by Tash Aw
“Thank you.”
“I am sure you’ll make a success of your new venture. However …” The banker paused. “You are aware that there are a lot of crooks in China these days trying to make a fast buck.”
“I’ve been working here for nearly a decade,” Yinghui said coolly—perhaps too much so. “I’m well aware of the risks.”
“Sure. It’s just, from a bank’s point of view, I would be a bit cautious about your business partners.”
“You mean Walter Chao.”
The banker smiled and arranged her papers into a neat pile. “All I’m saying is, be careful.”
Yinghui reciprocated with an equally professional smile. They got up to leave, wishing each other the best of luck for business and life in Shanghai. As Yinghui got into the high-speed lift that carried her silently back down to street level, the banker’s final words of advice continued to grate in her head. Be careful. It was exactly what her parents would have said.
That night, she met up with Walter in a restaurant they both knew well, a faux-Indonesian place in the middle of Jing’an, where the food would be mediocre but the setting—favored by couples on blind dates—pleasant, fitting for a quiet celebration. It might remind them of home, Walter said.
“Is that a good thing?” Yinghui joked.
Just as they arrived, Yinghui’s mobile phone rang; over the noise of the traffic she could not hear it ringing but felt it vibrate in her handbag. She let it ring through. She was about to celebrate a huge milestone in her career and—who knows—a turning point in her personal life; she did not feel like doing business tonight. But the phone rang again, the insistent rumble sending shivers up her forearm. Someone wanted to get hold of her, and years of responding to the phone at any time of the day or night made it difficult for her to ignore calls. She had spent so long clutching at straws, grabbing each tiny opportunity, that even now she could not resist the ringing of the phone. She found it in her handbag and waved Walter ahead. The voice on the other end of the phone was crackly, as if the person were moving through a rainstorm, though she knew that was impossible: It was a local mobile phone number, and the weather was balmy and still. It was a man’s voice that seemed at once familiar and foreign—someone she should have known but didn’t. Every other word was swallowed up by static, making the voice sound robotic and dull, machinelike. She realized who it was just as his voice broke free of the fuzzy interference to say his name: Justin Lim.
She stood unmoving for a few moments, listening to the monotone of his voice. It frightened her to think that it could still make her feel like this: alone, belittled, and confused, even when he was only delivering pleasantries, making small talk about the state of Shanghai life. She let him speak, interjecting blandly now and then, but the more he spoke, the more it became clear to her that he had turned into what he had always been destined to become: a boring middle-aged man. Some people change, others don’t, she thought; suddenly she pitied him, for she had moved on, and he hadn’t. He sounded tired and even a little nervous; nothing he said was of any interest to her. His voice belonged to a part of her life that was safely stored away, a curious relic of the past, preserved in a glass box like a minor curiosity in her museum of memories, a place rarely, if ever, visited these days. Even as she spoke to him, she could feel herself striding forward in time, looking to the future as she always did. She had become a completely different person, but he was still the same.
She made her excuses politely and promised to return his call. When she hung up, they both knew, of course, that she would not.
She hurried into the restaurant. A kebaya-clad Indonesian waitress had seated Walter at a table that had clearly been set apart from the others, on the edge of the little artificial lake, which was prettily decorated with lamps that cast a soft glow on the water lilies and rushes. The waitress was chatting to him with a certain degree of familiarity, sharing a joke while handing him the menu. She greeted Yinghui with perfunctory courtesy and unfolded the starched linen napkin on her lap for her.
“You seem to be a regular here too,” Yinghui said.
“Not at all—I just happened to have the same waitress when I came last week. She gave me this table then too.”
Yinghui suddenly imagined someone else in her place, another woman—a different, younger one, sitting opposite Walter. The image flashed into her mind without warning: the laughing, overfamiliar waitress indulging in a bit of banter with Walter as he waited for a new woman to take her place. It was ridiculous, she thought, and yet she could not get rid of that sneaking suspicion.
