The day of the international book fair, New York cleared up. Just after seven, the sky was a brilliant blue, and thin golden sunlight pierced through the clouds to shine on the city. In the carriage, Mr. Eliot was adjusting his red tie, his spirit bright, looking out at the dazzling sunshine. "Ah, New York, you finally made the right decision. The weather is great today; it's a good start." He turned to look at his drowsy colleagues and subordinates, feeling frustrated with their lack of drive. "Snap out of it! It's the last day. Perk up! We can't embarrass our weekly... Especially you two, remember to be energetic and introduce our weekly to every potential client. Have you memorized the introduction I wrote?" Jenny pulled out a smelling salt of peppermint from her bag, took a whiff, and instantly felt wide awake. She handed the salt to Charlene. "I memorized it all night, that's why I'm so tired. But I promise, not one word will be missing." Eliot nodded. "Good. Once they hear my introduction, no one will be uninterested in the weekly." When the carriage stopped, Eliot eagerly strode into the venue with his cane, his team following behind. Jenny arrived at the exhibition area and started doing the grunt work. She opened the display items from the company and checked them, then picked up a stack of flyers that Charlene had just brought out to check the content for errors. She would later hand out flyers to passersby and introduce the content. Charlene's job was cleverer; she was busy with a typewriter and stamps—a creative idea from Eliot to give out postcards to attendees, printed with the weekly's logo and copyrighted illustrations. The stamps were newly engraved, so Charlene, dressed in a decent dress, sat there stamping them. But there was no need to compare; Charlene outranked her. Of the four people present, Jenny was the only clerk, the foot soldier. Jenny checked hundreds of pages of flyers in the corner and indeed found a problem. Although the small workshop Charlene had hired had no issues with the printing, some numbers in the section introducing the weekly's history didn't match what Jenny had memorized. Without raising an alarm, Jenny turned to see Mr. Eliot talking to someone from the monthly magazine next door. She went over and whispered a question to him. After getting the correct answer, she grabbed a dip pen and corrected the wrong numbers on each page one by one, ending up with a cursive style. Hundreds of pages—Jenny didn't know if it was Charlene's mistake or the workshop's, and arguing about who was wrong would waste time and look bad. Fortunately, the company's chief partner wouldn't arrive to give a speech until nine o'clock, and she finished just in time. Straightening up, she saw a large crowd entering at the entrance. In the marble-vaulted foyer, the crowd surged tightly together, and after a long while, the much-anticipated Mr. Dawling finally appeared. Jenny stood behind her booth and craned her neck, but couldn't even see what the boss looked like through the throng. She only saw a large camera frame as photographers snapped pictures in the middle of the foyer, presumably the owners of several large publishing companies taking photos with important guests. About half an hour later, Mr. Dawling made a symbolic tour of the exhibition hall with a few publishers. When they reached the magazine section, Jenny finally saw that Mr. Dawling was a tall, bearded old man. Accompanying him were his sister, two sons, and several nephews. Mr. Dawling stopped briefly at both the monthly and weekly exhibition areas of the magazine department. Mr. Eliot briefly explained the day's preparations. Mr. Dawling said some pleasantries, occasionally turning to talk to his sons, seeming to treat everyone equally. After they finished the tour and left, the crowd gradually dispersed in the exhibition area. A few publishers lingered at the weekly's booth, picking up the weekly to browse. Mr. Baker, Mr. Alpha, and Frank also had their own clients to talk to, and they stayed at the booth for a while. Once they left, Jenny's real work began. When someone came to the booth, she first stood quietly to the side, waiting until they flipped through a few pages with interest, then stepped forward a few paces. If the person looked up and seemed to lose focus, Jenny would smile and approach, telling them the weekly's data—such as circulation per issue in New York, annual sales, the chief editor's qualifications, content layout, and history. If interested, she would find the two editors who were scouting around to continue the introduction. Some publishers wanted to buy the right to excerpt information from the publication; others wanted to buy attribution and licensing. Every deal would be significant. After handling wave after wave of people, she began proactively handing out flyers in the corridors. The flyers were only in English, French, and German; publishers from other countries brought their own translators. Mr. Eliot and Mr. Holmes were deep in