Chapter 1209 - A Marriage Across the Pacific
"This is territory under the rule of the Australian Senate." Mendoza avoided elaborating further. "Now tell me about yourself. Who are you, and why have you crossed the ocean to Manila?"
Doña Marina de Arellano had nothing to hide. She was the illegitimate daughter of the Spanish nobleman Gonzalo de Arellano, born in Spain.
Her mother had been of humble birth but greatly favored—she was her father's "kept woman." Her father had acknowledged her. Thus in childhood she had been permitted to accompany him when he took up a post in New Spain, arriving in Mexico City and entering a convent to complete her pre-marital education.
As an illegitimate child, she had no legal claim as a legitimate heir. But illegitimate children of the nobility—especially acknowledged ones—were far better situated than commoners. Many high officials and nobles could trace their ancestry back to royal or noble bastards.
Doña Marina de Arellano had received the same education as a nobleman's legitimate daughter. She had grown up in Mexico City until the age of eighteen. Only at the start of this year had her father taken her from the convent to arrange her marriage—which was why she had boarded the Manila Galleon bound for the Philippines.
"Marriage?" Miss Mendoza was taken aback. "To whom?"
"I only know he is a remarkable gentleman," Marina said. "I've forgotten his name—it was very long and complicated."
"You don't even know his name," Mendoza could hardly believe her ears, "and you're prepared to marry him?"
Marina didn't seem to find this unusual. "The Governor of the Philippines, His Excellency de Tavora, made the match," she said proudly.
"So you boarded the Manila Galleon, crossed the Pacific Ocean, and are traveling to the Philippines to marry a man you've never met?" Diana Mendoza's voice rose involuntarily.
"A gentleman," Miss Marina corrected. "Though he hasn't yet received a formal title, His Excellency the Governor has already submitted a report to His Majesty's Privy Council—he will have a brilliant future."
Mendoza simply couldn't accept such a view of marriage, but transmitting twenty-first century ideas about romance wasn't her mission.
"So then, all those magnificent gowns and jewels in the sterncastle—those are your dowry?"
"Yes," Marina nodded. "Not counting the cash, my father prepared a dowry worth five thousand pesos. He also gave me ten thousand pesos in cash."
"Your father is truly wealthy."
"If it were his legitimate daughter marrying, I believe the cash dowry alone would be no less than twenty thousand." Marina didn't mind in the slightest—she seemed to consider it an honor. She studied Mendoza and said proudly: "Besides my father, my fiancé is a person of importance before His Excellency the Governor. I believe that if you send a letter, they will pay a substantial sum to ransom me."
She continued boasting about how her father and her unseen fiancé were so favored by "His Majesty," "His Highness," and "His Excellency," how wealthy they were, how influential. She even hinted that if Mendoza could help secure her release, she might consider helping her escape this "terrible place"—she might even be able to arrange "a suitable position" for her.
By contrast, she showed little interest in where she was or in whose hands she had fallen—none of the intense curiosity most natives displayed upon arriving in Lingao.
Mendoza listened patiently, smiling noncommittally. But inwardly she grew increasingly uncomfortable. She had always felt there were more than enough "cultural differences" between herself and Zhou Weisen and the other transmigrators—she had always felt somewhat out of place in Lingao. Yet listening to Marina, she realized the gap between them was no longer merely "cultural differences"—it was as if they lived on different planets.
The newly completed Education Department auditorium was the most imposing building in the Fangcaodi teaching complex, capable of holding five hundred people. Besides meetings, its stage facilities were adequate for cultural performances—far superior to the completely open-air Bairren Cinema.
Hu Qingbai was quite pleased with himself over this achievement—he had expended considerable effort to secure it, aided by the "education first" banner. But in Jiang Shan's view, entrusting the auditorium project to Mei Wan's construction company had been a mistake. Those building contractors knew nothing of art or aesthetics. Consequently, the auditorium's exterior resembled one of those Chinese-garden-style-meets-European-theme monstrosities commonly seen in county development zones: a superfluous curved portico tacked onto the front entrance, supported by a row of Doric columns. Neither fish nor fowl.
But if not them, who else could have built it? Hu Qingbai shrugged. It was like their current living conditions: there was simply no alternative.
At the moment, the hardwood bench seats in the auditorium stood empty, the ceiling and wall lamps unlit. Jiang Shan walked toward the brightly-lit stage and sat down in the front row. Choir rehearsal was in progress—in the weeks before the 1632 Annual Hymn Festival, this was the busiest venue, with at least seven or eight amateur choirs from various departments rehearsing here daily.
