Daehan Yanghaeng (1)
Two men entered the room under Woo Beom-seon's guidance. The first to cross the threshold, catching my eye by accident, let his mouth fall open in a slack little heh.
"Uh..."
The two who filed in one after the other seemed a little thrown to find nothing but a child sitting alone in the seat of honor. Woo Beom-seon must have given them some kind of briefing on the way, though, because they quickly composed their faces and took turns offering their greetions.
"Yi Yong-ik, at your service."
"...Lee Ha-young."
Instead of answering at once, I spread my arms to shoulder width and welcomed them in.
"Come in, come in. It's a modest room, I'll grant you — but then, for all that I look like this, I am a convict. Haha."
"Ah. Yes, of course."
In truth it wasn't merely modest. The room was far too small to receive anyone properly. My place of exile was already bursting at the seams — some printing books, others from the Vanguard bunking and taking their meals here.
If I could just expand the house sideways, that would be something. But Choe Ik-hyeon stacked those walls high specifically so I couldn't run. So much for that.
At this point, tearing down the stone wall we'd barely managed to pile up along the cliff edge and building the house over again was out of the question. Our people had far too much work as it was.
Yi Yong-ik and Lee Ha-young, visiting for the first time today, seemed to understand my circumstances; they showed no particular shock at the state of my room. I spoke to them.
"Come, sit down."
"Thank you."
They scrambled, flustered, to find their places and settle onto the floor cushions. Behind them, Woo Beom-seon sat leaning against the closed door and gave me a slight nod.
Once they were seated, I took my time studying the two of them.
First — Yi Yong-ik, is it?
Gongpil Yi Yong-ik: the man who would make his name as Minister of the Takjibu of the Korean Empire, a pro-Russian, an independence activist.
His eyebrows were thin but stretched long to either side; his beard was straight, his eyes clear. As if to prove the years he'd spent as a traveling peddler, his skin had a slight copper cast, and together with his broad shoulders it gave him a thoroughly robust impression.
Robust. The man himself. Even knowing I was sizing him up, Yi Yong-ik had not once, from the moment he entered the room, been afraid to meet my eyes. Then again, how frightening could the glare of an eight-year-old brat possibly be?
"A pleasure."
I smiled as I spoke to him.
"I hear your name is well known even in Bukcheong."
"Yes, well. Something like that."
"Then, this gentleman here."
After a brief exchange of glances with him, I shifted my gaze to the man at his side. There sat Lee Ha-young, whose eyes darted about as restlessly as Yi Yong-ik's were steady. The moment our gazes met, he couldn't keep his hands still, fidgeting as he opened his mouth.
"...Lee Ha-young, sir. For a long time I helped with the alms at Tongdosa Temple. Rice-cake vendor, traveling peddler, day laborer — there's nothing I haven't done to stay alive, Teacher. Ah, I'm not a Buddhist, of course. No, no. You have no idea how much I despise those damned monks, Teacher. Grasping, avaricious lot."
"Ah. You've been holding that in a while, I take it."
"Ah, I've put my foot in it again... Forgive me, Teacher, you were about to speak and this humble person got carried away. A gathering like this is rather a strain on me as it is..."
The torrent of words left not only me but Yi Yong-ik — who was glancing at Lee Ha-young with a look of sheer incredulity — and even Woo Beom-seon, sitting blocking the door behind them, looking thoroughly nonplussed. Was this fellow always such a talker? their faces seemed to say.
A glance at the other two was enough to confirm, without anyone saying it, that this was the first time Lee Ha-young had properly opened his mouth in their company. I answered him with the same gentle expression I'd given Yi Yong-ik, making no distinction between them.
"Even if Master Lee were a Buddhist, I would have no reason whatsoever to treat him differently. Don't worry."
"B-but still."
At my answer, Lee Ha-young still looked uneasy. He flicked a glance at Woo Beom-seon behind him and asked, cautiously:
"B-but, Master Unam — the rumors that you smashed every last skull, Donghak rebel or Buddhist, they were circulating quite freely even where I was staying."
"I beg your pardon? Who's been saying that?"
"Aigoo, your fame is already the talk of the land, Teacher. They say you took an axe as tall as yourself, and with the yangban cheering you on, you just — wham! — right into the Buddha statues!"
"..."
For a moment — a very brief moment — I lost control of my face.
