Chapter 635: Hypocrisy

The current Wu Songkou is no ordinary hub; because the dock area was bombed, all cargo ships traveling to Shanghai now anchor offshore. Smaller vessels can enter the Huangpu River to unload, but larger ones must wait outside. Crew supplies are delivered by small boats, and cargo is offloaded in endless, ant-like waves and transported back to shore. The port itself is also being rebuilt, staffed entirely by cheaply hired Chinese laborers and prisoners of war sent back from the front lines.

Thus, the port at this moment is a spectacular sight: the shore teems with people, and the sea is densely packed with countless small boats. Workers wear coarse linen sweatshirts, their muscular chests exposed, sweating profusely as they haul cargo back and forth, loading it onto trucks and sending it to the North Station.

Aside from those working for the Japanese, all other dockworkers and crew transporting goods have essentially had a holiday lately. With so much work to do, all the bosses have quietly raised prices to get cargo ashore faster. Added to this, the Qingbang thugs guarding the docks—the so-called dockworkers' union—have mediated everything, achieving a win-win situation.

There is no beautiful seascape to be seen, only a dense array of large cargo ships and small freighters bobbing with the waves, their shouted commands drifting over the slightly fishy sea breeze. Along the shore stand many makeshift shacks, and vendors sell snacks and cold drinks. Trucks, sedans, donkey carts, and rickshaws come and go, and people hurry along.

It is a simple, bustling scene; were it not for the Japanese military police carrying Type 38 rifles maintaining order, one would never guess this was a time of national crisis.

They also have an office onshore, responsible for organizing laborers and coordinating with the docks. After Wang Yan gave instructions, a small boat immediately set out to sea—they were specially dispatched to retrieve the magazines.

Sixty li by land, under current transportation conditions, is not fast. But Wang Yan, wanting to enjoy himself, sat with Qi Si at a clean food stall among the vendors, eating their greasy and heavy dishes.

People coming and going at the docks span all social classes; thus, although the laborers rarely splurge on meat, the vendors still prepare it. After all, the junior managers, the union thugs, and the company representatives can afford meat, and their earnings here are quite substantial.

Yet there are still various extortions, occasional bullying and exclusion; even after exhausting labor, they barely save any money—just barely scraping by at hukou.

Even in such a crude environment, Wang Yan ordered a full table, had his men bring over newly arrived foreign liquor, and ate outdoors, picking and choosing his food while listening to his subordinate's report.

The retrieval process was long: they had to sail out, locate the separately stored magazines and journals, laboriously load them onto the boat, and then return. With nothing else to do, Wang Yan took the opportunity to learn about the local situation, identify shortcomings, and understand what problems had arisen.

After several hours, the workers returned in their small boat from the ship mountain, and Wang Yan saw the dense, tightly packed blocks of scientific magazines and journals. From 1920 to now, eighteen years' worth of most major journals and many lesser-known ones, covering every conceivable subject, amounted to an enormous volume—filling half the small boat.

He pulled out a magazine and flipped through it, nodding in satisfaction, then ordered his men to bring a truck to load the entire pile of knowledge and transport it back to the Wang Tianyue Gongguan.

Having obtained what he needed, Wang Yan no longer lingered aimlessly; he followed the delivery truck back into the city.

He arrived slowly, and the return trip was no faster. By the time they reached the French Concession, it was already night. It was nearly May, the temperature rising, the air growing hot. Even without rain, the streets still teemed with pedestrians. In alleys and lanes, adults chatted idly, and bare-chested children ran about, seeking the cool of night.

"Big Brother Yan, where are we eating?" After crossing the Suzhou River into the International Settlement, weaving through the slightly crowded roads, Qi Si slowed the car, calmly avoiding pedestrians, driving leisurely.

Wang Yan thought for a moment and said: "Let's go eat some barbecue at Fan San's. The weather's stifling, I've got no appetite—barbecue and beer will do fine."

Barbecue has ancient roots, beginning as soon as humans learned to use fire. After thousands of years of development, it has become increasingly refined. Though separated by eighty years, today's barbecue differs little from the future—only fewer varieties and fewer options.

But at this time, celebrities still disliked eating barbecue; even when they did, it was typically Western-style: private gatherings with grilled chops and cold buffets—not skewered meat roasted over charcoal. They certainly wouldn't eat at small roadside stalls.

Fan San, as his name suggests, is the third son in his family. A robust man in his forties, honest and simple-minded, he makes excellent barbecue with real skill and keeps things clean. His patrons are mostly decent local residents or reckless petty thugs with loose wallets.

But Fan San is no one important, and has no connection to Wang Yan. They came here because Shi Changxing recommended him, saying the boss was good-natured and the food delicious. Wang Yan had eaten here twice and even offered suggestions. Fan San's business thrived, and with Wang Yan dining here, it was an implicit endorsement, reducing many extortions and troubles—his life improved steadily.

