Chapter 313: Job Placement

“Look, another country bumpkin, gawking…”

The words drifted into his ear. Lin Ming paid them no mind, until he noticed several people looking his way and realized they were talking about him. He turned his head to see three or four children, lollipops in their mouths, pointing at him and laughing. His face flushed. He lived in Foshan, one of the “four great towns under heaven,” a city whose prosperity rivaled that of Guangzhou itself. He was a man of letters, proficient in poetry, calligraphy, wine, and chess. In Foshan, and indeed throughout the Guangzhou prefecture, he was known as a man of fashion and taste. And now, to be labeled a “country bumpkin” by a few children…

Seeing that he had noticed them, the children scattered. Lin Ming realized he had lost his composure. He coughed, collected himself, and continued his slow walk forward.

The prosperity of the East Gate Market did not surprise him; Foshan had many streets just as bustling. What left a deeper impression was the orderliness, the clean streets, and the “exotic” style of the buildings.

Lin Ming’s eyes scanned his surroundings, finally settling on a shop with a sign that read: “For the People Employment Agency.”

He had already learned that an “employment agency” was the Australian term for a job referral shop. The Australians were meddlers, involving themselves in everything; even the job referral shops were run by the government.

“They must have a great number of redundant officials,” Lin Ming thought to himself. “Just like the Song Dynasty.”

Though Lin Ming was a hereditary military officer, he had read his share of books. The Australians’ claim to be descendants of the Song Dynasty intrigued him. He suspected it was mere posturing, but he could not help but make comparisons.

The shop was not crowded. A few people stood or squatted in small groups, some chatting, some eating, others simply leaning against the wall, dozing. A few had their luggage with them. Behind a row of wooden counters sat several clerks, all in the same Australian uniform. Above each clerk hung a wooden plaque: “Job Seeker Registration,” “Employer Registration,” “Certificate Issuance”… Lin Ming understood none of it and simply looked around. He saw a huge black wooden board on the wall, covered in writing. A closer look revealed it to be a list of job openings, categorized: “Commercial Employment,” “Carpenter,” “Clerk,” “Laborer,” “Industrial Apprentice”…

Though written in the vernacular with simplified characters, much of the vocabulary was the “New Language” promoted by the Australians, quite different from the common tongue. He understood “carpenter” and “laborer,” but could only guess at the meaning of the others.

He craned his neck and scanned the listings. The jobs in highest demand were “general worker,” “agricultural worker,” and “industrial apprentice.” Lin Ming knew these were all physically demanding positions. If he took one, he would have little energy left to search for his sister-in-law or gather intelligence. He had not come to Lingao to toil in the fields for the Australians.

He needed a leisurely job, one that allowed him to move about freely. After a long search, he found a suitable position: a shop in the East Gate Market was hiring a “clerk.”

A “clerk” was a copyist, a writer. Lin Ming was more than capable. He walked to the nearest counter and said, “Sir…”

The man behind the counter was young but carried himself with an air of importance. Though he had shaved his head and changed his clothes, he still exuded the sour poverty of a down-and-out scholar. He coughed and said in a drawn-out tone, “Do not call me sir. Call me comrade. What is your business?”

“Yes, comrade…” What kind of address is this? Lin Ming thought. It is not written in the Zizhi Tongjian or the History of the Song. “I wish to apply for that job.” He could not read the Arabic numerals and had to point.

The man did not even glance at his finger. “Do you have an employment certificate?” he asked without looking up.

“An employment certificate?”

“If you do not have one, go to window one and apply for one. Next!” The clerk’s words were crisp, and he spoke no more. Lin Ming hurried to the counter marked “Window One” and “Employment Registration.” A pleasant, middle-aged woman sat there.

“Take out your identification card. Can you read? Then fill out this form to register.”

Under the woman’s guidance, Lin Ming registered his ID, signed one document after another, and finally received an “employment certificate” and an employment contract. He couldn’t help but smile wryly. One truly needs a certificate for everything here…

“Since you can read, you should take the Class C diploma examination,” the woman advised. “Otherwise, your literacy level will only be recorded as ‘literate,’ and without that certification, your employment options will be severely limited.” She was quite enthusiastic, explaining that due to the influx of immigrants, the Class C diploma exam was now held monthly instead of quarterly.