“Sometimes I get the feeling you’re auditioning me,” she said.
“If I am, you’ve passed the test with flying colors,” he said, unflustered and genial as usual. “Important phone call? I hope you’re starting to turn away all your suitors, now that I’ve arrived on the scene.” He smiled as he poured her some San Pellegrino. “Professionally speaking, of course.”
“Of course.”
They ordered their food quickly and waited in silence for it to arrive. Yinghui felt curiously flat, the way she did when getting out of a very hot bath—listless and a little sad; she had no appetite whatsoever. She pretended to share Walter’s nostalgic joy in recalling various meals he had eaten when he was a child in Malaysia. She was not interested in such recollections, which dragged her toward the past.
“So when were you last here?” she asked.
“Oh, I can’t remember, last week sometime? With a client from Shandong. It was pretty dull.”
“I see.”
They ate in polite silence punctuated by a question or two from Walter. Yinghui felt increasingly frustrated by her inability to shrug off her sudden feeling that, a week ago, maybe less, another woman had been sitting in her place. How had he been with that other woman? Calm, solid, as he was now? Or flirtatious and seductive, as she had no doubt he could be. It was ludicrous that she should feel this way—Walter had never indicated that he was in any way attracted to her other than as a business partner, and yet she felt curiously betrayed. It was her own fault: She had allowed her imagination to run riot. Why? It was unlike her to do so. She had to pull herself together, quickly, and start enjoying this evening, for it was a celebration of a momentous deal.
“You seem a bit tired,” Walter said. “A bit down.”
Yinghui nodded. “Yeah. Don’t know why—sorry. Guess it’s the comedown after the adrenaline rush of this morning. Even though you know it’s going to be horrible, seeing your banker always turns out to be more dispiriting than you think. They’re so anal. I hate the way they think they can control your life.”
“Agreed.” Walter laughed. “You sure it was nothing to do with the phone call you took? It seemed to change your mood.”
“Of course not, don’t be silly. I’m just tired, I told you. Listen—do you think we could skip dessert and go for a walk? It might do me good.”
He raised his hand and signaled for the bill. “Sure. Shall we walk along the Bund? I know it’s a cliché, but at this time of the night there won’t be many people around and we might catch the last of the lights on the skyscrapers.”
“That sounds nice.” It was a lovely idea, a thoughtful suggestion that he clearly knew would make her feel better—often, on late spring evenings, a warm breeze would blow over the Huangpu, making the flags that stood tall on the noble buildings on the Bund flutter tensely; young couples would stroll hand-in-hand, eating ice cream and taking pictures of each other with their smart new camera phones. It was a perfect setting, and she should have been happy that her companion was so considerate. But that was the problem: It sounded casual, but the suggestion seemed too perfect, too calculated in its effect. A fun thing to do: nothing too heavy, a bit cheesy, but with definite romantic overtones—everything was perfectly judged. It felt rehearsed, as if he had done it many times, as if he had done it only last week.
They got out of the taxi at Guangdong Lu and, at Yinghui’s suggestion, went to a ba
r for a drink before starting their stroll (“It might perk me up a bit,” she’d said). It was one of those famous Western bars full of glamorous young people, local and foreign, the sort of place where celebrities visiting Shanghai dropped in to enjoy a glass of champagne while enjoying the view of Pudong; where last year a well-known Taiwanese singer had caused a scandal by getting into a drunken altercation; where Chinese girls in fashionable dresses allowed American investment bankers to buy them drinks—the default address for beginning or ending an expensive night out. In Mumbai or Singapore or Jakarta, there would be equivalent places, where groups of young men and women bought magnums of champagne and the music was so loud it drowned out not just all conversation but all sense of history too—but no other city went so far, so ruthlessly. It was as if the beautiful people who inhabited this cocktailed world were trying to re-create time and space, and this new universe was the here and now of the shimmering bar, which trained the visitor’s eye relentlessly on a view of the brashest skyline in the world. When you were here, you had no choice but to forget the past and all that you might have been attached to and, for an hour or two, believe in what the city wanted you to believe in.