As a Qingbang elder and Shanghai tycoon, Wang Yan's love of fine food is well known; after all, every meal he orders fills an entire table—he takes a bite here, a bite there, and gives the rest to beggars, constantly seeking new restaurants. He's become the de facto barometer of Shanghai's dining scene.

If Wang Yan eats from start to finish at a restaurant, it means the cooking is acceptable—not bad. If he returns a second time, the food is excellent. But while his greed, lust, and cowardice are widely known, his love of food is far less conspicuous.

Any restaurant he visits twice is left alone by others; even if disturbed, they dare not go too far. No one knows if Wang Yan will return a third time—if he's eating and the owner suddenly kneels before him to complain, those people will die horribly. To shut down the restaurant? Even more dangerous: if a restaurant Wang Dashan loves is destroyed, and he's deprived of his pleasure, those without protection had better flee quickly—Shanghai will have no place for them.

Fan San's barbecue stall is on West Aixiansi Road; the storefront is small, and most patrons eat outdoors or buy skewers to take home.

It's dinnertime now. Fan San, wearing a sleeveless sweatshirt, has a towel draped around his neck as he works the grill. His wife prepares cold dishes inside; his two daughters and a teenage son rush about serving tea, water, and food to customers. This family of five, in such an era, is one of the rare ones busily hoping for a better life.

When Wang Yan got out of the car, he saw this scene. He smiled, watching Fan San bow and scrape, then took two freshly grilled lamb skewers from the grill, handed one to Qi Si, and bit into his: "I've said it before, Old Fan—no need for that servant's posture. It makes it look like I'm bullying your family."

"It's all thanks to your patronage—it's only right, only right." Fan San, simple and unskilled in speech, remained earnest even while running his stall.

Wang Yan didn't press him, turning to Qi Si behind: "Go, send all these people away—their bill is on us. I bet the beggars will smell this and come soon—hand out the food to them."

"Got it." Qi Si nodded, turning to the diners outside and bowing: "Sorry, everyone—please take your food and leave. Tonight, all of Fan San's skewers are on Wang the Inspector."

Wang Yan ignored the onlookers' expressions, ruffled the head of Fan San's young son, who stared wide-eyed and fearful, then sat down by the window inside. The window was open; though still a bit stuffy, it was bearable. After all, there were still few tall buildings then, and evening breezes still blew into the city.

As Wang Yan predicted, barely had he started eating when a group of beggars appeared across the street. Not because they had superior intelligence, but because they memorized his license plate—when they saw his car at mealtime, they notified each other and followed. Though tiring, it was worth it: who else left such rich scraps?

Qi Si waved them over. Except for what was served inside to Wang Yan, the children ate right there, but never forgot to save some to take home for others. This group of beggars had learned the value of unity and maintained order even after Qi Si left.

Though busy, Fan San beamed—he loved when Wang the Inspector came to eat. It guaranteed protection from harassment, yes, but also meant his midnight stock sold out quickly, letting him go home early. His wife and children didn't have to work so hard—serving one table was nothing compared to serving a crowd.

Wang Yan sat by the window, munching skewers and drinking, watching the beggars line up to receive hot, fragrant lamb skewers from Qi Si, then retreat to chew contentedly, blowing out steam.

At that moment, a sedan pulled up across the street. A man jumped out from the passenger seat, scurried to the rear, and opened the door. Out stepped Wang Manchun: her makeup flawless, lips crimson, dressed in a greenish-yellow qipao, hair pinned high, a necklace of jewels dangling over her ample chest, red high heels accentuating her slender figure. She glided toward Fan San's stall, her gaze casually sweeping over the stunned beggars and Qi Si, who scowled and looked away. Smiling, she entered the stall and sat directly across from Wang Yan.

This flamboyant woman was, of course, Wang Manchun. She often appeared at dinnertime, always knowing where Wang Yan was.

She looked around with clear disdain: "I never thought, Wang the Great Inspector, you'd frequent such a shabby place?"

"As long as it tastes good. I go to expensive places because their cooking is excellent. But many talented people hide in unassuming spots—don't underestimate the world. Try this—it's delicious."

Wang Manchun took a skewer, bit into it, said nothing, then asked: "Before, these beggars waited across the street. Why are they gathered right by the grill now?"

"So they can eat something hot."

"So you're being charitable?"

Wang Manchun sneered. Anyone who survived in Shanghai wasn't simple. Especially Wang Yan—he'd risen to tycoon status, and his ascent surely left many dead.

She knew these beggars well; there were no coincidences. These children had consistently scavenged Wang Yan's leftovers, and she'd investigated. She learned Wang Yan's reputation for extravagance made scavenging fiercely competitive—this group had fought for their position, and their leader was Qi Si.

They also investigated Qi Si. Later, they discovered that since the wiretap incident, when Qi Si became Wang Yan's attendant, his reputation among the beggars had collapsed. Many boys despised his betrayal. After repeated checks, they confirmed Qi Si had merely stumbled upon the anomaly by accident—and dropped the matter.

