Now It's Your Turn to Yield
"Now it's your turn to yield."
He was right. John Green, a house that made nothing but bespoke shoes, had resolved to produce a ready-made good—and a sneaker, at that. I was genuinely grateful.
The trouble is, the man I've brought along, James Paver, is a heavyweight among heavyweights.
So what else was there to do? I would have to push once more. I gathered myself and opened my mouth with care.
"I know it's my turn to give ground. But before I do, there's something I have to say."
What I set before him was the case of a certain British carmaker. You know the sort. A company infamous for cars that are forever breaking down—an SUV that costs the better part of two hundred thousand dollars, and yet so riddled with faults that the owner lives in the service center. By any sane measure the firm ought to have gone under. The cars, however, sell like mad.
The reason is simple.
They're beautiful. Beautiful to an almost irritating degree.
Which raises a question. How does this company manage, time after time, to build cars that look that good?
"The answer's obvious."
"...?"
"Because from the very first sketch, they place no limits on the design."
Carve the body here, and the fuel economy suffers. Carve it there, and the engineers will be down your throat. An industrial designer is supposed to weigh all of that and compromise. This company, with magnificent nerve, says otherwise.
Don't so much as glance at the engineers. Just make it beautiful.
With the chief executive shoving them forward on purpose, the designers spend their creativity without restraint and turn out something people will open their wallets for, breakdowns be damned.
"You mean we should do as the engineers do, and keep strictly to a supporting role. Is that it?"
I could not demand a one-sided sacrifice. I only meant that they should not overlook a model of success that already existed. Above all—
I finished speaking and held out the design draft Paver had drawn. The dice were cast. Would they grant a designer full authority, as that British firm had done? Was this draft truly worth so much?
"The decision is yours, sir."
"H-how could you agree to it?"
The master craftsman's voice was thick with complaint. The owner was no more comfortable than he was, but when he answered, his tone had gone grave.
"That young fellow we saw earlier."
"...?"
"They say he entered Royal School on the Queen's recommendation."
"The Queen?"
While the craftsman's eyes went round, the owner went on.
"I spoke with Sir Lewis. He says the boy is certainly no ordinary child."
"W-well... he came in and struck a bargain with you face to face, so of course he stands well above his peers, but..."
His voice trailed away. He had known the boy was unusual. He had not expected both the Queen and Sir Lewis to acknowledge him.
"That makes three of us now."
"...!"
"I barely agreed to the sneakers. And how many days has it been? They come back saying they mean to stamp their own logo on them."
Nerve? Shamelessness? He had been startled by a drive he could not name, and then the sketch they set before him had, in the end, left him shaking his head.
"Where on earth did he find a designer like that."
"..."
"The boy has a gift for drawing people to him."
"His family's rich. Isn't he just buying his way through it?"
The owner shook his head.
"You think he lured that designer with money?"
"Then with what..."
"You fought him yourself, and you still didn't feel it? If the man were the sort to waver for cash, why bring him all the way here? He would have pressed a few bills into his hand—the money that one loves so well—and been done with it."
James Paver, was it. A wild horse of a man, awkward under anyone's hands. To control a creature like that, you had to show real ability, not money. That was surely why Park Jihoon had come with Paver beside him.
"So you're saying he stormed John Green in order to bring a subordinate to heel?"
"Yes. And once he had my permission, he strolled right back out."
"Th-then you ought to be angry, even now."
"Angry about what?"
"Well..."
"Why did you bring me a design this extraordinary? How dare you ask me to make a shoe with this much character—it's terribly inconvenient. Is that the rage you want from me?"
A strange excitement glimmered in the owner's eyes, the first stirring of what he expected from the future about to unfold.
"You've made up your mind, then."
"Please see that it proceeds without a hitch."
At that, the craftsman let out a small, reluctant groan, dipped his head, and quietly left the room.
At the same hour, the owner's family was no rare sight at Harris Department Store. They always arrived as closing time drew near, which meant the staff automatically stayed late. Today was exactly that sort of day.
Word that Carl Bernstein, the founder's grandson, had appeared put the managing director on a razor's edge. And no wonder.
Not once had the boy ever arrived with a decent look on his face.
The days the lid blew off. The nights he could not govern his temper. Those were the only times he came to the store, and he never failed to seize on every pretext and heap on every insult. He used the staff, quite literally, as a bin for his feelings.
