The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy Box Set

by Kevin Kwan

  15

  Nick

  MACAU

  Nick ran his fingers along the leather-bound spines perfectly arranged on the neoclassical mahogany bookcase. Lieutenant Hornblower. Islands in the Stream. Billy Budd. All nautical-themed titles. He picked out a volume by Knut Hamsun that he had never heard of, August, and settled into one of the overstuffed club chairs, hoping he would be undisturbed for a while. Cracking open the stiff embossed cover, he could tell at once that its pages, like most of the others here, had probably never seen the light of day. Hardly surprising, considering that this sumptuous library was tucked away on the lower deck of a 388-foot yacht that boasted such distractions as a ballroom, a karaoke lounge for Bernard’s dad, a chapel for his mother, a casino, a sushi bar complete with a full-time sushi chef from Hokkaido, two swimming pools, and an outdoor bowling alley on the uppermost deck that also converted into a runway for fashion shows.

  Nick glanced at the door in dismay as footsteps could be heard coming down the spiral staircase just outside the library. If he’d been smarter, he would have locked the door behind him. Much to Nick’s relief, it was Mehmet who peered in. “Nicholas Young—why am I not surprised to find you in the only intellectually inclined room on this entire vessel?” Mehmet remarked. “Mind if I join you? This looks to be the quietest place on the boat, and if I have to hear another Hôtel Costes remix, I think I’m going to jump overboard and swim for the nearest buoy.”

  “You’re most welcome here. How are the natives doing?”

  “Incredibly restless, I would say. I left the pool deck just as the ice-cream-sundae contest began.”

  “They’re making sundaes?” Nick cocked an eyebrow.

  “Yes. On a dozen nude Macanese girls.”

  Nick shook his head wearily.

  “I tried to rescue Colin, but he got trapped. Bernard anointed Colin the Whipped Cream King.”

  Mehmet slouched into a club chair and closed his eyes. “Colin should have listened to me and come to Istanbul for a relaxing getaway before the wedding. I told him to invite you too.”

  “Now that would have been nice.” Nick smiled. “I would much rather be at your family’s summer palace on the banks of the Bosphorus than on this boat.”

  “You know, I’m surprised Colin had a bachelor party in the first place. It didn’t strike me as his sort of thing.”

  “It’s not, but I think Colin felt like he couldn’t refuse Bernard, what with Bernard’s father being the largest minority shareholder in the Khoo Organization,” Nick explained.

  “Bernard’s doing a fine job, isn’t he? He truly thinks Colin enjoys being part of the biggest drug and drinking binge I’ve witnessed since spring break in Cabo,” Mehmet murmured.

  Nick stared at him in surprise, never expecting to hear those words come out of Mehmet’s mouth. Mehmet opened one eye and grinned. “Just kidding. I’ve never been to Cabo—I just always wanted to say that.”

  “You scared me for a second!” Nick laughed.

  Just then, Colin stumbled into the library and plopped down on the nearest chair. “God help me! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat another maraschino cherry again!” He moaned, massaging his temples.

  “Colin, did you actually eat off one of the girls?” Mehmet asked incredulously.

  “Nooo! Araminta would kill me if she found out I ate a hot fudge sundae off some girl’s pu … er, crotch. I only took one cherry, and then I told Bernard I really needed to go to the bathroom.”

  “Where did all these girls come from in the first place?” Mehmet asked.

  “Bernard hired them from that brothel he forced all of us to go to last night,” Colin mumbled through his pounding headache.

  “You know, I think he was genuinely shocked when we turned down the girls he had procured for the night,” Mehmet remarked.

  “Poor bastard. We’ve completely ruined his bachelor weekend, haven’t we? We didn’t want to go to the dogfights, we didn’t want to make sex videos with prostitutes, and we turned up our noses at his fancy Peruvian cocaine.” Nick laughed.

  Screams could be heard from the upper deck, followed by much panicked yelling. “I wonder what’s happening now,” Nick said. But none of them could muster up the effort to get out of the plush club chairs. The yacht began to slow, and several crewmen could be heard running along the lower decks.

