Chapter 8: The First Day in Cuba

January 8, 1919.

After a four-day voyage, the S.S. Orizaba finally arrived at Havana Harbor.

Climbing up onto the deck, the blazing Caribbean sun struck his face.

It was a completely different world from New York.

Though it was January, it was hot and humid like summer.

“Wow, it’s really hot.”

Davis wiped the sweat from his brow beside him.

“It’ll take some time to get used to.”

Havana Harbor was bustling with energy.

Large cargo ships were docked in a row, and stevedores moved busily on the piers.

Sacks of sugar, boxes of tobacco, and barrels of rum were constantly passing back and forth.

“Señor Lee!”

Someone called out Lee Jun-hyuk’s name.

Turning around, a Cuban man in his early thirties waved at him.

He wore white linen pants and a Panama hat, the typical attire of a local.

“I’m Carlos Hernandez. Morgan Company sent me.”

“Ah, nice to meet you.”

He greeted in Spanish.

His pronunciation was still awkward.

“Oh, you speak Spanish!”

Carlos laughed in surprise.

“Just a little.”

“No, it’s excellent. Most Americans don’t even try.”

Carlos called over the port workers to move the trunks.

“Let’s go. The guesthouse is ready.”

Exiting the pier, Havana city unfolded before them.

The buildings from the Spanish colonial era stood in rows.

Pastel-colored walls, arched windows, balconies.

They were completely different from the gray buildings of New York.

Carriages and automobiles mingled on the streets.

And people.

Whites, Blacks, Mulattos, and even a few Chinese.

A mixture of races.

“That’s Chinatown,” Carlos pointed to a nearby district.

“Quite big?”

“Yes, many Chinese live there. Most came as contract laborers and settled.”

The carriage passed through the old city and headed toward a more modern area.

“This is the Vedado District. Many Americans live here.”

The atmosphere was indeed different.

Wide roads, manicured gardens, large villas.

It looked like a wealthy residential area.

“We’ve arrived.”

The carriage stopped in front of a two-story white villa.

Palm trees surrounded it, and a spacious garden caught his eye.

“This is the Morgan Company Guesthouse. You’ll stay here for now.”

Inside, it was cool.

High ceilings, large windows, and a ceiling fan slowly rotating.

“Maria!”

Carlos called out.

A plump middle-aged woman appeared.

A typical Cuban señora.

“This is the housekeeper Maria. She cooks and cleans.”

“Mucho gusto, Señor.”

Maria greeted.

“Nice to meet you.”

Lee Jun-hyuk responded in awkward Spanish.

“Your luggage has been put in the room upstairs. After you freshen up, let’s go out for dinner.”

Carlos said.

“When will we go to the plantation…?”

“I think it’s better to go tomorrow. Today is just a visit, and you must be tired.”

It made sense.

After four days on the ship and suddenly adapting to the heat, his body wasn’t ready yet.

“Understood.”

“I’ll come back at 7. I know a good nearby restaurant.”

Carlos left, and Lee Jun-hyuk was alone.

He went upstairs to his room.

It was spacious and comfortable.

A large bed, desk, wardrobe, and even a balcony.

Stepping out onto the balcony, Havana city lay beneath him.

Endless red rooftops stretched out, and far in the distance, the Caribbean Sea shimmered.

“So I’m really here.”

Cuba.

Sugar Island.

From now on, this was where he had to compete.

He took a cold shower.

His sweat-soaked body felt refreshed in the heat.

Opening the wardrobe, he found Maria had already arranged his clothes.

He pulled out a white cotton shirt and put on khaki pants.

Looking in the mirror, he tried to appear like a tropical businessman rather than a pale New York youth.

But it still felt awkward.

Coming down to the first floor, Maria brought something.

“Señor, esto.”

It was a cup.

Inside was a light brown beverage.

“Coffee?”

“Si, Café Cubano.”

Cuban-style coffee.

He took a sip; it was strong and sweet. It seemed to have a lot of sugar.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

Maria smiled brightly.

Sitting on the sofa, sipping the coffee, he organized his thoughts.

Tomorrow, he would visit the plantation.

A hundred-acre sugarcane farm.

He would meet the manager and workers, assess the situation…

“Can I do this?”