This man came straight from Busan, didn't he? The rumors have already reached that far? And when, exactly, did I ever split a Buddha statue?
Would you look at this fellow?
It didn't take me long to identify the source of the rumor. Woo Beom-seon was avoiding my eyes, pretending to look at something else.
We'll talk later.
Suit yourself.
I mouthed that we'd have a little chat later, then waved a hand and offered Lee Ha-young something that wasn't quite a denial.
"That's all idle gossip cooked up by layabouts with nothing better to do than wag their tongues. I have no wild expectations of you as a descendant of Baeksa Yi Hang-bok, and no interest in that. I am interested in Lee Ha-young, the man. I wanted to see you, Mr. Lee Ha-young. That's what I'm saying."
"Aigoo, Teacher!"
Overcome, Lee Ha-young suddenly pitched forward and performed a full prostration. I began, in that moment, to reassess the man called Lee Ha-young.
Compared to Yi Yong-ik beside him: the slumped shoulders, the limp eyebrows, the low nose, the eyes that looked gentle at a glance but seemed drained of all drive.
...This man has no confidence. None at all.
And in truth, he had every reason not to. Right now Lee Ha-young was ruined so thoroughly he'd rather throw himself into the sea off Busan.
I rummaged through my memories of Lee Ha-young, watching his restless fingers and the knees that wouldn't stop trembling.
He worked for years as a clerk under Japanese merchants in Choryang, where the Japanese trading post used to be, didn't he? Picked up a fair amount of Japanese, too.
That period would have been around 1875, when the Unyo stormed Ganghwa Island. Meaning this descendant of Baeksa Yi Hang-bok had spent some ten years working as a shop clerk under the Japanese.
Not a single office-holder even three generations back, let alone further. A family so obscure and destitute that his father sold him to Tongdosa Temple to have one less mouth to feed. His younger brother too.
And Lee Ha-young, finding it humiliating to wait on monks, had fled Tongdosa and made for Choryang.
"Hrm."
I had no idea how much that Japanese merchant had paid him, but ten years. He had clearly earned a considerable sum, and picking up the trade over his employer's shoulder, he'd started his first business: import-export.
He's got instincts. And he's not stupid.
It was a simple enough operation — buying Japanese cotton on-site and selling it in Busan — but no Joseon merchant had had the nerve to attempt it, and according to Woo Beom-seon he'd turned a handsome profit.
But.
Swindled by his own partner...
Having boldly wound up his Busan operation to expand the business, Lee Ha-young had gathered his entire fortune, crossed the Korea Strait — and the moment he landed, the partner who'd crossed the sea with him had cheated him of every last coin. What kind of wretched reality was this?
Has this fellow got a curse on him too...?
Honestly, at this point, pro-Japanese or not, I felt a twinge of pity for Lee Ha-young the man.
Daily comparisons to his ancestor Baeksa Yi Hang-bok. A family so poor his parents had handed the brothers over to a temple. Fleeing hunger with his brother, only to end up working in a Japanese shop. Ten grinding years of grit to scrape together seed money — and then, immediately, swindled of the lot. One could almost suspect someone had laid a curse on Lee Ha-young's ancestors.
I clicked my tongue inwardly at the man cringing before me from the first moment of our acquaintance.
No wonder he's so submissive.
I'd heard Woo Beom-seon hadn't even needed to search all of Busan for him. He'd simply scooped up a dazed Lee Ha-young wandering the waterfront. According to Woo Beom-seon, if he hadn't found him when he did, this fellow might already have been on his way to the Dragon King's palace. At any rate.
By contrast.
And Yi Yong-ik? What of this man?
I recalled the papers on Yi Yong-ik that Woo Beom-seon had handed me the day before, and I understood at once why the man sat so straight-backed and self-possessed.
Grandfather passed the military examination; father entered officialdom without a hitch. A yangban family, no question.
Moreover, Yi Yong-ik's father, Yi Byeong-hyo, had served as an inspector at the Uigeumbu. The very Uigeumbu where I myself had been imprisoned. And the Uigeumbu was one of the principal government offices of the age — proof enough that his father had risen quite high.
Which naturally raised a question.
Then why was this man a peddler?
Granted, the peddler guilds were no mere lowly trade; they had their own power and traditions. But compared to holding office, it was a drop in the ocean. Why had Yi Yong-ik, with a grandfather and father who had both made their careers in government, been hawking goods alone in Bukcheong? It wasn't as if the family was poor.
