You Talk in Your Sleep for Ages
“I cannot help but hold the deepest respect for your wife’s charitable work.”
“I only did what was right.”
Anne Morgan was the very embodiment of true noblesse oblige among the upper class. The fur coat grated on the eyes a little, but the animal was already dead—what could be done about that?
In any case, Anne Morgan left word that she would send her secretary and then vanished somewhere with a group of similarly fur-clad women.
“Kieran, you really…”
Mother gazed at me with honey-sweet eyes. She had every reason to.
The masks produced by Free Your Body sold for twenty cents each. More than ten thousand of them had sat as dead stock, doing nothing but taking up warehouse space. Yet Anne Morgan’s generous purchase that day cleared the inventory in one stroke and generated five thousand dollars in sales.
Moreover, the fact that the masks were being donated to the Red Cross carried its own significance.
“Starting tomorrow, the second factory needs to focus exclusively on masks.”
“Yes. We have to make another ten thousand!”
“We’ll need to make more than that.”
I hoped it wouldn’t come to pass, but the second wave that would claim countless lives was not far off. Masks and hand sanitizer would become the means by which Mother and I forged public images as philanthropists.
The event began.
Officials from the hosting ILGWU explained the purpose of the gathering and raised their voices for the human rights and suffrage of oppressed women workers.
Naturally, my attention had already drifted from the speeches.
Through Big Tom Foley I concentrated on showing my face to Tammany Hall politicians and high-ranking officials of New York City and Manhattan. Some among them were thoroughly entangled in every kind of corruption, their public faces nothing like their private ones.
They regarded me less as the son of the Free Your Body president and more as the brave “boy” who had guarded Big Tom Foley and eliminated two anarchists. That perception was effective in its own way.
“So you were that young fellow.”
“Isn’t the kid remarkable? Everyone else was busy running away.”
People’s reactions were more favorable than I had expected. Some even took an interest in my bloodline.
“Your father was from the Korean Empire? You must have your worries.”
Most American citizens knew nothing of Joseon or the Korean Empire. But in February of this year, 1918, trade restrictions had been imposed between Joseon and the United States, and Koreans in America had begun moving for independence, drawing the attention of certain American politicians.
Those who knew of the Korean Empire were, at least, people with an eye for international affairs.
Beyond them, no one openly made an issue of race.
Was it because there were so many watching eyes at the event?
Or because Big Tom Foley stood beside me?
A glance around provided the answer.
Those who harbored racial prejudice or bias simply never approached me. They stood well back, regarding me with discomfort as if I myself were the flu virus.
It made no difference.
I had no business with the likes of them either.
At that moment the platform announced Mother’s turn.
“Only a year ago she was a worker picketing alongside the ILGWU. Today we welcome the woman who rose to become a successful female entrepreneur. Please give a warm round of applause for Nora Graves, president of Free Your Body, whose remarkable products have given women freedom of movement.”
Amid the applause Mother stepped onto the stage. I halted my networking and fixed my gaze on the platform.
Just say the words I wrote for you yesterday exactly as they are.
I’m right here. Don’t be nervous, Mother.
My silent message seemed to reach her. With a composed expression she began to speak.
“Honored guests, beloved neighbors—it is a privilege to stand before you. Through Free Your Body I have created garments that symbolize women’s freedom and independence. These are not mere clothes; they have been armor with which we cultivate ourselves and defend our dignity.”
A strong opening. Every word of it was the speech I had written for her.
The delivery was neither too slow nor too fast; her clear voice carried just the right weight.
“I am a woman. I am a mother, a business owner, and a citizen of this city. Someone once told me that a woman running a business defies the will of the world. I ask: whose will is the will of the world?”
This gathering we share today is living proof of the kind of world we are building.
We stand in the midst of change, and for a better future we must take one another’s hands.
“Women, immigrants, the poor—all are members of this city. And each of us can contribute from where we stand. Holding that belief, I will continue to work. I will do my part so that more women may dream, work, love, and live. Thank you.”
In an age when women’s entry into society was far from easy, those who sincerely rejoiced in Mother’s success were moved to tears. Naturally a storm of applause followed.
“Your mother is quite something. Moving a crowd with so few words is no small feat. Oratory is something you’re born with.”