Lin Ming was evasive. He did not know what a Class C diploma was, but he understood it was an examination organized by the Australians. To pass would be to receive a “diploma,” not so different from a degree. To participate in this “false examination” would be a great stain on his record. If word got out, he would lose his hereditary position as a centurion.

The employment agency was merely an introduction. Whether he would be hired as a clerk was up to the shopkeeper of the “Haixing Firm.” The agency simply told him to go to the shop for an “interview.”

“You say you can write and do arithmetic, so it should be no problem,” the clerk instructed. “If you get the job, have the shopkeeper stamp this and bring it back to register. If not, come back here, and we will find another job for you. Understand?”

“Yes, I understand. Thank you for the reminder, comrade.”

His employment settled, Lin Ming asked the clerk to recommend a long-term inn. The “For the People Inn,” she said, was government-run, specifically for new immigrants, and was located in the alley behind the agency, just a stone’s throw away.

Following her directions, Lin Ming walked half an alley and saw a three-story red brick building. Its exterior was plain, like a square box. The walls were dotted with numerous windows, all fitted with glass. This “luxury” had already become commonplace to him in Lingao.

A large door stood atop three stone steps. Above it hung a black plaque with four large characters in white: “For the People Inn.”

The door was open. As Lin Ming stepped inside, a complex odor assaulted his senses: a mixture of tobacco, liquor, sweat, and unwashed clothes. It was the smell of a low-class inn. But here, it was mingled with a sharp, irritating scent—the smell of disinfectant.

The lobby was brightly lit. A woman in a blue uniform sat behind the counter, a thick guest book before her. Behind her, a large wooden board was covered with keys. On the wall hung a banner: “No Entry Without an ID Card!” Below it was a black and white woodblock print of several Australian “public servants” holding down a shifty-eyed man in the attire of a Ming commoner. A beam of white light shone on him, and within the light, a sentence: “Strictly Guard Against Spies.”

The image sent a shiver down Lin Ming’s spine. He quickly composed himself, took out his ID card, and went to the counter to check in.

“Dormitory or single room?” the woman asked after registering his card.

Lin Ming hesitated. “May I see them first?”

“Of course. The first and second floors are dormitories. The third floor has single rooms, but the price is higher.”

The first and second floors were large dormitories. The rooms were long and narrow, filled with bunk beds. Each room held ten bunks, accommodating twenty people. Lockers lined the wall, one for each person, for storing luggage and personal belongings.

Though it was a large dormitory, the windows were large and the ceiling high, so the ventilation was good. Despite the number of occupants, the smell was tolerable. It was daytime, and most people were out working, but a few on different shifts were sleeping. Each bunk had an independent cloth curtain that could be drawn for privacy.

On the wall was a large character for “Quiet,” and several pictures were posted. Lin Ming had no interest in them. A single glance was enough to tell him the dormitory was unsuitable. It was not the conditions he disliked, but the lack of privacy. He had a mission to accomplish, a rescue to attempt. He could not have his every move watched. The Australians were said to have many spies; there was no guarantee some were not among these guests.

“I’ll take a single room.”

“Very well. I will take you up.”

The room on the third floor was small. A bed took up a third of the space. A table, a chair, and a cabinet, all of the simplest design, were the only other furniture. The ceiling was low; the third floor was, in fact, a mezzanine. But the window was large and bright, and the room was clean and tidy.

“This will do.” Lin Ming looked around and noticed that it would be easy to climb out the window onto the roof of the two-story building next door. It was a perfect passage for sneaking in and out. He decided to rent the room, paying for three days upfront. If the Haixing Firm did not provide accommodation, he would renew the lease.

“The washroom and toilet are at the end of the corridor. The shower is in the bathroom on the first floor,” the woman explained. “Hot water is available only from six to eight in the morning and evening. Cold water is available all day.”

“Thank you, comrade.”

“You’re welcome,” the woman said generously. “Your attire is inconvenient for living and working here. I suggest you get a haircut and change your clothes.”

“This…”

“It’s alright. If you wish to eat, turn left when you go out. There is a public canteen in the second alley. Stalls and small restaurants are also easy to find.”