Chapter 214: The Conference (Part 2)
The reception staff also gave Fu Buer a stack of meal tickets, explaining that he could eat at designated food stalls with them. Warmth spread through Fu Buer's chest—these "baldies" were considerate and thoughtful. Compared to the county yamen coming to collect grain taxes, this was like heaven and earth.
After setting down his luggage, the household servant wanted to explore the market. Fu Buer felt the same urge, so he locked the door and went out—every room here had a padlock, and one could simply lock up and leave the key at the front desk.
East Gate Market's area had doubled since the previous year. Originally planned to extend three hundred meters westward from the moat outside Baireng City's east gate, East Gate Street was now complete. The first cross-street had also extended thirty meters in each direction, north and south. The buildings on the cross-street had all been constructed in batches and rented cheaply to merchants. Because the prices were low, it was actually livelier than the main street. Traveling vendors continued to set up tents on the open ground along both sides of the streets. Dongmen Chuiyu didn't interfere.
The two walked along the streets, finding everything fresh and novel. Many people were about, yet the road surface was clean and neat. Rows of small trees had been planted on both sides—they would provide pleasant shade in the future. Fu Buer had been to the county seat, but even the main street before the yamen was filthy with sewage, mud, and garbage piles. Secluded corners and alleys were littered with human and animal waste, reeking to high heaven.
But he quickly discovered the secret here: every dozen-odd zhang along the street stood a large rattan basket where pedestrians threw their trash. There were also several dedicated cleaners wearing uniform blue cotton robes, holding large bamboo-bristle brooms, constantly sweeping the road surface. Looking closely, they were country women.
Fu Buer found this both novel and admirable. Who had devised such a clever system? Never mind this bustling marketplace full of merchants and travelers—even in their own village, where everyone was family, they couldn't manage something like this.
Compared to his gawking servant boy, Fu Buer's mind worked more shrewdly. He differed somewhat from other local landlords who only worked the land and squeezed money from farmhands and tenants. He knew that farming alone would never amount to much, and he couldn't curry favor with the authorities. The only path to real wealth was trade. But he'd never done business and didn't understand it, so he'd never dared try casually. Now, walking around East Gate Market, he sensed the opportunities here should be quite good. So he kept staring at the largest shops, wondering what goods might be worth selling.
While looking around, he heard a commotion ahead. People were crowding around. Loving a spectacle is a traditional Chinese virtue, and Fu Buer was no exception. He saw two people arguing up front—one appeared to be a small vendor; the other wore a rattan hat and a short-hair-style black stand-collar jacket with wooden buttons, a wide leather belt at the waist, white leggings on his calves, and straw sandals. A short wooden baton with a side handle hung from his hip. His sleeve bore an embroidered shield-shaped patch with designs and characters Fu Buer couldn't comprehend.
The strangely dressed person was saying, "From the first day you set up your stall at East Gate Market, someone told you—no littering here, and absolutely no relieving yourself in public. There are toilets along the street. Yet you still defecated wherever you pleased—what punishment do you deserve?!"
The vendor pleaded repeatedly, insisting he really had diarrhea and couldn't wait to reach the toilet, so he'd relieved himself in a corner. He begged the "Police Lord" to show mercy.
But the policeman wouldn't relent, insisting on a fine of twenty wen or ten fen. Some onlookers sympathized with the vendor and jeered. The vendor bowed and pleaded, saying he truly had no money. The policeman replied, "Since you have no money for the fine, according to the Public Security Law, you'll clean the streets for three days."
The vendor accepted the punishment, and the matter was settled. Fu Buer found this amusing—and suddenly realized the policeman was Ma Peng. This fellow had done well for himself with the "baldies"—he'd become a "policeman," apparently something like the yamen runners. Fu Buer wanted to cultivate a connection with him, so he called out, "Old Ma!"
Ma Peng was escorting the unlucky vendor to report to the sanitation station—this was the third person he'd caught urinating or defecating in public this week. This was Chief Dugu's "Environmental Hygiene Improvement Week" campaign. Hearing someone call his name, he looked over and saw his former employer. Though class differences had existed between Ma Peng and his employer, and Fu Buer had never done him any particular favors, they bore no grudge either. They had, after all, squatted together in the short-hairs' prisoner camp—one of those three experiences said to forge true brotherhood. Meeting unexpectedly like this, there was genuine joy of old friends reuniting.
"Master Fu!"
"You're working for the short-hairs now?"
"That's right, as a policeman." Ma Peng noticed Fu Buer eyeing his uniform and tugged at his clothes a bit self-consciously. "This is the standard issue—everyone doing police work has to wear it."
"Wearing it makes you look just as impressive as the short-hair lords."
Ma Peng's face reddened. "Can't compare to them." Noticing the card hanging on Fu Buer's chest, he quickly changed the subject. "Is Master Fu also here for the conference?"
"Yes, the short-hair lords told us to come. Do you know anything about it?" Fu Buer hurried to ask.
