Chapter 60: That Time I Built a Bank in South America (5)

TL: Skye

About a month after Tortilla Bank opened its doors. Under a blistering sun, Joseph sat in the shade during a break at Construction Zone 2 of the Libertad Northern Expressway, cooling his sweat.

"Nice trip home?"

A coworker dropped down beside him. Joseph scratched the back of his head.

"Nice, nothing. A day to get there, a day to get back. That's about it, sir."

"Still, must've been good to see the kids."

"The kids are off at boarding school. Only got a quick look at the wife before heading back, sir."

"Hey, at least you saw the wife."

"Ah, she wasn't exactly thrilled. Too busy counting the wages to pay me much mind."

"But she's glad to see you, right?"

"Of course, sir. More than I am, honestly. It's just the hauling the pay back and forth that wears a man down."

The start of every month looked the same for the men at the construction site.

When the first rolled around, they'd stuff their pay into an envelope, pile into a truck, and head for the nearest bus stop.

For Joseph, that meant three hours crammed into a bus packed like a tin of sardines, another two hours on a transfer, and finally an hour's hike up a mountain path before he'd see his front door.

Ten hours, door to door. Forget the physical toll, the real killer was the paranoia, clutching the cash inside his shirt, unable to sleep the whole way in case some stranger decided to help himself.

But what choice did he have? It was the only way to get living expenses into his wife's hands.

Then one day, the world changed.

"All right, listen up! Starting today, all wages get paid into this bankbook. First of every month, boom, deposited like clockwork. No more hauling cash up the mountain!"

Joseph didn't buy it, not at first. That a few numbers printed on a scrap of paper could somehow be real money, that just didn't compute.

But then he called his wife and heard that she'd withdrawn the money at a branch right there in downtown Libertad. He nearly fell over.

No more personal deliveries!

Which was another way of saying he could pick up overtime during those hours and pull in more than he was making before.

And then there was the part that really floored him.

"If I put in 100 dollars, a year later they give me back 105? And if I promise not to touch it for a year, they'll make it 110?!"

Interest. The sheer existence of the thing. Hand them money, and they hand back more!

Joseph had developed a new morning routine, checking his bankbook every day, and he was grinning at it when his coworker called over.

"Oi, Joseph! Quit slacking and get over here!"

"Coming! Coming!"

With a lightness in his step, Joseph grabbed his pickaxe and got back to work.

*

The winds of change weren't blowing on construction sites alone.

At the mouth of an alley in Libertad's old downtown.

"All right, sandwiches up! Careful, they're hot."

Kiya Barcia. A young woman who'd lost her husband early and was raising two children on her own, she ran a sandwich stall on the street.

It was a makeshift operation without so much as a proper sign, but her cooking was good and her prices were cheap, so the line of customers never broke.

It wasn't making her rich, but it did mean her children never went to bed hungry.

Then, without warning, trouble came calling.

"Kiya... I'm sorry, but you can't run the stall here anymore."

She was opening up the way she did any other day when a police officer with an enforcement armband stepped in front of her, his face full of apology.

"Under the government's new public order initiative, unregistered street vending is illegal now."

The color drained from Kiya's face. Registering was one thing, but registering meant being relocated somewhere far from this corner.

After everything she'd put into building up a regular clientele here, the idea was flat-out impossible.

"Officer, please... just give me a little more time."

"We know your situation, Kiya, but the order came down from the top. I'd look the other way if I could, but I can't."

In the end, all she could do was beg.

"Please, I'm begging you. My kids are almost old enough for school. Just until then... I've got to buy them backpacks at least."

The raw desperation in her voice stopped the officers cold. Neither of them had the stomach to tear down her stall.

They exchanged uncertain glances, and then one of them spoke up, carefully.

"Kiya. Listen, why don't you try the bank?"

"The... bank?"

Kiya wiped her eyes and asked again. For someone who made what she needed to eat each day and not a cent more, a bank was a place from another planet.

"I mean this new Tortilla Bank. Word is they're handing out startup loans. What if you borrowed some money and opened a proper shop nearby?"

"But no one's going to lend money to someone like me. I've got nothing to put up as collateral. Even the loan sharks turned me away."

"No, no, it's different. His Excellency gave orders that if someone's trying to start a business, they should lend to them wherever possible. You'll pay a little interest, but with how hard you work and how good your cooking is, you'll pay it back with plenty to spare."

"......"

Kiya went back and forth for several sleepless nights before she made up her mind.

'Work or not, at least go and ask.'

Of course, she didn't walk in empty-handed. She'd heard from more than one source that a letter of recommendation would help her case, so she went and asked the officers who'd pointed her to the bank, and every one of her regulars, and she walked in carrying close to a hundred letters.

"I don't have much, but I know I can make a good sandwich. If you'll loan me the money for a shop, I swear I'll pay you back."

A single mother the loan sharks had already slammed the door on, and yet the banker didn't so much as flinch. He slid a sheet of paper across the desk and gave her a warm smile.

"Don't you worry. These letters alone are proof of how honestly you've been living. We'll have to run a review, of course, but odds are you'll be approved. The one thing is, procedure calls for a business plan. Have you ever written one before?"

"A... a business plan? I barely got through school. I can hardly write properly..."

The blood drained from her face. So this was where it ended after all, she thought, but the banker stopped her.

"It's no trouble at all. I'll help you. Just tell me how you want to run your business, in your own words. I'll handle the writing part."

