Chapter 75 - Seems Like It Did Have an Influence
"How did you find this place?"
Hoover turned to look at me, holding an undergarment—a white brassiere trimmed with lace.
"Finding out where you are is no trouble at all. Anyway, opening such an impressive shop—your abilities really are something."
"I'm just helping out with my mother's business."
"Whoever's business it is. I need a quiet place to talk…"
After hanging the underwear back on the rack, Hoover glanced at the customers.
I led him to the office in the back of the shop.
As soon as Hoover sat down at the table, he started speaking.
"Just like you said, the Second Russian Revolution has broken out. The revolutionaries have already seized the city where the Provisional Government is based."
At this rate, it was only a matter of time before the Russian Provisional Government collapsed and the Far-Left Revolutionary Forces, the Bolshevik Party, took power.
"Do you think it'll go down that way too? This is a brand-new type of nation—something that completely destroys the old order."
Hoover had come looking for me because what I'd mentioned last time was coming true.
And now, he was asking questions to see where our thoughts were aligned—and where they diverged.
In other words, it was my time to boast as much as I pleased
"The Russian government doesn't have the strength to stop the revolutionary forces. Fair distribution, a classless society—how ideal is that? Public opinion has already shifted in their favor, if you ask me."
"You're not a Socialist too, are you?"
"I'm someone who loves capitalism, through and through."
Hoover looked relieved and threw out another question.
"What do you think will happen to the situation if the Bolshevik Party seizes control?"
"A civil war is inevitable. The remnants of the Provisional Government and those who oppose the Bolsheviks' one-party rule will try to purge them. Whoever stands out amid the chaos will end up taking control of Russia. Keep an eye on that person, Hoover."
"Wouldn't power naturally go to Lenin, the leader? Judging by his age, the next ten years are bound to be his."
He's not even fifty yet, so most people—like Hoover—would think that way.
And that's perfectly reasonable.
But Lenin is gravely wounded by the gunfire of a fellow female Socialist revolutionary, and the aftereffects eventually kill him.
That isn't far off now.
Still, who really knows what fate has in store for anyone? To avoid sounding like a fortune-teller, I decided to be vague.
"The more solidly the Bolsheviks' one-party rule is established, the more assassination attempts there will be. Even if Lenin survives unscathed, it's the Second-in-Command you need to watch."
"Well, anyone can see that's Lev Trotsky, right?"
Lenin was the leader who laid the groundwork for the revolution, and Trotsky was the strategist who put the revolution into successful action.
So Trotsky was, without question, the Second-in-Command.
But after Lenin's death, it was actually Joseph Stalin, not Trotsky, who seized real power.
That's getting a bit ahead of things, though, so there's no point mentioning it.
"The reason I suddenly brought up the Second-in-Command is because of the changes that will follow the Socialist Revolution."
The Soviet Union, which will emerge after the October Revolution, will become the world's first Socialist State based on the ideas of Karl Marx.
"But Marx considered socialism to be just an intermediate step toward communism. Watching how that process will unfold is going to be fascinating. And important, too."
"Communism is nothing but nonsense you find in dreams. It's nothing more than the delusions of dreamers who are dissatisfied with reality."
"I agree with you completely. The problem is, the public doesn't know if it's crap or not until they actually taste it."
Hoover stared into my eyes with a curious expression and asked,
"If you know so much about socialism, you should be pretty swayed by it. Why are you so critical?"
"Because I am a firm beliver that one does not need to taste it to know."
Honestly, that answer is only half true.
Would I have answered the same way if I were just a worker living in this era, without memories of my previous life
Maybe, instead of this miserable reality, I'd have been drawn to words like equality and fair distribution, dreaming of an unattainable communism.
Who knows—maybe I'd have taken up a bamboo spear and led the charge to overthrow the state.
But having witnessed the collapse of communism, I fully agree with Hoover—it's a dream that can never come true.
"The reason communism is destined to fail is that humans are at its center."
"That's right. Human beings aren't perfect."
"So, we expect a small group of people filled with desire and greed to run the country?"
"They'd stir up the masses just for power, and if people didn't go along, they'd trample all over freedom and human rights."
"Private property wouldn't even be recognized. Why should I want to live in a country like that? I want to be wealthy. I want to get what I desire freely and fairly… That's exactly what's possible in America."
