Both Countries Are Problem Children, But the Strongest (2)
I don’t actually know much about how world history unfolded in the nineteenth century.
Yet thanks to cramming Korean history and modern history for the college entrance exam, I remembered exactly what the Qing Dynasty and Joseon had been like during that era.
Terms like the Self-Strengthening Movement and the Hundred Days’ Reform were still burned into my mind.
The fact that those memories remained so vivid even now was proof that South Korea’s rote-education system deserved eternal praise.
Who could have guessed that the hellish exam-prep days and brutal job-hunting period would become the very weapons that let me shine in nineteenth-century Qing China?
When we arrived at the Beijing legation, Anson Burlingame himself rushed out to greet us.
“Oh! Advisor Serget! You must be exhausted after such a long journey.”
The American minister to Qing, appointed by Lincoln.
He clasped my hand and shook it vigorously, then widened his eyes at Leo, Ben, and Henry standing respectfully behind me.
“I had heard the rumors, but… you truly do keep Black men as your closest aides, even bringing them to an occasion as important as this.”
“Does it surprise you?”
“Of course it does. The officials here in Beijing will be stunned as well. You are putting America’s values of freedom and equality into practice with your own actions.”
Burlingame’s eyes shone with genuine goodwill.
I already knew he was a prominent radical abolitionist even within the Republican Party.
Still, I had not instructed my inner circle to put on any special performance. Simply appearing as we were would be shocking enough.
“You flatter me. That an outdated planter like myself could change his thinking at all is entirely thanks to the tolerance and patience shown by President Lincoln and the Republican Party. I merely stepped in line with the current they created.”
“Haha, and modest as well. You truly are the perfect man to be recommended as an advisor from our homeland.”
After earning a few points with well-placed flattery, we moved to the reception room.
After one sip of tea, Burlingame’s expression grew serious.
“Advisor, I must be frank. I am somewhat worried. Prince Gong, the true power behind the Qing, and his close aide Wenxiang are no ordinary men.”
“Are they that difficult?”
“I have not been posted here long, yet they already leave me speechless. They observe every courtesy on the surface, but in their hearts they view us as barbarians. They remain constantly on guard while squeezing out every possible advantage. One wrong move and we could be swept along by their rhythm and sent home empty-handed.”
Prince Gong was a name I knew well.
It had come up several times while I studied the Self-Strengthening Movement.
Yet didn’t that movement ultimately fail?
“The language and cultural barriers are especially large. Nuances get lost in translation, which easily leads to misunderstandings. The Asian way of thinking is fundamentally different from ours.”
“Thank you for your concern, Minister. But please don’t worry too much.”
Westerners still seemed to think that the mere mention of the East meant curses that could kill and mystical divination of the future. I had no intention of being lumped in with them.
“I am a businessman, after all. To sell goods, one must understand the customer. I have been deeply interested in the Asian market for a very long time and have studied their culture and languages quite thoroughly.”
“Pardon? Their languages? You speak Chinese?”
Burlingame looked incredulous and was about to say more when—
Knock knock.
“I heard that an honored guest had arrived at the American legation, so I came to request an audience.”
With perfect timing, a Qing official dispatched from the Zongli Yamen—known as Lord Zhang—opened the door and entered.
Burlingame began looking around frantically for an interpreter, but I rose from my seat, brought my hands together, and bowed respectfully to Lord Zhang.
“I am James Serget from America. It is an honor to meet you.”
“…?!”
Lord Zhang’s eyes bulged as if they might pop out.
Burlingame’s mouth fell open and refused to close.
What had left my lips was not broken imitation but fluent Chinese, complete with proper tones.
Of course, by the standards of this era both my pronunciation and grammar would sound slightly off, but language has always been something that works as long as the general meaning gets across.
“Incredible! Such a young honored guest speaks our tongue so…”
“I was taught that learning the other party’s language is basic courtesy when doing business. My skills are still immature, so please be generous.”
“Immature? Goodness, I have never met a merchant—not even an official interpreter—who speaks with such fluency!”
As expected, nothing builds rapport like language. Lord Zhang shook my hand with more warmth than anyone else had shown.
After we exchanged a few more words, Burlingame, who had been standing there stunned, tugged at my sleeve.
“A-Advisor? Just what is going on? When did you ever…”
“I told you. I prepared for the future.”
