The following day, Ivan donned a worn worker's outfit, rumpled his hair, and smeared his face with dust. He wanted to look like a weary immigrant who had just slipped into America. His destination was a low-income getto in San Francisco, the bustling enclave where he hoped to blend in and gain passage across the bay.
At this time, the BA Bay Bridge was nothing more than an ambitious dream, with only a few towering concrete pillars jutting out of the water, hinting at what would one day span the distance. For now, the only way across was either by boat or a lengthy journey around the bay. Ghetto with its influence stretching to both sides of the bay, surely had connections that could help him find his way to Oakland. Ivan's plan was simple: pose as a Russian laborer eager for work, earn the trust of the local immigrant community, and use their networks to slip quietly into Oakland and gather information.
Turning a corner, Ivan saw the gateway of the ghetto, marking the boundary of the neighborhood. The streets, bore a gritty, understated charm. The storefronts were humble, with hand-painted signs written in different languages.
The road was rough, filled with potholes and patches of uneven stone. Taxis lined the sidewalks, their drivers lounging under tree shade, puffing on hand-rolled tobacco with an air of practiced indifference. As Ivan walked through, his "new face" status was obvious; people cast curious glances, some curious, some wary.
Ivan did his best to play the part of a bewildered newcomer, his gaze darting around as if lost and overwhelmed. He didn't have to wait long. A middle-aged man in a melon-shaped hat, round-framed glasses, and a long, traditional gown approached, his expression both kind and calculating. He patted Ivan on the shoulder and leaned in close, speaking in a familiar tone.
"Little brother, new to the City, are you?" the man asked, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and authority.
Ivan gave a small, hesitant nod, playing his role of a naive newcomer.
The man chuckled, his glasses catching the glint of sunlight. "Don't be nervous. We're with the immigrant Mutual Aid Association. Where are you from, little brother?"
Ivan cast his eyes down, his voice soft and shy. "I'm from Russia."
The man's eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise, and his tone shifted to match Ivan's accent. "Ah, a fellow from Russia! Now, isn't that a nice surprise! Tell me, have you eaten yet?"
Ivan shook his head, letting his shoulders droop slightly. "No… I'm nearly out of money."
The man with the round glasses laughed, clapping Ivan on the back. "Then say no more! You're in good company now. Come, I'll treat you to a good meal! Can't let a fellow countryman go hungry, now, can we?"
Ivan made a show of hesitating, his expression flustered. "But sir, I wouldn't want to impose…"
"Nonsense!" The man waved away his reluctance with a grin, already tugging at Ivan's sleeve. "We look out for our own here. No need for embarrassment!"
Before Ivan could protest further, the man had already steered him down the street and into a small, modest restaurant. The walls were papered with faded newspapers, their edges curling with age, and everything inside had a sepia-toned quality, tinged with a well-worn yellow that spoke of countless memories. Ivan couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia, mixed with curiosity.
As they settled into their seats, the man leaned in, speaking in a low voice, his tone half conspiratorial. "Let me tell you something, kid. Most folks here, especially the American and western European, they won't touch horse meat. But old man Boris here, the owner, he buys up all the horse meat that can't work anymore. Makes a good living selling it to us who know a good meal when we see one."
Moments later, four steaming hot stew filled with tender horse meat were placed before them, accompanied by two bowls of tomato and egg soup. Ivan took a cautious spoonfull, and his eyes widened slightly at the taste. The stew was tart and savory, the horse meat savory and juicy, seasoned to perfection. It was like a little taste of home, and for a moment, he allowed himself to savor it.
As Ivan ate, the man watched him with a mix of interest and calculation, peppering him with questions. "So, how old are you? Do you have family back home? Ever been to school?"
Ivan played his part well, giving shy, halting answers, weaving a story of a young man with little family, little education, and little hope; a perfect candidate for work and guidance, the type who might need "help" in a new city. The man with the round glasses nodded thoughtfully, clearly absorbing every detail. For Ivan, it was a delicate dance of giving just enough to keep the man's interest without raising suspicion.
By the end of the meal, Ivan had established himself as a harmless newcomer, and his companion seemed pleased, convinced of his story. It was the first step in gaining their trust, and soon enough, he hoped, their help in crossing the bay.
Ivan thanked the man with a bow, casting a grateful smile. "Thank you, sir. I won't forget this kindness."
The man smiled, patting Ivan's shoulder warmly. "Stick with me, kid. I'll show you the ropes. We'll find you some work, and soon enough, you'll know your way around here like a native."