Even so, it was difficult for the employees to make an issue of it. Perhaps because he kept the possibility of a recording in mind, Carl always used refined language. In the mildest tone in the world, and with truly extraordinary skill, he scraped at a person's nerves. It felt like a many-legged insect marching up from the navel, across the chest, and on toward the ear. But that was only a feeling. Ask what harm you had actually suffered, and there was nothing proper to say in reply.
In any case, with that Carl Bernstein on the floor, every employee had no choice but to go tense.
And then—what was this? Carl came forward smiling. He even bowed his head first and offered a greeting. This was a boy who believed that a managing director, or a vice president, was in the end nothing but a wage slave. Why on earth?
"Young master, allow me to—"
"Director Richard."
"...!"
Since when did he know a slave's name?
"Why so startled?"
"Ah, well."
"You work hard for our company. Of course I ought to remember your name."
"...Thank you."
"How is the mood these days?"
"By flagship standards, we're posting our highest sales on record."
"Oh?"
For an instant the director thought, damn. Was the boy about to seize on those words and invent some fresh outrage? But the answer that came back was nothing he had expected.
"That's thanks to the staff."
"..."
"Shall we walk a little?"
"Sir?"
"It's been a while. I ought to look around, at least."
"Yes, I'll show you the way at—"
"No need for a tour. Just keep me company."
For some reason Carl talked a great deal about himself. He had no particular interest in inheriting the family business. That would only mean receiving his parents' achievements, not something he himself had built. That sort of talk. What could he be working toward, with a preamble this long? The director was moving along with his face drawn tight when it came.
"So, what I mean is."
"...?"
"A brand... sir?"
"A luxury brand, to take a place in the hall here."
Carl pointed to one of the shops.
"That one will do."
"Sir?"
"Clear that boutique out, and my brand will fit perfectly."
The spot he had picked was, without question, the lowest-selling shop in the luxury hall. Even so, it was a scale no new brand had any business coveting. But what could the director do? All that remained was to agree at the proper volume.
"Of course. If the young master is making a brand, we must clear a place for you."
"You promise?"
"Naturally."
"Then clear it this time."
"Sir?"
"The renewal season is in three months, isn't it? Tell them then that sales were too poor, and the contract will not be renewed."
"B-but it isn't as if the brand will be ready to open at once."
"Why not?"
"You're still a student..."
"Do I design it? The scribblers can rattle their pens and get it done."
"Even so, th-there are principles."
"What principles?"
"To enter the luxury hall, last year's sales have to be outstanding. If they don't clear the level we require..."
"They will."
"What?"
"Sales. It doesn't matter who buys, so long as someone does."
Which was to say: let a subsidiary step in and pump the numbers up. No wonder he had come in looking so bright. In all his years, the director had never thought he would live to hear the owner's family propose a breach of trust.
"Young master, even if you somehow get in, if the goods don't sell, in the end..."
"You do worry about the oddest things."
"...?"
"Slip a little money to some celebrities and have them carry our products around. Stick a paparazzo on them, get a photograph of a secret date, and the publicity will be devastating."
He ought to have put everything he had into keeping his face in order.
"Why are you wearing the face of a morals teacher?"
"...It's just."
"Stop being prim, and let's be honest. Isn't that what celebrities are for? Am I wrong?"
Why was he like this today? Had he read the biography of some entrepreneur who made his own fortune young? The whole department store would be his in time anyway. Why the sudden frenzy to build a brand of his own?
But what could he do? The managing director could only say that he would do his best, and bow his head without strength.
It was nearly ten at night before I got back to the dormitory. I could have slept at home and gone to school the next day. I had come so I could see Peter's face as well.
"Why'd you even buy all this—mmph—you could've just come—mmph."
It was food packed up from the hotel. I had worried it would go cold, but that fear had been needless. Only after he had emptied several plates in a row did he look up.
"I definitely ate dinner. And yet this is going down too."
"You were bored on your own, weren't you."
"So?"
"I finished it."
He wiped his hands on a wet wipe and went straight to the computer.
"It runs on the internal network, so if you connect from school, you can get in. Yeah?"
Well, well. That looked promising.
"It's nothing special. Just a page for posting things, sitting there on its own."
That was enough.
"But listen. I made it because you told me to, but who's going to use it? I mean, go to a classroom and you can see people's faces. Your friends are all on the same floor. I can't see why anyone would bother."
"It might be different if it's anonymous."
"Huh? Anonymous?"
Peter's eyes were blinking like a mouse cursor.