Chapter 111: That Time I Handed Out Investment Money in South America (5)

TL: Skye

Once the investment funds began flowing in earnest, Libertad started to change.

No, saying it "started to change" sounded far too leisurely.

It exploded.

One hundred eighty-one companies opened their doors almost simultaneously.

The startup office complex inside the industrial park built on the outskirts of Libertad was completely full within its first week of opening.

The Ministry of Construction hurriedly broke ground on additional buildings, but the waiting list for tenants kept growing by the day.

The changes were visible outside the industrial park as well.

New signs went up all over downtown Libertad.

[Caribbean Foods]

[Marcos Furniture Workshop]

[Costa Sewing]

[Reber Fisheries]

Some shops opened before the paint had even dried, while others started doing business through word of mouth without so much as a sign.

But surprisingly, the most common sight wasn't a signboard.

'Now Hiring'

Those sheets of paper appeared on every utility pole in Libertad, on every market bulletin board, and in front of every university gate.

All 181 companies had started looking for workers at the same time.

The problem was the people.

This country had an absolute shortage of experienced workers.

Most of the 487 university graduates had already found jobs with Tortilla subsidiaries or government agencies.

The only remaining labor pool consisted of market vendors, farmers, fishermen, and ordinary citizens without any specialized skills.

But the entrepreneurs refused to give up.

They couldn't afford to.

Now that they had already received His Excellency's investment money, they had to make their businesses succeed no matter what.

Going bankrupt because they couldn't find anyone to work was simply unacceptable.

Rosa, who had opened a sewing factory inside Libertad's market district, was wandering the streets.

In her hand was a sheet of paper that read [Now Hiring — Experienced Sewing Workers Preferred, No Experience Welcome].

After plastering flyers on utility poles all over the area, she boldly tried headhunting a middle-aged woman who was out shopping.

“Excuse me. Do you know how to sew?”

“No. I don't have a sewing machine at home...”

“That's fine! I'll teach you! Come work at our factory!”

“...How much does it pay?”

“Five hundred dollars a month, plus meals and transportation.”

“Come on, I could make that much just cooking tortillas at the market.”

“No, wait...”

The woman tilted her head and walked away.

Rosa sighed, but instead of leaving, she approached the next person.

“Excuse me. Have you ever used a sewing machine?”

At the same time.

Marcelo, who had started a food-processing company, was trying to persuade his older brother's wife, who ran an orchard in the countryside with her husband.

“Sister-in-law, how about working at our factory? My brother can handle the orchard by himself anyway.”

“A factory? What kind?”

“We make fruit juice. Someone like you would be perfect for it.”

“How much does it pay?”

“Six hundred dollars. Guaranteed every month.”

His sister-in-law thought for a moment.

Farming could make good money when luck was on their side, but if things went badly, an entire year's work could go to waste.

The promise of a steady paycheck every month caught her attention.

“...When would I start?”

“Tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow? We have fruit to harvest.”

“The person standing next to you can handle that. Or you can hire a day laborer.”

“Hmm...”

In the end, Marcelo succeeded in getting his sister-in-law to report for work.

Things were even more active down by the harbor.

Three fishermen who had started a frozen seafood company, Carlos, Miguel, and Jorge, were gathering up people from the neighborhood.

“Hey, Pedrito. You still working boats?”

“No. I'm taking a break right now.”

“Then come to work tomorrow.”

“What?”

Pedrito's eyes widened.

Fishing was a profession where earnings depended entirely on the catch.

When the haul was good, the money could make a man's eyes pop, but the work was grueling and extremely dangerous.

In fact, Pedrito himself was taking time off after being injured on the job.

“What time should I come in tomorrow?”

Esteban, who had opened a furniture workshop, secured workers in a different way.

He recruited one carpenter and promised him a bonus for every additional carpenter he brought in.

A week later, Esteban's workshop had five carpenters.

It seemed excessive for a furniture shop that had only just opened, but Esteban wasn't worried.

Orders were already pouring in.

In the first week alone, he sold twelve beds, eight dining tables, and thirty chairs.

By the second week, customers were placing reservations before the furniture had even been made.

By the third week, the backlog stretched two months out.

The reason was simple.

San Marcos didn't have a furniture factory.

More precisely, it wasn't that there hadn't been one. There simply hadn't been any need for one.

Until five years ago, most people in this country slept on the floor.

Beds were something rich people owned, while things like dining tables were made at home.

But things were different now.

Since the Yu-jin administration took power, the lives of the people of San Marcos had fundamentally changed.

Tortilla Corporation created jobs.

Steel mills, oil refineries, construction sites, industrial parks, farms, fisheries bases.

Jobs poured out, and jobs meant income.

Money deposited into bank accounts, month after month.

With that money, people sent their children to school, went to the hospital, and ate three meals a day.

On top of that, Yu-jin's food policies had cut food prices in half, increasing disposable income.

Once people's basic needs for food, clothing, and shelter were met, they began wanting a better life.

They wanted to sleep in beds instead of on the floor.

They wanted to eat at a dining table instead of squatting down.

They wanted to buy desks for their children.

They had money.

But there was nowhere to spend it.

Because no one made furniture.

Then a furniture workshop appeared.

The moment saved-up money met something worth buying, there was an explosion.

And the same phenomenon wasn't limited to furniture.

