The Chairman Already Knew

At that same hour, the airport.

Before he left London, Jo Sudeok lifted the receiver to make his report. Perhaps it was the call with Chairman Park Yonghak waiting on the other end. His eyes narrowed, and wavered.

Better if he doesn't pick up. Just let it ring, on and on...

Unfortunately, Jo Sudeok's wish was not granted.

Click.

"Chairman, I trust your precious health is flourishing? Jo—Jo Sudeok speaking."

"There's something I must report... I made bold to call."

"M-might I speak?"

Jo Sudeok drew a small breath, then opened his mouth.

"It seems there was a bit of a commotion at the young master's school."

He briefed the rest in a rush: the second-years' summons, and the referral to the disciplinary committee.

"Yes, sir."

"Yes."

Jo Sudeok hurried to add the rest.

"The second-year side appears to have retained lawyers at once."

"Th-they're sons of rich houses, so there seem to be sensitive points."

Absurd, perhaps. But if that was the mood over there, what was he supposed to do? Sure enough, Chairman Park had an answer ready at once.

"...Me?"

"Quite so."

"Ch-Chairman, only there's a bit of a problem."

"Among the second-year crowd... one of them has a parent who runs the top law firm in London. Which means that finding anyone better than that, here in Britain, is impossible from the start..."

"Sir?"

"Ah—I don't believe I've ever said any such thing..."

At that point Jo Sudeok looked sharply around.

The middle of an airport. Not a soul who looked particularly Korean.

He swallowed, dry.

He hadn't even booked a flight to Korea. He'd bought a ticket on an American carrier—so how did the man know?

That was when it came.

"Sir?"

What more could anyone say, caught like that?

"You're quite right. I must be getting old—these days I keep blanking on things..."

"I-I'll take it to heart."

And even after the call was done.

Glance. Glance.

For some time afterward, Jo Sudeok kept scanning the airport around him.

Orientation was different in every subject. If they shared one thing, it was this: each of them set the term's goals in no uncertain terms.

Yesterday, in economics, it had been live investment.

Today was much the same.

"People tend to treat mathematics as a discipline that never touches real life. Addition and subtraction are enough—what could you possibly need beyond that? That's the idea. And so, if I may."

"...?"

"The experience of taking a problem you're actually facing and solving it with mathematics. This term, the emphasis is on feeling in your own bones what math is good for."

A learning goal you would hardly imagine, back in Korea.

"Don't think of asking the teacher. You worry it through yourselves, work out a method, and then you teach me. Clear?"

Hm.

Mathematics, I could grant them. Politics class was another matter—strange past all telling.

"If you've gotten into the Royal School, you're bound to live tangled up with politics, whether you become a leader yourselves or you learn to use the ones who do."

"......"

"For that, you need to know what politics actually is. But you can pour theory in all day and none of it will stick, will it?"

Huh.

This was the same speech I'd heard in economics...

"And so, if I may, over the summer holiday you'll have a go at each party's election camp. Even a race for local party chair gets vicious, you know."

Well, well.

"See with your own eyes how a party organization is put together, and how its policies get made, and politics will feel like a different thing entirely."

A local committee chair, or a district party chair. The name changes with the party, but it is a post from which a person can even receive a nomination to the National Assembly. At an age when the height of ambition ought to be student-council president, we were to go experience an election for local party chair.

An elite school really is different.

The culture shock—if that's what it was—was still settling in when the day's third class waited for us.

Physical education.

Every subject had laid down a firm goal, true enough.

What's so special about PE?

Still, it was my favorite class. I headed for the field gladly.

"You've heard the phrase aristocratic sports, haven't you? Fact is, that's a completely wrong term."

A first. Class, in plain casual speech.

That much I can live with.

He'd said PE, and suddenly the air was all theory lecture...

"There is no such thing as an aristocratic sport. Originally, every sport belonged to the aristocracy."

Question marks seemed to rise over the students' heads. The teacher went on.

"In the old days most people did physical labor. Clock off, and they were busy collapsing into bed. And the nobles? They didn't work, so they were forever short on exercise. Sport came into being so those nobles would move, even a little. That's what I'm telling you."

I'd seen something similar in a book.

"So if you're truly a descendant of nobles, you ought to be good at sport. Even to meet your social duty, a healthy body is essential. Am I wrong?"

"That's right!"

Jack alone answered in a big voice. The teacher's mouth tipped up at the corner.

"Ah. Forgot to introduce myself."

He shrugged off the zip-up he was wearing, and out came a short-sleeved shirt with the British royal crest stamped huge across it, along with a chest that looked ready to split the cloth.

"Pretty worn, isn't it?"

A ripple of whispers.

"Name's Devon. As you can see, I'm a graduate of the Royal School."

"Oh—oh!"

So that was why he'd talked so freely.

"I am a noble, sure, but I was a first-rate delinquent. Figured, what's all this fuss about rank doing in this day and age, so I didn't study and played rugby every damn day there was. Somehow I wrung an acceptance out of Oxford, and then the rebel in me flared up again..."