conversation with interested publishers, so Jenny took a stack of papers to the snack bar next door. Today she wore a light green taffeta high-necked long-sleeved day dress with fine workmanship. The fabric was good, decent enough, without excessive decoration, not too flashy, making her face look strikingly pale. But the silk clung to her skin, and together with the hoop skirt, it cinched her into a graceful, beautifully shaped green vase—slender-bodied, thin-walled, as if it would shatter at a touch. Frank had chosen it the night before last; when paying, he also picked out a silk scarf for her to tie around her neck, saying it would complement her eyes. Jenny followed his advice, and now indeed, wherever she went, people noticed her even before she spoke. Even if they just stared at her, not caring what she said. Once she met their eyes, Jenny put on a mechanical smile, stepped forward, recited a rehearsed introduction, handed out a flyer, and turned away. After a round at the snack bar, she had noticeably fewer flyers. Turning, she saw new arrivals at the weekly's booth. It was the boss, accompanied by an older publisher leaning on a cane. They spoke in German, and Zweit was introducing the weekly to him. A few subordinates followed at a distance, not interrupting their conversation. Jenny knew that Mr. Eliot and Mr. Holmes had just been called away, and only Charlene was at the booth, who seemed reluctant to get involved, sitting without standing up. Jenny hurried over, just as Zweit looked up and scanned the area. When he saw her, he gestured, and she handed him a flyer. She couldn't understand a word, so she stood nearby like a vase. After introducing the weekly to Gaiernie, Zweit noticed the negotiation table and chairs prepared beside the booth and led Gaiernie to sit there. "How are your old leg problems? I know some doctors in New York; maybe you could see one while you're here..." Gaiernie shook his head, saying it might be incurable. Zweit insisted, since he was already here. Gaiernie shrugged and agreed. Jenny couldn't understand, but she could see they had a personal relationship, and her boss was actively maintaining it. She hadn't expected that her boss, who seemed expressionless and actually quite impersonal, would also cultivate private relationships with clients. So for a foot soldier like her, putting on a smile wasn't shameful. Seeing them talk endlessly, she noticed the guest unconsciously licking his lips, so she went to the snack bar to fetch tea and food, placing them on the table. Gaiernie was just thirsty; he took a sip of tea, glanced at Jenny, and said something to Zweit. Jenny sensed the guest was talking about her but didn't understand. She looked at her boss blankly. Zweit hadn't intended to explain, but seeing her puzzled and hesitant to ask, he answered, "Mr. Gaiernie says you look Germanic." Jenny smiled generously and nodded. "My great-grandfather indeed came from the European continent to America by ship. He was Prussian." Zweit seemed not to notice her smile; he turned to Gaiernie and said something. Then, at her boss's instruction, Jenny fetched several issues of the weekly and the adjacent monthly, as well as some books from the literature department. The two sat there, and Zweit didn't call any of the subordinates waiting at a distance to answer questions; he alone explained all the publications and books whose copyrights were for sale. After the exhibition, by afternoon, the guests returned to their hotels to prepare for the evening banquet. Charlene packed up everything in the exhibition area and loaded it into the carriage to send back to the editorial office. The items at the venue were being dismantled and returned to the suppliers. Jenny stayed to oversee. After finishing, she went back to the company to clock out, returned to her dormitory, washed up, and slept straight through the night. The next morning, Jenny returned to the office and ran into Frank. She winked, saw Mr. Baker talking to Mr. Alpha in the conference room, and asked Frank for details. "Gaiernie Publishing is interested in buying sources and copyrights for several books from the literature and magazine departments. They're discussing it now." Frank poured a cup of tea, handed it to Jenny when no one was looking, and couldn't help saying a few more words. "Mr. Baker said you did very well, very dedicated. He saw you when he passed by yesterday." Jenny pursed her lips, her heels still sore. "Someone has to do the showy work. I'm dead tired." She complained to Frank, and just as he was about to soothe her, Jenny saw Mr. Eliot walk in. He came straight to his desk, opened the files William had left on it one by one. Jenny quickly left Frank and returned to her seat. Soon, the office employees gradually arrived, and William sat down in his seat with a tired expression. After flipping through the files Claire and William had handled over the past few days, Mr. Eliot suddenly called them both over.
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