Can Murder Be a Workplace Accident? Chapter 2.1

“The most expensive? Don’t be ridiculous.”

A voice of salvation was heard. The bartender stopped his hand just as he was about to pick the most expensive bottle from the cabinet.

“Boss.”

“This is perfect for this bastard.”

It was Bae Taemin, the owner of Gatsby. Namgung Tree scowled in displeasure, glaring at the man who had invited him here.

“Don’t worry. He’s a friend of mine.”

Bae Taemin was Namgung Tree’s high school classmate. Dressed in a double-breasted suit with a nipped-in waist, his two-block hair slicked back with pomade, he looked like he had stepped right out of a novel.

However, for some reason, to Namgung Tree’s eyes, Bae Taemin looked more like Tom Buchanan than Gatsby. This was especially true of his custom-made jacket with exaggerated shoulder pads to avoid looking small, and his smiling eyes that hid his true intentions. Out of courtesy to an old friend, he didn’t say it out loud.

“You can go now.”

Bae Taemin took a cheap bourbon, famous for its vicious hangover as much as its strength, from the cabinet and waved the bartender away. Freed from the difficult customer, the bartender bowed to Bae Taemin and left to serve another guest.

“Hey, I have more money than you.”

“What good is that? You never buy me a single thing.”

A glass of straight bourbon slid across the bar table. The glass felt lukewarm in his hand.

“What’s this? You should at least give me an on the rocks.”

“Even ice is too good for you.”

Bae Taemin leaned on the table with both hands and sneered. He poured whiskey into his own glass, added a spherically carved piece of ice, and then taunted Namgung Tree by waving it right in front of his face. He felt an urge to slap that penguin-like forehead with his palm.

“How many bowls of seolleongtang did you freeload at my house back in high school? Until I deduct all that money, you can just drink the cheapest liquor, you bastard.”

“The landlord’s kid is lording a few bowls of seolleongtang he ate at his tenant’s house over me for more than ten years… How petty.”

“Not anymore!”

Bae Taemin, who had raised his voice, looked around in surprise.

“Why are you bringing up something from so long ago?”

He covered his mouth and whispered in a low voice. His tone made it clear he desperately wanted to hide the fact that the owner of the sophisticated speakeasy1) Gatsby was the son of a seolleongtang restaurant owner from the back alleys of Teheran-ro.

“You started it.”

Namgung Tree tossed back the glass in front of him and shook it. Bae Taemin’s parents were also among the so-called ‘commoner rich’ who had made a bit of money, but it was only recently that they had started their business in their own building. Before that, they had rented the first floor of a building owned by Namgung Tree’s parents and sold seolleongtang.

No matter how much money you make, you feel small in front of someone bigger. People curse the ‘strong against the weak, weak against the strong’ attitude as cowardly, but just try and find someone who isn’t like that.

“Put it on my tab.”

He took a credit card from his wallet and slid it across the table. It was a black card that wasn’t even easy to sign up for. Bae Taemin smiled brightly and tucked the card into his jacket pocket.

“What do you want to drink? It’s my treat to congratulate you on becoming director. Just say the word. I’ll get it out for you.”

He pointed to the cabinet filled with all sorts of liquor. The bottles on the top shelf cost over a hundred thousand won each and were more for decoration, as no one usually ordered them.

He thought he might finally get to crack one open today, but the man himself was sighing so heavily the ground might collapse, and didn’t order any drink.

“Sigh… That damn director position.”

Realizing his glass was empty, Namgung Tree snatched Bae Taemin’s on-the-rocks glass, which was sitting placidly on the table. And before the alcohol on his lips could even evaporate, he poured himself more bourbon and tossed it back in one go.

“Whoa, whoa? Hey. You’re supposed to savor the aroma of this liquor when you drink it.”

Not a shot, but a full on-the-rocks glass, straight, twice. Namgung Tree drank the bourbon whiskey like it was barley tea. He was on track to be carried out less than ten minutes after arriving.

Aghast, Bae Taemin snatched the glass from his hand. But Namgung Tree, grimacing from the burning pain in his throat, pushed Bae Taemin away with his elbow and poured bourbon into the glass again.

“Fuck. Savoring my ass. That’s for when you’re in a good mood. I need to drink.”

