Chapter 778 – The County Instructor

Wu Mingjin frowned. "You came; can I not?"

"No, no—" Wang Ci deeply regretted his careless words and bowed hastily. "Your Honor… you are the lord of the county, a Great Ming… guardian…" The more flustered he became, the less coherent his words, which only annoyed Wu Mingjin further. The magistrate assumed Wang was reproaching him on grounds of righteousness; his expression darkened.

Wu Mingjin had never liked Instructor Wang. Now he liked him even less. With a snort, he walked off without another word, leaving Wang Ci standing there in mortified silence.

Wang Ci had originally been reluctant to attend the reception, but he was indebted to the Australians—the Lingao county school now survived entirely on their subsidies. In the end, he had decided to "bear the humiliation and carry the heavy burden" for the sake of the county's literary spirit.

In truth, the Lingao county school had suffered no "humiliation" these past two years. Quite the opposite: under the Moli Xuan Project, the survival conditions of Lingao's tiny population of old-style literati had improved dramatically. Consider the most basic scholar's supplies—brushes, ink, paper, inkstones, and the Four Books and Five Classics. In the past, none of these could be produced locally; they had to be shipped from Qiongzhou or even the mainland, expensive and hard to find. Now the East Gate Market stationery shop was fully stocked, and prices were far lower. Bookstores sold a wide variety of classics, histories, philosophers, and collections—many titles Wang Ci had never even seen on the mainland. The prices were absurdly cheap.

The Australian-run "Moli Xuan Foundation" provided stipends for Lingao's scholars and operating funds for the county school and Moli Xuan Academy. In a sense, Lingao had entered a "golden age" of education that Wang Ci had never dared imagine.

Yet all this made Wang Ci feel deeply ashamed. Had the Australians suppressed traditional learning or persecuted scholars, he might have felt at peace—They're foreign barbarians, after all! He could at least have preserved a sense of cultural superiority. Instead, he found himself enveloped by an inexplicable humiliation. These oversea barbarians had worked miracle after miracle in Lingao, none of which had the slightest connection to the "learning" that scholars took such pride in. Steeped in Confucian ideology of "cultivate oneself, regulate the family, govern the state," Wang Ci believed statecraft was a talent only scholars possessed. No matter how invincible an army, it could conquer the empire on horseback but never govern it from horseback. Yet this group claiming descent from the Song knew nothing of Confucian classics—couldn't even recite the Analects—and had administered a remote, barbarous county in perfect order, sweeping away chronic maladies of local governance.

Wang Ci was deeply ashamed: he knew that if he were county magistrate, he couldn't achieve even a tenth of what the Australians had done in Lingao—perhaps not even a hundredth. "Talent for governance" was empty talk.

Clearly, the Australians had their own learning. They didn't take Confucianism seriously at all; in Wang Ci's view, their various "gestures of goodwill" toward local scholars were mere posturing.

Local scholars remained oblivious, thinking the Australians revered Confucianism. Some had even developed an interest in Australian "natural philosophy." The Moli Xuan Academy library had acquired many books on the investigation of things; borrowers were plentiful. From time to time, the Australians organized field trips for scholars to visit farms and workshops, lecturing on natural philosophy—and attracting considerable audiences. Such stealthy tactics of "using barbarians to transform Huaxia" greatly worried Wang Ci.

Thinking thus, he sighed and walked toward the entrance with his invitation.

The plaza was crowded with people preparing to enter. Many wore the cotton, front-buttoning short jackets that the transmigrators habitually favored—since the first day Wang Ci had seen them, they seemed never to have worn anything else. Some transmigrators wore jackets without buttons; a very few wore jackets open wide at the chest, revealing undergarments, with strips of cloth in various colors and patterns hanging around their necks—on closer inspection, the cloth was tightly cinched around the throat.

Wang Ci had never seen transmigrators dressed this way and couldn't help wondering: If someone grabbed that thing, wouldn't it be trouble?

Though "real" and "fake" transmigrators dressed similarly, Wang Ci could easily tell them apart. The real ones were calm and chatting naturally; the fake ones had expressions mixing excitement and unease. All of them, real and fake, wore metal badges of varying sizes on their chests—some had several—glinting in the gaslight.

