"Yaaawn."
"Hanslow, your mouth is going to rip open."
Mr. Miller, who was eating breakfast, scolded me as I got up late the next morning.
Hmm, how frustrating... It should have been the other way around.
That man usually struggles to wake up on his own and always asks me to find his clothes for him.
Besides, it wasn't like I wanted to wake up late. I protested, filled with indignation.
"I didn't know London streets would get dark so quickly."
"Didn't I tell you not to be late? Did you enjoy leaving me alone and going out?"
Why is he saying "alone"? I returned Mr. Miller's reproachful gaze with a look of disbelief. There is a housekeeper employed in this townhouse, after all.
"Anyway, get ready quickly. If we leave now, we can just make it."
"Understood."
Entering the dressing room to change into a suitable suit, I saw the headline of today's newspaper, delivered that morning.
Hmm, let's see. 'Polish hairdresser Aaron Kosminski arrested in a mental hospital for Whitechapel serial killings.'
"Oh, the world is truly a scary place."
Well, I guess it's a good thing he's been arrested.
Since it wasn't directly related to me, I didn't pay much attention.
Today's destination was Christie's Auction House.
It was the battleground for the year's major art auction.
Saint James, King Street, Christie's Auction House.
It's still the headquarters of the famous Christie's auction house.
Sotheby's? They are just a secondhand bookstore now. You could say they are the original Aladdin.
"So, Hanslow, what do we need to get this time... Cezanne and, what was it?"
"Yes, Mr. Miller. Munch."
"Ah, right. That Norwegian painter. But I don't think much of his paintings. They are so dark and depressing. Looking at them makes me feel like I'm going to get a mental illness."
Do you have to hit me with facts? I couldn't argue with Mr. Miller's whining, so I could only tell him to trust me like a con artist.
Honestly, just look at them. They are so gloomy and bizarre that I can't understand why they are famous.
At least, from the perspective of a common person who doesn't have an eye for fine art, that's how they seem.
... But still, they are definitely going to be a hit.
Honestly, even if people don't know Cezanne, many know Munch. So I could only say this.
"Please trust me. It's definitely going to be a hit."
"Well, I trust you, but... to ease my anxiety, I need at least a plausible reason."
"Explaining what it means isn't very appealing in itself."
Sorry, Mr. Miller. But that's really all I can say.
Honestly, in the world of art, it's mostly luck. Good things don't always get recognized. Sometimes, this is even more uncertain than the stock market.
So, all I can do is subtly hint at which artist will be the winner, as if I came from the future.
And maybe get some benefits on the side. He-he.
While I was avoiding Mr. Miller's reproachful gaze, well-dressed nobles started to recognize him and approached one by one.
"Mr. Miller! Long time no see."
"Isn't it Sir Cadogan? It's been a while."
"Come on, you are the big player who controls the British art world from Devon. Haha, please go easy on us today."
"If you say that, Mr. Ferdinand, what does that make me? Please don't tease me too much."
They are so flashy. I watched from a distance as the high society people exchanged greetings.
Even in the 21st century, these art auctions are not just about buying and selling paintings. They often serve as social gatherings where the super-rich can network and build connections.
It's the same now. Sir Cadogan is a member of the British House of Lords with an earldom, and Ferdinand is a member of the Rothschild family.
Yes, the Rothschild's, who are often mentioned in financial conspiracy theories even more than Morgan.
Just look at their faces, kind-looking with an air of nobility. More and more of them started to gather.
"Tsk, he's just a local big shot from the colonies."
"It can't be helped. He's the biggest winner lately."
"A parvenu."
And as always, when the top-tier group forms, those who are close to that level gather and gossip about the top-tier.
This time, the target was obviously Mr. Miller. Being American and not frequently visiting London, he was bound to have weaknesses in the eyes of the social scene.
Well, it's not a bad thing. Just as popular works attract criticism, these attacks are proof that Mr. Miller's business is thriving.
It's like how flies swarm to tasty food.
Of course.
"Ahem."
"...Tsk!"
"What's with that monkey..."
"Never mind, let's get out of here."
Still, it wouldn't do to just let them buzz around right in front of me. Clearing them out properly would make it less unpleasant.
I sneered as I watched the flies scatter at that monkey's mere cough.
They're not even the ones attacking, and they're scared of being overheard by a servant. So much for being impressive.
As I sneered, someone approached and patted my shoulder.
"Still as loyal as ever, Banana."
"And you're still a doormat, Jew."
This guy's name is Samuel Cohen. As his name suggests, he's Jewish and works for the Rothschild's over there.
People naturally form groups when there are three or more of them.