In a short time, the bottle was empty. He knew the man could hold his liquor, but he was a little intimidated that he drank better than the bar owner.

Whatever. As long as it boosts sales.

“Why? Are you saying your good old days are over?”

Bae Taemin brought a new glass and a new bottle from the top shelf of the cabinet. He came over to the other side of the table, perched on a stool, and took off his jacket. It seemed he was planning to drink seriously too, as the liquor he brought had a higher proof than what they had been drinking.

“You should be grateful you’ve lived as you pleased, just painting, until now. I may not look it, but I’m swamped with purchasing materials and managing employees, and I hear the chairman of Infinity Group wakes up at five in the morning to get ready for work. You think money is earned for free?”

He comforted Namgung Tree by listing famous people who had power and wealth but no ownership of their own time. In fact, Namgung Tree had been quite depressed by the fact that in two days, a life of commuting back and forth would begin, just like the people he had always dismissed as boring. But the unpleasantness that clung to his whole body like the humidity of the rainy season was not because of the sorrow of no longer being able to live as he wanted.

“What can you do? Your mother said she wouldn’t hand over the gallery if you didn’t become the director.”

His father and mother had written their wills early on, setting aside Gallery Spring as Namgung Tree’s share. He could have been upset that his older brother and sister were given the prime companies while he was given just a gallery worth tens of billions of won. But the reality was the exact opposite.

A company requires brainpower to run, but the value of the paintings owned by a gallery owner appreciates on its own.

If you just lie down and wait a few years, tens of billions turn into hundreds of billions. There’s no better unearned income than that.

However, the fact that he was inheriting the gallery was still a secret.

“…How did you know that?”

“Ms. Kim came to our seolleongtang place a while ago and chatted for a long time before she left.”

“…As expected, the culprit is one of us.”

She had told him to even enter the country in secret, saying it was a top-secret matter that shouldn’t be known, but she was the one spreading it around. Printemps Kim’s hobby was now to visit her successful former tenants and chatter away, saying she missed them. She talked about old affections, but for tenants who now owned their own buildings, it must have been more horrifying than a dead enemy coming back to life. What a nasty hobby.

“Your mother must have had a hard time…”

Namgung Tree ended up slamming his head onto the bar table. Thud.

It was bound to end up like this.

In exchange for inheriting the gallery, his mother had repeatedly urged Namgung Tree to take the director’s seat. It was an inheritance he would receive as soon as she passed away. When he refused a few times because he enjoyed his dissipated lifestyle, his parents cut off his financial support. Namgung Tree was just as stubborn. He scoffed, saying he could just make money with his paintings.

He was successful. He sold out his paintings at an exhibition and collaborated with luxury brands and idol groups. As his name became somewhat known, that brought in more work. The problem was, he spent more money than he earned.

His bank account hit rock bottom after a few swipes of his card at luxury stores and staying in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. Still, he couldn’t curb his spending. He was nothing without his pretense, and he satisfied all his desires through shopping.

Even as he downsized his home again and again, he couldn’t stop consuming. Even as luxury watches and supercars piled up, he only felt empty. It was a small mercy that he didn’t ask his family or acquaintances for money to protect his pride. One day, his landlord informed him that he had to vacate his room, and only then did Namgung Tree accept his mother’s offer.

His mother might have left him to his own devices in Manhattan, knowing it would come to this.

“Isn’t it over once you receive the inheritance? Once you become the owner, who can interfere whether you sell the paintings or close the doors? Until then, you have to work quietly.”

“This bastard is talking nonsense about selling it just because it’s not his. It’ll be worth hundreds of billions in a few years. You’re not getting a cut, you bastard.”

“I’m telling you to grow up a little. You unfilial son.”

“…I must be on my deathbed to be hearing something like that from Bae Taemin.”

Namgung Tree glared as if he had heard something he shouldn’t have. Bae Taemin shrugged his shoulders and feigned ignorance.

How absurd. Both had gone to study abroad in the U.S., but the one who failed was not Namgung Tree, but Bae Taemin. He was in a foul mood from the nagging about being an unfilial son.

Bae Taemin had dropped out of university without his parents’ knowledge and bummed around with party crowds for several years, wasting the money they sent him, before being drafted into the military. After being discharged, he started a bar business, saying he would rather die than inherit the seolleongtang restaurant. To hear such things from this kind of fickle and frivolous person who couldn’t even stick to one thing.

