The Honest Match
The moment the match ended, Devon sat for an interview in his capacity as the rugby club's faculty coach. Broadcast video cameras stood in a row, and the newspaper reporters' film cameras were past counting. Anyone who wasn't used to being on the air would have been overwhelmed.
Devon, however, was somewhere else entirely. Where have these people been, that they're only turning up now?
Then, as if something terribly important had just come back to him, he spoke toward the cameras.
"Please shoot so the clothes come out well."
"……?"
"The rugby shirt. They tell me it's a special limited edition. Issued only to a handful of people on the inside. Vicuña wool… yes, yes."
He hadn't taken a single penny, and still he appointed himself a spokesman for Ultimate. Fortunately, the reaction was not a bad one.
"How did you find today's match?"
"I enjoyed it."
Devon knew perfectly well that wasn't what they were asking. A little joke to break the ice. He changed his expression and went on.
"The team that shed more sweat took the win. You'd have to call it a very honest match."
"The first and second halves looked completely different, though."
"The first half wasn't rugby. A kind of hunt, if you like. And a failed hunt at that—they wasted their shots and came home empty-handed."
It was a glancing, roundabout little cut at Carl Bernstein, and the reporters were not about to miss it.
"From what we've gathered, you trained only the first-years. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"Was there a particular reason?"
"Only the first-years asked for help."
"Then if the second-years had come with a request of their own……"
"I would have refused. Flatly."
"Pardon?"
Not the answer they had expected. Microphones crowded in.
"What do you mean by that?"
"There was trouble between the first- and second-years. Serious enough that a disciplinary committee was convened. Someone from on high came, laid down guidelines, and demanded written statements."
"…And?"
Devon didn't hesitate. He raised his middle finger.
"So you refused?"
He nodded. And nodded again.
"After that, the second-years didn't look kindly on me. I'm human too. So I helped the first-years. And thanks to that, I got this as well."
He plugged Ultimate one more time.
"We were hoping for a piece on the culture pages. Suddenly it's turned into a society-section story."
"Did I make a mistake?"
"No. Nothing like that."
The interview must have pleased him. Devon was wearing the most contented smile in the world.
After the match we gathered at the center of the ground. They had wanted a word from me before kickoff, and it seemed they wanted one now as well. I meant to tell them they had worked hard, that I was grateful we had sweated side by side. But before that—
"Let's greet them first."
"……?"
"They don't know us. They've never even met us, and they still came all this way to cheer. We owe them a thank-you."
We walked up to the stands and bent into a deep bow. A few people came forward holding copies of Queensman.
"Please sign."
We were seventeen, barely. We had received autographs before. None of us had ever had cause to give one. They all stared blankly at me, so I answered with a look.
Then at least write your names for them!
The biggest crowd, of course, broke toward Tennessee. His eyes found mine.
Do something!
It's only for today. Just do it, man!
I had no choice but to look away.
A few kind souls had even brought gifts. The one I was most grateful for, though, was something else entirely.
Someone's wearing the Ultimate and Guccio collaboration?
The pieces had gone on sale at the Guccio store today, true enough. We had never even announced who the collaborator was. How had they already gotten hold of one?
Heh heh heh. In the end this match was a promotion too. We had drawn in an enormous amount of press; from here on, it was time to drive the sales. Anyway, it's a good start.
I was lost in thoughts of that sort when the most welcome voice in the world reached me—in stereo, no less.
"Ah, here you are."
"Jihoon over there?"
"Grandfather?"
And beside him, of all people, Jo Sudeok. What a combination—though the puzzlement came a distant second to the joy. Perhaps it was because I was seeing him on English soil, half a world from home. Before I knew it, I had thrown my arms around Grandfather.
"Leave the house and you've turned into a baby? Since when do you go clinging like that?"
The sort who shoves you off even when he's pleased. I had thought Tennessee's manner of speaking felt familiar somehow. The original was standing right here.
"What brings you all the way to England?"
"Came for work. You think I came to play?"
A business trip, of all things, and the dates had landed square on the rugby match. On top of that, it was far too early for Hyeon-gang to be pushing into Europe. Had he read my face?
"Told me I had to come sell it myself."
"Sorry?"
"A technology partnership!"
"……?"
"Went round France. Renault, Citroën, Peugeot. Now that I'm in England, I mean to see Rolls-Royce as well."
Huh?
"You said you were going to scale the auto business back, little by little……"
"A child's breaking his back on English soil to make his granddad's dream come true. I'm a grown man. You think I can just sit and play?"
"When did I ever… your dream……"
"All that work on a fashion business you never touched before. You're telling me to build Design's Hyeongang, aren't you?"
