Chapter 3: A Fateful Encounter

The next morning.

My eyes opened on their own.

It was still dark outside the window.

Looking at the clock, it was 5:30.

‘Why so early…?’ Ah, that’s right.

Today was the day I was meeting Mr. Morgan.

I must have been too nervous to sleep.

I tried closing my eyes again, but it was useless.

Thoughts kept swirling around in my head.

‘What should I wear?’

‘Did I prepare properly for the meeting?’

‘What if I get rejected…?’

I decided to just get up.

Grabbing my toiletries, I headed to the bathroom.

Thankfully, there was no one else since it was so early.

I splashed cold water on my face.

Looking in the mirror,

I saw my beard had grown in rough.

I thought about shaving,

but the razor was dull, so it probably wouldn’t go well.

“I’ll just go as is.”

I returned to the Room and opened the wardrobe.

There weren’t many clothes worth wearing.

One suit.

Two sweaters.

Three shirts.

Two pairs of pants.

That was all.

I took out the suit.

A black suit.

A bit worn, but the best condition among my clothes.

I tried it on; it was a bit loose.

I must have lost weight during those two weeks in the hospital.

‘It can’t be helped…’

I put on a tie.

It was old, with frayed threads here and there.

I put on my shoes.

The moment I tied the shoelace,

snap.

It broke.

“Ah…”

I searched for a spare lace but found none.

I tied the broken lace together by force.

It was so short I could only tie it once.

– Just have to get through today…

I put the notebook in the Room.

It was the report I had organized last night.

A thorough preparation on the current state and outlook of the sugar market, including evaluations of Cuban plantations.

But I felt uneasy.

“Even if I’m evaluating this…”

Despite having memories from 2020, to others I was just a 25-year-old Asian international student.

Would Mr. Morgan… take me seriously?

“Well, let’s just go.”

I had to eat breakfast.

But I didn’t want to spend money.

I skipped lunch yesterday too.

“No, I have to eat. It’s an important day.”

I couldn’t go hungry.

Hunger would cloud my mind and jumble my words.

I left the boarding house.

The late November dawn air was piercingly cold.

Every breath I took sent out white puffs of breath.

The streets were quiet.

Few people were out since it was before work hours.

Only milk and newspaper delivery men passed by.

Tom’s Diner, where I went yesterday, was still closed.

I walked a bit further.

Soon, I saw a lit restaurant sign.

It was a 24-hour establishment.

I opened the door and went in.

The smell of cigarette smoke hung thick.

Whether these were people who had just finished night shifts

or those who came to sober up after drinking,

the atmosphere was heavy and tired.

“What can I get for you?”

A waitress asked.

She was a young woman.

Dark circles under her eyes,

a face showing she had worked all night.

“Coffee and… fried eggs.”

Today, I decided to eat eggs too.

It was an important day.

“Toast as well?”

“Yes, please.”

“That’ll be 25 cents.”

… A bit pricey.

But the eggs were included in the price.

The coffee came first.

It was hot.

Strong.

I took a sip, feeling myself relax little by little.

I looked outside.

The sky was slowly brightening.

The rooftop across the street was faintly visible.

‘Looks like the weather will be good today.’

The fried eggs arrived.

The yolks were plump.

When I poked one with my fork,

pop.

Yellow liquid spilled out.

“Looks delicious…”

I dipped the yolk onto the toast.

It was nutty.

Warm.

Truly… it felt like proper food after a long time.

Someone at the next table unfolded a newspaper.

The headline caught my eye.

President Wilson to attend the Paris Peace Conference.

The war was over, but the postwar arrangements were still underway.

What to do with Germany?

How much reparations would be demanded?

“And then, another war in twenty years…”

I shook my head.

Thinking about that was pointless.

What mattered was today.

And my business.

After finishing my meal, I stepped outside.

The streets were slowly coming alive.

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted from bakeries, and butcher shop owners were raising their shutters with a bang.

A newspaper vendor rumbled while lowering a bundle of papers.

My meeting with Mr. Morgan was at 2 p.m.

There was still plenty of time, but I was at a loss as to what to do.

I thought about returning to the boarding house and rereading my report,

but instead decided to go to the library.

The Columbia University Library was always quiet and warm.

I took the streetcar to the university.

As rush hour approached, the streetcar became more crowded.

Gentlemen in suits.

Laborers heading to factories.

Women with shopping baskets, all jostling and bumping into each other.

“Hey, watch it!”

Someone struck my shoulder hard.

It was a large white man.

His work clothes smelled of alcohol.

He probably drank all night and was now heading to work.

“Sorry.”

I bowed my head.

“What? Saying sorry? You speak English? Chinatown man.”

The man sneered.

People nearby glanced over but didn’t intervene.

