Can Murder Be a Workplace Accident? Chapter 1.1

“Lot Number 3. Today’s featured work. From Lee Ufan, the greatest living Korean abstract painter, this is <Point and Line>.”

The auctioneer standing on the platform extended her arm to the side. The bidders sitting in their chairs craned their necks, following her gesture. In the direction their gazes turned, the painting she had introduced was hanging.

Lee Ufan’s <Point and Line> was a masterpiece, a staggering 218 by 297 centimeters, with a starting bid of 1.8 billion won. In both size and price, it was the most attention-grabbing work at Hangang Auction’s major August auction.

This was right after his other work, <From Point>, had been sold at the Hong Kong Sotheby’s auction held in July for 4 million dollars, a first for a Korean painter. In the current situation where even the most acclaimed masters were barely surpassing 1 million dollars, it was only natural that collectors’ eyes were drawn to another of his representative works.

“The artist Lee Ufan was born in 1938 in Geoje, Gyeongsangnam-do, and moved to Japan in 1959…”

The auctioneer recited the history of the painter and the artwork.

The people who had paid membership fees and deposits worth millions of won to qualify as bidders already knew the details. Her long, tedious explanation was merely entertainment to stir up the audience’s excitement. It was no different from a herald shouting a gladiator’s origins and record to the public to rally a response before he entered the arena.

Ooh. Low murmurs of recognition spread through the auction house.

Whose hands would this work fall into? Eyes glistened with curiosity, envy, and the desire for possession and control. Hands holding paddles twitched like racehorses just before they burst onto the track.

“The starting bid is 1.8 billion won, and the bidding increment is 50 million won. Anyone who wishes to bid, please raise your paddle. The order of priority is absentee bid, floor bid, and then telephone bid. We will now begin the auction for Lot Number 3, Lee Ufan’s <Point and Line>.”

The auctioneer’s declaration was like the starting gun at a racetrack. The bidders raised their paddles as if bewitched.

“We have an absentee bid of 1.8 billion. 1.85 billion is bid. We have an absentee bid of 1.9 billion. I have 1.95 billion. We have 2 billion.”

Each time a paddle was raised, assistant auctioneers on the left side of the platform raised their hands and pointed crisply in that direction. Numerous participants signaled their intention to bid. Their arms fluttered like pinwheels in the wind.

Every time a paddle was raised, the price went up by 50 million won. Raising it twice was equivalent to a decent large corporation’s annual salary. But the figures involved in this game did not even blink.

“I have 2.2 billion. 2.2 billion. As you all know, 2.2 billion won is the high estimate.”

In less than two minutes after the auction began, the high estimate had been reached.

It was 2.2 billion won. 2.2 billion. By 2020s standards, that was on par with the selling price of an 84-square-meter, roughly 25-pyeong, apartment in Gangnam, Seoul. The painting’s area was a little over 2 pyeong.

To be so desperate to pay 2.2 billion for a painting that you could not eat, drink, or even wear on your body. A scoff escaped.

—Are you going in already?

From across the off-white analog telephone, Executive Director Jung of Hangang Auction, who had been silent until now, spoke. It seemed he had interpreted Min Isak’s scoff as a signal to raise the paddle.

“No. I just happened to sneeze,” Min Isak said.

Pushing up the eyeglass frames that were slightly larger than his face, he looked like a slightly different species from those on the floor enthusiastically raising their paddles.

Sitting in a separately prepared VIP room, he tapped the receiver with his fingertips and crossed his legs. From his slender legs, like a cat’s tail, down to his slim ankles and shoes, there was a sleek sheen. But upon closer inspection, the knees of his pants were frayed, and the toes of his shoes were so worn that they could no longer shine even with polish.

Though they were from a luxury brand, it had been over five or six years since he bought them. Despite having taken care to dress for today’s event, it was inevitable that it showed. Had someone else worn them, they might have been met with ridicule. But Min Isak’s face, as if he had stepped right out of a Shin Yun-bok beauty painting, drew so much attention that others did not easily notice his attire.

“About how many bidders are there?”

His thin lips moved silently before he posed the question to Executive Director Jung, who was bidding on his behalf on the floor.

