Chapter 143
Chapter 143
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Translator: crow
Chapter Title: His Excellency's Daily Life (1)
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“Nasser, you’re saying this guy is one of my followers?”
“That’s what the visible information suggests.”
It was hard to believe.
Why?
Why would this Lee Seong-jun guy be following me?
I hadn’t done anything for Africa or offered any help.
Well, there was Ethiopia, but that wasn’t Egypt.
There was no connection, no point of contact at all, yet hearing that a foreign coup leader was one of my followers felt strangely off.
Was this the kind of sensation Stalin had when dealing with spontaneously arising communists?
‘Looks like the Berlin Blockade isn’t going to happen.’
It had been quite some time since June 1948, but the Soviets showed no signs of blockading West Berlin.
Was it because their nuclear development was slower than in my original timeline?
That might be the answer.
Stalin was the type to tap even a stone bridge before crossing.
Even considering this was the early days of the Cold War, the U.S.-Soviet standoff wasn’t all that intense.
‘Good things are good.’
Anyway, I decided to set aside worries about foreign affairs for today.
“Time to start your schedule, sir.”
Unlike the bizarre turns in world affairs, Korea was enjoying a peaceful daily life.
This wasn’t some deceptive regime rhetoric—it was genuinely true.
“The first Korean League goes to the Sesung Lions.”
“What are you talking about? FC Geundae’s taking the win.”
Even on the day of the first club soccer showdown, the crowd’s enthusiasm was electric.
“Prime Minister, thank you so much for gracing the Geundae-Sesung matchup.”
“No need to mention it.”
I watched the soccer game with the chairmen of Geundae and Sesung Group flanking me on either side.
Being the first match, hardly any modern soccer rules were followed.
If you dribbled with your hands and the ref didn’t see, it just went.
It was so chaotic you couldn’t tell if it was soccer or basketball, but since everyone was clapping, I just played along.
“Sausages for sale! Sausages! Cheap German-style cooked sausages.”
Vendors roamed the stadium hawking sausages and draft beer.
Normally, they’d be stopped, but these guys were disabled veterans from the war.
Cops and soldiers tended to look the other way for them, so they could peddle here too.
The game ended 8-8.
It was such a rule-free mess that questioning the score seemed pointless, but the players wore intensely determined expressions.
Come to think of it, losing a game with the chairmen and the prime minister in attendance would’ve been a disaster.
That made their grim faces understandable.
“Secretary. The players worked hard—give each one an envelope.”
Since I was there, I handed out cash bonuses to the players.
“It’s an honor, Prime Minister!”
“Thank you for your grace, Prime Minister!!”
The chairmen followed suit, opening their wallets.
“Thank you, Chairman!”
Those guys hit the jackpot today.
They must’ve made at least a few months’ salary.
Next on the soccer test run was a visit to the orphanage.
I read picture books to the little kids, putting on a pretty gentle expression.
Absolutely not because the cameras were rolling.
“What’s next on the schedule?”
I had a backlog of propaganda events to clear today, so the itinerary was tight.
Jeong Gil checked his notepad and informed me of the next stop.
“You’re scheduled to visit Miss Lee So-young’s home.”
“Lee So-young?”
“One of Your Excellency’s adopted daughters.”
Oh, right.
I’d taken her in as a daughter and already forgotten her name.
But cut me some slack.
I’d adopted daughters from a whopping 23 unwed mothers.
All those girls were officially on my family registry.
Of course, being on the registry didn’t mean they got treated like real kids of mine.
Still, having my name behind them definitely improved their lives.
Lee So-young lived in a new apartment on the outskirts.
An unwed teen mom living there with her kid was special treatment from the start.
Regular folks couldn’t qualify for the lottery.
I rang the doorbell, and a girl who still looked quite young came scurrying out.
“Wh-who is it? Oh, Your Excellency.”
I wasn’t entirely sure if this was Lee So-young, but she recognized me.
Glad there wasn’t an awkward mix-up.
“Don’t call me Your Excellency—call me Father.”
I flashed the friendliest smile I could muster.
Hadn’t had much reason to smile lately, so my mouth didn’t cooperate, coming off a bit creepy.
Why is expression control so damn hard?
“Y-yes, F-Father.”
The girl hesitated but followed my lead.
Inside, the furnishings were surprisingly decent.
There was a wardrobe, a storage cabinet—what’s that?
Even a TV.
She said people had thoughtfully provided them from all over.
Seemed like the invisible hand of loyalty was at work.
I spent a good while chatting with Lee So-young.
Asked if she was eating well, if there were any hardships raising the kid, that sort of thing.
She started out shy but eventually opened up with all sorts of talk.
She seemed chatty enough—no worries there.
“If anything comes up in the future, get in touch. You know the prime minister’s residence address?”
“Yes.”
I gave the girl some warm words and got up to leave.
