Chapter 48: The Four Great Evils (Extra Chapter for Little Pineapple, 1/10, installment)

Previously, Sumu had already discussed with Mr. Han the critical matters of how to prepare for the opening of a supermarket.

On the night following the signing of their partnership, he methodically spent several hours compiling the key business insights he had gleaned from newspapers and magazines onto a single sheet of paper, which he then handed to his partner, Mr. Han Yu.

His main references for business operations were the already successful Walmart and other existing supermarkets like California Discount Club. From the business philosophies these companies revealed—such as promotional clearance, bulk purchasing, efficient management, and resource cost reduction—Sumu extracted valuable information, all of which were highly instructive.

This was Sumu’s first foray into business investment.

The entire sum of $150,000 was, for him, an investment that would nearly determine whether his future would be comfortable or fraught with hardship.

Success would of course bring joy, but if he failed, he would have to keep striving, perhaps for months or even years, to earn a second stake and then seek another business venture.

In these early years of the 1980s, the supermarket as a new retail industry was just entering a phase of rapid expansion. In many parts of California and the United States, supermarkets had yet to appear, and Walmart, whose profits had barely surpassed $100 million, was already the undisputed global leader in chain retail. As long as one avoided disastrous mismanagement, the prospects were promising.

Relying on what he heard on the radio and his own business instincts, Sumu plunged headlong into the industry without hesitation. What the future held was anyone’s guess—neither Sumu nor Mr. Han could say for sure.

In the course of trial and error, Qugo Supermarket gradually took shape. Including renovation time, it was expected to take another four months before it could officially open. Mr. Han hoped the novel supermarket would be ready for business before the coming Christmas season.

After finishing their mung bean soup, the workers resumed their tasks. Large trucks hauled away the factory’s discarded sewing machines—over a hundred obsolete machines in all—sold to a scrap dealer at twenty-five dollars apiece. This income delighted Mr. Han to no end…

…

In the 1980s, many Chinese responded to their homeland’s call, traveling thousands of miles to America to seek knowledge, earn foreign currency, and take part in a dramatic wave of migration.

Though called immigrants, most only held short-term green cards. Some were wholly unfamiliar with the American environment, others could not even speak English. Swayed by rumors, they imagined America as a land paved with gold, where a mere wave of the hand would see dollars pouring into their pockets. They dreamed of returning home as wealthy men after exchanging their hard-earned greenbacks.

But reality was otherwise. Though America was indeed prosperous, making money there without skills or opportunity was pure fantasy.

Those who came to seek their fortune rarely arrived with much gold. Faced with high rents and living costs elsewhere, and unfamiliar with local customs, many chose to stay temporarily in Chinatown. And it was often their own compatriots who struck the first blow against them.

Sumu’s family were old immigrants.

At noon that day, as Old Man Su was preparing to go out, a middle-aged Chinese man entered—he wore a navy-blue suit, carried a shiny leather briefcase, and his hair, slicked meticulously with mousse, glistened in the light. Upon entering, he immediately produced a flyer and, with a stern face, addressed Old Man Su:

“Was this your child’s doing? I’ve already heard all about it. This is utter nonsense! Stirring up others to march at such a young age—if you don’t rein him in, he’ll end up in jail!”

He had barely stepped through the door before launching into this rebuke. Old Man Su, a man of temper, was instantly incensed and pointed at the door, shouting,

“Who let you in here? Get out! If you don’t leave, I’ll shoot you myself!

“What are you, anyway? My grandson is none of your concern! Just because you’ve donned a dog’s skin, you forget what you are? If you’ve got the guts, take him away!

“You and your father are both traitors—my grandson is fighting for relief funds, for money to survive. If your ancestors saw what you’re doing, they’d leap out of their coffins in rage!”

His voice was so loud that neighbors passing by glanced in, uncertain what was happening. When they saw the visitor, their faces twisted in scorn; some even spat on the ground to express their contempt…

The fellow’s name was Ge Qiu, though he had long since abandoned it, insisting everyone call him “Richard.” He resented being addressed by his Chinese name.

He was not famous—his notoriety belonged to his father, Ge Dalong.

Ge Dalong had served for many years as the local police chief. A thorough scoundrel, he bowed and scraped before his superiors. Years ago, when a Chinese police officer accidentally killed a white thief, Ge Dalong gathered evidence for the prosecution, seeing the officer’s sentence increased from five years to life imprisonment.

This was but one of his many repugnant acts. He had also advocated for the registration of Chinese, suggesting they be issued special ID cards—“dog tags” as they were angrily called—while white and black citizens needed no such identification. He viewed the Chinese as unmanageable and proposed they be singled out for control.

One must remember, during the era of the Chinese Exclusion Act, Chinese were indeed issued separate IDs, and these were reviled as “dog tags.” He also assisted in the arrest of undocumented immigrants, even those who had lived in America for decades, resulting in countless families torn apart.

No one could abide such a traitor, and even after more than a decade passed, people still found him revolting. The bullying of whites was bad enough, but oppression by one’s own kind was more sickening still.

Of the “Four Great Plagues” of Chinatown two decades prior, only Ge Dalong remained alive—reviled by all, yet living in comfort and wealth. As for the source of his money, it was not hard to guess.

This loathing naturally extended to his son, Ge Qiu. It was well known that this Ge boy, who had once violated a young woman and gotten off scot-free, now held a position in the district. Old Man Su knew him, and made no effort to hide his disgust, finding him more revolting than stepping in dog filth.

Whether or not he supported Sumu’s actions, at least he recognized his grandson’s good intentions. Though he never said as much, Old Man Su in truth approved—Chinese had established themselves in America by mutual support, by fighting to secure life-saving funds for their elders. There was nothing wrong in that.

Now, with Ge Qiu appearing to rebuke his grandson, Old Man Su was furious, as if a treasured possession had been soiled by filth…

In America, even the police could not enter another’s home without a search warrant; the law protected private property. If someone was actually shot for trespassing, the homeowner would be well within his rights.

Ge Qiu knew this. He wanted to stand his ground, but lacked the nerve and backed out to the doorway.

His own expression twisted in anger. He had just received a call from Mr. Gilry, head of the Social Security Administration, who had heard that several Chinese youths were planning a protest march, prompting Ge Qiu’s hasty arrival.

He had thought it a trivial matter—like dealing with any other naïve Chinese, a few stern words would suffice. He never expected such a fiery outburst from the old man.

“I was only offering a friendly warning,” he said. “If things really go wrong, don’t say I didn’t warn you. What can teenagers hope to accomplish? At most, it’ll be a joke.”

“Traitor!”

“You—!”

“Traitor, and your father’s no better,” Old Man Su cut in again.

Ge Qiu was nearly beside himself with rage, speechless, and stormed off. The glares at the doorway were full of hatred; one old man spat openly at him. Ge Qiu seemed unfazed, his expression haughty as he strode away.

Just as a monk contends for a stick of incense, a man contends for his honor. Old Man Su, who had at first planned to let his grandson cause a harmless stir, now sat fuming in his chair, smoking. Since he happened to have the day off, he began to wonder whether Sumu might really succeed. If not, wouldn’t that just prove Ge Qiu right: “What can teenagers hope to accomplish?”

After mulling it over, he decided it wouldn’t do. He went inside to change into a clean tunic suit. He rarely asked others for favors, but this time, for the sake of pride, he was determined to seek help…