Chapter 211: The Neighbors (4)
[Guillaume de Toulon: The gravestones of the Americans and French buried in this land symbolize the relationship between our two nations! The Franco-American alliance forged in shared blood will endure forever. The slander of a few narrow-minded people is nothing but nonsense.]
“What do you think?”
“What do I think? This Frenchman sure knows how to speak plainly.”
“Right. That’s how it should be. To tell the truth, whenever I fall asleep I still remember the Battle of Yorktown. Those damned liars—those lying British bastards.”
“Seems he scratches the itch better than the men sitting in the Capitol calling themselves congressmen.”
“The Federalist Party fellows? Aren’t they just cowards scared stiff of those lying bastards?”
For these men, the scars of the War of Independence still lingered vividly in their memories. They stroked their rough beards in satisfaction and cheered wildly for the young Frenchman who spoke with such blunt, masculine candor.
[Former President Guillaume de Toulon: The republicanism of the United States is an admirable political system that all the nations of Europe should learn from. The American Dream—France will stand with it!]
“Ha! Did you see that?! Did you see what that arrogant European—no less a Frenchman—just said?”
“Yes, yes. You’re the eighth man who’s told me that already. I’ve seen it enough to be sick of it.”
“Haha! That means our United States is no longer inferior to the cultures of Europe!”
“…You’re impossible.”
Among the literati—especially the intellectuals who admired Europe—the newspapers filled with my shameless flattery were clutched tightly in their hands as they jumped up and down in excitement.
From dockworkers reeking of fish to office lawyers smelling of ink, talk of the Frenchman began boiling everywhere—Philadelphia, Boston, and every corner in between.
“A president from a great power like France coming to a small country like America—what a strange thing.”
“Exactly.”
“…France? What are you talking about?”
“What, do you live with your ears shut? Guillaume! Don’t you know Guillaume?”
“…Never heard of him.”
“Ah, tch. That ruins the mood. If you don’t know, get out of here.”
“Huh? Damn it. Fine! I’ll go find out myself!”
“Extra! Extra! William—no, Guillaume—the former President enjoyed dinner with President Washington today!”
“What? G-give me a copy!”
“Hey! No cutting in line! Don’t cut!”
And once people who didn’t want to become outsiders at their workplaces joined the frenzy, it became a full-blown storm.
Just having the name Guillaume printed on them was enough for the freshly placed newspapers at newsstands to sell out instantly. Newspaper companies ran their presses around the clock, two shifts through the night, frantically spreading ink across enormous quantities of paper.
“Haah! Just print it and it sells like wildfire! The number-one contributor to our Pittsburgh Gazette is none other than the honored gentleman Guillaume! Oh, praise the Frenchman who came from afar!”
“I… can’t… turn it… anymore…”
—Thud.
“Hey! Hey! What’s wrong with you?!”
“Boss… my arms… they won’t move anymore.”
“No! Get up! If you lie down I’ll have to do it all myself! Come on, you can do it! Let’s go! Let’s go!”
“Damn… you’re like a slave-driver.”
Most American newspaper presses at the time were entirely manual. In other words, they printed the pages by pressing them one sheet at a time with human strength—like stamping a seal.
Naturally, even if the workers were excited at first, enthusiasm only lasted a day or two. As the weeks passed, employees collapsed one after another from total exhaustion.
“Boss, we can’t keep this up. Assistant Wilson collapsed this morning and was carried to the hospital.”
“Listen, I don’t care if those competing newspapers make a fortune! The whole world is waiting for new stories about that Frenchman! If we stop now we’ll lose market share! And if that happens we’re finished—finished! I’ll go bankrupt, and you’ll be unemployed!”
And in the midst of all that, a new type of visitor began appearing at the newspaper offices—men wearing top hats and smiling brightly.
“Ahem. Busy, are we?”
“Who are you supposed to be?”
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m a salesman from the Nation of Isaac.”
“…That French company? Why are you here?”
“Sir, have you ever heard of a rotary press?”
“What’s that?”
“Oh! You haven’t heard of one? With this machine, you won’t even need your current presses!”
“Hm. Let’s hear it, then.”
At first, the newspaper owners merely crossed their arms and listened sourly to the salesmen explaining the catalog.
“…What did you say? Say that again.”
“One machine can print 1,500 copies per hour. Four thousand livres per unit—eight hundred dollars.”
“O-one thousand five hundred? Is that true?”
“Of course. Our company’s own magazine, Forbes, already uses them extensively.”
“Give me the contract immediately! I’ll order five!”
“Just one condition.”
“What is it?”
“You must agree that all maintenance and servicing will be handled exclusively through our company.”
“Fine, fine—just hand me the contract!”
Their eyes gleamed as they scribbled their names onto the contracts. It was a perfect win-win.
“How many have we sold?”
“Yes, boss! So far we’ve received orders for around a hundred machines!”
“Kehehehe. Not bad. Keep up the good work.”
“Yes, sir!”
What is democracy—something any person of the twenty-first century would consider common sense?