Big Tom Foley patted my shoulder and smiled. Outwardly and inwardly different—much like myself—Foley gave Mother a generous appraisal.
I shared the same view.
Her eyes, the unselfconscious delivery, the tone of her voice, the atmosphere in the hall—taken together, Mother was the living proof that the position makes the person.
It was not something a son should say, but raising her had been worth every effort.
“Was I all right?”
“Truly magnificent.”
Her face still flushed, Mother came right up to me.
“Son, hold me up for a moment.”
Leaning against me, she trembled. Her legs were still shaking.
“From now on I won’t come even if they invite me. I’m never giving another speech.”
“You’ll get used to it. It’s surprisingly addictive—once you’re accustomed, you’ll want to keep doing it.”
“You’ve never done it, son.”
Why wouldn’t I have, Mother?
In my previous life I had stood before hundreds and poured my whole body into speeches. Of course the audience had been fresh recruits just entering the military, and I had been their drill instructor.
Same difference.
While I was speaking with Mother, a group approached. All of them held positions in well-known American organizations: the UGWA (United Garment Workers of America), the WUTL (Women’s Trade Union League), the New York chapter of the Red Cross, and the AFL (American Federation of Labor).
The AFL in particular was closely tied to the establishment of the union at the Fulton Fish Market.
I would make their acquaintance for now.
The next person of interest was a key figure from the New York Red Cross. Having heard something from Anne Morgan, he asked to move somewhere quieter and requested mask samples.
This might progress faster than expected.
I quickly took a generous ten masks from my bag and handed them over, not forgetting the product pitch.
“These are qualitatively different from ordinary gauze masks. The double-layer construction prevents droplets from leaking through—far safer.”
“Whose idea was the design?”
Mother’s gaze naturally turned to me.
“Mine. I’ve already filed the patent.”
Double and triple layers, plus the intermediate filter—I had applied for patents covering even the filter technology that was still impossible to implement with current methods.
Anyone caught making knock-offs had better be ready for a visit from the Union.
After examining the masks, the Red Cross official continued.
“Recent trends suggest the flu’s spread has slowed, yet many experts worry about a second wave of infection. Beyond the masks donated by Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Graves, we need far greater quantities.”
Would a mere twenty thousand be enough?
The donated masks were bound for soldiers fighting for freedom. But with so many troops, support had to be selective.
“There is a Red Cross chapter in every major American city. Naturally the New York chapter should send supplies to the ‘Metropolitan Division.’”
The 77th Infantry Division had been formed from draftees trained at Camp Upton on Long Island. Most of the men had been conscripted from Manhattan itself, so it was commonly called the Metropolitan Division.
“Red Cross chapters across the country plan to prepare masks not only as relief goods for the troops but also for those working on the medical front at home. In Seattle they are already making masks themselves, led by volunteers.”
The Red Cross received not a single cent from the federal government. It was a private charitable organization dependent solely on private donations and volunteer labor. That was why they intended to produce masks through volunteer effort in order to save every possible penny.
“Funds fall hopelessly short of the quantities required. Is there any way to solve this?”
How were they supposed to solve anything without money?
But the Red Cross was a private charity. Anticipating exactly this, I had prepared a contingency.
“What if Free Your Body supplies the patented double-filter fabric, and the volunteers handle the remaining ear-loop sewing? Dividing the labor would lower the unit cost accordingly.”
“How much could we reduce it by?”
“Thirty percent. That figure is only possible because of the volume—you know perfectly well it means we take a loss. The important thing is performance. If you wear a mask and it does nothing, it’s worthless. There’s nothing else like this.”
No matter how much volunteers contributed labor, the fabric and materials still had to be purchased with money.
After running the numbers in his head, the official nodded positively.
“I’ll discuss it internally.”
When the official left, Mother patted my back.
“My son is quite the businessman.”
“Mother, I’ll go speak with Mr. Foley for a moment.”
Having taken a bribe, one had to work.
I quietly approached Big Tom Foley and relayed everything I had discussed with the AFL representative and the Red Cross.
“Is there a particular reason you’re telling me this?”
“I’m also interested in the Fulton Fish Market union and in hand sanitizer.”
