The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy Box Set

by Kevin Kwan

“Oh my God, that had to be the most awkward moment of my life! I think I really annoyed your grandmother,” Rachel whispered.

  “Nonsense. She was just in the middle of another conversation, that’s all,” Nick said soothingly.

  “Who were those two women in matching silk dresses standing like statues behind her?” Rachel asked.

  “Oh, those are her lady’s maids.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Her lady’s maids. They never leave her side.”

  “Like ladies-in-waiting? They look so elegant.”

  “Yes, they’re from Thailand, and they were trained to serve in the royal court.”

  “Is this a common thing in Singapore? Importing royal maids from Thailand?” Rachel asked incredulously.

  “I don’t believe so. This service was a special lifetime gift to my grandmother.”

  “A gift? From whom?”

  “The King of Thailand. Though it was the last one, not Bhumibol the current king. Or was it the one before that? Anyway, he was apparently a great friend of my grandmother’s. He decreed that she must only be waited on by court-trained ladies. So there has been a constant rotation ever since my grandmother was a young woman.”

  “Oh,” Rachel said, stupefied. She took the glass of punch from Nick and noticed that the fine etching on the Venetian glassware perfectly matched the intricate fretwork pattern on the ceiling. She leaned against the back of a sofa for support, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. There was too much for her to take in—the army of white-gloved servants hovering about, the confusion of new faces, the mind-blowing opulence. Who knew that Nick’s family would turn out to be these extremely grand people? And why didn’t he prepare her for all this a little more?

  Rachel felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She turned around to see Nick’s cousin holding a sleepy toddler. “Astrid!” she cried, delighted to see a friendly face at last. Astrid was adorned in the chicest outfit Rachel had ever seen, quite different from how she had remembered her in New York. So this was Astrid in her natural habitat.

  “Hello, hello!” Astrid said cheerily. “Cassian, this is Auntie Rachel. Say hi to Auntie Rachel?” Astrid gestured. The child stared at Rachel for a moment, before burying his head shyly into his mother’s shoulder.

  “Here, let me take this big boy out of your hands!” Nick grinned, lifting a squirming Cassian out of Astrid’s arms, and then deftly handing her a glass of punch.

  “Thanks, Nicky,” Astrid said as she turned to Rachel. “How are you finding Singapore so far? Having a good time?”

  “A great time! Although tonight’s been a bit … overwhelming.”

  “I can only imagine,” Astrid said with a knowing glint in her eye.

  “No, I’m not sure you can,” Rachel said.

  A melodious peel rang through the room. Rachel turned to see an elderly woman in a white cheongsam top and black silk trousers playing a small silver xylophone by the stairs.*

  “Ah, the dinner gong,” Astrid said. “Come, let’s eat.”

  “Astrid, how is it that you always seem to arrive just when the food is ready?” Nick remarked.

  “Choco-cake!” little Cassian muttered.

  “No, Cassian, you already had your dessert,” Astrid replied firmly.

  The crowd began to make a beeline for the stairs, passing the woman with the xylophone. As they approached her, Nick gave the woman a big bear hug and exchanged a few words in Cantonese. “This is Ling Cheh, the woman who pretty much raised me from birth,” he explained. “She has been with our family since 1948.”

  “Wah, nay gor nuay pang yau gum laeng, ah! Faai di git fun!” Ling Cheh commented, grasping Rachel’s hand gently. Nick grinned, blushing a little. Rachel didn’t understand Cantonese, so she just smiled, while Astrid quickly translated. “Ling Cheh just teased Nick about how pretty his lady friend is.” As they proceeded down the stairs, she whispered to Rachel, “She also ordered him to marry you soon!” Rachel simply giggled.

  A buffet supper had been set up in the conservatory, an elliptical-shaped room with dramatic frescoed walls of what appeared from a distance to be a dreamy, muted Oriental scene. On closer inspection, Rachel noticed that while the mural did evoke classical Chinese mountainscapes, the details seemed to be pure Hieronymus Bosch, with strange, lurid flowers climbing up the walls and iridescent phoenixes and other fantastical creatures hiding in the shadows. Three enormous round tables gleamed with silver chafing dishes, and arched doorways opened onto a curved colonnaded terrace where white wrought-iron bistro tables lit with tall votives awaited the diners. Cassian continued to squirm in Nick’s arms, wailing even louder, “I want choco-cake!”