Marcelo's food-processing company experienced it too.

Fruit juice, jam, dried fruit, pickled foods.

Everything they made sold immediately.

The reason was the same.

The very concept of processed food was unfamiliar to most people in San Marcos, who had traditionally bought raw ingredients at the market and cooked everything themselves.

But as incomes rose, things began to change.

More married couples both started working.

After working hard all day, couples didn't have the time or energy to come home and cook.

But what if there was bottled fruit juice?

They bought it.

What if there was jam?

Spread it on bread and breakfast was done.

Canned food?

Need one even ask?

Marcelo's factory filled that demand.

The sewing factory was no different.

As soon as Rosa's sewing factory opened, it received subcontracting work from Taeyang Apparel.

Taeyang Apparel was one of the leading Korean textile companies operating in the San Marcos industrial park.

Orders had surged so sharply that its own production lines could no longer keep up.

The company had been searching for somewhere to outsource the excess work when Rosa's factory happened to open.

The day Taeyang Apparel's Korean plant manager visited Rosa's factory, he nodded and said,

“As long as the quality meets our standards, we can send you as much work as you can handle.”

Rosa's eyes widened.

“As much as we can handle?”

“We're desperate too. The delivery deadline for our American buyers is right around the corner, and we don't have enough production capacity.”

That night, Rosa hired two more employees.

Two more the next day.

A week later, ten sewing machines were running in Rosa's factory.

Everything Yu-jin had built over the past five years was finally connecting into one system.

Employment became income, and income became consumption.

He had invested in education.

Illiteracy fell, and university graduates emerged.

Then the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Businesses appeared and employment increased. As employment rose, household income increased, and consumption began to grow. As consumption rose, more businesses appeared.

The virtuous cycle of a private-sector economy had finally begun.

The pyramid of the San Marcos economy was filling in.

And Yu-jin, the man who had led the creation of all of it...

“Ugh... my head.”

...was suffering from a hangover.

---

“Ugh... my head.”

The moment I opened my eyes, the ceiling spun around me.

My mouth was a desert, and my head was pounding.

A textbook hangover.

I kicked off the blanket and barely managed to sit up.

'Did I drink too much yesterday...?'

I'd picked up a new hobby lately.

Once every three or four days, after finishing my work for the day, I'd have a glass of soju with some good Korean-style drinking food.

Thanks to that, the refrigerator in the Presidential Palace was always stocked with soju brought over from Korea, while Chef Paulo's skill at making Korean drinking food improved by the day.

My routine was to quietly drink three or four glasses by myself, then go to bed.

Then something changed.

A few days ago, on the first day Chef Paulo made dak-bokkeum-tang, Isabella and I shared the dish with some soju. After that, she became hooked on the combination of Korean food and soju and naturally joined in on my little hobby.

The problem came after that.

When I drank alone, I could stop after one or two glasses, but once there were two of us, everything changed.

Conversation led to food, food led to alcohol, alcohol led to more conversation, and that led to even more alcohol.

Last night was the night that loop went completely out of control.

We had been drinking soju over spicy stir-fried pork while discussing affairs of state, and I'd ended up drinking far too much.

'I think I remember up to five bottles...'

After that, I vaguely remembered walking down the hallway while leaning on Isabella's shoulder.

I could dimly remember her opening the door and putting me down on the bed...

After that, nothing.

A complete blackout.

“God, how embarrassing. Alcohol really is the enemy. Seriously, it's the enemy.”

Just as I sighed and clutched at my hair, a voice came from behind me.

“Did you sleep well, Your Excellency?”

“Guhhh!”

I thought my heart had stopped.

Slowly, I turned my head.

Isabella was lying on the other side of the bed, staring at me.

With the blanket neatly pulled over her and only her face showing, she blinked at me.

“Chief, why are you over there?!”

“You seemed extremely intoxicated last night, so I stayed to keep watch over Your Excellency in case anything happened.”

“Keep watch? Why would you... No, before that, why are you lying in my bed?”

“If anything were to happen to Your Excellency, it would create a national crisis. I therefore kept watch from the closest possible distance.”

“Then why exactly are you lying down...?”

Isabella replied calmly.

“I was a little tired, so I intended to lie down for a moment, but I fell asleep.”

“......”

I was speechless.

But this wasn't the time to argue about how ridiculous that was.

'That's not the problem here.'

I hurriedly checked myself.

Shirt. Still on.

Pants. Still on.

Even my socks were still on.

I was wearing exactly what I'd worn last night.

I glanced at Isabella.

She was also still wearing the same blouse and slacks she'd had on yesterday.

“Did anything happen last night...?”

“Nothing happened, so please don't worry.”

Isabella answered firmly.

“Your Excellency fell asleep the moment you lay down on the bed, and I remained beside you for approximately three hours to confirm your safety before falling asleep myself. That was all.”

Isabella pulled off the blanket and got out of bed.

She lightly smoothed out her wrinkled blouse and ran a hand through her hair once.

Then she walked toward the door.

She stopped in front of it and looked back.

“We have an inspection of the industrial park at 10 a.m. today. We leave in thirty minutes, so please get ready.”

“...Yes.”

I stared blankly at the closed door.

My heart was still pounding.

Maybe it was the hangover.

Or maybe it was something else.

“...This is driving me crazy. Seriously.”

*****

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