Chapter 25: Cold Damage (2)
Chapter 25: Cold Damage (2)
“Mr. Thomas Jefferson is a diplomat from the newly founded country, the United States. I first met him at the salon Sophie runs. He’s intelligent, we communicate well, and we think similarly, so we became close quickly.”
“Ha ha. Marquis, aren’t you praising me too highly? I’m merely faithful to the basics. Compared to me, Mr. George Washington and Dr. Benjamin Franklin are the ones who truly fit those kinds of descriptions.”
As Jefferson said that, he cleared his throat as if embarrassed.
Oh—George Washington would be the first U.S. president, wouldn’t he? Damn, Jefferson—this guy is someone incredible.
“It seems you’re very close with someone named George Washington, Mr. Jefferson?”
At my question, Mr. Jefferson smiled brightly.
“Of course. Until about ten years ago, we shared hardships together for the independence of our United States. Mr. Washington is an excellent man in both ability and character, so I watched and learned a great deal at his side.”
“Though at times he can seem a little lazy,” Jefferson added with a grin, shrugging his shoulders.
Ah, so a lazy genius type. Something like that? Getting to know the historical figures I only vaguely knew in more depth always feels kind of fascinating.
Wait. This isn’t the time for small talk. I got distracted.
“Ahem. Marquis? About the help I mentioned earlier…”
“Hm? Ah! Right. To host you and then only talk about myself like this—my apologies, Guillaume.”
Marquis Condorcet spoke with an “oh, right” expression.
“Alright then, what problem brought you here?”
“Because of the cold wave last winter, I heard the grain warehouses at the place I was dealing with suffered major damage. Because of that, the grains that go into our convenience meals have become severely insufficient, so I came to see if I could receive the marquis’s help.”
“Grain. Grain, hm…”
After hearing me, Marquis Condorcet propped his chin on his right arm and fell deep into thought.
“Hm… how much stock do you have left?”
“Probably… now, only about one to two weeks’ worth.”
“Then that’s truly a disaster! At this rate, my lunch will disappear. Let’s see—wheat or barley. Hops are expensive, so you can’t use them… then what’s left…”
Uh… I feel like I heard something weird in the middle there, but it must be my imagination.
With a grunt, Marquis Condorcet pulled his right hand away from his chin and began pressing his eyelids hard again and again. After some time, he said with a “Got it!” expression,
“Guillaume! What do you think about buying surplus grain from America? Jefferson told me America has recently gotten a taste for selling grain!”
But the marquis’s idea was shot down—not by me, but by Jefferson.
“It makes sense, Marquis. But to reach France from Boston, you must sail for about two months at minimum. If cargo loading is delayed or you meet headwinds, it could take longer than that. Granted, it’s early in the year, so winds may not yet be blowing toward the New World, but the sea can change abruptly at any time, so we shouldn’t be optimistic. Moreover, there have been reports lately that pirate sightings have increased near the Caribbean, close to the Atlantic route.”
“I see… Time is one thing, but pirates all of a sudden. Ha… could it be England again?”
Marquis Condorcet clicked his tongue with a fed-up expression. Jefferson, as if agreeing, shrugged and continued.
“Isn’t that simply how the English are? Sending a real navy to loot civilian ships would draw attention and damage their prestige, so they give pirates a few coins and take petty revenge for losing the recent war of independence.”
“Ghh… is there truly no way…”
As his once-bright expression darkened again, Marquis Condorcet pressed his eyelids hard again and again.
My expression darkened along with his.
Khup! You bastard, oats! My business! My customers! Give me back my money!
Sigh. I came here ready to grab even a straw, but… was this a problem even these people couldn’t solve? If I’d known, I should’ve used this time to practice my deep apologies to customers instead of wasting time.
How many degrees do I need to bend at the waist for customers to get a little less angry? Sob.
But in that gloomy mood, one sentence Jefferson threw out let me grab even a tiny bit of hope.
“Hm. My personal chef is quite skilled. How about consulting him once?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jefferson. And I’m sorry, Guillaume. As your friend, I should help you to the end, but…”
“It’s fine, Marquis! I’m the one who came without any appointment in the first place, so it’s nothing. I don’t even know how to thank you enough for introducing me to Mr. Jefferson. We’ll handle the rest ourselves, so please don’t worry too much.”
“Guillaume is right, Marquis. Don’t worry.”
“I’ve had nothing to do lately anyway, so I’ve been bored. Ha ha ha,” Jefferson added.
Because of Marquis Condorcet’s busy schedule, I ended up being the only one going to Jefferson’s residence.
