Chapter 1763 - Currency Issuance
At ten o'clock, lights-out sounded on the dot. Soon the forty-man dormitory echoed with a symphony of snoring—after such an exhausting day, everyone was spent. But Li Ziyu couldn't sleep. All his life he'd had a room to himself; he'd never shared quarters with so many others. The snoring, the teeth-grinding, the press of human smells—sleep was impossible.
He went over the day's lessons in his mind. Raising his hand had indeed caught the real kun's attention. When Chief Pan announced that trainees could "raise their hand to ask questions," he'd debated whether to be "the first under heaven to dare." The gamble had paid off. Chief Pan clearly remembered him now.
As long as the real kun Chief remembered him, benefits were bound to follow.
From a neighboring bunk came voices so low they were almost inaudible, whispering. Li Ziyu listened carefully: they were talking about pay. This time, they'd been promised eight dou of rice per month as "rations," but no one had mentioned how much cash.
Guangzhou was a metropolis, the provincial capital, always a hard place to live. Even with fluctuations, a shi of rice never fell below one tael of silver. A city-dweller needed eleven or twelve taels a year just to keep a family fed.
Eight dou a month came to just under one tael of silver. Respectable enough, but nothing exceptional. And since they'd called it only "rations" without mentioning a salary, everyone still harbored hopes.
Li Ziyu silently scoffed at his two classmates' inexperience. A Quick-Class runner on the "official roster" earned only three dou of rations per month; unregistered runners got nothing at all. Did that mean they couldn't support families? On the contrary—they ate and drank lavishly. Since time immemorial, whoever drew a government salary never lived on that salary alone! Besides, the Australians were famous for treating their subordinates generously—even the pay they gave common soldiers far exceeded the Ming's. They certainly wouldn't shortchange the future claws and fangs of the Senatorial Council.
"Come, come, try this—I made it myself. Sweet-and-sour pork ribs!"
In the Senator-only restaurant on the top floor of Guangzhou's Da Shijie, six people sat around a table. The speaker was none other than the newly appointed Mayor Liu Xiang, urging food upon the Director of Policy Planning at the Central Reserve Bank. The two sat across from each other as host and guest. On Liu Xiang's left was Zheng Shangjie, Director of the Guangzhou Bureau of Commerce and Trade; beside her sat Meng Xian. The other two were Zhang Yikun, General Manager of Da Shijie, and Lin Baiguang.
Speaking of pork—even now, Lingao couldn't offer it freely. Though the scale of animal husbandry had grown, so had the population; protein supplies still came mainly from fish, chicken, duck, and eggs. Pork and beef remained luxuries. There was no ration-coupon system, but daily slaughter was still limited. Even Senators had to give advance notice if they wanted top-quality spare-rib tips or streaky belly; otherwise, it might not be available on demand. In Guangzhou, no such restriction existed: live hogs went to slaughter as long as they passed quarantine and showed no pork tapeworm or similar problems, and you could eat to your heart's content. Meng Xian and Zheng Shangjie, having been in Guangzhou a long time, weren't especially excited; the other three, however, rarely got to eat prime rib-tip sweet-and-sour pork. And since Liu Xiang had cooked it himself—face had to be given—so they each picked up a piece and dug in.
Liu Xiang never used star anise in this dish. He followed a 1-2-3-4 ratio: one spoonful of sugar, two of cooking wine, three of vinegar, four of water. Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce to a simmer until the sauce thickens. If the meat was still too chewy, he'd put it in the steamer for another round—in the old timeline, he would have used a pressure cooker to tenderize it, and Lingao had actually produced cast-iron pressure cookers that were popular on the market. But Liu Xiang wasn't confident in their quality and hadn't acquired one. Besides, the Lingao-made cookers were too heavy—over twenty jin—and a chore to use.
The diners all tasted and dutifully complimented the dish. Most went back for seconds; only Chen Ce turned his chopsticks toward other plates—all of them salty or spicy. Clearly, he didn't like sweets. Liu Xiang paid no mind. He bantered about this and that, and the atmosphere grew livelier.
As the banquet drew to a close, all six leaned back in their chairs, patting their bellies—stuffed. Each sipped whatever drink they had ordered: wine for some, tea for others. Chen Ce had first inquired with the kitchen and then ordered a traditional warming, grease-cutting digestive drink favored by Ming-era officials after meals. Discussing business over a banquet was time-honored custom, but Liu Xiang, as an avid foodie and carnivore, despised talking shop while eating. If they had to conduct business at the table, fine—but eat first. Like now.
The life-secretaries cleared away the leftover dishes and cups, laid fresh tablecloths, and brought out the drinks each person had requested.
"The plan for the new-currency issue is finalized, yes? I'm waiting to execute it." Liu Xiang knew why Chen Ce had come to Guangzhou; at last, they were getting down to business.