  Alistair strolled into the room, carefully balancing a white cup and saucer with what appeared to be a very frothy cappuccino.

  “What’s all the screaming on the deck?” Colin asked with a groan.

  Alistair simply rolled his eyes and sat down in one of the chairs by the Regency drum table. “One of the girls slipped overboard during the oil-wrestling contest. Not to worry, her breasts make an excellent flotation device.”

  He began sipping his coffee, but then made a face. “The Aussie bartender lied to me. He told me he could make the perfect flat white, and this isn’t even close. This is just a lousy latte!”

  “What is a flat white?” Mehmet asked.

  “It’s a kind of cappuccino that they only do down in Oz. You use the steamed, frothy milk from the bottom of the jug, holding back the foam at the top so that you get this smooth, velvety texture.”

  “And that’s good?” Mehmet continued, a little intrigued.

  “Oh, it’s the best. I had to have at least two a day back in my uni days in Sydney,” Alistair said.

  “God, now I’m craving one too!” Colin sighed. “This is a fucking nightmare. I just wish we could get off this boat and go have a decent cup of coffee somewhere. I know this is supposed to be one of the coolest new yachts in the world and I should be so grateful, but frankly, it feels like a floating prison to me.” His face darkened, and Nick looked at him uneasily. Nick could sense that Colin was slipping fast into one of his deep funks. An idea began to take shape in his head. He whipped out his cell phone and began scrolling through his contacts, leaning over to Mehmet and whispering in his ear. Mehmet grinned and nodded eagerly.

  “What are the two of you whispering about?” Alistair asked, leaning over curiously.

  “I just had an idea. Colin, are you ready to bail out of this pathetically lame bachelor party?” Nick asked.

  “I would like nothing more, but I don’t think I can risk offending Bernard and, more important, his father. I mean, Bernard pulled out all the stops to entertain us in grand style this weekend.”

  “Actually, Bernard pulled out all the stops to entertain himself,” Nick retorted. “Look how miserable you are. How much more of this do you want to endure, just so the Tais won’t be offended? It’s your last weekend as a single man, Colin. I think I have an exit strategy that won’t offend anyone. If I can make it happen, will you play along?”

  “Okay … why not?” Colin said a little trepidatiously.

  “Hear, hear!” Alistair cheered.

  “Quick, quick, we have a medical emergency. I need you to stop this boat, and I need our precise coordinates right now,” Nick demanded as he rushed into the yacht’s pilothouse.

  “What’s the matter?” the captain asked.

  “My friend is suffering from acute pancreatitis. We have a doctor below, who thinks he might have begun bleeding internally. I’m on the line with the life-flight rescue chopper,” Nick said, holding up his cell phone anxiously.

  “Wait a minute, just wait a minute—I’m the captain of this ship. I’m the one who decides whether we call for medical evacuations. Who’s the doctor below? Let me go see the patient,” the captain gruffly demanded.

  “Captain, with all due respect, we don’t have a moment to waste. You can come look at him all you want, but right now, I just need the coordinates from you.”

  “But who are you speaking to? Macau Coast Guard? This is highly irregular protocol. Let me talk to them,” the captain sputtered in confusion.

  Nick put on his most condescendingly posh
accent—honed from all his years at Balliol—and glowered at the captain. “Do you have any idea who my friend is? He’s Colin Khoo, heir to one of the biggest fortunes on the planet.”

  “Don’t get snooty with me, young chap!” the captain bellowed. “I don’t care who your friend is, there are maritime emergency protocols I MUST FOLLOW, AND—”

  “AND RIGHT NOW, my friend is below deck on your ship, quite possibly hemorrhaging to death, because you won’t let me call for an emergency evacuation!” Nick interrupted, raising his voice to match the captain’s. “Do you want to take the blame for this? Because you will, I can guarantee that. I’m Nicholas Young, and my family controls one of the world’s largest shipping conglomerates. Please just give me the fucking coordinates now, or I promise you I’ll personally see to it that you won’t even be able to captain a piece of Styrofoam after today!”

