Five Star Billionaire

by Tash Aw

  Yanyan bit into another seed without answering.

  “If you give up now and go back to your village, there will be no dreams, nothing.”

  Yanyan picked at bits of shell that had fallen on the bed. She stood up and dusted off her trousers. “Where else am I supposed to go?”

  BY THE TIME PHOEBE reached work the next day, she had decided what to do. She had not slept; all night she had listened to Yanyan’s slow, even breaths. Yanyan did not move at all during the entire night—she lay curled up with one hand resting against her cheek, the other flung out wide as if reaching for an invisible object. Her eyelids did not tremble; her brow was not frightened by nightmares. She didn’t have dreams, Phoebe thought; her life was sheltered from ambition. It was better that way.

  As Phoebe walked along the streets of Jing’an, the early-morning sunlight glinted off the mirrored glass windows of the office blocks like daytime stars, and the branches of the plane trees were hanging heavy with heat. The people who ran the small food shops that lined the back alleys were setting the plastic stools outside their stalls, the smell of pancakes and griddled bread filling the air. The streets were already busy with crisscrossing lines of traffic.

  She thought, There is no real decision to be made, for true decision requires true choice, and I have no choice.

  She arrived at work a whole two hours before the spa was due to open, surprising the cleaning staff, who were halfheartedly sweeping the floor of the reception. One of them was even digging through the bowl of sweets on the counter, trying to find her favorite flavor. Phoebe gave them firm instructions and stood by as they carried out their tasks. She needed the place to return to its usual condition of perfection. Once they had gone, she checked the time—there was still half an hour before the first of the girls would arrive, and since they were never on time these days, it gave her plenty of time to organize herself.

  She locked the doors and retreated to the office. The fluorescent strip lights flickered into life row by row as she turned them on and settled down in front of the computer. First she checked the accounts—it was true, the last two weeks had not been healthy; there had been too many cancelations and too few new bookings while she had neglected her duties. But the important thing was that there was still plenty of money in the bank account. They had already started to break even, and there was always cash in the account these days—Boss Leong left it there as a sign of confidence. Good businesses run themselves, she would say in her robot manner. Phoebe wondered which book she’d read that in—it didn’t sound very convincing. Maybe Boss Leong should have bought better books, which would have advised her on personal style and elegance too. If Phoebe were in charge of the business, she would not have left so much money sitting in the bank like that. She would have withdrawn it every week; she would not have trusted the people who worked for her. Phoebe had learned not to place confidence in anyone but herself, and maybe this was the difference between Boss Leong and her. Boss Leong had never been hurt or cheated the way she had. Rich people were always more trusting because they could afford to protect themselves against life. That was why rich people did not suffer.

  She took out a piece of paper and held a pen above it. She had chosen a special black-ink roller-ball pen especially for this purpose. Every time she practiced, she used this pen. She let it fall to the paper, her hand moving fluently without her even thinking what to do. She had practiced this so many times, but she had never thought she would need to do it—she had done it out of boredom, just for fun. She hadn’t even known why she was doing it. Now she saw the result of her unthinking scrawls—Boss Leong’s signature, fat bubbly letters seeming to bounce into one another. She compared it to a letter that Boss Leong had signed. No difference at all. Then she opened the safe and took out the checkbook. She signed her name on it, took a deep breath, and added Boss Leong’s signature. They matched well, her own narrow signature, full of tight unreadable symbols, next to Boss Leong’s big messy one. A good balance—you could even consider it beautiful, she thought. No one would ever sense that anything was wrong.

  The sum she wrote was not huge either, even though it needed Boss Leong’s countersignature. It would raise no alarm bells; no one would even think of ringing Boss Leong. It was just enough to buy Phoebe an airplane ticket, plus a little bit more to cover a few months’ rent. The ticket would be one-way—it would not cost that much. And even though she’d heard that the cost of living in Malaysia was higher these days than before, it could not be anywhere near as expensive as in Shanghai. She’d be surprised if she couldn’t last somewhere for at least six months with the money she was taking.

