Chapter 30: Chen Jingrun’s Mysterious Training
As a professional talent arranged to go to Hong Kong, Chen Jingrun naturally had to undergo rigorous training beforehand.
From China to him personally, and then to the Hong Kong side, meticulous preparations had to be made.
From identity cover to financial support, from connection arrangements to academic preparation.
And what he himself needed to do was to accept training.
In theory, the training included five aspects: academic preparation, language training, social culture adaptation, practical skills, and security training.
Among them, academic preparation was for Chen Jingrun to prepare himself; if he couldn’t make the top fifty, that would truly be the height of absurdity.
Not only did he himself have this confidence, Hua Luogeng did too; it was absolutely impossible not to pass with fifty slots.
Not to mention fifty, even if there were only five, Chen Jingrun could make it; that was the confidence of a top mathematician.
So the only aspects needing training were the other four.
Three months earlier, he had been sent to Yangcheng to participate in training.
“Hong Kong is a special place; you must be fully prepared and not make any mistakes.”
First Hua Luogeng gave him a heads-up, then others told him in an airtight meeting room.
Among them, language training went more smoothly than expected because he already knew English; what needed training was merely spoken language.
The teacher responsible for teaching English used “English for Scientists” to train Chen Jingrun; it took less than a week to go from slightly rusty to proficiently mastering everyday expressions.
However, the Cantonese class really gave him a headache. His teacher was an elderly gentleman transferred from Guangdong with a hoarse voice: “Hello is ‘nei hou’, sorry is ‘m goi sai’!” Chen Jingrun learned with sweat pouring down his face, but thinking of those unfamiliar Cantonese signs on Hong Kong streets, he gritted his teeth and persisted, practicing in front of the mirror every day until he could haltingly say a few phrases for asking directions.
In simulated scenarios, he was required to play the role of a Hong Kong resident ordering food in a tea house.
“I want one pot two pieces,” he said in stiff Cantonese, which drew laughter from the surrounding old Guang people.
Miss Lin, responsible for teaching him, corrected: “It’s ‘yat chung leung gin’; don’t rush, take it slow.” Chen Jingrun blushed but secretly resolved that he absolutely could not show weakness in Hong Kong.
In the last month before departure, Chen Jingrun was taken to a simulated training ground to learn practical skills for life in Hong Kong.
An instructor surnamed Zhao handed him a Hong Kong map, pointing to Kowloon and Hong Kong Island: “Remember, trams go from east to west, ferries cross Victoria Harbour, and rent is not cheap.”
Chen Jingrun learned how to count Hong Kong dollars—those colorful bills dazzled his eyes. He also simulated renting a room, clumsily bargaining in Cantonese in the face of the “landlord’s” nitpicking: “Can it be cheaper?” Instructor Zhao nodded from the side: “Getting the hang of it.”
At the end of each day’s training, he would stand in front of the map silently memorizing streets: Causeway Bay, Mong Kok, Central… these names were unfamiliar and mysterious, as if beckoning him into another world.
In the final week before departure, Section Chief Zhang’s gaze was sharp as a knife.
“Comrade Jingrun, Hong Kong is different from the mainland; English people are watching, and KMT has informants too.” Section Chief Zhang handed him a small booklet containing codes and emergency contact methods.
“If there’s an emergency, go to the tea house in Central, order a pot of Longjing, and the waiter will take you to see someone.”
Chen Jingrun was required to learn cover identity, pretending to be a local Hong Kong student, even practicing how to respond to interrogation.
“Where are you from?” Section Chief Zhang simulated asking. “I’m a Hong Kong person, grew up in New Territories,” Chen Jingrun answered in Cantonese, his voice trembling slightly.
Section Chief Zhang also taught him to pass information using newspapers: fold into a triangle, clip in specific book pages, and drop at designated locations.
While practicing, sweat broke out on his palms as he thought: “What kind of mathematician’s job is this?”
After three months of training, Chen Jingrun stood at the Yangcheng dock train station, preparing to head to Hong Kong.
His suitcase contained mathematics notes, an English dictionary, and a few old clothes, but his heart was full of complex emotions. He was both excited to discuss with Professor Lin in the same hall and uneasy about the unknown journey.
Hua Luogeng’s encouraging words were still ringing in his ears: “Jingrun, show your talent; don’t bring shame to the country.”
Section Chief Zhang’s reminder also echoed in his mind: “Remember, keep a low profile; safety first.”
July 1, 1960
The sky over Hong Kong was clear blue, a light breeze blowing from Victoria Harbour carrying the salty sea scent and distant ship horns.
On the Hong Kong University campus, the air was filled with a tense yet excited atmosphere. On the lawn at the school gate, a bright red banner fluttered in the wind with the bold words “Warmly Welcome Professor Lin Ran to Hong Kong University,” the calligraphy vigorous and powerful, clearly from a famous local Hong Kong calligrapher.
Students gathered in groups of three or five, either whispering over books or craning their necks to look, their eyes full of expectation for this globally renowned mathematician.
Mainly because he was handsome, young and handsome.
Before coming to Hong Kong, the photo of Lin Ran with Yang Zhenning and Tsung-Dao Lee published in the Overseas Chinese Daily News had already been widely disseminated by Hong Kong newspapers.
Young students, especially female students, were all very much looking forward to Lin Ran’s arrival.
Young, handsome, so talented, heard he has no girlfriend yet, and he’s rich too; Hong Kong newspapers even dug up that Lin Ran’s annual salary exceeds thirty thousand US dollars, and Hong Kong University girls are all eager to try their luck with Lin Ran.
Just like Tang Seng fallen into the Disc Silk Cave, coveted by all.
At exactly three o’clock in the afternoon, a black Austin sedan slowly drove through the school gate, its wheels crunching lightly over the gravel road.
The car door opened, and Lin Ran stepped out, wearing a privately tailored dark gray suit arranged by John Morgan, tie knotted impeccably, a mild smile on his face; despite the travel fatigue, his eyes remained clear and bright as stars.
His appearance instantly ignited the atmosphere; the crowd erupted in enthusiastic applause, and the female students on site even excitedly waved their notebooks.
Hong Kong University President Sir Lincoln stepped forward first. He wore a black academic robe, silver hair gleaming faintly in the sunlight, steps steady, face bearing a professional friendly smile.
Sir Lincoln was an English man of kangaroo descent, who began serving as Hong Kong University President from 1949 and thereby received the Ying Empire Commander Medal and knighthood.
Following him was a group of guests: Head of Mathematics Department Professor Zhang, a tall and thin middle-aged Chinese man wearing gold-rimmed glasses, and several board members, also in suits, exuding extraordinary demeanor.
In addition, reporters from various media held notebooks, barely containing their impulse to interview.
Sir Lincoln extended his hand and spoke first in fluent English: “Professor Lin, welcome to Hong Kong University; your arrival is a milestone for our academia.”