"But... a woman as uneducated as me..."

"This bank doesn't let people give up on their dreams just because they can't read and write."

The banker handed Kiya a tissue as the tears spilled over.

One month later. In a corner of the market alley, a small but spotless shop opened its doors.

[Kiya's Sandwiches]

The toasty, nutty smell of bread filled the alley.

Inside, there wasn't room to put a foot down: the regulars who'd been buying from her on the street for years, and the officers who'd pointed her to the bank, had all come out.

"Congratulations, Kiya!"

"Look at you, the boss!"

"Make a fortune, and let's buy a building next!"

"Thank you, thank you all so much!"

Tears of joy ran down Kiya's face above her apron.

When the door swung open again, she broke into a beaming smile and called out with everything she had.

"Welcome! This is Kiya's Sandwiches!"

Beside her at the counter, beside that radiant smile, a photograph of Yu-jin was gleaming.

***

"......Are these numbers for real?"

I was staring at the monthly report Isabella had brought me, questioning my own eyes.

[Total Deposits: 7,850,000,000 USD]

Barely a month earlier, the three billion figure had knocked the wind out of me, and now, before I'd even caught my breath, it had more than doubled.

"You could shake every cent out of every pocket in San Marcos and not come up with that much."

"The money is pouring in from Korea."

Isabella cleared up my confusion.

"Bank President Benjamin struck a partnership with several commercial banks in Korea and launched a fixed-deposit product pegged to San Marcos government bonds. With an 8% annual rate guaranteed, money is flooding in from Korea."

"Well, I'll be..."

The man had read the tides perfectly. Korean interest rates weren't exactly negligible, but 8% products didn't exist outside of very particular circumstances. And even when they did, the caps were low enough to keep anyone from making serious money.

In that environment, an 8% product backed by the sovereign guarantee of an oil-producing San Marcos was nothing short of irresistible.

"Thanks to that, we've had a staggering 6 trillion won, or about 4.8 billion dollars, flow in from Korea alone."

"I'll say this for Wall Street veterans. They really do smell things the rest of us can't."

And the good news didn't stop there.

"What about the lending side? Money coming in means money has to go out."

"No cause for concern. Startup loans have been growing explosively."

Isabella presented a chart whose line climbed sharply up and to the right.

"Most of them are loans to small-scale self-employed owners. Restaurants, general stores, barbershops, laundries. People lining up to open shops in downtown Libertad."

"Delinquency rates?"

"Astonishingly close to 0%. A few days late here and there aside, it's a perfect 0%. Most borrowers aren't wasting the money. They're opening businesses and generating revenue fast."

I nodded. In some ways, it was the only possible outcome.

Back home in Korea, if someone told me they were taking out a loan to open a mom-and-pop shop, I'd do everything I could to talk them out of it. Here, the situation was different.

Korea was a red ocean with a fried chicken joint every other door. San Marcos was a blue ocean in the purest sense: a country where people had money burning holes in their pockets and nowhere to spend it.

Above all else...

"I think the improvement in household finances is having a major effect."

The vertical climb in people's incomes was paying off, too.

Highway construction, the oil refinery, the new Korean textile factories that had just set up shop: jobs were everywhere, wages were rising fast, and people's wallets were fattening up.

That money was flowing right back into neighborhood commerce, which meant a small business owner here had almost no chance of going under.

At the heart of a textbook virtuous economic cycle stood Tortilla Bank.

"This really is wonderful news."

Isabella said it with genuine feeling.

"Thanks to Your Excellency's foresight, the bank is growing by the day. Even government finances are now on solid enough footing that we no longer have to worry."

"That's all well and good, but..."

I turned my gaze to the window. In the distance, even at this late hour, the market alleys of Libertad were lit up bright.

"What gives me more joy is that my decisions are actually making people's lives better."

"......"

"The anxiety of hauling cash around is gone. No one has to grovel before loan sharks for emergency money anymore. And most of all, the fact that poor people can dream of something bigger if they put in the work, that matters more than anything."

The truth is, things have drifted so far from the original that people forget it, but the essence of banking was never investment or speculative lending.

It was closer to a lever: one that supports somebody's dreams, helps lift up a life that's been knocked down, and shares in the profit along the way.

Having once worked at a bank myself, it was a quiet relief to see that hope of mine take root here in San Marcos, of all places.

"The people will recognize Your Excellency's heart in this."

"They don't have to. As long as everyone's got a full belly and a warm back at night, that's enough for me."

I lifted the teacup to my mouth. Warmth slid down my throat.

"Come to think of it, look how the time's gotten away from us."

It had already been two years since the terrorist attack. The third winter of my time as Acting President was approaching.

"What are your plans for winter holiday this year?"

"I don't have any yet."

"In that case, would you like to come to Korea with me?"

"To Korea?"

"Yes."

Isabella asked again, her face flushed red.

"Is, is there a particular reason you..."

"Oh, nothing special."

I lifted my phone and showed her the message Moon Seong-mun had sent.

"They want to hold a summit in Korea, is all. It lines up with my winter break anyway, and I was going to go alone, but something about that seemed a little lonely. Would you be willing to come with me? Oh, and don't worry about your own leave. I'll make sure you get paid time off covering the full length of the visit. Generous travel allowance, naturally."

"......"

Moved, evidently, by this thoughtful gesture of mine, Isabella's eyes lit up with something determined.

*****

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