  Next she wrote a long email to Boss Leong, apologizing for her unsatisfactory performance recently. Her mother had been very unwell and it was weighing on her mind. She’d been very sad; she thought maybe it was even depression. She wasn’t sure why, but she was questioning her own life. She hoped Boss Leong would understand. But all was fine now. She would make sure that everything at the spa ran smoothly; there was nothing else for Boss Leong to worry about.

  Within minutes a reply appeared. Sorry to hear about mother. Pleased all sorted. Suggest you move back to reception for time being, pending further assessment/discussion. Will call in to see you on my return tomorrow. Best, LYH.

  Good, Phoebe thought. She went to the storeroom, did a quick check on the supplies, and folded the towels. She checked the schedule for the coming month—she would call in each girl and give them a lecture reminding them about their duties, and they would be surprised by her return to form. When she left in a few days’ time, the spa would be running like clockwork again, she would be on good terms with Boss Leong, her conscience would be clear. She would slip away, vanish mysteriously, and for a few days Boss Leong would be perplexed, even angry at the inconvenience. But in Shanghai everyone is replaceable in an instant, and before the week was up, another girl would have taken her place. By the end of the month, most of the girls working at the spa would never have even known that Phoebe had once worked there.

  This is what happens in Shanghai. People say it is the size of a small country, but it is not: It is bigger, like a whole continent, with a heart as deep and unknown as the forests of the Amazon and as vast and wild as the deserts of Africa. People come here like explorers, but soon they disappear and no one remembers them; no one even hears them as they fade away.

  She looked at the clock—just a few minutes before the first of the girls arrived. On her mobile she began to dial Walter’s number. It rang and rang until his voice mail kicked in.

  THEY MET TWO DAYS later underneath the intersection of a giant overpass on the edge of Xizang Lu. He arrived on time, emerging suddenly through the early-evening crowd on the pavement in a brisk walk, his head held high, looking out for her. His face was troubled by a frown—he had come directly from the airport, as he’d spent the weekend in Beijing—but as soon as he saw her his expression relaxed, leaving only the deep lines by his eyes that would never go away. She was already waiting—she had been there for some time.

  “Are you sure that’s safe?” he said, looking at the electric scooter she had with her. “I didn’t even know you had one.”

  “It’s Yanyan’s,” she replied, starting to wheel it along the road. “I’ve just borrowed it for this evening.”

  “You’re taking me for a ride?”

  “Actually, I haven’t decided what we’re going to do. As I said on the phone, the only rule this evening is that everything is my treat. You have invited me to so many places; now it’s my turn. Problem is, you have to come to my favorite hangouts.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You haven’t seen them yet.” She looked at his blue shirt and smart trousers made of a shiny gray material; he was dressed as if he had only just finished a business meeting and had left his jacket on the back of his chair. Small patches of sweat were darkening his shirt around his armpits. Summer in Shanghai was really airless. It was as if everyone was competing for
oxygen and there was not enough to go around. Phoebe felt the sweat collect around the back of her neck, but she didn’t care. She hadn’t even worn any makeup.

  They crossed the road to a small alley lined with food stalls, the shop fronts lit by bright colorful yellow signs. Kitchen hands were hauling large plastic basins full of dirty dishes into the street to be washed; the teenage boys and girls who squatted on the uneven tarmac soaping and rinsing the dishes went about their tasks wordlessly. The sound of the plastic dishes being flung against one another filled the night with a rhythmic clacking noise. Outside every shop there were young couples queuing up for tables, sitting on flimsy stools holding hands, or playing games on their mobile phones. The girls were glossy-haired and dressed in airy sleeveless blouses; the boys were slim-jawed and serious. The white light from the neon signs leached their skins of color and made them look pale and delicate. They waited patiently, unaware of the evening slipping past. They did not worry; they had the whole night ahead of them, warm and dark and unending.