Chen Ce beckoned, calling over his accompanying bodyguard, who opened an elegant little case.
"These are the sample coins of the new currency."
The lid rose, revealing rows of glittering coins.
At the very top lay a silver bar: rectangular from above, trapezoidal in cross-section. Every surface except the flat top was polished to a mirror sheen. The top face, by some unknown technique, bore several rows of gilt characters. The first read: "Central Reserve Bank of the Senatorial Council." The middle row read: "Vault Silver Ingot Coin-Material Weight One Kilogram." At the bottom was a string of digits: 875-020-8888-0001. Along both short edges ran identical vertical inscriptions: "Not for Circulation."
Those numbers must mean something, Liu Xiang thought. But what use was vault silver that couldn't circulate? He didn't ask, and instead examined the coins below.
Beneath the silver ingot lay three rows of six round disks of varying sizes, fitted into cushioned slots just like the ingot. Each rested on a small silk handkerchief—the handkerchiefs were exquisite, edged in bright-yellow silk thread and embroidered with auspicious patterns radiating toward the center. With the silver coins set in the middle, the effect was like "golden plates holding jade." Pinch a corner of the handkerchief, lift gently, and the coin slips from its slot, falling into your palm for examination.
This coin had a brilliant luster. Thirty-five millimeters in diameter, it felt heavy in the hand. Flicking it with the thumb as if guessing heads or tails sent it humming through the air, vibrating for a long moment.
The obverse bore the Song-style characters "One Yuan," encircled by a wreath of wheat, with "Central Reserve Bank" and the year of issue in Arabic numerals below. The reverse showed the Arabic numeral "1" beneath the Morning Star shining upon a globe. Around the globe ran a ribbon bearing four Latin letters: S.P.Q.M.
The raised rim had been milled—presumably to prevent "shaving."
Tch—not even a Yuan Shikai "Fat Head" or a Wen portrait! Liu Xiang felt cheated of a chance to wisecrack.
The second row held noticeably smaller coins—reduced in diameter, with "Half Yuan" on the obverse and "50" on the reverse. The reverse image was the Holy Ship.
Could they be any lazier? That ship design is already on the cigarette packs! Would it kill them to use a different angle? Liu Xiang scowled and swallowed his critique.
Below that were the 20-fen denomination, even more simplified in design, with slightly lower silver content than the two above.
Chen Ce, watching Liu Xiang "admire" the coins, noted his shifting expressions and smiled. "Actually, aside from the difference in size and weight, these three silver coins also have different silver content. The lower the denomination, the lower the silver content."
"And the highest—the one-yuan?"
"87.5 percent silver," Chen Ce said. "The lowest, the 20-fen, is 60 percent."
In terms of silver purity alone, these qualified as "good money" on the market; acceptance would not be a problem.
Next came banknotes mounted in glass-covered wooden frames. Seven denominations in all: besides paper equivalents of the three silver coins, there were 10-fen, 5-fen, 1-fen, and half-fen notes. Each bore the legend "Finance Province—Central Reserve Bank—Silver Reserve Voucher" and denominations such as "Redeemable for One Silver Yuan, Half Yuan, Twenty Fen..." The printing was exquisitely fine—even more refined than the recently printed Food Circulation Vouchers. The paper especially had a feel very close to old-timeline banknote paper. The copper-engraved base patterns were so intricate and elaborate that finding comparable engravers in this timeline would be all but impossible; and since neither Ming nor Qing possessed copperplate printing technology, this constituted the ultimate anti-counterfeiting measure.
"This new-currency issue will proceed simultaneously everywhere—to prevent anyone from exploiting exchange-rate differences between regions," Chen Ce explained. "On Hainan, Jeju Island, and Taiwan, the Food Circulation Vouchers will also begin to be gradually withdrawn and replaced with new currency. But in those three areas, we'll push banknotes primarily. Silver coins will only enter circulation in the newly liberated territories on the mainland. So you needn't worry about silver-coin reserves, Mayor Liu."
Liu Xiang toyed with the coins in his hand for a long while before setting them down. "These are too beautiful. I'm afraid once they go out, they won't come back."
Chen Ce smiled faintly. "I understand your concern completely. But as Director Meng has surely told you, our policy is to vigorously promote banknotes. Silver coins serve as a guarantee for the banknotes. Especially in the early phase of the issue, silver coins are meant to reassure the public—but that alone is not enough."
For banknotes to circulate, on one hand they needed the backing of the state apparatus; on the other, sufficient commodities had to guarantee the currency's value. Although the new currency was nominally "silver-backed," it still required ample goods to underwrite it. Simply put, the Senatorial Council's Silver Reserve Vouchers had to be spendable—and the things they bought couldn't be Australian mirrors or South Seas spices, but the everyday necessities everyone genuinely needed.
(End of Chapter)