The Wool Worth a Car
Fifteen minutes later, Devon declared the air stifling and hauled us out of the strength room. On a quiet bench, four pizzas were stacked impressively high.
“What are you doing?”
Devon barked it, and a question mark floated up over Tennessee’s head.
“Pass them out. Now.”
Born the son of a ducal house, had he ever been spoken to like this?
“Take three. One of them’s mine.”
“We’re each eating a whole pizza?”
“Obviously.”
“Um… is there perhaps a salad…”
“There are pickles.”
Heh heh heh. Had he bought the lot at a supermarket? Devon seized the hot sauce and the entire tub of Parmesan and went at the pies. Shake, shake, shake. Pat, pat, pat.
This was Tennessee, who threw a fit if you so much as dipped a fry in a milkshake. Shower Parmesan over a pizza the way you dust roasted soybean powder over injeolmi, those chewy rice cakes, and…
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not.”
“Don’t give me that. You’re staring like you just walked onto a crime scene.”
“…”
“You want some too?”
It must have sounded exactly like an invitation to become an accomplice. Tennessee shook his head at once.
I huffed a laugh. I was no Devon, but I still shook on a reasonable dusting of cheese and ate, and almost at once Tennessee’s head turned my way.
You don’t want to live a long life, do you?
…?
That is a crime against humanity, committed upon a human body!
A message sent entirely by eye. Aigoo, look at him worrying over me. It really did feel as if we’d become actual friends.
But listen, Tennessee. There’s something you don’t know.
Pizza after a workout, eaten outdoors in a soft breeze?
This is basically a tonic!
I took only the kindness of the thought, and bit off an enormous mouthful.
“Clear it away and get inside.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack and I bowed first. A half-beat later, Tennessee ducked his head.
After Mr. Devon had gone, Tennessee stared down at the pizza box, looking embarrassed. Fair enough. He had called it a crime against humanity, and then he had gone and joined the crime(?) anyway. He was busy brushing the heaped cheese powder off the box when I spoke.
“Shall we clean up?”
At that, Tennessee sorted the recycling, I wiped the bench with a rag, and Jack swept the ground. Three minutes, done.
Once training ended, a shower was the usual thing. Tennessee’s temperament, though, would never allow a communal shower room. We were simply heading for the dormitory when—well, now.
Tennessee was loosening up. Strength work finished; his face said the cardio came next.
“Go on ahead.”
Surely he wasn’t doing this to catch me?
Hm.
From the look in his eyes, maybe he was.
“What are you doing? Not going?”
“We ate. Might as well digest it.”
“…?”
“You need someone to match your pace, don’t you?”
He showed no particular sign of minding.
A little later, after we had run a wide loop of the field.
“Hoo. Hooo.”
He had to be suffering, yet he insisted on resting on his feet. I held out a bottle of water, and he glanced around. A noble looking for a cup, no doubt.
“What, shall I fetch you a coffee cup and a saucer too?”
“…”
“Nobody’s watching. Drink from the bottle.”
“Your eyes don’t count as someone?”
Oh, honestly.
“Why? Afraid I’ll start a rumor? Tennessee Grosvenor, seen drinking straight from the bottle?”
Thinking it over, even he seemed to find the objection absurd. A small breath of a laugh, and Tennessee lifted one corner of his mouth.
The first time. The first time the boy had shown me anything like a smile.
Glug, glug. He emptied the half-liter bottle in a single go and made ready to run.
“Rest another minute.”
“…”
“Run now and you won’t make half a lap before you drop.”
Tennessee shot a glance at his watch. It was plainly too soon. He stepped back a couple of paces.
A minute must have felt rather long to spend standing there blankly. As if he had come to some great resolution, he turned toward me.
“Are the uniforms out?”
“Uniforms?”
“Rugby. Ultimate is making them, so you’re in charge, aren’t you?”
Ah. I had checked the samples, at least. Something in his eyes said he had more to say. All right. Then I ought to hear it.
“Nothing’s been finalized.”
“Dragging your feet.”
Tennessee seemed to debate whether to open his mouth, then looked at his watch again. A little time still remained, apparently, and he went on, slowly.
“I’m not a difficult person, as a rule (he is)… but since you’re the one making them (yes—jackpot)… if I had to bring something up (you’ll hear me out, won’t you?)…”
The request(?) that followed went like this. High in the Andes of South America, there was a ranch for an animal called the vicuña. The creature lived at such altitude that its wool, and its wool alone, was said to be of the very highest quality. You could never shear it by machine the way you sheared sheep. They combed the animals and made clothing only from what came loose, and so only a tiny quantity could ever be produced. Even at cost, a single knit ran to the price of a compact car, and still there was never enough of it to sell. Of course there wasn’t.
“Every year, a set amount is allocated only to the royal family and the ducal houses.”
In plain terms, he was asking whether the uniforms might be made from the Grosvenor share of vicuña wool.
Not a particularly difficult favor.
The boy who had hated even speaking the word rugby was asking for uniforms on the premise that he would join the team, and he was supplying the fabric besides.
No reason to refuse.
That was true enough. Even so.
“…”
I did not answer at once. It was not hesitation.
Fiber favored by the royal house and the dukes.
The moment I heard it, the businessman’s DNA that had been sleeping in me began to stir.