I kept my mouth shut.

It wasn’t worth picking a fight; I’d only be the one to lose.

In 1918 America, an Asian going up against a white man was a fight you automatically lost.

“Not answering? Deaf?”

This time the man pushed my shoulder even harder.

I staggered into someone beside me.

“Oh my!”

A middle-aged woman cried out in surprise.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

I quickly apologized.

The woman muttered and moved away.

The man laughed sarcastically.

“See? Everyone hates scum like you. Why are you here? Go back to your country.”

I clenched my fists tightly.

Something stirred inside, but I held it back.

If I fought here, even if the police came, I’d be the one who lost.

Luckily, the man got off at the next stop.

“Good riddance, Chinatown man!”

He staggered off the streetcar, sneered once more, then disappeared.

I let out a deep breath.

– I have to get used to this.

These things would keep happening.

1918 America was like that.

Honestly, it hadn’t completely disappeared even in 2020.

I arrived at the university.

The campus was quiet.

Since classes hadn’t started, only a few students were around.

Most had tired faces as they headed to the library.

Entering the library, the distinct smell of paper greeted me.

Old book smell, dust, and the wax on the wooden floor all mixed together.

Strangely, it calmed me.

I headed to the economics section.

I wanted to find more materials on sugar, especially any books on the Cuban economy.

“Oh? Isn’t that Ryan?”

Someone called from behind.

Turning around, I saw an Asian young man.

He looked a bit older than me.

Probably a graduate student.

“Ah, hello.”

I didn’t remember exactly who he was but greeted him anyway.

“It’s me, David. Economics graduate student.”

David.

He seemed Chinese.

He probably had a real name in Chinese characters.

“Ah, yes.”

“Are you okay? I heard you were hospitalized.”

“Yes. I’m fine now.”

“Good. Michael was very worried.”

… There it was again.

That name.

“Michael… is he your friend?”

I asked cautiously.

“Friend? Haha. Most people call that guy ‘that bastard.’”

David laughed.

He seemed to know something about Michael.

“To be honest, my memory’s been a bit fuzzy since the accident. I’m not sure what kind of person Michael really is.”

“Ah, right. He hit his head or something. Michael Capone. He’s Italian.”

Italian?

Capone?

“He enrolled last year but seems more interested in other things than studying.”

A name popped into my mind.

Capone.

Could it be… no, that Capone?

Wasn’t Al Capone supposed to be in Chicago?

“What does he do?”

“Not exactly sure. His family is involved in some import business, I heard. Anyway, he seems to have lots of money. Always wears expensive clothes.”

“Is he dangerous?”

I asked carefully.

David shrugged his shoulders.

Answering while searching the bookshelf,

“Well, not exactly dangerous, but he’s someone to be cautious about. Italians are like that. Family comes first, money second. Especially his family is a bit…”

He trailed off.

Lowering his voice because we were in the library,

I could still feel the caution in his tone.

“It’s good you’re not close to him. Better not to get involved.”

I nodded.

Now I had a clearer picture.

Michael Capone.

An Italian student.

Probably from a mafia family.

And I, the original owner of this body, was involved with him and entrusted with a large sum of fifty thousand dollars.

“Ah, I found it!”

David pulled out a thick book.

It was titled [The Sugar Industry of Cuba].

“You said you were interested in the sugar market? Read this. It came out last year and’s pretty detailed.”

“Ah, really? Thank you so much!”

I took the book.

It was exactly what I needed.

It would make my report for Mr. Morgan more solid.

“Well, us Asians gotta help each other. But why suddenly interested in sugar?”

“Oh, I’m just studying postwar economic changes. Sugar prices rose a lot during the war.”

“Right. Smart thinking. Many expect it to rise further.”

David checked his watch.

“Ah, I have to go to class. When you finish that, bring it to my office. Third floor, Room 312.”

“Okay, I will. Thank you very much.”

After David left, I found a corner with a window seat.

Morning sunlight slanted in, perfect for reading.

Outside, the campus lawn stretched out, bathed in soft light.

I opened the book.

The first page showed a map of Cuba.

Sugarcane cultivation areas were marked.

Mostly concentrated in the western and central regions,

with detailed distances to port cities.

“Good, this is it.”

I began reading eagerly.

I occasionally jotted notes in my notebook on important parts.

Cuba’s sugar production volume, sizes of major plantations, exports to the United States.

I lost track of time.

Soon, the bell signaling noon was near.

The library started to fill with students.

Those finishing classes came in,

and the once quiet space gradually grew noisy.

I was hungry.

Though I had eaten fried eggs in the morning, it was already before 6 a.m.

“Lunch…”

Another worry.

I had to save money, but I couldn’t go to the afternoon meeting starving.

I closed the book and stood up.

