Chapter 1415 - The Treasurer
Mr. Lando opened his cipher cylinder—one of the few mechanical products Lingao imported from Europe. The Foreign Intelligence Bureau and the Political Security Bureau were its main users. Inside Lando's cylinder were a codebook written on thin paper and tablets of secret-writing chemicals.
Just as he began to spread out paper and write a bland, ordinary business letter, he suddenly remembered something:
"What? A Portuguese ship?"
"Yes, there's one Portuguese ship."
"Tomorrow, try to find out who the owner is and what cargo it's carrying."
Vince Lando did not maintain his dandy-ish pose for long. One day, Colonial Treasurer Sebastián Andrade was ordered to inspect the commercial tax collection in the Parian district. When he accepted the suggestion of Juan Aguilar, the Parian district chief, to visit a tavern to observe local conditions—and incidentally discuss expenditure of the Chinese community's public fund—the Count of Fananovoua happened to be coming out.
He was dressed like a sailor in a spotless white shirt of fine Dutch linen, collar open, holding a Manila straw hat that, though refined, was far less flamboyant than a plumed wide-brimmed hat. Only his riding breeches did not follow European fashion—rather than being tied to the shirttails with ribbons and laces, they were cinched tightly at the waist with a water-buffalo leather belt. The gold buckle was carved in the shape of a roaring lion. His tall leather boots were polished to a shine, and there was, of course, the jewel-encrusted saber that never left his side.
This half-baked attire made the treasurer realize that the Count was first and foremost a military man, second a wealthy military man, and only lastly a counterfeit nobleman.
And military men—or soldiers—in the eyes of Andrade, who had studied philosophy and Latin at the University of Alcalá and dreamed of becoming a court scholar but had been sent to a remote colony as an inspector, were synonymous with drunkards, idiots, and bandits. Perhaps the Count was no idiot, but at the moment he certainly reeked of wine and exuded a bandit's ferocity.
A short, slightly hunchbacked Chinese man followed the Count out of the tavern and disappeared around a corner in the blink of an eye. Andrade did not pay much attention to the fellow because the contrast between the Count's current image and his usual fastidious appearance was too striking and drew too much attention—and because the Count was now greeting his party.
"Ah, well, it must be God's arrangement." Vince waved the straw hat in his hand and walked toward the group. The Spaniards sat in sedan chairs with awnings, carried by Chinese coolies. Two Chinese men walked in front, bowing and scraping obsequiously to Andrade and Aguilar. Vince recognized them as the Huang brothers—Huang Jian and Huang Xiang—both devout Catholic Chinese merchants, and also the Chinese community's management official and secretary appointed by the colonial government.
"I have just concluded a deal with a respectable Chinese gentleman. He has agreed to provide three hundred Japanese muskets for my men, at only half the price of Señor Joäo de Cruz (Note 1). Gentlemen, please come and toast my good fortune."
The Count's beaming smile made Andrade rather uncomfortable; he seemed to be using his smiling mask to conceal some kind of mockery. If the treasurer had known that this grinning expression was Vince's imitation of Jimmy Carter, he might have mocked his efforts. But if he had known that the fake count's conversation in this tavern just a minute earlier had been with an informant, gathering intelligence and plotting against the colonial authorities, he would certainly have praised his acting skills.
Though he fancied himself the James Bond of the seventeenth century, the former mercenary's month-long efforts on the intelligence front had yielded only a few informants willing to provide information—petty merchants, sailors, and low-level employees running errands for colonial institutions. These people were of low status, all Chinese residents or mixed-race locals, and could only provide general information of limited value. Nevertheless, Vince was well aware that if his activities were exposed to the colonial officials, there would certainly be no good outcome. He pondered who among his subordinates or agents he should arrange to meet with the informants in the future. At the same time, he continued to smile and observe. The glances and hesitant expressions exchanged between the two Spaniards showed that his appearance and invitation had caught them off guard.
Sure enough, the district chief pleaded that he still had to inspect the Parian prison. He thanked the Count for his kindness but departed with a disgruntled expression. The treasurer, for his part, sincerely said that he had to return to the city at once because Governor Salamanca was waiting in his residence for his report.
"Then please do me the honor of using my carriage. As for the sedan chair—that is the product of several thousand years of stagnant Eastern life. They love this cradle-like mode of conveyance, and so they do not value heroes. Their adult men are as timid and childish as infants, and they are destined to be conquered. As you know, Caesar stood on wheels to win all of Rome, whereas Atahualpa sat in his litter and lost his empire."
