Chapter 73: The Messenger "Xiao Xiangning"

North Third Avenue, New Stage.

Backstage bustled with activity; during the first month of the lunar year, grand operas were performed as a local custom in Ice City. Every theater was packed, and each troupe showcased their most acclaimed and festive pieces.

Ice City was considered the heartland of opera in the northeast. The city was filled with discerning audiences who not only appreciated local operatic forms but also other major genres performed throughout China—Peking Opera, Pingju, Huangmei Opera—and even imported Western dramas and operas.

Daowai District was predominantly Chinese, where local dramas still reigned supreme.

“Xiao Rou, Xiao Rou, hurry up, it’s almost your turn to go on stage. Don’t let me down…” Sun Qingkui, the head of the Ruiqing Troupe, stood in the backstage dressing room, a pipe clamped in his mouth, repeating his instructions to the performers.

Tonight’s performance was crucial—not only was the audience large, but many influential people were present. If they failed, Ruiqing Troupe’s prospects in Ice City would be bleak.

“All right, Godfather,” replied a young, lovely woman at the mirror, busy with her makeup. She was Jiang Rou, Sun Qingkui’s adopted daughter, one of the leading actresses of Ruiqing Troupe, stage name Xiao Xiangning.

Tonight, she was performing “A Match Made by Flowers” and “Qin Xianglian,” both classic Pingju operas widely known among theatergoers. A poor performance would mean not only losing face but possibly being booed off the stage.

Jiang Rou was not the only one nervous; the entire troupe felt the pressure.

As the melodious notes of a bamboo flute drifted out, lively drumbeats followed. The vast auditorium of the New Stage was filled to capacity; every pair of eyes was fixed on the festive stage.

A graceful young woman in a blue gauze dress, her hair styled in a maiden’s bun, with rosy cheeks and delicate features, stepped onto the stage with dainty steps…

“In spring, the wind gives life to all things; flowers bloom red, leaves turn green, and grass grows lush. Peach blossom eyes, apricot’s rich hue, pear trees in full bloom, and willow catkins fill the city like drifting snow.” (Listening to “A Match Made by Flowers,” without subtitles, the lyrics are hard to discern; only fragments can be captured.)

Bravo!

Her voice was sweet and clear as an oriole’s; with just a few lines, she won thunderous applause. The actress had established herself, and backstage, Sun Qingkui took a few satisfied puffs of his pipe, grinning broadly.

As long as no mistakes were made, and the performance remained steady, tonight’s show would be a success.

“A Match Made by Flowers” alone lasted over two hours. The life of a performer was indeed laborious; without years of training, especially for the voice, it was impossible to last, performing not just once, but night after night.

“Xiao Rou, well done today. The manager said he’ll treat everyone to dinner tonight to celebrate our successful debut.” After the show, Sun Qingkui came backstage and spoke to Jiang Rou as she removed her makeup.

“Godfather, I’m tired. I think I’ll skip the meal,” Jiang Rou replied gently.

“Child, we’re trying to make a living here in Ice City. If the manager agrees to let us perform regularly, we’ll have no worries about food in the future,” Sun Qingkui coaxed.

Sun Qingkui was from Shuangcheng, a native of Songjiang Province. In his younger days, he led his troupe across the country, seeking their fortune. Now that he was older, he longed to settle down.

If they could secure a place in Ice City’s thriving opera scene, his retirement would be assured.

This was why he’d fought so hard for the opportunity to perform at the New Stage—a rare chance, given the competition. To become a regular troupe, they needed to stand out; otherwise, why would anyone share their profits?

“Godfather, you know I’m not fond of socializing, and I have a show tomorrow morning. If anything affects my performance…” For her, nothing was more important than the performance.

Sun Qingkui knew well that their prospects at the New Stage depended on his goddaughter. He couldn’t force her.

“Fine, skip the celebration tonight and rest early to prepare for tomorrow’s show,” Sun Qingkui said.

“Thank you, Godfather.” Jiang Rou’s gratitude was clear.

After removing her makeup and changing clothes, Jiang Rou informed Sun Qingkui she would return to her lodgings to rest—a large inn where the troupe rented a courtyard with over a dozen rooms.

Most shared rooms, but as one of the leading actresses, she had a private room. She had once shared with others, but after gaining fame in Beiping and Tangshan the previous year, she earned the privilege of a private space and a share in performance profits.

There were only two or three stars like her in the entire Ruiqing Troupe.

