Muffled conversation still drifted from inside the office, making the area outside the cubicles seem quite quiet.
Evan, the typist for Editor Sharpe, had just returned from lunch. He carried several paper boxes of apple-cinnamon puff triangles and handed them out to colleagues still busy in the office. The poetry and prose serial column that Editor Sharpe was responsible for wasn't as prestigious as the fiction serial column that Mr. Eliot handled. Being unimportant wasn't without its benefits—at least the staff in his group were very relaxed, with no pressure on their shoulders. Every day, they had breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea—five or six meals, never missing a single one.
Jenny took a piece and nibbled on it, thinking she would finish sorting today's mail submissions before going to lunch. She glanced ahead and saw Mr. Eliot stand up, brush off his clothes, take a couple of steps, and wave Clare and Polly over. Jenny didn't know what it was about. After finishing the puff triangle, she wiped her hands with a handkerchief and continued sorting the manuscripts in her hands. Before long, Clare turned around and called Jenny over as well. Jenny had to temporarily set aside her work.
Mr. Eliot was accustomed to working at a seat by the window in the open-plan area. His belongings were always impeccable, and William helped tidy them every day. At the moment, his expression was as rigid as the desktop, carrying a strong sense of pressure. Clare and Polly stood to one side, apparently having been scolded together by Mr. Eliot. As soon as Jenny approached, before she could say a word, Mr. Clare picked up a stack of manuscripts and handed them to her for inspection. His tone carried a hint of reproach. "This is the manuscript you brought in yesterday, isn't it?" Jenny looked at it, nodded, and glanced at the others. "Yes, is there a problem with this manuscript?"
Clare let out a laugh, as if trying to ease the atmosphere after the reprimand. "Nothing much. In the future, don't accept things of this quality. It can't be salvaged even with revisions." Jenny frowned and glanced again at the manuscript. It was indeed one she had collected from an author yesterday. But when she had sorted it yesterday afternoon, she already found the content difficult to revise and intended to return it. Then she happened to run into Mr. Clare, who stopped her. He clearly told her yesterday that since she had already accepted it, she might as well let the editor take a look first. Now Jenny looked at Clare, whose expression was calm, as if he had forgotten all about it—completely forgotten that he was the one who insisted on keeping it. Somehow, she felt choked. She was about to explain to Mr. Eliot, but saw that he was lounging lazily, glancing at the clock on the table with indifference, as if unwilling to waste time. Jenny immediately suppressed her impulse. She took a deep breath, lowered her head, and said in a sincere tone, "Yes, that's my fault. In the future, I'll be more cautious and never make this mistake again. Let me take this manuscript and return it."
Nearby, the office workers had long been eavesdropping on the commotion. They had expected Jenny to rebut Clare, but instead, she bowed her head for a long moment and directly admitted fault—and so obsequiously at that. Polly had been watching when Mr. Clare made the decision to keep the manuscript yesterday, so she knew very well how unjustified Jenny's admission was. When Mr. Eliot saw that Jenny had accepted the blame and her attitude was submissive, he didn't say anything more. He nodded for her to go and return the manuscript. The matter was let go lightly.
Jenny took the manuscript downstairs, mailed it back, then went downstairs for a quick lunch. She returned to the office half an hour later. Most of the office workers had gone out to eat and hadn't all come back yet. Several cubicles were empty, but Polly was still sitting at her desk, tapping away at the typewriter keys. Seeing Jenny come back and sit down as if nothing had happened, Polly felt a bit uneasy. She lowered her voice and said, "Jenny, why did you take the blame like that?" Polly looked around, made sure no one was paying attention, and lowered her voice further. "If you ask me, Mr. Clare is a fake good person. When I got scolded like that two days ago, he didn't say a word for me on the spot, nor did he guide me on what to do. He only talks nonsense afterward. Usually, he says nice things, telling us to come to him if we have problems. But look at him—saying one thing and doing another, muddling through and going with the flow. He's tight with Ronald. And you, what a fool, not exposing him. If you had exposed him, I would have testified for you."
