Chapter 1530 - Under the Banyan Tree
Relying on Dongfang for such matters was out of the question, so Okamoto handled it personally. First, he made a trip to the General Staff Political Department to find the erhu-playing soldier.
The General Staff Political Department, owing to its involvement with military songs, marches, and mass choruses, maintained regular exchanges with Dongfang Ke and Okamoto Shin—they were old acquaintances. Hearing about plans for a professional arts troupe, Zhang Bolin personally looked into it and arranged for someone to search the files.
Though Dongfang Ke hadn't asked the soldier's name, he remembered the sentry post location and the approximate date and time. So Okamoto quickly got a definitive result.
The erhu player was named Wang Qisuo, a corporal in the Garrison Battalion. He was a Shandong migrant who had come to Lingao during the Engine Plan—from a Dengzhou military household, had once smuggled salt.
Though the Garrison Battalion generally recruited only "proven" naturalized citizens, new migrants from the Engine Plan obviously didn't fit this norm. However, Wang Qisuo's record was impressive: wounded and near death, he had been rescued by Lu Wenyuan. After recovering, he joined the militia and throughout the Engine Plan cooperated with the Shandong Detachment on multiple combat missions, performing outstandingly and earning several commendations. He became a backbone member of the Island Militia. When the Engine Plan concluded and the Island Militia underwent major reorganization, most personnel were gradually transferred to Lingao, Taiwan, and Jeju Island for training. Upon arriving in Lingao, he was assigned to the expanding Garrison Battalion.
After joining the Garrison Battalion, Wang Qisuo had performed well in all areas and was quickly promoted to corporal—though he wasn't particularly outstanding. Battalion Commander Li Yayang had some impression of him: Wang Qisuo played an excellent erhu. In his spare time, he often played for relaxation and was considered the battalion's "cultural backbone."
Now that Okamoto wanted to transfer him to the Cultural Troupe, Li Yayang had no objections. Wang Qisuo wasn't an essential model soldier or elite; one more or fewer in the Garrison Battalion made little difference.
Wang Qisuo was brought in for a talk. He was a young fellow, proper-looking, and spoke passable Mandarin. Asked to play a few pieces casually, his level was indeed beyond reproach—in the old world, he could have gotten into a municipal arts troupe.
When told he was being transferred to the Cultural Troupe, Wang Qisuo blinked, seemingly not understanding.
"You want me to play music for a theater company?"
"Not a theater company—a cultural troupe..." Okamoto wasn't quite sure how to explain it. Based on what they were planning, "theater company" wasn't entirely wrong. He thought a moment. "An orchestra. Musician. Do you understand?"
Wang Qisuo was reluctant. Being a musician in this timeline wasn't exactly prestigious: professional musicians either belonged to itinerant theater companies or to official "Teaching Workshops"—essentially base-born status. Society lumped together "actors, riffraff, and horn-blowers." He hemmed and hawed, expressing that he didn't want to be a musician; the Garrison Battalion was "just fine."
Finding he couldn't convince him at once, Okamoto proposed registering him as "amateur personnel"—temporarily borrowed for performances, but normally remaining in the military with his service record unchanged. Only then did Wang Qisuo agree.
Forcibly transferring him to the Cultural Troupe wasn't impossible, but a forced melon isn't sweet. Besides, old notions accumulated over many years couldn't be easily erased. This was precisely why Okamoto was eager to establish professional arts groups: nothing spread better than the arts, and nothing could influence public opinion and mentality as powerfully.
After learning that fellow operatives lurked locally, Lin Ming had stopped leaving code marks. He absolutely did not want his quest for his sister-in-law to transform into "loyal service to the nation"—in his view, that was a death wish.
But he couldn't think of what to do next. He could only take things one step at a time and wait for his sister-in-law to contact him. With her abilities, learning where he was shouldn't be a problem.
He continued muddling through at Haixing Store, living a routine of work and rest. Every few days he and Wang Xinglong would go out for drinks and a treat; occasionally Wang Jinchun joined them too—despite being a woman, she could really hold her liquor. Days passed like this. In the blink of an eye, over a month had gone by. Still no word from his sister-in-law. Lin Ming knew he had been in Lingao for quite some time now; he knew she was here yet could not contact her. He couldn't help feeling anxious.
This particular day, after work, he took a cold bath, changed into wooden-soled slippers, and strolled slowly toward the alley entrance. At the intersection of several lanes stood a large banyan tree. Beneath it was a stone-paved area with stone tables and chairs for people to rest. In the evenings, shop clerks from nearby often gathered here to chat, drink tea, and play chess—practically a leisure spot. To relax and gather information, Lin Ming often came here to sit and chat.