  Walter said, “These are what Westerners call ‘hole in the wall’ restaurants.”

  “Where I grew up,” Phoebe said, “every restaurant was like this. I’m used to eating in such places. I thought, for a change, maybe you would find it interesting to see this kind of small restaurant. You can’t always dine in expensive restaurants.”

  Phoebe and Walter stopped at one stall, Changsha Noodle Stall, and joined the queue. There was a huge cauldron full of boiling red-tinged oil at the front of the stall, into which the cook threw basketfuls of crayfish. They waited for half an hour, standing silently. Phoebe knew that he was looking at her, but she averted her gaze to watch the stallholders prepare their dishes.

  “The stinky tofu looks delicious,” she said.

  She had prepared a speech, a full explanation of why she had not returned his calls, why she had disappeared for two weeks, why she was going to disappear forever, but she wanted to wait until they were seated, when they had something to distract them from the conversation. She could pretend to be concentrating on her food—that way she would not have to look him in the eye. It was always easier to tell untruths when the other person was struggling with a task—she was not sure if this was something she had once read in a book or if it was something she had invented. It didn’t matter now. It was the last time she would ever lie, she thought. After this evening, she would never lie to anyone about herself again.

  They ordered two big baskets of crayfish with exploding-spicy flavor. Within minutes, Walter’s eyes were watering. He bit through the hard shells impatiently, discarding half of each crayfish uneaten. His nose began to drip and beads of sweat collected on his forehead. His fine shirt was flecked with amber-colored oil spots, but he did not complain, he just sat with his head bowed in concentration.

  “I’m really sorry about my silence these last weeks,” Phoebe said. “But I think I mentioned I had an urgent work development. A really big, exciting project. A billionaire investor wants to help me expand my spa business, set up branches all over Southeast Asia. Aiya, he’s so demanding—I’ve been working all hours of the day and through the night. I’m so exhausted.”

  “That sounds promising. Would you like me to help you with anything? Look over the business plan or financial proposals?”

  “Oh, no, ha-ha, thanks—it’s all under control. The thing is,” Phoebe paused and placed two more crayfish on Walter’s plate, “I am going to have to go abroad a lot. It’s a wonderful opportunity for me.”

  “Who is this investor? You need to be careful. There are lots of unscrupulous crooks around these days.”

  “Ei, don’t be so negative. It’s a great chance for me to do a lot of traveling. I have to go to Hong Kong, Japan, Korea …”

  “Yes.” Walter nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his wrist and sniffing loudly. “Sounds excellent. When do you have to leave?”

  “Not sure, but probably in the next week or so. I’ll be back and forth a lot, but my life will no longer be the same—I won’t be around much.”

  With his index finger, Walter pushed the sole crayfish that remained on his plate. It was bright red, a color that seemed electric, artificial, just like a little plastic toy that lay at the bottom of a packet of noodles or taped to a box of cookies. He picked it up and held it close to Phoebe’s face, its belly facing her. He wiggled it around and said, “Bon voyage, Phoebe. Hope you are successful. May the wind carry you safely and smoothly.” He looked at the crayfish for a moment before snapping off its head and claws. “Maybe we can meet sometime on your travels? I am on the road a lot too, as you know—surely our paths will cross.”

  Phoebe reached for the toothpicks. “I think that might be difficult. I just don’t know what my schedule is going to be.”

  Walter gulped his drink in one go. His face was red and sweaty.

  Phoebe said, “You can’t take spicy.”

  “My stomach is burning.”

  They went to a Taiwanese ice-sand restaurant for dessert. “Some mango ice will put out the fire in your stomach,” she said. The floors were of a shiny black terrazzo inlaid with fine gold and silver glitter, and there were mirrors on the walls and arrangements of flowers that overflowed from huge vases on the reception desks. When she was a child in small-town Malaysia, this was the kind of restaurant Phoebe dreamed of eating in—how sophisticated, how lucky the people were who had the chance to do so. In those days, when she closed her eyes she imagined walking in to somewhere like this as if it were no big deal, as if she did it all the time. It was not luxury alone that excited her; it was the habit of luxury, a life in which even the finest things became ordinary. In those childhood images she would be there with a man—a rich man, of course—who drove a nice car and had a fantastic job she didn’t really understand, would never understand, would be happy not to understand.