"You seem to have a great many questions about me as well, Teacher."
Whether he'd sensed my gaze or was simply a man long accustomed to the question from everyone around him, Yi Yong-ik shrugged and spoke.
"I know perfectly well what Master Unam is curious about. Why I never sat the civil service examination. That's it, isn't it?"
"Mm. It is."
"It's simple."
I nodded readily, and Yi Yong-ik answered with a faint, cold smile at the corner of his mouth.
"Because the examination is no longer an examination, is it?"
"...A foolish question, a wise answer."
He was right, and I had no grounds to argue. I straightened my posture.
No prejudices.
That's right. No prejudices.
Whether this man would one day be King Gojong's loyal servant, a pro-Japanese collaborator, or an independence fighter — here and now, before me, he was an individual standing before Unam Syngman Rhee. Nothing more, nothing less.
I had not the slightest reason to lean on future knowledge already warped by my own presence, and I did not consider myself such a fool that a boy who had delivered a speech before tens of thousands at Gwanghwamun at the age of seven couldn't manage his own affairs.
Having settled that in my mind, I let my gaze take in Yi Yong-ik, Lee Ha-young, and even Woo Beom-seon behind them, sitting with his arms folded, watching in silence. Then I spoke.
"On the surface, General Woo went and found you. But I, Syngman Rhee, believe you came to Namwon of your own accord because something in this man moved you. Am I right?"
"Y-yes..."
"That's correct."
The voice that went slack of its own accord, needing no explanation, belonged to Lee Ha-young. Anyway.
"Our Dongmaenghoe has been steadily recruiting members and party workers across the country, expanding our field of activity. Most of them are local notables, landowners, yangban families with ancestral burial grounds. Of course there are others, but the majority eat well and live well. That's what I'm saying."
Both men nodded at once, as if they understood. Former merchants, after all?
"You may have heard on the way here, but this inadequate person has published three books. Printing, compiling, and publishing them consumes a great deal of wealth."
"Ah — surely you're not asking us to chip in...?"
The moment money entered the conversation, Lee Ha-young went pale and gave another light tremble. Who said anything about asking for money?
"No. I'm not a bandit."
"Aigoo, that's a relief. My circumstances right now are nothing to speak of."
"Heh heh."
"Tsk."
The moment I dispelled that fear, Lee Ha-young pressed a hand to his chest. Yi Yong-ik looked at him with something like pity, but our Lee Ha-young, possessing neither confidence nor tact, merely wore an expression of profound relief.
Watching the two of them, a good idea occurred to me.
"I mean to start a business."
"A business, you say?"
At the word "business," Yi Yong-ik's eyes changed at once. Even a rotting herring is still a herring — Lee Ha-young, too, sat up straighter at the mention of a venture.
"That's right. One of you has long-standing ties among the peddlers and is fluent in Russian, is he not? The other is proficient in Japanese and has crossed the sea. Even putting it that way, a rather fine picture starts to take shape, doesn't it?"
My vague remarks left both of them looking thoroughly at sea. Behind them, Woo Beom-seon, his interest piqued the moment Russia and Japan entered the conversation, had already shoved his hips in between the two men and planted himself in the middle.
"What I have in mind, to start with, is these three things."
Feeling their eyes on me, I drew a sheet of paper from the writing desk, spread it before them, and began to explain.
"The first is white cotton. Simple enough. Comrade Lee Ha-young crosses from Busan to Japan in person, just as he did before, and brings Japanese cotton back. The reason Comrade Lee never hesitated to go over to Japan in the first place was that Japanese cotton, bought at the source, came in cheaper than Qing cotton. Wasn't it?"
"Ah, that's right, Teacher. Japanese cotton in Busan is two pun cheaper than the Western cotton that comes into Jemulpo from Tianjin or Shanghai."
"I see."
Yi Yong-ik turned to Lee Ha-young with a look of genuine surprise, as if a man who'd spent his life in the north had never heard such a thing.
"We buy Japanese cotton and spread it through Liaodong, Manchuria, and the Maritime Province. While we're at it, it would be well to pass about half the volume on to private merchants."
"You mean to run a cloth business aimed at the Russians?"
