Better to Owe the Family
Back at the dormitory, I made sure Olivia had gone inside, then headed straight for the pay phone.
It was late enough that a good many rooms had already gone dark. Even so, there was a time difference to consider, and this was the hour to call.
I dialed. It wasn't long before a welcome voice came down the line.
"Who's this. Jihoon, is it?"
I grinned.
"Have you eaten?"
"I just got back from dinner."
"What'd you have?"
"A tasting menu."
"That going to be enough?"
Enough? Did he have any idea what that meal had cost?
A little of that fond back-and-forth, and then:
"So. What'd you call for?"
"Does something have to be wrong before I call?"
"Oh? And when have you ever phoned at the crack of dawn for no reason at all?"
Sharp as ever.
"I need a watch."
"A watch?"
"If I asked Chairman Dazai in Japan, it'd be settled on the spot. I just don't want to owe him."
"Oh? Owing your grandfather is fine, is it?"
"If I'm going to owe someone, family is much better."
"And if he grabs you by the collar and tells you to take over the business, what will you do then?"
"Come on. You think a deal that size gets done over a single watch?"
I didn't need to see him to know Grandfather was smiling into the receiver. Just the push-and-pull with his grandson—courtship, if you could call it that—was enough to flood the man with dopamine.
Sure enough, he asked in a voice bright with excitement.
"What am I meant to find you?"
"Something rare enough to sit in a museum would be ideal."
"A Rolex?"
"A Rolex would be fine. But if we're choosing, an eighteen-hundreds Patek Philippe..."
Grandfather called for the chief secretary at once. He checked this and that, then picked up the receiver again.
"Will a wristwatch made in 1871 do?"
"Wow!"
"They say there's one fitted with a double chronograph, too. That one was made in 1902."
"You're every bit a match for Chairman Dazai."
"What. You thought your grandfather couldn't manage it?"
As if. One look at the art collection and the answer was obvious.
We talked a while longer after that. The interesting part was that Grandfather never asked a single further question—what business I meant to start, what he'd get in return for the investment, any of it. He wasn't curious about a thing.
Which left me the one who had to ask.
"You aren't wondering what your grandson is up to?"
"If I were, would you give me an answer?"
"That's a little much to ask."
"Right. I'd only get my blood up, so I won't ask."
A voice laced with teasing.
"Thank you, Grandfather."
"If you're grateful, then take over Hyeon-gang Motors—"
Beep. Beep. Beep.
And so the short call came to an end.
The night had turned chilly. I looked quietly up at the sky. The watch Olivia had asked for, Grandfather would see to. Now it was time to put my weight on finding a shop.
"You said you would take in the heritage of traditional dress and make ready for a new age. I should like to confirm the sincerity of that."
Confirm the sincerity. If I wanted the shop locked in, the weekend would have to be a busy one.
I started slowly back toward the dormitory.
The next morning, Carl Bernstein, student-council president of the second year, received a very interesting report.
In a freshman economics class, the name Clifford Brookhouse had come up.
And out of Park Jihoon's mouth, no less.
There was no chance he actually meant to invest. Then why? Because his classmates were all watching. Perhaps he'd only wanted to strike a pose, as if he had no intention of simply taking the hit. The interesting part was that he'd gone out that very same day.
Hmm.
What was he thinking? If one thing was certain, it was nothing good.
Maybe that was the unease at work. Class was nearly on top of him, but Carl picked up the receiver anyway. The party on the other end, of course, was the firm.
"You remember what I asked you to look into last time?"
"Ah. Yes."
"How far along is it?"
"Could you wait a moment?"
From the other end came the sounds, one after another, of a drawer opening, files being rummaged, papers turning. Did he still have something to find? As if buying time, the man tossed a question back.
"Did something happen, by any chance?"
"I just grew curious."
"If you're curious..."
"I need to know how formidable a backer he's sitting on. Set the impudence aside. I simply can't bear not knowing."
That was when it happened. As if the man had found what he wanted, the sound of the receiver being shifted came through.
"The boy you mentioned, Park Jihoon. He owns an American corporation in his own name."
That much was common. For a gift, or for the tax bill, a person might easily keep a paper company or two.
"But it was a little interesting."
"...?"
"From raising the capital, through founding the company and running it—he handled every step himself."
"At that age, anyone could do as much, couldn't they?"
"Well..."
"...?"
"From about the age of ten..."
"Does that even make sense?"
"We found that part odd as well and looked into it. We couldn't find anything suspicious."
Ha!
"What, was he selling children's clothes?"
Ah. They said he'd walked out to a summons from the second-years with a perfectly blank face. So he'd been winning since he was small, and there was nothing left in the world for him to fear?
A hollow little laugh slipped out of Carl.