And yet Yinghui could not get rid of her lingering—and, in fact, now growing—feeling of jealousy. When they stepped into the bar, it was already crowded and noisy, with a predominantly Western after-dinner crowd. They were greeted by the Australian manager, who kissed Walter on both cheeks, whispering something in his ear that made them both laugh. Walter placed a hand gently, very briefly, on her waist, and then both men looked at Yinghui simultaneously. What do you think of this week’s number? Better luck with this candidate. Not bad. Could do better. What were they thinking as they sized her up? Yinghui couldn’t stop imagining that the secret joke that Walter had shared with the manager had somehow involved her, a thought compounded by the manager’s over-friendliness when he was introduced to Yinghui. “So pleased to meet you!” he gushed slickly, emphasizing nearly every word in the sentence.
They were shown to a pair of low comfortable chairs in a softly lit alcove, where the plush furnishings made the music tolerable and they could just about hear each other.
“Right, we need to talk business for a bit, I’m afraid,” Yinghui said. She had decided that it was the only way she was going to shake her feelings of insecurity. Talking about work made her feel as though she was on firm ground again—in control.
Walter frowned. “I’m sure it can wait ‘til tomorrow. Tonight’s meant to be a bit of a celebration.”
“Sure. But maybe we should save the celebration for when the deal is done—I mean, contractually tied up and all parties know where they stand exactly. At the moment there’s a lot of vague goodwill but no clear commitment yet.”
“Vague goodwill? I thought it was crystal clear. And without commitment we wouldn’t be here. Why don’t we order some drinks and leave work for tomorrow.” He handed her the cocktail menu, which she looked at without enthusiasm.
“Now that I know I have the loan money, I think we should push ahead, just as a tangible sign of partnership. I really feel that it would be a smart move for us both to commit our respective shares into the joint-venture company so that we can get things going.”
Walter was still frowning. “There’s no rush, really there isn’t. I know how committed you are.”
“What if someone comes along with a better offer in the meantime? While we’re still wavering instead of pushing on with our plans? Why hang back when you’ve got a good feeling about a joint project? How do you know I’m not going to take my newfound finances elsewhere?”
“If that did happen I would be very sad, because I think you are the perfect person for this … partnership. Yes, I would be very sad.” He raised his hand and signaled to the waiter. “But there would be nothing I could do about it. If you bail out, you bail out.”
“So you’re willing to let me go just like that, huh? Or maybe you don’t want me to commit my funds because you don’t want to commit yours. Maybe you’re actually not very serious. As I said, maybe you’re auditioning several candidates.”
His frown narrowed into a squint, an exaggerated sign of confusion. The waiter arrived and Walter said, “The usual for me.”
“Same for me,” Yinghui added.
“You know what the position is,” Walter said. “There will be other parties involved at a later stage—lots and lots of them. But you and I are the ones closest to the project. We are the ones who are going to generate the idea. We are the heart and soul of the deal.”
Yinghui looked out the window at the lights that flashed across the entire face of each skyscraper across the river, the clash of mismatching colors making no attempt at harmony. “Sorry, I’m a bit touchy this evening,” she said after a pause. “That banker really got under my skin—said she didn’t know who you were or about any of the projects you’ve completed. What kind of a banker is she?”
Walter laughed. “Good to know that my policy of keeping a low profile works well. I try to organize everything through a series of companies, or I use my partners’ names. I hate being known.” He looked her squarely in the eye, a hint of a smile still imprinted on his face. “Those rich people who flaunt their wealth to the whole world … I detest them.”
Yinghui nodded. She sensed an earnestness in his regard, the force of his convictions, and suddenly she felt she needed to match his brutal forthrightness, needed to be close to this man who was so honest and direct. “I agree. I hate publicity seekers. All this vulgarity …” She gestured at the space around her, at the shiny, moneyed young faces and the silver-gilt décor.
