Processing Fee: You Ask for Three Fifty, I'll Give You Four!

At nine thirty in the morning, the office was next to the workshop. There was an old desk with a sheet of glass pressed over it, customs declaration forms stuffed underneath, and a calendar on the wall still turned to last year.

Ye spread the cigarette-pack paper over the glass, the tip of his pen tapping the few lines he had just written down.

After asking about sizes above thirty-nine, he did not ask a second time.

A factory owner doing contract manufacturing made whatever sizes the client wanted. Sizes were the buyer's business, not his. What he cared about was something else.

"Manager Ma, three thousand pairs, needed before the New Year?"

"Before the New Year."

"If the materials don't arrive in less than a day, I can't start production in a day."

"Get the materials supplier here."

Today, he had to take away three things: production slots on two lines, the cost of a pair of shoes, and a loading date before the New Year.

He had only one thing to trade for them: cash. And cash was exactly what this factory lacked—so badly that Ye had not even dared quote a price on the phone yesterday.

As for what he would get, he had calculated that it would be a batch of goods made to his specifications. The rack of shoe lasts was already a free bonus.

Ye dialed a number, called Old Cai twice, and said that a customer from Hangzhou had come to place an order and asked him to come over.

The other end said something, and Ye's face slowly reddened.

"Just come first. We'll talk when you get here."

A little after ten, a van drove into the yard. A man in his forties got out, wearing a leather jacket and carrying a stack of sample cards.

The first thing he did upon entering was glance at Lin Fan, then look at Ye.

"Old Ye, that previous debt—"

"Old Cai."

"I'm not rushing you." Old Cai tossed the sample cards onto the desk. "I make my living off this all year round. Your factory has been shut down for half a year. I came here three times, and every time you told me to wait for orders. I waited half a year."

Ye stood there without making a sound.

A man who had run a factory for more than ten years, a man in his fifties, being spoken to like this in his own office in front of outsiders—he could not keep his face.

It did not look good, but it was exactly what Lin Fan wanted.

Only a factory being chased for unpaid bills by a materials supplier would stake both production lines on a stranger from Hangzhou. There were plenty of factories in the western development zone with good machines, good jobs, and plenty of skilled workers. Those factories did not lack money for materials, so they did not lack options either. Factories like that would not listen to him.

"Boss Cai." Lin Fan pulled his chair closer to the desk. "I'm placing the order. I'll pay for the materials."

Old Cai's eyes turned toward him.

"You'll pay?"

"I will. I'll transfer the money for this batch of materials directly into your account. It won't go through Old Ye."

Old Cai unzipped his leather jacket a little.

"Then give me a number. How many pairs?"

"Three thousand. There'll be a second and third batch before the New Year. I need to turn over two or three batches a month."

"Three thousand pairs." Old Cai pulled out a stack of sample cards. "Short fur-cuff boots, right? For the upper material, Old Ye used this grade for that export batch. Seven yuan per foot."

"How many feet per pair?"

Old Cai froze for a moment.

"About one and a half feet per pair."

"One and a half feet at seven yuan makes ten fifty per pair, just for the upper layer." Lin Fan took the card, rubbing the suede surface back and forth with his thumb. "Boss Cai, I don't need the export grade."

"Then which grade do you want?"

"One grade lower. Show me whatever you have."

Old Cai spread the whole stack of cards across the desk.

The export grade had short, dense, even nap when touched. That feel was what foreign buyers had demanded through inspection. When girls buying shoes received them, they could only see pictures through a screen, but once they touched the shoes, they could tell whether they were warm, soft, and shed fur. One grade lower was fine, as long as it did not cross the line into shedding. Everything else could give.

He picked the third card.

"How much for this one?"

"Four twenty."

"One and a half feet per pair, six thirty." He set the card down. "The fur lining."

"For the export batch, three yuan per pair."

"If we go one grade thicker, what price?"

"Three eighty."

He saved four twenty on the upper material and added back eighty cents on the fur.

A shoe buyer would never notice in her lifetime that the upper material had dropped a grade. But if she stuck her hand into the cuff and gave it a squeeze, she would know in one second whether the fur sprang back up. Among the 2,300 reviews for Ye's previous batch, that was what people praised most.

"The soles."

"Three fifty a pair. That can't be lowered. If the sole gets softer, it'll collapse after two days of walking."

"Don't lower it."

"For the miscellaneous stuff inside—thread, glue, insoles, cardboard—call it one yuan per pair."

"What about boxes?"

"Export-style color boxes are one twenty each."

"No boxes."

Old Cai's pen stopped.

"How are you shipping without boxes?"

"I sell online. Each pair goes out as a separate order, wrapped in a waterproof bag. By the time the box gets crushed along the way and reaches the customer, it'll be flat. A flat box looks worse than no box."

"Then I'll get you bags. A little over ten cents each."

"Calculate it like that."

He pressed his finger against the glass, pointing down one item at a time.

Upper material, six thirty. Fur, three eighty. Soles, three fifty. Miscellaneous, one yuan.

Fourteen sixty.

Three thousand pairs, forty-three thousand eight hundred.

"Boss Cai, this will be the price for every batch from now on."

"If you really turn over two or three batches a month," Old Cai said, setting down his pen, "I'll hold this price for you."

With the materials settled, what remained was the factory's side.

"Director Ye, what's the processing fee per pair?"

Ye flipped over the cigarette-pack paper, wrote a few figures, then crossed one out.

