Crazy Rich Asians

by Kevin Kwan

  “Yes, of course. I got them at the insider price, since our company did the construction. The flats are actually worth three million, and by the time the building is completed at the end of the year I can sell each of them for three-point-five, four mil easy.”

  “Now why would the prices shoot up so quickly? Isn’t that a sign that the market is in a speculative bubble?” Rachel inquired.

  “We’re not in a bubble because the demand is real. All the HNWIs want to be in real estate these days.”

  “Um, what are Henwees?” Rachel asked.

  “Oh, sorry, I forgot you’re not up on the lingo. HNWI stands for ‘High Net Worth Individuals.’ We Singaporeans love to abbreviate everything.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed that.”

  “As you may know, there’s been an explosion of HNWIs from Mainland China, and they are the ones really driving up the prices. They are flocking here in droves, buying up properties with golf bags stuffed full of hard cash.”

  “Really? I thought it was the other way around. Doesn’t everyone want to move to China for work?”

  “Some, yes, but the super-rich Chinese all want to be here. We’re the most stable country in the region, and Mainlanders feel that their money is far safer here than in Shanghai, or even Switzerland.”

  At this point, the car turned off a main thoroughfare and drove into a neighborhood of tightly packed houses. “So there actually are houses in Singapore,” Rachel said.

  “Very few. Only about five percent of us are lucky enough to live in houses. This neighborhood is actually one of the first ‘suburban-style’ developments in Singapore, begun in the seventies, and my family helped to build it,” Peik Lin explained. The car drove past a high white wall, over which peeked tall thick bushes of bougainvillea. A large gold plaque on the wall was engraved VILLA D’ORO, and as the car pulled up to the entrance, a pair of ornate golden gates parted to reveal an imposing façade that bore a not so accidental resemblance to the Petit Trianon at Versailles, except that the house itself took up most of the lot, and the front portico was dominated by a massive four-tiered marble fountain with a golden swan spouting water from its long upturned beak.

  “Welcome to my home,” Peik Lin said.

  “My God, Peik Lin!” Rachel gasped in awe. “Is this where you grew up?”

  “This was the property, but my parents tore down the old house and built this mansion about six years ago.”

  “No wonder you thought your town house in Palo Alto was so cramped.”

  “You know, when I was growing up, I thought that everyone lived like this. In the States, this house is probably worth only about three million. Can you guess how much it’s worth here?”

  “I won’t even try to guess.”

  “Thirty million, easy. And that’s just for the land—the house itself would be a teardown.”

  “Well, I can only imagine how valuable land must be on an island with, what, four million people?”

  “More like five million now.”

  The cathedral-size front door was opened by an Indonesian girl in a frilly black-and-white French maid’s uniform. Rachel found herself standing in a circular entrance foyer with white-and-rose marble floors radiating out in a sunburst pattern. To the right, an enormous staircase with gold balustrades wound its way to the upper floors. The entire curved wall going up the staircase was a frescoed replica of Fragonard’s The Swing, except that this re-creation was blown up to fill a forty-foot rotunda.

  “A team of artists from Prague camped out for three months to paint the frescos,” Peik Lin said as she led Rachel up a short flight of steps into the formal living room. “This is my mother’s re-creation of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Get ready,” she warned. Rachel ascended the steps and entered the room, her eyes widening a little. Aside from the red velvet brocade sofas, every single object in the cavernous formal living room appeared to be made of gold. The vaulted ceiling was composed of layers upon layers of gold leaf. The baroque console tables were gilt gold. The Venetian mirrors and candelabra lining the walls were gold. The elaborate tassels on the gold damask curtains were yet a deeper shade of gold. Even the tchotchkes scattered around every available surface were golden. Rachel was completely dumbstruck.

  To make matters even more surreal, the middle of the room was dominated by an enormous oval pond-cum-aquarium sunken into the gold-flecked marble floor. The pond was brightly lit, and for a second Rachel thought she could make out baby sharks swimming in the bubbling water. Before she could process the scene fully, three golden-haired Pekingese ran into the room, their high-pitched yaps echoing loudly against the marble.

