It Has to Be Stamped
The next day, Lukashi headed into central London at first light.
With the money his boss had given him, he bought the most expensive Leica there was. He felt faintly unreal the whole time he tore the box open and read the manual. The camera the legendary photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson had favored was a Leica, and here he stood with the dearest model of them all. Of course the feeling sat strangely on him.
"Ha."
It was almost as if the dream had already come true.
Lukashi was the introverted sort. An interview? Honestly, he had no confidence in that whatsoever. Even so, the moment his eyes rested on the Leica logo, he felt himself straighten for no good reason. And why shouldn't he?
When it comes to the gear, I'm as good as a professional.
He tried the thing out, shifting the focus and pressing the shutter here and there. By the time he had burned through an entire roll of film, he looked up and there he was: a man in a rather magnificent outfit, and better still, running straight toward him.
He meant to call out. Why is he so fast? Another second and the man would have blown right past.
"Excuse me!"
Lukashi all but threw himself into the man's path and brought him up short.
"I—I'm sorry, but could I take just one photo?"
"A photo? Why?"
A killing look. With only a little exaggeration, it was the sort of face that might have thrown a punch depending on the answer.
"N-nothing like that. Your clothes are just too good."
"......?"
"It isn't a replica, is it? It looks like a real uniform."
The moment the word uniform left his mouth, the man's face eased in a way you could see. The wary eyes vanished altogether, and he became the warmest, easiest presence in the world.
"It's a field jacket the British Army wore in the First World War."
"The First World War? Really?"
A nod. And another.
"Isn't it heavy?"
"Of course it is. It's a uniform."
"There must be plenty of reproductions that are easier to wear. Is there a reason you wear the real thing?"
Instead of answering, the man turned the question back on him.
"If a real uniform still exists, why would I buy a reproduction?"
"Fair enough. If you're talking about the original, there's no comparison."
And it wasn't just talk. Under the field jacket, the man was wearing a uniform as well. From what he said, it was a shirt the British Army had issued in the 1960s.
"I'd like to run it in a magazine. Could I keep just one photo? It would go with a line about how a military uniform can be fashion, something along those lines......"
Before the words had even finished landing, the man snapped into position. Not a model's pose, exactly. More a real soldier setting his clothes to rights. He nodded once, as if to say he was ready.
Click.
"I'll take one more."
Click. Click.
"I'd like to include an interview as well. May I ask your name?"
"Jack 'Tiger' Grills."
"That's a fiery name."
Lukashi was just drawing a modest model's fee from his coat when the man stopped him.
"Buy a uniform with that."
"Sorry?"
"And if you're going to, don't get a reproduction. Get a real one."
With that, Jack took his leave as coolly as he had come.
Meanwhile, at Park Jihoon's house.
Perhaps because he had spent the whole of the day before running about, he had overslept for the first time in a long while. He was taking his time getting up and brewing coffee when the phone went off.
Riiing!
A call, at this hour?
"Boss, I've arrived!"
Well. Who else would telephone at a time like this, if not Jo Sudeok?
"Thank you for making the trip."
"A hard trip? Please. First class was as comfortable as home......"
"I'm sorry, though, Professor. I don't know how to say this."
"Yes?"
"I think I've found our person."
"What do you mean?"
The moment I finished a brief explanation, the answer came tumbling back.
"Aigoo, I'm the one who ought to apologize. I only needed to check once with young Lukashi......"
Having hauled Lukashi all the way to Britain on the belief that he was the man, how could he have brought himself to ask?
"I wish I'd known before you left, Professor."
"Don't give it a thought. I'm here anyway. I can thank Mr. Ralph Warren while I've come, and if there's time I'll clear the work that's piled up. That'll do."
"Ah. Since it came up."
Perhaps because this was usually the moment a heap of work got dumped on him, a tense breath crossed the line.
I grinned.
"Don't worry. This happens to be your field, Professor."
"My field?"
"Do you happen to know anyone at Parsons School of Design?"
"Of course. More than one. Frankly, even if I didn't, I could be on close terms with them as of today."
That trademark shameless answer. He had clearly found some ease in himself.
"I've heard there are a great many promising people among the Parsons graduates."
"Ah, yes. Parsons has the New York fashion world firmly in its grip."
"So. People who graduated within the last five years. Pick out the promising ones and make me a list."
I already had a name in mind. Still, in the making of a list, a person I had never thought of might turn up, the way Lukashi had.
Had he read that intention?
"Preparing the stage after the select shop already, I see."
"Of course."
"Understood. I'll cast the net good and fine."
Jo Sudeok showed his confidence, as expected. With his ability, a task of this order was practically a holiday.
"I'll send good news before long."
And with that, the call was done.
Just as Jo Sudeok had said, I was preparing the step that would follow the select shop. Even so.
For now, the priority is planting that first foot cleanly.
