Chapter 26: Cold Damage (3) Back when I was in elementary school in the 21st century, after finishing Saturday morning classes and heading home while eating Pikachu pork cutlet, I would turn on the TV and watch animated movies on the anime channel.
One of the animations I found really fun back then was "TtaX TtaX Bakery." The protagonist was a god of baking, so anything he touched turned into gold, the bread tasted like fruit, and overall it was a cartoon where you could really feel how absurdly goofy it was.
And today, I met that god of baking in real life.
Hemings—he's a god!
Seeing my sparkling eyes, Hemings cleared his throat shyly for a moment, then spoke.
"Unlike us people of the New World, France mostly consumes corn as livestock feed, except for people living in the southern Basque region. They don't really eat it as a staple.
"Even when they do eat it, they simply steam it or grill it."
"So if it's corn bread, people will be intrigued and try it at least once," Hemings added.
The grain shop owner who had lent us space for a moment was also listening to our conversation with an interested expression.
I turned my head away from Hemings and spoke to the shop owner.
The role of thinking up the item was over. Both the idea and the product potential were proven. Now it was the businessman's turn to adjust things so the numbers worked, even if only a little.
At times like this, a businessman had to suppress emotions as much as possible. In the world of business, the moment even a hint of "Ah, this guy's staking his life on this" leaks out, you get taken for a sucker.
To do that, sorry, but I had to send Hemings outside for a bit. I couldn't explain this world of business to him right now, and if Hemings tried to cut in beside me, it could create an opening for the negotiation to flip.
I told Hemings to step outside for a moment, and after watching him leave the kitchen, I said to the shop owner,
"How much are you thinking of selling it for per kilogram?"
"Hmm… could you tell me how much you plan to buy?"
The grain merchant smacked his lips, stroked his chin with his right hand, and looked at me as if to say, go on, name it.
"130 kilograms a day."
"Oh…"
At my answer, the grain merchant's heart must have moved—he gave a small smile and spoke.
But sir, I haven't even shown all my cards yet. How can you be that happy already?
"And you'll supply that to seven shops."
"Huh?"
The shop owner's face went blank for a moment, then his eyes rolled around as if calculating. A moment later, when he finished, he said with a stunned expression,
"Th-then… are you saying you'll order a total of 910 kilograms a day?"
"Yes. That's right."
"Th-then… where should I send it?"
"Do you have paper? I'll write it down."
At my words, the shop owner hurriedly ran to the counter and came back with paper and a pen.
Look at those mouth corners. They're practically hooked up to his ears. If you show your emotions that openly, for me it's thank you, thank you.
But sir. Shouldn't we match the unit price first?
When I simply took the paper and pen and didn't do anything, acting as if I were thinking about something else, the shop owner cautiously spoke with a worried face.
"Wh-why… what is it, boss? Is there something you don't like…?"
"No. I was just wondering what unit price per kilogram you had in mind."
"Uh… no matter what, shouldn't I get 1 livre?"
Ha. Is he seeing me as some sheltered young master who doesn't know how the world works?
Even without fair trade laws like in the 21st century, that's too much. The supplier I used to deal with sold oats for 2 sous per kilogram this whole time. Now you want me to pay ten times that for a mere substitute? Am I insane?
And this is livestock-feed corn. Corn so pathetic in taste and size that it's sold cheap for animals to eat. There is absolutely no reason it should be more expensive than normal oats. If anything, it should be cheaper.
Then there's only one answer.
This bastard—he's trying to skin me right now. Because I was agreeing excitedly with Hemings, he decided I was a sucker.
I handed the paper and pen back to the shop owner and said,
"Let's pretend this deal never happened."
"Y-yes…?"
The shop owner's eyes went wide and he blurted urgently,
"N-no, boss! Why all of a sudden!?"
Hah. Why? Because you tried to skin me, that's why. And from the way you're talking, you still haven't come to your senses.
"I don't have a reason to trade here. I can just trade at the place I originally dealt with. They'll have corn too."
Of course, only I know that supplier's warehouse is completely wrecked right now.
That man was probably starting to feel his gut tighten. A deal of this size was right on the verge of closing—if your eyes don't spin, you're not human.
The shop owner pressed his lips together for a moment, then said in a drained voice,
"Per kilogram… 0.5 livre—so 10 sous. How about that…?"
"I don't want it."
At my immediate refusal, the shop owner's face finally began to twist.
No. Even at 2 sous per kilogram, that's 1,820 sous a day—91 livres. Why are you trying so hard to treat me like a sucker?
"How much… do you want, boss?"
"Originally, I was going to call it down to 1 sou."
Why are you frowning like that? I'm not done talking yet.