Wang Yan shook his head: "I've done too many bad things. I'm accumulating some merit, so when I die and face the King of Hell, I'll have something to say—won't be tortured. I'm terrified of pain."

Wang Manchun scoffed: "Coward. Afraid while alive, afraid even after death. You'll never amount to anything."

"You're wrong—if I could really live like this my whole life, I'd be delighted."

"Since you're thinking of charity and you're not short on money, why not open an orphanage or foundling home? Take these beggars in. Give them shelter, education. You have companies—they can work for you when they grow up. That's far more meritorious than giving scraps. You'd even earn the title 'Wang Dashan'—how wonderful."

Wang Manchun was long accustomed to Wang Yan's lack of ambition. Though offering advice, her eyes sparkled with mockery.

Wang Yan shook his head vigorously: "That would cost too much. What else couldn't I do with that money? Giving them scraps is already generous enough."

It wasn't that he didn't want to, or didn't care for these beggars—he simply knew where to spend money, where to find value. The current environment didn't permit an orphanage. Once established, gathering so many children would make them vulnerable—if disaster struck, they'd die faster.

Also, feeding, clothing, and housing them cost a fortune. He could save a hundred, five hundred, even a thousand children—but what good would that do? Are there only a thousand beggar children in Shanghai? Obviously not. That same sum could buy weapons, ammunition, and medicine for the front lines, letting soldiers kill more, recover from wounds, and return as experienced veterans. Which was more important? The choice was clear.

Just as in some peaceful modern worlds, he only ever supported children's charity—the dying elderly held no value; growing children were hope. Here, saving these children had little impact; the lives of soldiers on the front and the stability of the Soviet market were what mattered.

Ignoring Wang Manchun's mocking gaze, he said shamelessly: "Doing good isn't for fame—it's for peace of mind. I've already found peace. No need to waste money on these brats. Besides, they're no saints—they survive on my scraps, and without them, they'd still survive. They don't need my pity."

"You're hypocritical."

"Take it as a compliment." Wang Yan laughed, placing two skewers before her: "These are good too—try them."

The two chatted intermittently, eating skewers. Mostly, Wang Manchun talked to fill silence; Wang Yan merely grunted in response.

After a while, Wang Manchun asked: "I heard you were seen at the Wu Songkou dock—what were you doing there?"

"Earlier, I asked Ai Ge to find some scientific magazines and journals. Today they arrived—I went to retrieve them. Also, I needed to clear my head. The Japanese scared me badly—thinking back, I'm still terrified. I was so close—just a hair's breadth from losing my life."

Because of the earlier undercover incident, the Japanese had no right to search these British, French, and American goods, so they could only watch at the docks. Wang Yan rarely went to Wusongkou, but this time not only did he go, he personally arranged a batch of goods and sent them back to the Wang mansion. The Japanese were rather sensitive, so it was normal to inquire about it.

This time Wang Manchun did not mock him again, because she had already made fun of him before. And although she was reluctant to admit it, she really did quite enjoy Wang Yan staying honestly at home playing the cuckold. Over the past month, she and Wang Yan had basically met every two days, and their relationship had grown much more intimate. She enjoyed it very much.

She frowned and asked: "Science magazines? I haven't heard you have that hobby? Can you even understand them?"

"Just want to get a sense of it, really. As long as I can read the characters, there's no need to actually understand. The main thing is to see if I can spot any business opportunities in them. The Japanese are powerful now, and I think this concession is bound to fall one day. When that time comes, who knows what the Japanese will say. Better to prepare early. I plan to open a factory, produce some novel things, so in the future I won't just be sitting around eating through my savings — I'll have some room to maneuver.

"Even if I don't understand, Shanghai has several universities. Although a lot of people were scared off by the Japanese, there are still students around. If I don't understand something, I just find them and have them explain it to me — who'd dare not come?"

"Preparing for a rainy day — not bad!" Wang Manchun laughed: "After you've looked through them, when will you let me have a look too?"

"Is there any need for that?" Wang Yan frowned: "I haven't thrown in with the Kuomintang, I haven't thrown in with the Reds, and I haven't opposed the Japanese. Do they think this Wang Mou is a pushover? Do they really think I'm that easy to bully?"

"The Japanese value you highly. Besides, you've been performing well lately — you've provided quite a bit of valuable intelligence before, and they're fairly satisfied with you. How could they possibly target you like that? It's me who wants to look. What, I'm not allowed to learn some advanced knowledge?"

"There are quite a few. When I get back I'll sort them out and see what they are, then have someone send some over to you. Just send them back when you're done reading. I really need to study them carefully and see if I can spot any business opportunities. Alright, hurry up and eat. It's a good thing I didn't see you — now that I have, my mind's wandering a bit. Your outfit today is very charming."

Wang Manchun gazed at him with a seductive look, stuck out her pink tongue, and licked the seasoning sprinkled on the meat skewer from the corner of her lips...