Jenny saw through Polly's little scheme at a glance—she was afraid Jenny wouldn't stir up trouble so she could enjoy the show. Jenny pressed her lips together, used her fingers to peel off the vermilion wax seal on an envelope, took out the manuscript inside, smoothed it flat, and applied a bit more pressure with her hands. "I didn't review it carefully enough, so I accepted this manuscript. Since I did it, I'll own it. There's no point in complaining about others." This answer made Polly feel bored. She shot Jenny a disdainful glance, thinking Jenny was a pushover, and went back to typing.
In the afternoon, Jenny spent half an hour going through all the manuscripts on her desk, rejecting more than half and keeping only three. Seeing that Polly and Clare were still busy polishing the manuscripts they had collected yesterday, Jenny held back for a while but ultimately couldn't restrain herself. She felt the urge to gamble—to curb the momentum of others treating her as a scapegoat. She knew very well that if she had talked back just now, given Mr. Eliot's temper, he would likely think she couldn't take responsibility. He always only cared about results; as long as someone could deliver results, he didn't care about the process. Grasping this key point, Jenny did not submit the submissions she had selected today to Mr. Clare for review.
Jenny spent extra time on her own—she took a steel nib pen and polished the manuscripts from start to finish on the draft paper, then brought another typewriter to her desk. She quickly transcribed them into clean copies, let the ink dry, and while Clare was busy, she carried the documents directly to Mr. Eliot. Mr. Eliot had just been called out by Mr. Alpha to talk and had just returned. He was holding a cup of tea, not looking busy, so it should be a good time to interrupt. "Mr. Eliot, these are the three submissions I collected today. I polished them myself and came to seek your advice."
Mr. Eliot was holding a bone china cup painted with bright red goldfish, containing Fujian oolong tea. He took a couple of sips, slowly wiped his lips with a fine silk handkerchief, and clearly saw through Jenny's intentions. Nevertheless, when Jenny placed the manuscripts before him, he skimmed through them line by line. After reading two pages, Mr. Eliot put down the things in his hands and focused on flipping through the manuscripts. He flipped through from beginning to end, then slowly went back, put on a pair of glasses, and read carefully. After reading for a quarter of an hour, he asked Jenny to bring the original manuscripts. Jenny didn't know what he thought; she was so nervous she felt like smoking inside, but she maintained her composure and went back to get them.
By this time, the office workers realized what Jenny was doing. She had bypassed Clare and gone over his head in a place where hierarchy was strict and seniority was stricter than the law. William and Polly exchanged uneasy glances at Mr. Eliot's expression, and even Monique and Fujena, sitting farther away, looked over. They all knew she was retaliating for being made the scapegoat, slapping Clare in the face. If the result wasn't good, Clare would certainly seize the opportunity to step on her, and Jenny would be in serious trouble. How dared she gamble like that? Was she not afraid of losing her job? The others discreetly glanced at Clare's expression. He appeared as usual, still amiable, but he downed half a cup of coffee in one gulp.
Eliot compared the original and polished versions for a while. Having been an editor for so many years, he could tell at a glance the depth or shallowness of the writing. Jenny stood aside with her hands down, staring at the floor for a while. When she heard the rustling of paper stop, she immediately looked up. She saw Eliot pick up the manuscripts, his expression as steady as Mount Tai, without any anomaly. He reached out and slapped the thick stack of manuscript paper on the desk, calling over William, the typist who sat nearby and was staring blankly. "Take these to the proofreading room for proofs." William didn't know why this fire had landed on him. He looked at the editor helplessly, then at Jenny. "All of these?" Eliot thought for a moment. Since Jenny was willing to be the first to step up, he didn't mind using this pawn who had come to him willingly, to tighten everyone's reins and make them put double effort into their work. "All of them," Eliot said. William responded, took the stack of manuscripts that Jenny had polished and revised only once, and turned around. He had to walk across the office to the proofreading room next door. He felt dozens of eyes in the office staring at his back. He had never felt that stretch of path was so long; each step was hindered by the gazes, and the manuscripts in his hands felt like a hot potato. It wasn't until William closed the door of the editorial room behind him, the metal latch softly clicking, that the office workers realized their necks had been twisted ninety degrees, and they awkwardly adjusted back to normal.
