The office of the Brentwood Hartford Farm, swept through by frost damage.
Ordinarily it should have been filled with the sound of tractors and the lively shouts of workers, but the scene of the farm beyond the window was thick with acrid smoke and the stench of rotting plants.
The devastation was difficult to explain in just a few sentences.
“…So, that’s the insurance bastards’ final answer?”
William Hartford, the head of the cooperative, asked in a rough voice. In the space of a few days, his face seemed to have aged ten years. His hair, which had always been neatly combed back, stood up dry and disheveled, and the luxury jacket he wore still bore soot stains, as if he had gotten them while handling the heaters.
“That’s… what they say, Chairman. The Federal Crop Insurance adjusters came by this morning, and they were downright nasty. They’re trying to pin it on us, saying we didn’t run the heaters enough, or that we didn’t respond properly to the weather forecast.”
One farm owner answered weakly. In his voice, despair ran deeper than anger.
“Goddamn it! We poured kerosene all night and even burned scrap tires to hold out, and now they’re saying we didn’t try hard enough! Even if we get the insurance payout, we won’t be able to cover next month’s farm equipment installments!”
Voices full of pent-up rage burst out all over the conference room. In the aftermath of the subprime mortgage crisis, the threshold for bank loans had risen as high as it could go. For small farm owners who had borrowed money using their farms as collateral, this frost damage meant bankruptcy.
“Chairman, we have to think realistically. As things stand, half of us are going to have to give up on this year’s harvest. Not even ten percent of the surviving flower buds remain. If this continues, the trees will lose vigor, and next year’s crop will be ruined too. Wouldn’t it be better to heavily prune the trees now and at least save on fertilizer while looking toward next year?”
Heavy pruning meant boldly cutting away only the branches damaged by frost. In that case, because the roots of the tree were still alive, it could usually recover to a harvestable level again in as little as one year, or as long as three.
“Don’t talk nonsense! If we cut back the trees now, it’ll take two or three years just to recover! If the trees themselves die and we have to replant, it’ll take a full five years before we can harvest again! At that point, we’d be better off switching to corn or some other short-term crop!”
They argued fiercely over realistic measures for damage recovery, but there was no clear answer anywhere. At the time, California’s water resource regulations and high oil prices had narrowed the farmers’ options to an extreme degree. Some said they would put their tractors on the used market, while others clutched their heads, saying they would have to look into loan sharks.
Then, from the corner of the conference room, a young employee who had been tapping away on a laptop cautiously opened his mouth.
“Um… Chairman, we just received word from Costco…”
“Hm?”
“Well… they say they’ve secured fifty tons for now. And they asked us to send them an estimate for next year’s shipment volume…”
The conference room went as quiet as if cold water had been poured over it. Hartford’s brow twisted hideously.
“Where did they get fifty tons?”
“They say it was Harris Farm. The deal was made at six dollars and fifty cents per pound…”
“…Six fifty?”
Someone murmured as if screaming. It was a price more than three times the normal year’s cherry price.
“That’s impossible… All our orchards are burned to death, but only that bastard’s farm is fine? And six fifty? At that price, the profit Harris Farm will make this year is…”
They did not need to punch numbers into a calculator to know. At a time when all of Brentwood was shedding tears of blood, Harris Farm would grasp in a single harvest a fortune it had never earned in its entire lifetime. Hartford’s hand began to tremble faintly.
He remembered the day he had driven Frederick Harris out of the cooperative. He remembered the way he had laughed at that young brat named Brian, who had gone on about data and systems…
“What about the other places?”
“I’ll find out.”
Seeing William Hartford’s face twisted beyond recognition, the young employee, with trembling hands, tried contacting the merchandisers at each market through the cooperative email.
The results did not take long.
“For now, Walmart and Whole Foods Market also say they have signed contracts for part of Harris Farm’s cherries. Walmart isn’t disclosing the price, and Whole Foods Market says seven dollars and fifty cents per pound…”
“Seven fifty?”
“They said the variety is Royal Tioga…”
The employee could not bring himself to continue after seeing William Hartford’s face, distorted like a demon’s.
His face had flushed dark red with rage and jealousy. What drove him even crazier than simply losing money was the fact that he had been wrong, and that Harris, whom he had driven out, was taking all the profits the cooperative should have claimed for itself.
“You need to get hold of yourselves. We can’t afford to lose next year’s volume too, can we?”
Even at someone’s cold-headed words, the cooperative members could not quickly regain their reason.
“Can we even meet next year’s volume? We’ll need at least two years to match last year’s shipments. Do you think the markets will wait for us that long?”
Transactions between markets and farms also moved on a foundation of trust. If a farm failed to meet contracted volume, a major market would look for another farm in place of the one whose reliability had fallen, then sign a contract with them.
What they feared was not only this year’s immediate loss, but the additional fear of a continuous drop in unit price. Cherries released in bulk to wholesale markets rather than major retailers had no choice but to fall in price.
“I don’t know anymore. I think I’m done farming.”
At someone’s hollow voice, everyone lowered their heads. They all understood the bitter, grief-stricken voice of a farmer who no longer had the strength to endure.
---
It had been a long time since I had hated the thought of getting out of bed this much.
“Ahh… so soft.”
Should I call it supreme softness? As someone who had earned money and done nothing but buy farms like a madman, it was so cozy and comfortable that I even thought, Maybe this time I should try changing my bedding.
But I couldn’t just keep lying there. The morning sunlight of Manhattan pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows was dazzling enough to wake me, but more than anything, I had lunch scheduled with Viktor, so I couldn’t stay in bed forever.
On the table beside the bed were a morning newspaper and a cup of espresso, apparently left there by Andrei. The scent of freshly brewed coffee made my nostrils twitch.