"I really don't know. I'm just a constable—there are I don't know how many layers between me and the short-hair lords." He barked at the vendor, "Get moving! Stop dawdling." Then he turned back. "Master, please wait a moment. Let me deliver this person to the sanitation station, and then we can talk."
Fu Buer was curious about everything now, so he followed Ma Peng to the back of the cross-street. There was an independent compound filled with the same garbage baskets from the streets and many two-wheeled garbage carts. People were using iron rakes and shovels to sort garbage and load it onto carts.
"Why are they sorting garbage?" Fu Buer asked. His impression was that village garbage was simply thrown directly into the ditch outside the village.
Ma Peng handed the unlucky vendor over to someone at the sanitation station and completed the handover procedures. "The paper and rags inside get sent to the paper mill. Dead branches and leaves, horse and donkey manure, vegetable peels—all that goes into the biogas pit."
"Biogas pit?"
"I don't understand it either," Ma Peng admitted. "It's behind the public toilet—a pit with a big cover. You dump this garbage in there. After some days it turns into fertilizer. The farm people come and haul it away."
"Doesn't that reek to high heaven?" Fu Buer thought of the smell from the foul ditch behind his village and frowned.
"Strangely enough, when you open the pit, it doesn't smell at all," Ma Peng said earnestly. "They all say the chiefs have real skills. The people farming at the farm say the fertilizer from those pits doesn't smell and is very rich. Everything grows well with it."
Fu Buer remained skeptical. "That magical?"
Ma Peng laughed. "When it comes to farming skills, the chiefs are no worse than our local farmers. I've worked at the farm a few times—I never imagined land could be farmed that way."
Fu Buer's interest was immediately piqued. "How do they farm?"
Ma Peng shook his head, still laughing. "It's no use asking me. The chiefs' farming methods—not only can't you learn them, Master, even the biggest local landlords couldn't learn them. There's too much in there that I don't even recognize."
Fu Buer pestered Ma Peng to take him to the farm, even promising him benefits, but Ma Peng absolutely refused. "This I really can't help you with, Master. Nobody except commune members is allowed into the farm. If I took you there, I'd definitely lose my job. Might even lose my life."
Hearing that seeing the farm could cost one's life, Fu Buer's interest diminished considerably. Ma Peng laughed. "There are plenty of interesting places here. I'll just show you around."
"Aren't you still on duty?"
"It's fine. The chiefs said we should be good hosts—that means taking good care of all of you. Showing you around counts as duty too."
He led Fu Buer walking along the streets. They passed a large shop under construction, with scaffolding erected and masons going up and down.
"This is Boss Lin's Quanfu Green Grocery. He used to be just a vegetable-selling Hoklo, but he got rich buying vegetables, pork, and poultry for the chiefs. Built himself a mansion and even took two concubines." Ma Peng spoke with envy written all over his face.
Fu Buer knew of Lin Quanfu—the past few months, he'd been going from village to village buying chickens, ducks, and live pigs for the short-hairs, and had visited Meiyang Village too. Fu Buer had originally thought this man didn't know what was good for him, openly serving the short-hairs. He hadn't expected him to have made such a fortune. He felt a touch of sourness.
Walking on, they came to a large five-bay storefront with many people going in and out. "This is the Women's Cooperative—opened by the chiefs' womenfolk as partners."
"Female short-hairs are opening shops?" Fu Buer was taken aback.
"Yes, run by a matron. All the clerks inside are women too. It's considered one of East Gate Market's sights—lots of people come just to gawk." Ma Peng smiled. "Would Master like to take a look inside? The goods are complete and the prices are cheap!"
Just as they reached the entrance, a middle-aged woman in a clean, neat blue cloth dress approached with a smile. "What would the gentleman like to buy?"
Ma Peng grinned. "This is Master Fu Buer from Meiyang Village, a conference delegate. He's just looking around."
"A conference delegate? The proprietress said all conference delegates with credentials get a five percent discount, and receive a gift whether they buy anything or not." As she spoke, she copied down the string of crooked symbols on Fu Buer's chest card, then had him sign for receipt. Fu Buer couldn't read, so he could only make a mark. He received a rough paper bag.
Opening the bag, inside was a thick, soft, fluffy cloth covered with dense loops—by its size it appeared to be a face towel. Red thread spelled out a line of characters: "Commemorating the First Lingao Political Consultative Conference" with "With congratulations from the Lingao Women's Cooperative, 1629" below. Fu Buer couldn't read and worried it might contain some treasonous words. Ma Peng read it to him and explained the meaning. The fact that this poor farmhand Ma Peng could actually read gave Fu Buer quite a shock.
"Ma Peng, I thought you couldn't read?"
"That was before. Working for the chiefs here, everyone has to learn to read—Arabic numerals," Ma Peng said seriously. They had all received literacy training in batches. Everyone working for the short-hair chiefs knew numbers and recognized three or four hundred characters, enough to read newspapers and notices.
(End of Chapter)