Crazy Rich Asians

by Kevin Kwan

  “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 something 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.”

  “Cannot be! Two or three acres I might believe, but fifty? No such thing, lah.”

  “It was fifty acres at least, probably more. I thought I was dreaming. I thought I was in another country.”

  “Lu leem ziew, ah?”† Neena looked at her daughter in concern. Peik Lin ignored her.

  “Show me,” Wye Mun said, his interest piqued. “Let’s see it on Google Earth.” They walked over to the computer desk in the corner, pulled up the program, and Peik Lin began searching for the place. As they zoomed in on the topographical screen, she immediately noticed something amiss in the satellite image.

  “Look, Papa—this whole patch is empty! You think it’s part of the Botanic Gardens, but it’s not. This is where the house is. But why are there no images? It doesn’t appear on Google Earth at all! And my GPS couldn’t find the address either.”

  Wye Mun stared at the screen. The place his daughter claimed to have seen was literally a black hole on the map. It did not officially exist. How very strange.

  “Who is this fellow’s family?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. But there were a lot of VIP cars in the driveway. I saw quite a few diplomatic license plates. Old Rolls-Royces, vintage Daimlers, that type of car. These people must be loaded beyond belief. Who do you think they are?”

  “I can’t think of anyone specifically who lives in this area.” Wye Mun ran the cursor over the perimeter of the blacked-out area. His family had been in the property development and construction business in Singapore for more than forty years, but he had never come across anything like this. “Wah, this is prime, prime land—right in the middle of the island. The value would be incalculable. Cannot be one property, lah!”

  “Yes it is, Papa. I saw it with my own eyes. And supposedly Nick’s grandmother grew up there. It’s her house.”

  “Make Rachel find out the grandma’s name. And the grandpa. We need to know who these people are. How can one person own this much private land in one of the most crowded cities in the world?”

  “Wah, it looks like Rachel Chu has hit jackpot. I hope she marries this guy!” Neena chimed in from her recliner.

  “Aiyah, who cares about Rachel Chu? Peik Lin, you go after him!” Wye Mun declared.

  Peik Lin grinned at her father, and began texting Rachel.

  Wye Mun patted his wife on her shoulder. “Come, call the driver. Let’s take a drive down Tyersall Road. I want to see this place for myself.”

  They decided to take the Audi SUV in an effort to be as inconspicuous as possible. “See, I think this is where the property actually begins,” Peik Lin noted as they turned onto the curving, densely wooded road. “I think all this on the left side is the southern boundary of the land.” When they reached the gray iron gates, Wye Mun made the driver stop the car for a minute. The place looked completely deserted. “See, you wouldn’t think there’s anything here. It looks like some old section of the Botanic Gardens. There’s another guard house farther down this road, a high-tech one manned by Gurkha guards,” Peik Lin explained. Wye Mun stared down the unlit, overgrown road, completely fascinated. He was one of Singapore’s leading property developers, and he knew every square inch of land on the island. Or at least he thought he did.

  * * *

  * Hokkien for “big house.”

  † Hokkien for “Have you been drinking?”

  4

  Rachel and Nick

  TYERSALL PARK

  “The tan huas are coming into bloom!” Ling Cheh announced excitedly to everyone on the terrace. As the guests began to head back in through the conservatory, Nick pulled Rachel aside. “Here, let’s take a shortcut,” he said. Rachel followed him through a side door, and they wandered down a long hallway, past many darkened rooms that she longed to peek into. When Nick led her through an arch at the end of the passage, Rachel’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

  They were no longer in Singapore. It was as if they had stumbled onto a secret cloister deep within
a Moorish palace. The vast courtyard was enclosed on all sides but completely open to the sky. Elaborately carved columns lined the arcades around its perimeter, and an Andalusian fountain protruded from the stone wall, spouting a stream of water from a lotus blossom sculpted out of rose quartz. Overhead, hundreds of copper lanterns had been meticulously strung across the courtyard from the second-floor walkway, each flickering with candlelight.

  “I wanted to show you this place while it was still empty,” Nick said in a hushed voice, pulling Rachel into an embrace.

  “Pinch me, please. Is any of this real?” Rachel whispered as she looked into Nick’s eyes.

  “This place is very real. You’re the dream,” Nick answered as he kissed her deeply.

  A few guests began to trickle in, disrupting the spell they had momentarily been under. “Come, it’s dessert time!” Nick said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

  Along one of the arcades stretched long banquet tables that displayed a wondrous selection of desserts. There were elaborate cakes, soufflés, and sweet puddings, there was goreng pisang* drizzled with Lyle’s Golden Syrup, nyonya kuehs in every color of the rainbow, and tall polished samovars filled with different steaming-hot elixirs. Servers wearing white toques stood behind each table, ready to dish out the delicacies.

  “Tell me this isn’t how your family eats every day,” Rachel said in amazement.

  “Well, tonight was leftovers night,” Nick deadpanned.

  Rachel elbowed him in the ribs playfully.

  “Ow! And I was about to offer you a slice of the best chocolate chiffon cake in the world.”

  “I just stuffed my face with eighteen different types of noodles! I couldn’t possibly eat dessert,” Rachel groaned, pressing her palm against her stomach momentarily. She walked to the center of the courtyard, where chairs were arranged around a reflecting pool. In the middle of the pool were huge terra-cotta urns that held the painstakingly cultivated tan huas. Rachel had never seen a species of flora quite so exotic. The tangled forest of plants grew together into a tall profusion of large floppy leaves the color of dark jade. Long stems sprouted from the edges of the leaves, curving until they formed huge bulbs. The pale reddish petals curled tightly like delicate fingers grasping a silken white peach. Oliver stood by the flowers, scrutinizing one of the bulbs closely.