engineer, actually. We’ve had several commissions in Shanghai over the past few years, though I haven’t been back since ’21. This time out I’ll be working on the engineering plans for the new Customs House on the Bund. That’s the main street lining the harbor. Sort of a financial district, only with cargo ships unloading right out front. But you’d think you were sailing up to the heart of any European capital, with all the stonework and marble columns. Our new building will be the crowning glory of the Bund. Should be about a year before I head back to England.” Cosgrove waited a moment, as if giving Leo a chance to comment. Then, apparently unbothered by Leo’s lack of participation in the conversation, he kept talking.
“First time here, did you say? Not such a bad decision, really. The whole city is booming again. Things were off a bit right after the Chinese outlawed the importation of opium, but now the Shanghailanders—that’s what the white residents call themselves—are making money faster than they can think of ways to spend it. Of course, once the big merchants began making money, that is, real money , everything else just followed along, you know, doctors, lawyers, the telegraph, tramways. Why, there are suburbs full of Tudor homes and Mediterranean villas; you can even import roses and magnolias for your garden, if you like. Buy anything you want in the department stores. It’s downright civilized, Shanghai is, except, of course, for the fact that one is in China.” He finished his soliloquy with a snort of amusement.
Leo digested all of this information without comment. He was beginning to reconsider his strategy. Perhaps a chat with this Cosgrove fellow would prove useful, after all. He knew nothing about Shanghai, except for two, equally important facts: he could enter without a visa, and there was money to be made there.
“You sound like an old China hand,” he remarked, encouraging Cosgrove to go on. The older man seemed flattered.
“No, not really. Not like some of the chaps out here. Taipans, they’re called: the real industrialists. The men in charge. It’s an odd society. Classless, in a way. Money is the only calling card you need. The onlything a well-placed silver dollar cannot obtain for you is a seat on the short end of the Long Bar at the Shanghai Club. The club is the one place that caters to a more traditional British crowd. But the rest of the city…” He spread his hands, palms up. “Few rules, no limits.”
“So, most of the foreign residents are British?”
“No, actually, though the King’s subjects probably control the biggest slice of the pie. My friends there tell me that the problem now is the White Russians, who started pouring in after I left in ’21. Poor bastards. They’re the only whites actually subject to Chinese law. Ghastly business. Stateless, helpless, fleeing for their lives from the Soviet Reds. Lots of pretty Russian women, though, if you’re interested in paying for that sort of thing. But without changing the city’s entire immigration policy, there was no way to keep the poor Russian bastards out. Some of them claim to be royalty, of course, which is hogwash. Anyone with a shilling to their name would have gone to England, or France, or, well, anywhere, other than Shanghai.”
Leo tried to ignore the flutter of apprehension that brushed against his ribs. “Why? If it’s a place of such opportunity?”
Cosgrove chuckled. “Well, let me put it like this. I am only a periodic visitor, but from what I’ve seen, Shanghai is a damn fine place to get rich, and not a bad place to be rich, but it’s a wretched place to be poor.”
“In my experience, there’s no good place to be poor.”
“No, I guess not. But there must be better than Shanghai.” The Englishman grew pensive and stared out at the ocean for a moment. Leo, thinking that their discussion had ended, was about to take his leave when Cosgrove pulled out of his somber
“First time here, did you say? Not such a bad decision, really. The whole city is booming again. Things were off a bit right after the Chinese outlawed the importation of opium, but now the Shanghailanders—that’s what the white residents call themselves—are making money faster than they can think of ways to spend it. Of course, once the big merchants began making money, that is, real money , everything else just followed along, you know, doctors, lawyers, the telegraph, tramways. Why, there are suburbs full of Tudor homes and Mediterranean villas; you can even import roses and magnolias for your garden, if you like. Buy anything you want in the department stores. It’s downright civilized, Shanghai is, except, of course, for the fact that one is in China.” He finished his soliloquy with a snort of amusement.
Leo digested all of this information without comment. He was beginning to reconsider his strategy. Perhaps a chat with this Cosgrove fellow would prove useful, after all. He knew nothing about Shanghai, except for two, equally important facts: he could enter without a visa, and there was money to be made there.
“You sound like an old China hand,” he remarked, encouraging Cosgrove to go on. The older man seemed flattered.
“No, not really. Not like some of the chaps out here. Taipans, they’re called: the real industrialists. The men in charge. It’s an odd society. Classless, in a way. Money is the only calling card you need. The onlything a well-placed silver dollar cannot obtain for you is a seat on the short end of the Long Bar at the Shanghai Club. The club is the one place that caters to a more traditional British crowd. But the rest of the city…” He spread his hands, palms up. “Few rules, no limits.”
“So, most of the foreign residents are British?”
“No, actually, though the King’s subjects probably control the biggest slice of the pie. My friends there tell me that the problem now is the White Russians, who started pouring in after I left in ’21. Poor bastards. They’re the only whites actually subject to Chinese law. Ghastly business. Stateless, helpless, fleeing for their lives from the Soviet Reds. Lots of pretty Russian women, though, if you’re interested in paying for that sort of thing. But without changing the city’s entire immigration policy, there was no way to keep the poor Russian bastards out. Some of them claim to be royalty, of course, which is hogwash. Anyone with a shilling to their name would have gone to England, or France, or, well, anywhere, other than Shanghai.”
Leo tried to ignore the flutter of apprehension that brushed against his ribs. “Why? If it’s a place of such opportunity?”
Cosgrove chuckled. “Well, let me put it like this. I am only a periodic visitor, but from what I’ve seen, Shanghai is a damn fine place to get rich, and not a bad place to be rich, but it’s a wretched place to be poor.”
“In my experience, there’s no good place to be poor.”
“No, I guess not. But there must be better than Shanghai.” The Englishman grew pensive and stared out at the ocean for a moment. Leo, thinking that their discussion had ended, was about to take his leave when Cosgrove pulled out of his somber
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