Having delivered this strange speech, the Count turned around and whistled. Two pairs of black horses with white star markings on their foreheads drew a four-wheeled carriage slowly toward them and stopped. Andrade was flabbergasted. He forgot even to decline. His feet seemed nailed to the ground as his eyes roved back and forth over the red carriage with its gold trim, then gazed greedily at the four spirited, elegant draft horses and their silver-gleaming harnesses. By the time the Count signaled Shrek to help Andrade up the velvet-covered running board, he was still in a daze.
The slam of the carriage door snapped the treasurer out of it. The Count's black slave jumped onto the back of the carriage and took his position. The coachman took up the reins and the carriage began to move slowly forward. Andrade reached out to stroke the gleaming satin of the sofa seat—this was the finest Nanjing satin! Then he gazed at the interior panels decorated with cloisonné, the sheer curtains, and like a curious child, he imitated the Count and turned the handle to raise and lower the glass window.
"Your Lordship, people know you only as a man who became wealthy through good fortune." Andrade sighed. "But now I must change my view. If one is merely wealthy, no matter how great the sum, it would not be enough to let a person live like a Neapolitan prince in this godforsaken corner of the earth. Perhaps it takes some kind of magic or sorcery to accomplish that."
"Be careful, Mr. Treasurer. You are about to describe me as a sorcerer. I hope the Inquisition has not yet established itself in Manila, or I should be most unjustly treated."
"Please forgive me, Your Lordship. I do not consider myself ignorant. Such horses are mentioned by name in the chronicles of Alexander's campaigns. The princes of India are willing to exchange gems and gold to make them their mounts. Don Esteban SantafrĂa wished to buy a pair of such fine horses to match his carriage; he offered up to a thousand pistoles, and still no one was willing to sell. As for estimating the value of such a carriage—"
"Hold on, Your Excellency." Vince interrupted Andrade, opened a hidden compartment in the paneling, and took out a small, exquisite silver box. Inside, cushioned with velvet, were four carved goblets and a bottle. "No matter how much I paid for my carriage and horses, please tell me—did that sum diminish their beauty?"
"No, it did not. I merely wished to point out—" Andrade took a sip of rum and immediately began coughing. "Good heavens, this liquor is potent."
"Don Esteban SantafrĂa. The name you mentioned tells me he must be a thoroughbred nobleman. I imagine this gentleman should be ranked among Manila's first-class gentlemen."
"Your Lordship, your question will receive a Pyrrhonist (Note 2) answer: yes and no. Señor SantafrĂa is a first-class rich man. Without that premise, he is no gentleman, let alone a thoroughbred nobleman."
"Please elaborate."
"You must have heard," after several glasses of rum, the atmosphere of mingled politeness and wariness had completely evaporated. Andrade comfortably leaned his head against the back of the sofa, his enthusiasm for conversation growing ever greater. "The Philippines is praised as a pearl granted by God to our sovereign, yet all who are drawn by its luster are penniless dreamers of fortune, people so destitute they cannot even make a living in New Spain. Señor SantafrĂa was such a man when he was young, but he quickly got his hands on money in Manila. They say he won a large sum from a Chinese rich man at dice—though there is better reason to believe he robbed it. He was a 'volunteer' during the Chinese uprising thirty years ago." A smile appeared on the treasurer's face.
Lando understood the meaning of that smile—the so-called volunteers of that era were a gang of bandits who received no military pay whatsoever; all their expenses and supplies came from looting.
After that, Señor SantafrĂa made several successful speculations. In particular, he had married a wealthy widow, and after she quickly "died of illness," his fortune finally accumulated enough to buy a "Don" to put before his name as proof of noble lineage. Soon he began showing up at the homes of Manila's grandees, and his wealth rolled in.
Vince continued to refill the treasurer's glass. Experience had proven that whether with Chinese, Japanese, or Spanish, if he could get them to drink a bottle, things would go much more smoothly.
"I suspect the gentleman you speak of did not spend very much on that 'Don'—no more than the pittance he offered for the horses he fancied. You see, the grandees of the East despise us sword-wielding barbarians. Their most prized possessions are fine horses and beautiful women, and stocking one's stables costs far more than stocking one's harem. For Señor SantafrĂa to offer only a mere thousand pistoles for two of the finest Marwari horses is really beneath the dignity of a first-class rich man."
Note 1: One of the founders of the Macao cannon foundry.
Note 2: A philosopher of the ancient Greek school of skepticism.