A smile like a little boy's.

This guy. Exactly my type.

"Right, right—America means American football. So that very day I set about preparing for the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠NFL draft. I was a defender anyway, so rugby and football were near enough the same. Ran myself ragged for a year and came away with a proud third-round pick. That's the story."

Huh?

A rugby player prepared for one year and got drafted into the NFL? No wonder his forearms were the size of other people's thighs. Add an unusually short neck and a jaw squared off like a block, and what did you have? A classic strongman's build.

"Shame was, the contract never went through. As you all know, in aristocratic society making your living from sport is taboo. Funny thing, though—being a PE teacher is apparently just fine."

So, put together, he was a monster out of Stanford who'd even been drafted by the NFL. I felt it every time I heard one of these introductions.

Every one of them, wildly overqualified to be teaching high school!

Fine by me, though. I was turning thoughts like that over when he spoke again.

"First year on the job, and even I've forgotten how the system works around here. I'm stuck on how I'm even supposed to run a class. So, listen..."

"...?"

"It's the first day, so how about we roughly do a fitness test?"

He said roughly, but the test sat close against this term's actual goal. In Devon's words:

"The goal is for every one of you to compete in a national athletics meet."

I doubted that was even possible. Devon had the answer ready.

"From the results I'll recommend the sport that suits each of you best. You throw yourselves into that event for at least three months. Got it?"

Hearing it, I almost thought it sounded sensible. What followed was absurd beyond words.

"First test. How many times you can bench a hundred kilograms."

"...!"

This wasn't even a sports high school, and he wanted a hundred-kilogram bench—two hundred and twenty pounds.

"Nnnngh..."

Sure enough, most of them couldn't even get the bar off the rack. A few of the bigger boys managed, and even they got a single trembling rep out and no more. Once Jack's turn came, though, the air changed.

"Hrah!"

Jack put the hundred kilograms up as if it were nothing. Only natural. I'd often seen him ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lift more than that in ordinary training.

"One, two, three..."

He blew past ten without a hitch. From thirteen on, his arms began to shake.

"Looks to me like you've got two more in you."

At Devon's words, Jack set his teeth. Then—

Heave!

"One more."

A shudder...

"Can't do it?"

"Nnn—!"

Hea...ve!

I thought that was the wall. It wasn't.

"Gyaaagh!"

Jack went for one more.

"Ack!"

And the bar came down on top of him. Damn it! Good thing Devon caught it. But that man—why was he handling a hundred kilograms so easily?

Next was Peter.

"Sir, I can barely even keep my own body upright..."

"Try it."

"Okaaay..."

Starting with the way he took hold of the bar.

"Mph! Mmph! Mmmmmph!"

"Enough."

Zero, of course.

And after that...

A stir ran through the crowd. I'd been wondering who could set them off out of nowhere.

Ah.

Tennessee Grosvenor, the one they called an aristocrat among aristocrats. He lay back on the bench as if the whole business were a nuisance, spread his arms to some careless width, and seized the bar. Did he train, ordinarily? The forearms, at a glance, were no joke.

"One, two, three... eight, nine, ten."

He knocked out ten with ease and sat up. He could have gone further. He'd simply decided that was enough. And of course—

"Whoa—!"

Gasps spilled out all around. After that, a parade of zeros went on for a while.

"Last."

Ah. I was last.

I set my grip with care. Had I ever beaten Jack on the bench?

Don't think so...

Fifteen, then. That would be the mark, for now.

Hup!

What was this? It felt lighter than usual. One, two, three...

"Isn't that form a little too perfect?"

I'm sorry, but this is really not a moment I can answer...

"Ten, eleven, tweeeelve."

A tremor.

"Thir—teeeen."

The limit. Even so, I clenched my teeth and drove the bar up again.

"Going for more?"

"Nngh..."

"Fourteeeen."

One more here and I'd be pinned for certain. I knew it, and I did it anyway. Shudder. Shudder. Eyes squeezed shut, I wrung out every bit of strength I had.

Damn it. The strength was going in—so why was the bar staying exactly where it was?

Right then, with a soft flick, the bar shot upward. I opened my eyes, and there was Devon, holding the barbell in one hand.

"You here for a workout?"

"...?"

"We're taking a measurement. What are you doing it by the book for?"

"......"

"On your feet."

Ungh. I was forcing myself upright when—

"Sir, how many can you do?"

Someone in the crowd tossed it out, playful.

"I want to know!"

"What's your record?"

And then the questions came from every side. Devon waited until the noise died, and only then slowly opened his mouth.

"The NFL measures you officially before the draft. I think the number I put up then was about forty."

What? Forty? Ten more than Jack and me put together...

"What's your hundred-meter time?"

"They don't measure that. Rugby or football, it's the forty-yard dash that matters—36.5 meters."

He gave them his forty-yard time, but no one seemed to have a feel for it. Perhaps that was why he added more.

"The hundred, I had it timed once, first year of university. Must've been 10.8 seconds."

I was getting tired of being surprised.

"Since it came up, shall we go run the hundred?"