"Exactly!"
As we went back and forth, I noticed a change in Hoover's eyes.
Where there had just been curiosity and interest, now I saw passion and determination.
Seems like just a little more persuasion will do the trick.
First, I need to make it clear I'm on Hoover's side.
"Communists are going to become even more active from now on. To protect my property, my rights, my freedom—I want to help you, Hoover I'm an anti-communist too."
After that fierce gaze, Hoover reached out his hand.
Damn it, this isn't what I was aiming for.
He grabbed my hand.
"What you just said—that's exactly why I decided to dedicate myself to my country."
He squeezed tightly.
Hoover shook our joined hands, looking at me with a grave expression.
"I have a feeling I'll be visiting you often from now on. Day or night!"
"...Let's skip the nights. Come during the day when there are lots of people around."
"Is the hero who took down two anarchists afraid of the night?"
No, I'm afraid of you.
As soon as I pulled my hand back, Hoover smiled and threw out another question.
"Back then, besides Russia, you mentioned something else too. Do you remember?"
"Of course."
"Do you still feel the same way? Our ground troops will be deployed soon."
"Now that America is involved, the war will be over before next year rolls around. Germany and its allies don't have anywhere near the steady military supplies that the US can provide. How could they possibly hold out?"
After more than four years of war, exhaustion among enemy soldiers and civilians had reached its peak.
Of course, it was no different for the Allied Forces.
But following America's entry into the war, Greece, China, and Brazil each declared their participation, boosting morale.
Meanwhile, the enemy consisted mainly of Germany, the Ottoman Empire, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and Bulgaria.
Then the Spanish flu hit like a final nail in the coffin, making it inevitable for the war to end.
After that, we discussed various other topics.
It was only after about an hour that we finally left the office.
As we walked through the store on our way out, Hoover suddenly came to a stop.
"I just feel like I can't rest easy unless I do something for a friend who wants to help me."
And so he settled on the Lucky Box.
Hoover stared intently at the event sign.
"'A chance at luck worth more than ten dollars'... Was this your idea?"
"Yes. Don't you feel like you just have to try it?"
Hoover let out a small chuckle, then picked up a box—the most expensive one, of course.
The ten dollars he handed over so coolly was anything but welcome to me.
"Do you mind if I open it here?"
"Of course not."
Hoover unwrapped the long box, about the size of his forearm, and lifted the lid.
Inside were a black brassiere and panties adorned with elaborate lace, along with a beautifully crafted necklace and earrings.
"Wow, this is even better than I expected."
"You really caught some luck, Hoover."
"But what's this?"
"It's a mask."
It had a futuristic design.
The outside was canvas, the inner lining that touched the mouth was soft cotton, and there was a thin layer of padding sandwiched between.
"Why would I need this?"
"For your health. It'll help in this chilly weather. Be careful not to catch a cold, Hoover. And please make sure to give the underwear to someone else as a gift."
Hoover shot me a sideways glance, as if questioning whether I was being serious.
"I'll drop by from time to time, then."
"You're always welcome."
After seeing Hoover out, I came back into the store, where Ida muttered under her breath,
"There really are people who buy that stuff."
"Told you. See? People get tempted once they see it."
"Yeah. If only nine more people like him showed up, we'd be set."
In this dump of an Allen Street, customers like Hoover—no, VIPs like him—are a rare breed.
Will we really find owners for all the Lucky Boxes by the end of the year?
Somehow, nine feels like a daunting number.
***
53-63 Park Row, Manhattan.
The 20-story Pulitzer Building, with its dome and spires.
When it was completed in 1890, it was the tallest building in New York, and from the 15th to 20th floors, it housed the New York World.
On the 17th floor, a middle-aged man with a kindly face sat on a sofa, reading a letter, and whistled.
"This really is something. When did you say this letter arrived?"
"Two months ago."
"You're telling me that even back then, they predicted the Russian October Revolution in such detail?"
"Yes. I almost threw it out, but the content seemed plausible, so I held onto it. Thank goodness I did."
Two months ago, a letter addressed to Reporter Herbert Swopes had arrived.
It was about the second Russian Revolution, but at the time, he'd only skimmed it before tossing it on his desk.
As the situation in Russia recently changed rapidly, Swopes took the letter out again and read it carefully.