Just as the top-tier wealthy know each other, the attendants, servants, and secretaries who follow them often know each other too.
It's like a community of big-house servants, or more like managers at big corporations exchanging business cards.
Especially since the Rothschild's, like us, are discriminated against as Jews, they approach Mr. Miller, an American, and me, an Asian, without much hesitation.
Of course, since they can betray just as easily, we need to be cautious.
"Anyway, what brings you here? If it's something you can handle within Britain, you usually just send a representative."
"Isn't there a royal wedding? We have to see that."
"What nonsense from republicans? You're not going to dump it in the sea like a tea crate, are you?"
"That's Anglo-Saxon bourgeois, and I'm Asian, you idiot."
"Oh, listen to this bourgeois-bashing commie."
"Like anyone would believe an Asian commie from a Jew."
Ah, that's refreshing. A conversation feels more satisfying with a bit of rough language. Talking to refined gentlemen is nice, but... it feels too business-like.
"So, how are your kids growing up?"
"Growing like weeds. Want to see a picture?"
"No, just make sure you receive the gift I'll send later."
"A gift? From the Rothschild's?"
"Of course. Do you think I have the money to send gifts? Anyway, what was it... Peter Perry or something..."
"Ahem."
Why is that coming up here?
Samuel, oblivious to my discomfort, continued nonchalantly.
"Yeah, the author's name is similar to yours. I recommended it because I found it interesting."
"Never mind. I don't need it."
"Why? Do you already have one at your place?"
"Something like that."
I brushed it off vaguely.
The servants at Mr. Miller's house in Turkey all know I'm the author of Peter Perry. But that's only because they're almost like family. It's better if no one else knows.
It's not just about racial discrimination... It's just embarrassing.
Having jerks like Sam recite my book in front of me? I'd rather die.
"Anyway, do you have any news? Your boss has been widowed for 30 years, hasn't he?"
"I don't know. He said he'd hand things over to his younger sister."
"That's why there are rumors about a merger. Isn't that Alice Rothschild also unmarried?"
"It's just noble preferences. Anyway, to satisfy his collection lust instead of his sexual desires, he's securing three 'bottles' this time too."
Ha, this guy. He's already talking business.
I smacked my lips and asked.
"Are they the ones sold by 'an old friend' again?"
"Probably. What about you? 'Stove' or 'Hawk'?"
"Yeah. We're only buying 'Birds'."
"Ha, you guys have such a good sense... So, 'Wave'?"
"Roughly... one 'Rope', three for 'Wheel'?"
"Hmm, that's quite a lot. Got it. I'll tell our side to sit this one out."
"Thanks."
Sam and I completed our transaction with satisfied looks. This was essentially collusion.
Ferdinand de Rothschild is a collector with a penchant for 'bottles,' meaning decorative arts like terracotta. He especially likes items from the Renaissance, referred to as 'old friends.'
On the other hand, Mr. Miller specializes in 'stoves' and 'hawks'—Eastern and Western paintings, respectively. The 'birds' I mentioned refer to 19th-century, contemporary works.
'Wave' is the capital, and the following terms indicate the amount of capital.
By exchanging information about each other's goals and ammunition, we avoid touching each other's targets.
This is how to make wise purchases at an auction.
And as a result...
"Next, we have a still life by the French painter Paul Cézanne. We will start at 2,000 pounds. 2,000 pounds, anyone?"
"3,000 pounds."
"We have 3,000 pounds. Any other bids... Yes, sold for 3,000 pounds."
Very easily.
"Next, another piece by the same artist. Any bids starting at—"
"2,500 pounds!"
"2,500 pounds, sold."
We were able to secure our targets. And now, the big catch of the day.
"Next, we have a piece by the Norwegian painter Edvard Munch. We'll start at 2,000 pounds..."
"5,000 pounds!"
"...5,000 pounds! We have 5,000 pounds. Any other bids?"
Silence. In fact, people from various backgrounds were all staring at Mr. Miller in shock.
They were all wondering what kind of value that morbid-looking painting had to be worth 5,000 pounds. Even Mr. Miller seemed slightly anxious, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.
But... Heh heh heh. Just wait, Mr. Miller. This will rise to a whopping 200 million dollars.
"Hmph, your taste in art is truly abysmal. Buying that painting for 5,000 pounds."
I turned my head at the blatant insult.
There stood a young, handsome officer glaring at us.
Who is this guy?
"When it comes to art, it should obviously be Impressionism. Hmph! Cézanne was somewhat decent, but he was merely a disciple of Camille Pissarro."
What is this art-ignorant fool talking about?
Did he fail art school and become a soldier or something?