Anything but the Money
The next morning, at Park Jihoon's house, I was on the phone with Yang Eokgwan. Queensman was drawing a great deal of attention, and it was time to prepare whatever came next.
"There are three brands, in total, that can be purchased at a low price."
Regrettably, all three were houses I was hearing of for the first time. A company facing a takeover is, by that very fact, a company barely on its feet. And if it had failed to hold and had gone under in the end? No wonder the names mean nothing to me.
I gave the pen in my hand a light turn, then asked.
"What if we spent a little money?"
Yang already knew a collaboration between Capsulemon and D-Que was on the schedule. The moment I added the further assumption that I would put my own fortune in as well, the heavyweight names came back, just as expected: Lohebe of Spain, Celines of France, and Guccio of Italy. For sheer name value, Guccio stood alone. Sure enough, Yang went on.
"Shall I call it the chronic failing of a family enterprise? The judgment is that careless management has passed all decent bounds. Capable people, as a result, will not come in, and the house has fallen into a vicious circle of reheating the designs it already has."
"Revenue has certainly fallen."
"Nor is even that figure earned by selling goods. The greater part is payment received for lending out the license. If things continue as they are, I do not believe they can endure ten years."
Of course, within those ten years a hero would appear, save Guccio, and change the brand from the ground up. I remembered exactly who that hero was. Which is to say, I already held the private remedy for buying Guccio cheap and setting it right again.
Even so.
"There is no point in simply swallowing it with money."
"...Sir?"
The moment Chinese capital acquires a luxury brand, the image of a luxury house is bound to vanish. A company staggering through financial trouble, then fallen to money—nothing more than that, and nothing less. That was what I meant. There was, however, a way to keep the luxury image and still take the brand over far more cheaply than a fair price. Perhaps he read the confidence gathered in my silence.
"You have something in mind?"
I grinned.
"Set a meeting, please. The sooner, the better."
"If it is Guccio, even an immediate meeting should be possible."
Immediate.
"They are that pressed. I am told the mood is such that they will see anyone, so long as he smells of money."
"Where is the head office?"
"Italy. Florence."
Florence. Not so far, then.
"Adjust the schedule for me."
The reply from Yang Eokgwan came about ten minutes later.
"They seem beside themselves. They wish to meet at once."
"And a flight?"
"First class is invariably empty."
Okay.
"I'll leave now."
I set the receiver down, and I was just about to change when the telephone screamed again. Rrrr. Had something already gone wrong?
"Sir."
What came through was a voice I had not expected at all.
"Mr. Faber?"
We were not, as a rule, people who traded private calls. Perhaps that was why a very large question mark rose over my head.
"Might you spare me a little time?"
"Right now?"
"Yes. There is something I should like to discuss with you in person."
The voice was not ordinary. Looking after my own people would normally have come first, but I had to get to Florence at once. Perhaps he sensed the difficulty. Faber spoke before I did.
"It is not so urgent that every second must be fought for. Please tell me when you have the time. I will wait for your call."
That night, in a hotel lobby, Faber slowly looked the man opposite over. The suit was navy, and bespoke, cut from Zegna cloth. The white dress shirt might have been pressed a moment ago; there was not a wrinkle in it, and the silk tie had been set with equal care. The man offered his card first.
"I don't have a card."
"A card is only necessary for a man without a face. Like me."
Gilbert smiled an amiable smile. He seemed to have a genuine talent for lifting the other party, ever so quietly.
"Why did you ask to see me?"
"It is exactly as written in the proposal."
Faber said nothing.
"We are in dire want of an exceptional talent."
When Faber still offered no particular reply, Gilbert opened his mouth with a face grown rather grave.
"I know this must sit poorly with you. How could it not? It was President Park Jihoon who discovered you and gave you your chance. Merely taking a seat with me will weigh on your conscience. I understand."
He went on, heavy with the weight of it.
"But I hope you will not trouble yourself too far. We will prepare ample good faith on our side, so that neither of us has to redden a face."
"Ample good faith?"
"A transfer fee, if we call it a transfer fee. A consolation, if we call it a consolation. We will pay a sum that would rank among the highest in the industry. President Park's side comes away having earned an enormous profit, and you will have made a sufficient return, so the burden on your mind ought to lighten. Wouldn't you say?"
Perhaps it was because he was a lawyer. The man seemed thoroughly accustomed to work of this kind.
"I think you may be rating me far too high..."
"Not in the least. Every outlet is shining a light on your designs. Even the major papers are scrambling over one another to run special features."
In truth, there could have been hardly a person who had failed to see the news about Faber, whether or not he had seen the clothes. It was fame like a thunderclap. Unlike everything he had said until now, Gilbert spoke with a firm face, and even without tapping a calculator one could roughly guess how vast the sum was.