“One outfit costs as much as a car?”
“That’s the price of the cloth. The finished piece costs more. Italian craftsmen have to weave it by hand.”
“And even then they can’t keep it in stock?”
He nodded and nodded. Hmm. I could almost smell money at the tip of my nose.
Nor was that all. These days Guccio stood on the brink of bankruptcy, scraping by on licenses while its image lay in tatters. At a moment like this, using an ultra-high-end cloth to restore a luxury image would be a perfectly respectable strategy.
Right. So that’s the shape of it.
I turned to him at once.
“We’re a team. Making a separate set just for you would be odd. While we’re at it, what about the whole team?”
“There isn’t that much wool.”
I knew that. Which was why I was asking.
“That ranch in the Andes.”
“…?”
“Could you put me in touch?”
Two days later, the Andes.
The call from the president had left Faber rather shaken. This was not the neighborhood next door. All the way to Peru, and he was to fly out at once. Naturally, he had taken it for a joke.
But.
Professor Jo Sudeok always carried his passport. And he always kept a bag packed in the trunk of the car.
Hearing the tales of Jo Sudeok’s business trips, he understood that every word of it had been in earnest.
Ah, Jo Sudeok… what kind of life have you been living?
After no small share of trouble, he arrived in the Andes. Four thousand meters above sea level, they had said, and merely walking left him light-headed and reeling. Even so, what was he to do? There was nothing for it but to follow the local guide the president had arranged and go see for himself.
“Once every two years. Only two hundred grams from a single animal. It’s so expensive that garments of one hundred percent vicuña are almost never made. Blending it with cashmere is the usual practice.”
If the guide was telling the truth?
So this really was the final boss of the fiber world…
Until a moment ago, Faber’s head had been spinning. But in this instant—
Just how extraordinary does it have to be?
The particular light returned to a designer’s eyes.
That was when it happened.
“There it is.”
Oh. He felt as if his breath might give out at any moment. But they had arrived, and somehow his feet kept carrying him. They handled luxury fiber, he had been told, yet the building itself was nothing remarkable: an ordinary wooden structure of the sort one saw all over the mountains.
Knock, knock.
“Is anyone there?”
The ranch owner emerged very late. Sharp eyes, a stubborn mouth, an old man who looked cantankerous at a glance.
“The guest from England…”
“There isn’t any. Even if I wanted to sell, there’s no stock.”
Faber turned to the guide.
“He won’t know Ultimate, I imagine. Please tell him we’ve come from Guccio.”
Sure enough, the name seemed familiar. But.
“Guccio or whatever else, wool that doesn’t exist doesn’t appear.”
The owner shook his head as if that settled it. Well, every year the great brands lined up, didn’t they. No reason he would shrink before the name Guccio. Even so, Faber could hardly come all this way and simply turn around. For a moment precisely like this, President Park Jihoon had armed him with one silken line.
“Not even if I borrow the name of the House of Grosvenor?”
London. The dormitory of the royal school. Park Jihoon’s room.
“President! It’s me.”
His voice was bright. Faber went on, excitement running through it.
“When I used the Grosvenor name, he said he would still release a certain amount.”
A certain amount.
“How much?”
“He told me to name the quantity we needed. I was just about to call you, sir.”
“Then tell him we want all of it.”
“Sir?”
The measure of a fine restaurant lies in its wine list. The quality of the wine on hand decides the level of the house, and fashion could not be so different.
“Tell him we want to buy more, not only this year, but every year.”
Some back-and-forth drifted through the receiver. Then—
“President, there may be some room next year, but this year there’s a problem.”
“…?”
“There’s a brand that just launched. They demanded stock in a half-threatening way. If he refuses, they said a boycott would hit every department store in Europe…”
Strange enough for a man of business to talk of retaliation, and stranger still to single out department stores.
“By any chance, are you talking about Harris Department Store?”
“One moment.”
Faber must have put the question through the interpreter.
“He won’t give a straight answer. Maybe it’s awkward. But once the name Harris came up he grew visibly restless, so I think that’s about right.”
Around then, Tennessee, who had been beside me, turned his head my way. His face asked why Harris Department Store had suddenly come up, so I explained, briefly. For some reason, his expression twisted.
“Still harping on that damned Black Label, I see.”
“What?”
“There’s one. A fellow who plays at being a general store.”
“…?”
“Give it here. I’ll take the call.”
I had no idea what this situation suddenly was. He took the receiver as if snatching it.
“This is Tennessee Grosvenor. Letting those people make clothes out of vicuña wool is a sin. It is the abandonment of a duty owed to humankind.”
What on earth was he saying?
“The ranch owner is right there, isn’t he? Put him on.”
Then Tennessee launched into a long stretch of Spanish. After several exchanges, he turned back to me.
“He seems afraid of retaliation. I think they threatened him rather cleverly.”
A clever threat.
Consistent as ever, I’ll give them that.
The strength of the Harris Group lay in its lock on Europe’s distribution lines. Antagonize them without cause, and you would find it hard to set a foot in European fashion. They meant, it seemed, to use that power to tighten a noose around even a small ranch.
I laughed under my breath.
“Tell him that if Europe is shut to him, we’ll open the North American market.”
“North America?”
At my words, a question mark rose over Tennessee’s head.