  “I think what he really wants is S-L-E-E-P,” his mother commented. She tried to take her son back from Nick, but the child began to whimper.

  “I sense a crying fit on the way. Let’s take him to the nursery,” Nick offered. “Rachel, why don’t you get started? We’ll be back in a minute.”

  Rachel marveled at the sheer variety of food that had been laid out. One table was filled with Thai delicacies, another with Malaysian cuisine, and the last with classic Chinese dishes. As usual, she was a bit at a loss when confronted with a huge buffet. She decided to start one cuisine at a time and began at the Chinese table with a small helping of E-fu noodles and seared scallops in ginger sauce. She came upon a tray of exotic-looking golden wafers folded into little top hats. “What in the world are these?” she wondered aloud.

  “That’s kueh pie tee, a nyonya dish. Little tarts filled with jicama, carrots, and shrimp. Try one,” a voice behind her said. Rachel looked around and saw the dapper man in the white linen suit who had been sitting next to Nick’s grandmother. He bowed in a courtly manner and introduced himself. “We never met properly. I’m Oliver T’sien, Nick’s cousin.” Yet another Chinese relative with a British accent, but his sounded even plummier than the rest.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Rachel—”

  “Yes, I know. Rachel Chu, of Cupertino, Palo Alto, Chicago, and Manhattan. You see, your reputation precedes you.”

  “Does it?” Rachel asked, trying not to sound too surprised.

  “It certainly does, and I must say you’re much more fetching than I was led to believe.”

  “Really, by whom?”

  “Oh, you know, the whispering gallery. Don’t you know how much the tongues have been wagging since you’ve arrived?” he said mischievously.

  “I had no clue,” Rachel said a little uneasily, walking out onto the terrace with her plate, looking for Nick or Astrid but not seeing them anywhere. She noticed one of Nick’s aunties—the lady in the Chanel suit—looking toward her expectantly.

  “There’s Dickie and Nancy,” Oliver said. “Don’t look now—I think they’re waving to you. God help us. Let’s start our own table, shall we?” Before Rachel could answer, Oliver grabbed her plate from her hand and walked it over to a table at the far end of the terrace.

  “Why are you avoiding them?” Rachel asked.

  “I’m not avoiding them. I’m helping you avoid them. You can thank me later.”

  “Why?” Rachel pressed on.

  “Well, first of all, they are insufferable name-droppers, always going on and on about their latest cruise on Rupert and Wendi’s yacht or their lunch with some deposed European royal, and second, they aren’t exactly on your team.”

  “What team? I didn’t realize I was on any team.”

  “Well, like it or not, you are, and Dickie and Nancy are here tonight precisely to spy for the opposition.”

  “Spying?”

  “Yes. They mean to pick you apart like a rotting carcass and serve you up as an amuse-bouche the next time they’re invited to dine in the Home Counties.”

  Rachel had no idea what to make of his outlandish statement. This Oliver seemed like a character straight out of an Oscar Wilde play. “I’m not sure I follow,” she finally said. />
  “Don’t worry, you will. Just give it another week—I’d peg you for a quick study.”

  Rachel assessed Oliver for a minute. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with short, meticulously combed hair and small round tortoiseshell glasses that only accentuated his longish face. “So how exactly are you related to Nick?” she asked. “There seem to be so many different branches of the family.”

  “It’s really quite simple, actually. There are three branches—the T’siens, the Youngs, and the Shangs. Nick’s grandfather James Young and my grandmother Rosemary T’sien are brother and sister. You met her earlier tonight, if you recall? You mistook her for Nick’s grandmother.”

  “Yes, of course. But that would mean that you and Nick are second cousins.”

  “Right. But here in Singapore, since extended families abound, we all just say we’re ‘cousins’ to avoid confusion. None of that ‘third cousins twice removed’ rubbish.”