Walter said, “If it makes you feel better, we can arrange to draw up the paperwork for a proper, solid joint venture tomorrow. My lawyers have already set one up—there are bank accounts poised for action, all the admin is in place. I want you to feel totally secure.”
“I only feel secure,” Yinghui replied, “when I have security.” She had hoped to appear self-mocking, but her voice sounded hard, over-determined. She paused for a moment before adding more measuredly, “I’ll pay in my share next week, as soon as the bank deposits the loan money in my account.”
Walter shook his head. “Okay, you do whatever you wish, but, as I say, there’s really no rush. Of course, if you do so, I’ll do the same. Contrary to what you think, I’m not hanging back at all.”
The drinks arrived—two simple flutes of champagne. Walter raised his glass and reached it toward Yinghui. “Are we done with business now?” he said.
She laughed. “Yes. Sorry—you know me, work, work, work. I need to learn to lighten up. We should, um, do fun things together.” They touched their glasses lightly in a toast. “Mmm, delicious,” she said.
“Krug, 1992,” Walter said. “Hey, isn’t that the actor who plays James Bond? In the gray suit over there.”
Yinghui turned around. “Don’t know—I don’t watch films that much nowadays.”
“We should put that right, go to the movies sometime. I know a wonderful cinema that shows old French films and new underground ones. Every banned film gets a screening there at least once.”
“Excellent,” Yinghui replied. “So many things we can look forward to.”
HOW TO HANG ON
TO YOUR DREAMS—
PROPERTY CASE STUDY,
CONTINUED
We got the news about the housing development while I was still up in Kota Bharu with my father. I had decided not to return to Johor yet, because I was worried about my father and wanted to be with him. He had just spent a whole week making rubber replicas of bird nests—little boat-shaped cups—which he intended to glue to the ceilings of the hotel in order to encourage nesting birds to enter the house once again. I, meanwhile, had been trying to find a job in town, which was not easy.
Nik K. stopped by one afternoon. “Good news for you, boss,” he said. He was holding a couple of bags of kacang putih, which he held out to us in an almost ceremonial fashion, as if th
ey were a peace offering. “Someone is going to buy your house, make all your troubles go away.”
“What troubles?” my father said.
Nik K. looked up at the hotel, squinting into the sunlight. “Everything is still top secret, okay? But it’s going to be in the papers soon. This whole area is going to be transformed—a big company from KL is going to buy up all the land and build a new housing estate.”
We listened patiently as he told us of plans to redevelop two thousand acres of countryside stretching south of town, including some of the run-down outskirts, which included the old workshops and small warehouses that formed the warren of streets around our property. Where the Tokyo Hotel now stood, there would soon be gardens and newly paved roads lined with ornamental bushes leading to long streets of single-story link houses arranged in grids, hundreds and hundreds of them, each one identical, with a front garden separated by chain-link fences. There would be clusters of shophouses dotted around the estate, where the residents would find sundry shops and laundries and hairdressers—all the modern conveniences people needed in this day and age.
“But,” my father started to question, interrupting Nik K.’s lengthy explanation. “That means they are going to tear down my house also, ah?”
Nik K. stared at him for a while, trying to figure out if he had understood anything at all. In the end, Nik K. did not have to reply. My father turned away; he had indeed taken in everything Nik K. had said. His question had not really been a question but a distillation of Nik K.’s news. Our house was going to be torn down: Everything else—the development, the shops, the modern amenities—did not matter to my father.
“What about compensation?” I asked. “How much are we going to be paid?”
Nik K. shrugged. “The land is being bought by the government—compulsory-purchase scheme. You know what that means?”
I nodded.
“You will get fair money,” Nik K. explained anyway, as if we were children. “But the government wants this land, so it requires every single property owner to sell, no argument.”