—The number of people raising paddles right now is… more than ten.

So all the rich bastards in the Republic of Korea are gathered here today. He clicked his tongue.

When would be the best time to bid? Min Isak calculated the timing. If he went in too early, the competition would heat up, but if he was too late, the price would be so high he might not even get to take out his paddle before it was over.

This was Lot Number 3. The very beginning. The vast majority of people still had money in their hands. Observing was the wise choice.

“I’ll go in when there’s one bidder left.”

—Understood. I will wait.

After the short conversation, a long silence followed over the receiver. 2.55 billion. 2.6 billion. 2.65 billion. On the monitor installed in the VIP room, the auction floor was being broadcast live. The intern sitting across the low table from him stole anxious glances at Min Isak.

—Are you all nervous, everyone?

The auctioneer on the monitor paused her calling of the bids and set the mood. The bidders played along, calling back, “Yes.”

“Ms. Lee Jihye, you said this was your first auction, right?”

Min Isak met the intern’s eyes. She, who had been diligently biting her nails, nodded with her thumb still in her mouth.

“Are you nervous?”

“Yes. The amount of money is so unrealistic…”

“Is that so? If you’re going to work in this field, you shouldn’t see money as money.”

He gestured toward the monitor with his chin. The auctioneer was speaking.

—From now on, to make the auction more exciting, we will raise the bidding increment to 100 million won. What do you say? Do you agree?

Hahaha, the bidders burst into laughter and clapped in unison to show their agreement. The intern gasped, hup, in surprise. That amount would be more than enough to pay off my student loans, she muttered.

Min Isak responded with a shrug and listened to the phone receiver, which he had not hung up. Executive Director Jung reported that the bidding increment had been raised to 100 million won.

—When should I go in?

“Same as the last auction. I’ll go in when there’s one person left.”

In gambling terms, the increment was the ante. Every call raised the stakes by 100 million won. It was a signal for the broke novices to participate only in the preliminaries and then bow out.

—The current high bid is 4.5 billion won. The next high bid is 4.6 billion won. Do I have 4.6 billion?

The main event had begun. Those eliminated in the preliminaries placed their paddles on their chairs or the floor and leisurely watched the match.

The auction price, which started at 1.8 billion won, had reached 4.5 billion. It was enough money to buy a 40-pyeong-range apartment in Apgujeong-dong. How many people could trade a Gangnam apartment for a single painting?

The number of people raising paddles decreased noticeably. There was no leniency for raising a paddle by mistake. You could not just overturn the board; an auction was a game where the saying “what’s played is played” truly fit.

—4.6 billion. Do I have 4.6 billion? …4.6 billion is bid! 4.7 billion. Do I have 4.7 billion?

The confidence in the hands raising the paddles also faded. The final bidder raised his hand with considerable hesitation. The auctioneer drew out her words, gauging the bidders’ reactions. The auction floor grew briefly noisy as people wavered between jumping in or not, sizing up their opponent’s financial power. Then, finally, someone raised a paddle.

—4.7 billion is bid!

The bidder who had bid 4.6 billion slumped his shoulders. Just then, Executive Director Jung whispered the situation, “There’s one person left.”

—Should I go in?

“Go in.”

On the screen, the auctioneer performed a little trick with the gavel held between her fingers. When she brought that down, a crisp bang would sound, and the final successful bidder would be decided.

From 1.8 billion to 4.7 billion, it had come a long way. The final bidder, confident of his win, was counting his chickens before they hatched, shaking hands with the person next to him. The game only ends when the referee blows the whistle; his actions were hasty.

From the staff section arranged behind the floor bidders, Executive Director Jung thrust his paddle up high.

—4.8 billion is bid!

There was no way the auctioneer would miss it. For a split second, the auctioneer’s gaze went above the heads in the staff section. What was there, and who, was a secret known only to the staff. Protruding like a box seat at an opera house, but coated with a special film that made it look like a normal wall, was the VIP room beyond the glass window.

It was the optimal place for those who could not be seen from the outside and therefore wished to conceal what items they had won. From there, Min Isak looked down on the tops of everyone’s heads with the posture of a king.

