5. THE BLUE EXPRESS
Edna led me into the holy of holies—the editorial office of the North China Daily News. Some people call this paper and its staff the “imperialists’ mouthpiece,” others a “bunch of blundering idiots in rose-tinted spectacles,” while others still simply dismiss it as a “sniveling, liberal rag.” But one thing is certain: the Daily News is the most popular, influential, and prestigious foreign newspaper ever created in another country’s territory.
Alas, its editor-in-chief, Mr. Green, didn’t believe that I was the sort of reporter he needed. Having been introduced and then ushered out of his office, I heard him explaining to Edna that I couldn’t write English fluently, and that he wasn’t going to hire a special editor just for my sake.
“If the man doesn’t have the necessary skills,” he said, “he has to work as a courier, not a journalist.”
“I’m fine with that,” Edna replied. “Enroll Rogov as a courier, and he can work as my personal assistant.”
Her husband regularly paid for ads in the Daily News, so Mr. Green wasn’t about to argue.
I do my best to pay Edna back. Previously, it used to take her half the day to run around the city and find a good story, and then the other half to write it up on her typewriter. But now we share the work: I bring her material about horse auctions, pickpockets on trams, illegal fight clubs, and the like, and Edna turns this raw material into clever, witty articles.
Shanghai journalism is very competitive, and the true sign of a successful hack is to have your articles copied and published by the Chinese press without your permission. It’s a big honor. As they say, plagiarism is the highest compliment, and at the moment, Edna is getting more compliments than any other journalist in Shanghai, which makes me feel very proud as well.
Once I was on the payroll, I told Ada that now it was my turn to pay for the room. She hopes and prays that I won’t lose my new job. She thinks that I work in paradise because I have the chance to meet the local celebrities every day. They never return my greetings, though, but that doesn’t bother me terribly.
What I want more than anything else is to work on my own. I have tried my hand writing an article about the Street of Eternal Happiness, which is the name of a few blocks down the Foochow Road. Rich Chinese men come there to visit the sing-song girls who sell the illusion of love for an hour or two. Neither the purveyors or consumers of this temporal happiness seem to see the irony in the street’s name.
I was sure that I had written a decent article but by the time Edna had finished with it, it was covered in red pencil.
“You have what it takes,” she said, “you have a great grasp of the necessary details and emotions. But your grammar is terrible. I don’t know what to do about you.”
For me, it’s obvious what I need to do—practice, practice, and more practice. I stay back at the editorial office well after working hours and write endless copy. First, I read someone else’s article and then try to copy it from memory. It’s tough and sometimes I feel desperate, but I keep telling myself that genuine talent will always triumph regardless of the failure and lack of progress on the way. Looking on the bright side, I’m beginning to make some real improvement on my verbs, and there was a time when I thought I’d never master the mysteries of English grammar.
Mr. Green said that he would raise Klim’s salary, if he took over the responsibility of corresponding with the Chinese subscribers who used the Daily News to practice their English. Half of all the mail coming to the editorial office contained questions regarding English vocabulary or grammar.
When Chinese subscribers received polite answers to their enquiries, they would be extremely pleased and provide the best sort of word of mouth advertising that the Daily News could hope for.
Klim had had no time to deal with the mail during the day; instead he would come to the editorial office well before office hours.
One morning he had no sooner sat down at his desk when the door flew open, and Mr. Green burst into the room.
“Where’s Edna?” he asked abruptly. “Still in Canton?”
Klim nodded. Edna had left a week ago for the South, hoping to organize an interview with the local Chinese nationalists.
Mr. Green went to his office but soon returned.
“Rogov, have you heard the news? The Blue Express has been captured by a gang of bandits. Three hundred passengers have been taken up into the mountains and among them are a lot of wealthy and reputable foreigners.”
Klim whistled in surprise. The Blue Express was the pride of the Chinese railways. It had recently been purchased from the United States to ensure safe and convenient communications between Peking and Shanghai, and tickets for it were so expensive that only rich businessmen and government officials could afford them.
Mr. Green began telephoning someone.
“I need to send a correspondent to Shandong Province,” he yelled into the receiver. “Michael is on leave, and Edna is in Canton, so you’ll have to go instead. You need to get to the town of Lincheng. They already have a situation room there for the hostage mission… So what if there are bandits?… Do you think just because they’ve attacked one train, they’re going to attack them every day? You don’t fool me, you’re just being a coward!”
After several similar calls, Mr. Green hurled the receiver back into its cradle.
“Rogov, what time is it?”
“Five minutes to seven.”
“Damn it! The train leaves in two hours, and I still have no one to send to Lincheng.”
Klim’s heart started pumping fast. What if this was his chance, a real opportunity to show his true colors?
“I can go to Lincheng,” he said.
Mr. Green looked at Klim with irritation. “And what experience do you have?”
“Well, I’ve been through a war and I’m definitely not going to run away at the first sound of gun shots. Just ask Edna if I have the ability to sniff out and report back a good story—”
“I know, I know!” Green interrupted testily. “Well, we don’t have time anyway. Take my car and go to Yates Road. I hope the stores are open. Get yourself a decent suit and go to the station immediately. Tell the shop to send the chit to the editorial office. As soon as you get to Lincheng, send me a cable.”
Having received his long-awaited press ID from Mr. Green, Klim ran headlong down the stairs.
A hastily assembled train was to take journalists, military experts, and officials to Lincheng. The railroad car shook slightly as it passed the peach orchards and the first shoots of rice peeping up through the water-flooded paddy fields.
Klim still couldn’t believe his luck. That morning he had been a nobody answering inane correspondence in the office, and now he was a reporter for a respectable newspaper, the owner of an elegant gray suit, a hat, and a second-hand silver watch with an inscription on its cover: “To a great sharpshooter.”
Klim stepped out into the corridor and met Ursula, a petite, dark-eyed correspondent from the New York-based International News Service. They chatted for a while about mutual acquaintances and agreed to pool their resources.
“Do you think it’s possible that the Blue Express has been taken over by Bolsheviks?” Ursula asked. “I visited Russia recently and interviewed some of the new political leaders there. Their ultimate goal is to start a world revolution and impose their Soviet system on every country on the globe. They told me that China is a particularly weak spot for the capitalist West, and that if there was a rebellion against us here, it would be a huge blow to the Great Powers.”