The Source of Ease
Before the next destination, I decided to rest a while in Rome. I had been rushing from place to place, and this was the first time in my life I had set foot in the travelers' city. I could hardly just pass through.
I took the Lincoln SUV, slaves in tow, and headed into the city. The first stop was an old tailor's shop in the heart of Rome. I had wanted, just once, to feel an Italian hand in the cloth. Today was that day.
The moment I stepped into an interior steeped in old-world elegance, a middle-aged manager with a handsomely groomed mustache and his staff greeted us with easy warmth.
"How may we help you?"
"I'd like a suit made. The cloth—the finest Italy has."
The manager ran his eyes over our party, then asked with a faintly doubtful look.
"Sir... if we use the very best cloth, the cost does climb rather high. Shall I draw up an estimate first?"
"The cost? Maximus."
I called for Maximus without taking my eyes off the man. Maximus, who had been waiting, stepped forward. At two meters tall, with a chest three times a grown man's, the giant's approach threw the shop staff into a fluster.
"I—sir, what are you—"
Maximus lifted the 007 case in his hand and opened it. Inside, bundles of hundred-euro notes sat in neat, packed rows, and the manager's mouth and the clerks' fell open of their own accord. The manager was the first to recover his wits.
"Ah. You won't be needing an estimate. Then allow me to show you in at once. Ha ha ha. This way, please. Joseph! Fetch Maestro Andrea, quickly! Quickly! Ha ha ha. Right this way. Our finest cutter will take your measurements in a moment. Maestro Andrea, if I may say so, has served this house for forty years—a veteran among veterans..."
Once the cash had been shown, everything after that ran smooth as oil. The cutter with forty years behind him checked every measurement on my body with meticulous care. I ordered the custom suit, and next we made for the luxury street in the center of Rome.
The world's greatest maisons stood in a long row to either side. Shoes, wallets, belts—I took whatever came to hand. There was no need to look at the price. Short of buying a car on the spot, even proper luxury goods only ran from the hundreds into the thousands of euros. Climb to the very top and you might reach the tens of thousands, but nothing there was going to outstrip the two million euros in cash inside Maximus's case.
Every time we left a shop, the clerks saw us off with heartfelt courtesy. While I savored the pleasure of spending to the full, the arms of IS No. 1, following behind, grew heavy with dangling designer bags. And while I was casting about for the next store, watch shops rose up before my eyes.
A watch is what finishes a luxury look. In that instant an old memory surfaced—the Rolex my in-laws had given me as a wedding gift, making a grand show of their generosity, which had turned out to be a fake. Damn that woman. A counterfeit Rolex worth pocket change, and in return my ex-wife had demanded a Vuitton bag of her own running close to ten thousand dollars. Hell. When have I ever bought a real piece of luxury? This time I would spend my own money, with my own hands.
I walked up to the shops without hesitation, and passed straight by the likes of TAG Heuer, Omega, and Rolex. What I wanted was a true rarity—something so hard to come by that emptying every bill in the case still couldn't buy it. When I had gone by the storefronts whose names I had heard at least once, I stopped before a shop that radiated, at a glance, the sense that not just anyone walked in.
Unlike the others, I could look all around the entrance and find no name. Only after glancing about several times did the shop's name, written in small letters, finally catch my eye.
Breguet.
For a second I nearly started calculating how much cash was left in the bag Maximus carried. No. If I needed more, I could always go withdraw it. At least for today, I didn't want to think about things like that. I drew one deep breath, set the slaves to either side of me, and walked into the Breguet boutique as if I belonged there.
The moment I entered, a young saleswoman who had been waiting came out to meet me.
"Welcome."
"I'd like to see your new pieces."
"Yes, the new collection. I'll explain inside. Is there a style you're looking for?"
"Something with a movement that catches the eye."
"Ah, I see. Then allow me to show you."
She led me to a sofa set among the display cases.