  “So Dickie and Nancy are your uncle and aunt.”

  “Correct. Dickie is my father’s older brother. But you do know that in Singapore, anyone you’re introduced to who’s one generation older should be called ‘Uncle or Auntie,’ even though they might not be related at all. It’s considered the polite thing.”

  “Well, shouldn’t you be calling your relatives ‘Uncle Dickie’ and ‘Auntie Nancy’ then?”

  “Technically, yes, but I personally feel that the honorific should be earned. Dickie and Nancy have never given a flying fuck about me, so why should I bother?”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Well, thanks for the crash course on the T’siens. Now, how about the third branch?”

  “Ah yes, the Shangs.”

  “I don’t think I’ve met any of them yet.”

  “Well, none of them are here, of course. We’re not supposed to ever talk about them, but the imperial Shangs flee to their grand country estates in England every April and stay until September, to avoid the hottest months. But not to worry, I think my cousin Cassandra Shang will be back for the wedding next week, so you will get a chance to bask in her incandescence.”

  Rachel grinned at his florid remark—this Oliver was such a trip. “And how are they related exactly?”

  “Here’s where it gets interesting. Pay attention. So my grandmother’s eldest daughter, Aunt Mabel T’sien, was married off to Nick’s grandmother’s younger brother Alfred Shang.”

  “Married off? Does that mean it was an arranged marriage?”

  “Yes, very much so, plotted by my grandfather T’sien Tsai Tay and Nick’s great-grandfather Shang Loong Ma. Good thing they actually liked each other. But it was quite a masterstroke, because it strategically bound together the T’siens, the Shangs, and the Youngs.”

  “What for?” Rachel asked.

  “Oh come on, Rachel, don’t play the naïf with me. For the money, of course. It joined together three family fortunes and kept everything neatly locked up.”

  “Who’s getting locked up? Are they finally locking you up, Ollie?” Nick said, as he approached the table with Astrid.

  “They haven’t been able to pin anything on me yet, Nicholas,” Oliver retorted. He turned to Astrid and his eyes widened. “Holy Mary Mother of Tilda Swinton, look at those earrings! Wherever did you get them?”

  “Stephen Chia’s … they’re VBH,” Astrid said, knowing he would want to know who the designer was.

  “Of course they are. Only Bruce could have dreamed up something like that. They must have cost at least half a million dollars. I wouldn’t have thought they were quite your style, but they do look fabulous on you. Hmm … you still can surprise me after all these years.”

  “You know I try, Ollie, I try.”

  Rachel stared with renewed wonder at the earrings. Did Oliver really say half a million dollars? “How’s Cassian doing?” she asked.

  “It was a bit of a struggle at first, but now he’ll sleep till dawn,” Astrid replied.

  “And where is that errant husband of yours, Astrid? Mr. Bedroom Eyes?” Oliver asked.

  “Michael’s working late tonight.”

  “What a pity. That company of his really keeps him toiling away, don’t they? Seems like ages since I’ve seen Michael—I’m beginning to take it quite personally. Though the other day I could have sworn I saw him walking up Wyndham Street in Hong Kong with a little boy. At first I thought it was Michael and Cassian, but then the little boy turned around and he wasn’t nearly as cute as Cassian, so I knew I had to be hallucinating.”

  “Obviously,” Astrid said as calmly as she could, feeling like she had just been punched in the gut. “Were you in Hong Kong before this, Ollie?” she asked, her brain furiously trying to ascertain whether Oliver had been in Hong Kong at the same time as Michael’s last “business trip.”

  “I was there last week. I’ve been shuttling between Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Beijing for the past month for work.”

  Michael was supposedly in Shenzhen then. He could have easily taken a train to Hong Kong, Astrid thought.

  “Oliver is the Asian art and antiquities expert for Christie’s in London,” Nick explained to Rachel.

  “Yes, except that it’s no longer very efficient for me to be based in London. The Asian art market is heating up like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I hear that every new Chinese billionaire is trying to get their hands on a Warhol these days,” Nick remarked.