"I can't even tell you how many times I was surprised while reading it. Of course, the revolution isn't over yet, so we'll have to wait and see. But judging by how things are going, it seems clear the Bolsheviks will come to power."
"Hmm, I think so too."
The man nodded in response to Swopes.
He was James Gerard, who until January of this year had served as the US ambassador to Germany and had co-authored Inside the German Empire: Year Three of the War with Swopes.
Now, he was working as a defense attorney in Manhattan, writing a book on Germany based on his experiences.
"So, is that the end of the letters?"
"No, there's one more, but its content is a bit outrageous."
Reporter Swopes handed him another letter.
As Gerard quickly skimmed through it, his brow furrowed more and more.
"Just as you said, this is some wild content. Suddenly talking about a pandemic out of nowhere."
"But look at the terminology—it's actually quite technical, isn't it? Influenza, virus, contagion. The doctors I asked about it were all shocked, though they scoffed at the overall story."
"Either someone's trying to get attention with a scam, or it's a truly extraordinary prophecy. It says it'll happen early next year, so I guess we'll find out soon enough······Just looking at this guy's name, he seems more like a con artist."
Gerard frowned as he glanced at the sender's signature at the end of the letter.
From C. Noxtradamus. G
The C and G were just initials, but the real issue was the name in the middle.
It was almost identical to Nostradamus, the great 16th-century prophet, except with Nos switched to Nox.
"Maybe just a delusional patient?"
"Who knows. But I'm certain this person was influenced by Nostradamus."
Nostradamus's book of prophecies, Les Propheties, published in 1555, was a perennial favorite people brought up whenever Europe faced religious and political upheaval.
The current European Great War was no exception. Many were obsessed with vague, open-ended passages in the prophecies—lines about "great chaos in Europe," or "the fall of kings and nations"—interpreting them however they wanted.
"What's more, Nostradamus even predicted pandemics."
There was one line: "A great plague will strike major cities. It will last for a century and be filled with blood and tears."
But throughout human history, such pestilence had struck more than a few times.
Plague, cholera, smallpox, tuberculosis, Russian flu—those were all vague and broad enough to hardly count as prophecy.
"It's just people's imagination and hopes that keep dragging Nostradamus out again and again. But... this guy is actually pretty specific."
The contents of the letter were too unusual to be dismissed as the writing of a simple con artist or lunatic.
A silence fell over the office. Both of them were thinking the same thing.
'Just who is this guy and what does he do?'
***
Second floor of the Allen Street Twin Buildings. Cory came rushing into the office.
"Boss, there's a brawl breaking out near Orchard Street!"
"Is it bad enough that I need to go?"
"Yeah. There are too many of them. Oliver and the guys can't hold them off alone."
Well, looks like I have to go.
I'd been getting bored just sitting in the office anyway.
I grabbed my club and a knife and threw on my coat.
It was late afternoon as Cory and I left the building, heading toward the scene of the fight.
And when we arrived—
"Come on, you bastards! If you want this turf, come and get it!"
Oliver's voice rang out, loud and clear, echoing over the dull thuds, groans, and curses in the air.
By the time we arrived, dozens of people were tangled together in a full-blown fight.
It was a fierce battlefield, bloody and chaotic.
My body instinctively reacted to the scene, a thrill sharpening every sense.
But I held back and didn't jump in.
Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—Kale and Brian came running up just in time, leading more of our members.
"Yo, motherfucker!"
They charged in, waving steel pipes like maniacs—it could've been a scene straight out of a movie.
Our crew swept into the fray like a tidal wave, smashing enemies over the head without mercy.
Blood spattered everywhere, cries of pain and curses mixing together, and more and more of the enemy were left crawling, dragging themselves across the ground.
Only after our guys had captured their leader and forced him to his knees did I finally step forward.
"Looks like you came here ready to die. Which unit are you with?"
"...Cough."
Thwack.
"I asked, which unit are you from?"
"We—we don't belong to anyone. We're our own independent gang..."
"Yeah?"
So, you're a new gang, huh.
I glared at their leader and grabbed him by the hair, leaning in to whisper quietly.
"Looks like you're all Jewish guys. Want me to share a bit with you?"
"...W-What?"
I handed the confused guy a piece of paper.
On it was a list of stores that had been refusing to pay protection fees.
"I'll allow your crew to collect protection fees from these places."