Can Murder Be a Workplace Accident? Chapter 1.4

The vomiting barely stopped only after seeing the bitter, yellow bile. He took off his glasses and wiped away the tears that had leaked out due to the pressure with the back of his hand.

Whoosh.

He turned on the cold water at the sink and wet his face. He also scrubbed his glasses, which were a mess of saliva and tears, until they squeaked, and wet his hair to tidy it. Apart from his wrecked insides, his reflection in the mirror looked fine. He sniffed the sleeve of his shirt. As expected, it had a musty smell. But as long as no one smelled it up close, they would not know its origin.

When he went down to the lobby alone, only the staff were cleaning up. The after-party had long since ended, and there was no food left. Still, as if to survive, he suddenly felt hungry. He headed for the back door.

“1872. A Fiat.”

The valet parking attendant was sitting in a box not even one pyeong in size. It bothered him that there was not even a decent fan.

While the attendant went to find the car key hanging on the wall and bring the car out, he stopped by the convenience store right across the street. He bought two bottles of a vitamin drink and one sandwich. In the hot, humid weather, condensation quickly formed on the glass bottles. By the time he returned from the convenience store, the attendant had pulled the car out of the mechanical parking garage and parked it at an angle that made it easy to exit the alleyway.

“Do you like vintage cars?”

The sky-blue Abarth Fiat 500 was an imported car only in appearance; it was an old model produced in 1997. Its mileage had long passed two hundred thousand kilometers.

“I guess so.”

He did not correct the attendant’s misunderstanding. In truth, a graduate school sunbae had been about to give it to some metal craft majors as material for their work, saying it even cost money to scrap a car, so he took it for one million won. The heater was cold and the air conditioner was hot, but it ran well. Still, it had lasted eight years without any major trouble.

“Have this.”

He mumbled vaguely and offered the vitamin drink.

“Oh my, thank you very much. I was just getting thirsty. You’re the only one who always thinks of me, sir.”

The attendant took the bottle with a gloved hand and handed over the car key.

Just a polite remark. “Yes, have a good weekend,” he replied perfunctorily and got into the driver’s seat.

The front of the Hangang Auction building faced Nonhyeon-ro, but the back was a very narrow alley. On top of that, one of the three cars parked on the street was a supercar. There was a lot of illegal parking, too. It was the time of day when the noticeably shorter summer sun was setting and dusk was beginning to fall. Min Isak drove out with extra caution.

“Hoo.”

Only when he got out onto the main road did the tension completely release. While waiting at a signal, he drank his beverage. The cold liquid reverberated in his head. The sharp, tingling pain was quite welcome.

Should I cross Hannam Bridge and take the Gangbyeon Expressway? Or should I drive along the Olympic Expressway and take Seongsu Bridge? Either way, it would be congested, and the time taken would be similar. Straight ahead, or a right turn. He stepped on the accelerator without thinking, following the flow of traffic.

He took the Gangbyeon Expressway. He drove slowly in the outermost lane. He rolled down the window and rested one arm on it. He turned on the radio. An out-of-fashion pop song flowed into the slowly passing scenery.

For about ten minutes, he hummed along mindlessly.

By the time he arrived at Gallery Spring near Seoul Forest, his tattered body and mind had calmed down by at least one percent. There was still work to be done, but he needed time to be alone. There would be no one at the office. That was why he had insisted to Kwon Hyuk that he had to return.

He parked the car in the employee parking lot and walked to the entrance.

“Huh? The lights are on at this hour?”

The top floor, which was used as the office, was bright. It was Friday afternoon, and he had given instructions that it was fine to leave early… He could not think of any employee who would be working overtime. Who was still here?

Could it be a thief?

The office contained not only various work documents but also the key to the underground storage where artworks were kept. Although it was in a safe with double and triple security, would that matter if someone had broken into the office?

It was unlikely, but it would be too late to judge after it happened. His face turned pale.

He moved his staggering legs and ran up the emergency stairs.

He was in such a hurry that he did not even think to call the police. What if they have a knife? Still, he had to stop them. The curators of the Kabul Museum, who had not handed over the storage key even in the face of Taliban threats, came to mind. It was likely just a petty thief, but his heart was resolute.

By the time he reached the fourth floor, his legs gave out. He gritted his teeth and practically crawled up the stairs. Reaching the fifth-floor emergency exit, he barely managed to pull himself up and press his right eye to the scanner.

The retina scanner recognized him and opened the door.

In that brief moment, he caught his breath and then dashed like a bullet down the unlit hallway and threw open the office door.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?”

The man standing in the office turned his head in surprise. Holding a heavy catalog in one hand, he opened his eyes wide as if to ask what all the commotion was about.

Oh no… not a thief?

Min Isak bit his molars. He had not expected to see this face, at this time, in this place.

Namgung Tree. The new director. His high school classmate and, once upon a time, Min Isak’s first love, was alone in the office on a Friday night.

There is nothing more terrible than running into your first love at an unwanted time. Especially if it was a one-sided crush you could not even confess. Min Isak’s feelings, facing Namgung Tree now, were exactly like meeting an enemy on a single-log bridge.

