“You shouldn’t say that,” the ballet teacher whispered, looking anxiously over her shoulder at Jade. “At any rate, one of them was definitely a member of the Communist Party back in the colonial period—this Nam JungHo fellow.”
“What did you say?” Jade blurted out loud from her corner, and the piano teacher passed her the newspaper.
“Anyone you know?” the ballet teacher asked, folding her arms below her chest and feigning kindness.
“No, not really,” Jade said. She merely glanced at the paper and put it down. But all the strength was drained out of her body, and she exerted the entire force of her will to appearing normal the rest of the day.
As soon as she got home, she undressed and lay under the covers. She hadn’t heard from JungHo since they had brought Lotus home together. She had thanked him warmly and asked him to come to dinner, and he had declined with cool politeness. After that, he never again showed up to check on her. It was clear that he no longer wanted anything to do with Jade. Yet, he had been her truest friend over the years. He’d saved her life more than once, and in more ways than one.
Jade only knew one way she could save JungHo now. She would have to ask help from the most powerful person still connected to her—she’d have to talk to him. As the sun warmed the frozen courtyard, she was remembering how she’d told him long ago that she believed in his success before anyone else. She hated herself for having been so naive and good-intentioned; she hated life for proving her right.
*
AROUND NOON, HANCHOL DROVE BACK to the office in Seoul and had a quick lunch. He asked his chief of staff about the itinerary of his upcoming business trips to Hong Kong, Bangkok, and London. Then it was time to look over bank documents. While he was cross-checking the statements to the bookkeeping, the chief of staff poked his head in and announced that the reporter had arrived.
HanChol raised his head from the files and was mildly surprised to see that the reporter was a woman. She had short, poofy hair and her small lips were painted a very pale beige. Below a tan turtleneck sweater, she was wearing red wide-legged trousers.
“Please, have a seat.” HanChol showed her to the sofa, and sank down on his own club chair across from a glass-topped coffee table. The reporter sat, crossed her legs, and laid her notepad on her lap.
“So, Chairman Kim, it’s an honor to meet you in person,” she said, blushing slightly across her rather pointy nose. “I studied your companies in my economics class in college.”
“That makes me feel old.” HanChol smiled.
“Oh no, that’s not what I meant.” The reporter opened her eyes wide. “I’m excited to hear about how you made this happen in such a short time. To rise out of the destruction of the Korean War and actually become even more successful . . . And creating the first-ever automobile manufacturing company in Korea. Have you always known that this is what you wanted to do?”
“Yes, I would say so.” HanChol cocked his head thoughtfully. “When I was in my teens, I worked as a rickshaw driver to pay my school fees. Then I moved on to working at a bike repair shop in my twenties. Even then, I knew I could figure out how cars work and how they’re put together. No one would have believed me then. But life has a way of working out if you just believe in yourself.”
“That’s incredible,” the reporter gushed. “So, it’s about vision, it’s about confidence.”
HanChol nodded, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He still had a full head of hair, only it was more white than black.
“My next question is, how can someone have confidence? It seems like some people are simply born with a stronger sense of self-esteem, doesn’t it? Were you always so sure of your own abilities?”
“Oh, confidence isn’t something you’re born with. If you have it from the beginning, it means you’re a fool,” HanChol said slowly, organizing his thoughts. “There are just two things in the world that give you true confidence. One is overcoming difficulties on your own, and the other is being deeply loved. If you experience both, then you will be confident for the rest of your life.”
HanChol was definitely not a sentimental man, but even so, he couldn’t help feeling a bit wistful about the past. Out the window, a cold and dry gale was whipping through the new buildings, those cylinders and cubes of concrete and steel. The slender brown trees danced, and men and women pulled down their hats and wrapped their coats more tightly around them, leaning forward as they walked against the wind.
The reporter continued to ask him about his beginnings, how he started his own auto repair shop in the colonial period, his marriage and family life, his first contract with the American Army after World War II, how all of his companies burned down during the Korean War, how he rebuilt them from scratch, and what his plans were, now that he had achieved all the dreams of his youth.
“My plans? I don’t have any, except asking you out for dinner tomorrow,” HanChol said. “Meet me at Silla Hotel at seven P.M.”
The reporter flushed brightly but gave him her phone number before walking out of the office, her high-waisted trousers riding up her firm, heart-shaped ass. When the door closed, HanChol was tempted to masturbate—but he sighed and started reviewing the loan agreement for the construction of a new factory in SongDo.
There was a knock on the door; it was his chief of staff.
“I beg your pardon, some old lady is here to see you without an appointment. I tried to turn her away but she says that you know each other from long ago.”
HanChol looked up from his documents. There really wasn’t much time to entertain distant relatives and hangers-on. But if it happened to be some estranged aunt, he would send her away with a little money.