It was not a lie.
Back in my previous life, Chinese had been incredibly sought-after when I was job-hunting. Passing the HSK was the bare minimum; after getting hired I had even mastered business conversation.
Getting past the threshold of a major corporation as a liberal-arts graduate in twenty-first-century South Korea was no easy feat.
When I thought of those desperate days spent building my résumé, I felt deeply moved.
Of course, I immediately stopped the treacherous thought that I might have been better off reading alternate-history novels during that time instead.
At any rate, I had worried that modern Chinese might not be understood, but fortunately it was not very different from the Mandarin spoken by officials, so communication posed no problem.
The fact that I did not need an interpreter also meant I could speak privately without the British or Americans understanding.
After Lord Zhang left, Burlingame stared at me with something close to awe.
“Truly astonishing. But language alone will not open their hearts. You need cultural depth as well…”
“That is not a problem either. I can confidently say that few people in America have studied Qing culture as deeply as I have.”
“But how does a young man find the time…”
“When you have the chance, Minister, ask any Qing official you meet. Their attitude will change at once. They will think, ‘This Westerner actually knows something.’”
“Oh! There is such a method? What is it?”
“Ask them: ‘I still cannot understand why Ma Su went up the mountain. Could you share your esteemed opinion?’”
“…Pardon?”
Burlingame blinked.
“Ma Su? Who is that? Some famous mountaineer? Why on earth did he climb a mountain?”
How should I know? That’s why I’m telling you to ask.
When Wenxiang heard that the American delegation had arrived, he completed his preparations with utmost care.
Considering the distance between America and here, it was easy to guess how urgently they had dispatched their representative.
He had assumed they must be after something specific, yet the report from Lord Zhang, who had gone to observe the American envoy, was utterly unexpected.
The man apparently spoke their language quite well, though with a strange accent.
According to what he had heard, the visitor was a young merchant who had amassed enormous wealth in the distant West. For such a person to have learned their language?
It suggested he might harbor ambitions of entering their market directly.
Prince Gong reached exactly the same conclusion and warned Wenxiang not to let down his guard for even a moment.
“The nation called America may be inferior to England, but they are still barbarians of the same root; therefore, carelessness is forbidden. The one named Jeommo-sa So-geol-teuk—James Serget—is their representative, so even though he is young, he will not be easy to handle. Do not believe everything that leaves his mouth. Strive to discern his true intentions.”
“Yes! I will keep it in mind.”
They would not underestimate the opponent simply because he was young.
The very fact that someone not yet thirty had been sent to represent an entire nation’s commerce proved he was no ordinary person.
No matter what smooth words he offered, they would not be shaken.
That was the resolve with which Wenxiang entered the negotiations, but—
“Ooooh! So this is the land of Zhuge Liang and Guan Yu!”
“……?”
“Though the dynastic name differs, I have long known that the Tianming Emperor who founded the Qing inherited the rightful mandate of all the previous dynasties of the Central Plain.”
The voice ringing out in the most secret conference room of the Zongli Yamen was excessively bright, yet the genuine passion behind it kept it from sounding frivolous.
Wenxiang’s hand froze while lifting his teacup.
What… is this?
He had expected a cunning Western merchant who would wag a silver tongue and demand concessions.
Instead, the young man before him—James Serget—had eyes that sparkled like a rural scholar who had spent his whole life yearning for the Central Plain.
“Every roof tile of the Forbidden City, every stone by the roadside, breathes with thousands of years of history. A newborn country like America could never dream of such dignity.”
Wenxiang tried to maintain his composure, but the barrage of praise struck his vital points so accurately that the corners of his mouth twitched despite himself.
Still, this had to be a trick. A shallow ploy to buy favor and lower their defenses.
Yet as the meal continued, cracks began to appear in the solid wall Wenxiang had built.
“Mmm, the flavor of the mala is incredible! Absolutely enchanting.”
Mapo tofu floating with red chili oil and hotpot—dishes that had recently become the talk of the capital and were beloved even by the imperial family—were brought to the table.
High-ranking Beijing nobles usually preferred clear-broth hotpot, but this time the kitchen had deliberately served the fiery red version loaded with Sichuan pepper.
Western barbarians normally recoiled from the mere smell.