  Twenty minutes later, as Bernard sat in the diamond-shaped Jacuzzi on the uppermost deck while a half-Portuguese girl tried to swallow both of his testicles under the bubbly water jets, a white Sikorsky helicopter appeared out of the sky and began to descend onto the yacht’s helipad. At first he thought he was hallucinating from all the booze. Then he saw Nick, Mehmet, and Alistair emerge onto the helipad, holding a stretcher on which lay Colin, tightly bundled up in one of the yacht’s silk Etro blankets. “What the fuck is happening?” he said, getting out of the water, pulling on his Vilebrequin trunks and rushing up the steps toward the helipad.

  He ran into Lionel in the corridor. “I was just coming to tell you—Colin is feeling horribly sick. He’s been doubled over in pain for the past hour and throwing up uncontrollably. We think it’s alcohol poisoning, from all of his boozing over the past two days. We’re getting him off the boat and straight to the hospital.”

  They ran to the helicopter, and Bernard looked in at Colin, who was groaning softly, his face locked in a grimace. Alistair sat beside him, mopping his forehead with a damp towel.

  “But, but, why the hell didn’t anyone tell me sooner? I had no idea Colin was feeling this sick. Kan ni na! Now your family is going to blame me. And then it’s going to get into all the gossip columns, all the papers,” Bernard complained, suddenly becoming alarmed.

  “Nothing’s going to leak. No gossip, no newspapers,” Lionel said solemnly. “Colin doesn’t want you to get any blame, which is why you have to listen to me now—we’re going to take him to the hospital, and we won’t tell anyone in the family what’s happening. I’ve had alcohol poisoning before—Colin just needs to get detoxed and rehydrated. He’ll be fine in a few days. You and the other guys need to keep pretending that nothing’s wrong and keep partying, okay? Don’t call the family, don’t say a word to anyone, and we’ll see you back in Singapore.”

  “Okay, okay,” Bernard nodded rapidly, feeling relieved. Now he could get back to his blow job without feeling guilty.

  As the helicopter lifted off from the yacht, Nick and Alistair began laughing uncontrollably at the figure of Bernard, his baggy swimming trunks whipping around his pale damp thighs, staring up at them in bewilderment.

  “I don’t think it even occurred to him that this isn’t a medical helicopter but a chartered one.” Mehmet chuckled.

  “Where are we going?” Colin asked excitedly, throwing off the purple-and-gold paisley blanket.

  “Mehmet and I have chartered a Cessna Citation X. It’s all fueled up and waiting for us in Hong Kong. From there, it’s a surprise,” Nick said.

  “The Citation X. Isn’t that the plane that flies at six hundred miles per hour?” Alistair asked.

  “It’s even faster when we’re just five people with no luggage.” Nick grinned.

  A mere six hours later, Nick, Colin, Alistair, Mehmet, and Lionel found themselves sitting on canvas chairs in the middle of the Australian desert, taking in the spectacular view of the glowing rock.

  “I’ve always wanted to come to Ayers Rock. Or Uluru, or whatever they call it now,” Colin said.

  “It’s so quiet,” Mehmet said softly. “This is a very spiritual place, isn’t it? I can really feel its energy, even from this distance.”

  “It’s considered to be the most sacred site for the Aboriginal tribes,” Nick answered. “My father brought me here years ago. Back in those days, we were still allowed to climb the rock. They stopped letting you do that a few years ago.”

  “Guys, I can’t thank you enough. This was the perfect escape from a very misguided bachelor party. I’m sorry I put all of you through Bernard’s bullshit. This is really all I ever hoped for—to be someplace amazing with my best friends.”

  A man in a white polo shirt and khaki shorts approached with a large tray from the luxury eco-resort nearby. “Well, Colin, Alistair—I thought that the only way to get you coffee snobs to stop bitching and moaning was to get you a decent flat white, one hundred percent made in Australia,” Nick said, as the waiter put the tray down on the reddish earth.

  Alistair brought the cup to his nose and inhaled the rich aroma deeply. “Nick, if you weren’t my cousin, I’d kiss you right now,” he joked.

  Colin took a long sip of his coffee, its perfect velvety foam leaving a white frothy mustache on his upper lip. “This has got to be the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. Guys, I’ll never forget this.”