Ivan nodded, hiding the glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. The plan was unfolding perfectly, and now, with a little patience, he was one step closer to infiltrating Oakland and discovering the secrets he'd been hired to uncover.
Ivan had rehearsed this moment carefully. With a few well-timed pauses and a dash of emotional vulnerability, he painted the picture of a young man who had lost his parents early, scraped by with a meager education, and had come to America alone, looking for work. His performance was convincing, and it did the trick.
The man with the round-framed glasses, now fully engaged in the story, wiped an almost theatrical tear from his eye. "Ah, little brother, you've had a rough road. It's not easy, is it? Have you managed to find an employer yet?"
Ivan shook his head. "No, still looking for a job," he replied, his tone carrying just the right note of disappointment.
The man smiled sympathetically and waved a hand. "Don't call me 'master' call me Anton. I think fate brought us together. I'll help you find some work, how about that?"
Ivan's face lit up with carefully measured excitement, which he quickly tempered with a look of shy hesitation. "Really? I… I don't know how to thank you. I'm not looking for anything fancy, just a chance to make a bit of money. I'd like to head to Oakland. I heard wages are better over there."
Anton chuckled, nodding as if sharing a secret. "You've come to the right person, then. If you want to get across the bay, nobody knows the way better than me." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a friendly whisper. "But of course, little brother, I'd need a small introduction fee for my efforts, you understand?"
Ivan acted the part of the reluctant newcomer, hesitating before pulling two crumpled dollars from his pocket. "It's all I have, Brother Cui… I hope it's enough?"
"Plenty, plenty," Anton said, pocketing the bills with a satisfied grin. "By the way, what's your name, little brother?"
"Lenin," Ivan replied smoothly, offering his alias.
"Good name, Lenin." Anton gave him an approving nod. "Tell me, Lenin, have you heard of the Immigrant Mutual Aid Association?"
Ivan's mind raced. He vaguely remembered hearing about it in his past life, in passing conversations, but it hadn't seemed important then. He shook his head, playing the part of the clueless newcomer. "No, I haven't heard of it."
Anton chuckled knowingly. "That's alright, not everyone knows. It's just a network we have here to help each other out." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Now, as it happens, I've got a friend running a mine in Oakland. He provides food, a place to sleep, even throws in some steamed buns and porridge, and pays in cash every week. Sometimes, if luck's good, there's meat. Sound like something you'd be interested in?"
Ivan nodded, feigning eagerness. "That sounds perfect!"
"Then let's get you set up, eh?" Anton patted Ivan on the back, tossed a few coins on the table for the meal, and led him out of the restaurant.
…
They made their way toward the docks, Anton leading the way while Ivan took in the sights around him. The street was alive with familiar scenes: older men lounging under trees, enjoying the shade; middle-aged men huddled over chess boards, deep in thought; young men pushing carts laden with goods; and children dashing between stalls, their laughter echoing off the worn buildings.
Vendors lined the streets, selling different nuts and hand-rolled tobacco leaves. Ivan noticed a newspaper stand selling newspapers from around tge world, Eventually, Anton led him to a dock where a rusty fishing boat bobbed gently in the water. Two men leaned against the poles beside it, smoking and chatting idly. Anton motioned for Ivan to stay put, then strode over to the men.
"Hey, Anton," one of them called out, eyeing Ivan with mild curiosity. "Is this a new one?"
Anton grinned, nodding. "This is Ji Bochang, came here all on his own to work."
The man gave Ivan a once-over, his expression a mix of disinterest and appraisal. "Alright, name your price."
Anton flashed a crafty smile. "400 dollars, and he's all yours."
The man snorted, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "You're dreaming. 80 dollars, take it or leave it."
Anton's face fell, his eyes widening in mock indignation. "80? You're insulting me! Look at this kid, strong and fit; worth at least 200!"
The two men haggled back and forth, the argument a blend of feigned anger and sly calculation. Eventually, the man grumbled and reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of cash. He slapped ten 10 dollar bills into Anton's hand, who took them with a triumphant grin and tucked them safely away.
Satisfied, Anton turned back to Ivan, his smile as warm as ever. "Lenin, listen to these gentlemen, now. Work hard, don't slack off, and they'll treat you well."
Ivan nodded obediently, but his instincts were on high alert. The whole setup felt off, and he could sense an undercurrent of something darker at play. He offered a polite smile and muttered his thanks, but inside, his mind was racing, picking apart every detail.
As he climbed onto the fishing boat, Ivan kept his gaze low, pretending to take in his surroundings with awe, all the while mentally cataloging his options. He was now one step closer to Oakland, but he knew he'd need to stay sharp if he wanted to make it out unscathed.