Suddenly, anxiety crept in.

Could he run the plantation with just book knowledge?

He was still struggling with Spanish and had no local experience.

“No. I can do it.”

Knowing the future was his greatest weapon.

By the end of 1919, sugar prices would rise to 9 cents per pound.

That was nearly a 40% increase from the current 6.5 cents.

And in 1920…

“Señor?”

Maria’s call pulled him from his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Señor Carlos.”

The front door opened and Carlos came in.

He had changed for dinner.

The white Guayabera shirt suited him well.

“Ready?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

Stepping outside, the sun was setting.

But it was still hot.

The evening breeze blew, but unlike New York’s cold winds, this one was warm and moist.

“It’s about a ten-minute walk. Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

Walking, Carlos explained various things.

“That’s Hotel Nacional. The best hotel in Havana.”

An imposing building.

“And over there is Prado Street. A good place for a stroll.”

It was a wide avenue lined with trees.

People walked leisurely.

Men wore Guayabera shirts and Panama hats; women wore colorful dresses.

“Cubans love their evening strolls. It’s called Paseo.”

“Looks relaxing.”

“That’s the charm of Cuba. Slow but enjoyable.”

They arrived at a restaurant.

A small sign hung outside.

It looked ordinary, but the food was excellent.

Inside, it was lively.

Packed with locals and the sound of guitar music.

The walls were covered with photos and paintings.

“We’re regulars here.”

Carlos spoke in Spanish with the waiter and they were shown to a corner table.

“Will you have a drink?”

“Please recommend something.”

“Then try Ropa Vieja. It’s a traditional Cuban dish.”

After ordering food, beer arrived.

It was called ‘Cristal’, a Cuban beer.

“To your health. Welcome to Cuba!”

“Thank you.”

Their glasses clinked.

The beer was refreshing and light.

Perfect for the hot weather.

“But…”

Carlos began cautiously.

“We need to talk about the plantation.”

Lee Jun-hyuk set down his beer.

“Yes, I wanted to hear about it.”

Carlos lowered his voice.

“Actually, the plantation’s condition isn’t good.”

It was expected.

“How bad?”

“Last year’s harvest dropped by 40% compared to the previous year. Since the owner got sick, management has been poor.”

“And the workers?”

“There were originally 30, but now only about 10 remain. They haven’t been paid on time.”

Carlos sighed.

“And there’s a bigger problem.”

“What is it?”

“The neighboring plantation owners… how to say… they’re hostile.”

“Why?”

“Most are Spanish-descended Cubans who don’t like Americans owning plantations. Especially…”

Carlos looked at Lee Jun-hyuk.

“If it’s an East Asian, even more so.”

Just as expected.

“Will there be direct interference?”

“Yes, but cooperation is unlikely. It could be difficult to hire labor or secure transport during harvest season.”

The food came.

Ropa Vieja was stewed shredded beef in tomato sauce, served with rice.

Surprisingly, it suited his Korean taste.

“This is good.”

“Glad you like Cuban food.”

While eating, Carlos gave more details.

“The plantation manager is Jose Rodriguez. He’s in his mid-50s and has worked there over 20 years.”

“Is he trustworthy?”

“That’s something you’ll have to judge yourself. I heard he had a good relationship with the previous owner…”

Meaning how he would accept the new owner was uncertain.

“And one more piece of advice: don’t rush things. Cubans are slow, but once you earn their trust, they’re loyal to the end.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

“And…”

Carlos pulled something from his pocket.

A small notebook.

“I compiled useful phrases for you. They’re handy for the plantation.”

Opening it, Spanish expressions were written with Korean pronunciation.

<¿Cómo está la caña? — How is the sugarcane condition?>

“Thank you very much.”

“Mr. Morgan asked me to help as much as I can.”

Finishing the meal, they left the restaurant.

Night had fallen, but it was still warm.

The streets were crowded.

Music sounded everywhere, and domino games were in full swing at cafes.

“Cuba’s nights are long.”

Carlos smiled.

“It’s very different from New York.”

“You’ll adjust. All foreigners struggle at first, but when they leave, they regret it.”

Back at the guesthouse, it was past 10 pm.

“I’ll come to pick you up at 8 tomorrow. The train to the plantation takes about two hours.”

