The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy Box Set

by Kevin Kwan

  “They are absolutely ridiculous.”

  “You don’t have to be such a bitch about it, just because you weren’t in them,” Michael suddenly snapped.

  “Jesus, do you think that’s what I’m upset about? Have you even read the article?”

  “No—how could I? It just came out. But don’t worry, I took extra care not to say anything about you or your crazy paranoid family.”

  “You didn’t have to—you let the writer into our house! Into our bedroom! She found things out for herself!”

  “Stop being so hysterical. Can’t you see that this is good for me? That this will be good for our family?”

  “I’m not sure you’ll think that after you’ve read it. Well, you’ll have to reckon with my father when he gets wind of this, not me.”

  “Your father! Everything’s always about your father,” Michael grumbled as he fiddled with the screw on the light.

  “He is going to be furious when he sees this. More than you can possibly ever imagine,” Astrid said ominously.

  Michael shook his head in disappointment as he came off the ladder. “And to think, this was supposed to be a present to you.”

  “A present to me?” Astrid struggled to grasp the logic behind this.

  “Cassian was so excited about the photo shoot, he was so looking forward to surprising you.”

  “Oh believe me, I’m surprised.”

  “You know what’s surprising me? You’ve been away for almost a week, but you seem to care much more about this magazine article than seeing your own son.”

  Astrid stared at him incredulously. “Are you actually trying to make me the bad person here?”

  “Actions speak louder than words. You’re still standing here ranting at me, while upstairs there’s a child who’s been waiting all night for his mother to come home.”

  Astrid left the room without another word and headed upstairs.

  3

  JINXIAN LU

  SHANGHAI

  A couple of hours after returning to Shanghai from their Paris trip, Carlton called Rachel at the Peninsula Hotel. “All settled in?”

  “Yes, but now I’m jet-lagged all over again. Nick, of course, put his head on the pillow and immediately started snoring. It’s so unfair.” Rachel sighed.

  “Er…think Nick would mind if I took you out to dinner? Just the two of us?” Carlton asked timidly.

  “Of course not! Even if he wasn’t dead to the world for the next ten hours, he wouldn’t mind.”

  That evening, Carlton drove Rachel (this time in a very sensible Mercedes G-Wagen) to Jinxian Lu, a narrow street lined with old shophouses in the French Concession. “Here’s the restaurant, but where to park—that is the question,” Carlton muttered. Rachel glanced at the modest storefront with pleated white curtains and noticed a row of luxury vehicles parked outside. They found a space halfway down the block and walked leisurely toward the restaurant, passing a few enticingly quaint bars, antique shops, and trendy boutiques along the way.

  Arriving at their dining spot, Rachel discovered a tiny space with only five tables. It was a fluorescent-lit room completely devoid of decor save for a plastic rotating desk fan bolted to the dingy white wall, but it was packed with a decidedly posh crowd. “Looks like quite the foodie destination,” Rachel commented, eyeing an expensively dressed couple dining with two small kids still in their gray-and-white private-school uniforms, while at a table by the door sat two hipster Germans in their regulation plaids, wielding chopsticks as expertly as any locals.

  A waiter in a white singlet and black trousers approached them. “Mr. Fung?” he asked Carlton in Mandarin.

  “No, Bao—two people at seven thirty,” Carlton answered. The man nodded and gestured for them to enter. They navigated their way to the back of the room, where a woman with dripping-wet hands pointed toward a doorway. “Up the stairs! Don’t be shy!” she said. Rachel soon found herself climbing an extremely narrow, steep staircase whose wooden steps were so worn that they dipped in the center. Halfway up, she passed a small landing that had been converted into a cooking space. Two women crouched in front of sizzling woks, filling the whole staircase with a tantalizing smoky aroma.

  At the top of the stairs was a room with a bed against one wall and a dresser piled high with neatly folded clothes on the opposite side. A small table had been placed in front of the bed along with a couple of chairs, and a small television set buzzed in the corner. “Are we actually eating in someone’s bedroom?” Rachel asked in astonishment.

  Carlton grinned. “I was hoping we’d get to eat up here—it’s considered the best table in the house. Is it okay with you?”

  “Are you kidding? This is the coolest restaurant I think I’ve ever been in!” Rachel said excitedly, looking out the window at the line of hanging laundry that stretched across to the other side of the street.

  “This place is the definition of ‘hole-in-the-wall,’ but they are famous for preparing some of the most authentic home-style Shanghainese food in the city. There’s no menu—they just bring you whatever they’re cooking today, and everything’s always in season and very fresh,” Carlton explained.

  “After our week in Paris, this is such a welcome change.”

  “You take the place of honor on the bed,” Carlton offered. Rachel gleefully made herself comfortable on the mattress—it felt so strange and a little naughty to be eating on someone’s bed.

  Soon two women entered the bedroom-cum-dining room and started placing a multitude of steaming-hot dishes onto the Formica table. Arrayed before them was hongshao rou—thick slices of fatty pork in a sweet marinade with green peppers; jiang ya—braised duck leg covered in thick, sweetened soy sauce; jiuyang caotou—seasonal vegetables stir-fried in fragrant wine; ganshao changyu—deep-fried whole pomfret; and yandu xian—a typical Shanghainese soup of bamboo shoots, pressed tofu, salted ham, and fresh pork.

