Chapter 2: A Strange Journey

He opened his eyes.

The ceiling came into view.

A cracked plaster ceiling.

Cobwebs dangled from the corners.

“I’m alive.”

Until he fell asleep last night, he had been uneasy.

He felt as if someone might come through the broken door.

That the mafia might come back again.

But nothing happened.

The night just passed quietly.

He sat up.

His whole body ached.

He must have pushed himself too hard yesterday.

After lying in the hospital for two weeks, he suddenly sprinted like that.

Outside the window, it was bright.

He looked at the clock.

7:30 a.m.

“I need to get up.”

He climbed out of bed.

The cold wooden floor met his bare feet.

He searched for slippers and put them on.

They were worn-out, holey slippers.

He grabbed a wash basin and left the room.

The hallway was dark.

There was only one lightbulb, as always.

The communal bathroom was at the end of the hall.

Fortunately, no one was there.

He splashed cold water on his face.

Hot water only came after 9 a.m.

He looked into the mirror.

A 25-year-old face.

Still unfamiliar.

…Not the 38-year-old face from 2020.

Young.

“If this is a chance, maybe it’s a chance…”

Lee Jun-hyuk shook his head.

A pointless thought.

He returned to his room.

The broken door rattled.

It had to be fixed somehow.

But how much would a carpenter charge?

10 dollars? 20?

“First, let’s eat breakfast.”

He put on an overcoat.

It was still the same greasy part from yesterday.

He needed to do laundry, but there was neither thread nor needle.

“This is money too.”

He sighed.

He left the boarding house.

The air in late November was cold.

Last night’s rain had soaked the streets, leaving muddy puddles here and there.

People were busy going to work.

Men in suits.

Workers in overalls.

Middle-aged women with shopping bags.

New York in 1918…

…He still couldn’t believe it.

At a corner newspaper stand, he bought a paper.

Two cents.

“Change, student?”

The newsstand owner returned three cents.

Now 212 dollars and 93 cents.

The headline was about the German Emperor’s abdication.

The war was over, but the aftermath was still ongoing.

He opened the economic section.

Sugar.

Lee Jun-hyuk read the article carefully.

The price of Cuban raw sugar was 6.5 cents per pound.

The highest in history.

And it would rise to 9 cents next year.

By 1920, a whopping 22 cents.

After that?

A crash.

In 1921, it would fall to 2 cents.

‘The Dance of Death.’

The name was no coincidence.

He entered a restaurant.

The cheapest place in the neighborhood.

“What will you have?”

The waitress asked.

A middle-aged woman.

She looked tired.

“Coffee and toast, please.”

“Eggs?”

“No, thank you.”

Adding eggs cost an extra 10 cents.

“That’ll be 15 cents.”

He took out a penny.

The waitress called out to the kitchen.

“One toast! No eggs!”

No eggs.

Another restriction.

Back in 2020, he could at least order eggs freely.

He wasn’t rich, but he didn’t have to worry about meals.

After a moment, the coffee arrived.

Strong aroma.

A proper coffee after a long time.

In the hospital, they served watered-down stuff as coffee.

He took a sip.

It was hot.

And very bitter.

“Yeah. This is coffee.”

The toast came out too.

Just plain toasted bread, no butter, no jam.

But he was hungry, so what?

His mouth watered.

He took a bite of the toast.

It cracked.

He choked.

He took another sip of coffee and finally swallowed.

Bread crumbs fell onto the table.

“Student.”

Someone spoke to him.

He looked up.

A middle-aged man.

Wearing a suit, but somehow shabby.

His necktie was crooked.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re Asian, right? Want some work?”

The man lowered his voice.

“It’s night work—just moving stuff. Five dollars a day.”

…Suspicious.

Night work, moving stuff?

And the pay was twice that of ordinary laborers?

“I’m sorry. I don’t do that kind of work…”

“Wait, I can pay you up to ten dollars.”

“No, I have to go.”

Lee Jun-hyuk stood up firmly.

He was short on money, but having just escaped the mafia yesterday, he couldn’t get involved in strange things again.

“You dumb yellow monkey.”

The man muttered, but Lee Jun-hyuk ignored him and went to the register.

“Fifteen cents.”

After paying, he stepped outside.

The cold late November air filled his lungs.

It felt refreshing.

“I did something right.”

He encouraged himself.

Money wasn’t everything.

Especially dangerous money.

He began walking along the road.

Then it happened.

“Ugh…!”

He heard a groan.

On a bench by the street.

An old man was leaning as if about to collapse.

He clutched his chest with one hand.

An old white-haired gentleman.

He wore an expensive suit, but it was now wrinkled.

His face was pale, and cold sweat had formed on his temples.

“Are you alright?”

Lee Jun-hyuk approached.

The old man struggled to look up.

His blue eyes couldn’t focus.

“Medicine… medicine…”

With trembling hands, he searched his pocket.