That evening, I transformed into a daily coal deliveryman, hauling coal to the slums.
Phew. This was a bit much.
I’d only carried a few sacks, but my back felt like snapping.
Hadn’t even suffered this much with my wife.
Still, I gritted my teeth, endured, and sweated it out.
No politician in my era enjoyed this stuff.
It was all part of 21st-century mass politics.
And every bit of it was captured on camera.
“Your Excellency. News time.”
“Mm. Turn it on.”
I leaned back in my chair and savored the script I’d directed.
Wonder if today’s sweat was worth it.
“Your Excellency. This way.”
At the soccer stadium, I came across as a supremely authoritative and dignified powerholder.
Naturally, that’s how I’d staged it.
Even shaking hands with the chairmen was meticulously directed to show just how lofty and imposing the prime minister was.
Camera angles, framing, lighting—all tools to convey how grand and intimidating Lee Seong-jun was.
Considering the director was Leni Riefenstahl, the Nazi propagandist behind *Triumph of the Will*, this was basic stuff.
The majestic powerholder from the stadium shifted expressions.
At the orphanage, my face looked incredibly warm.
I didn’t smile much, but it was directed to feel like genuine affection for the kids.
Here, I was aiming for the approachable “uncle” vibe.
The scene then moved to Lee So-young’s home.
There, Lee Seong-jun appeared as the protective father embracing and caring for a fragile girl with no guardian.
My expression didn’t quite fit, but the overall tone worked.
The final coal delivery scene showed Lee Seong-jun, the humble servant of the people, working with a lowly posture.
“Not bad.”
I nodded.
Worth bringing in Leni Riefenstahl after all.
Nazi whore, Hitler’s clown—plenty of talk, but her talent was real.
Couldn’t make feature films since they didn’t sell, but for propaganda like this? Perfect.
Of course, even propaganda had side effects.
The more I did it, the more I got idolized.
Still, I couldn’t stop for now.
I needed an image where the people would back me even if I wrecked the country—that’s how I’d dismantle the Yushin regime.
Safety nets like that would let me reshape Korea without worry.
Lost in thought, time flew by.
“Your Excellency. It’s nearly 10. You’ll be late for your appointment with the First Lady.”
Ahem.
That could be trouble.
“Prepare the car.”
I arrived right on time, and my wife waited in a stylish military look.
Seeing her like this, even after our daily wrestling matches, she struck me as freshly alluring.
“Prime Minister, let’s go in.”
Arm in arm with my wife, I entered the Moranbong Grand Theater.
Today, I’d specially carved out time to hear the Pyongyang Philharmonic with her.
Originally, the Pyongyang Philharmonic couldn’t crack the world top 100, let alone top 10, but mass imports(?) of musicians from Germany and Austria had boosted the quality.
Looking at the roster of renowned artists, top 10 seemed plausible.
The musicians were solid, but the program was iffy.
Of all things, it was Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony.
The Eroica was tied to the superhuman epic—Beethoven had considered dedicating it to Napoleon but tore up the score when he saw the revolution betrayed.
Why this piece, of all things?
I couldn’t quite grasp my wife’s taste as she gazed at the orchestra with sparkling eyes.
Shouldn’t women her age prefer something lyrical and romantic?
Was my wife a bit unusual?
She fixated on the conductor’s baton, barely breathing.
Totally immersed.
As the movement ended, she whispered in my ear.
“Didn’t you like it, Prime Minister? My chest is so full—I can’t put it into words.”
“W-well.”
I wasn’t big on superhuman epics.
Even if I projected that image to others, I knew better than anyone that I was just an ordinary guy.
“To me, it felt like that piece was dedicated to you, Prime Minister. That’s why I loved it.”
No, that’s a stretch.
I’d betrayed the revolution and become a dictator—same as Napoleon.
If anyone deserved Beethoven’s praise, it’d be George Washington, laying America’s superpower foundation by stepping down from power.
That’s what I thought.
My wife was thrilled after the rare orchestra outing, all bubbly.
On a night like this, acting like a normal couple wasn’t bad, so I linked arms with her and strolled around the theater.
She chattered nonstop, clearly delighted.
“Prime Minister, by the way, couldn’t I have joined you for today’s events?”
Well, that’s tricky.
Simple reason.
Having my young wife beside me would undercut the stern leader image.
Not hiding her from official events, but propaganda footage? Not ideal.
Couldn’t tell her the truth, though.
So I brushed it off, saying they were tough solo gigs.
Not exactly a lie.
“I see.”
She seemed a bit down, and I felt a pang of guilt.
But some things couldn’t be helped.
No choice.
I’d have to make extra effort tonight.
I signaled to my wife it was time to head to bed.
Her fair cheeks finally flushed pink.
She was shy but didn’t seem to dislike it.
The way to soothe my wife was the old reliable: missionary, cowgirl, doggy, wrestling.