Before he arrived, he heard the melodious sound of an erhu drifting through the air. These past nights, a young erhu player had been coming to play under the tree. He didn't talk much; he'd play for half an hour to an hour and then leave. Someone said he was a new clerk at a nearby shop. Lin Ming hadn't paid much attention.
He circled the banyan tree. He came here often; though he couldn't name everyone gathered here, they were all familiar faces. A few old gentlemen were playing chess; some played cards; those who preferred quiet were reading newspapers or magazines by themselves. Some drank tea, some smoked, accompanied by the melodious erhu—a scene of leisurely, peaceful contentment.
Lin Ming found a spot and sat down. A newspaper vendor came around soliciting business. This vendor was somewhat unusual—his main trade wasn't "selling" but "renting." Besides the Lingao Times, he stocked various magazines published in Lingao. For just a few cents, you could read to your heart's content—well suited to the spending power of ordinary shop clerks.
Since Wang Xinglong had brought him here, Lin Ming had made it a habit to rent newspapers daily. He knew the importance of the Lingao Times—even more crucial than the court's Dibao. But if a shop clerk showed too much interest in the Dibao, that would draw attention; renting it seemed far more natural.
He quickly discovered his concern was unnecessary. The Lingao Times was widely circulated locally, with extremely high penetration among literate people. Even illiterates often asked literate folk to read headlines and articles aloud. There were even such "newspaper readers" under this banyan tree.
Lin Ming took a copy of the Lingao Times. Originally, reading the newspaper was merely to track the Cropped-Hairs' movements, just as he read the Dibao to grasp court and officialdom trends. Gradually, he came to enjoy the paper. Though he wasn't quite accustomed to the Cropped-Hairs' writing style, the various news reports were far more vivid and interesting than the dry memorials and official documents in the Dibao.
From the newspaper he learned about the Australians' activities throughout Qiongzhou Prefecture: how many migrants had been settled, how much wasteland reclaimed, which factory had started production, what new policies were being promoted... The newspaper explained everything clearly—and vividly at that.
Reading the Dibao, one could also learn what major events were happening in the realm, but for liveliness and clarity, it couldn't compare. The Cropped-Hairs seemed to write articles and publish newspapers with the explicit fear that common folk wouldn't understand, trying their best to break things down and explain thoroughly. To Lin Ming it seemed somewhat tedious, yet it gave one a sense of being there.
Lin Ming was reading an article about Sino-Japanese trade. The article sprawled across half the page, starting from Song dynasty trade, proceeding through the Ming dynasty pirate Wang Zhi, then to the rise of the Zheng family.
Lin Ming knew something about trading with the Japanese; figures like Wang Zhi he had heard of, and as for Zheng Zhilong, that name was thunderously famous. Yet he had never seen such a detailed, comprehensive discussion of Sino-Japanese trade. The article's description of Japanese history particularly gave him fresh perspective. After all, the Great Ming had never clearly understood Japan's political system—of course, the court had never cared to understand such foreign barbarians.
Lin Ming found it novel and was reading carefully when suddenly he heard someone ask: "Do you have last issue's Zhiyin?"
The moment the voice reached his ears, Lin Ming couldn't help but start: this was Li Yongxun's voice! He didn't dare show too much surprise. He covered his face with the newspaper and carefully raised his gaze, heart pounding. It really was her!
His sister-in-law wore a Ming-style woman's outfit today, carrying a cloth bundle—looking exactly like any other woman here. She was speaking to the newspaper vendor, picking through his stall. Seeing his gaze, she signaled slightly.
Lin Ming understood. He stood up, returned the newspaper to the vendor, and exchanged it for a magazine. In the instant of returning the paper, he felt something slip into his palm. He gripped it quickly, selected another magazine, and returned to his seat as if nothing had happened.
Li Yongxun bought a copy of Zhiyin and went off on her own. Lin Ming carefully, under cover of the magazine, unfolded the slip of paper. The thin paper bore only an address: East Gate Market Cinema.
Lin Ming knew the place. It was a theater dedicated to showing "Australian shadow plays." Almost everyone who had visited Lingao had seen an "Australian shadow play"—it was practically required for a "Lingao tour." Lin Ming had gone too, with Wang Xinglong. He had originally assumed it was just the same "Australian slides" seen on every Guangzhou street corner. To his surprise, inside it was pitch dark with a large white cloth hanging. Just as he was puzzling over it, the dark room suddenly lit up, and with the roar of a steam whistle, a train appeared on the wall, puffing white steam, hurtling straight toward him. Lin Ming screamed, rolled off his chair, and scrambled frantically toward the exit.
He hadn't run a few steps before Wang Xinglong pulled him back, amid a burst of laughter from around him. Only then did Lin Ming realize what he had seen was just "shadow play"—the train was nothing but light and shadow on the screen.
Yet the realism of those images—neither shadow puppets nor "Australian slides" could compare in the slightest. It was almost exactly like the real thing!