A Rookie, and Fifty Thousand Copies

With a crowd that size, a decent place to eat was hard to find. So it was pizza in the open air again.

I couldn't say how it looked to anyone else. A pack of men fresh off a hard workout, huddled over pizza? That belonged with a chocolate bar after a forced march, or cup noodles after a shift on the gate.

What else is life for?

Same as always: one whole pie each, and a big bottle of cola apiece. Said out loud, it sounded a little barbaric. Ahem.

Still, sweat with people and you get close fast. Thanks to that, I managed a long talk with Steve, sitting across from me.

From what I heard, he was the eldest son of a famous snack company. In Korean terms, something like the house behind Choco Pies. I learned later that being called the nation's snack had let them freeze their prices for twenty years — consumer-friendly to a fault.

In plain words, ridiculously rich. Right?

He didn't seem to have brought it up in order to boast. His upbringing had simply surfaced in the course of conversation. Steve wasn't vulgar enough to go around advertising his money, and with Tennessee sitting beside me, a careless boast about wealth was the surest way to embarrass yourself. However you looked at it, the remark had meant very little.

I was turning all this over when Steve straightened and spoke.

"If it weren't for my parents' business, honestly, I'd have chosen Oxford too."

"......"

"But I don't regret it. Now that I'm here, there are comparatively fewer unpleasant people."

Which was to say that Oxford itself was crawling with them?

A joke, of course. Even so, if you remembered that the entire second-year rugby side had its heart set on Oxford—

He might not be entirely wrong.

I smiled a little and asked.

"After you graduate, will you be going professional?"

"Professional?"

"Rugby."

"Ah. Not at all."

Devon had said that even among the pros he would sit near the top. It would have been strange if the offers weren't already coming. As if he'd read the question on my face, he added an explanation.

"I'm enlisting the moment I graduate."

"......!"

"I've enjoyed a great many privileges. I ought to serve society in return."

Well.

"Army, navy, air force — which are you aiming for?"

"The Royal Marines first. Once I've got the years in, I'll apply for the SAS."

Maybe it was because the country ran on volunteers. Everyone who meant to enlist of his own accord seemed to be hunting for the hardest unit he could find.

That was the moment.

"Senior!"

Jack shot to his feet.

"Loyalty!"

He'd been a good fifteen feet off, and still Jack's radar had not missed a word of army talk.

"I hope to serve in the SAS too, sir!"

"You haven't even enlisted yet..."

"I was already marveling through the whole match, sir — your attacking play is something else!"

"Sit. Sit down."

"I'll introduce myself properly later, sir!"

Perhaps the stampede had startled him. Steve's throat must have gone dry; he gulped cola in great swallows. Even after that, Jack kept sending him looks that were a little too intense.

Jack was all easy warmth. Tennessee, by contrast, didn't mix a word with anyone. If Jack's trouble was having too much cheek, Tennessee's was having no gift for people at all. The only time he opened his mouth was to talk to me, and just then even I was busy with Steve. So he sat with a blank face, staring at the pizza box like a puppy tied to a utility pole in the rain.

And he's already finished the pizza...

I jabbed him in the side.

"Why aren't you drinking your cola?"

"......"

"No cup?"

It wasn't even a can. His face said a nobleman could not possibly put his mouth to a bottle of more than a liter.

Honestly. I'd told them to bring cups for exactly this reason. I dug through the bag of sauce packets and came up with a paper cup.

"Drink out of this."

"I don't like cola."

"Want me to pour it for you?"

"......"

"Drink. Hurry up."

The man had been perfectly clear that he didn't like cola, and yet—

Fsshhh.

The first pour came up nothing but foam.

"......!"

He waited for it to settle, then filled the cup to the brim anyway.

Glug, glug.

Embarrassed, he drank it slowly. I was about to tell him he made his own life exhausting.

Not a line I get to say, after running all the way to England so I wouldn't have to inherit the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠company...

Suddenly self-conscious, I could only smack my lips to myself.

Steve and the other Cambridge students even stayed to help clean up. What was it with these people, being this decent? We couldn't help warming to them. Half gratitude and half regret at parting, we walked them all the way to the school parking lot.

And then — huh?

I'd assumed a big coach. What waited instead was a line of splendid cars.

Big Bob had apparently come in Schultz's G-Wagen, a first-generation model that had once conquered the Dakar Rally. Unlike Bob, Steve stopped in front of a beautifully drawn green sports car.

"Looks like a rookie, doesn't it?"

An Aston ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Martin, of all things. One of the finest hand-built sports cars in the world. Steve, it seemed, saw the matter differently.

"Cars get better as they age. This one's brand new. If anything's a rookie, it's this."

By his account, he'd only just managed the purchase: money from modeling jobs, plus a long installment plan. His real dream was a classic from the nineteen-forties. Those were impossible to find, and even if you found one, holding your hand out to your parents still got you nowhere.

Hm. This was a secret, but I remembered more than ten Aston Martins in Chairman Dazai's garage in Japan.

Anyway.

"I like classic cars too."

"Yeah?"

"Older really is better, isn't it."