  Peik Lin’s mother, a short, plumpish woman in her early fifties with a shoulder-length bouffant perm entered the room. She wore a tight shocking-pink silk blouse that stretched against her ample cleavage, belted with a chain of interlinked gold medusa heads and a tight pair of black trousers. The only thing incongruous about the outfit was the pair of cushioned pink slippers on her feet. “Astor, Trump, Vanderbilt, naw-tee naw-tee boys, stop barking!” she admonished. “Rachel Chu! Wel-kum, wel-kum!” she cried in her heavy Chinese-accented English. Rachel found herself crushed into a fleshy hug, the heady scent of Eau d’Hadrien filling her nose. “Aiyah! So long I haven’t seen you. Bien kar ah nee swee, ah!” she exclaimed in Hokkien, cupping Rachel’s cheeks with both hands.

  “She thinks you’ve become very pretty,” Peik Lin translated, knowing that Rachel only spoke Mandarin.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Goh. It’s so nice to see you again,” Rachel said, feeling rather overwhelmed. She never knew what to say when someone complimented her looks.

  “Whaaat?” the woman said in mock horror. “Don’t call me Mrs. Goh. Mrs. Goh is my hor-eee-ble mah-der-in-law! Call me Auntie Neena.”

  “Okay, Auntie Neena.”

  “Come, come to the keet-chen. Makan time.” She clamped her bronze fingernails onto Rachel’s wrist, leading her down a long marble-columned hallway toward the dining room. Rachel couldn’t help but notice the enormous canary diamond flashing on her hand like a translucent egg yolk, and the pair of three-carat solitaires in her earlobes, identical to Peik Lin’s. Like mother, like daughter—maybe they got a two-for-one deal.

  The baronial dining hall was somewhat of a respite after the rococo hell of the living room, with its wood boiserie walls and windows overlooking the lawn where a large oval swimming pool was encircled by Grecian sculptures. Rachel quickly registered two versions of the Venus de Milo, one in white marble, another in gold, of course. There was a huge round dining table that seated eighteen comfortably covered with a heavy Battenberg lace tablecloth and high-backed Louis Quatorze chairs that were, thankfully, upholstered in a royal blue brocade. Assembled in the dining room was the entire Goh family.

  “Rachel, you remember my father. This is my brother Peik Wing and his wife, Sheryl, and my younger brother, Peik Ting, whom we call P.T. And these are my nieces Alyssa and Camylla.” Everyone went around shaking hands with Rachel, who couldn’t help but notice that not one of them happened to be over five foot five. The brothers were both much darker complexioned than Peik Lin, but they all shared the same pixieish features. Both were dressed in almost identical outfits of pale blue button-down dress shirts and dark gray slacks, as if they had adhered exactly to a company manual on how to dress for casual Fridays. Sheryl, who was much paler, stuck out from the rest of the family. She wore a pink floral tank top and a short denim skirt, looking rather frazzled as she fussed over her two young daughters, who were both being fed Chicken McNuggets, the paper boxes placed on heavy gold-rimmed Limoges plates along with the packets of sweet-and-sour dipping sauce.

  Peik Lin’s father gestured for Rachel to take the seat next to him. He was a stocky, barrel-chested man in khaki trousers and a red Ralph Lauren shirt, the kind with the oversize Polo-player logo in dark navy emblazened across the front. His clothes, coupled with his short stature, made him appear incongruously boyish for a man in his late fifti
es. On his small wrist was a chunky Franck Muller watch, and he too was wearing a pair of cushioned slippers over his socks.

  “Rachel Chu, long time no see! We are so very grateful for all the help you gave Peik Lin back in her uni days. Without you, she would have been gone case at Stanford,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s not true! Peik Lin was a great help to me. I am so honored to be invited to your … incredible … house for lunch, Mr. Goh,” Rachel said graciously.

  “Uncle Wye Mun, please call me Uncle Wye Mun,” he said.

  Three maids entered, adding plates of steaming food to a table already laden with dishes. Rachel counted a total of thirteen different dishes laid out on the table.

  “Ok, everybody ziak, ziak.* Don’t stand on ce-ree-moh-ny Rachel Chu, this is simple lunch, simple food lah,” Neena said. Rachel stared down at the heaving platters that looked anything but simple. “Our new cook is from Ipoh, so today you are getting some ty-pee-cal Malaysian dishes and Singapore dishes,” Neena continued, dishing a heaping portion of beef Rendang curry onto Rachel’s gold-rimmed plate.

