We'll be placing an advertisement for Cheongsan Housing in the Dong-A Ilbo before long. I do hope you'll keep up your subscription."

He did not forget a line for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Shin-yung, who was covering the room.

When the tour was done, he served food on the first floor, and he had been no less careful with that. There was champagne bought off the American base, and light refreshments prepared by a hotel chef. To win the hearts of the rich, he had neglected no detail. They took their refreshments in a European mansion with classical music drifting through it, gathering in twos and threes to talk, and praise for the house rose from every corner. The opening of the model house was a success.

Ki-jo was listening to the talk when Yang Hwan-ung, manager of the Jongno branch of Choheung Bank, came up to him.

"President Lee... I was hoping for a quiet word. Would that be all right?"

There was a weight in the man's tone, and Ki-jo heard it.

"Shall we step into the study?"

He led him up to the study on the second floor and locked the door behind them, so they would not be interrupted. The room had been thoroughly soundproofed; none of the noise from below came in. Seated across the desk from Yang Hwan-ung in that quiet, Ki-jo smiled faintly and asked his business. The branch manager answered with his eyes alight.

"Our branch is holding a piece of property I believe would suit you, President."

Ki-jo knew what the property was.

"You mean Yongsan Brick."

"That's right, President. Ha ha ha."

Ki-jo tilted his head, just slightly, and asked, "Doesn't property a bank has seized have to go to court auction?"

"Of course. But we might handle it in a rather different way. Before it goes to auction, we can have the factory signed over to you."

Yang Hwan-ung's eyes flashed.

"How?"

He asked it knowing full well.

"There are any number of ways. A bank is never short of methods."

A thin, oily smile crossed Yang Hwan-ung's face. There were indeed many ways a bank could put the squeeze on Yongsan Brick. It could drive the interest up to an absurd rate, or refuse to extend the loan when it came due, or dangle the promise of financing for some new venture and so coax the factory into Cheongsan's hands. As the man said, the methods were many.

"Deposit the Seventh Division construction payments with our branch, and we will see that Yongsan Brick—held as collateral—is turned over to Cheongsan."

Yang Hwan-ung grinned, as though the two of them were already in it together. Ki-jo smiled and nodded, as if the thing were settled. Then he spoke.

"I have no intention of buying Yongsan Brick through the bank."

"What?"

Yang Hwan-ung stared at him as if he had been savoring a piece of taffy and a tooth had just come out in it.

"Just let it go to auction."

"But... if Cheongsan were to acquire Yongsan Brick, it would be a great help to your brick business..."

He had meant to hand the works over to Cheongsan and draw dollars into the bank by the same stroke. The plan had come apart, and he was badly flustered.

"The equipment is obsolete. The productivity is poor. I'm not interested in buying it."

Ki-jo cut him off flat. Yang Hwan-ung hurriedly composed himself, inclined his head a fraction, and said, "President, I apologize if I seemed presumptuous. Even if you choose not to deposit the dollars, I should like to keep our connection. And I will continue to keep you informed of the Yongsan Brick auction."

"I'd be grateful if you did. Thank you."

Ki-jo shook his hand and left the study.

There was simply no need to buy Yongsan Brick through a bank. Take it now, through Choheung, and he would have to pay back every last bit of the debt the works owed, and the interest with it. And what would be the point of that?

Once Yongsan Brick went to auction, it would fail to sell, and fail again. That much was obvious. Cheongsan was shaking the brick market to its foundations, and the profits of the old firms were in a plunge. No one with any interest in the trade could fail to see it. For the present, it was safe to say that no one would step forward to take the place on.

The ground it stood on would be the choicest in the city, if one looked ahead—but no one else was looking. Yongsan still lay on the edge of Seoul. Beyond the American base, there was nothing around it but the plank shantytowns of refugees. All Ki-jo had to do was wait through failure after failure, and buy when the price had fallen as far as it could fall.

Yang Hwan-ung saw before him a young businessman ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of twenty-five, blood running hot. He assumed Ki-jo would be eager to swallow a rival before it ever reached the block, and to expand in a rush. The bank, for its part, had come to him in secret, meaning to cut its losses as far as it could and to draw in dollars besides. But Ki-jo was an old man who had already lived to ninety. No trick of that sort was ever going to work on him.

Yang Hwan-ung of Choheung Bank wiped the cold sweat from his brow and came out of the study. His shoulders hung slack.

