Chapter 1502 - Employment Agency

"Look—another country bumpkin standing there gawking..."

The words drifted carelessly to his ears. Lin Ming might have ignored them, but then he realized several pairs of eyes were fixed on him. Turning, he spotted three or four children licking candies on sticks, giggling and pointing in his direction. His face flushed with indignation. Though he lived in Foshan, that was one of the "Four Great Towns of the Realm," rivaling the provincial capital in prosperity. He himself was a "man of fashion," versed in poetry, wine, and chess—if not famous throughout Guangdong, at least a minor celebrity in the prefecture. Now he was being treated as a "country bumpkin" by a handful of children!

Seeing he had noticed them, the children scattered at once. Lin Ming realized he had been behaving in an unseemly manner and quickly coughed to compose himself before resuming his leisurely stroll. East Gate Market's prosperity came as no surprise—Foshan had plenty of bustling streets like this. What left a deeper impression was the excellent order here, the spotless streets, and the distinctly "exotic ambiance" of the architecture.

Lin Ming surveyed his surroundings until he stopped before a shopfront bearing the sign "People's Employment Agency."

He had learned in advance that these so-called employment agencies were the Cropped-Hairs' version of "recommendation brokers." The Cropped-Hairs involved themselves in virtually everything—even the recommendation brokers were government-run.

No doubt the Cropped-Hairs are burdened with bloated bureaucracy, Lin Ming thought. Just like the Song.

Though Lin Ming was a hereditary military officer, he had done his share of reading. The Cropped-Hairs' claim to be Song descendants was something he took note of. Though he thought it mere pretense, he could not help making comparisons.

The shop was not particularly crowded—a few people stood or squatted about, chatting, eating, or dozing against the wall. Some even carried bedrolls. Behind a row of wooden counters sat clerks dressed uniformly in Cropped-Hair official attire. Above each person's head hung a wooden sign with labels Lin Ming could barely decipher: "Job Registration," "Employer Registration," "Certification"... Along the wall stretched a massive blackboard covered in dense columns of white chalk writing. On closer inspection, these were all job postings, subdivided by category: "Commercial Work," "Carpenters," "Clerks," "Laborers," "Industrial Trainees"...

Though the text was all vernacular and in simplified characters, the vocabulary was largely the Cropped-Hairs' "New Speech," quite different from ordinary vernacular. Apart from "Carpenter" and "Laborer," the rest he could only guess at from context.

He craned his neck to scan the board. The largest demand was for "General Workers," "Farm Workers," and "Industrial Trainees." Lin Ming gathered these were all manual labor. If he took such a job, he would have no energy left to search for his sister-in-law or gather intelligence on the Cropped-Hairs—he had not come to Lingao to toil in their fields.

Best to find something light that would allow him to move about freely. He surveyed the board until he found a suitable posting: a shop in East Gate Market seeking a "clerk."

A "clerk" merely meant copying and writing—well within Lin Ming's capabilities. He hurried to the nearest counter and called out, "Sir..."

The man behind the counter was young but carried an air of weary disdain. Despite his shaven head and new clothes, he still reeked of a down-at-heel scholar. He coughed and drawled, "Don't call me 'sir.' Call me 'comrade.' What is it?"

"Yes, comrade..." Lin Ming found the address absurd—neither the Zizhi Tongjian nor the History of Song mentioned any such term. "I would like that job—" Unable to recognize the Arabic numerals, he could only point.

But the other did not even glance where he indicated, asking without looking up, "Do you have an employment certificate?"

"Employment certificate?"

"No? Then go to Window Number One and apply for one first. Next!" The false Cropped-Hair dispatched him crisply and moved on. Lin Ming hurried to the counter marked "Number One" and "Job Registration." Here sat a middle-aged woman official, rather more amiable:

"Hand over your identity certificate. Literate? Then fill out this form yourself."

Under the woman's guidance, Lin Ming registered his identity certificate and signed paper after paper. At last, he received an "employment certificate" and an employment contract. He could not help but shake his head wryly—here, everything required documents...

"Since you're literate, I suggest you sit for the Class-C Diploma. Without a certified education level, you'll only count as 'literate,' and employment opportunities are very limited." The woman official proved helpful, explaining the examination process. Due to the surge in migrants, the Class-C Diploma examination had increased from once every three months to once monthly.