  “Sweet Jesus! How are we going to finish all this by ourselves?” Rachel laughed.

  “Trust me, the food here is so good you’ll be eating more than you normally would.”

  “Uh, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “We can wrap up whatever we don’t finish and Nick can enjoy a late-night snack,” Carlton suggested.

  “He’s gonna love that.”

  After clinking their bottles of ice-cold Tsingtao beer, they dove into the dishes without any ceremony, savoring the food in silence for the first few minutes.

  After his first round of sweet fatty pork, Carlton looked earnestly at Rachel and said, “I wanted to take you to dinner tonight because I owe you an apology.”

  “I understand. But you already apologized.”

  “No, I didn’t. Not properly, anyway. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop, and I still feel horrible about what happened in Paris. Thank you for stepping in and doing what you did. It was rather stupid of me to think I could ever race Richie in the condition I was in.”

  “I’m glad you see that.”

  “I’m also sorry for everything I said to you. I was just so shocked—ashamed, really—that you found out about London, but it was bloody unfair of me to lash out at you like that. I wish I could take it all back.”

  Rachel was silent for a moment. “I’m actually very grateful for what you told me. It’s given me some insight into a situation that’s been puzzling me since we arrived.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Look, I think I understand the position I’ve put your father in. I truly am sorry if I’ve caused your family any trouble. Especially your mother. I see now that it must be very hard on her—this whole situation is just something none of us could ever have prepared for. I really hope she doesn’t hate me for coming to China.”

  “She doesn’t hate you—she doesn’t know you. Mum’s just had a tough year with my accident and all. Finding out about you—dis
covering this side of my father’s past—has just compounded that stress. She’s someone who’s used to a very orderly way of life, and she’s spent so many years planning things out perfectly. Like the company. And Dad’s career. She really has been the force behind his political rise, and now she’s trying to propel my future as well. My accident was a huge setback in her eyes, and she’s so afraid that any more scratches to that façade will destroy everything she’s planned for me.”

  “But what has she planned for you? Does she want you to get into politics too?”

  “Ultimately, yes.”

  “But is that even something you want?”

  Carlton sighed. “I don’t know what I want.”

  “That’s okay. You have time to figure it out.”

  “Do I? Because sometimes I feel like everyone my age is ahead of the game and I’m just totally fucked. I thought I knew what I wanted, but then the accident changed everything. What were you doing when you were twenty-three?”

  Rachel thought about it as she drank some of the pork and bamboo soup. She closed her eyes, momentarily transported by the subtle flavors.

  “Good, isn’t it? They’re famous for this soup,” Carlton said.

  “It’s amazing. I think I could drink the whole pot!” Rachel exclaimed.

  “Go right ahead.”

  Collecting herself, Rachel continued, “When I was twenty-three, I was in Chicago going to grad school at Northwestern. And I spent half the year in Ghana.”

  “You were in Africa?”

  “Yep. Doing field research for my dissertation about microlending.”

  “Brilliant! I’ve always dreamed of going to this place in Namibia called the Skeleton Coast.”

  “You should talk to Nick—he’s been there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah—he went with his best friend Colin when he was living in England. They used to travel to all these extremely hard-to-get-to places. Nick used to have quite the life before he met me and settled down.”

  “You guys seem to have quite the life now,” Carlton said wistfully.

  “You can have any type of life you want, Carlton.”

  “I don’t know about that. You haven’t met my mother. But you know what? You will soon. I’m going to have a talk with Dad—he needs to stand up to her and end this idiotic blockade that she’s imposed. Once she meets you, once you are no longer this mysterious entity to her, she’ll see you for who you are. And she’ll come to appreciate you, I just know it.”

  “It’s very kind of you to say that, but Nick and I were discussing it earlier today and we’re thinking of changing our travel plans. Peik Lin, my friend from Singapore, is flying up to visit me on Thursday. She wants to take me to Hangzhou for a spa weekend while Nick is off in Beijing doing his research at the National Library. But when we get back next week, I think we’ll head home to New York.”

  “Next week? You were supposed to be here until August—you can’t leave so soon!” Carlton began to protest.

  “It’s better that way. I realize that it was a huge mistake for me to make this trip so soon. I never gave your mother enough time to adjust to the idea of me. The last thing I want to do is cause a lasting wound between your parents. Really.”

  “Let me talk to them. You can’t leave China without seeing Dad again, and I want my mum to meet you. She has to.”

  Rachel pondered things for a moment. “It’s up to you. I don’t want to impose on them any more than I already have. Look, we’ve had a fantastic time in China. And Paris, of course. Getting to spend all this time with you is already far more than I could have ever hoped for.”

  Carlton locked eyes for a moment with his sister, and nothing more needed to be said.