By dictionary definition, it means exactly that: the people. Citizens and the populace govern the nation. Just as in the ancient Greek polis of Athens, every citizen stands up and voices their opinion.
But once the number of citizens reaches tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, even millions, gathering everyone in one place to say, “Teacher, I want to present this time!” becomes impossible.
So citizens began choosing representatives. They sent them to a place called the legislature to carry out the will of the people on their behalf.
Those representatives—members of parliament elected by citizens—governed the state for the sake of their voters. Though they occasionally engaged in corruption and dirty deeds, at the very least they did not treat human lives like flies the way dictators or kings often did.
That is democracy from the perspective of a twenty-first-century modern person.
Then what is democracy from the perspective of an eighteenth-century pre-modern person?
It is hard to say with certainty, but if one had to compare it, it would be like the way Koreans looked at Bitcoin when it first appeared in 2013.
“Biiiitcooooin? That’s just empty wordplay with no substance! What practical use could it possibly have? It’ll end just like a pyramid scheme.”
“Demoooocracy? That’s something from ancient history books! What practical use could it possibly have in modern times? Those lawyer fellows who only read books and never worked a day in their lives—what do they know about reality? In the end they’ll ruin the entire government.”
Yet just as Bitcoin rose from thirty won per coin to eighty million won, democracy—once cast aside into the dust of history—returned and smashed absolute monarchies before reigning as the victor of the twenty-first century.
Anyway, having lived in a world ruled by democracy, I spent twenty-three years rolling around on the frying pan of Korea’s hellishly spicy tabloid media. I followed the typical Korean tech tree—grilling pork belly and drinking soju while trash-talking politicians—until I died as Korean citizen No. 1,042,934.
Naturally, having climbed that Korean tech tree so thoroughly, I know democracy quite well.
The foundation of democracy is the will of the citizens. Unless someone changes the nation overnight through a decisive act of salvation, anyone will be cast aside the moment that will changes.
If that were not the case, why would politicians work so tirelessly to manipulate public opinion? In the democratic societies of the twenty-first century, celebrity scandals explode every time something happens, and politicians tear at one another shouting, “You bastard!”
But the people of this eighteenth century do not know that. Aristocrats who quote poetry across formal tables at most—how could they understand the flavor of sensational seasoning made of personal attacks and attacks on one’s family?
Therefore it was very encouraging that my schedule—beginning with a memorial ceremony for the fallen soldiers of the War of Independence at the national cemetery in Virginia—was selling out every morning in the newspapers stacked at general stores throughout Philadelphia’s alleys.
On top of that, I spent several weeks showing my face everywhere like a politician during election season.
“How are you making a living these days?”
“Oh dear, that must have been hard.”
“This stew is excellent—thick broth and plenty of meat.”
After going around like that, surely people remembered at least my name and general disposition.
People of America, this Guillaume is a humble man who wants to be your friend.
“Your Excellency, you may go in now.”
“Understood. Ambassador Genêt, please wait outside with the reporters.”
“Whew… very well.”
Really now. You are an ambassador—how can you sigh like that?
My grandmother always said that sighing drives away good fortune.
I patted Ambassador Genêt on the shoulder.
“Please don’t worry too much, Ambassador.”
“…Haha. Instead of helping you, I end up being comforted by Your Excellency, who is twenty years younger than I am. How shameful.”
Ambassador Genêt smiled bitterly and said,
“I wish you success.”
I nodded silently, opened the door, and entered the building.
It was quite a small building. The materials were not expensive marble—just ordinary red bricks used by common people. And it had only two floors.
I walked toward the central chamber inside.
“Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen of Congress. My name is Guillaume de Toulon.”
The United States Capitol was remarkably small.
One week earlier, Federalist Party headquarters.
“Whew. What did Washington say?”
“He said the man is a gentleman—warm-hearted and considerate of people.”
“What? Washington, you senile old fool! Has your dementia returned?!”
John Adams spoke with a twisted expression.
“In that case, there is only one move left. We must kill that Frenchman with words.”
“Adams! He is still a former president!”
“I will not allow courtesy to turn this fragile United States into a battlefield between France and Britain.”
This was a nation only just born. One mistake and it would be crushed beneath the boots of Europe’s great powers.
That must be prevented. Even if they had to lick Britain’s shoes for a time, the country needed time.
“Welcome, Your Excellency! Our Democratic-Republican Party sincerely welcomes the President’s visit!”
“Haha, thank you for the warm reception.”
I waved in greeting to Jefferson, whom I had not seen in a long time.
I had grown quite a bit myself, yet the height difference was still enormous. How tall was he? About 190 centimeters?
If that side represented the Democratic-Republican Party, then the short gentleman here must be the leader of the Federalist Party.
“Our Federalist Party of the United States welcomes your visit.”
“I’ve heard much about you, Vice President Adams.”
“There is no time for pleasantries. Shall we proceed immediately?”
“As you wish.”
“Very well. It seems you believe the United States should return to being a British colony.”
“Ah. Is that so?”
Instead of the right hand I used to shake Adams’s hand, I slowly raised my left hand to eye level—
—and extended my middle finger.
What a poetic middle finger.