The Name Comes Off, the Money Stays

I was genuinely happy when the call came that I had won. I had already made my literary debut once, in my previous life, but this felt like something else entirely.

I made money!

Yes. Up to that point, it really was wonderful—right up until the first phone call.

"Young master, another newspaper has been in touch."

Huh?

"Y-young master, this time it's a daily from the completely opposite camp..."

Ahem.

"Young master? Exactly how many places did you submit to?"

Four calls, that day alone. So I hadn't lived this life for nothing. A writer's hard-earned seasoning didn't just vanish.

The joy, however, was brief.

Maybe I should have pulled my punches.

Afraid of being rejected, I had sent work to four different papers. Who could have guessed every last one would take me?

I'm not sure this is allowed...

A third-generation heir of Hyeon-gang making his debut was already a story. What—only a fourth grader? And a four-paper sweep on top of that?

This might draw more fire than I can put out.

At a loss, I could do nothing but scratch my head.

That night I was summoned, together with Song Suhee, to Chairman Park's study.

"So what I heard is true, is it?"

At Park Yonghak's question, Song Suhee answered in my place.

"Yes."

"Strange enough, a little squirt writing anything at all. And you're telling me the thing actually won?"

No one spoke.

"Wasn't even a lucky fluke, and four pieces of them?"

Park Yonghak's gaze turned sharp. A moment later those eyes fixed on me.

"Read a few books lately and got hungry for a plaque, did you? So you had the grown-ups write them for you."

"No. I never asked any grown-ups to write for me."

"That so?"

"Yes. I didn't write them because I wanted a plaque, either."

His eyes asked the rest. Then why?

"I wanted to make money."

"You what?"

"I happened to see it. The prize was pretty big."

Maybe it was the talk of money. The wariness gathered in Park Yonghak's eyes seemed to thin, just a little, and thanks to that I could go on in a level voice.

"Figured I had nothing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to lose, so I might as well try. Send several pieces and the odds go up, right? Every paper has its own taste, so I thought I might as well send them to different ones. That's all it was."

"Worked that little head of yours hard, in your own way. That what you're saying?"

"Yes."

Park Yonghak shifted in his seat, as if he meant to hear exactly how much money could have driven me to it.

"I wanted to buy a painting."

"A painting?"

"I went with Mom to an exhibition at Seoul National University's College of Fine Arts, and I saw one I really loved."

"Buy a painting, sell it on, grow the money. That what you were after?"

"No. I wanted to hang it in my room. I wanted to look at it every morning and every night."

"All that ruckus, just to hang one picture in your room."

"Pardon?"

"Reporters come sniffing around, the whole house turns upside down, and you didn't spare that a thought? Just went and did as you pleased. That it?"

If I had truly been an eleven-year-old kid, this was where ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I would have hung my head. A spell of reflection would follow, and the prize money would quietly vanish into the fog.

Bowing was fine. Reflection was fine too.

But the prize money is mine.

Whatever else anyone might say, I opened my mouth to protect the money.

"Reporters might come and make a fuss... but I didn't think they'd write anything bad."

"Why? You reckon reporters are as innocent as you make them out to be?"

"It isn't that. Even if they wrote something negative, I didn't think it would do much."

"And why wouldn't it?"

"A kid from a chaebol house can be good at school all he wants. People will just find him annoying. They'll assume it's what you get when you pour money in. But literature is a little different, isn't it?"

Park Yonghak only stared.

"Even if you made someone read hundreds of books a month and drilled literature into them, people wouldn't envy us. They'd sooner say this is a house that understands the value of art. And if not that, I was sure that at the very least no one would point fingers."

"So you sent them in knowing full well it'd raise a ruckus. That what you're telling me?"

"To some extent. I just... didn't think all four would be chosen."

"...Ha!"

Park Yonghak let out a single incredulous breath. The reaction lasted only a moment. He picked up the receiver on the desk.

Having said his piece, Park Yonghak hung up at once.

I swallowed.

I had been sure I'd gotten my meaning across in full. In a chaebol family, was even a literary debut not yours to choose?

Fine. Forget the debut. But the prize money...

I was forcing that regret down when Park Yonghak turned to Song Suhee.

"There an account in Jihun's name?"

"Yes, there is."

"The boy managing it himself?"

"No. I manage it."

Park Yonghak's gaze swung back to me.

"Four wins. How much prize money is that?"

About fifteen million won—well over ten thousand dollars. An absurd sum for an eleven-year-old. And yet—

"I'll put that money in myself, so don't go sulking that you never got the plaque."

Of all things, that was what Park Yonghak came out with. Riding the same breath, he spoke to Song Suhee as well.

"Let the boy manage the account himself. Understood?"

"Father, even so... how is Jihun supposed to handle that much money..."

"Nonsense."

"Pardon?"

