Chapter 1981 - A Counterfeit Bill
"Ah, Brother Yu, you misunderstand me." The speaker waved his cup genially. "You think I don't know how much grain this Guangzhou market can swallow? The real business is with our own Fubo Army."
"Military supplies?!"
"Precisely. I won't hide it from you, brothers—since opening the Great World shop, my street trade has actually declined. Some old customers even grumble that I've grown heartless, deliberately inflating prices. But the truth is far simpler: Senator Hong's orders alone nearly overwhelm my capacity."
"Hahaha! Better to be overwhelmed with prosperity than starve in poverty. Drink up!"
The cups clinked in unison. "Cheers!" "Cheers!" "Cheers!"
One of the men set down his cup with a puzzled expression. "The Fubo Army eats walnut cakes? Good heavens, what kind of extravagant rations are these?"
Zhang Yu shook his head. "Not quite what you imagine. Walnut cakes require lard, refined flour, walnuts, and sugar—none of them cheap. The soldiers might enjoy a few as rewards, but feeding them such delicacies daily would bankrupt even Senator Hong." He paused to refill his cup. "The real orders are for military rations—field provisions designed for long campaigns. Nothing as refined as tea cakes. These must keep hunger at bay without spoiling, even in harsh conditions. Senator Hong himself provided the recipes. But producing them? The capital requirements are crushing. Not only did I need loans to build the factory, I'm running the entire production on borrowed funds just to maintain cash flow."
Zeng Juan frowned, his knowledge of economics surfacing. "Such heavy capital consumption—is it sustainable to operate entirely on credit?"
"I've thought it through carefully." Zhang Yu leaned forward, his eyes bright with conviction. "Given the Senate's ambitions, expansion north and south is inevitable. As the saying goes, before troops march, provisions must move. Senator Hong has told me repeatedly that building these factories serves both personal profit and the Senate's interests—what the Australians call 'win-win.' Setting up required purchasing land and machinery, then hiring master craftsmen from Lingao to manage production. There's even an Australian manual for this—something called 'Standard Operating Procedures'—thicker than the Civil Service Examination Guide I gave Ah Juan. I've also begged Senator Hong to send me an accountant trained in Australian bookkeeping methods. Our current accounting office is hopelessly incompatible with their systems."
He took a long drink before continuing. "With military supplies so urgently needed, Senator Hong has allowed me to offset payments with delivered goods. I've calculated privately—after deducting all costs, I'm left with perhaps half a fen in profit. Five percent."
"Ah Yu, at that rate you're practically working for free!"
"Not quite. I told Senator Hong I'd reduce it further—down to two-tenths of a fen. A mere two percent profit. In exchange, he permits me to stamp the Zhang family brand on every inner package."
The others exchanged skeptical glances. "Two percent for a stamp? Brother, that hardly seems worthwhile."
Zhang Yu's smile broadened. "Ah Juan taught me something from the Australian texts: a brand is money, and big money at that. This isn't an alien concept—we've always known it. The old saying speaks of the 'Golden Signboard,' and who hasn't heard the story of the shop manager who saved the signboard first when fire consumed his establishment? It's the same principle."
"True! I've heard that tale—happened in the capital, didn't it?"
"Exactly. But traditionally, we merchants simply guard our golden signboards and wait for customers, trusting that 'good wine needs no bush.' We've never understood how to leverage that reputation to build true wealth." Zhang Yu's voice took on an almost reverent tone. "Senator Hong told me about an Australian brand called 'Cola.' Wherever Australian troops deploy, this drink follows. Though sold dirt cheap—often at a loss—wherever the Australian forces pass, the local population develops a taste for Cola. The profits from that cultural footprint dwarf whatever capital was spent subsidizing the troops. That's what I want to become: China's Cola. Wherever the Fubo Army marches, there will be Zhang Brand!"
"Ambitious words, Ah Yu. But you're wagering your entire fortune on this single gamble. Isn't that dangerously reckless?"
"Hehe, don't laugh at me, Ziyu." Zhang Yu's expression turned thoughtful. "I've been fortunate—blessed by my marriage to Ah Xin—to reach my current position. When I look back on this past year, it feels like a dream. And if I should lose it all? I'll simply treat it as waking from that dream." He paused, then looked directly at Zeng Juan. "I'm not being falsely modest, but tell me honestly, Ah Juan—how do I compare to Master Gao?"
Zeng Juan considered his words carefully. "Your momentum is impressive, but viewing the whole landscape? You still fall considerably short of Gao Ju."
"Considerably short? The gap between us is like heaven and earth!" Zhang Yu laughed without bitterness. "What am I, after all? A second-generation shopkeeper from an unranked family. Now look at Master Gao—he's represented the Senators in Guangzhou since they first appeared in Lingao. Selling their goods locally, smoothing their dealings with the bureaucracy... his contributions have been extraordinary. Calling him the Senate's foremost meritorious official in Guangzhou would be no exaggeration. And me? I come from nothing. No money, failed at my studies. In ancestral prestige, seniority, connections, capital—which of these can compare with great merchants like Gao Ju?"
He refilled his cup with steady hands. "But there's one crucial difference: though my roots are shallow, I've been cultivated by the Senators from the very beginning. As long as I follow the Senate with absolute loyalty, working for them without reservation, I can surpass those established households—merchants like Gao Ju who rely on their wealth while maintaining careful distance, seeming close yet remaining fundamentally apart."
"Well said! The Senate never treats its own people poorly—never. Ah Yu, you see things clearly. Come, brothers, let's toast to Ah Yu's vision!"
The gathering continued in high spirits until dusk began to settle. A waiter appeared bearing a fruit platter, using the delivery as pretense to tactfully inquire: "The evening session will soon begin, gentlemen. Do you wish to extend your reservation?" Only then did the party acknowledge the hour.