Everyone who had ever revised manuscripts under Eliot had first been scolded until they wept bitterly, had to shed several layers of skin to master the techniques he valued. Even after mastering them, they had to go through the layers of clerks, typists, and assistant editors, who would weigh the work repeatedly, before daring to bring it before him. If Jenny could revise a manuscript to the standard Eliot considered acceptable for proofreading in one go, then what need would he have for all these people in the future? In the editorial room, everyone who worked under Eliot, in just those few seconds, turned pale. Only Eliot, as William walked out, picked up his teacup and lightly praised Jenny, "You've revised the articles well." Jenny exhaled a breath of relief from her nose. Sweat was about to drip from her palms. To outsiders, however, she appeared composed, straightening her back, and even modestly said, "It's all thanks to Mr. Clare's dedicated guidance. As a newcomer, I just got lucky."
From far away, Polly heard Jenny's words clearly and quickly covered her mouth, afraid she would laugh out loud. To be fair, Mr. Clare was also someone who could achieve great things. He forced a genial look, took the step Jenny offered, turned around, shook his head, and said, "Still, you have good insight." The editorial room seemed harmonious on the surface, but surreptitious glances crossed back and forth. Jenny returned to her seat and sat for a while, then suddenly saw Mr. Clare leave the editorial room. Before leaving, he glanced at her. Jenny naturally understood that this was a signal that he wanted to talk to her. She had gambled correctly. Five minutes later, at the end of the corridor on this floor, near the science magazine editorial office, in an unoccupied storage room, Jenny saw Clare. He lit a cigar there, smoking while eyeing her, as if trying to peel a layer off her thin face. "Mr. Clare, did you need something from me?" Clare finished his cigar, stubbed it out on the windowsill, looked at her, and suddenly sighed, "Jenny, you didn't have to do this." "Do what? I don't understand a word of what you're saying, Mr. Clare." "Don't play dumb. If you didn't understand, you wouldn't have come here to talk to me." Clare raised his hand in a gesture of surrender. He knew very well that Eliot always believed in results and outcomes. Even if he, Clare, was a veteran, if he fell even a little behind a newcomer in ability and there was a strong replacement, Eliot would not hesitate to replace him. "I admit, I took a gamble and underestimated you. When the problem came up, I shifted the blame onto you. But you didn't have to take it so far. Burning bridges like that—what good does it do you? We all have to work together. Even if Mr. Eliot acknowledges you to the skies, without the cooperation and tolerance of the team, can you guarantee you'll never make mistakes?"
He was telling the truth, and Jenny knew it well. But she still didn't leave any opening. "What benefits and mistakes? I don't understand what you're saying, Mr. Clare. Why would you think that?" Seeing that she was a tough nut to crack and threats wouldn't work, Clare switched to softer words. "Alright, I formally apologize to you here. And things like that won't happen again. If you have something on your mind, you can discuss it with me. Let's turn hostilities into harmony. The new team has just been established; we shouldn't let outsiders laugh at our own people. Since you're so capable, there will be plenty of opportunities to shine in the future. When that time comes, I'll definitely help push things along for you. What do you say?" Jenny knew that when that "push" truly came, it might need quotation marks, but she still nodded. After all, a true man doesn't contend for temporal bravery. For now, she wasn't going to be provoked. She looked him straight in the eye without flinching. "I accept your apology. Everything I've done so far is just to seek stability. It's not as serious as you think, nor am I trying to oppose anyone. You're right, Mr. Clare—we're all on the same side. With your assurance, I won't do anything detrimental to unity in the future. Please rest assured." "That's good." Clare nodded in satisfaction, seeing that she seemed to understand her place and that he didn't need to hammer the point further. After the brief conversation, Jenny watched his figure disappear completely from sight, found a wall in the storage room to lean against, closed her eyes, and adjusted her mindset. When she opened her eyes, she looked at the cold wind and fine snow outside the window and the Brooklyn Bridge, feeling as if she was walking on thin ice. A quarter of an hour later, Jenny came out, ducked into the washroom to wash her hands, pretending she had just used the toilet. On her way back to the editorial room, she glimpsed Cowens, who had also come out to use the restroom. Cowens and Ronald had failed on their field mission today and had looked off-color all day after returning. Jenny wanted to know the details, so she waited outside the men's restroom for a while.