There were no secrets between Grandfather and me. I hadn't so much as parted my lips. And still, there were no secrets.
Hm…… Then of course he already knew that all of this was preparation for retirement (?). Ah. So that's why he's putting a hand to the auto business.
I've built Design's Hyeongang, so now I'll retire.
Check!
You've already grown the auto business this far. Now what. Nobody to take it.
Countered!
A fierce exchange of moves, played between London and Seoul. Grandfather, I'm sorry, but I don't intend to lose this time either.
I was burning with fighting spirit all on my own when a voice came flying in from nowhere.
"Chairman. An honor to meet you."
"I'm Tennessee Edward Churchill Grosvenor, Jihoon's friend and business partner. I've heard a great deal about you. To meet you in person is a greater honor still."
Tennessee, ringed by fans (?), had slipped free on the pretext of greeting Grandfather. An aristocrat among aristocrats, he would have received more than enough schooling in courtesy toward his elders.
"I was waiting my turn to greet you, and happened to overhear. You came to London regarding the automobile business."
Early education (?), perhaps. He was a different person with his peers; here he showed an uncommon warmth.
"I like cars myself. Just last week I went to watch the F1 Silverstone Grand Prix."
The moment F1 came up, Grandfather clapped his hands.
"I came by way of France and saw the Monaco Grand Prix myself."
"Aiden Senna of McLaren won both."
At that instant Grandfather turned toward me.
"Boy says he's your business partner?"
We had split the shares, so partner wasn't wrong. Before he even heard my answer, something odd passed through his eyes. Park Jihoon's friend and business partner—pass. That sort of feeling.
He turned his gaze quickly back to Tennessee.
"Your father's sponsoring McLaren, is he?"
"Yes. Through this year, he is."
If it had been confidential, he would have talked around it. But he had gone and specified through this year. He wanted the conversation to keep going on that subject. The person listening—namely me—was growing anxious. Enough about cars. That was why I cut in.
"Grandfather, the match just ended. We have to go eat."
"That so?"
Both Grandfather and Tennessee looked sorry to stop. Honestly!
Not that I cared either way.
"Have you settled on a place to stay?"
"How would I know. Professor Jo will have seen to it."
"If you haven't decided, stay at our house. It's absurdly big, and it's empty every day."
Maybe he had been curious about the house I lived in.
"Saves money. Good."
Grandfather nodded without a fuss.
At that same hour, Peter had opened a small stall by the exit of the field. He had come out for once in order to sell them. The trouble was that by the time the match ended, he had not sold a single one. And this was an age when computers themselves had hardly spread. Of course they wouldn't sell. He drew a sharp breath through his teeth and could not hide the disappointment.
Park Jihoon had asked his own company to make a special package. For the sake of that effort alone, Peter had hoped to move at least ten. He was sitting with his head lowered, unable to conceal the letdown, when someone spoke to him for the first time.
"What's this?"
Peter shot to his feet in surprise and started to answer—then had to shut his mouth at once. The person in front of him was far too young. He was coaxing the child along, ready to send them gently on their way, when a few other people began to take an interest.
"The design is pretty."
"Sorry? D-Que?"
He had asked so deadpan that it felt as if something forbidden had been said.
"No—why would someone that important draw this?"
"Well……"
My friend Park Jihoon did it. He could hardly say so.
"You're not making it up, are you?"
"No, no. Look at the linework. That person really did draw it."
"And what's this?"
"Sorry?"
"This line here."
Park Yugeon, developer of D-Que, strongly recommends this!
"Ah, that. It's… it's just as it says."
"Do you have some connection to D-Que?"
"Not so much a connection as… just……"
"Just what?"
However awkward it got, you did not trade on a friend's name. When an answer was difficult, better to be taken for a fool. Peter was wearing that vacant look all by himself when a man passing by leaned in.
"Let me have one."
"Sorry?"
"Th-thank you!"
At that, the person who had been questioning him down to the last detail seemed to change their mind.
"If it isn't any fun, can I get a refund?"
"Ah, well. I don't open a stall every time, so……"
"Forget it. Just give me one."
A little bow.
"Thank you!"
Was it the power of the D-Que artist? After that, people opened their wallets readily enough. It wasn't so expensive; perhaps they reckoned that even set out like a framed picture, it would be no loss. Or maybe everyone's giddy because the first-years won.
Whatever the reason, in less than fifteen minutes he had cleared out every copy he had brought. Whoa. His heart thudded. Peter packed up the stall with trembling hands. If someone cursed him for the thing not being worth the money……
The worry occupying him now would one day be judged the most useless worry in the world. An unopened copy of Peter's debut would go under the hammer for a full million dollars.