Chapter 604 - The Task of Making a Living
Landu had spent most of the year adapting to life in this time-space—he could now speak fluent Italian and had mastered all manner of aristocratic airs. He'd secretly hired a boat back to Pratas Island. The fishing boat was intact. He managed to dive in and retrieved some personal weapons and ammunition, plus several emergency kits—the modern medicines inside were priceless in this era.
Disaster was also a kind of new opportunity. Once settled, Landu began considering his future.
In this unfamiliar time-space, he could always make a living with his skills and the firearms in his possession. But simply drifting along like this left him somewhat dissatisfied.
Go to Europe? Landu quickly rejected that idea. He was American, with no real concept of Europe. Traveling thousands of miles to get there—what would he live on? America didn't exist yet. He could go as an immigrant, certainly, but that would be far too difficult.
Landu had considered floating his boat and using these weapons and the motorized vessel to simply become a pirate. The Manila Galleons brought in vast amounts of silver every year. A considerable portion of that silver ended up in Macau, used to purchase various Chinese goods. The Jesuits actively participated in this trade—Landu had seen too much of it.
If he could get a ship, this South China Sea would be practically paved with gold! Portuguese ships, Spanish ships, Dutch ships—every one of them sailed toward China laden with silver. If he could rob just one, he'd be rich! With money, he could recruit desperadoes, buy ships and cannons... Landu differed greatly from Chinese transmigrators. He'd never thought about manufacturing anything himself. He was accustomed to using whatever ready-made weapons were available. By now, he was quite skilled with matchlocks and flintlocks, and his swordsmanship ranked among the top ten local experts.
Once he'd robbed enough, with capital and followers, he could simply go set up a small independent country and be king: there was plenty of unexplored wasteland! He could kidnap some Portuguese women who caught his eye, then slip off to Australia or New Zealand to be a colonizer.
Soon he realized he had nowhere to get fuel. Besides, he had no subordinates at all. Trying to be a colonizer alone would probably just get him eaten by Maoris.
Also, he had no technical means to salvage the boat. Disappointed, Landu decided to stick around Macau for now, then try to gather a reliable group of people.
But he was quickly disappointed again: in Macau, this city full of adventurers, everyone talked only of money. The only ones with ideals were the missionaries. After more than a year, he hadn't made a single true friend—though he had plenty of drinking and gambling buddies.
As for his patron, his protector—the Jesuit priests—behind their soul-piercing smiles lurked much that made him fearful.
He began to miss his old companions, all of whose fates were unknown. If even one or two were still alive, they could have helped each other. Certainly, they could have opened up some small opportunity.
If there was anyone in this time-space he could trust, it was his black slave—whom he'd won at the gambling table. To commemorate a certain movie trilogy whose third installment he'd wanted but never got to see, he named this black man Shrek.
Shrek was a melancholy black man, taciturn. But he was loyal enough to Landu—at least Landu fed him properly, never whipped him, and wouldn't casually gamble him away.
Every morning, Shrek would respectfully prepare his wash water and clothes. Communication between master and servant was mostly by eye contact, gestures, and a strange dialogue: Shrek spoke a peculiar Spanish while Landu spoke broken Portuguese.
The differences between Spanish and Portuguese were minimal; their linguistic exchange could barely achieve mutual understanding.
"Running out of money again," he muttered, turning from the dock and walking toward the small inn where he lodged. The harrowing survival after escaping Zheng Zhilong by the skin of his teeth, plus Liu Xiang's generosity in gifting him three hundred Spanish pesos—even trying to recruit him—these things were behind him.
Landu had refused. One experience of barely surviving was enough.
After returning to Macau, Jeranzani had rewarded him with another hundred pesos. As with everything that has a beginning also having an end, these four hundred pesos were finally running out. His daily eating, drinking, gambling—and occasionally involving women. At one point, Landu had seduced the wife of a rather prominent Portuguese merchant, then nearly beat the jealous husband to death. This made him notorious. If it weren't for his having risked life and limb for the Jesuits, and the Jesuits intervening to settle the matter, he probably would have had to flee.
