Warehouse Blowout Sale: Black Tuesday

1929년 10월 24일, 아디스아바바 메넬리크 황궁 서재.

The telegram arrived at dawn. More precisely, it was the moment I was reviewing the draft license production contract for the Sh-105 howitzer at my desk in the study, refilling my coffee for the third time.

Tap tap— A sound different from the usual polite knock, like something being rapped urgently.

"Come in."

The night-shift attendant entered, holding a telegram sheet. His face was different from usual. Hard to pinpoint how, but it had that atmosphere of fear, the kind where you sense something's wrong even if you don't grasp it.

"A telegram from New York, Your Majesty."

I took the sheet. It was in English.

A massive stock plunge starting at the New York Stock Exchange. Numbers showing the highest trading volume in history for a single day. And the drop rate. I scanned the figures, setting down my coffee cup.

It's here.

I said it only in my mind. Outwardly, no expression.

Black Tuesday. The start of the Great Depression. A term I'd first learned in my previous life's freshman history class. The professor had shown charts in lecture, saying, "Look at this—the world changes after this day," while I doodled in my notes, figuring it was outside exam scope.

Now that date had arrived via real telegram.

Honestly, I'd been waiting. Since the rainy season ended, economic reports from London and Paris had carried a strange vibe. Stock prices abnormally inflated, real estate bubbles at dangerous levels, speculative capital detached from the real economy. No report needed—my past-life memories were sounding the alarm directly.

Fall 1929. That's what the history books said.

I set the telegram on the desk and picked up my notebook.

I wrote briefly and closed the notebook. Outside the study window, Addis Ababa's dawn was still dark. Two more hours before light crested the eastern ridge.

I stood, walked to the window, and thought about what needed doing now.

At daybreak, I summoned Finance Minister Zeleke Agidew and Foreign Minister Heruy Wale Selassie. Tafari, of course. The meeting was in the small conference room next to the study, not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the grand hall.

We four took seats around the table. Ayenash brought coffee and left. I placed the telegram sheet in the center.

"You've read it."

They nodded. Heruy's face was stiff; Zeleke had papers out, eyes calculating. Tafari was silent as ever.

"If New York falls, London shakes—and if London shakes, Paris goes too," Heruy said first.

"It'll affect coffee export prices, Your Majesty. If Europe and America's purchasing power drops, our top export..."

I raised a hand to pause him.

"I know. Coffee will shake. Textiles too, probably."

Zeleke looked up.

"Your Majesty, then we must conservatively revise the budget now..."

"The opposite."

Three pairs of eyes turned to me. I placed both hands on the table and spoke slowly.

"At this moment when the world looks like it's collapsing, factories worldwide are grinding to a halt. American auto plants closing, German machine makers stacking equipment in warehouses for lack of orders, Belgian chemical factories dumped cheap as investors flee."

I paused, then continued.

"We buy them."

Silence filled the room. Zeleke spoke first.

"Your Majesty, with Ethiopia's coffee export revenue shrinking, acquiring foreign assets now..."

"We use the imperial treasury."

"...Pardon?"

I stood and walked to the window. To the east, the arsenal building's outline sharpened in the morning light. Even now, night-shift workers inside were stamping out ammunition.

"We've stockpiled gold mine revenue for six years for this moment," I said, back turned.

"Gold is the most stable exchange medium in a panic. Even if the dollar crashes and the pound wobbles, gold is accepted. And Western factory owners going bust have no reason not to sell equipment for gold."

I turned to face them.

"When the world sells, Ethiopia buys."

Tafari spoke for the first time. Low, calm voice.

"What specifically do you intend to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠acquire."

Typical of him. While others processed shock, he moved to execution.

"Three things." I sat back down.

"First, machine tools. Precision lathes and drilling machines from bankrupt American auto plants. Equipment a generation ahead of our arsenal's current setup."

Zeleke began noting.

"Second, chemical plants. Prioritize fertilizer lines from Belgian-affiliated plants. No need to calculate how much Sidamo and Harar farmland yields rise with fertilizer."

Heruy's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Third. Engineers. Unemployed American and German tech experts—precision mechanics, chemical process specialists, metallurgists. They have no jobs now. Offer high-paid advisory roles paid in gold, and some will come."

I continued, calculating in my head. Sarkis still had European channels open. Proven routes from Madrid, Brussels, Berlin via that Armenian elder to Addis Ababa.

And Yeo Un-hyung, our envoy. The Korean Empire legation had New York and Washington contacts.

"Heruy."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Contact Yeo Un-hyung today. Check channels for info on factories in U.S. industrial cities like Detroit and Pittsburgh facing bankruptcy or sale. See if the Korean Empire side can share intel."

Heruy nodded.

"Call Sarkis too. This morning."

"Understood."

Zeleke asked cautiously.

"How much from the imperial treasury, Your Majesty."

I thought briefly.

"Current gold mine cumulative—what's the treasury balance."

Zeleke flipped papers quickly.

"1928 close: imperial gold coins and bars equivalent to about 3.5 million U.S. dollars."

"Spend 2 million."

Zeleke's pen stopped.

"...Over half at once."

"Opportunity knocks once." I said firmly.

"The Depression bottoms out in 3 to 5 years, then slowly recovers. After the bottom, equipment prices rebound. We can't buy now what we can today."

Tafari murmured low.

"Report to the Ras council."

"Next month's regular session. With expenditure details and acquired equipment list."

His silence meant no objection—I knew it.

I picked up my Hangul notebook from the table. No one here could read it anyway.

Sarkis arrived well past morning. The Armenian broker, his gray beard fuller now, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠met me in the small audience chamber—his face already showed two expressions: surprise and anticipation.

"Heard the New York news."

He nodded at my opener.

"Yes, Your Majesty. Paris brokers wired this morning. Two German machine firms sounding out sales."

"Which."

"Reich and Berliner. Both shifted from military to civilian post-Great War, but orders dried up with the downturn."

I processed the names. Not ringing bells, but post-war civilian conversion meant precision machining equipment.

"Asking price."

"Still probing. Negotiations start on concrete offers."

"Tell them gold payment."

Sarkis's eyes shifted.

"Gold."

"Think what they need now. Not marks, not pounds. In this global shakeup, only gold is real."

Sarkis eyed me briefly. Our tie went back to 1916. He'd closed the 20,000 Spanish Mausers deal, handled countless procurements since.

Those 13 years—his impression of the Ethiopian imperial house showed in his gaze now: not surprised.

"Understood, Your Majesty."

"For Belgium, wire Brussels yourself. Their brokers are faster on chemical plant sales."

"Detroit U.S. factories via Yeo Un-hyung separately. Coordinate so paths don't overlap."

Sarkis nodded, rose, paused.

"One question, Your Majesty."

"Ask."

"...Did Your Majesty know this was coming."

I met his gaze. Clever man. The kind of question only the clever ask.

"Read the papers closely, and some things show themselves, Sarkis."

Answer enough. He bowed without pressing.