The Essence of Diplomacy
"Diplomacy," I began, "means Red Sea access rights. Ethiopia's only port right now is Djibouti, and that's under French control. Long-term, if we resolve the Eritrean coastal issue, the Korean Empire can secure a supply base on the Red Sea for routes to the Middle East and Europe."
Marshal Park Young-ho placed a finger on the table, then lifted it. I caught the gesture—it was a signal of calculation. Forty-seven years had etched that into his body. Emotions came second to computation.
"Coffee and platinum usage rights," Marshal Park said.
"And Red Sea base priority rights."
"Priority negotiation rights. The right to receive terms before any other nation. Not handing over land right now."
"There's a difference."
"There is." I nodded. "We're not yielding anything immediately. But over the next ten or fifteen years, when Ethiopia needs outside investment for modernization, the Korean Empire becomes our first partner."
Marshal Park glanced at me briefly. "The point when Ethiopia needs outside investment for modernization."
"I'm projecting around 1922 to 1928." I spoke calmly. "Industrialization phase one wraps up around 1922. Phase two requires technology transfer and capital. From the European powers, that comes with strings attached. The Korean Empire might be different."
"Why do you think so?"
"Because you've been in the same boat." The reason I viewed them so positively was simple. "You know it, and so do I, Marshal. What happens when a non-European nation gets tech support from the European powers. Strings on the carrot. The Korean Empire has that experience from the last fifty years."
Marshal Park offered no reply, but in diplomacy and politics, silence was affirmation.
"We both share the premise that Korean investment in Ethiopia must be cooperation, not exploitation. That's the foundation of this agreement."
A brief silence fell. Marshal Park placed both hands on the table—a posture of someone reaching a conclusion.
"Declaring Ethiopia a special ally of the Korean Empire would formally elevate your international status. When a Big Five power publicly names Ethiopia a 'special ally,' other nations change how they treat you."
"I know."
"And on the Italy issue, I'll persuade our bureaucrats to use our veto power to block any Italian military coercion against Ethiopia. Not public statements—backroom coordination after meetings."
"That's the more effective approach," I said immediately. "Public statements could bruise Italy's pride and provoke backlash. Better to quietly press from behind the scenes."
Marshal Park nodded.
"In exchange, Ethiopia will..."
"Sign an agreement guaranteeing resource usage and priority rights." I answered first. "As a separate document, not publicized in this conference. Ethiopia grants the Korean Empire most-favored-nation usage rights for coffee and minerals, and priority partner status in our future modernization."
Marshal Park looked at me. "You've come prepared."
"I've been thinking about it since before I arrived." It was true. From the moment I boarded the ship in Djibouti—no, even earlier—I'd been turning over what cards to play against the Korean Empire.
Marshal Park fell silent. It was hard to tell if it was refusal or consideration. His silences were always one or the other.
"One additional condition," he said.
"Name it."
"The agreement's validity runs until 1935. Then renegotiation."
Hearing that year, I felt my fingers twitch faintly. 1935. The year Mussolini invades. My Maginot Line, where I had to stop everything.
Was Marshal Park suggesting it by chance, or... I studied his eyes. Quiet and even. But something lurked there. Watching for my reaction to the year.
"Why 1935?" I asked directly.
He replied curtly. "Because we anticipate Italy's next move around then."
There it was. I exhaled once. "Agreed."
"Until 1935. Renegotiation after. The agreement in a signed document by representatives of both nations, not disclosed to third countries."
"Agreed," Marshal Park said.
The negotiation was done. A hush settled in the room, and I mentally tallied the weight of this conversation.
What Ethiopia gained: International recognition. Italian restraint. Public backing from a Big Five power.
What the Korean Empire gained: African resource priority. Red Sea base negotiation priority. Long-term partnership.
No losers. Each had what the other needed, and gave what they could spare.
This was diplomacy. Not rhetoric—interests. Not speeches—contracts.
For the first time, Marshal Park's lips quirked faintly. A smile, soundless.
"Very well," he said.
Silence descended on the table. Through the window, Paris's November sky loomed leaden with low clouds. Trees in the Versailles gardens swayed in the wind.
Marshal Park spoke again. "The specifics of the support statement—its phrasing and timing—need review. Public Korean backing for Ethiopia could create unnecessary friction with Italy. It might be more practical to frame it as allowing agenda items rather than direct statements."
"That's better," I said at once. "A signal that the Korean Empire won't obstruct carries more weight than stepping forward. The other nations have no reason to side with Italy then. Italy gets isolated."
"Ethiopia must formally submit the agenda item."
"I'll handle it."
"For a sub-seat nation to submit an agenda here, prior lobbying is essential."
"I have a channel with French Consul Brice, from Addis Ababa onward. We can formalize the agenda submission request through him."
Marshal Park nodded once—a nod of calculations aligning.
I confirmed the moment, tapping the table lightly with a finger before lifting it. That was all we could say in this room today. The rest had to be shown through actions.
"We'll end here for today, Marshal."
We gazed at each other briefly. Somewhere in my mind, I felt something slot into place. Forty-seven years and twenty-two. History buff and engineering student, ROTC lieutenant. African highlands and Korean peninsula. Two people with no apparent connection, speaking the same language in this small Paris room in 1918.
What it meant would only become clear after the Paris Conference ended.
I tapped the table lightly with a finger. "Draft the document tonight. Signatures one week after mutual review."
"Good," Marshal Park replied.
As his words ended, a sound came from the corridor. A bell. Signaling the conference resumption.
We both heard it. Marshal Park stood. I stood too.
As he straightened his uniform, I lightly adjusted the collar of my imperial robes. Nothing had happened. We were just two people returning to the conference hall, faces betraying nothing—as if we'd never met separately, not even a chance encounter in the hall.
The door opened. Marshal Park exited first. I followed after a moment.
In the corridor, we walked opposite directions. Feeling his presence head north, I proceeded south toward the hall, where Abuna Mateos waited near the entrance.
"Your Majesty, the conference—"
"I know. Let's go."
The hall doors opened. Entering, I scanned the room. Delegations settling in. France, Britain, America at the head table. The Italian diplomat glanced our way from his seat, then looked away.
And the Korean Empire's seat. Marshal Park was already seated, posture ramrod straight, reviewing documents. The same conference marshal as when we'd first met.
I walked to the Ethiopian nameplate at the sub-seats and sat. The protocol officer began announcing the resumption—in French, filling the room.
I stared ahead, listening. Nothing had happened. The conference simply resumed.
Spreading documents on the table, I thought, just once, very briefly:
Good.
And the afternoon session began, but as expected... it was a circus.