“You’re really not like other boys your age. No wonder Tanner thinks so highly of you.”
Big Tom Foley stared hard at me and clicked his tongue.
I offered him a bright smile.
“I know a pharmacist. He’s planning a sanitizer business, but the licensing conditions are rather strict. I need your help, Mr. Foley.”
“Help, is it…”
“The pharmacist has some money.”
Big Tom Foley’s eyes lit up. With animal instinct he recognized that this was not a request but a solicitation.
“Arrange a meeting with the pharmacist.”
To build a sanitizer factory one needed permits from the relevant New York State departments, the Department of Health, and the Department of Labor. To push those procedures through quickly, the appropriate connections and bribes were essential.
When the entire event ended, Mother and I returned home. With the tension released she melted into the sofa; I went up to the third floor and knocked on George Wolcott’s door to fetch Roa.
I sent Roa downstairs and exchanged a brief greeting with Wolcott.
He still knew nothing of my relationship with the Union. Merely having been told the contact channel was enough to make him very well-disposed toward me.
“Roa gets along so well with my little girl. Feel free to leave her anytime without worrying.”
A reporter speaks not through articles, but through sales figures.
The common sense Ruben had lived by collapsed.
More precisely, it had begun collapsing the moment he joined the Flea Market lifestyle information paper.
At any rate, Ida, editor-in-chief of the business magazine, had assigned quotas to her reporters in order to boost sales of the inaugural issue.
“Fuck it. If they say do it, you do it. What choice is there?”
Ruben stopped in front of the company that had once given him a thorough thrashing.
Free Your Body
He did not want to go in, but he had no choice.
Drawing a deep breath, he entered the factory.
When he knocked on the president’s office door, the beautiful female president slightly furrowed her brow.
“Are you here about advertising again?”
“Good heavens, of course not. I’ve changed companies recently, Madam President.”
Reporter Ruben presented a new business card—the card of the business magazine The Ledger.
“You gave a speech at the ILGWU yesterday, didn’t you? I tried to interview you on the spot, but there were so many people that I came today instead.”
Just a short interview. With practiced boldness Ruben pulled out his notebook and began asking questions.
“The brassiere that gifted women freedom of movement—whose idea was that tremendous concept and product design?”
“My eldest son, Kieran’s.”
“I see. And how old is your son?”
“He turns eighteen this year.”
Ruben tilted his head.
Shocking. From his speech and manner he had seemed older.
Outwardly he voiced admiration.
“To conceive of such a product at that age—remarkable.”
Ruben scribbled rapidly and pressed on.
“I heard there were many sewing-machine problems in the early days of the business. Attracting investment from Anne Morgan as well. Was all of that your own judgment, Madam President?”
“It was thanks to Kieran’s advice.”
“Hmm. Next is about the masks. What was the background for suddenly making masks after lingerie?”
“Kieran’s idea.”
“I understand you were already producing masks before the flu spread.”
“Kieran said it would happen.”
That damned Kieran. Whenever anything went wrong my mother always blamed me.
This was why the world was unfair.
Pausing his pen, Ruben smacked his lips and looked at Nora.
“You’ve got a genius for a son.”
“By the way, isn’t he in the same building right now?”
“Yes. We pass each other sometimes, but I’ve never actually spoken with him. He’s different from how he looks, though.”
“How does he look?”
“He always grins whenever he sees me. How should I put it…”
Should he say the kid looked simple? Besides, he was just an ordinary East Asian boy with nothing special about him.
Tall and well-built, sure, but that was about it.
The genius talk was the same. It was just polite flattery; Ruben did not take Nora’s words at face value.
What is he, Edison? And why would a guy design women’s brassieres?
All in all he regarded it as a mother’s over-the-top praise for her son.
“Anyway, your son looked pretty ordinary.”
“That’s a relief. That he looks ordinary.”
What was that supposed to mean?
Ruben set his pen moving again and continued the questions.
After roughly thirty minutes the interview ended.
“Your interview will appear in the inaugural issue of The Ledger next month.”
“What an honor. I’ll keep a copy at home.”
“Will one copy be enough? If things go well we might even put your face on the cover.”
Of course that was pure lip service for the sake of sales figures.