These pleasures had quickly emptied his purse. Actually, Jeranzani still looked out for him, occasionally giving him small jobs. But the payments were stingy—never more than fifty pesos at a time.
His pockets were empty, his livelihood precarious. At this rate, he'd soon have to pawn things to get by. As for the Jesuits, without assignments, they wouldn't give him a single coin. They welcomed him to eat for free anytime—if bread, bean soup, and watered-down sour wine counted as a meal.
He began seriously considering whether to sell his services to Liu Xiang—this man's agent in Macau welcomed desperadoes of all nations to serve him at any time. The conditions weren't bad either: four hundred Spanish pesos per year for a gunner. Landu figured he should be worth at least a thousand per year.
Thinking of this, he suddenly recalled those strange Australians—though he hadn't seen them since that encounter, Landu was one hundred percent certain: these were people from his own time-space. Calling themselves "Australians" gave it away immediately.
Australians, you're all Chinese!
As for how these Chinese people had reached this time-space, only God knew.
But the Chinese were clearly in a much better situation than him. They were neatly dressed and looked healthy. Moreover, they were selling all sorts of goods. When he first saw the "crystal mirrors" that rich Chinese competed to show off, his jaw nearly dropped.
Wasn't this just a plastic mirror! He'd seen them in cheap shops all over the world.
Then more and more news reached Macau: the Australians had built a castle on a large island in southern China; they had iron ships bigger than the largest galleons; they had all sorts of strange things; and moreover, their firearms were extremely formidable.
Landu analyzed all this and reached three conclusions: these "Australians" were Chinese people from the twenty-first century; they had modern ships and weapons; and there were many of them.
As for that large southern Chinese island, of course it was Hainan Island.
He checked his pocket atlas and found an unfamiliar place name on the map: Lingao.
Lingao. He remembered Father Komahe telling him he'd been transferred to Macau by Chinese officials from Lingao—a place he seemed to remember. He could vaguely recall being nearly naked, surrounded by ragged Chinese soldiers with spears and sabers escorting him onto a ship. It seemed to be a desolate place.
Landu sensed vaguely that his arrival here was deeply connected to them.
What were these Chinese people doing in Lingao?
As more and more goods flooded in from Lingao, Australian goods became a well-known brand. Moreover, many goods clearly showed signs of being produced in this time-space. This made Landu revise his judgment: these Chinese people also had machinery, engineers, and qualified technicians.
Even "Australian goods" had changed his life: the market now sold paper specifically for toilet use at remarkably low prices, finally freeing Landu's excretion from economic burden.
The Chinese even supplied Macau with matches, cigarettes, rum, and sparkling water in oak barrels. The streets were full of small vendors carrying two barreled kegs with spigots. One held sweet-sour sparkling water, the other held rum. You could buy either separately or mixed. In summer, they'd even add crushed mint leaves. Landu thought: isn't this just a cocktail?
Good Lord, Landu thought—at least the Chinese had made his life in this time-space somewhat more bearable.
News of Lingao's "Australian-style" lifestyle also gradually reached Macau: their good roads, complete municipal management, and the lights that sparkled like stars every night...
Now, having lost hope of starting his own enterprise, Landu seriously considered for the first time the idea of defecting to the Australians—or rather, the Chinese. At minimum, they had plenty of toilet paper and clean toilets. Plus, he quite liked twenty-first-century Chinese food.
Rather than selling his services to Liu Xiang, why not defect to the Chinese? As people from the same time-space, they should have more in common. Come to think of it, when he'd seen them at Jeranzani's residence, there had been Europeans among them—including a rather pretty girl who looked Latin.
If there were Europeans, they wouldn't reject another European. He, Landu, had no motherland in this time-space; they definitely wouldn't have to worry about him in that regard.
