newbobooks Chapter 261 Shanghai is still my Shanghai, Chen Zijun's Shanghai
Chapter 261 Shanghai is still my Shanghai, Chen Zijun's Shanghai
I'm drinking with friends today and can't write anything, so I can't update. I'll resume updates tomorrow night.
I'm sorry, please understand!
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When Sun Mengjin first sat at the desk of the Preparatory Committee for the Special Administrative Region of Shanghai, his fingertips were not caressing the official seal, but a Hetian jade abacus bead. It was an item passed down from his father, used to calculate the purchase price of foreign cloth, the shady accounts of opium, and the rise and fall of concession land, but never to calculate how much the word "sovereignty" was worth.
He stared at the "Map of the Shanghai-Songjiang Concession" on the wall. The foreigners' red circles marked the prime location of the Bund, like a noose around Shanghai's neck. When the adjutant sent by Chen Zijun said, "Director Sun, the Young Marshal wants you to take the lead in negotiating extraterritoriality," his first reaction was to reach for the account book in his pocket—how much would this negotiation cost? How many foreigners would he have to entertain? Would he offend his friends in the Municipal Council?
That night, he drank three bottles of whiskey in a private room at the Paramount Ballroom and poured out his grievances to Yu Qiaqing: "Brother Muhan, can't we just do business properly? Why do we have to argue with foreigners about these useless things? Can extraterritoriality feed us? Can it be used to make money?" Yu Qiaqing didn't say anything, but handed him a newspaper. The front page featured Chen Zijun's speech at the groundbreaking ceremony of the Wusongkou Fortress: "The docks in Shanghai cannot only accommodate foreign ships; the laws of Shanghai cannot only govern Chinese people."
Looking at the young commander's face in the newspaper, Sun Mengjin suddenly remembered being slapped by a policeman in the foreign concession ten years ago. At that time, he had just earned his first pot of gold and was wearing a new mandarin jacket, but he was beaten until his mouth bled because he "blocked the foreigner's way." He didn't dare to fight back then, but just smiled and stuffed ten silver dollars into his hand—in his account book, dignity could be measured in silver.
What truly chilled Sun Mengjin was his experience attending a hearing at the Mixed Court in the International Settlement. A Chinese worker had accidentally damaged a foreigner's car and was beaten severely by the police, yet the judge only ordered the worker to pay 500 silver dollars in compensation, saying, "Who told you to be so blind?" Watching the worker's wife kneel on the ground weeping, Sun Mengjin suddenly remembered his own mother—who, to raise money for his tuition, had worked as a maid in a foreign household, only to have her hand scalded with boiling water by the mistress of the house, without even receiving an apology.
As he walked out of the Mixed Court, the sunlight was blinding, yet it chilled him to the bone. He suddenly understood what Chen Zijun meant by "meat on the chopping board"—no matter how much money they, as merchants, made, were nothing more than talking lambs in the eyes of the foreigners. That night, for the first time, he didn't do his accounts; instead, he pulled out an old photograph his father had left behind. In the photo, his father was wearing a long gown, standing on Nanjing Road, with a shop sign behind him that read, "No Chinese or dogs allowed."
The next day, when he went to see Chen Zijun, he didn't bring the account book, only the photograph. "Young Marshal," his voice was a little hoarse, "I've figured it out. Extraterritoriality isn't useless; it's a matter of face for us Chinese. Tell me how to negotiate, and I'll listen to you." Chen Zijun looked at the photograph and patted him on the shoulder: "Boss Sun, we have to earn back Shanghai's face ourselves."
From then on, Sun Mengjin's office had a new map, not a map of the concessions, but a map of the entire territory of China. He began immersing himself in the archives of the Municipal Council, searching for the unequal treaties of that time; he hired three lawyers to study international law; he even humbled himself to visit those patriotic students he had previously looked down upon—"You understand foreign languages and law, help me see how we can reclaim extraterritoriality."