  It was just past sunset, and the sky was shifting rapidly from shades of burnt orange into a deep violet blue. The men sat in awed silence, as the world’s largest monolith glowed and shimmered a thousand indescribable shades of crimson.

  16

  Dr. Gu

  SINGAPORE

  Wye Mun sat at his desk, studying the piece of paper his daughter had just handed him. The ornate desk was a replica of the one Napoleon used at the Tuileries, with a satinwood veneer and ormolu legs of lions’ heads and torsos that descended into elaborate claws. Wye Mun loved to sit in his burgundy velvet Empire chair and rub his socked feet against the bulbous golden claws, a habit his wife constantly scolded him for. Today, it was Peik Lin who substituted for her mother. “Dad, you’re going to rub off all the gold if you don’t stop doing that!”

  Wye Mun ignored her and kept scratching his toes compulsively. He stared at the names Peik Lin had written down during her phone conversation a few days ago with Rachel: James Young, Rosemary T’sien, Oliver T’sien, Jacqueline Ling. Who were these people behind that mysterious old gate on Tyersall Road? Not recognizing any of these names bothered him more than he was willing to admit. Wye Mun couldn’t help but remember what his father always said: “Never forget we are Hainanese, son. We are the descendants of servants and seamen. We always have to work harder to prove our worth.”

  Even from a young age, Wye Mun had been made aware that being the Chinese-educated son of a Hainanese immigrant put him at a disadvantage to the aristocratic Straits Chinese landowners or the Hokkiens that dominated the banking industry. His father had come to Singapore as a fourteen-year-old laborer and built a construction business out of sheer sweat and tenacity, and as their family business blossomed over the decades into a far-flung empire, Wye Mun thought that he had leveled the playing field. Singapore was a meritocracy, and whoever performed well was invited into the winner’s circle. But those people—those people behind the gates were a sudden reminder that this was not entirely the case.

  With his children all grown up now, it was time for the next generation to keep conquering new territory. His eldest son, Peik Wing, had done well by marrying the daughter of a junior MP, a Cantonese girl who was brought up a Christian, no less. P.T. was still fooling around and enjoying his playboy ways, so the focus now was on Peik Lin. Out of his three children, Peik Lin took after him the most. She was his smartest, most ambitious, and—dare he admit it—most attractive child. She was the one he felt confident would surpass all of them and make a truly brilliant match, linking the Gohs with one of Singapore’s blue-blooded families. He could sense from the way his daughter spoke that she was on
to something, and he was determined to help her dig deeper. “I think it’s time we paid a visit to Dr. Gu,” he said to his daughter.

  Dr. Gu was a retired doctor in his late eighties, an eccentric who lived alone in a small, dilapidated house at the bottom of Dunearn Road. He was born in Xian to a family of scholars, but moved to Singapore in his youth for schooling. In the natural order of how Singapore society worked, Wye Mun and Dr. Gu might never have crossed paths had it not been for Dr. Gu’s maddening stubbornness some thirty-odd years ago.

  Goh Developments had been building a new complex of semidetached houses along Dunearn Road, and Dr. Gu’s little plot of land was the sole obstruction to the project getting under way. His neighbors had been bought out under extremely favorable terms, but Dr. Gu refused to budge. After all of his lawyers had failed in their negotiations, Wye Mun drove to the house himself, armed with his checkbook and determined to talk some sense into the old fart. Instead, the brilliant old curmudgeon convinced him to alter his entire scheme, and the revised development turned out to be even more of a success because of his recommendations. Wye Mun now found himself visiting his new friend to offer him a job. Dr. Gu refused, but Wye Mun would keep coming back, enthralled by Dr. Gu’s encyclopedic knowledge of Singapore history, his acute analysis of the financial markets, and his wonderful Longjing tea.

  Wye Mun and Peik Lin drove over to Dr. Gu’s house, parking Wye Mun’s shiny new Maserati Quattroporte just outside the rust-corroded metal gate.

  “I can’t believe he still lives here,” Peik Lin said, as they walked down the cracked cement driveway. “Shouldn’t he be in a retirement home by now?”