Everyone reached for their purses to settle the account, but Zhang Yu laughed and waved them off. "We agreed I'm the host! I won't hear of you spending your silver!" He practically herded them toward the entrance, slightly unsteady on his feet, gesturing with wine-flushed enthusiasm.
The Spanish doorman read the situation instantly. "Carriages, sir?"
"Yes! Three!" Zhang Yu's voice came louder than he intended.
"And for yourself, Your Excellency?"
"I don't... no need! My home isn't far. I'll walk..."
The Spaniard noted the redness in his patron's face and wisely said nothing more, immediately summoning three "Venus Zero Type" rickshaws from their station along the wall.
Zhang Yu assisted each of his companions into their respective rickshaws, paid the drivers, then turned somewhat unsteadily back toward the service desk to settle his bill.
The account had already been transcribed in neat columns of small script, each item, service, and price meticulously documented, with the total sum calculated at the bottom. Though Purple Light Pavilion commanded premium prices, the establishment prided itself on complete transparency. Every charge was itemized precisely. While some prices might seem "outrageous" to common market-goers, the establishment never haggled or adjusted rates on a whim.
Those who chose to patronize Purple Light Pavilion could afford such luxury.
Zhang Yu scanned to the final sum—within his expectations. He extracted several Silver Dollar Circulation Notes from his inner pocket and laid them on the counter.
The cashier clerk collected the bills, but as he was about to file them, his expression changed. He leaned closer, speaking in a low, urgent whisper: "Master... this currency... there's something wrong."
"What?!" The wine fog in Zhang Yu's head made comprehension slow. "What's wrong with the money?"
"This note—it has a problem." The clerk held one bill up to the lamplight. "It's counterfeit. The paper quality is completely wrong."
"Counterfeit?!" The word struck like cold water, sobering Zhang Yu instantly. The loss of one yuan meant nothing to him now, but he understood perfectly well the gravity of those four words: "Using Counterfeit Currency." Especially now, when the Senate was actively promoting its new monetary system and treating counterfeiting with utmost severity. Officials had been dispatched throughout the merchant districts warning everyone to watch for fraudulent notes. And now he had unwittingly spent one—at Purple Light Pavilion, of all places!
"I—I don't know where it came from..." Zhang Yu stammered, the words tumbling out. "It wasn't intentional! I swear it!"
Seeing the genuine alarm on his face, the clerk's expression softened. "Ignorance carries no guilt, Master. You clearly didn't know. But the counterfeit note cannot be returned—by regulation, it must be confiscated and reported to the authorities. You'll need to register your information as well. Police procedure, I'm afraid."
Zhang Yu's heart hammered as he completed the required paperwork. Sitting in the rickshaw afterward, his mind churned through possibilities: where exactly had this fraudulent note entered his possession?
Since the Australians began issuing Silver Dollars and Circulation Notes in Guangzhou, Zhang Brand had been among the earliest establishments to accept them. Having long since adopted checks for major business transactions, many customers still preferred cash, especially at the retail counter. The daily flow of silver currency through his shop was substantial. But by custom, Zhang Yu never handled this cash directly—it was tallied and recorded by his accountant and cashier each day before being deposited into his bank account. Any problem with those funds would have been detected during the financial reconciliation.
As for his personal spending, the accountant issued monthly checks for two primary categories: salary and entertainment expenses. Both were withdrawn directly from the bank using checks he'd personally written—there was no possibility of receiving counterfeit currency through that channel. If a fraudulent note had somehow reached his hands, it could only have come as change from some transaction. But the one-yuan circulation note was the largest denomination in common use—it couldn't possibly have been received as change from a larger purchase...
"Strange," Zhang Yu muttered to himself as the rickshaw bumped along the cobblestones. "Where on earth did this fake note come from?"
The early summer sun hammered down on midday Guangzhou with merciless intensity. The streets lay nearly deserted, pedestrians sparse. Even the beggars who owned nothing but the rags on their backs had sought whatever shade they could find. Though in truth, there were no longer any beggars in the Australian-administered sections of Guangzhou. The Police Bureau had instituted what they called "Vagrant Management Protocols"—wanderers and beggars were systematically rounded up and sent to labor centers. Standard operating procedure. Each week, a dedicated transport vessel departed for the "Labor Purification Camp" established in Hong Kong.
Zeng Juan, Tax Administrator for the Great Song Guangzhou Special City Finance and Taxation Bureau, strode through the heat with his team, drawing murmurs from the shop assistants idling in doorways. "These Australians are truly merciless to their subordinates," the whispers went. "Such weather, and they permit neither rest nor even a sedan chair. What's the point of becoming a Senate official if this is the treatment?"
Swiping at the sweat streaming toward his eyes, Zeng Juan unconsciously raised the document folder in his right hand, fanning himself twice. The satchel he carried was surprisingly light, containing only a handful of receipts and declaration copies. These few documents represented his primary target for today's household investigation: Master Luo's Noble Gathering establishment.
Following Huang Ping's transfer at the year's beginning, Zeng Juan had served as acting team leader while maintaining his official title of deputy. Then, in the month after successfully concluding the first quarter's collection work, he'd been formally appointed team leader. The promotion was simultaneously unexpected and entirely reasonable. Unexpected because Zeng Juan remained a new civil servant and a traditional scholar—yet here he was, elevated to a team leader position that had been almost exclusively monopolized by Lingao naturalized citizens, and in barely half a year at that. Such rapid advancement was rare. Yet it was also reasonable: given the Australian obsession with measurable performance, and with Zeng Juan ranking in the top three for both the restoration examination and the first quarter's business assessment, combined with his existing seniority as deputy team leader, his appointment to the position was hardly outlandish.
(End of Chapter)