Shanghai’s commerce was developed and competition fierce. Any shop of decent scale fought for prime locations, displaying goods on sidewalks, extending signs as far as possible, and having clerks chase potential customers for two li.
Boya Trading House was different, choosing a small Western building with a courtyard in a quiet, elegant location, even hiding its sign among evergreen bushes.
Unsurprisingly, it was deserted.
Several clerks sat by the fireplace warming themselves. The trading house owner—Yale scholar Rong Hong—sat at a window desk, smoking a cigar while seriously reading a copy of the North China Herald.
His expression was serene, with no trace of the embarrassment from being robbed on the street. His brow was slightly raised, his gaze rolling with each line of English, occasionally reciting a few sentences.
He wasn’t wearing a fake braid, styling his short hair with a long robe. Through the misty glass, he looked like an old photograph of a Republican era master.
Lin Yuchan couldn’t help but step back to look at the sign again, confirming it was a trading house, not some old foreign house, a petite bourgeois café.
There were wind chimes at the entrance, making crisp sounds as her hem brushed them.
Hearing someone enter, Rong Hong quickly put on his melon-skin cap with the sewn-on fake braid. The clerks were comfortable by the fire—none willing to move their buttocks, so Rong Hong had to get up to greet guests himself.
“Miss Lin, what a pleasure! I’ve been waiting for you for several days.” Rong Hong exchanged names with her, happily pointing to a green leather sofa by the fireplace. “Sit, I’ll have someone bring tea.”
In just one minute, Lin Yuchan could see that this person’s way of receiving people was completely Westernized, rather rusty with Chinese etiquette. He didn’t even bow, and forgot to have the clerks avoid the female guest, even as a formality.
If it were another Qing Dynasty girl, she would probably be offended.
“No need.” She politely declined with a smile. “I’m here to pass along a message from the Maritime Customs, um… this…”
The other party was also a distinguished gentleman—delivering rejection letters face-to-face was somewhat awkward. Lin Yuchan somewhat understood why Hede had sent her: she was thick-skinned.
Before she finished half a sentence, Rong Hong already understood, laughing: “Didn’t get hired? Normal, normal. I just casually sent that job application anyway, wasn’t serious about going. Thanks for making the trip—speaking of which, when did the Maritime Customs start hiring female interpreters? That Li, Chief Commissioner, I’ve met before—quite a rigid person.”
Lin Yuchan: “Chief Li…?”
She realized he meant Li Taiguo, Hede’s big villain boss. The current Maritime Customs headquarters was in Shanghai, and Rong Hong was also in Shanghai. The English-speaking social circle totaled only a few hundred people—it would be hard not to know each other.
She smiled and found a topic to brush it off. She couldn’t say the Englishman looked down on his credentials.
Thinking of this, she pointed to the inconspicuous “Yale” on the business card, tentatively asking: “Excuse my bluntness, but are you a graduate of the prestigious American university Yale?”
Rong Hong was stunned, his eyes suddenly lighting up. He stubbed out his cigar and said excitedly, “Miss Lin is truly knowledgeable! You’re the first Chinese person I know who’s heard of Yale University! Tell me, tell me, how did you know? Who told you?”
Lin Yuchan: “…”
No wonder he didn’t mention this on his Chinese business card.
With no business around, Rong Hong treated her as a confidant, excitedly beginning to narrate how he accidentally entered missionary school as a child, then by chance went overseas, studied diligently to enter Yale, became the first Chinese person to earn an American university diploma, then how he cared about his homeland and returned to serve his country…
A few brief sentences covered more than a decade of hardship and struggle. Lin Yuchan expressed her complete admiration.
“So you… Just returned to the country?”
“It’s been several years now. Not to embarrass myself, but I’ve changed jobs five or six times, mostly unemployed. Recently started my own business, but find it uninteresting too. If I keep losing money, I’ll close shop.”
Lin Yuchan was speechless, looking again at the Yale diploma covered in Latin hanging on the wall, deeply feeling that the Qing Dynasty was doomed.
This kind of talent would have nations competing with huge sums to recruit him in modern times.
Yet in current China, merely a sleeping lion just opening its eyes—shouldn’t they quickly offer it first-rank honors and worship it? Yet they let him be unemployed?
Probably because he lacked connections. She asked warmly, “Have you tried becoming an official’s advisor?”
Rong Hong gave a weathered smile: “I tried. When they heard I hadn’t even passed the xiucai examination, none would accept my calling cards.”
Lin Yuchan was speechless and couldn’t help suggesting, “You could work as a translator.”
“When short of money, I translate books for manuscript fees.” Rong Hong said indifferently. “But no one reads what I translate anyway—quite meaningless.”
She thought again and said: “You could…”
“Miss Lin, I don’t lack job opportunities.” Rong Hong suddenly became excited, pacing around the desk, saying seriously: “I want to truly accomplish something, put my lifelong learning to practical use, make my motherland as civilized and prosperous as the West. Some sought me for missionary work—I refused, because I think religion has no benefit for China’s prosperity. I studied law in Hong Kong, wanting to find areas for improvement in Chinese law, but the Hong Kong Bar Association collectively expelled me because they wouldn’t let a Chinese person sit in court. Trading houses offered high salaries for me to be a comprador, but I wouldn’t even consider it. Now, foreigners view the Chinese as slaves—compradors are just higher-class slaves. As a graduate of America’s leading university, how could I so dishonor my alma mater’s reputation?…”
When Lin Yuchan heard him say “higher-class slaves,” her heart jumped, suddenly moved, the fireplace smoke from the Imperial Maritime Customs corridor flashing through her mind.
It seemed that in this vast Qing land, she wasn’t the only one being difficult.
After leaving the Imperial Maritime Customs, she regretted it for a few seconds, but her past decade of independent personality told her: how could she hang her entire livelihood on a powerful person’s favor?
However, Rong Hong wasn’t short of money. He graduated from Yale with all A’s, spoke English more fluently than Chinese. Just helping foreigners write documents or contracts would cover his expenses for several weeks. And her?
At this moment, a clerk finally shuffled over, head down, handing Lin Yuchan an exquisite envelope.
“Winter is lonely, and I couldn’t help giving impromptu speeches again—so sorry.” Rong Hong smiled kindly. “This is your money back.”
Lin Yuchan opened the envelope—ten silver dollars plus a handwritten thank-you card.
She said hastily: “You remembered wrong…”
“No, no, don’t refuse. Though the amount Miss Lin helped me with was small, it was timely aid in snow, and should be repaid double.”
Rong Hong wasn’t short of money. Ten dollars wasn’t enough for his cigars.
Lin Yuchan didn’t want to argue with him, but accepting it directly would be excessive.
She got up to browse the goods in his shop, laughing: “Then fine, I’ll help you open for business right now.”
Unfortunately, though Rong Hong had a Yale diploma, his commercial taste was quite limited. The Chinese and Western specialties on the shelves were all show with no substance, inspiring no desire to purchase.
Moreover, most were over ten dollars.
Lin Yuchan finally chose a dozen imported toothpastes, canned, and recognized the trademark: Colgate.