The First Scream
I was walking along the road with two friends.
The sun was setting, and then, all at once, the sky turned blood-red.
I stopped, overwhelmed by a crushing weariness, and leaned against the railing.
Beneath the red clouds, the dark blue fjord and the city stretched out before me.
My friends kept walking, and I remained there alone, frozen in a grip of unease.
Then I felt an endless scream rip through nature itself.
From Edvard Munch's diary (1892)
Crosier Fine Art, New York branch, underground vault.
"Chief James. We have brought the item commissioned by Eterna Gallery."
The security transport team set the specially made hard case down on the appraisal desk.
"Good. Open it."
James tightened the white cotton gloves he was already wearing once more.
A scrap of paper that started at a hundred dollars in some online auction.
He grumbled inwardly, but his eyes were those of a professional as he inspected the piece.
The analysis team had been recalled on the weekend as well.
Hiss-
The pressure valve opened, and the special case came apart.
Inside lay a single old, faded sheet of paper.
James shone a high-intensity LED rake light over it and examined the texture of the surface.
Late nineteenth century, cheap Wove Paper commonly used in Europe.
The natural browning along the edges.
It was on a completely different level from forgeries artificially soaked in tea or baked in an oven.
Those were traces of time left behind by age itself.
The paper seems to be from the right period. Then what about the drawing itself?
His eyes moved to the graphite marks on the sketch.
They were rough. No, there was madness in those lines, a desperation that felt almost palpable.
The jagged path left by graphite across the paper.
It felt as though despair had seeped into every stroke.
Fine. I’ll admit it. It has that distinct Munch madness.
But.
What an appraiser needed was not artistic appreciation, but proof of authenticity.
"Activate the digital microscope. Set it to 3D topography mode."
"Understood."
The ultra-precision microscope hummed to life.
As the laser swept across the sketch surface, the paper's microscopic ridges and depressions emerged in three dimensions.
"Good. Load the scan data for the 'K-12 pocket diary' owned by the Munch Museum."
It was 3D modeling data recorded by the Munch Museum for preservation of the collection.
The screen displayed the rough, torn shape where the paper had been ripped away.
On the left was the auctioned torn paper drawing.
On the right screen appeared the image scanned from the diary owned by the Munch Museum.
The cross-section created when paper tears is like a fingerprint.
The tearing force, the grain of the paper, and the speed all combine to form a pattern unique in the world.
No forger could ever reproduce that torn edge exactly.
James swallowed hard.
The shredded fibers in the sketch on screen and the surviving paper in the diary drew closer to one another.
The moment the two images overlapped.
"......!"
James, and even the researchers beside him, drew in their breath.
Thousands of paper fibers fit together with the opposing gaps like perfectly meshed gears.
Some sections were too worn to match cleanly, but overall, everything lined up.
"My God..."
A shiver ran through James from head to toe.
He stared at the screen and murmured, unable to look away.
"The torn pattern matches perfectly. It really was one sheet to begin with..."
This shabby-looking scrap of paper.
It was the sketch Edvard Munch had drawn when he first felt terror on the hill of Ekeberg in Oslo.
James steadied his pounding heart and picked up his smartphone.
The call was to Korea.
Shin A-young, the representative of Eterna Gallery.
Ring... click.
"Yes, this is Shin A-young of Eterna Gallery."
"Good afternoon, Representative Shin. This is James, chief appraiser at Crosier Fine Art."
Suppressing his excitement as professionally as possible, he went on, "I have completed the analysis of the data you sent and the physical piece."
"And the result?"
Shin A-young's voice trembled slightly.
"The physical join is perfect. The fiber structure of the torn paper matches. This is... authentic."
"Really? To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure myself. That’s a relief."
"The fact that the torn sections fit is strong evidence. Still, we need to make it even more certain. I have one request. May I submit an authentication inquiry to the Munch Museum in Norway under the name of Crosier Fine Art?"
James explained his reasons in a firm voice.
"The production year of the paper pulp, the remaining acidity, and, most importantly, the isotope ratio of the graphite Munch used at the time. We need to cross-check the physical piece so that they personally acknowledge, in their own words, that the paper's production period and the graphite composition match perfectly. Only then will no one in the world be able to dispute it."
Shin A-young fully agreed with James's assessment.
The Munch Museum.
It was a sanctuary containing everything Munch had left behind.
A place where the tens of thousands of works he left upon his death lay sleeping.
It was the largest and most unrivaled museum dedicated to a single artist in the world.
If they received recognition there, then no one would dare say it was not genuine.
- Please proceed. We were planning to request it from that side as well.
"Thank you. We will proceed while maintaining the highest security protocol."
After hanging up, James yanked his tie loose.
Cold sweat soaked the line of his spine.
There was no time to waste.
If they sent an official document to the Munch Museum, it would not be seen until tomorrow morning.
This was not something he could let sit overnight.
James's fingers stopped on a single business card.
"Hoo..."
Helena Vik
Chief curator of the Munch Museum.
A Yale graduate school classmate of James's, and the former lover he had once loved.
James frowned.
Memories he did not want to revisit flashed past him.
Long ago, the nights they had spent on campus talking about art until dawn.
James had become consumed by work and kept Helena at a distance.
Helena had grown disillusioned with James.
And, obsessed with Munch, she had gone off to Oslo without the slightest hesitation to pursue her research.
That was how their contact grew sparse, and how they naturally drifted apart.
James snapped out of his thoughts.
Dammit. That isn’t what matters right now.
He picked up and set down the phone again and again.
To be honest, he wanted less than anything in the world to make that call.
It was a matter of pride, and there was also the awkwardness of calling a former lover.
