The Most Frightening Thing in the World

That night.

The moment I got home, Chairman Park summoned me. He was sitting at his desk in a brown cardigan, and every time I stepped into that study the feeling was the same: as if I were offering my head to a tiger's mouth.

"You called for me?"

"Out for a bit of air, were you? Been a while."

"Yes."

"And did it come to anything?"

Who measures results on a walk to clear your head? I scratched at my scalp.

So now even stepping outside gets treated like business.

A warning sign, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠admittedly. Fortunately, I had plenty to say today. Why? Because I had gone out of my way to do exactly the sorts of things that would look pathetic in Chairman Park's eyes, and thanks to that I opened my mouth more boldly than I ever had.

"I'm going to start a publishing house."

"A publishing house. Why?"

"I want to make the books I want to own. Myself."

"Ha!"

His face said this was absurd. The mood, at least, was excellent.

"So I went to Yonsei University."

"And that was for what?"

"I'm thinking of holding a literary contest."

"Then why go to Yonsei? Don't tell me you're only taking work from there."

"Well. For now, yes."

At that, a strange current began to move through Chairman Park's eyes, which until then had been full of displeasure. What he spat out next was this.

"Of all the ground in the world, you up and flew to Boston. Today it's the very same trick."

Ah. So of all the schools, picking Yonsei was the strange part?

His instincts really are uncanny.

But there was no need to panic. I had an answer ready.

"If we opened it to the whole country, we couldn't handle it. Tens of thousands of entries might come flying in at once, and judging them would be a nightmare."

"So you mean to make the rounds of the universities, one by one, like a touring show?"

"If I have the capacity."

"The prize?"

"For Yonsei, ten million won. For now."

A soft snort. At my words, the corner of Chairman Park's mouth lifted.

"Look at the money, and this is a once-and-done notion. Am I wrong?"

"Hard to say."

Those eyes were frightening enough that I would have to hold the thing a few more times, like it or not. Partly to change the subject, I nudged the story forward.

"Once I'd finished with the contest at Yonsei, I went straight on to Seoul National University. I moved quickly, and I even landed a contract. I met the writer Lee Munhyeok."

"You signed a contract?"

"Yes."

"You have the paper?"

I nodded.

"Bring it here."

A short while later, Chairman Park put on his reading glasses and went over the documents with care.

A contract stuffed with things to be scolded for. And sure enough—

"What you want to do. Charity, is it?"

At Chairman Park's reaction I clenched a fist.

"Five hundred million, just for the advance?"

"Yes, sir."

"How much do you expect to make selling books, handing over five hundred million up front?"

"Roughly ten billion, don't you think?"

"On what grounds?"

"A proven story, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, and... if the finest prose is added to it..."

"That's nothing but your own hope talking, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

Chairman Park quietly drew his brows together. His grandson was not the sort to talk nonsense, and the look on his face asked what scheme I was hatching this time. The reaction did not last long.

"Then do it this way."

"Sir?"

"Tie on a major newspaper, and start by serializing."

"In a newspaper?"

"A newspaper is where other people pay to run their ads. Serialize in one and the publicity takes care of itself, and the manuscript fees you collect each month can eat into the advance. At the very least, you won't take a loss."

A man who had probably never once in his life considered the publishing business. And yet, the moment he saw the contract, he went from diagnosis to remedy in a single stroke. Well.

When it comes to making money, there is simply no beating him.

While I was still shaking my head, Chairman Park adjusted his glasses.

"The advance can stay where it is. Building a writers' village, raising a creative fund... fine. I'll yield a hundred times and call that investment. But this. What is this?"

"...?"

"Why are you the one translating books of foundational scholarship?"

"Ah. That."

"Are you the Minister of Education?"

A blade-cold look. He might forgive the rest, but the wasting of a single won was something he would not tolerate. What could I do? There was nothing for it but the truth.

"Grandfather, I've been reading the Greek classics. And the note in the book said this: Translated from the Japanese edition. It snagged on me."

"A country busy just trying to eat—how many experts in Greek do you think it has?"

He was right. With so few specialists in Greek, translating from the original was close to impossible. But Japan had kept at that impossible work through investment at the level of the state: steadily, stubbornly, doggedly doing a thing that made no money. The result was that Japan had produced no fewer than thirty-one Nobel laureates in the foundational fields, while we had produced nothing at all. Korean songs took number one on the Billboard charts. Korean films swept the Academy Awards and Cannes at the same time. And Korean foundational scholarship had to collect a bitter report card every year. The reason was simple.

"Even a book you'd wonder who on earth would read, Japan translates, so long as its scholarly value is recognized. We're the opposite. Books you'd assume must surely exist here were never even introduced."

And even when something had been translated, most of it was only a double translation of a book Japan had already translated. How were we supposed to compete, academically, like that?

"So? You'll spend your own money and lift the nation's standing a little. That what you're saying?"

"It isn't charity."

"Then what?"

"A kind of investment."

"Investment?"

"Yes. Not a drop of oil comes out of this country. All we have is people, so we have no choice but to invest in people."

"Invest in people, and what do you get?"

"The talent that joins Hyeon-gang gets an upgrade, doesn't it?"

"Bring in a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠few books and a person changes, do they?"