Leaning against the glass window with the receiver wedged between his neck and shoulder, he looked somewhat sleepy, somewhat bored. When he moved his small, cherry-red lips, he even gave the impression that he was looking down on this whole charade.

The auctioneer shouted 4.8 billion, reviving the dying embers.

The room stirred.

The bidder who had let the fish he had all but caught get away exclaimed an annoyed curse and rose from his chair as if stung by a bee.

Who is it? He scanned the front, back, and sides of the bidder section. Just let me catch you. With a fuming glare, he shot looks at the people who had raised their paddles, but those who met his eyes just let out inscrutable smiles and shook their heads.

A telephone bid? Someone whispered, turning their head back.

At the rear of the floor, a staff section was set up to assist with the auction’s proceedings. The staff section was a spot with desks piled with catalogs of the works featured in today’s auction and several landline telephones connected like a call center.

The bidder who had called 4.7 billion glared at Executive Director Jung, who had just raised his hand.

It’s him again? one of the people who frequented the auction house enough to wear out its threshold muttered under his breath. A few others subtly shifted their gazes toward the VIP room, which only the staff knew about. In response to the looks filled with ridicule, boredom, and resigned acceptance, Min Isak gave a slight nod. Not that they would be able to see him anyway.

—4.8 billion. The increment is 100 million won. Do I have 4.9 billion?

The bidder slowly raised his paddle while looking at the staff section. You should be looking this way, not that way, Min Isak thought to himself. The man’s pursed, petty mouth showed he really hated to lose. It was the final round, so it was understandable.

—4.9 billion is bid. 4.9 billion!

—Should I go in?

Executive Director Jung cut in before the auctioneer could even announce the bid and the amount needed to beat the bidder. Min Isak said breezily, “Yes, go in for 5 billion.” He raised the ante. His tone was lighter than that of someone buying a box of Choco Pies at a convenience store.

—Do I have 5.1 billion?

A paddle went up on the floor. Ooh, the remaining bidders, now reduced to spectators, were startled. In a game where the person who spends the most money wins, a pretty good fight was unfolding. No sooner had the floor participant’s face turned triumphant than Min Isak raised the ante.

—5.2 billion! 5.2 billion is bid.

The painting’s price, which started at 1.8 billion, had risen to 5.2 billion, nearly tripling. It had only been about 15 minutes since it started. In real estate or stocks, this would be a massive jackpot.

Artworks by living Korean artists were not even taxed. For securing both honor and economic gain, there was nothing like collecting art. That was why the auction house was filled with collectors who thought of 100 or 200 million won as less than a can of tuna.

—We have a contest!

The auctioneer shouted so loudly it seemed her throat would bleed. The man standing on the floor trembled. If you’re scared, then die. A line from a famous movie came to mind.

Among all the lot numbers today, modern art ended at number 89. That meant he had to repeat this whole process eighty-six more times. Eighty-six more times.

His mind went blank at the thought of the boredom to come. The other bidders also seemed to be getting tired, flipping through their catalogs and starting to scout for their next prey. There was even someone yawning. The auctioneer, whose goal was to induce a higher price, stalled for time by twirling the gavel between her fingers.

“…This is getting boring. I’ll go in with 6.1 billion.”

On the floor, Executive Director Jung raised the paddle and simultaneously whispered to a subordinate.

—5.3 billion. 5.3 billion is bid! …Pardon? Just a moment. Yes, yes.

The subordinate approached the auctioneer. He covered his mouth with his hand, as if to prevent anyone from seeing, and whispered to the auctioneer. The auctioneer listened, nodding her head.

—…Understood. There is a correction to the bid price. It is 6.1 billion! An increment of 800 million.

For those glued to their seats on the floor, the situation must have felt even more dramatic. He had raised the bid increment from 100 million to 800 million.

It was a bold declaration of war, daring them to follow along without tearing their crotches. The bidders’ gazes shot toward the VIP room. The auctioneer smiled faintly. The end was near. There was nothing more to see.

—Do you concede?

At the perfunctory question, the floor bidder stomped his foot on the ground.

—6.1 billion. 6.1 billion. 6.1 billion.