He'd been a volunteer soldier—surely they urgently needed professional talent. Going there would certainly mean food and probably a high position. How could Liu Xiang understand his value? But twenty-first-century Chinese would certainly understand.
Thinking this, he suddenly felt that defecting to Lingao was a bright path—he even wondered why he hadn't thought of it sooner. At least he'd observe one fewer Lent.
Moreover, he also had a great gift! Landu thought: just the weapons and ammunition sunk in the Pratas reef would be an enormous fortune. With this, he could certainly secure a decent position in the Lingao collective.
He began planning his "defecting to freedom." Going to Lingao was easy—the Australians had semi-public agents here just like every other sea power. Ships traveled back and forth regularly between the two places. Lingao also had no travel restrictions; anyone who wanted to go could go.
Suddenly he thought of a question: were these modern Chinese people in Lingao under their government's direction? Could the Chinese government have mastered some secret of time travel, plotting some astonishing conspiracy in this time-space's Lingao?
If so, going there rashly and revealing his identity might get him silenced immediately!
Landu's enthusiasm immediately cooled. No matter how clean the toilets or how good the food, the premise was that he remained free and alive. If he was locked up or simply shot, it would all be meaningless.
Matters couldn't bear close scrutiny. Next he thought: what if they also wanted to know whether there were other Americans besides him in this time-space who might threaten their mission? They might torture him...
Thinking of this, he shivered and went back to eating his bread.
That night, Landu had a strange dream. At one moment, he'd arrived in Lingao, wearing a "people's uniform," sitting in a grand hall for a meeting. The next moment, he was an American government special agent, guiding a SEAL team through the wilderness, saying loudly: "Lingao is in that direction." Then he was tied to a chair. In a dark room, several Chinese people in combat uniforms stared at him coldly, apparently about to torture him. As he cried for help, he found the interrogator was actually Jeranzani. He said: "You heretic! Prepare to atone."
Then he found himself standing on a pyre stacked with firewood.
Landu screamed and rolled off the bed, waking up.
He touched his forehead—all sweat.
"God!" he cried. This was too terrifying.
"Master, are you alright?" Shrek poked his head in from outside the door.
"I'm fine!" Landu said. "Bring me water to wash my face."
Landu got no breakfast in the dining room. The landlady's expression reminded him with just a smile: he still had three months' unpaid room and board.
Landu and Shrek, master and servant, had no choice but to wander the streets. Landu hoped to run into some acquaintance who might treat him to a meal. If all else failed, he'd have to go to the Jesuit church for food.
A short black woman in cotton clothes suddenly approached. Her appearance killed his appetite for breakfast.
"Mr. Landu! Mr. Landu!" she called in Portuguese.
"What is it?" He looked over this black woman. She seemed to be a female slave of some wealthy person. Her features were different from African black slaves—yellowed eyes, askew. Her appearance, by any time-space's standards, was downright ugly.
"Please come this way." The black slave woman indicated he should go to a Chinese tea stall by the road.
"Sorry, I don't have time." Landu said brazenly. Such an ugly woman—he couldn't be bothered to talk to her.
"What if I have this?" The black slave woman untied a money pouch from her waist. The silver coins made a pleasant clinking sound.
"Alright. I never refuse a woman."
The black slave woman ordered a pot of tea, apparently wanting to tell him something. But his eyes drifted to watch the Chinese vendor frying something in his oil—he vaguely remembered seeing this in Chinatown, something called youtiao.
The fragrance of the frying youtiao left him distracted.
The black slave woman glared at him helplessly and fished out some Chinese copper coins, asking the vendor to bring youtiao and shaobing.
Landu picked up a shaobing with a gentleman's reserved arrogance, learning from the other Chinese customers to fold the youtiao and roll it up. Then he took a big bite.
"Get some for my servant too," he told the vendor in Chinese.
So Shrek also got a portion of shaobing and youtiao.
"I wonder if Mr. Landu might have some free time recently?"
(End of Chapter)