"If it had no effect... wouldn't Japan have let go of it long ago?"

"Those people have been preparing for decades. You think you can catch them by starting only now?"

"Of course. Weren't you of a similar mind, Grandfather?"

"...What?"

"In the industry they put the gap between Sonus and Hyeon-gang at about thirty years. Ten years and there's already no answer, so thirty means the match is finished, doesn't it? But you don't see it that way. No matter what anyone says, you'll keep fighting. Like a rhinoceros."

At my words, Chairman Park's eyes narrowed. Touching the most sensitive spot? Impudent. Something like that, surely. As expected, he opened his mouth slowly.

"I'll yield a hundred times and grant it, as you say, that this profits Hyeon-gang. But why is it your money going out? Foundational scholarship? That's the state's work, isn't it?"

"Because the government dawdles and won't move. The money leaves at once, and the results don't come right away. So they put it off, and put it off again."

"Meaning, once the state moves, you'll gladly step aside?"

"Of course."

Chairman Park picked up the receiver without a moment's hesitation. A single number connected the call, so it had to be the Chief Secretary.

"Get in touch with the Ministry of Finance and the Ministry of Culture and Public Information. Tell them I want to see them tomorrow."

Whatever was said on the other end—

"Yes. Minister Kim Hanyong."

With that short reply he set the receiver down, looked me straight in the eye, and said:

"I'll let the writers' village and the creative fund pass. Hands off foundational scholarship."

"Then what will you do?"

"You didn't hear the call?"

I heard it just fine.

"Even an eleven-year-old can see the country's a wreck, and I'm not about to stand by and waste tax money earned in blood. Better to flip the whole table over."

Money saved. I grinned. I was about to offer a suitable goodbye and take my leave when—

"Jihun."

For some reason, Chairman Park called my name. Then, for the first time, he rose from the chair. Was there something more important still to say? He let a good long pause settle before he spoke.

"Do you know why your grandfather is doing this?"

"...Sir?"

"Think it's because watching your money walk out the door gives me a stomachache?"

"......"

"Listen, and listen well."

In that instant a light poured from his eyes. I swallowed. Meet a beast's gaze in a mountain wood without a single moon, and it would feel exactly like this. Chairman Park went on, almost a growl.

What was he trying to say?

"Money is like nature. It is never conquered. Ride out a few small waves, and then a typhoon comes and you charge straight in without fear. What do you think happens?"

"You get swept away."

"Money is the same. Set out to control it, to master it, to beat it, and in the end it is money that swallows you whole."

"Then what should I do?"

"You have to fear it. Every single moment, you have to remember that if you solve everything with money, you get eaten in the end. Do you understand why I'm telling you this?"

I looked quietly at Chairman Park. The eyes that had blazed like a beast's were slowly fading. In this moment he was not the exacting chairman reviewing a contract. He was an old man worried for his grandson's safety. Maybe that was why.

"Thank you, Grandfather."

For me, the words came out like a vow. Until now, Chairman Park had been the easier name to live with; Grandfather had not. When I took the word outside I spoke it as if I were acting, but now I felt I had truly taken one step closer to what a grandfather was.

"What are you staring at me like that for?"

"You saved me money, Grandfather. I'm glad. That's all."

I put weight on the word Grandfather.

"Sentimental."

Chairman Park—no. My grandfather waved a hand.

"Go on to bed."

I bowed and slowly left the study. It was the hour of a day going under, and for someone who had been alone through all thirty-five years, it was a night that could not have felt more unfamiliar.

Two weeks later.

For the past few days television had been preaching the importance of foundational scholarship and working up the mood, and today the minister himself came out and gave the briefing.

Live long enough, and you hear a briefing like this even in Korea.

Naturally, all of it was Grandfather's doing. While he was hard at work for the nation—supposedly—I had not been idle either. First I secured a building for the publishing house near home, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in Hannam-dong. I also told them to find staff housing in Hannam-dong for Jeong Jinwook, who was serving as both secretary and driver.

If Grandfather found out, wouldn't I be scolded for spending so much? Not in the least. He praised me for it instead. I hadn't bought with a rise in price in mind, but it was Grandfather's article of faith that you could not lose ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by purchasing a building in Hannam-dong. Ahem. Some days it felt as if I were not the only one who had come from the future.

In any case, Jeong Jinwook stopped by the Yonsei academic affairs office now and then and brought me the works submitted to the contest. Every time, he added the same words.

"Sir, the Yonsei campus is buried under contest posters. This is not an exaggeration. It is practically papered over."

The head of academic affairs, was he? That man had fixed me with a burdensome look, all but glowing as he insisted I leave the whole thing to him.

He really set out to overdo it.

After Jeong Jinwook had come and gone, submissions would be heaped high on my desk. A prize of ten million won, and posters spread wall to wall: the manuscripts would keep stacking up. I checked the entrants' names first.

Let's see. The name I want...

I was somewhere past a hundred works when it happened.

Hm?

What was this?

Bong Junoh?

A name as familiar as the world itself was written there, bold as anything. Surely not that Bong Junoh, the one who swept the Academy Awards and Cannes at the same time? Startled, I opened the envelope. Inside, plain even at a glance, a manuscript was packed thick.