"Let's agree at 2 sous per kilogram."
"…Could you give just a little more? To gather that amount of corn, it'll be quite hard for me too…"
Alright. Now we're talking.
"Fine. 3 sous per kilogram. Nothing above that. Do you agree?"
"Yes…"
Only then did I start writing down the addresses of our Ears of the Nation shops.
After receiving what I wrote, the shop owner smacked his lips as if it were a shame, glancing back and forth between me and the paper.
What's with that look? You were the one who tried to make a sucker out of me first. This is righteous judgment. Judgment.
As if he understood, the shop owner sighed once, then spoke.
"Since you won once, may I ask one thing as well?"
"Yes. Anything besides the contract is fine."
But what I heard next was more than enough to make me doubt my ears.
"That Black slave you brought. Where did you buy him? He looks pretty useful."
"…Excuse me?"
"Ah, I'm not trying to take the Black man you have. I have business ethics, you know. I don't covet other people's property. I'm just curious where you bought him."
Business ethics? Property?
"…."
"Come on, tell me. These days I've got a lot of work, so I'm thinking of keeping one or two capable slaves—g… b-boss! Where are you going!"
Disgusted by his words, I didn't say a single thing and walked out the door.
"Master, guest. The main course—trout."
"Thank you. Put it here, Hemings."
"Yes, master."
"Ah, Mr. Hemings. If you could put it here, I'd appreciate it."
"Understood, Mr. Guillaume."
James Hemings skillfully prepared the course dishes and set them before Jefferson and me.
Hemings's skill was extraordinary. The fact that I ate nearly twice as much as usual was proof enough.
But there was one thing bothering me so much I couldn't properly savor the food.
"Is the food… not to your liking, guest?"
"N-no, Chef. It's really delicious!"
"Mr. Guillaume. Are you alright? Your complexion doesn't look good…"
"Ha ha… I'm fine."
I wasn't.
I knew it. The 18th-century West was a world entirely of whites, for whites, and only for whites. Even in the 21st century, racist hollowheads like the KKK still ran around, so in this era it was worse, not better.
And seeing what happened at the grain shop earlier, and seeing Hemings attach "master" to every sentence when speaking to Jefferson—it cut even deeper, down to the bone.
What was worse was that it wasn't because these people were individually evil. Right now, it was simply the way things were.
"I just… feel a little off. Ha ha…"
Jefferson quietly observed my face, then called the chef and exchanged a few words.
"Huh? You really mean that?"
"Do so. You worked hard today—leave the rest to the servants and go rest early."
"Understood, master."
The chef, looking somewhat surprised, bowed to Jefferson and me in turn, then went up the stairs to the second floor.
Jefferson watched his back until he disappeared, then looked at me and spoke.
"Isn't it truly regrettable? A world where someone cannot escape shackles for their entire life simply because their skin color is different."
"Y-yes?"
"Mr. Guillaume, you're an Enlightenment thinker, aren't you? I think similarly. Where in this world is there a superior person, and where is there an inferior one?"
"It is all merely an illusion created by someone with malice."
After finishing his wine, Jefferson continued.
"When I, Thomas Jefferson, wrote the Declaration of Independence in 1776, do you know what I felt?"
"…."
"I believed it would become a turning point where all people could become equal and enjoy freedom and happiness. But some people don't think that way. Do you know that, Mr. Guillaume?"
"…."
"I am not someone who supports slavery. If you hear me say that, you might scoff. 'A man who uses a Black slave as a cook—what hypocrisy.' If so, then allow me my rebuttal."
The pleasant smile was gone. A chill gathered in Jefferson's eyes, an aura that made it feel impossible to object.
"Mr. Guillaume—do you know the life of a free Black man?"
"I… don't."
"Most don't even last ten years after becoming free. If they save money, people say, 'How dare a Black man save money?' and kill them. If they fail, people say, 'As expected, Blacks must be guided by whites,' and kill them."
"…."
"In that situation, if I buy slaves and release them, how long do you think they will live? I must consider what comes after the joy. Because I am a politician."
"I truly hate those rotten people. I did not fight for independence for their sake, nor did I write the Declaration with dozens of intellectuals, ready to die, for them."
Jefferson drained his glass.
"America—the United States—must be a land of opportunity. A place where ability is rewarded, where people are respected, and where we are free from the order of the Old World."
"Otherwise, how would we be any different from the England we drove out?"
"Mr. Guillaume. I need an awakened person like you. The United States needs awakened people."
Jefferson stood. Towering over me, he took my hand in his massive grip.
"I believe in your potential. I believe in awakened reason."
I had forgotten to breathe.
"Mr. Guillaume. Would you consider coming to America?"
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