“Understood.”

“Oh, and this.”

Carlos handed over an envelope.

“Cash. 500 Pesos. You’ll need it immediately.”

“You’re too generous.”

“No, I’m also a salaried employee of Morgan Company.”

Carlos left, and Lee Jun-hyuk was alone again.

He went upstairs and wrote in his journal.

<January 8, 1919.

First day in Cuba.

It looks harder than I thought.

But I can’t give up.

Tomorrow I’ll see the plantation.

Everything starts there.>

He lay down but couldn’t sleep.

Only the slow whirring of the ceiling fan was heard.

Outside the window, the sounds of night insects and distant music blended.

Tomorrow, he would see the plantation.

A hundred acres.

About the size of Seoul Yeouido.

Not small, but small compared to the large plantations in Cuba.

“I have to assess the situation first.”

Carlos said the condition was bad.

But there was still hope.

There would be mature sugarcane, and crops ready to harvest.

He got up and stepped onto the balcony.

The night air was cooler than he expected.

Probably because of the breeze coming from the sea.

The night view of Havana spread out.

Gas lamps and electric lights softly illuminated the city.

Havana in 1919 was already quite modern.

“One year.”

The contract with Mr. Morgan was for at least one year.

Within that time, he had to normalize the plantation, make a profit, and…

“I’ll propose the sale at the right time.”

The plantation was under Mr. Morgan’s name.

He couldn’t sell it at will.

But if he didn’t propose the sale when sugar prices peaked?

Even a shrewd businessman like Mr. Morgan would agree.

Bang, bang.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the front door.

Who could it be at this hour?

He went downstairs and opened the door.

“Buenas noches.”

A foreign man stood there.

A white man in his forties.

Wearing a well-tailored suit.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Antonio Fernandez. Neighboring plantation owner.”

Neighboring plantation owner?

One of the hostile people Carlos had mentioned?

“Ah, pleased to meet you. I’m Lee Jun-hyuk.”

“I know. The rumor has already spread. An East Asian took over Santa Rosa Plantation.”

Santa Rosa. That must be the plantation’s name.

“Strictly speaking, I’m not the owner, but the manager.”

Fernandez’s eyes narrowed sharply.

“Oh? Then who’s the real owner?”

“Morgan Trading.”

“Morgan…”

Fernandez pulled out a cigar.

He seemed to know it was a big New York company.

His expression subtly changed.

“Come in.”

“No, thank you. Just stopping by to say hello.”

He took a drag on his cigar and eyed Lee Jun-hyuk up and down.

“You’re young. Any experience managing a plantation?”

“I’m learning.”

“Haha, learning…?”

It was a mocking laugh.

“Cuba isn’t an easy place. Especially managing a plantation.”

“I understand.”

“Do you really understand?”

Fernandez stepped closer.

“Sugarcane is a tricky crop. If you miss the harvest time, the sugar content drops. Labor management never stops.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“One more thing.”

Fernandez flicked cigar smoke in Lee Jun-hyuk’s face.

“There are old rules in this neighborhood. Outsiders, especially East Asians, breaking them can cause trouble.”

It was a threat.

But Lee Jun-hyuk calmly replied.

“Morgan Company legally purchased the plantation. I’m just doing my best as their representative.”

“Morgan Company…”

Fernandez’s attitude softened slightly.

He seemed uneasy knowing a big company was behind him rather than an individual.

“But I have one question. There must still be quite a bit of unharvested sugarcane on Santa Rosa Plantation.”

“I plan to utilize all the plantation’s assets.”

“Business-minded. But you don’t know the quality of that sugarcane.”

“I’ll check personally.”

Fernandez crushed his cigar on the floor and kicked it.

“Good luck, Mr. Lee. And to Morgan Company.”

There was a hint of warning in his last words.

After he left and the door closed,

“The name Morgan Company is a help.”

If it were an individual, the threats would have been more blatant.

He went back to his room and lay on the bed.

Tomorrow, the real work would begin.

He would see the plantation, assess its state, and make plans.

And within one year…

He would maximize the plantation’s value and propose the sale to Mr. Morgan.

When sugar prices reached their peak.

“I can do this.”

Knowing the future.

For now, that was his greatest weapon.