The stingy Planning Commission and department heads refused to give naturalized workers time off to rehearse, so everyone came during their personal time. But in this timeline with virtually no entertainment, participating in choir rehearsals was quite engaging. Young people especially could meet many new friends—particularly of the opposite sex.
The man Jiang Shan was looking for stood at the conductor's podium, waving his arms up and down, pouring out a stream of half-baked, grammatically mangled Mandarin. The strange accent, interspersed with occasional English and Cantonese phrases, left not only the National School and Military-Political School choir members baffled—even Fang Fei standing by the curtain was thoroughly confused. Finally, the piano accompanist—a female transmigrator in her early thirties with long black hair tied back in a ponytail, tall and slender—rescued the situation. Her voice wasn't loud, but remarkably clear. In just a few sentences she explained the conductor's lengthy discourse perfectly.
Weiss Lando seemed quite satisfied with the explanation and shouted: "Let's take it from the top!" He raised his hand, and piano notes joined the slightly boyish voices of the young men, echoing through the hall like a marching army.
"Heroes, bravely march forward, Do not linger, don't look back. We forsake ease and riches, For our homeland we fight, For our homeland we fight, Victory awaits!" ...
"You shouldn't be doing this here," Jiang Shan said, lighting a cigar. Rehearsal had ended and the choir members had gradually dispersed. Through the window he watched groups of National School students chatting and laughing as they walked toward the dormitories, while Military-Political School cadets quickly assembled on the parade ground and marched off singing toward their quarters. "A spy's principle is never to show his face."
"James Bond gets to attend embassy receptions and go around saying 'My name is Bond.'" Weiss Lando drained half a bottle of kvass in one gulp, smacking his lips with satisfaction. He raised the bottle and gestured forward: "And he always meets beautiful women. You expect those Jesuits to train your choir? Right now Europeans don't even have the concept of a conductor. They'd turn every choir into a church choir."
"James Bond is a fictional character—" Jiang Shan was interrupted by the sound of high heels clicking down the wooden stage stairs. He wondered who it could be—apart from Miss Pei, no female transmigrator would squander precious personal high-heel resources on an informal occasion like this.
"Director Jiang," he had barely turned around when the woman was already before him, bringing with her a scent of carnations. Her voice was soft yet rich, carrying a faint hint of allure: "Thank you for gracing us with your presence at our rehearsal."
Jiang Shan offered a few polite remarks. This woman seemed familiar, yet he couldn't place her name. Surely a beauty like this among the transmigrators would be quite noticeable. Her short blouse was clearly Lingao-produced cotton-linen blend, but the dark sleeveless dress beneath was obviously high-end goods from the pre-transmigration timeline, outlining a perfect feminine silhouette. Jiang Shan glanced at her once, then quickly looked away. Though her face wore a smile, her deep, penetrating eyes were like twin pools, tempting him to dive in and never surface.
The woman extended her hand gracefully: "I'm Liu Shuixin. At the last annual banquet, my husband got drunk and you helped carry him home."
Jiang Shan finally remembered—this captivating married woman before him was Liu Zheng's wife. The head of the Remote Exploration Department. No wonder he was so eager to get an apartment—turns out he was hiding a beauty at home. Through intelligence sharing, Jiang Shan had once secretly accessed portions of the Political Security Bureau's personal files on transmigrators. He had found it strange that a leading performer from a provincial song and dance troupe would abandon everything to follow a rough fellow to the seventeenth-century wilderness. He lightly shook her fingers: "It's getting late. Let me see Mrs. Liu home—the little one must be looking for mama."
Liu Shuixin smiled again, and Jiang Shan hastily avoided her gaze. He was no virgin, no wizard, and had plenty of experience navigating among women without getting entangled. Yet for over a decade he had never felt so unsettled by any woman.
Perhaps it's because I haven't been around such alluring modern women in too long, Jiang Shan thought. I've grown starved for it. Like other transmigrators, he had bought a maid, but having missed out on a good lottery number, he had simply gone with the flow and gotten a C-class one.
"It's fine—Baby is at the nursery." Her voice sounded ever sweeter and more alluring: "I'll take the little train to pick her up—just ten minutes." The "little train" was what naturalized citizens called the Lingao municipal railway; transmigrators had adopted the term as well.
(End of Chapter)