She called out the final winning bid three times. Bang, she brought down the gavel and declared.

—Congratulations. Lot Number 3, Lee Ufan’s <Point and Line>, has been sold for 6.1 billion won.

As one would for a spectacular game or a masterful performance, the bidders rose to their feet and applauded. He had hidden in the deep water while the small fry were playing, then snatched the prey in one go. It was just a shame that, being in the VIP room, he could not greet each of them personally.

—I sincerely congratulate you on acquiring this excellent work.

Amid the gentle sound of applause, he gave a knowing, yet unknowable, smile.

Although he had won the auction, Lee Ufan’s work could not be Min Isak’s. Funnily enough, his house did not even have a single empty wall on which to hang <Point and Line>.

He was the poorest among the bidders gathered at the auction house today.

He was the curator of Gallery Spring.

Hogahowi (狐假虎威). A fox that acts fierce by borrowing the tiger’s authority.

In Min Isak’s view, there was no term that described a curator more aptly than those four characters.

A human with nothing but knowledge and passion gains brilliance through the power of a collection and its owner. The origin of the word “curator” was the Latin cura. It meant ‘to take care of’. Perhaps even the ancients of the West saw curators as nothing more than talkative property managers.

“Would you like to check this?”

Hangang Auction’s Executive Director, Charlotte Jung, held out a clipboard. On the thick paper, bordered in gold leaf, was a list of the five works he had won today, including Lee Ufan’s <Point and Line>.

“<Point and Line>, <Rolling Stone>, <Diva Maria>… Hmm, the total winning bid is 8.2 billion. The commission is 18 percent, so 1.476 billion won. …Ms. Lee Jihye, you’re checking this against the Excel sheet you prepared earlier, right?”

“Yes.”

“Are the amounts correct?”

“Yes, they’re accurate.”

The intern nodded and closed her laptop.

Including the total winning bid, commission, and taxes, he had spent 9,823,600,000 won in this auction alone. Of course, it was not his money, and therefore, Lee Ufan’s <Point and Line> was not his either.

As soon as he deposited the money with Hangang Auction, <Point and Line> was scheduled to become the property of Gallery Spring’s owner, Ms. Kim Chunja, self-proclaimed Madame Printemps Kim. It would normally sleep peacefully in the gallery’s underground storage, seeing the light of day only when an exhibition was held or when it was hung in the owner’s residence.

Even though he had purchased it with his own hands, Min Isak could not take the work out to see it without following the proper procedures. And after all the things he did to get his hands on this painting. He felt a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Chief Curator Min. Please sign here.”

Executive Director Jung, seated next to the sofa, held out the confirmation of sale and a custom-made fountain pen for VIPs. The signature was the only right afforded to Min Isak in exchange for buying the work. The weighty fountain pen looked, at a glance, like it would cost as much as a decent watch.

Gallery Spring. Chief Curator. Min Isak.

He neatly filled in the information in the blanks next to Affiliation, Position, and Name.

“Um, Chief Curator Min.”

Executive Director Jung began cautiously.

“Yes, go on.”

Does she have a favor to ask? He and Executive Director Jung, who was meticulous about client management, had a mutually beneficial relationship. Min Isak received information about upcoming works from her in advance, and in return, he had sometimes purchased works that absolutely had to be sold but were not, at a price slightly lower than market value.

“There’s a rumor going around that Gallery Spring has a new director. Is that true?”

The pen nib, which had been gliding smoothly over the high-quality paper, skidded with a screech.

It was the moment he had finished writing his name, Min Isak, and was about to add his signature next to it.

His fingers holding the fountain pen were stained with black ink. Lee Jihye quickly pulled out a wet wipe and handed it to Min Isak. He clicked his tongue in displeasure, tsk, and connected the broken line to complete his signature. He handed back the signing board and replied.

“Yes, that’s correct. Director Lee Yanghee quit three days ago.”

To be precise, she was fired, but he did not bother to relay the truth. The former director’s influence was still considerable, so he did not want to stir up trouble by letting unnecessary words reach her ears.

“Could you perhaps give me a hint as to who will be coming in as the new director? It would be good for both of us to refer to for work.”