"And that is not all."
He added that they would build a team with Faber at its center. Once the system was in place, he said, a certain level of quality could be kept up without fail. There would be no need to stamp out a new item every week, and no reason to live in dread that the next piece might be ignored.
"You would work about a month each quarter, and pass the rest at a second house in Hawaii. Spend three years that way, and what do you suppose happens?"
It was after Gilbert had pressed his weight onto the words three years.
"You take hold of wealth enough to support not only your family, but every relative you have. Thanks to you, all of them gain their financial freedom."
And it was no empty picture. Faber had lived a long time dependent on his mother's family. When his parents' business failed, he had passed his youth under the protection of his grandmother and his aunt. Afraid that a boy in that position might lose heart, his grandmother had walked him to school every day, and every day she had pressed his allowance into his hand before sending him through the gate. His aunt had been the same. For a nephew who loved art, she had split what little money she had and bought him expensive paints.
Perhaps Gilbert saw the waver in Faber's eyes. He added, lightly:
"Three years. Five million dollars, guaranteed. That is only the minimum. Depending on the results, it could be double. It could be triple."
"It's a sum I can hardly imagine."
"Sign, and the imagining will become reality."
Gilbert soon drew out a contract. It was too long to check through, but the gist, so far as one could guess, was consent to a change of employer.
"You become the designer who represents the Harris Group. Soon your name will ring across the whole of Europe. America will only be a matter of time."
Faber was silent.
"All of it is what happens the moment you sign the contract."
The voice had gone thoroughly hard. At an invitation so supremely confident, Faber slowly lifted his head.
"Did you say Gilbert?"
"Yes. Gilbert. Gilbert McGill."
"You have a very bright view of my future."
"Of course. You are a man chosen by the Harris Group."
At that point Faber's eyes flickered.
"Harris hangs off the end of every sentence."
"...Pardon?"
"Anyone listening would think I couldn't earn a cent without Harris to help me."
"Ah, that is not what I meant..."
"Money. Money. Money. Whatever the subject."
Gilbert jerked as if struck.
"Have you nothing to say that isn't money?"
"No, that is..."
No—what on earth was the man supposed to need, besides money?
"If a great house is what you want, or land..."
"Don't bother."
The answer must have been too far from anything he expected. Even the seasoned Gilbert was left with a face from which every word had gone.
"Might you spare me a little time?"
"Right now?"
"Yes. There is something I should like to discuss with you in person."
Unfortunately, the meeting never came off. The president's voice was that of a man with a schedule, thoroughly busy. After the call, Faber quietly looked down at the slip of paper in his hand.
Might I see you in the hotel lobby today?
It was a message from the Harris lawyer. Refuse, and it was obvious they would come bursting into the room.
"Hm."
He would have to meet them at least once. He had wanted to speak with President Park Jihoon before that. He was letting out another sigh when the bell went off without warning. Rrrr. He lifted the receiver, and a welcome voice came through.
"This is Park Jihoon."
"Sir, what's happened, all of a sudden..."
"Your voice stayed with me. I thought I might stop by for a moment. Is that all right?"
He was on his way to the airport. Because Park Jihoon had taken the trouble, the two of them could at least talk in the car, and Faber was more grateful for that than he quite knew how to say.
"The truth is, I received an offer."
He passed over the papers the Harris Group had sent, envelope and all. If he had truly meant to change jobs, he might simply have left in silence. To hand the proposal across was as good as saying he had no such intention. Park seemed to read as much. A strange smile was just forming on the president's face when Faber went on.
"I asked to see you because I was curious."
"Curious about what?"
"You'll know when you look, but the proposal talks about nothing except money. Money matters. I know that. But it's also something I can earn whenever I want. What I mean is, I can do it without Harris."
What Faber wanted to know was one thing only. Not money, which he could make at any time. What can President Park give me? He had not come charging in because he meant to receive something. Park Jihoon was a particular kind of man, and Faber had only wanted to know what he thought. Sure enough, the president caught the point at once.
"When you make the clothes, I'm the one who sells the value inside them."
Value? Faber was turning the word over, slowly, when the president went on.
"To someone else it might look like a single ordinary outfit. It doesn't to me. Your spirit of resistance is in there."
"So when I make the clothes, you carry the philosophy inside the design to the people who buy them?"
"Exactly."
"And how do you carry it?"
"Story."
Ah. He had wondered why they put themselves through the grind every week, spending money to put out a magazine. So all of that had been a way of laying story upon story.
"We're not in the business of selling clothes."
"...Then what?"
A newspaper? A logo? A sellout? Could a day like that actually come? His head was certain the thing was absurd. And yet a shiver went through him. Every hair on his body was standing on end.