The second and exceedingly rare type of man is he who never has to give up rising and expanding until the end of his life. Kim SungSoo belonged to this group not only by his birth, which already entitled him to fertile fields across four counties in the province, but also by his marriage to an only daughter of a minister. Instead of adopting a male relative as a son, his father-in-law had left his estate to his daughter upon his passing. Furthermore, SungSoo’s first cousin—his uncle’s only child—had died of a freak accident the following year, when his heart stopped midcoitus with his pretty young mistress. Though the uncle was still living, SungSoo was his heir as well, elegantly combining the wealth of the family’s two branches.
SungSoo was not so vulgar or ignorant as to be unaware of his extraordinary good luck. From time to time, he indeed felt that life had been unfairly generous to him. At fifty-one, he was at the height of middle-aged vigor, still going into the office, publishing books regularly, and not dissipated and lazy as were many of his peers. Others he knew had drifted aimlessly, unable to find a suitable occupation as the economy tanked and family fortunes dwindled, and some of them lost the will to live. Three years ago already, his friend the playwright had jumped off a bridge into the Han River. SungSoo had been sad, briefly, but as he aged he was less able to feel sorry for anyone else. Misfortunes of others only cemented his belief that he was quite exceptional. All of Seoul knew him and respected him, except for underground Communists, who would soon succumb to the government crackdown.
Only one thing weighed on him. It was that his wealth, though astronomical, also seemed to get drained quite quickly. He himself had always enjoyed spending money, and he had no plans to cut down on his habits of restaurants, clothes, and women. But he had not expected how much his only son would take after him in squandering the family fortune. He did everything SungSoo did but on a grander scale, and added his own vices of gambling and opium. SungSoo had already paid for debts amounting to the sale of a couple of prosperous villages and adjoining farmland, and his patience had reached its limits.
Adding to the unstable state of his affairs was the increase in property taxes, designed to squeeze the Korean landowners so that they would voluntarily give up their land. When the gentry finally decided to sell their estates, the Japanese would be hovering nearby, waiting to snatch up the land. This morning SungSoo had received a letter from his father in the country on this very issue. He complained of the local police, who had been showing the Japanese nobles around his property—ostensibly for a tour, but really to subtly pressure him.
These pesky worries had settled on SungSoo’s mind during his walk and he swatted them away when he reached his bicycle shop. The door was open, although it was a frosty late autumn afternoon. Inside, the manager and the senior repairman were chatting over some steamed buns and tea, while the junior repairman was crouched next to a bike. SungSoo frowned and cleared his throat, and the manager snapped to attention.
“We weren’t expecting you,” the manager said, smiling and wringing his hands. He was upset that SungSoo, who was largely absent, had chosen this day to do his year-end check-in. “Let us get you a cup of tea. HanChol! Some tea, immediately!” he barked at the junior repairman.
HanChol unfolded his strong, tall body, rose obediently from his post, and made as to fetch the tea from the back room. SungSoo frowned at the manager.
“That’s not necessary. I would like to look at the ledger with you if you’re not busy,” he said. “Also, my kid wanted to get her bike fixed. She’ll be dropping by.”
SungSoo went into the back room and the manager followed. For the next hour, they looked together at the ledger which, for the first time in all these years, had settled evenly without any missing or unexplained sums.
“Excellent bookkeeping this year,” SungSoo muttered. The manager smiled and bowed a few times in rapid succession, protesting modestly.
“Just doing my job, sir.”
“But the business is still barely breaking even. Why is that?” SungSoo asked.
“Well sir, these are hard times . . .” the manager began, but SungSoo waved him into silence.
“That’s fine. You may leave. Oh, and ask the junior guy to come in.”
“You mean Kim HanChol?”
“There is only one junior guy, isn’t there?” SungSoo asked sarcastically and the manager bowed out.
When HanChol came into the room, SungSoo gestured at the chair facing him.
“So, you’ve been here for a year now,” SungSoo said once the younger man was seated. “I noticed that you’ve been doing the bookkeeping instead of the manager. He took all the credit, of course, but I know it was you.”