He held a small medicine bottle at his fingertips.

But his hands shook too much to get it out properly.

Lee Jun-hyuk took the bottle for him.

Nitroglycerin.

A heart medicine.

He knew well from his past life, having heart disease himself.

“This?”

The old man nodded.

Lee Jun-hyuk opened the bottle and took out a pill.

The old man took it with his trembling hand, placing it under his tongue.

After a moment.

The old man’s breathing slowly steadied.

Color began to return to his pale face.

“Thank you.”

The old man barely whispered.

“You should go to the hospital.”

“No, I’m fine. Sometimes it happens.”

The old man sat down properly on the bench.

Still looking weak, but much better than before.

“Where do you live? I can take you there.”

“Really, thank you… I have to go to the hospital. I have a regular checkup.”

“Then I’ll take you to the hospital.”

The old man looked at Lee Jun-hyuk.

A dignified face.

He looked well over seventy.

“You’re Asian.”

“Yes, Korean.”

“Korea, so far away.”

The old man slowly stood.

His body swayed.

Lee Jun-hyuk quickly supported him.

His arm was light.

Felt like only bones and skin remained.

“I’m sorry for troubling you like this.”

“No. Where is the hospital?”

“Saint Luke’s. About ten blocks from here.”

Ten blocks.

A considerable distance to walk.

Especially in his condition.

“Should we take a taxi?”

“No, I want to walk. The doctor told me to exercise.”

“But…”

“Slowly. If you help me a bit.”

Lee Jun-hyuk nodded.

Well, there was no hurry.

The day had been aimless from the start.

The two began walking slowly.

The old man’s steps were very slow.

It took a long time to go just one block.

“I’m sorry for being this slow.”

“It’s alright. I’m out for a walk too.”

“Haha, you have a good personality.”

A brief silence.

The street was still busy with people.

Horse carriages and automobiles passed side by side.

A newspaper boy shouted at the corner.

“Spanish Flu! 500 deaths again today!”

The old man sighed.

“Terrible times. The war is over, but now there’s this epidemic.”

“Yes…”

“Are you healthy?”

“Yes, luckily.”

“Be careful. More young people are dying.”

“…”

They walked another block.

The old man’s breathing became rough.

He sat down heavily on the steps in front of a nearby building.

“Phew. I’m really old.”

The old man smiled self-deprecatingly.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his temple.

The handkerchief’s corner bore a small embroidered initial.

“What’s your name?”

“Lee Jun-hyuk.”

“Lee Jun-hyuk? That’s hard to pronounce.”

“You can just call me ‘Lee.’ Everyone does.”

…Actually, no one called him that.

But Korean names were always difficult for Americans.

“Lee. Good.”

The old man smiled.

“I’m James. James Morgan.”

…Morgan?

A common surname, but a somewhat familiar name.

“Do you do business?”

“I used to. Now I’m retired.”

The old man smiled sadly.

“I ran a small trading company. Mostly in South America… sugar, coffee, things like that.”

Sugar.

Lee Jun-hyuk’s ears perked up.

“Are you still in it?”

“No, I closed it a few years ago. Now my son runs another business.”

The old man stood up.

“Let’s go. The hospital isn’t far.”

They started walking again.

This time the old man spoke first.

“What do you do? A student?”

“Yes, I attend Columbia University.”

“Oh, smart. What do you study?”

“Economics.”

“Economics… good. It will be important in the future.”

The old man paused.

He seemed out of breath.

“Sorry, am I walking too fast?”

“No, it’s me.”

He took a deep breath.

Then spoke again.

“Actually… I have a concern lately.”

“What concern?”

“There’s a sugarcane plantation in Cuba. A small one. It belonged to a friend…”

The old man spoke slowly.

His friend died last year from the Spanish Flu. The plantation was inherited by an American, but they can’t manage it well.”

“Ah…”

“A buyer is wanted, but no one’s interested. The market is unknown, and I want to help, but my health…”

Sugarcane plantation.

Cuba.

Lee Jun-hyuk’s heart started pounding.

“How big is it?”

“Not big. About 100 acres. But the location’s good. Near the port.”

100 acres.

About 400,000 square meters.

Not small, and not to be overlooked at this point.

“What’s the price… approximately?”

“Written somewhere. Not sure, but about 2,000 dollars. Or maybe less now.”

2,000 dollars.

Ten times the money he had now.

But not an impossible number.

Especially for Lee Jun-hyuk, who knew the future.

“Perhaps… if I see the plantation, I could help?”

The old man looked surprised.

“You? But you’re a student…”

“I’m studying economics and very interested in the agricultural market. Especially sugar demand will surge postwar.”

The old man’s gaze changed subtly.

He became silent, seemingly deep in thought.

“Interesting. You’re really interested?”

“Yes. If I check the plantation’s condition and suggest a fair price, would you pay a fee?”

An honest proposal.