What drew the most attention was the female transmigrators' attire. Wang Ci had long heard of their bold dress, "offensive to public morals." Now, four or five female elders waiting in line wore skirts exposing their calves; one even let her thighs flash in and out of view. One tall female transmigrator wore a black dress that revealed two very white, long legs, covered in red fishnet. Her top was held up by two satin straps, half-baring her bosom. The sight gave Wang Ci a small rush; a certain organ, dormant and withered after years of disuse in Lingao, suddenly surged with blood. The pedantic scholar's face flushed crimson. He quickly straightened his gaze—eyes on nose, nose on heart—not daring to look at the female transmigrators again.

Wang Ci followed the crowd slowly toward the entrance. Police maintained order, and most of those present were elders—the General Office had appended "Mind order; queue in sequence" to the reception notification. The elders constantly strove to cultivate "organization" and "discipline" among naturalized citizens and natives; they had to set an example.

Under the elders' vigorous promotion and example, naturalized citizens and natives consciously complied with the queue and ID checks, regardless of rank. Wang Ci noticed Wu Mingjin standing in line behind what appeared to be a minor country landlord, calmly chatting with Vice-Magistrate Wu Ya. He felt a surge of shame and indignation. Just as he considered stepping up to scold the bumpkin for "disrespect," someone shoved his back.

"Move faster! Don't block the way!"

From the accent, clearly a "fake transmigrator." To think that he, a court official—albeit a minor one—was being scolded in public by a rustic! His face burned with shame, yet his body moved involuntarily with the queue.

By contrast, Magistrate Wu felt no pressure whatsoever. He had long since embraced "When in Rome, do as the Romans do"; with a thick enough skin, the world was his oyster. In the queue, he chatted and joked with Vice-Magistrate Wu and Wang Zhaomin.

At the park entrance, besides police, Political Security elders scanned each invitation barcode and cross-checked the name and stored photo in the computer. Only after everything matched was the admission stamp given. Elders simply swiped their "dog tags" to enter.

Lingjiao Park blazed with light. Gas streetlamps burned brightly; a stone path led guests toward the beachfront dining area. On the sand, elevated wooden-plank decks had been built. Long Western-style tables lined the decks, covered with buffet chafing dishes salvaged from the Shèngchuán restaurant—heated serving trays for self-service dining. The chafing dishes had lids, with warmers beneath now burning charcoal instead of solid alcohol. Besides the warmers were countless large ceramic plates, insulated pots, wooden platters, and glassware… filled with various dishes, pastries, and beverages—an abundance unprecedented even for elders.

A row of charcoal grills emitted mouth-watering sizzles and exotic aromas. Great slabs of beefsteak, pork chops, chicken cutlets, and fish fillets turned on iron griddles; the fragrance of spices was so thick it seemed to melt one's nasal membranes. Whole lobsters, oysters, and sea fish steamed on iron grates; four or five Lingao suckling pigs and over a dozen roasted ducks hung on spits, turning in the roaring flames of open-fire roasters. Chefs from the Cooperative Restaurant, cafeteria, and Commercial Hall bustled back and forth—even for them, this was the first time handling so many ingredients. Suckling pigs and beef were almost never seen on ordinary days.

Only a few elders knew the beef wasn't freshly slaughtered but came from cold storage. As for the source: spoils from the Great Victory at Chengmai. Dead cattle, horses, and mules had been used for sausage-making as troop rewards; wounded animals not worth treating were sent to the meatpacking plant for slaughter, then flash-frozen by category and saved for the year-end New Year celebration. There had to be one occasion each year for a proper feast.

Zhang Zhixiang, a Fangcaodi teacher, wore chef's whites and an apron, topped by a toque taller than any other cook's—the Executive Chef's hat. Like a general commanding his troops, he directed the cooks' preparations, occasionally stepping in to flip steaks on the griddle. The steaks were sliced into bite-sized pieces Japanese-steakhouse style before plating, sparing guests the need for knives and forks. As a first-class chef, his modern cuisine was naturally superior to the naturalized cooks'.

Zheng Shangjie and Mendoza were also frantically busy—they handled Western-style cooking. They had hoped to draft Salina and Pan Pan to help, but both proper White-English transmigrators turned out to be "children of the microwave": growing up, cooking at home meant tossing supermarket meal trays into the microwave, spinning them around, then making a vegetable salad. Salina sheepishly admitted she could make sandwiches—but Lingao lacked the right sauces.

"I'll mix the sauces. If there's anything we have here, it's spices." The spice trade was a major commodity in East Asian maritime commerce, and China itself imported large quantities. The Planning Commission warehouse stored spices from various sources, and the farm grew herbs like basil for culinary use.

"I'll bake some cakes, then." After racking her brain, Pan Pan came up with the one thing she could actually make.

(End of Chapter)