"I mean we insert ourselves into the market for daily goods they currently import from China, and pick up even the crumbs. You sell cattle hides and bronze to the Russians yourself, do you not?"
At that, Lee Ha-young looked at Yi Yong-ik with an expression of pure shock. Why? Because that was smuggling.
Yi Yong-ik, however, was no ordinary character. He answered me with a perfectly shameless, even face.
"The people of Hamgyong Province have lived for generations off hunting, logging, or smuggling, the land being so barren. Of those, smuggling accounts for half. If the state ever banned it and started rounding people up, there might not be enough prison cells in all eight provinces."
"And yet you yourself are not a man of Hamgyong, are you?"
"..."
"Pff—!"
Lee Ha-young burst out with the laugh he'd been holding in, then immediately clapped a hand over his mouth — but he could not escape Yi Yong-ik's terrifying glare. Lee Ha-young dropped his eyes at once.
"...I lived a long time in Pyongyang, but my registered hometown is Myeongcheon, in Hamgyong."
In fact, Yi Yong-ik was a man of Hamgyong. It was only that, under the influence of a grandfather and father who had risen early in the world, he had spent his youth in the relatively large cities of Pyongyang and Kaesong.
I answered in a grave voice, addressing a man who took quite seriously both the fact that he was from Hamgyong and the fact that, in this age, Hamgyong was a region people shunned and discriminated against.
"I was joking. And I have no particular opinion on smuggling either. What won't a man do to live? If anything, I find it ugly that the state treats people as lesser because Hamgyong is barren. Are we not all Joseon people alike?"
"..."
That last remark seemed to strike home. Yi Yong-ik closed both eyes and fell silent, offering no reply. The one who grew flustered instead was Lee Ha-young beside him.
"Ah — I don't think strangely of Hamgyong people either, Brother Yi. In fact this is the first Hamgyong man I've ever met, but—"
"Ahem. The second is sugar refining."
"Sugar refining, you say? Sugar doesn't even grow in Joseon."
At Lee Ha-young's question I thought of southern Japan, so close to Busan, and of the Okinawa Islands, which had by now become something like a Japanese plantation, and I smiled.
"Well, we'll buy that from Japan too, of course."
"From Japan? Ah, it is cheaper than in Joseon, yes. But I wonder whether the Joseon market can even absorb that kind of volume."
I shook my head at Lee Ha-young's question.
"We won't sell the sugar as it is. We'll process it. Into candy and sweets."
"Candy? Teacher Unam, I don't think you quite realize — Qing and Japan make candy every bit as well as the West. Frankly, I don't know whether a sugar business would even turn over in Joseon."
"I'll explain that in due course."
Having first set Lee Ha-young's worries aside, I turned the page and went on.
"Last is milling. Rice, which we all love."
"Ah, I thought as much."
"Rice. I thought so too."
"Hm? How did you know?"
Not only Lee Ha-young but Yi Yong-ik and Woo Beom-seon both nodded at the mention of rice, which left me puzzled — until Woo Beom-seon slapped his knee as if the question itself were absurd.
"Joseon rice is the finest in all three countries! From ancient times the Japanese imported grain from the three southern provinces by way of Tsushima, and even the Ming Emperor heard such rumors of how delicious Joseon rice was that he sent an envoy in person."
"...Is that so."
"And the Jurchens, from olden days, used to bring horses to trade for precious rice. The Mongols too, they say, came down as far as Uiju loaded with rare tea and silk to do business. And—"
"Teacher Unam."
Just as I was beginning to wear out under Woo Beom-seon's oration, Lee Ha-young cut across him and asked me a question.
"Yes?"
"Then what is the name of this business you're proposing, Teacher?"
"The name of the business?"
When I asked it back, Lee Ha-young nodded and explained.
"Yes. When I worked under those Japanese merchants, I saw them time and again going through the ordeal of writing up some kind of document for the Japanese court — always 'business this, business that' — and submitting it to the government offices."
"Mm."
"If we're going to be going back and forth to Japan, we'll have to declare at their customs houses. We'll need to be able to fill in the company name and the name of the business on the blank forms, or we'll look suspicious."
His words sent me into a brief reverie. Then I drew out a name at once familiar and strange, and answered evenly.
White Cotton. Sugar. Rice.
The Three Whites Industry — first step of a nation's commerce.
It was the first step of Daehan Yanghaeng.