  “Mama, we are done eating. Can we go to the playroom now?” one of the little girls asked Sheryl.

  “You are not done. I still see a few chicken nuggets left,” their mother said.

  Neena looked over and scolded, “Aiyoooooh, finish everything on your plate, girls! Don’t you know there are children starving in America?”

  Rachel grinned at the girls with their adorable twin ponytails and said, “I’m so happy to meet the whole family at last. Does nobody have to work today?”

  “This is the advantage of working for your own company—we can take long lunch breaks,” P.T. said.

  “Hey, not too long,” Wye Mun growled jovially.

  “So all your children work for your company, Mr. Goh … I mean, Uncle Wye Mun?” Rachel asked.

  “Yes, yes. This is a true family business. My father is still active as the chairman, and I’m the CEO. All my children have different management roles. Peik Wing is the VP in charge of project development, P.T. is VP in charge of construction, and Peik Lin is VP in charge of new business. Of course, we also have about six thousand full-time employees between all our offices.”

  “And where are your offices?” Rachel inquired.

  “Our main hubs are Singapore, Hong Kong, Beijing, and Chongqing, but we’re starting satellite offices in Hanoi, and very soon, Yangon.”

  “Sounds like you’re really pushing into all the high-growth regions,” Rachel commented, impressed.

  “For sure, for sure,” Wye Mun said. “Aiyah, you’re so smart—Peik Lin told me you are doing very well at NYU. Are you single? P.T., P.T., why aren’t you paying more attention to Rachel? We can add one more family member to the payroll!” Everyone at the table laughed.

  “Papa, you’re so forgetful. I told you she was here with her boyfriend,” Peik Lin chided.

  “Ang mor, ah?” he asked, looking at Peik Lin.

  “No, Singapore boy. I met him earlier today,” Peik Lin said.

  “Aiyaaaah, why isn’t he here?” Neena admonished.

  “Nick wanted to meet you, but he had to help his friend with some last-minute errands. We’re actually here for his friend’s wedding. He’s going to be the best man,” Rachel explained.

  “Who’s getting married?” Wye Mun asked.

  “His name’s Colin Khoo,” Rachel replied.

  Everyone abruptly stopped eating and stared at her. “Colin Khoo … and Araminta Lee?” Sheryl asked, trying to clarify.

  “Yes,” Rachel said in surprise. “Do you know them?”

  Neena slammed her chopsticks down on the table and stared at Rachel. “Whaaaaaat? You’re going to COLIN KHOO’S wedding?” she screeched, her mouth full of food.

  “Yes, yes … are you going too?”

  “Rachel! You didn’t tell me you were coming for Colin Khoo’s wedding,” Peik Lin said in a hushed tone.

  “Um, you didn’t ask,” Rachel said uncomfortably. “I don’t understand … is there a problem?” She suddenly feared that the Gohs might be mortal enemies of the Khoos.

  “Nooooo!” Peik Lin cried, suddenly getting very excited. “Don’t you know? It’s the wedding of the year! It’s been covered on every channel, in every magazine, and in about a million blogs!”

  “Why? Are they famous?” Rachel asked, completely baffled.

  “AH-LA-MAAAK! Colin Khoo is Khoo Teck Fong’s grandson! He comes from one of the reeee-chest families in the world! And Araminta Lee—she’s the supa-model daughter of Peter Lee, one of China’s reeee-chest men, and Annabel Lee, the luxury hotel queen. This is like royal weddeeeng!” Neena gushed.

  “I had no idea,” Rachel said in astonishment. “I just met them last night.”

  “You met them? You met Araminta Lee? Is she as beautiful in person? What was she wearing?” Sheryl asked, seemingly starstruck.

  “She was very pretty, yes. But so simple—she was literally wearing pajamas when I met her. She looked like a schoolgirl. Is she Eurasian?”

  “No. But her mum is from Xinjiang, so she has Uighur blood, so they say,” Neena said.

  “Araminta is our most celebrated fashion icon! She has modeled for all the magazines, and she was one of Alexander McQueen’s favorite models,” Sheryl continued breathlessly.

  “She’s a total babe,” P.T. chimed in.

  “When did you meet her?” Peik Lin asked.

  “She was with Colin. They picked us up at the airport.”

