The Air Turns Cold
That night, in a car racing for the airport, Jack and I rode together.
Perhaps he thought we were cutting it too close. His eyes flickered, uneasy.
"Shouldn't we be there at least an hour early?"
I was fairly particular about time myself, but Jack seemed worse. The boy still couldn't keep his seat under him.
"Relax. We'll be fine."
"…?"
"Departure formalities get skipped now and then."
"Why? Oh… because you're a noble?"
"They do it even if you aren't."
It must have been his first time in first class. Jack kept craning around, taking it all in.
"I could practically lie down the whole way, couldn't I?"
It varied by airline, of course. With a soft mechanical whirr, a British Airways seat folded flat at the touch of a single button, as good as a bed. And lying down was hardly the whole of it. The seat was so generous that my own little territory felt like more than enough.
"I wanted to at least pay for the tickets."
"I told you it's fine."
"I already got my father's permission and everything…"
"I've had plenty of gifts."
"…?"
"The epaulettes."
"Ah."
He laughed, sheepish. It didn't last. Jack sank into thought, and the look on his face said he felt he'd been given too much and wanted, somehow, to answer it.
"Oh! Want to come to my house?"
"Your house?"
"Once we land in London we'll have to book a hotel anyway. Stay with us for a while instead. You'd save money, and…"
"Hm."
"Would that be uncomfortable?"
He shook his head.
"Then why not?"
"Ah. Well."
"…?"
"I already found a place in London. I'll be living there for the next three years, so I thought I might as well settle it now."
Jack scratched his head. Talking with me still didn't sit easily with him, and no wonder. A boy only just finishing middle school, with a private office of his own, skipping departure procedures on a whim, snapping up a same-day first-class seat — and, above all else, planning to live in a dormitory while also buying a house for the weekends?
"Wh-where is the house?"
"In front of the school, I think. Close enough to walk."
"The rent there must be insane."
"I'm not worried about rent."
"Why?"
"I hate money walking out the door every month, so I just bought it."
Ah. That had come out a little strange, hadn't it. One look at his face confirmed it.
"Just how rich is your family?"
"Hard to say."
If I told him I'd bought it with money I'd earned myself, the story would only grow longer. So I was offering nothing but an awkward smile when he spoke again.
"I'm only asking, just in case."
"…?"
"Your family… you wouldn't happen to have any interest in the defense industry, would you?"
Half a day later, London.
Baker was waiting at the airport. Two of us coming out at once left him a little flustered, but one sentence from me was enough.
"He's a friend."
Baker nodded at once.
"Shall I see your friend home as well?"
"No. My parents should be waiting."
Jack and I smiled and said our goodbyes. Term would start soon; we'd see each other at school. A light handshake, and we headed off in different directions.
Baker watched Jack's back recede, then asked, "Your friend… he doesn't need to take any luggage?"
"He came empty-handed."
"From Korea?"
"Yes."
"So he's leaving empty-handed too?"
I nodded.
"Then you as well, sir…"
"More or less."
"Ah."
It wasn't the first time. Baker didn't look particularly thrown.
"That's fine. I've already set up everything essential at the house. You'll only need to buy a few changes of clothes."
Clothes, though. On weekdays I'd be in uniform straight through.
"Let's go."
At that, Baker quickly took the lead.
It's been a while.
A Bentley limousine, oppressively large no matter how often I saw it. Even so, that heavy exhaust note and the calm surge of its acceleration were in a class of their own.
If a Bentley was like this, what would a Bugatti be? The 1938 Bugatti Chairman Dazai had signed over to me.
Come to think of it…
I still hadn't even driven the thing. Then again, you needed a license before you could drive anything at all.
I was turning all this over when the view beyond the window turned strange. A rich neighborhood, by the look of it. Stately old mansions stood in a row, and the car stopped before one that seemed especially vast.
"This is the place."
Somewhere I'd have to myself, and only on weekends. At that size it was nearly a palace.
Had he read my face? Baker hurried to add an explanation.
"As I mentioned before… anywhere you can walk to school is nothing but high-end houses. And this one was a rush sale, so there weren't many real choices."
I wasn't trying to scold him. I was only surprised.
Right. When else am I going to live in a house like this?
I decided to enjoy it.
"It's wonderful."
"Ah… the inside is even finer."
True to his word, the interior was more striking still.
"I thought about having it decorated ahead of time… but I didn't know your taste, sir, so for now I only had it cleaned."
It was a two-story house. Seven rooms that were merely large, and about five more that were frankly enormous. Beyond that, the peculiarities amounted to a great stack of firewood and a huge fireplace.
Ah — one thing more. Above the hearth hung a set of antlers large enough to belong in a film, and that left quite an impression.
A rocking chair right there, a book in my hands. Perfect, isn't it?
Why wouldn't it be. The crackle of burning logs, a sip of whiskey — ah. After I came of age, of course. Heh.
Perhaps he thought I liked the atmosphere. Baker went on with a pleased smile.