Lin Ming demurred vaguely. Though he did not know precisely what a Class-C Diploma was, he understood from the conversation that this was a Cropped-Hair examination. Passing it would earn a "diploma"—much like a "degree." If he participated in a "false examination," it would become a major "stain" on his record. If word got out, he could forget about his hereditary centurion post.

The agency only "introduced" candidates; whether "Haixing Store" actually hired Lin Ming was for its manager to decide. The agency simply instructed him to go for an "interview" at the shop.

"You say you can read and reckon, so it should be fine. If you're hired, have the manager stamp this form and bring it back to register. If not, come back anyway to register, and we'll find you work. Understand?" the official reminded him.

"Yes, I understand. Thank you, comrade."

Having concluded the employment matter, Lin Ming asked another clerk to recommend a long-term-stay inn. "Weimin Inn," she suggested—also government-run, specifically serving new self-directed migrants. It was located in the alley directly behind the agency. Out the back door—practically next door.

Following the official's directions, Lin Ming walked halfway down the lane before spotting a three-story red-brick building. Its exterior was plain—a rectangular box. The walls, however, had many windows, all fitted with glass. Such "extravagance" no longer stirred Lin Ming; in Lingao, glass was the most common of things.

A large doorway stood atop three stone steps. Above it hung a plaque with white letters on black: "Weimin Inn."

The door stood open. As Lin Ming stepped inside, a complex odor struck him—a peculiar blend of tobacco, grain spirits, sweat, and ragged clothing. Such odors were common in cheap inns. But here, mixed into it was a sharp, pungent smell—disinfectant.

The lobby was well-lit. Behind the front desk sat another blue-clad woman official, surrounded by thick guest registers. Behind her, a large board bristled with keys. On the wall beside it hung a horizontal notice: "No entry without identity certificate!" Below it was a woodblock print in black and white depicting several "public servant" Cropped-Hairs seizing a shifty-eyed man in Ming attire, a shaft of white light upon him and a caption in the beam: "Guard against spies!"

Lin Ming's whole body shuddered at the sight. He steadied his nerves, produced his identity certificate, and approached the counter to register.

"Dormitory bunk or private room?" the woman asked after recording his certificate.

Lin Ming hesitated. "May I see them first?"

"Of course. First and second floors are dormitories; third floor is private rooms. Private rooms cost a bit more."

The first and second floors consisted of long dormitory halls lined with double-decker bunks—ten beds per room, sleeping twenty. Lockers stood against the wall, one per person, for storing luggage and belongings.

Though the rooms held many beds, the windows were large, the ceilings high, and ventilation good. Despite the number of occupants, the smell was tolerable.

It was daytime, so most workers were out, though a few shift workers slept. Each bunk had a curtain; when pulled closed, it formed a private space.

The walls displayed large painted characters reading "Quiet," along with numerous posters. Lin Ming did not bother to examine them. One glance told him the dormitory was unsuitable—not because conditions were poor, but because he needed to arrange rescues in Lingao without his every move being watched. The Cropped-Hairs reportedly had spies everywhere; who knew if some of these lodgers might be their eyes and ears?

"I'll take a private room..."

"Very well, follow me upstairs."

The third-floor rooms were tiny. A single bed occupied a third of the floor space; a desk, chair, and wardrobe of the simplest design completed the furnishings. The ceiling was low—the third floor was really a "second-and-a-half." But the window was bright, and everything appeared clean and orderly.

"This will do." Lin Ming noticed that one could climb out the window onto the roof of an adjacent two-story building—a potential escape route if the need arose. He agreed to rent it, deciding on three days initially. If "Haixing Store" did not provide lodging, he would extend.

"Washroom and toilet are at the end of the corridor. For bathing, use the shower room on the first floor." The woman explained, "Hot water only from six to eight in the morning and evening. Cold water all day."

"Thank you, comrade."

"Don't mention it," she replied matter-of-factly. "Your attire isn't practical for life and work here. I suggest you get a haircut and change your clothes."

"Well..."

"It's no trouble. If you want to eat, turn left out the door; the public canteen is in the second lane. There are street stalls and small eateries there too—all readily available."