Wearing a dark red cloche hat, a veil half covering her face, lambskin gloves, and a brown cashmere coat, Jiang Rou, offstage, embodied modern elegance far removed from her stage persona.

She hailed a carriage, the driver an elderly White Russian.

Jiang Rou glanced around before stepping up into the carriage, which soon merged into the bustling city traffic.

Pao Dui Street.

“Fu” General Store. As dusk fell, the shopkeeper was preparing to close when a young, beautiful woman entered.

“Do you have candles for sale?” she asked.

“Yes, miss. Do you want white or red?” The shopkeeper paused, setting down the door plank.

“Red ones, for a wedding,” the woman replied with a slight smile.

“Yes, how many do you need?” The shopkeeper smiled warmly, his eyes betraying a hint of familiarity and excitement.

“I’d like three pairs, with rush wicks, not cotton.”

“Of course.”

She handed over a banknote. The shopkeeper saw it was half a five-ruble note, understood immediately, and swiftly tucked it into his sleeve. “Please wait here. I’ll fetch them for you.”

After a short while, he returned. “Comrade Messenger, Comrade Poporov has been expecting you.”

Jiang Rou nodded and followed the shopkeeper into a back room.

“Comrade Jiang Rou, it’s been a long time,” greeted the man waiting inside—the head of documentation for the Soviet Consulate, Poporov, though his appearance was altered with makeup.

“Comrade Poporov, it’s been three years since we last met in Beiping,” Jiang Rou replied with a nod. She hadn’t expected that her first assignment upon returning to Ice City would be to act as a courier for the Soviet Consulate, serving as a liaison to the Soviet Far Eastern intelligence agency in her capacity as a member of the Communist Party.

“Yes, three years ago you had just joined us, still young and inexperienced. Now, you’ve grown into a true Bolshevik. I’m truly happy for you,” Poporov said warmly.

“What is my mission this time, Comrade Poporov?” Jiang Rou asked directly.

Poporov produced a file and handed it to her. “This individual is of great importance. Your task is to earn his trust as quickly as possible and await further instructions.”

Jiang Rou took the file and asked, “May I look at it here?”

“Read it here, memorize everything. Commit it to memory,” Poporov replied, tapping his head.

Jiang Rou nodded, opened the file, and studied the photo and résumé inside. Her brows furrowed; the man in the photo looked familiar.

“Feel like you’ve seen him before?” Poporov chuckled. “Remember fourteen years ago, the little boy beaten by your godfather, Sun Qingkui, for stealing food for you?”

“Zhou Sen—Big Brother Sen!” Jiang Rou’s eyes flashed with recognition and excitement. She’d searched for years, but to no avail. Sun Qingkui had told her Zhou Sen was long dead—starved or frozen in the wild, or eaten by wolves. But she’d never believed it, searching quietly once she had the means.

Returning this time, she’d hoped to continue the search. Now, fate had brought him before her—how could she not be moved?

“He was adopted by a wealthy White Russian, Anthony Robin, and renamed Vasim, though he still goes by Zhou Sen in Chinese. He’s now a police officer at the Nangang Precinct. His adoptive father is a member of the White Russian Nationalist Organization, and Zhou Sen is likely involved as well. This organization is highly active in the Far East and extremely difficult to infiltrate. We need to understand their inner workings, and we need your help,” Poporov explained.

“You want me to win him over, to turn him to our side?” Jiang Rou asked.

“Exactly. Like you, he’s Chinese, but because of his connection to Anthony Robin, he’s trusted by the White Russian Nationalists and can access their secrets. Currently, the organization is collaborating with the Japanese, supplying them with intelligence on our activities in the Far East. If war breaks out between the Soviets and Japanese, the consequences will be dire.”

“I understand. What are my limits?” Jiang Rou rapidly memorized the contents—her memory was exceptional.

“If necessary, you may use emotional ties to maintain the relationship,” Poporov replied after a pause.

Jiang Rou’s hand trembled slightly as she held the materials.

“I know this is difficult for you, but if something develops between you when you meet, it will only help your work.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything. We haven’t seen each other in fourteen years. He may not even recognize me,” Jiang Rou said.

“Do you want me to arrange the meeting?”

“No, I’ll handle it myself,” Jiang Rou refused.

“All right. If anything comes up, contact Old Zhang—he’ll inform me immediately.” Poporov nodded. Old Zhang, the shopkeeper of “Fu” General Store, was also the local liaison for the Comintern’s courier network.