"An old family lived here. Florentine painters worked a pattern into every inch of the wallpaper, and the carpet below — you see it? Even that was made by master craftsmen in Turkey, the very best of…"
"It's beautiful."
Only then did he seem to relax. He let out a long breath.
"The furniture is at least two hundred years old as well… but far from worn-out, it felt stately, so I left it as it was."
Just as he said. The finest materials, joined to the finest workmanship, and then time's weathering laid over all of it, until each piece had become a work of art in itself.
"It's more house than I could ever need."
"Thank you."
I was the one who ought to have been thanking him. Why was it Baker?
"Sir, it's late, so I'll be heading back."
The clock said midnight. Had it gotten this late already? I walked with him toward the front door.
Quite a walk.
It felt far larger than the Hannam-dong house.
"It's a relatively safe neighborhood, but even so, do lock up properly…"
"Go on home and rest."
"Ah, yes. Then I'll see you tomorrow."
The lock clicked. Only after he had watched me turn it did his footsteps fade away. Baker really was meticulous.
In any case, once he was gone I was alone in that great house.
It's bleak.
I thought of putting a record on, but fatigue crashed over me all at once. What was this? I'd slept the whole flight and assumed I wouldn't be able to sleep.
I showered in hot water and barely managed to lay my heavy body on the bed. My memory stops there. I dropped straight into a dead sleep.
The next morning there was a sandwich in the refrigerator. The expiration date was generous; Baker must have prepared it in advance.
Thorough as ever.
There were drinks of every kind, too. Water, sparkling water, orange juice, milk, even cola.
Everything's here except coffee.
But Baker was not the sort to miss that. On the table sat a coffee pot and packets of coffee.
Oh!
The beans were Hawaiian Kona. Even in the nineties it had been counted among the world's three great coffees, a luxury variety.
Living well from the very morning.
Thanks to that, I brewed a cup in high spirits. Each time the hot water soaked the grounds, a soft aroma rose. A leisurely morning, and one good cup of coffee. Yes — this was living. This, right here, was why a second life was worth it.
I finished breakfast at my ease, showered, and pulled clothes from my backpack. It was nine in the morning.
First, get the uniform fitted.
Maybe because the door was so large, the house key had a brutish heft to it. I couldn't go around with that thing in my pocket, so I had to bring a bag as well.
Hm.
I'd come out without a plan.
I need to know where the tailor is.
I wanted to ask the way, but the street was empty. An upscale residential quarter, perhaps. After about five minutes of walking I was lucky enough to find a flower shop, just as a young woman who looked like an employee was carrying flowers out front.
"Excuse me, could I ask you something?"
"Yes?"
She looked me up and down, wary, as if checking whether I was someone suspicious. The moment our eyes met, she seemed to let the suspicion go.
"I heard there's a tailor around here."
"There are plenty of tailors. One on every lane, I'd say."
"Ah, I mean a place that specializes in fitting Royal School uniforms…"
A light came into her eyes at once.
"Are you a Royal School student?"
"Not yet, but…"
"Starting this year?"
"Yes, well."
"Whoa — oh! Congratulations."
To think a face could change so completely just from hearing that I belonged to Royal School.
"Are you Asian royalty, by any chance?"
"No, no."
"Then nobility?"
More to the point, where was the tailor. Had she read that look?
"Oh, I'm sorry. I just got curious… they say the school is nearby, but we almost never actually see the students."
I'd heard as much. Even when they made trouble, they mostly raised hell out in the country so their faces wouldn't get around. Probably.
"The tailor you mean is quite a walk from here. It's hard to explain in words. Shall I draw you a map?"
Before she heard an answer, she went inside for paper. I was grateful, but the kindness felt excessive. My being a Royal School student had clearly done a good share of the work.
Anyway.
"Thank you."
I followed the little map she had drawn, walking on at a steady pace.
Is this it?
A shop front crowded with people. Men who looked as if they were wearing choir robes stood in a line, holding large signs.
What was that supposed to mean?
Another sign carried a different line.
So if this were a university, the upperclassmen had come out to recruit for their clubs.
There were quite a few clubs besides that one. Not only every sort of study, but sports clubs lined the street as well — rugby, rowing, polo, and more. The amusing part was the dress: those familiar black gowns with hoods. That, and the ties. Second-years wore green, third-years red.
But what was this? The upperclassmen who had been chattering away only a moment before spotted me and, one by one, shut their mouths. Then the looks came flying.
Don't tell me you're a new student too.
It was obvious. How had someone who wasn't even white gotten in — that was what they meant. But one of them seemed to find the answer.
"Wait. Isn't that the guy?"
"What?"
"The one Her Majesty wrote a personal letter for…"
"Why would the Queen write to an Oriental?"
"No, think about it. If it wasn't her recommendation, how could an Oriental have gotten in?"
Was it those words — the Queen's recommendation?
"…!"
In an instant, the air around us went cold.