  4

  RIVERSIDE VICTORY TOWERS

  SHANGHAI

  For many Shanghainese who had been born in Puxi—the historic city center—the glittering new metropolis on the other side of the river called Pudong would never be part of the real Shanghai. “Puxi is like Pu-York, but Pudong will always be Pu-Jersey,” the cognoscenti snidely remarked. Jack Bing, who hailed from Ningbo in Zhejiang Province, had no time for such snobberies. He was proud to be part of the new China that built Pudong, and whenever guests came to his triplex penthouse at Riverside Victory Towers—a hulking trio of ultra-luxurious apartment complexes that he had developed on the riverfront of Pudong’s financial district—he would proudly walk them around the sprawling rooftop garden of his 8,888-square-foot penthouse and point out the new city that stretched as far as the eye could see. “A decade ago, all this was farmland. Now it is the center of the world,” he would say.

  Today, as Jack sat on the titanium and Mongolian gazelle lounge chair Marc Newson had custom designed for him, sipping his glass of 2005 Château Pétrus on the rocks, his thoughts lingered on the memory of an afternoon spent alone at the Palace of Versailles at the end of a business trip, where he delighted in stumbling upon a small exhibition devoted to Chinese antiquities in the court of Louis XIV. He was admiring a portrait of the Emperor Qianlong in a small gallery tucked behind the Hall of Mirrors when a large tour group of Chinese tourists crowded into the space. A man in head-to-toe Stefano Ricci pointed at the portrait of the emperor dressed in a Manchu-style fur cap and murmured excitedly, “Genghis Khan! Genghis Khan!”

  Jack left the gallery hastily, afraid he might be associated with this group of ignorant Chinese. Imagine these heathens not knowing one of their greatest emperors, who ruled for more than sixty years! But as he strolled along the grand canal that bisected the majestic gardens of Versailles, he began to wonder whether the French themselves might today recognize a portrait of their own king who had built such an impressive monument to his power. Now, as Jack stared out at the curving crescent of golden lights along the Pudong waterfront, counting the buildings that belonged to him, he pondered his own legacy, and how the people of this new China might remember him in centuries to come.

  The familiar click-click of his daughter’s high heels soon broke the silence, and Jack quickly removed the ice cubes from his wine and tossed them into the potted tan hua plant nearby. He knew Colette would scold him if she saw them. A couple of ice cubes missed the Ming ceramic planter and skidded across the floor, leaving faint red streaks along the Emperador marble.

  Colette barged into his study all a-huff. “What’s wrong? Is Mother okay? Is Nainai okay?”

  “Your grandmother is still alive as far as I know, and your mother is at her reflexology appointment,” Jack said calmly.

  “Then why did you need me so urgently? I was in the middle of a very important dinner with the world’s most acclaimed chefs!”

  “And that’s more important than seeing your own father? You come back from Paris and you would rather dine with the help?”

  “This top truffle dealer was about to offer me his prized white Alba truffle when you called, but now I think that sneaky Eric Ripert has snagged it. I was going to surprise you with the truffle.”

  Jack let out a snort. “What really surprises me is the way you keep disappointing me over and over again.”

  Colette stared at her father quizzically. “What have I ever done to disappoint you?”

  “The fact that you don’t even know is so telling. I went to such lengths to help Richie Yang orchestrate the perfect proposal to you, and look what you did in return.”

  “You were part of that whole scheme? Of course you were—if I had planned the affair, it would have been so much more tasteful!”

  “That’s not the point. The point is that you were supposed to say yes, like any normal girl who is being serenaded by one of the most expensive singers in the world.”

  Colette rolled her eyes. “I like John Legend, but even if you had paid John Lennon to rise from the grave and sing ‘All You Need Is Love’ to me, the answer would still be no.”

  Colett
e saw something move out of the corner of her eye and turned to find her mother standing by the doorway. “What are you doing skulking in the shadows? Have you been home all this time? You knew Dad was involved all along, didn’t you?”

  “Aiyah, I couldn’t believe it when you turned Richie down! We have both wanted this for you ever since you started dating him three years ago,” her mother said with a deep sigh, planting herself down on the gilded settee.

  “It’s not like I’ve been seeing him exclusively. I’ve been dating many other men.”

  “Well, you’ve had your fun, and now it’s high time you got married. I had you by the time I was your age,” Mrs. Bing chastised.

  “I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation! Why did you send me to the most progressive schools in England if all you expected out of me was to get married at such a young age? Why did I bother studying so hard at Regent’s? I have so many goals, so many things I want to accomplish before I become anyone’s wife.”

  “Why can’t you accomplish your goals while you’re married?” Jack argued.

  “It’s not the same, Father. Besides, my situation is so different than when the both of you were young. Sometimes I wonder if I even need to get married at all—it’s not like I need a man to look after me!”

  “How long do you intend to make us wait until you are ready for marriage?” her mother demanded.

  “I think I won’t be ready for at least another decade.”

  “Wo de tian ah!* You’ll be thirty-three. What will happen to your eggs? Your eggs will get old and your babies might be born retarded or deformed!” Mrs. Bing screeched.

  “Mother, stop being so ridiculous! With all the damn doctors you see every day, you should know that such things don’t happen anymore. They have special genetic tests now, and women are having babies well into their forties!”

  “Listen to her!” Mrs. Bing said incredulously to her husband.