"Back when I made exports, they paid me four twenty per pair in labor fees," he said. "I'm not familiar with domestic sales. Three fifty is fine. My factory is sitting empty anyway. Once the machines start running, I'll feel more at ease."

"Four yuan."

The room fell quiet for a moment.

Old Cai looked up.

The pen in Ye's hand stopped above the paper.

"Manager Ma, I said three fifty."

"I heard you," Lin Fan said. "Four yuan."

An extra fifty cents per pair meant fifteen hundred yuan for three thousand pairs.

He knew exactly what fifteen hundred yuan would buy.

When a factory did cheap work for you, the workers' hands got sloppy. They handled the cuff fur all day long—whether they smoothed it properly, how much glue they applied, all the things that could not be seen came down to the workers' whim. Those things could not be caught in inspection. They only showed up in the return rate, by which point the shoes were already on the buyers' feet.

Ye's factory had been operating for more than ten years. It owed debts, creditors blocked its door, yet it had not dirtied the workers' craftsmanship. If he squeezed a man like that down to the bottom price, he might grit his teeth and swallow the first batch, but by the second batch, he would have to find somewhere to cut corners.

Ye had quoted three fifty himself. The extra fifty cents was not free.

"Director Ye, I have one condition for the four-yuan price."

"Go ahead."

"From today until the New Year, these two lines will only make my goods. Do not take orders from anyone else. No matter who comes to your door or how much they offer, don't take them."

Ye set down his pen.

"Manager Ma, I can give you my word today," he said. "Not a single job has come through my door in the past half year. You make it sound like this place is in high demand."

"Then write it on the receipt."

"Fine."

"How many pairs can one line produce a day?"

"With a full crew, around four hundred pairs per line a day. Eight hundred for two lines." Ye counted on his fingers. "The first few days will be slow. We won't hit full output."

"How many days until the materials arrive?"

"I'll load them up and head back today. They'll reach the factory tomorrow afternoon," Old Cai said.

"Two days for the sample shoes," Ye added. "I can only start the line after you approve the samples."

One day for materials, two days for samples, and four days to finish three thousand pairs. To be safe, make it five.

"Load the truck on December fifteenth."

"I'll have it loaded for you on the fifteenth."

"Pack by size." He pulled over the cigarette-pack paper and wrote two lines himself. "One size per carton. Don't mix sizes. Write the size on the outside of the cartons."

"Mixed packing saves space."

"If they're mixed, we'll have to unpack and sort them again in Hangzhou. It'll take six people a whole day."

Ye copied those two lines onto his own sheet of paper.

"I'll give you half the processing fee today—six thousand, cash." Lin Fan took the stack of money from his bag and placed it on the glass. "Put your fingerprint on the receipt. The forty-three thousand eight hundred for materials will be in Boss Cai's account tomorrow morning."

Old Cai stared at the stack of cash on the desk for two seconds.

"Old Ye." He put the sample cards back into his bag. "Set aside that old debt for now. We'll talk about it after the New Year."

After saying that, he walked out. When he reached the yard, he even turned back to glance at the workshop.

Three people remained in the room.

Old Chen had been standing by the doorframe the entire morning. He had not sat down or said a single word.

Now he walked two steps inside.

"Manager Ma."

"Go ahead."

"There's something I've been holding in all morning." Old Chen rubbed his hands against his apron. "Nobody wears sizes above thirty-nine."

Ye coughed from the other side of the desk.

"Old Chen."

"I'm telling the truth." Old Chen did not look at him. "I've been making shoes for thirty years. You know how many domestic orders I've handled. Sizes thirty-six and thirty-seven make up more than half. Thirty-eight counts as large. Hardly any pairs above thirty-nine get made all year. Women's feet are only so big."

"I know sizes above thirty-nine are rare."

"They're rare, and you're still making three thousand pairs." Old Chen lowered his hands. "Once those three thousand pairs come out and pile up in your warehouse, who are you going to sell them to?"

"Last month, one of my stores had two hundred and forty orders for sizes above thirty-nine that had to be turned away."

"Two hundred and forty orders." Old Chen rolled the words over. "Manager Ma, that's one store of yours. Do you know how many pairs of shoes Wenzhou makes in a year? If people really wanted those sizes, someone would have made them already. It wouldn't be our factory's turn."

There was no way to answer that.

It wouldn't be our factory's turn—those words were the logic five or six factories had built over more than ten years. The logic was not wrong. It was old.

He had not planned to convince anyone in this office. The people in the factory made shoes. Selling them was his job.

"Master Chen."

"Yeah."

"Once these three thousand pairs are made, whether they sell well is my concern. Your job is to make them well."

Old Chen looked at him for a long while.

"Then I'll make them for you." He turned and headed toward the workshop. "If they turn out badly, don't blame the factory."

When Ye pushed over the receipt with the fingerprint on it, he rubbed his hand across the paper.

"Manager Ma, that's just Old Chen's temperament. Don't take it to heart."

"He's right."

"Huh?"

"What he said is the truth of this industry."

It was nearly noon by the time he saw them out of the yard. The dog was still lying at the base of the wall.

The truck would leave at night. The forty-three thousand eight hundred had to reach Old Cai's account tomorrow morning.

The money was in Hangzhou. The card was with Ma Le, while he himself was in Wenzhou.

Last week, when Ma Le went to the counter to withdraw money, the young woman at the counter had asked him three times where the money came from.

That time, he had withdrawn four thousand.