Meeting him after ten years, he was as handsome as ever. His strong, refreshing features were the same, but he seemed to have grown a handspan taller than he was in high school.

Sun-kissed olive skin. A sky-blue henley shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and cream-colored pants. Peeking over the partition, he exuded a sense of leisure, as if he had just come from a vacation at a Mediterranean resort.

In contrast, he himself… even though he was dressed in a designer suit no less than Namgung Tree’s, he still felt shabby. Wretched. He had just rolled around in the restroom of Hangang Auction and even brought a foul smell with him like a tail.

If he could, he wanted to run away.

He hastily wiped his sweat-drenched face with his hand, then covered the nape of his neck where the mark of infidelity remained. It was an almost unconscious action.

Will he even recognize me? Or should I pretend to know him first? If he recognizes me, what will he say seeing me in this state?

All sorts of thoughts raced through his mind. All sorts of emotions—joy and fear, inferiority, and even the hatred he had buried in the past—were jumbled together indiscriminately.

“And who are you?”

Thwack! The catalog closed with a sound like a slap to the cheek. Min Isak flinched his shoulders without realizing it.

Namgung Tree paid Min Isak no mind, slotted the catalog onto the bookshelf, and then strode across the desk towards him. It happened to be the catalog of an exhibition he had been in charge of.

He doesn’t recognize me? We were in the same class for three years, though. Was I a person not even worth remembering? In defiance, Min Isak raised his head. A figure from a past more than ten years ago had become real and was walking towards him.

“Before you ask who someone is, you should identify yourself first.”

“…”

He did not avoid the oncoming gaze. Namgung Tree raised one eyebrow slightly. The scent of oud, carried on the damp humidity of the summer night, was strong.

“I apologize for not recognizing you, Director.”

Min Isak clasped his hands and bowed his head respectfully. It was not just Min Isak who had failed to recognize the other, but he adopted the perfect posture of a subordinate.

Director and curator. Employer’s son and employee. The one who gives orders and the one who receives them. The time when they could casually call each other ‘hey, you’ was only during their school days. It was a fact that would not change whether he recognized him or not.

If he were to feign recognition to someone who did not even recognize him, what kind of intention would that be read as? It would only be awkward.

In any case, Namgung Tree was Min Isak’s superior, so it was convenient to apologize and show his intention to obey him. A quick understanding of the hierarchy and a compliant nature were certainly helpful for survival in the ever-turbulent industry.

Let’s set aside the feelings of inferiority and annoyance. That’s just how the world works; what can an individual do?

“Alright. Let’s put that aside.”

Surprisingly, Namgung Tree accepted the apology easily. However, it seemed he had no intention of looking favorably upon the person who had committed the discourtesy.

He glared at the round top of his head, which showed no sign of being raised, and spoke.

“You still haven’t answered my question. Answer before you apologize.”

So he’s the type who prioritizes his objective over his feelings. Using the short question as a clue, Min Isak tried to grasp his personality like a blind man feeling an elephant.

He counted to three internally and slowly raised his head. A slight wrinkle formed on his smooth forehead, which looked as if it were carved from marble. As surprise and gladness began to flicker in his eyes, before Namgung Tree could mention the fact they both knew, Min Isak cut him off.

“You…”

“I am Min Isak.”

For a moment, he paused. At the humble and restrained tone, devoid of personal emotion, Namgung Tree’s sharp eyes widened.

“The chief curator of Gallery Spring.”

His eyes, shifting to his left, seemed to be working his brain hard. That habit was still the same.

“Ah…”

Namgung Tree made a small sound as if he had realized something, then stared blankly into the distance with an unfocused gaze. Then, with a much brighter look, he offered a handshake.

“My apologies. So you’re Chief Curator Min.”

Though he did not hide his delight with a faint smile, he greeted him with formal language. It seemed he had noticed that Min Isak did not want to reveal that they were high school classmates.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from my mother. She praises you highly, Chief Curator Min.”

The distance between the two was a bit too far for a handshake. Namgung Tree took a bold step forward. The strong fragrance intensified.

Min Isak, who was extending his hand, unconsciously stepped back. His foot caught on a box containing exhibition leaflets. His legs, having run up from the first to the fifth floor, gave out easily.

Thud!

Pale dust rose into the air. Having fallen backward, his tailbone hurt incredibly. The pain shot up to the top of his head as if he had chewed and swallowed a raw wasabi root.

“Min Isak, are you okay?”

Namgung Tree, startled, rushed over to him.

“Cough, cough! I’m fine.”

Leaning diagonally against the box, he waved his hand. The acrid smell made his eyes sting.

“Don’t come over. It’s very dusty.”

“We can wash it off. You fell.”

Despite his protests, he approached Min Isak. It was useless to twist his body to avoid touching him.

Namgung Tree grabbed him by both shoulders and, with a heave-ho, lifted him up. In an instant, his two feet were dangling in the air.

Is he… is he serious, a sightseeing tour of Seoul?

It was a prank he often played using his tall stature. He had never lifted him by the head, but from a man’s perspective, the act of being lifted was quite humiliating. He used to shudder every time it happened, and it seemed he remembered that.