Leaving the library, I searched for a cheap restaurant near campus.

A place popular among students, so the prices were low.

A sandwich shop.

“What can I get you?”

The man behind the counter asked.

He looked Italian, a stout middle-aged man.

“Something cheap, please.”

“Cheese sandwich. Ten cents.”

“Give me that.”

As he sliced the bread, he said,

“You’re a student, right? It’s tough without money. I know. My son’s in college too, always asking me for money.”

He seemed to put a little extra cheese in than usual.

“Want some pickles?”

“Huh? Won’t that cost extra?”

“No, it’s a service, service. Young people should eat well.”

He heaped pickles on generously.

Warmth radiated from him, and I nodded slightly.

“Thank you.”

“Alright. Eat well and study hard.”

“Will do.”

I took the sandwich and stepped outside.

I sat on a bench and started eating.

The cheese was nutty,

and the sourness of the pickles whetted my appetite.

It was incredibly filling for just ten cents.

“There are good people after all.”

Not all Italians were mafia, obviously.

I checked the time.

1:20 p.m.

It would take about 40 minutes by streetcar to get to Queens.

I finished the last bite and got up.

On the way to the streetcar stop, I reviewed my notebook again.

The report was well-organized.

The additional notes I made at the library were neatly included.

– I can do this.

I cheered myself on.

The streetcar arrived.

Because it was lunch hour, it was less crowded than the morning.

I got a window seat.

As we left Manhattan, the scenery began to change.

Tall buildings gave way to mostly two- or three-story houses.

More trees appeared.

Though it was late November and the leaves had fallen,

bare branches stretched toward the sky.

Queens was a quieter neighborhood compared to Manhattan.

Many immigrants lived there.

Irish, Italian, Jewish…

And a small number of Asians too.

I got off at Flushing.

I took out the note Mr. Morgan gave me and confirmed the address.

It was still a few blocks away.

As I walked, I looked around.

Small shops lined the street.

Butcher shops, bakeries, fruit and vegetable stores.

Signs were written not only in English but in other languages.

Yiddish, Italian, and…

‘Hangul?’

I stopped walking.

One small shop’s sign was written in Korean.

Below it was the English name.

‘Koreans here too?’

I was curious about going in but checked the time.

1:50 p.m. Not enough time.

‘I’ll stop by later.’

I resumed walking.

Mr. Morgan’s house was on a quiet residential street.

A two-story red brick house.

Not too big, not too small, a middle-class home.

A small garden lay in front.

The rose bushes were bare, bracing for winter.

I stood in front of the gate.

Suddenly, tension tightened.

I double-checked my outfit.

Was my tie crooked? Were my shoes too dirty?

Taking a deep breath, I pressed the doorbell.

After a moment, the door opened.

A middle-aged woman appeared.

She seemed like the housekeeper.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m Lee Jun-hyuk. I have an appointment with Mr. Morgan at 2 o’clock.”

“Oh, I see. One moment please.”

She went inside.

Soon she returned, opening the door wide.

“Please come in. The master is waiting in his study.”

Entering the foyer, warm air greeted my face.

A wall heater was burning.

The faint scent of burning wood spread softly.

“This way, please.”

I followed the housekeeper down the hallway.

Photos hung on the wall.

Pictures of a young Mr. Morgan, family photos, and…

‘Huh?’

I slowed my steps.

One photo caught my eye.

Mr. Morgan standing with several East Asians.

The background looked like a port.

“Student?”

The housekeeper called out.

“Oh, yes. Sorry.”

We arrived at the study door.

She knocked.

“Mr. Morgan, Mr. Son has arrived.”

“Tell him to come in.”

Mr. Morgan’s voice came from inside.

The door opened.

The study was filled with books.

The entire wall was a bookshelf, and a large desk sat in the center.

Mr. Morgan was seated behind the desk.

He looked healthier than yesterday.

“You’re here, Lee. Please sit.”

“Hello, Mr. Morgan.”

I greeted and sat down.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Oh, thank you.”

Mr. Morgan signaled to the housekeeper.

She left.

A brief silence followed.

Mr. Morgan spoke first.

“Thanks again for yesterday. Thanks to you, I got to the hospital safely.”

“No need to mention. I just did what was right.”

“What’s right…? Where can you find that nowadays?”

He smiled bitterly.

Then he took out a stack of papers from a folder.

“Here are documents regarding the Cuban plantation. Take a look.”

I took the documents.

Though mostly in Spanish,

the important parts had English translations.

“By the way, you said you’re from Korea?”

Mr. Morgan suddenly asked.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“The Korean Empire. An interesting country. Even though Japan was so aggressive, you managed to keep your country.”

I looked up in surprise.

Kept your country?

“So that means this isn’t during the Japanese colonial period?”