The select shop had to succeed, and succeed properly, before anything else. I sat down at the desk. Publicity would need a men's magazine, and from what I had confirmed at the library, if the thing was too provocative they would not so much as glance at it.
Sons of good houses. Picky to a fault.
Even in name, a fair measure of the aristocratic would have to go in. Fine. So be it. I stayed where I was and began to write an art column, then added a review of classical recordings and a critical appreciation of British literature. Perhaps because it had been a long while since I had taken up a pen, getting up as I was felt like a waste.
While I'm at it, why not write about the things I actually like?
Whatever the subject, I only have to make it sound refined. Isn't that enough?
Thanks to that, I could not leave the desk for quite some time.
That night, after a full day of writing, I went to the hotel lobby at the hour we had set, to meet James Paver.
So this is the founder of Ultimate.
A face that looked ordinary at a glance. Those venomous eyes, though, shone with a fierce light. Unlike Lukashi, Paver was the sort who lacked any gift for society.
"This is all a scam, isn't it?"
You could tell from the first words out of his mouth.
"If it isn't a scam, what are you trusting when you hand me that kind of money?"
And yet I did not find the sight unpleasant in the least. If you were the one receiving the offer, wouldn't that be the first thing you wanted to know? The type who lays his thoughts bare instead of talking in circles. People like this seem difficult at the start, but they hold no grudge afterward, and they are clean about it.
"First, thank you for coming all this way."
I inclined my head, then lifted a shopping bag and set it on the table.
"......?"
A look that asked what this was.
"Sneakers made by John Green. A sample came out, and they sent it over."
"I was under the impression they only made bespoke shoes."
His eyes went thin. But there was no room left for doubt. Sneakers of a quality this overwhelming had to be a first for him.
"This is John Green's work. No question?"
"......"
"But there's a problem."
It was a sample, so there was room for it to improve. Even allowing for that, the design was severely crude.
"I think it's because sneakers are new to them. Even so, we can hardly launch it like this."
"Why are you telling me?"
"Why do you think?"
A look that said he hadn't the faintest idea. My answer was simple.
"I was hoping you might try it."
"Try what?"
"The design. Designing John Green's sneakers."
Only a moment ago, this was the Paver who had asked whether I was a con man. But in this instant—
"......!"
A full earthquake in the pupils. The shaking in him showed, unhidden, across his face.
"I heard you design anything a person puts on. Are shoes the exception?"
Perhaps because he was the proud sort. A light prod, and the light came straight back into his eyes.
"I have a condition."
"Tell me."
"I have to stamp a signature logo on every piece I make."
I know. Of course I know.
"If you won't allow that, I won't make a thing."
"This logo. Could I see it?"
Paver drew a notebook from his trouser pocket. He wrote with a marker, then inscribed a small circle around the letters like a border. The result was white lettering on a red ground. The Ultimate logo I had wanted for so long.
"You want this stamped on the John Green sneakers. Is that it?"
At my words, Paver shook his head.
In truth it was the same sentence. An artist's obstinacy, you might call it. Whatever anyone else might think of it—
An artist's heart? I know that better than anyone.
That was why I smiled and gave him my answer.
"Shall we?"
"......?"
"We've reached a conclusion. Let's go and give them our feedback."
The seat where I sat across from the principal of John Green. Before us, my chief designer(?)—James Paver—and John Green's master shoemaker were locked in a furious argument.
"The silhouette is hopeless. I'm telling you, this is a sneaker, not a derby."
"Do you even know what a shoe is, before you talk like that?"
At the craftsman's words, Paver lifted a foot.
"You know how to wear them. You don't know how to make them. Isn't that why you're spouting nonsense?"
The craftsman twitched his lips and pressed on.
"A sneaker with the sole glued on, and a Goodyear welt fixed stitch by stitch, are different from the foundation up."
"Who picked a fight over the method of construction?"
"Because the design you're describing changes the method of construction!"
It was like sitting in on a meeting at Hyeon-gang Motors. A designer pours himself into drawing out a beautiful form, while the engineer responsible for performance is bound to care more for aerodynamics than for design. So designers and engineers, whenever they meet, are fated to fight.
The quarrel between Paver and the craftsman reached its true peak over whether the logo would go on or not.
"Lay a logo over the leather? Ha! Do you even know how badly that ruins the feel on the foot?"
"It's leather. It ages."
"Well said! Do you have any idea how hard it is to hold the balance while accounting for the aging?"
At this rate, feelings would only be hurt. The opinions would never come together. This was where a leader mattered. Clearing the traffic, and taking responsibility for it, was the head's work. At that point I turned to the principal of John Green.
"You've heard enough, haven't you?"
"Enough to make my ears sting."
"Then all that's left, I think, is a decision between the two of us."
"I have already yielded once."
"......"
"Now it is your turn to yield."
At the principal's words, the master shoemaker smiled a thoroughly triumphant smile.