  “Well, yes there are certainly quite a few wannabe Saatchis around, but I’m dealing more with the ones trying to buy back the great antiquities from European and American collectors. Or, as they like to say, stuff stolen by the foreign devils,” Oliver said.

  “It wasn’t truly stolen, was it?” Nick asked.

  “Stolen, smuggled, sold off by philistines, isn’t it all the same? Whether the Chinese want to admit it or not, the true connoisseur-ship of Asian art was outside of China for much of the last century, so that’s where a lot of the museum-quality pieces ended up—in Europe and America. The demand was there. The moneyed Chinese didn’t really appreciate what they had. With the exception of a few families, no one bothered to collect Chinese art and antiquities, not with any real discernment, anyway. They wanted to be modern and sophisticated, which meant emulating the Europeans. Why, even in this house there’s probably more French art deco than there are Chinese pieces. Thank God there are some fabulous signed Ruhlmann pieces, but if you think about it, it’s a pity that your great-grandfather went mad for art deco when he could have been snapping up all the imperial treasures coming out of China.”

  “You mean the antiques that were in the Forbidden City?” Rachel asked.

  “Absolutely! Did you know that in 1913, the imperial family of China actually tried to sell their entire collection to the banker J. P. Morgan?” Oliver said.

  “Come on!” Rachel was incredulous.

  “It’s true. The family was so hard up, they were willing to let all of it go for four million dollars. All the priceless treasures, collected over a span of five centuries. It’s quite a sensational story—Morgan received the offer by telegram, but he died a few days later. Divine intervention was the only thing that prevented the most irreplaceable treasures of China from ending up in the Big Apple.”

  “Imagine if that had actually happened,” Nick remarked, shaking his head.

  “Yes indeed. It would be a loss greater than the Elgin Marbles going to the British Museum. But thankfully the tide has turned. The Mainland Chinese are finally interested in buying back their own heritage, and they only want the best,” Oliver said. “Which reminds me, Astrid—are you still looking for more Huanghuali? Because I know of an important Han dynasty puzzle table coming up for auction next week in Hong Kong.” Oliver turned to Astrid, noticing that she had a faraway look on her face. “Earth to Astrid?”

  “Oh … sorry, I got distracted for a moment,” Astrid said, suddenly flustered. “You were saying someth
ing about Hong Kong?”

  * * *

  * These “black and white amahs,” nowadays a fast-disappearing group in Singapore, are professional domestic servants who hailed from China. They were usually confirmed spinsters who took vows of chastity and spent their entire lives caring for the families they served. (Quite often, they were the ones who actually raised the children.) They were known for their trademark uniform of white blouse and black pants, and their long hair that was always worn in a neat bun at the nape of the neck.

  3

  Peik Lin

  SINGAPORE

  Wye Mun and Neena Goh were stretched out on teal-colored leather recliners in their screening room at Villa d’Oro, munching on salted watermelon seeds and watching a Korean soap opera, when Peik Lin burst into the room.

  “Mute the TV! Mute the TV!” she demanded.

  “What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” Neena asked in alarm.

  “You’re not going to believe where I just came from!”

  “Where?” Wye Mun asked, a little annoyed that his daughter had interrupted during a pivotal moment of his favorite show.

  “I just came from Nicholas Young’s grandma’s house.”

  “So?”

  “You should have seen the size of the place.”

  “Dua geng choo, ah?”* Wye Mun said.

  “Dua doesn’t even begin to describe it. The house was huge, but you should have seen the land. Do you know that there is an enormous piece of private land right next door to the Botanic Gardens?”

  “Next to Botanic Gardens?”

  “Yes. Off Gallop Road. It’s on a street I’ve never even heard of called Tyersall Avenue.”

  “Near those old wooden houses?” Neena asked.

  “Yes, but this wasn’t one of the colonial houses. The architecture was very unusual, sort of Orientalist, and the gardens were unbelievable—probably around fifty acres or more.”

  “Bullshit, lah!” Wye Mun said.

  “Papa, I’m telling you—the property was immense. It was like the Istana. The driveway itself went on for miles.”