"Boy earned that kind of money at his age, all to buy one painting. You really think he can't manage an account of his own?"

Song Suhee said nothing.

"And you, Jihun."

From the voice alone, I was certain a warning was coming. But his face soon eased.

"Aside from the prize, I'll put in the price of the painting separate."

I could only stare.

"You buy that painting you wanted, you bring it to me first. Understand?"

Oh!

Not only had I kept the money—I had come away with a bonus.

"Thank you, Grandfather."

I bowed my head to Park Yonghak, and I did it gladly.

The moment we stepped out of the chairman's study, Song Suhee took my hand and held it tight. Unlike Park Yonghak, who had looked down from above, she bent at the waist until her eyes met mine.

"Were you scared?"

"Of what?"

"Talking with your grandfather."

"Oh—I was fine."

She only looked at me.

"You were right there, Mom. The strongest person in the world. My pillar."

Perhaps she thought I had swallowed my fear and forced the words out. Song Suhee smiled, and the smile was pained.

"That aside—when did our Jihun write all of that?"

"I was reading this and that, and I got the itch to try. I was only... imitating. I didn't think I'd be chosen either."

"How did you feel when you heard you'd won?"

"Surprised. Happy, too."

"Do you think you'll keep writing?"

"I'm not sure."

Song Suhee waited for my answer with a serious face.

Third generation of Hyeon-gang. Second son or not, there would be a certain duty. Living at my leisure as a writer wouldn't be easy. Well, that hardly mattered. I had been born into a chaebol house. Why invite dirty looks just to do nothing but write?

Once I had settled that in my mind, I went on calmly.

"I like writing. Maybe because it paid off, I've grown fond of it. But... for now, I still like reading more."

"This isn't because of the atmosphere at home?"

"You mean men study management, and women study the arts?"

"If you're giving up a dream because of the adults..."

"I'm still young."

"...Hm?"

"If just reading is this much fun, how much fun will art and music be? I should try all sorts of things first. Can't I decide a path after that?"

In that instant a small smile settled over Song Suhee's face, which had gone stiff.

"I think Mom got impatient."

"Impatient?"

"Our Jihun seems so grown-up... I think I got impatient for no reason."

Song Suhee drew me into her arms and went on, slowly.

"Thank you, Mom."

Just as that pleasant talk was coming to a close, I saw a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shadow standing stock-still in the corridor across the living room. A child watching me with eyes full of envy. My older brother, Park Yugeon.

Park Yugeon was a kind-hearted boy. The prejudice that came first whenever anyone thought of a chaebol house—a ruined character, a rotten little tyrant—was nowhere near him. He was the sort of child who, at the sight of an adult, ran over and bowed his head before anything else. The sort who, on hearing a friend's circumstances, had quietly handed over allowance he had saved for a long time.

Someone might say it. Isn't all of that only possible because he's a third-generation chaebol? If I had that much money, I could share whatever I had left over too. They might not be wrong.

Even so, a chaebol had his hardships.

First, everyone tried to use the boy. He was Hyeon-gang's heir, wasn't he? Hoping for some advantage they might someday collect, they approached Yugeon wearing masks, every last one of them. Because of that, he stopped trusting people. Betrayal after betrayal, wound after wound, and all that grew in him was a sharp-edged wariness.

The suffering did not end there. From the moment he was born the eldest son of Hyeon-gang, Yugeon's life was decided from beginning to end. No one asked what he wanted. There had never been a choice to begin with.

Yugeon accepted even that fate with a calm face. No—he resolved that he would carry it well, somehow. If he collapsed here, that enormous yoke would swallow his little brother next. Every time that hideous picture rose before him, Yugeon had to sit at his desk without a word of complaint. His own dreams he hid deep in a drawer, trying to live as the person the world wanted.

Then, one day, he saw his little brother Jihun's room.

Instead of textbooks and workbooks, the desk was piled like a tower with the books the boy actually wanted to read. He knew he shouldn't feel it. Honestly, he envied him.

What if I had been born the second son?

For the first time, he let himself think it. If he had been born second, he would have listened to nothing but music, like a madman. Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Michael Jackson... Over vacation he would have flown to New York and lived in the concert halls.

The happy imagining lasted only a moment.

I... should just study.

Yugeon had to come back to reality. He was trying to throw himself into his studies when an unexpected story reached him from outside. His little brother Jihun had won the New Spring Literary Contest.

Yugeon burst out of his room in surprise. He had definitely come out to congratulate him.

But then—

"If Jihun is giving up his dream because of the adults..."

The moment he happened to catch his mother's voice, a vicious dizziness swept through him.

His little brother, held tight in their mother's arms.

It's all right.

The eldest son carried a burden he was not allowed to refuse. What kind of older brother envied his little brother? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠He told himself so, again and again.

Even so, great tears gathered helplessly in Yugeon's eyes, brimming and bright.