The dishes had been chosen specifically to crush the spirit of this presumptuous Westerner who had come hiding shallow motives.
Yet Serget never stopped using his spoon.
“Mmm… this tingling numbness! This stimulation that strikes the tip of the tongue! The cuisine of a great nation truly has depth. Ordinary chili alone cannot produce this kind of heat. This must be the art created by huajiao.”
“…Is it not too spicy for you?”
“Spicy? I can only envy the people of the Central Plain who can eat this every day. By any chance, is there dongpo pork as well? I would like to experience the rich, melting flavor of that fat.”
Sweat poured down his forehead, yet he cleaned every last morsel.
Moreover, how was he so skilled with chopsticks?
Just watching him eat tofu made it clear the skill had not been learned overnight.
Could he have grown up somewhere in the Central Plain as a child?
The idea was logically impossible, which only made it more astonishing.
Nevertheless, Wenxiang did not lower his guard.
Just because the man ate well did not mean his heart was good.
Then, while wiping chili oil from the corner of his mouth, Serget spoke.
“As expected, food restores one’s strength. By the way, Lord Wenxiang, are you not eating?”
“Ah… ahem. My stomach is rather upset today. I am glad it suits your taste. Please enjoy it to your heart’s content.”
In truth, he could not handle spice well.
More precisely, dishes that piled on chili and Sichuan pepper were favored by southern villagers; even a Beijing native like himself would end up with tears and a runny nose if he ate it.
He could hardly show himself handling spice worse than a barbarian.
Regardless, this particular barbarian ate… far too well. Had his appearance been different, one might have believed he was a native of Sichuan.
“Mmm! This is what real cuisine tastes like. Now I understand why Zhang Fei ate meat and drank wine before roaring at Changban Bridge.”
There he went again with the Romance of the Three Kingdoms.
From the moment they met until now, Serget had been citing stories from the novel at every opportunity, displaying the “three friends’ method.”
This too had surely been picked up somewhere along the way.
He must have overheard a few lines from sailors on the voyage and is now showing off. I shall expose how shallow his knowledge truly is.
Hiding his thoughts, Wenxiang asked in a deliberately dignified tone.
“Lord So seems quite familiar with the Romance of the Three Kingdoms. In that case, allow me to ask: among all those heroes, whom do you admire most?”
The answer was obvious.
Guan Yu, the loyal general? Zhuge Liang, the epitome of wisdom? Or Liu Bei, the man of virtue?
No matter which name he gave, Wenxiang planned to reply that it was merely what Westerners admired from a superficial reading and gently mock him.
Yet Serget stroked his chin for a moment, thought carefully, and then spoke names no one expected.
“I admire Cheng Pu, Han Dang, and Huang Gai the most.”
“……Pardon?”
Why were those names coming up here?
Wenxiang’s eyes widened.
Not Guan Yu, not even the cunning Cao Cao, not even Zhao Yun.
The three old generals of the Jiangdong region?
“What… is the reason? They are certainly great generals, yet one could say they fall a little short of having martial prowess or strategy that reaches the heavens, could they not?”
“That is true. However, they served Sun Jian, Sun Ce, and Sun Quan—loyal subjects who remained faithful across three generations.”
A subtle melancholy colored Serget’s voice.
“As you know, the country I come from—America—has a short history. The romance of a single person pledging loyalty across three entire generations… we lack such depth of time.”
“Ah…”
“Is that not a life embodying the Eastern spirit of loyalty and filial piety? My heart was stolen by that profound sense of duty, something that has grown rare in the West.”
Wenxiang was at a loss for words.
This was not the reading of a few books.
Could this truly be the mindset of a barbarian?
Anyone could see that he understood the spiritual world of Chinese civilization—and deeply at that.
“This is also why I hurried here so urgently. Business is important, of course, but I wanted to experience the culture and breath of the great nation I have longed for as soon as possible.”
Serget smiled brightly and put the last piece of mapo tofu into his mouth.
As he watched, Wenxiang’s thoughts grew tangled.
It should be… it should be false.
Yet was it even possible to cram this much knowledge in such a short time?
Your Highness, I am sorry.
No matter how hard he tried to remain suspicious, Wenxiang could not suppress the goodwill he felt toward this Westerner who sat inhaling mapo tofu and hotpot while talking about the flames of Red Cliff.