"Would you wait here? I'll bring the pieces out shortly."
"Please."
While she was briefly gone, I sat on the sofa and took in the room. It didn't feel like a shop. It felt like a gallery. Here and there, the clocks and movements that defined Breguet were exhibited like works of art.
"Walk out of here wearing one of those, and you'd cut quite a figure..."
As I looked around, something enclosed in a glass case at the center of the wall caught my eye. The moment I saw it my mouth fell open on its own, and I rose and slowly approached the case. Tiny movements, every one of them meshing with perfect precision—it went beyond art and gave me the feeling of watching an ecosystem. Inside that small wristwatch, an ecosystem made of machinery was ticking and turning.
A moment later the saleswoman, coming out with watches arranged on a tray, saw me studying the case and smiled as she explained.
"What you're looking at is the Classique Double Tourbillon 5345 Quadrology. Only a minimal number are made each year, and this is the first time our boutique has received one. The price is so high that we bring it out only for very particular clients, so if you would kindly understand—"
"I'll take that one."
"Pardon?"
I looked at the briefly flustered saleswoman and said it again, clearly.
"I'll take that one. Can I walk out with it now?"
Looking at the steps of the Spanish Square from Roman Holiday, I drank a hot espresso. The coffee, its soft crema settled, did have a texture distinctly different from the franchise coffee I had tasted in Korea. Even so, however authentic the style of coffee's homeland might be, under Rome's blazing weather I couldn't shake the thought that an iced Americano was still king.
I sat beneath a patio umbrella and, for once, enjoyed a little ease. A custom suit and shirt worth tens of thousands of dollars, and from sunglasses to shoes, everything on me was luxury. It wasn't that I had ever particularly yearned for this sort of thing. If I could do it, though, there was no reason not to. And the finishing stroke was the Breguet on my wrist, worth more than a million dollars. I lifted my wrist and looked at the watch, and yes—I could see it well enough. Luxury, in the end, wasn't much.
What set my mind more at ease than the fortune in luxury goods wrapped around my body were the rings on my fingers. Three on the right hand, two on the left—five rings in all, every one of them a magic item. Among them, the heart of it was the Shield Ring, the one I trusted to protect me no matter what happened. Gun or bomb, even if a dump truck came charging at me, I figured I would be safe, and there was no unease anywhere in me. The other pieces, imbued with magic for flight, enhanced strength, and passing through walls, gave me confidence and a sense of security simply by being on my body. Piling on accessories like some rapper wasn't to my taste, but that much I could bear.
At my leisure, I took another unhurried look around. Come to think of it, Koreans were scattered here and there—men and women backpacking, middle-aged tourists moving in packs, families who had brought small children. Watching Koreans had a pleasure of its own.
All at once I was curious about social media. I opened the phone in my name and launched an app that had been shoved into a corner. It had been so long that I didn't know what to tap first. I poked around, then ran a location search: Rome. Travel in Europe. A flood of photos and posts came up. I scrolled with my finger and skimmed. As expected, more than ninety percent were pictures of women. All of them held up similar places, similar drinks, similar food, and made similar faces with similar expressions. Pretty, though.
A mischievous impulse stirred. Shall I try it, just once? I wouldn't have, in the past. But everything I had been through, and the items I was certain would protect me, lent me courage, if courage was the word. Then, before I sent anything, I ought to lay the bait.
I lifted the phone and framed the shot. I raised the hand holding the espresso so the Spanish Steps would show. The square wasn't the point, of course, nor the espresso, nor my hand. The star was the Breguet on my wrist. I took the photo so the watch could be told apart without a doubt.
Click.
And I posted it to my account.
I put up a post along the same lines as the ones the women had posted. Next I sent DMs to the women, among the accounts I had just searched, who had mostly uploaded photos taken alone.
The same message, to what must have been about twenty of them. Then I drank my coffee again.
Right. It should have been an iced Americano all along.