When the dedication was over and the visitors had all gone home, Ki-jo laid another table. This one was for the guests who truly mattered. Sunrye and Soon-young had cooked galbi-jjim, braised short ribs, and the four department heads helped him make ready to receive them, together with Lim Jae-taek—once president of Hanyang Records, now manager of Cheongsan Housing.

The first to arrive were Professor Kim Moon-hwan and Seong Dae-ik, head of accounting.

"Welcome, Professor."

Ki-jo met him warmly at the front door.

"Ah, Chairman! The boiler ran properly, did it?"

"Of course it did. And whose boiler is it?"

"Ha ha—a briquette boiler. Anyone can knock one of those together."

That was not true of the boiler Professor Kim had built. A forced hot-water circulation was a rare thing in the 1950s. Ki-jo showed him in, and then turned to encourage Dae-ik, who had driven the truck that brought him.

"Dae-ik, the driving wasn't hard, was it?"

"Not at all, President. The older drivers that Department Head Jang Ma-ryang trained—they taught me well."

"Bet they were hard on you."

"Well. A little. Ha ha."

He sent Seong Dae-ik in, and soon after welcomed Lee Man-ik, president of Cheongsan Development and the man in charge of the Seventh Division construction, together with eleven executives.

"President Lee Man-ik! Welcome."

"Have you been keeping well, Chairman?"

Ki-jo greeted the twelve men of Cheongsan Development with genuine warmth. The inner circle of the company gathered at the house, and the evening meal began.

"The work is coming along, I trust? I've been so taken up with affairs in Seoul that I've neglected the division."

"There is no need for concern, Chairman. Everything is proceeding without difficulty."

Lee Man-ik explained that his eleven subordinates were running the labor in military fashion. As Ki-jo had instructed, they paid the day's wage before the day was out, and in return they kept a firm hand on the men.

"Not one laborer shows up still drunk from the night before. We let a few go without mercy at the start, and the discipline snapped tight. No accidents, either, thanks to that."

"No trouble with the workers?"

"Early on, some thuggish types threatened us—told us to use their men on the site. Chief Jang came down to Dongducheon, closed ranks with his men, and settled it."

It was news to Ki-jo.

"You slipped down to Dongducheon and back without a word to me?"

"Beg pardon, sir. Didn't want you worrying yourself, so I went and came back quiet."

Ma-ryang looked sorry for it.

"It's those punks I worry about, not you. They all made it home alive, I hope?"

Everyone laughed at the joke.

He meant to take the laborers working the Seventh Division and raise them into an elite crew, and then set them to building the luxury housing complex in Hannam-dong. It seemed to be going as he had hoped, and the thought warmed him. By the standards of a later age, running a job site like a barracks was absurd, but the 1950s were another country. Right through the 1980s, when Korean crews were pouring into the Middle East, construction sites still ran on military lines.

While they talked, the chandelier in the living room poured out a brilliant light. People passing along Jongno stopped in their tracks and stood watching the banquet. They were in the thick of catching up on all they had not been able to say when a knock came at the front door of Cheongsan Housing.

Ki-jo rose and opened it. A man in a suit stood on the step.

"Good evening. Inspector Gwak Jae-seong, Jongno Police Station."

"What brings you here?"

"Ah, nothing of any importance. I was passing by, and this was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the only house with its lights blazing, so I grew curious and knocked."

Ki-jo turned his head left and right and looked down the street. Jongno had become a sea of black.

"Might you be on the sp—the special line?"

"The special line?"

"No. There's a generator installed behind the house."

Professor Kim Moon-hwan had set it up for him, built around an engine pulled from a broken-down truck.

"I see. Even the special line has gone out. This was the only place still lit, so I thought I'd ask. Forgive the intrusion. I hope you enjoy your evening."

The officer saluted him with perfect courtesy and went on his way.

In his previous life, Ki-jo had turned his face aside whenever a policeman came into view, though he had done nothing wrong. That was how the police of the 1950s sat in the minds of ordinary people—a thing to fear. It was different now. He lived in a cultural house, one of the new Western homes, and burned electricity others could not have, and the officer had been the one to offer courtesy first.

He stepped out onto Jongno and looked, with a swell of pride, at Cheongsan Housing, the only light on the darkened street. He was still standing there, moved by the sight, when Dae-ik came out looking for him.

"President, is something the matter?"

"It's nothing. I'll be right in."

He looked a moment longer, and then went back inside.

Like his own future, Cheongsan Housing shone alone in the dark.