As if the editor-in-chief would be crazy enough to put the Free Your Body president on the cover instead of the head of some much larger company.
“If I may offer a tip—handing out magazines instead of business cards is extremely effective. It shows people exactly who you are, just like that!”
“That does sound true.”
“Honestly, there’s no better self-promotion than a newspaper or magazine article. In that sense…”
Ruben’s eyes sparkled as he held up three fingers.
“How about three hundred copies?”
“…… You want me to buy all of them?”
“Come on, that’s not many at all. A few for the office, the factory, home, relatives’ houses—and how many neighbors do you have?”
Ruben showed the conflicted female president a smile of trust and pressed for a decision.
“I’ll write you a dazzling article.”
The president let out a small sigh and shook her head.
“I think my son will scold me.”
“It’s for business. Besides, it’s a magazine with his mother’s article in it. If necessary, shall I try persuading him?”
The president readily nodded.
“Then please do.”
“Okay! Leave it to me!”
His steps back to the office were light.
Arriving at the twin buildings on Allen Street, he stopped not at the second floor but at the first-floor Intima lingerie boutique.
Someone happened to be arranging the merchandise.
“You’re Kieran, right?”
“What about it?”
Why does this guy always grin whenever he sees me?
Come to think of it, back at the flea market this bastard had been the reason the senior had beaten him.
Anger boiled up, but sales figures came first.
“Your mother’s article is going into the magazine. In cases like that, people usually buy about five hundred copies for business promotion.”
This kid’s grinning again?
“You just don’t know yet, but most businesspeople do that. You want your mother’s business to do well, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then five hundred copies—deal?”
“Let’s make it three hundred.”
“Hmm. Okay!”
Ruben barely managed to pull down the corners of his rising mouth as he secured the agreement. Genius my ass.
He was whistling as he climbed the office stairs when he ran straight into the beautiful editor-in-chief.
“You look happy.”
“Prepare to be amazed. I just locked in three hundred copies!”
“Oh? From where?”
“Free Your Body!”
The editor-in-chief paused, then looked Ruben over from head to toe.
“No stab wounds?”
“Pardon?”
“Strange. All right. Good work.”
“Yes, ma’am! Have a good one.”
Ruben headed to the second-floor office; Ida stopped by the first-floor lingerie shop.
“Our reporter was making some pretty wild claims. Is he serious?”
“It’s the inaugural issue—sales won’t be great anyway. Three hundred copies can be scattered around Wall Street.”
“Ah.”
A few days later Anne Morgan paid for the ten thousand masks. The New York Red Cross chapter decided to purchase only the double-layer fabric—one hundred thousand pieces’ worth.
Free Your Body’s second factory threw everything into mask production and pulled in revenue on a scale rivaling the brassieres in a short time.
Through Patrick, George Wolcott also entered the pharmacy-chain and hand-sanitizer factory business.
The truce with Frankie Yale remained in force.
With the Fulton Fish Market tangled among the Union, the White Hands, the Sicilian Italians, and the Neapolitans, the LES enjoyed a relative peace.
The Union restrained the protection-fee collection units from excessive violence, extortion, and threats, seeking to win the goodwill of local merchants.
Criticism that they were all the same gradually faded as people grew accustomed to the new order.
Meanwhile the second wave of the flu swept the entire United States with a ferocity incomparable to the first.
From August onward the epidemic raged so fiercely that Roa could not go to Coney Island.
Her sleep-talking grew worse by the day.
What kind of vacation is this? The place where Roa’s dreams and hopes breathe—Coney Island…
“You talk in your sleep for ages.”
“I know.”
Around the time the still-unnamed epidemic was christened the Spanish Flu after the neutral nation that reported it, the flu spread across the battlefields and began killing soldiers in droves. Orders even went out to wear masks.
September 24, 1918. The port of Le Havre, France.
Trucks stood in a long line waiting to load American military supplies that had arrived from New York. Among them was a Red Cross truck whose cargo-bed cover bore a red cross on a white field.
The load was bulky yet relatively light. The supply officer slapped the truck’s hood.
“Disney, Drift! Get this to the Verdun supply base on the double!”
It was two days before the Meuse–Argonne offensive—the final battle that would see the heaviest commitment of American troops.