The transition from the village to Shanghai was not a fairy tale. Lin Xia didn't bring her weavers to a palace; she brought them to a construction site.
The "Red Star Cannery" was a skeleton of rust and broken glass. When the truck arrived from Willow Creek, the ten weavers—led by the headstrong Auntie Mei—stepped out into the thick, humid air of the Pudong marshes. They looked at the dilapidated building, then at the towering, glittering buildings across the river in Puxi.
"Xia," Auntie Mei whispered, clutching her bundle of belongings. "You said we were coming to the city. This looks like the end of the world."
"It's the beginning of the world, Auntie," Lin Xia replied, her boots sinking into the mud. "In the village, you were workers. Here, you are the foundation of a dynasty."
Lin Xia had used the remainder of her 25,000 USD to purchase second-hand industrial looms from a liquidated state factory in the north. She had spent nights studying the mechanics of these machines, knowing that the "hand-made" charm Klaus Weber loved would soon need to scale into "high-end industrial" to survive.
However, the local labor union—a group of men who had been "working" at the cannery for twenty years by doing nothing—were not happy. Their leader was a man named "Big-Ear" Sun. He was a bully who had lived off state subsidies for decades.
On the third morning, Lin Xia arrived at the factory to find the gates chained shut. Sun and twenty men stood there, smoking and spitting.
"You can't bring these country women in here," Sun shouted. "This is a state-authorized site. We have 'rights.' If you want this factory to run, you hire us, at our rates, with our four-hour lunch breaks."
Auntie Mei and the other weavers shrank back. They were in a strange city, surrounded by angry men.
Lin Xia walked up to the gate. She didn't look at the chain. She looked at Sun.
"I bought the land and the machinery, Mr. Sun. I didn't buy your laziness. You have ten minutes to cut that chain, or I'll consider this a breach of the industrial lease."
"Or what?" Sun laughed, stepping closer. "You'll call the police? My cousin is the precinct captain. You're just a girl with a fancy permit. Go back to your village and get married."
Lin Xia didn't call the police. She knew that in 1989, the law was often whatever the loudest man said it was. Instead, she turned to the crowd of workers who were standing behind Sun—men who looked hungry, their clothes frayed.
"Who here has a daughter?" Lin Xia asked loudly.
The men blinked, confused by the question.
"Who here has a daughter who wants a wedding dress made of real silk?" she continued. "Who here has a son who can't get a job because the state factories are closing? Mr. Sun here is fighting for his right to do nothing. I am offering the right to build something."
She pulled out a ledger—the same one she had shown Han Huojin.
"I am hiring fifty people today. Starting salary is thirty percent higher than the state minimum. But there are no four-hour lunches. There is only production. If you work, you get paid. If you stand behind a man who wants to keep you poor, you get nothing."
"Don't listen to her!" Sun roared, reaching for the ledger.
But the atmosphere had shifted. The men weren't looking at Sun anymore; they were looking at the stacks of crates behind Lin Xia, marked with German shipping labels. They were looking at the crisp 10-Yuan notes peeking out of her pocket.
One of the younger men stepped forward. "My sister can sew. You'd hire her?"
"If she's fast and she's honest," Lin Xia said.
"Step back, Liu!" Sun swung a heavy hand at the young man.
Before the blow could land, a black car skidded to a halt in the mud. Han Huojin stepped out. He didn't say a word. He simply stood by the open car door, his presence radiating the cold authority of the provincial government.
The sight of a high-ranking official's car—a black Shanghai SH760—was enough to break the bravado of any local bully.
"The chain, Mr. Sun," Lin Xia said, her voice a calm whip-crack. "Now."
Sun, his face pale, fumbled with a pair of bolt cutters. The chain hit the ground with a heavy clink.
As the gates opened, Lin Xia led her village weavers inside. But she didn't stop there. She turned back to the men who had been standing with Sun.
"Anyone who wants to work, come in. Mr. Sun, you stay out. You're fired."
"You can't fire me! I'm a union head!"
"There is no union for a private enterprise," Lin Xia said, looking him dead in the eye. "Welcome to the market economy, Mr. Sun. It's a very cold place for people like you."
Inside the factory, the village women and the city workers began to mingle—a clashing of cultures that Lin Xia knew she had to manage. She spent the rest of the day assigning roles. She made Auntie Mei the floor manager, putting a "village peasant" in charge of "city workers." It was a deliberate move to ensure loyalty.
As the sun set over the Huangpu River, the first of the industrial looms began to hum. It was a rough, loud sound, but to Lin Xia, it was a symphony.
Han Huojin walked up to her as she stood on the loading dock.
"You're making enemies fast, Lin Xia," he said. "Sun has friends. Zhang Wei has friends. You're building a fortress in the middle of a swamp."
"A fortress is only a prison if you stay inside," Lin Xia replied. "I'm not building a fortress. I'm building an engine."
"What's the next move?" Han asked, genuinely curious.
Lin Xia looked across the river at the lights of the Peace Hotel. "Next week, the French Trade Delegation arrives in Shanghai. They don't want silk shawls. They want a partner for their new luxury ready-to-wear line. And I'm going to make sure I'm the only choice they have."
"The French?" Han Huojin leaned against the rusted railing. "You don't even have a finished roof."
"I have something better," Lin Xia smiled. "I have the 1991 fashion forecast. And the French are two years behind me."
The conversation on the loading dock lingered as the orange sun dipped below the Puxi skyline. The smell of the river—a mix of salt, mud, and industrial oil—filled the air. Han Huojin watched Lin Xia, his eyes narrowed as if trying to solve a complex mathematical equation.
"The French aren't like the Germans, Lin Xia," Han said, his voice dropping to a low, cautionary tone. "Klaus Weber wanted a bargain and 'soul.' The French want prestige. They want to know that their partner has a lineage. You're a girl from Willow Creek with blue-stained fingers. To them, you aren't a partner; you're a risk."
Lin Xia leaned against a rusted crate, her expression unreadable. "Lineage can be manufactured, Huojin. In five years, these marshes will be the most expensive real estate on earth. If I can convince the French that I am the gatekeeper to the Chinese consumer, they won't care if I was born in a rice paddy or a palace."
Han stepped closer, his shadow stretching long across the floorboards. "You talk about the future as if you've already lived it. It's unnerving. Is that why you bought this specific plot? Because you 'felt the wind' telling you the government would pick Pudong for the SEZ?"
Lin Xia smiled, a small, dangerous tilt of her lips. "Let's just say I'm a very good listener. And you? Why are you really helping me? A rising star in the Ministry doesn't spend his evenings in a swamp helping a textile girl fight off local thugs."
Han was silent for a moment. He looked out at the river, his jaw tight. "The old system is rotting. Men like Director Ma and Big-Ear Sun are dead weight. If China doesn't find people who actually know how to build value, we'll be left behind. I'm betting on you because you're the only person I've met who isn't afraid of the chaos."
He turned back to her, his gaze intense. "But don't mistake my help for a shield. If you trip, I won't catch you. I can't afford to be dragged down by a failed experiment."
"I don't need a shield," Lin Xia replied, her voice as hard as the steel looms humming behind them. "I need an ally who knows how to move the pieces I can't reach. Keep the bureaucrats off my back for three months. That's all I ask."
Han nodded slowly. "Three months. After that, you're on your own. I'll be watching, Lin Xia. Don't make me regret the stamp."
He turned and walked toward his black sedan, leaving Lin Xia alone with the sound of the rising tide and the steady, relentless clack of her future beginning to take shape.