“It smells nice.”
Of course, I don’t drink bitter espresso like that.
When I got up and approached the window, I saw the refreshing green sea of Central Park, and beyond it, yellow taxis busily moving about like toys.
“So this is… life in New York?”
It was certainly clear that being rich was a good thing.
“Master, your meal is ready.”
At Andrei’s low voice from outside the door, I quickly washed up, put on a suit, and stepped out. In the dining room, Viktor and his daughter, Katerina, were already seated.
A typical Russian beauty, she had exchanged brief greetings with me the night before, but she had only picked at finger food the whole time with a cold expression.
“You’re here. Sit.”
Viktor, who had been reading the newspaper, spotted me, gave a slight nod, and offered me a seat, but Katerina was different. Even the moment I entered, she did not take her gaze from the window. With skin so white it was almost pale and long dark brown hair falling down her back, she looked thoroughly sulky, and it was obvious she had had a big fight with her father.
“Sleep well, Brian? New York air must feel a bit stiffer than Napa.”
Viktor put down the newspaper and laughed heartily. On the table were an omelet topped with caviar and a salad with fresh truffle.
“Thanks to you, I slept very deeply. I suppose the rest on the plane helped a lot.”
The meal began, but the atmosphere was heavy. Katerina merely stirred the salad leaves with her fork and barely touched her food. As if conscious of his daughter, Viktor filled my wine glass and spoke to me.
“How does it feel, now that you’ve tried it? This kind of life, I mean.”
“What is there to say? It’s an incredible experience.”
“Hahaha, I’m sure it is. But you know, you deserve to enjoy an experience like this to the fullest. As far as I know, you’ve already earned an enormous sum of money, haven’t you?”
He was not wrong. In 2007, I had earned over ten million dollars from Astra Vale alone. In effect, it had achieved a value beyond that of many high-end wineries in Napa Valley.
If I put the winery on the market right now, even at the lowest estimate, it would likely be valued at more than sixty million dollars. So it was no wonder Viktor acknowledged it.
“But I’m a farmer. Spending the money I earn on places like this feels… wasteful, somehow. The first thing I think is, with that money, what kind of land could I buy?”
“Hahaha! As expected, your ability to create Astra Vale didn’t come from nowhere. Even your way of thinking is different. But think carefully about it.”
“Yes?”
He leaned his upper body slightly forward and spoke in a subtle tone.
“At the party in two days, people who will shock you will all be gathered there. From big shots in the financial world to winery owners in Napa who are proud enough to hold their noses high. Among them, people like me are looking for new investments. Not just things that make money, but things that can raise my own value.”
“Ah…”
I had wondered why this gentleman’s eyes had turned into hearts, but looking closely, it seemed he wanted to invest in our winery.
“Brian, think carefully. I understand that you’re sincere about farming and that you pour everything you have into wine. But wouldn’t it be good, at times, to enjoy the wealth you possess, relieve your stress, or receive another investment and grow the winery? There is probably no investor who recognizes Redwood’s potential as clearly as I do.”
“Is that so?”
“I may be the host of this party, but the person who will likely draw the most explosive interest is you. An untouched maiden in white—that is probably what you are. Look outside this window. If you set your mind to it, putting one of those buildings under your name would be no great matter.”
He smiled as he said that, and for some reason it gave me chills. Since the winery had not yet received any investment, he had compared it to an unmarried maiden.
I could clearly understand how these people perceived something called a winery.
“Hahaha… But I’ve never thought about receiving investment.”
“That’s unfortunate. But think it over carefully. And remember that I am always by your side.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
What was slightly strange, however, was that he did not seem offended at all by my refusal to accept investment. It felt more like he wanted to win Redwood’s favor somehow.
At that moment, Katerina, who had been silently listening from the side, opened her mouth for the first time.
“Stop it. You’re making him uncomfortable.”
At her cold voice, Viktor flinched slightly.
“I was just about to stop. Understand, will you? The child takes after her mother, so she can be a bit prickly.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Eat.”
Unexpectedly, the meal was not uncomfortable. During the meal, Viktor bragged about himself at length, but that did not mean he had an attitude of looking down on others. On the contrary, as he expressed his views on wine, he even gave off the sense that he subtly wanted praise from me.
After lunch ended, I stepped out onto the streets of Manhattan. Since I had no interest in other luxury goods, I followed Andrei’s guidance to a legendary wine shop on Fifth Avenue, the luxury shopping street. In the underground cellar, vintages decades old were displayed like museum artifacts.
“Wow…”
Honestly, before my regression, precious wines had been nothing more than expensive research materials to me, but now they did look a little different.
Just then, someone smoothly approached and stared straight at me. Seeing Andrei move to block him, then hurriedly step back, he seemed to be someone famous.
Looking closely, he was a middle-aged man stylishly wearing a gray coat and holding a 1961 Château Latour in his hand.
“I never expected to see Napa Valley’s rising idol here.”
“Likewise. I didn’t expect to come to New York and see Silent Stan.”
Stan Kroenke.
The owner of Screaming Eagle, Napa Valley’s most expensive wine, and a massive figure who could buy all of Napa if necessary.
“Did that Russian bastard invite you?”
“…”
“Haha, seems he was quite upset about getting mocked by me before. So you’re not thinking of going over to that Russian bastard, are you?”
“Who knows?”
At my ambiguous answer, he drew an inscrutable, faint smile and called over the manager.
“I’ll give you this as a gift to commemorate our first meeting. Idol, don’t let yourself be won over too easily.”
His intense gaze was similar to that of a man looking at an attractive woman.
Unpleasantly so.