“We’re already over thirty. We’re past the age for wandering. You, you know Dong-jun, right? Choi Dong-jun from the sculpture department. His kid is already three. Kim Hee-jung from the oriental painting department had twins.”

Bae Taemin reeled off updates on high school classmates he barely remembered, emphasizing that they were now at an age where they needed to develop a sense of responsibility. He had thought his mood couldn’t get any worse today. But Bae Taemin’s lecture sent Namgung Tree’s mood crashing through the floor and into the basement. And the reason for his rock-bottom mood became even clearer.

Thinking of him, an indescribable rage welled up.

“Why is this bastard suddenly chugging from the bottle?”

Bae Taemin tried to intervene and take the bottle, but Namgung Tree didn’t take his lips off it until his temper subsided. He didn’t even feel the pain as his esophagus burned. He really is a guy who doesn’t need ice, Bae Taemin muttered from the side, looking fed up.

“Ugh, do you by any chance remember Min Isak?”

“Min Isak? Who’s that?”

The bottle was empty. Namgung Tree wiped his liquor-soaked mouth with the back of his hand and asked Bae Taemin. Bae Taemin rolled his eyes and gestured to the bartender to bring another bottle. He had dredged up stories of other classmates he wasn’t even curious about, but he looked as if he couldn’t remember that one person.

“The top student. You know, the kid who was first in the whole school for all three years when we were in high school.”

Namgung Tree added more information.

The hand that was breaking the seal and pouring the liquor paused, and his face wrinkled slightly. He twitched his weasel-like pointy nose. Surely the bar owner wasn’t grimacing because the liquor he had drunk so far was bitter. As if he had finally remembered, Bae Taemin spoke.

“Ah, I remember. That beggar?”

“Beggar?”

“Yeah. His mom was a lunch lady, wasn’t she? That beggar bastard. But why him?”

“Yeah. He’s working as a curator at our gallery.”

“A curator? Him?”

Raising one eyebrow, Bae Taemin stared intently at Namgung Tree. He silently nodded, confirming it for Bae Taemin.

Bae Taemin picked up his glass. He gulped the liquor down hastily, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and slammed the glass down on the table. Clang.

“In the end…”

He muttered something unintelligible. He leaned in closer to try and hear better, but Bae Taemin clamped his mouth shut. And until Namgung Tree refilled his empty glass, he said nothing for a while, as if looking into another world.

“He doesn’t paint anymore?”

After drinking about half a glass of the newly poured liquor, Bae Taemin asked Namgung Tree.

“He probably doesn’t, right? Isn’t that why he’s a curator?”

“Why did he stop? Doesn’t he even paint as a hobby?”

It was a completely different question from his earlier insult of calling him a beggar.

It was only natural for Bae Taemin to ask that. Back then, Min Isak had the image of a guy who would live his life drawing, even on the ground if he didn’t have paper.

It was the Korea National High School of Arts, a place where only flying and crawling geniuses got in. Although he wasn’t the top entrant, Min Isak never lost the top spot for three years, except for once in his graduating semester.

His written scores were one thing, but to consistently take first place in practical skills required more effort than talent. It was only possible by enduring long hours of sitting and drawing silently without getting tired, and consistently producing work above a certain standard.

Even in the eyes of the students who badmouthed him, Min Isak was already a master back then. When he heard that he was staying in Korea instead of studying abroad, Namgung Tree had assumed he was living a decent life. It was shocking enough that he had become a curator instead of a painter, but… his current state was…

“How would I know? I’d only heard rumors since graduation and saw his face for the first time today.”

“Really? Then go ask him.”

Is he drunk? Bae Taemin made an absurd request to Namgung Tree.

“Why should I ask him?”

“He’s your employee now.”

“I can’t.”

“Why. Did your heart flutter seeing him after so long?”

Bae Taemin nudged him in the ribs with his elbow.

“What kind of bullshit is that!”

It was a question not worth answering. While still sitting on the stool, Namgung Tree kicked Bae Taemin in the shin. He retorted sharply to the man, who was hopping around clutching his leg.

“I fired him.”

“What did you say?”

“I fired him today.”