Should I contact another curator?
He quickly shook his head.
This required the original data from the K-12 diary.
Within the museum, there were only a few people with the authority and judgment to handle material at that level of security.
If Helena saw the data, she would not refuse.
This is no time to worry about pride.
At a historic moment like this, dwelling on stale feelings of romance would be a waste.
He pressed the call button.
Ring... ring...
After five tones, a slightly rough, somewhat irritable voice came through the receiver.
- Hello?
"Helena. It's me. James."
- ......
Silence flowed through the line.
He could almost feel Helena's bewilderment reaching him through the phone.
- James Miller?
Helena's voice dropped an octave.
- What time is it there? No, more to the point, what were you thinking, calling my personal number? Have you been drinking?
Of course. Nothing pleasant came out of her mouth.
If this had been the old days, he might have snapped back.
But today, he didn't have that luxury.
"Helena. Don't hang up. Listen carefully. I haven't been drinking."
- Then what is it? I'm tired. Get to the point. You have one minute.
"It's The Scream."
- ...What?
James exhaled shakily.
Then, low but clear, he said, "The early sketch of The Scream has been found!"
At the top floor of Eterna Gallery, in the representative's office.
From the floor-to-ceiling window, she looked down at the endless line of visitors stretching far into the distance.
Even on a weekday morning, there was a long queue winding around the building.
"The atmosphere around the gallery is no joke these days."
Sitting on the sofa opposite him, Shin A-young flicked through her tablet with an energized expression.
"The website server went down again yesterday. The odds in the ticket lottery passed five hundred to one. We even have scalpers now, so we tightened the ID checks."
The Blue-and-Green Bamboos and Moonlit Secret Meeting.
Shin Yun-bok's forgotten works.
The flood of articles had brought tremendous publicity.
The story of Si-woo discovering relics had helped as well.
Even people who normally had no interest in artifacts came out of curiosity.
And Gato Kiyomasa's sword and the Baekje gilt-bronze seated Maitreya Buddha statue drew in Japanese tourists.
Everything was going well.
Meanwhile, a lingering tension still clung to Shin A-young's face.
"Aren't you worried about this, Si-woo?"
"Worried about what?"
Shin A-young gave him a look of disbelief.
"We still haven't received an official response from the Munch Museum. What if..."
She swallowed the rest of the sentence.
What if they called it a fake?
But Si-woo remained unfazed.
The status window had never once been wrong.
Still, he couldn't tell Shin A-young, "I can see the status window right in front of me. It's definitely authentic," and try to comfort her that way.
So he only smiled and looked at her.
"Representative, don't worry. It'll work out. Worrying won't change anything."
"Ha... I really envy how calm you are, Si-woo."
Whenever Shin A-young saw his confident gaze, she felt, oddly enough, reassured.
As if to change the mood, Shin A-young switched topics.
"Oh, and there’s one more thing I should tell you."
She brought up the tablet screen.
There, already far along in restoration, stood a magnificent wooden plaque.
"The restoration of the Daegwangmyeong Hall plaque at Wongaksa is almost at the finish line."
"That’s faster than I expected. I thought it would take a few more months."
"The restoration team pushed hard, even pulling all-nighters."
"They must have had a rough time."
"We plan to unveil it as soon as it's done. The paperwork is already finished. If we reveal the Daegwangmyeong Hall plaque from Wongaksa too, the Korean art world will go into a frenzy all over again."
They looked at each other and laughed.
Then.
Ding-ding-
Si-woo's phone, lying on the table, rang.
The caller was Choi Young-hoon, head of the PB Center at CB Bank's main branch.
He pressed the call button.
A middle-aged man's voice, polite yet tense, came through the line.
- Good afternoon, Mr. Kim Si-woo. This is Choi Young-hoon, head of the PB Center at CB Bank's main branch. I apologize for contacting you so suddenly while you are busy.
"Hello, Center Director."
- I’m calling because a large transfer has just arrived from Sotheby's Hong Kong. However, the amount is so large that the main branch's foreign exchange department has placed it on hold for the time being due to Financial Intelligence Unit reporting procedures. I ask for your understanding.
The director's voice remained exceptionally courteous.
- We have received all the documents verifying the source of funds from Sotheby's and the auction confirmation without any issue. On paper, there is no problem, but...
The director paused for a moment, then got to the heart of it.
- For the final deposit processing, regulations require voice verification and a recording from the recipient personally. I am currently waiting together with our foreign exchange examiner. May we proceed?
"Yes, that's fine."
- Thank you. Then I will ask for confirmation. Is the 80 billion won transferred today from Sotheby's Hong Kong indeed your auction proceeds?
"Yes."
- Understood. Your identity has been verified. Sorry to trouble you. We will release the hold and process the deposit immediately. And, customer... if I may be so bold, may I ask one more thing?
"Go ahead."
- Do you have any plans to transfer this money to another bank or use it for some other purpose? If not, our main branch would like to assemble a dedicated VVIP asset management team for you.
Even at the main branch, 80 billion won was a huge sum.
If that money came in and then rushed right back out like the tide, the bank would suffer a painful loss.
"I don't plan to withdraw it right away. I'll leave it deposited for the time being."
At that, a quiet sigh of relief drifted through the receiver.
- Ah, wonderful. Then we'll arrange things so you can make deposits and withdrawals freely while still receiving our highest preferential rate. And if you need anything legal or tax-related, please feel free to contact me directly at any time.
"Yes, thank you for taking care of it."
- Not at all. Thank you for your business, Mr. Kim.
The moment the call ended.
Ding!
A bright text notification sounded.
The chapter ended there.
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