Chapter 94: The Japanese Hate You

The negotiations in Paris went more smoothly than expected.

The French were pragmatic—perhaps because the lead ship of the Courbet-class, the France, had already begun keel-laying in Dubai, and they had tasted the sweetness of it.

Foreign Minister Thomson hosted a banquet on the very day Wang Wenwu arrived, held in the Foreign Ministry's banquet hall—smaller in scale than London's, but far warmer in atmosphere.

"Mr. Wang, how did things go in London?" Thomson asked, seemingly casually, as he raised his glass.

"We reached an understanding," Wang Wenwu said. "Yingguo agreed to lift trade restrictions, and we agreed not to transfer our latest technology to Deguo."

"Smart." Thomson smiled. "The Yingguo have finally learned to be realistic. What about us? After the Courbet-class, what room is there for cooperation?"

"A great deal." Wang Wenwu listed them off: "Faguo's mineral resources in Vietnam and Algeria—we can purchase them long-term. Faguo's optical instruments and precision machinery—we can import them. And of course, more warship orders."

Thomson's eyes lit up. "A new design?"

"Twenty percent more powerful than the Courbet-class, but the price will be higher too." Wang Wenwu dangled the bait. "If Faguo is interested, we can provide the plans."

"Conditions?"

"Two." Wang Wenwu held up his fingers. "First, Faguo's colonies in Southeast Asia must fully open their ports to Lanfang merchant ships. Second, Faguo must support Lanfang's legitimate standing in international venues—no need for formal recognition, but don't vote against us."

Thomson exchanged a glance with the Navy Minister Dubois beside him.

"We can talk," Thomson said. "But we need to see the design plans first."

"You'll see them in due time."

Over the next three days, Wang Wenwu met with twelve groups of people in Paris. Bankers wanted to invest in the Persian Gulf oil fields, industrialists wanted to sell machine tools, and shipyards wanted to take component orders for the Courbet-class—though the ships were built in Dubai, French companies could supply supporting parts.

General Dubois privately invited Wang Wenwu to dinner at a small restaurant on the Left Bank of the Seine.

"Mr. Wang, to be honest," the old general sighed after a few rounds of drinks, "I envy you."

"Envy what?"

"I envy that you can build the Restoration Ship." Dubois said, "The French Navy... was once the finest in Europe. Now we can't even catch up with Deguo. We buy your ships because we can't build them ourselves."

He said this very bluntly, even with a touch of sadness.

Wang Wenwu poured him more wine. "General, technology flows. Today we're ahead; tomorrow it may be Faguo. The key is... to maintain an open and learning mindset."

"Learn?" Dubois gave a bitter smile. "From whom? Yingguo? They guard against us like guarding against thieves. Deguo? They'd love nothing more than for us to stay behind forever. Only you... are willing to sell genuinely advanced technology."

He paused and lowered his voice:

"Mr. Wang, there's something... word in Paris has it that the Russians are in contact with you?"

News traveled fast. Wang Wenwu kept his expression unchanged. "Routine diplomatic contact."

"More than routine." Dubois stared at him. "The Tsar himself invited you, right? Let me remind you—the Russians are unreliable. Today they'll call you brother; tomorrow they'll sell you out for profit. Look at how they treated Qing in the Far East, and how they're treating Japan now."

"Thanks for the reminder."

"Also," Dubois's voice dropped even lower, "if you really do go to Russia, watch out for the Japanese. They have a large number of spies in St. Petersburg, and... they hate you."

"Hate us?"

"You slapped the Dutch in the face in Java, and the Japanese saw it." Dubois said, "They feel that you are Asians, yet you mix with Europeans, and you've even built better warships than they have. This psychology... is very complicated. Most of all, you are·····Chinese!"

Wang Wenwu took note.

The night before leaving Paris, Wang Wenwu met one last person in his hotel room—John Reed, a European correspondent for the American New York Times. A young man in his early thirties, with the sharpness unique to journalists in his eyes.

"Mr. Wang, sorry to disturb you." Reed spoke rapid English. "I just have one question: does Lanfang intend to visit America?"

The question came very suddenly.

Wang Wenwu asked in return: "Why do you ask?"

"Because people in Washington are watching you." Reed was blunt. "The Navy Department, the State Department, even the White House. After photos of the Restoration Ship passing through Suez reached America, they sparked a lot of discussion. Some are worried, some are curious, but everyone wants to know—what does this Chinese nation that suddenly appeared really want?"

"We want to go home," Wang Wenwu said. "Return to the South Ocean and rebuild our country."

"That simple?"

"For a people that has been in exile, that's already hard enough."

Reed stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded. "I believe you. But Americans might not. They're used to ascribing the most complicated motives to others."

He pulled a business card from his bag. "If you really want to go to America, call this number. I can help you reach the people you need to reach."

Wang Wenwu took the card. "Why are you helping us, Mr. Reed?"

"Because I hate imperialism." Reed said it cleanly. "Yingguo, Faguo, Deguo, Russia, Japan... they're all carving up the world. Now a challenger has suddenly appeared, and one that's been oppressed at that. This story... is wonderful."

He stood up and put on his hat:

"Mr. Wang, history is written by the winners. But if the losers can also make their voices heard, history will be more truthful. I hope Lanfang can make its voice heard."

He left.

Wang Wenwu looked at the card in his hand, the New York address and phone number. The other side of the world was watching too.

The special train from Paris to St. Petersburg took three days.

The farther east they went, the gloomier the weather became. When they left Deguo and entered Poland, the June sunlight vanished, and lead-gray clouds pressed low. After crossing into Russia, the landscape grew even more desolate—vast forests and swamps, with the occasional village of wooden houses, their roofs crooked.

Li Mingyuan looked out the window and said quietly: "This place... is more desolate than the Persian Gulf desert."

"But underground there's oil, minerals, and forests," Wang Wenwu said. "Russia is a giant holding a golden bowl, begging for food."

The train stopped overnight in Vilno, changed locomotives, and added cars—the Russians sent a Foreign Ministry official and a translator to accompany them, nominally to "assist," but in reality to monitor.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, the train finally pulled into St. Petersburg.

This capital city, built by Peter the Great, spread out at the mouth of the Neva. The domes of the Winter Palace gleamed with gold, and the spire of the Admiralty building pierced the sky, but pedestrians were sparse on the streets, and carriages splashed muddy water as they passed—St. Petersburg was built on swampland, forever damp.