If Min Isak clears out his office over the weekend, he won’t have to see him again unless he seeks him out. So he will never be able to hear the answer to that question.

Should I have asked him once why he chose the life of a curator instead of painting? He felt a slight regret, but whatever words came out of his mouth would have felt like an excuse for sleeping his way to the top.

It would only make him feel uneasy to hear it. Namgung Tree raised his glass to eye level and made a toast.

“What, like ‘new wine in new bottles’? Is that it?”

Hearing that, he thought it could be. He had heard that the previous director, Lee Yang-hee, who had been in charge for over five years, was fired in one fell swoop for that very reason.

“Still, since it’s your first time managing a gallery, isn’t it better to have at least one person you can trust under you?”

“That’s why I fired him.”

Namgung Tree turned his body toward Bae Taemin.

“Why? Based on his personality in high school, it seems like Min Isak would be good at his job.”

“…People change.”

He put down his glass and rubbed the rim with his fingertip. He was acting fine, but the alcohol was starting to get to him.

“Do you know the story of the angel and the devil?”

Perhaps feeling unnecessarily sentimental, words he normally wouldn’t say came out. He drank to lift his spirits from the ground. But his mood sank to an unknown depth.

“There are tons of stories about angels and devils. What are you trying to say? Get to the point.”

“You know, the story of a certain painter who spent decades searching for models to paint an angel and a devil.”

Bae Taemin rested his head on his arm, which was on the table.

“You mean the shepherd boy and the heinous criminal?”

“Yeah. That story.”

Namgung Tree nodded. A similar story was attached to Michelangelo when he was looking for models for Jesus and the Devil for <The Last Judgment>, and also to da Vinci for Jesus and Judas in <The Last Supper>, but it was not certain which painting it was.

What was certain was the dramatic twist: the innocent shepherd who had been the model for the most benevolent face had degenerated into a criminal fifteen years later and faced the painter as the model for the most hideous face. What could have happened to the shepherd boy that even the painter, who must have closely studied his innocent face, couldn’t recognize him?

“He had changed so much I couldn’t recognize him.”

Namgung Tree recalled the situation just a few dozen minutes ago when he had encountered Min Isak in the office of Gallery Spring. It wasn’t just because he had shed his school uniform for glasses and a suit.

How could a person’s aura change so much? His head kept drooping. He blinked his eyes blankly, as if reminiscing about old times.

The boy who, when asked what his dream was, would drop his gaze to the floor and shyly say that it was enough to be able to draw. The boy who said he liked school because he could draw without anyone bothering him. But the Min Isak of today was nothing more than a parasite clinging to the side of art to satisfy his vanity.

“He had become complete trash.”

A bitter taste lingered on the tip of his tongue, dulled by intoxication. He had been half in doubt when he heard from a well-known colleague in the New York art scene that he had received sexual favors from a certain curator to secure an exhibition.

How can a person fall to the very bottom?

“Trash needs to be thrown out. I can’t stand the sight of him clinging to my gallery.”

Finally, his head fell to the table. His arms and legs hung down heavily.

“Boss, what should we do?”

The bartender, who had been watching from a distance, came running over.

“Leave him be. He’ll wake up again later. Give me an Old Fashioned. And make a Bloody Mary for this guy.”

He ordered a cocktail that was practically a hangover cure. Perhaps because of the alcohol he had drunk too quickly, Namgung Tree had his face buried in the table and let out a long breath. Phew.

“Crazy bastard.”

Bae Taemin muttered.

Under the yellow chandelier lights, his face had turned pale. His hand, holding the glass the bartender handed him, trembled.

Suddenly, he remembered what his respected teacher had told everyone as soon as they entered high school.

‘Quitting early is also a talent.’

It was advice given out of concern that children who had decided on their career path early on would become too engrossed in art alone. There are other paths. Don’t suffer thinking you can’t make it. The life you choose as a second option might be happier.

It was not something that would have sunk in with the prideful young boys and girls, but those words resonated deeply with him when he was dropping out of university. More than half of his high school classmates had left the art world completely.

Since he knew a thing or two, there were career options like curator or art dealer. If he hadn’t dropped out of university, Bae Taemin might have walked that path. But the reason he had completely retreated to the position of an enthusiast was because he didn’t want to linger even on the periphery of that world.