  “They picked you up at the airport!” P.T. exclaimed in disbelief, laughing hysterically. “Was there an army of bodyguards?”

  “Not at all. They came in an SUV. Actually, there were two SUVs. One took the luggage straight to the hotel. No wonder,” Rachel recalled.

  “Rachel, Colin Khoo’s family owns the Kingsford Hotel! That’s why you’re staying there,” Peik Lin said, jabbing her arm excitedly.

  Rachel didn’t quite know what to say. She found herself amused and a little embarrassed by all the excitement.

  “Your boyfriend is Colin Khoo’s best man? What’s his name?” Peik Lin’s father demanded.

  “Nicholas Young,” Rachel replied.

  “Nicholas Young … how old is he?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “That’s one year above Peik Wing,” Neena said. She looked up at the ceiling, as if racking through her mental Rolodex to see if she could recall a Nicholas Young.

  “Peik Wing—ever heard of Nicholas Young?” Wye Mun asked his eldest son.

  “Nope. Do you know which school he went to?” Peik Wing asked Rachel.

  “Balliol College, Oxford,” she replied, hesitantly. She wasn’t sure why they were suddenly so interested in every minute detail.

  “No, no—I mean which primary school,” Peik Wing said.

  “Elementary school,” Peik Lin clarified.

  “Oh, I have no idea.”

  “Nicholas Young … sounds like an ACS† boy,” P.T. chimed in. “All those ACS boys have Christian names.”

  “Colin Khoo went to ACS. Daddy, I already tried to check Nick out when Rachel first started dating him, but no one I know has ever heard of him,” Peik Lin added.

  “Nick and Colin went to elementary school together. They have been best friends since childhood,” Rachel said.

  “What is his father’s name?” Wye Mun asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if you find out the parents’ names, we can tell you whether he comes from a good family or not,” Wye Mun said.

  “Alamaaaaak, of course he’s from good family, if he’s best friends with Colin Khoo,” Neena said. “Young … Young … Sheryl, isn’t there a gyney named Richard Young? The one who practices with Dr. Toh?”

  “No, no, Nick’s father is an engineer. I think he works in Australia part of the year,” Rachel offered.

  “Well, see if you can find out more about his background, and we can help you,” Wye Mun finally said.

  “Oh,
you really don’t have to do that. It’s not important to me what sort of family he comes from,” Rachel said.

  “Nonsense, lah! Of course it’s important!” Wye Mun was adamant. “If he’s Singaporean, I have a responsibility to make sure he’s good enough for you!”

  * * *

  * Hokkien for “eat.”

  † Among Singapore’s upper crust, only two boys’ schools matter: Anglo-Chinese School (ACS) and Raffles Institution (RI). Both are consistently ranked among the top schools in the world and have enjoyed a long, heated rivalry. RI, established in 1823, is known to attract the brainy crowd, while ACS, established in 1886, is popular with the more fashionable set and somewhat perceived to be a breeding ground for snobs. Much of this has to do with the 1980 article in the Sunday Nation entitled “The Little Horrors of ACS,” which exposed the rampant snobbery among its pampered students. This led to a shamed principal announcing to stunned students (including this author) the very next morning during assembly that, henceforth, students were no longer allowed to be dropped off at the front entrance by their chauffeurs. (They had to walk up the short driveway all by themselves, unless it was raining.) Expensive watches, eyeglasses, fountain pens, briefcases, satchels, pencil boxes, stationery, combs, electronic gadgets, comic books, and any other luxury items would also be banned from school property. (But within a few months, Lincoln Lee started wearing his Fila socks again and no one seemed to notice.)

  17

  Nicholas and Colin

  SINGAPORE

  Perhaps out of nostalgia, Nick and Colin liked to meet up at the coffee shop of their old alma mater on Barker Road. Located in the sports complex between the main pool and the basketball courts, the Anglo-Chinese School coffee shop served a motley selection of Thai and Singaporean dishes as well as such oddities as British beef pies, which Nick loved. Back when the two of them were on the swim team, they would always grab a bite after practice at the “tuck shop,” as they called it. The original cooks had long since retired, the legendary mee siam was no longer on the menu, and the coffee shop itself wasn’t even in the original space—having long since been torn down during the redevelopment of the sports center. But for Nick and Colin, it was still the place to meet whenever they were both in town.