Dad and I arrived at the USDA agricultural support office in Napa County, located on the outskirts of California's Napa Valley.
It was a fiercely sunny afternoon, and above the entrance of the small brick building, the words "United States Department of Agriculture" gleamed. Stepping inside the office, I felt a cool blast of air conditioning along with a clean, organized atmosphere.
"Welcome. How may I help you?"
A staff member with a bright, courteous voice greeted us. An employee who looked to be in his forties, wearing a neat gray suit and neatly groomed blond hair, smiled and led us to an intake table.
Dad glanced at me once, seeming nervous, then cautiously opened his mouth.
"We're thinking of taking over a grape farm. To be honest, we haven't been here long since immigrating, so we came wondering what kind of support we could receive from the country or the state."
He had come to verify whether his son's words were true, and to find out the actual procedures for claiming the financial support needed for the acquisition.
The employee smiled, pulled out several informational pamphlets, and spread them open. His fingers pointed across the pamphlets as he gave a clear explanation.
"I see. You've made a good decision. There is a special government-supported program especially for immigrant families. It's support for Socially Disadvantaged Applicants. The USDA provides forty-five percent of the farm price as long-term low-interest financing, and the remaining fifty percent can be borrowed from a private bank with a USDA guarantee. As a result, the cash you personally need to prepare is just five percent of the farm price."
As Dad listened to the employee's explanation, his eyes slowly widened, and I could feel the light of hope taking shape in them. He had come harboring anticipation in one corner of his heart, yet worried that his son might have spoken without knowing better; now that he knew what his son had said was true, his heart was pounding.
"Really... just five percent? It's not like a farm is cheap."
The employee smiled kindly and nodded.
"Yes, that's correct. Many people are successfully operating farms through this program. I can also help with the application paperwork and approval process, so please don't worry."
Dad turned his gaze to me.
"Useok, what do you think? Can we really do this?"
I met Dad's eyes with certainty.
"We can do it, Dad. Leave it to me. I can definitely save this farm."
Dad looked at my face for a moment, then smiled and spoke to the employee again.
"Very well. Then please explain in detail how we proceed from here."
Then the employee began explaining each step with a bright smile....
"All right. First, you'll need a contract with the farm owner. Sign the contract for the transaction amount stated therein, but pay five percent of the price as a deposit. After that, the contract, various land certificates, business plan, debt and asset statements, credit report...."
Although I had a Ph.D. in agriculture, I flinched in surprise at the sudden deluge of paperwork, having never actually become a farm owner before. But Dad, on the other hand, seemed to think these were all naturally required documents, and carefully wrote them down one by one.
Watching him, I wondered if I had misunderstood Dad all this time.
'I just thought he had failed because he was incompetent... Maybe Dad really had tried his hardest but failed due to bad luck. I had hated him without knowing anything.'
A sense of guilt welled up....
'From now on, I just need to work hard and help him with the farm.'
I resolved it so simply.
"Good. I made an appointment with the farm owner for tomorrow. He's not here today. Looks like he's out trying to raise money. He seemed happy when I said I'd take it over."
"That's great."
"Yeah... now you go to school."
"What?"
"Were you not going to go?"
I had skipped school that morning to follow Dad because he had acknowledged just how important this matter was.
But now that we had done what we needed, I had to go home, pack my bag, and head to school at his urging. And at school, someone was waiting for me.
"Brian! You're coming today, right?"
"Ah... Rachel...."
I had arrived near lunchtime, yet somehow she knew and was looking down at me with her arms crossed and her weight on one leg, the exact same posture as yesterday.
"The part you're presenting is really important. And this meeting is...."
"I know, I created it."
"...?"
"I'm going today. I came prepared too."
"Well, thank goodness for that. See you later."
The truth was, I didn't want to attend that meeting because I didn't want to see my ex-wife.
'What a disgusting feeling.'
Had I ever hated someone so fervently? I thought my wife might be the first. In this time period, the person I hated more than that dimwit Caden Harper, who would shoulder-check me just to be racist whenever we crossed paths, was my wife.
There was only one reason: because she kept me from seeing my child. If she had let me see them even just a few times a year, I wouldn't have hated her with my entire being.
'If you go to California, you're betraying me and the child!'
'How is that betrayal? It's just changing where we live. Come down with me. I promise you won't have to worry about putting food on the table!'
'Aaaargh! Putting food on the table isn't the end of it all! I don't want to get dirt on my hands! I don't want our child to be some farmer's kid! If you want to go, go alone!'
I later learned that my wife had preferred a well-spoken Asian accountant over me. I had hated her hiding my child at all costs even more than giving up half my assets; I had even been forced to get court-ordered visitation rights, yet she reported me for committing violence anyway.
I had wondered what she had hated so terribly about me, and later found out it was because she wanted to meet someone new. That witch....
Anyway, after school I went to a small classroom at Vintage High School, where seven Asians had gathered. Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai... a small society formed to withstand the natural disaster called racial discrimination.
I hadn't originally intended to gather them like this, but it happened naturally. Like bees flocking to flowers, people who needed a fence and information exchange gathered together.