The old man nodded slowly.

“Alright. If you prepare a proper report, I’ll give you 100 dollars.”

100 dollars.

“And if…”

The old man stopped speaking.

At that moment, the hospital appeared.

Saint Luke’s Hospital.

Large, bright, yet majestic.

Light shimmered on the marble exterior.

“What if?”

“Nothing. Let’s just go to the hospital first.”

The two entered.

The marble floor gleamed, and the air was heavy with disinfectant.

…That unmistakable hospital smell.

A nurse recognized the old man.

“Mr. Morgan! You have an appointment today…”

“I know, I’m late, huh?”

“The doctor is waiting.”

The old man looked at Lee Jun-hyuk.

Soft eyes.

“Thanks for bringing me here.”

He took a business card from his pocket.

It had an address and phone number.

“Come by my house tomorrow afternoon. I’ll show you the papers on the Cuban plantation.”

“Really?”

“Yes. If a young person like you helps, maybe we can find a solution.”

They left the hospital.

Lee Jun-hyuk looked again at the card.

Morgan…

Could it be that Morgan?

…No.

Morgan is a common surname.

There must be hundreds, thousands in New York alone.

Still, just in case, he checked the address.

“Queens, Flushing.”

Not Manhattan, but Queens.

Definitely not that Morgan.

If it were J.P. Morgan, he’d have a mansion on Fifth Avenue.

Or maybe he was in Europe by now.

I wonder how much he made from the war?

Just pointless hope.

Still, it wasn’t bad.

100 dollars.

Quite a sum.

Plus the sugarcane plantation info.

A truly valuable opportunity.

***

On the way back to the boarding house.

His steps were lighter.

The aimless feeling from the morning seemed to have faded.

Then someone grabbed Lee Jun-hyuk’s arm.

“Hey, Asian.”

He turned.

It was the man from the restaurant.

The shabby suit man who had offered him smuggling work.

“Changed your mind?”

“No. Like I said…”

“I’ll raise it from ten to fifteen dollars.”

“No interest.”

Lee Jun-hyuk said firmly.

The man’s expression hardened.

“You’ll regret this.”

“Not likely.”

“Really? What can an Asian do around here?”

The man sneered.

“Dishwashing? Laundry? No place for that either.”

“This city is for white people. Especially the money. You’ll live your whole life crushed.”

The man lit a cigarette.

Blowing smoke into Lee Jun-hyuk’s face.

“Last chance. You in or out?”

“No.”

“Stupid.”

The man spat and left.

He felt angry.

But it was true.

In 1918 America, what could an Asian do?

‘Still…’

There must be a way.

For someone who knows the future.

He arrived at the boarding house.

He opened the front door and entered, but the landlady rushed out.

“Hey student! What about that door?”

“Ah… I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”

“Fix it today. Or you’re out.”

“Yes, yes. Understood.”

He went up the stairs.

The broken door was just as before.

The hallway was visible from inside the room through the gap.

“Should I call a carpenter…”

First, he went inside to check his cash.

212 dollars and 93 cents.

No, subtracting 15 cents for breakfast, 212 dollars and 78 cents.

“How much would it cost to fix the door?”

He sighed.

Then suddenly remembered.

“I can fix it myself.”

His 2020 self was handy.

Even if not a carpenter’s skill, he could fix a fallen hinge.

And now he had a young 25-year-old body.

He felt like he could do anything.

He went out to find a hardware store.

Fortunately, there was one two blocks away.

A small shop.

“What are you looking for?”

The owner was a white man.

“I need tools and parts to fix a door hinge.”

“Hmm… let’s see.”

The owner took out various items.

Hinges, screws, screwdriver, hammer…

“That’ll be 3 dollars and 50 cents.”

…Expensive.

But cheaper than calling a carpenter.

“Yes, please.”

He took the items and left.

212 dollars 78 cents minus 3 dollars 50 cents equals 209 dollars 28 cents.

“Money keeps shrinking…”

But it couldn’t be helped.

He returned and started fixing the door.

Removing the old hinge and replacing it with a new one took quite some time.

It wasn’t perfect.

It still squeaked and had small gaps.

But at least no one could see inside from the hall.

“Phew…”

His whole body ached.

He looked outside and it was already afternoon.

Hungry.

He had only eaten a piece of toast in the morning.

“Lunch… I’ll just skip it.”

Tomorrow, he would meet Mr. Morgan and get 100 dollars.

He just had to endure until then.

He sat at his desk.

Opened the newspaper.

Looked for articles about sugar.

Cuba, Hawaii, the Philippines, Puerto Rico…

The world’s sugar-producing regions were thriving thanks to the war boom.

“But soon…”

The big crash of 1921.

Only a few knew about it.

In this era… only that.

He took out his notebook.

Started taking notes.

For tomorrow.

To prepare the report he would show Mr. Morgan.

First impressions mattered most.