I got into Jefferson’s carriage and sat down. Soon Jefferson also entered, filling the carriage with his huge frame.
Huh. This is a pretty big carriage, but with Mr. Jefferson sitting in it, it practically feels like a normal-sized carriage.
At some point the sun had gone down. Outside the carriage, everything was filled with red sunset light. We’d gone to the laboratory after lunch, so four or five hours had flown by.
If I go to Jefferson’s place and then go home, I won’t even have time to eat. So I’m going completely hungry tonight. Sob. Do our employees know their boss is running around like this? I wish they’d recognize it a little.
Maybe he noticed my mood, because Jefferson said,
“Mr. Guillaume. It’s gotten quite late today—how about you have dinner at our house before you go?”
Oh. For me, that’s an absolute blessing. Who in this world dislikes eating?
“If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, I’d be truly grateful.”
“Ha ha. For me as well, it’s my first time dining with a promising young businessman like you, so I’m looking forward to it.”
Why are you flattering me like this—making me feel good. Heh heh. Still, being a little humble here would look better, right? A good impression can only help.
“At best, it’s just a little hole-in-the-wall. In France, there are plenty of people far more impressive than me.”
Just as I finished speaking, Jefferson looked like he was about to say something, but the carriage arrived, so he couldn’t—and he stepped down.
“Wow… as expected of a place where someone high-ranking like a diplomat lives.”
Not as dazzling as a noble mansion, but the manor had an old-fashioned, modest feel. With ivy wrapping around the walls, it showed a quiet beauty.
But before opening the door, Mr. Jefferson made an “Ah!” expression, hesitated as if unsure, then looked at my face and spoke.
“Th… Mr. Guillaume. I’m sorry. There was something I didn’t tell you in advance…”
“Yes?”
“I should have given you notice… I’m truly sorry.”
Oh hell. Don’t tell me you’re going to say you won’t feed me after all, or that helping my business was all a lie.
Even Satan would say, “Isn’t that a bit much?” and head back into purgatory.
But what came out of Jefferson’s mouth went in a completely different direction from my thoughts.
“I should have told you in advance that my personal chef is Black. I was truly discourteous. Even if you refuse the meal, I have nothing to say. I’m sorry, Mr. Guillaume.”
Huh…? Black?
“…No—what does it matter if he’s Black?”
At my words, Jefferson’s eyes widened.
“Hello. I am James Hemings.”
“Hello. I’m Guillaume de Toulon.”
As I said that, I held out my hand to the Black chef with the rugged face named James Hemings. Hemings stared at my hand with a puzzled look, then realized I’d extended it for a handshake and, startled, clasped it.
“We don’t have much time, so I’ll get straight to the point. I need your help right now, Mr. Hemings.”
I briefly and clearly explained everything that had happened up to now.
The cold damage. The shortage of ingredients to make bread. Even the selling price and cost of the convenience meals we sold.
After hearing me, Mr. Hemings stroked his chin a few times, then spoke calmly.
“Hm… I see. I roughly understand the situation you’re in, Mr. Guillaume.”
“Mr. Hemings—do you have any solution?”
At this rate, something terrible will happen. We’ll lose the customers we worked so hard to secure simply because we don’t have products.
Hemings frowned and thought deeply, then said,
“Could you follow me to the market for a moment?”
A little later, at the market.
Hemings rummaged through the grain shop, found something, and said with a satisfied expression,
“Mr. Guillaume! I found it!”
“Oh! What is it!? What is it!?”
I rushed over and examined the crop in Hemings’s hand.
“This… it’s corn, isn’t it?”
“Yes! That’s right!”
Watching us, the grain merchant shook his head and cut in quietly.
“Customers, that’s dried corn for livestock feed. The sweetness and texture are much worse than regular corn. It’s even worse than oats, so price aside, it isn’t fit for people to eat.”
“I-is that so…?”
At the owner’s words, I deliberately replied in a gloomy tone.
But unlike me, Hemings wore a small smile.
“Well? Ha ha. Mr. Guillaume—buy about five kilograms first. I’ll show you magic.”
With the mindset of grabbing even a straw, I had no choice but to follow Hemings’s words.
With the owner’s permission, Hemings borrowed a small kitchen, stripped all the kernels from the corn, and began finely grinding them into corn flour. He mixed in a little wheat flour and salt, then put it into the oven and baked it on the spot.
Soon, bread the color of corn came out of the oven. Hemings split the bread in half, handed it to me, and said,
“No matter how tasteless a grain is, if you roughly turn it into bread, it becomes fairly edible.
Ha ha!”
Behind his simple, bright face, it was as if a radiant light flashed.
Hemings—he’s a god!