"Sorry, I was supposed to present yesterday but something came up."
I felt a burning gaze and laughed awkwardly. One particular gaze among them was especially intense, but I pretended not to notice.
"But I did my research well, okay?"
As I sat on the desk and pulled out the notes I had prepared, everyone got ready to take notes in their own. Among them, a female student with a small face, large eyes, and long black hair stared at me with a faint smile.
'She really was young....'
Looking at her face now compared to my last memory of my wife in her mid-forties, I wondered how they could be so different. Moreover, the current face didn't show that blood-curdling viciousness.
"I looked into two routes for tax and accounting. One is a route that yields optimal results with cheap tuition, and the other is a route where you shoulder expensive tuition to become a proud New Yorker."
Rather than having actually researched them, I was speaking from experience gained in my previous life before the regression.
"First, assuming you attend college within California, the CSU system has annual tuition around six to seven thousand dollars, and it's said to allow low-cost, practice-oriented learning. There's even an assessment that it's advantageous for getting hired by New York accounting firms. Especially San José State University is said to be advantageous for employment at Silicon Valley companies...."
Since the information I had researched was difficult for high school students to find on the internet at that time, everyone's eyes sparkled. Kowin, a slender Japanese friend who was taking notes so diligently one might wonder how I'd found such material, asked,
"Then where are you going?"
"I'm not going to any college here."
"Then?"
"Uh... I would have said something different before, but I've changed my mind. I'm going to UC Davis. I'm planning to study agriculture there."
At those words, the friends were surprised, but the most surprised of all was Elena, my ex-wife from my previous life, whose Korean name was Choi Sujeong.
"You said you were going to be an accountant?"
It wasn't that I was being forced to go to college because my parents wanted me to. In agriculture, while there are people who simply farm well, there also exist farmers who generate high profits through excellent farming methods. And for such farmers to promote themselves, academic credentials are very useful.
Graduating from UC Davis was not merely for show to please my parents.
"I told you, I changed my mind. I'm going to help my parents and farm."
At those words, her expression, which had been watching me with a warm smile all this time, hardened. But I didn't care.
"And I don't think I'll be able to attend this meeting anymore because of farming. Sorry... but I hope you all get good results in your careers."
I waved to my friends' blank faces and left the classroom. But someone rushed out and grabbed my arm.
"Why are you suddenly saying you want to farm?"
Seeing Elena's urgent figure, I recalled a memory I had forgotten again.
"Ah, we had planned to go to New York University together."
"What is this... don't act like you didn't know."
To send their son to New York University with her, my parents had taken out student loans and even personal credit loans despite having no household savings to speak of. I now clearly understood how heavy my parents' burden must have been during that process.
"Sorry, I think I need to stay here. You go to New York University alone."
At my calm answer, Elena's pupils shook greatly. But since I didn't want to get entangled with her anymore, I removed Elena's hand gripping my arm and turned away.
"You're saying you won't go with me? You'll regret it."
Her angry voice rang out from behind. This time, in her appearance that was different from before, I saw the figure of my ex-wife.
"I'm staying precisely so I won't have regrets."
Thus, I left my ex-wife behind and cut off my connection with her myself.
The next day, I went with my parents to Redwood Farm and was able to meet the farm owner, John Anderson. Perhaps because he was now handing over the farm, his face looked very dark.
"You want to buy the farm? What money do you have?"
"There's an immigrant worker support program."
"Hmph! They won't help people like me, but they'll help immigrant workers... Damn politicians... It's one point five million dollars, can you even buy it?"
Dad flinched at John Anderson's sharp glare. He knew that at five percent, seventy-five thousand dollars would let them acquire the farm, but seeing Dad briefly worry whether buying at this price was right, I stepped forward.
"Normally you might say one point five million dollars is appropriate, but you've put the farm up for sale because it failed. Did you really list it for one point five million?"
"Ha, this brat... So you're saying I'm lying right now?"
At his furious shouting, I became certain that John was lying.
A grape farm isn't a house; there was no way he had listed it with a real estate agency. If so, he would have asked someone he knew to sell it, so there was no way the price was set in stone anywhere.
"Fine. Then I'll ask the investors. That should be more reliable."
Surprised by those words, he panicked.
"Wh-what? You think they'll quote a lower price if you ask them?"
"At the very least, they'll be pressured to deal with us at a reasonable price."
"..."
"I have a method that's good for Mr. Anderson and good for us. Would you like to hear it?"
Though the words came from a young brat who didn't even look like an adult yet, they came out quite shrewdly, so John Anderson had no choice but to lend an ear.
"What is it?"
"We lower the farm acquisition price as much as possible. Most of the acquisition money will go to your investors anyway, right? Instead, if we lower the acquisition price, I'll entrust Mr. Anderson with the distribution of the grapes and wine produced by the farm for two years starting next year. How about it?"
When he proposed what amounted to a shady scheme—if not outright illegal, then certainly something a student couldn't easily think up—John Anderson's mouth fell open.