"Funny you should say so. I hear there's an incredibly rare Bugatti driving around this neighborhood."

"Sorry?"

"A Bugatti. A Bugatti. Everybody's dream car."

"...Ah."

"From what I hear, it's a proper classic. Ever seen it?"

"Hmm. Have I?"

This was hardly the moment to announce that it was sitting in our garage.

We went on talking about cars for another five minutes or so. At last:

"Good to meet you."

"You too."

A light ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠handshake, and Steve folded himself down into the car.

Vrooooom!

A tremendous ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bark of ignition. He lowered the window and spoke to me.

"If you're going to choose somewhere, come to Cambridge."

"I can't give you a firm answer."

A short laugh. Once I'd caught Steve's smile, I went on.

"Even if I happen to end up at Oxford, I at least won't join the rugby club."

"Really?"

"I don't want to play on a team full of unpleasant people."

"Ha—!"

The answer seemed to please him a great deal.

Vrooooom! Vrooooom!

He pushed the revs up.

"I hope we get to see each other again."

"If you want to see me, you can. Anytime."

He nodded at that. A moment later a small hand came out the window.

And the Aston Martin pulled away with that heavy sound all its own.

Modeling work, so he wouldn't have to ask his parents for money...

We might meet again sooner than I thought.

Watching the Aston Martin already slip out through the main gate, I sank quietly into thought.

Meanwhile, Carl Bernstein arrived at the department store late.

If he was only dropping by his own shop, no dedicated attendant attached himself. On a day like this, though, when he had called ahead, an executive was of course waiting for him.

A white-haired man who looked past sixty offered an awkward smile. He straightened his tie and hurried over.

"You've come, young master."

"I'm terribly late, aren't I?"

"Late? If the young master calls, I turn the car around even on the way home."

"Oh, come now. You're laying it on."

"I'm not."

The executive's eyes shone, as if he were prepared to leap from a moving car.

"You heard from my mother?"

"Yes. You need free gifts for the magazine?"

"Choose something suitable from the brands in the luxury hall."

The items were obvious enough. Lipstick, lip gloss, perfume.

"How many shall I have ready?"

"The more generous, the better."

"If we're speaking of generous..."

Here the executive glanced at him with care.

"It would have to come as donations from the tenant companies, you see..."

There was no confidence in the voice at all.

A twitch. Carl's eyebrow stirred.

"On my own authority, I'll... I'll secure as many as ten thousand."

Even that must have been offered in the full expectation of a thorough beating from the staff who would actually have to produce them. And yet.

Carl let out a hollow laugh, as if the number were beneath him.

"We're printing fifty thousand copies for the first run alone. And the gifts are ten thousand?"

"P-pardon?"

"Fifty thousand is only because the first week won't have any real publicity. From the week after, we'll double it each time."

"You mean... the gifts have to match the number of books..."

"Obviously."

"Th-there is a limit, even to the support we can receive..."

"They have marketing budgets."

"Pardon?"

"Doesn't every company have its own marketing budget?"

"They do. They do. But the companies that could spend that kind of money on such short notice could be counted on one hand."

"Perfect."

"......?"

"Then count them, quickly, and make the rounds in order. That should do it."

Carl did not stop there. If fifty thousand copies sold, imagine the publicity the sponsoring companies would enjoy. And if they showed loyalty now, wouldn't Harris Group remember it for a long time to come?

He was plainly the one who ought to have been asking a favor. He sounded, instead, like a man collecting something he had left in their keeping.

Afraid someone might overhear, the executive could only look quickly around.

That night the second-year rugby side stayed late, plastering posters across the entire school. They put up so many that ignoring them was no longer possible.

What on earth is all this?

The message was simple.

They had written it out at truly tedious length.

This is a complete circus.

I'd only stepped out because I couldn't sleep. Maybe it was the sight I hadn't wanted to see. A throb. The back of my neck went hot.

The gathering afterward had gone well, and the thought that I'd met good people covered a great deal of it. The truth, though, was that today had left me with a formidable piece of homework.

We scrummed until our necks were raw.

Damn it!

We hadn't won even once.

You couldn't set Bob, a university man, on the same line as Ralph, still in school.

Even so.

On size alone, Ralph was clearly no easy opponent. The one mercy was that Tennessee would be in the scrum with them now.

Perhaps because Tennessee had come to mind, a smile found my mouth. At first he couldn't have been more prickly. Lately he was a child who had only grown tall. A child.

Heh heh.

Even if I have to coax him and soothe him, I'm bringing him along.

There was homework besides the scrum. If we meant to vary our lines of attack, I would have to concentrate on kicking for a while myself.

If I'm going to do it anyway, wouldn't it be better to learn straight from Steve?

He'd said he took modeling work, hadn't he? Then commissioning him as a Queensman cover model might be one way to see him again.

Then again.

Queensman.

I'd heard Lukashi was writing my piece.

It would start to look strange if mine was the only article that never ran.

I'd given a loose sort of permission... surely he wouldn't write anything strange.

Should I call him now, just in case?

The thought lasted only a moment.

If I gave him a free hand, I ought to trust him.

I changed my mind soon enough.