Cold sweat trickled down his temples. He was extremely flustered by the prank, having experienced it well past the age of thirty.

“Please put me down. I smell of sweat.”

“…Yes, I will.”

Namgung Tree, pouting his lips uncharacteristically, carelessly set Min Isak down on the floor. The moment his feet touched the ground, Min Isak headed for his own desk.

Namgung Tree watched him as he quickly made his escape. His mouth, slit long to the sides, drew a cool arc upwards, then twisted for a moment.

The fishy body odor remaining in the air tickled his olfactory cells. A damp, fishy smell. His movements, which had been slowly turning towards the inside of the office, quickened.

His brow furrowed, and his focus, which had been blurred by a distant imagination, sharpened on Min Isak. Having found his desk, he was frantically spraying deodorizer everywhere.

No way. It can’t be. He put both hands in his pockets and walked leisurely into the office as if he also had business there. Min Isak’s desk was right in front of the bookshelf where Namgung Tree had been looking at a catalog before he entered.

As the distance closed, his hand spraying the deodorizer became more frantic. Namgung Tree cleared his throat, hmmph.

“Why are you spraying so much deodorizer? That’s all chemicals.”

“I smell of sweat. It’s quite hot outside.”

“Is that so? Should I give it a sniff?”

Namgung Tree brazenly stuck his head over the partition. Just then, a soft, warm palm slapped against his forehead.

Min Isak, holding the deodorizer in one hand, pushed his forehead away with his other empty hand, like warding off a cat lunging for a fish. Namgung Tree blinked. Min Isak himself seemed quite flustered and quickly pulled his hand away.

“I’m sorry. I was afraid you would be offended…”

“I’m not offended.”

He grumbled, a faint handprint on his smooth forehead. It’s just the two of us guys anyway.

Hearing that, he could not spray any more deodorizer. He said he was not offended. It looked to anyone like he was trying to hide something other than the smell of sweat. And in fact, he was.

“Are you perhaps going to meet a lover after work?”

Taking advantage of the lull in his momentum, Namgung Tree finally squeezed his way into Min Isak’s space. Saying he would check the smell, he brought his nose close to his neck and began to sniff in earnest.

“I don’t have one. I’m just going to finish up my work and go straight home.”

Unable to avoid him, he pretended to put a hand on his hip, rubbing his sweaty palm on his buttock. He glanced sideways at Namgung Tree’s dark, curly hair and let out a small sigh. Min Isak’s brown hair, without any hair product, swayed in his breath.

They were so close he could feel the puff of his breath on the skin of his neck. He could not even breathe properly for fear that the smell of semen, the fishy smell of the restroom, and the scent of hand cream would be detected through the deodorizer he had just sprayed.

If he had been guiltless, there would have been no need to be nervous. He did not want to be caught feeling this way.

“Why did you come back to the office? I came thinking everyone would have gone home.”

Just then, Namgung Tree spoke to him. There was nothing like conversation to divert attention.

“I have some work left. I went to Hangang Auction today. What about you, Director?”

“I have a drinking appointment nearby, so I came by on the way.”

He was about to continue the conversation by asking who he was meeting, but he stopped. Namgung Tree, with a vacant look in his eyes, tapped his fist against his lips.

“You don’t smell of sweat.”

He contemplated how to respond to the almost-muttered words, and finally managed to say he was glad. Even after he sat down in his chair and turned on his office PC, Namgung Tree loitered by the partition.

He uttered exclamations like “hmm,” “ah,” or short sentences like “no,” and swept his bangs up. Is it a drinking appointment he doesn’t want to go to? Whatever. Relieved that he did not smell, Min Isak decided to focus on his work whether he went or not. He brought up the proposal form file and opened the email sent by the intern.

It was convenient to prepare it in advance to get approval for the auctioned works first thing on Monday. Namgung Tree blatantly leaned against the partition and stared at the monitor. There was nothing more distracting than a superior watching your document creation screen, but he decided to count it as having given a report.

“Did you buy the Lee Ufan?”

Since he was listing them in order of lot number, Lee Ufan’s <Point and Line> went into number one on the proposal. It was the work he had spent the most money on at today’s auction.

“Starting bid 1.8 billion. High estimate 2.2 billion. Budget 6.1 billion. Winning bid 6.1 billion. Commission at 18 percent is 1 billion and 98 million won. Tax at 10 percent is 109.8 million won. Total 7,307,800,000 won.”

Namgung Tree read the figures listed on the sheet without hesitation. Anyone with a foot in the modern art world would know that even that price was cheap.

“It was a contest against the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, Seoul.”

Min Isak casually leaked a piece of information that was confidential to the auction house. Right now, it was more important to be evaluated as a competent talent than to feel a sense of camaraderie as a high school classmate. However, Namgung Tree’s reaction was unexpectedly cold.

“How did you know that?”

Does he not know because he just arrived in Korea? It was a question anyone could ask, but one that everyone avoided. There was nothing as naive as asking for the source of words floating around at an after-party.

“…I have my sources.”

To his puzzled reply, Namgung Tree asked again. His eyes, glaring at the sheet, were sharp.

“Who ordered you to buy it? The former director?”