#fu xuan is a new immigrant from fujian with eyes on the trading industry

[apopcornkernel]

Of all his names, Jing Yuan still likes Kieng Goan the most.

He is quick to give his reasons, when pressed. It connects him to the homeland he’s never seen. It connects him to the other half of his ancestry. Et cetera. But what he will not ever admit is this: that because of the nature of his societal circle, he has not heard this name in a long time, and that the first time Fu Xuan spoke it into remembered existence he had felt the years shiver away into memory, and something new under his skin, something he has always had but only forgotten for the moment.

And she persists in using this name—half due to her natural inclination for their mother tongue of Hokkien, and half because she thinks his Spanish name of Eugenio Quieng silly, and she is a woman of iron spine who will not be moved if she does not wish it.

His preference for this name, Jing Yuan recites to himself, is only a matter of shared culture. But when he opens her letter, her script spidery beyond legibility, he cannot deny the warmth that spreads through his chest, like honey seeping into bread.

Kieng Goan, she writes, come back sooner, for in your absence the fools have converged upon me. They have sensed the loss of the greatest fool of them all and now vie for your crown. (You are whom I speak of, in case it is unclear, which considering the sad state of your mental facilities I am certain it is.) One of the wretches, a mestizo español, tried to gain my favor by promising me his Spanish surname. Domestic bliss for me, he said, and my trading business for he. They tax our people quite unfairly, as you well know, but I suffered no temptation. Firstly, because he is a champion fool, second to none but you. And secondly, because he wishes to bind me to the ignominious fate of the household. As if I would ever give up sole proprietorship for the sake of one such as him. Of course, there was naught to be done but have Mimi chase him out.

Jing Yuan laughs out loud, uncaring of the sideways looks he draws.

Another tried to get to me via his sister. Paid me a visit just the other day, a Luciana Ochangco. She is pleasant enough, I suppose, but she will talk of nothing but her own troubles, Fu Xuan continues, and with each blot of ink Jing Yuan can see the scowl on her face as she presses the pen harder than is necessary. With the amount of times she has complained about her cochero, I almost wish she would go and take the reins of the quilez herself. With enough luck she will drive herself off the Puenta de España and straight into the River Pasig.

There is more to the letter but it is mostly about Fu Xuan’s burgeoning business, the apple of her eye. She tells him, with visibly restrained excitement, of new clients, new connections, new suppliers. She is eager to look into the untapped market of some new textile from Leyte, she cannot wait to surpass her new business rivals.

By the time he has reached her signature—a perfunctory Yours, Hu Ge—Jing Yuan’s cheeks ache from the force of his smile.

He takes his sheet of paper (used, of course, because the postage alone will eat up more of his meager stipend) and smoothes it out. And then he begins.

Dearest A’ge, he writes, I see you and Mimi have come to a ceasefire at last, if only so that you may join forces to terrorize your poor admirers...

i have been possessed to propaganda movement-ify jingfu