  And she thought, Now I have that life, but I am about to throw it away.

  The bowls of ice sand they ordered were too big—they should have shared one between them, but instead they’d ordered one each, mango and peanut, which they couldn’t finish. The fluffy pyramids of shaved ice melted over the sides of the bowls, dissolving quickly into a pool of slush. At the table next to theirs, an older couple was taking turns feeding each other a tapioca dessert. Phoebe thought, They are not even having an illicit affair and yet they are behaving like lovers. She looked at Walter, but now it was he who was avoiding her gaze; he just continued stirring the mud-colored sludge with his spoon. The noises of the restaurant—the people laughing, calling out to the waitresses, the clink of spoons on plates—filled the air, but Walter’s silence was louder than all of them. It crushed Phoebe with the weight of a skyscraper—she thought she was going to die. Yanyan was right: She would have to tell him the truth about herself. She would not be able to leave Shanghai with a good feeling otherwise; she would always have an unclean conscience. That was the only way.

  “Let’s go for a ride on Yanyan’s scooter,” Phoebe said. “It’s good to take some air after a big meal.”

  They rode along the wide avenues slowly, the scooter too small and shaky to go any faster. Behind her, Phoebe felt the weight of Walter’s body unmoving and solid, as if he was afraid to move a muscle for fear of upsetting the scooter. He did not ask her where she was going or if she knew the way, and his silence added to her anxiety. She tried to think of someplace quiet where she would be able to talk openly about herself, but there were people everywhere—there was no chance of being alone in Shanghai. She should have planned this properly, should not have left the evening to chance like this. She found herself riding farther and farther, trapped by the flow of the traffic, which bore her along like a piece of debris on the surface of a swirling river whose current she could not resist. She noticed she was approaching the intersection near Zhongshan Park—she had just passed the gates of East China Normal University, the handsome pillars framing the lines of trees and lawns, students strolling hand in hand into the darkne
ss beyond.

  She drew to a halt, and they began to stroll among the students who were drifting back from late-night dinners in the shopping malls and little street stalls nearby. They went past a basketball court where three students were playing in the half darkness, their faces lit only by the light from the dormitory block nearby. There was a girl among them, her hair cut very short, just like a boy’s. One of the boys came over and kissed her. Phoebe did not know why, but this act made her turn away in embarrassment. It was stupid—she had done far worse things in her life.

  They reached the banks of what looked like a small sluggish river or canal, willow trees overhanging the still water. They traced the path that ran along the water’s edge, hoping that it would eventually lead them to the openness of Suzhou Creek, but in truth they had no idea, they were simply wandering in the dark. Couples were sitting on benches, wordless as they rested their heads on their lovers’ collarbones. The noise of the traffic seemed far away.

  “There is really a romantic atmosphere here,” Phoebe said. “You could imagine you were not in the middle of a big city.”

  “Well, apart from the high-rise buildings and the pollution,” Walter said.

  From somewhere in the dark they began to hear traditional music—old love songs played on classical instruments. In the night air Phoebe heard the fine swaying notes of the erhu and the feather-light plucking of the guqin. Someone started to sing—a woman’s voice, old-fashioned and sad.

  “I hate these songs,” Walter said. “Don’t know why they are always so tragic. Why aren’t any of them happy?”

  “They are about love,” Phoebe said. They found themselves on a bridge over a pond. The music was drifting over the water, but they could not tell where from. They stopped and leaned on the wooden handrail. “When I was young, my mother used to sing these songs. I guess that’s why I feel nostalgic about them. To tell the truth, I don’t really like them—you’re right, they make us feel too sad. But I like them because they remind me of when I was small.”