The world might feel as if it belonged to you. Even so. A bit of business goes well and—what? You bandy about our firm's name?
Carl was shaking his head when the voice went on.
"He seems to have judged the North American side stable. Lately he's looking to expand the business into Britain as well."
"Britain?"
"Yes. He's been making contact with Manchester on several fronts..."
"Why Manchester, of all places?"
"I wonder about that myself. It isn't as if he's short of funds. Why choose Manchester..."
"Look into it."
"Yes. Understood."
"And the most important thing."
Here Carl went on, his voice gone thoroughly hard.
"...Pardon?"
"There will be some gap in the law. Whatever it takes, don't let him so much as set a foot here."
"......"
"Do you understand?"
"Yes. We'll proceed that way."
"One last thing."
"Go ahead."
"If you catch anything unusual to do with Park Jihoon—Britain, America, the Third World, it doesn't matter—report it to me at once."
Which was to say: plant an antenna in every country on earth.
"If you want to know a thing, you can know anything. Isn't that so?"
"O-of course."
"What a relief."
The short call ended like that.
Meanwhile, I had been shut in the library since morning, working through every men's magazine on the shelves.
High school was precisely the age when a boy grew sensitive to style. By rights the fashion magazines ought to have been worn soft with handling.
Not a single mark of a hand on them.
Hmm. Because it was an aristocratic school? When even showing off one's cultivation over literature would barely have been enough, who picked up a fashion magazine in the library? They'd think it bad form.
That's a problem.
However secretly the select shop was to be run, it still needed at least a minimum of word of mouth. If I wanted to spark so much as curiosity, a few photographs would have to be seen.
For the marketing, men's magazines are essential.
I didn't need many. It would be enough if only the students of Royal School read them. And if that produced a select shop with Royal School students lined up outside? The public would take an enormous interest in our store.
Like Facebook.
The mere explanation that it was a messenger used by Harvard students stirred a tremendous curiosity, didn't it?
And I'm going to use that properly.
To that end, I meant to leak the information to our own students little by little. Anyway.
So they don't read the men's magazines that already exist.
Once the conclusion was settled, I quietly closed the magazine.
Maybe it was because the dream and the revenge lay folded over each other. The work looked like a mountain, and yet I wasn't tired in the least. If anything, it felt as though good ideas had taken numbers and were waiting their turn. Thanks to that, everything in my head was arranged with perfect clarity—from what had to be done at once, all the way out to the process after I had swallowed the fashion industry. Every plan rose in fine detail.
If I simply carried out what was already in my head, one step at a time...
The money comes in, I get my revenge, and on top of that I even get my freedom!
How could I possibly have time to be tired?
I was walking along with a pleasant face when it happened.
"The library, first thing in the morning?"
A familiar voice.
Huh.
To my surprise, there was Peter's face. He was leaning against the library exit, rubbing sleepy eyes.
"I thought you'd gone to train. And here you are."
"How'd you know where to find me?"
"Say the first note and I hear the chord."
We fell into step.
"Want to eat before you go?"
"Class is about to start."
"So what if you're late?"
"I'm not like a certain someone. I have to keep my scholarship."
I snorted.
"The campus job?"
"They said they'd give me one. No word since."
Having got that far, he asked it with his eyes round, as if the world itself had startled him.
"The second-years wouldn't block even that, would they?"
"No matter how great the family, they wouldn't go so far as to block a part-time job. Right? They... they wouldn't. No. They really shouldn't..."
"You that short on money?"
"You bet! It's practically a jar with the bottom knocked out."
"And yet your face is bright."
"Making a miserable face doesn't make money appear."
Fair enough. If a miserable face produced money, that kid would walk around scowling all day.
We went on without speaking for a while. Then I turned to Peter.
"Want a part-time job?"
"What are you suddenly on about?"
"You said you need money."
"I always need money."
"So do it. A part-time job."
"...?"
The proposal was simple. The internet hadn't spread yet, but there was a network that could be reached only inside the school. Something like the intranet the military uses.
"Think you can do it?"
"No—why that, out of nowhere?"
"I think it'd help with publicity."
"Publicity for what?"
We were nearly at the lecture hall. Too late, now, for a proper explanation.
"Whatever it is, it's work that helps me. That much is certain."
"Helping a friend, and you want me to take money for it?"
Peter waved it off, as if to say forget the whole thing.
"Broke as I am, that's not it. I'll just do it. That side's amateur work anyway, so taking pay would feel awkward..."
"Olivia agreed to take it."
"Huh?"
"Olivia's working for a salary."
"Rich kids really are something else."
He scratched his head and added the rest.
"Then I'd better take it too. What choice do I have."
I grinned.
And with that, the first three members were set.