by Tash Aw
Get Rich in a Crisis
How to Be Classy
How to Be Successful: Tips from Billionaires
How to Meet Your Dream Partner
Broken Wings, Broken Dreams: How to Mend Your Inner Self
Phoebe pretended not to pay any special attention to these books; instead, she reached over and ran her hand over the rumpled sheet. “Mmm, you have very high-quality bed products.” She did not say that she owned one or two of the books herself, did not say that she had spent many hours standing in bookshops reading such books, that she had even seen some of the titles on the pavement stalls near Qipu Lu, that she remembered the time not so long ago when she couldn’t afford even those fake copies. At the bottom of one pile, she saw the book she had discovered in Guangzhou a long time ago, the book written by that elegant older woman who first inspired her to become the successful person she is today. It reminded her of how and why she came to be in Shanghai. Finally she remembered its title. It was called, simply, Secrets of a Five Star Billionaire.
“Most of the books aren’t mine,” Walter said. He was still standing by the door. “I borrowed them from friends.”
“There are a lot of them,” Phoebe said. She knelt down and tried to ease her favorite book from the stack. “Surely you haven’t read every one.”
“Of course not. Actually, I’m just using them for reference. You see, I’m writing a book myself, a book about how to be successful. Based on my own life experiences. Yes, that’s correct. This is why I need so many books, to see what my competitors are doing.”
A few books toppled over as Phoebe extricated Secrets of a Five Star Billionaire from the pile. Its cover was worn, the spine open and supple. She sat on the bed and slowly turned its pages; many were dog-eared, the corners folded in small, precise triangles. There were neatly written notes in the margins everywhere, and at least two sentences on every page had been underlined carefully with a pencil and ruler. “I know this book,” she said. “The woman who wrote it is really amazing.”
“Oh, but I wrote that,” Walter said. “Under a pseudonym. I hired an actor to make the video for me.”
“Liar!” Phoebe laughed. “You think I can be fooled so easily? You are just telling stories to impress me.”
“It’s true. Why else would I have a book like that?”
At first she was sure he was lying to her, trying to trick her into believing he was the author of the book that changed her life so that she would have sexual intercourse with him. But he looked so solemn, almost sad, and then she was not so sure. Maybe he did write the book—surely a rich man like him wouldn’t need to buy a life manual. Whatever the case, that book had brought him no joy, she thought. She had gained so much from reading it, but he had obviously not. None of those books had given him anything, except maybe money.
He came and sat next to her on the bed. He was looking red and flushed again. Phoebe could feel the alcohol beginning to pulse in her temples. Her face felt hot, and she wondered if her cheeks were also turning pink.
“Walter,” she said, “why do you have so many shitty cheap plates and cups? Can’t a man like you afford better stuff?”
He shrugged. “Not sure. Just habit. We always used to do that at home, my dad and me. He loved collecting vouchers and exchanging them for plates, pens, anything. Everyone did that back then, where I come from. We couldn’t afford nice things—those glass dishes, they were luxury items. You won’t know what I mean; you’re too young, a different generation. All you eighties’ kids, all you’ve known is this.” He beckoned toward the glass wall, the view of Shanghai, its lights stretching infinitely. “Look at you. You young Mainlanders are young and beautiful and affluent; you have the world at your feet. You haven’t known any other lifestyle; you’re so full of self-confidence. That’s why you are so desirable; that’s why all those rich men from Hong Kong and Singapore want a young Mainland concubine. It’s not just that you are pretty, it’s because you make the future seem limitless. That’s why tired old men covet you. But I … I am different. And so are you. You and I, we don’t belong here.” He laughed a little and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He was still holding his glass, but Phoebe noticed it was empty.
“Yes,” she said, “I know you are different.”
“These dreams that men seek—they are so easy but so … harsh. I hate this harshness. Everything is so cruel. Everyone uses everyone else. Even me. I wish there could be a bit of tenderness. I think of the stupid small towns I grew up in, I remember the young women—they didn’t know how to dress; everyone was in cheap casual clothes all the time. Even when they made an effort to smarten up for a wedding, they looked bad. They didn’t know how to behave like these classy Shanghai girls; they didn’t have sophistication—but I liked that. No one pretended to be anything or anyone grand—unlike today. Sometimes I think: I hate China. I hate the whole world.”
Phoebe nodded. He placed his fingers over his brow, rubbing his forehead. He blinked once, twice, and his eyes became glassy and hollow. Then she felt his hand searching for hers, but she did not offer it, she just kept it tucked under her thigh.
“Where I grew up,” he said quietly, his voice lowering the way it always did whenever he became emotional with her. “It’s a million miles from Shanghai. Rural Malaysia is really shit. It hardens you, warps you, but, even so, you never really change. You understand what I mean. I know you do—that’s why I feel close to you, because I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
Phoebe wanted to say, Yes, I know exactly what you mean. I know exactly what you mean because I have lied to you for two months and there is not one aspect of myself that I haven’t lied about. As the words ran through her head, she was filled with a sudden feeling of joy—she saw her whole future open up ahead of her, a life in which she was always joking with him about how lousy their villages were, about whose village was poorer and dirtier—a life in which they were living together, filling this empty apartment with nice furniture and memories of small towns in rural Malaysia. They would joke about the cheap clothes she used to wear, the fake handbags she carried when she couldn’t afford the real thing, the vulgar slutty way she used to dress. The person she used to be, until recently. But maybe it was too late—she couldn’t turn back now. The fake Phoebe had become too much a part of the real one; their histories were the same now, there was no difference between them. Walter would never be able to accept the lies and cheating, the life of a low-class KTV hostess and migrant worker. He would always look down on her if he knew the truth. There was no way out for her—she had to continue being the Phoebe she had turned herself into.
“But you’re a successful man now,” she said. “The past doesn’t matter.”
He sighed softly and closed his eyes. Creases formed around his mouth. He looked half smiling, half in pain, as usual. “I know you understand me. We are very similar.”
She kissed him on the forehead and lay down next to him. His skin was warm and slightly greasy, and smelled faintly of wet leaves.
As she lay on the bed, her head felt uncertain, and the ceiling looked watery above her. She said, “The brandy really gives me a headache.”
22.
BOUNDARIES CHANGE WITH
THE PASSING OF TIME
WHY WAS IT THAT HE COULD NOT BRING HIMSELF TO GET IN TOUCH with Yinghui? Justin wondered. Simple: It was because he was nothing now; he was no one. Yes, that was the brutal truth. It had nothing to do with the tangled way in which their pasts were enmeshed, like fishermen’s nets washed up on the shore after a storm—if anything, their recent meeting had offered him a chance to set things right, to explain if not rectify past events. She and C.S. used to talk about “closure” and how worthless it was—why was it that everyone these days needed resolution, why couldn’t they just accept that life was messy, that it never ended neatly? American movies were to blame, they said. But Justin knew that he needed “closure”; he needed things to be final.
What stopped hi
m from ringing her now was the absence of achievement. He had done little with his life and had been reduced to absolute zero. On at least half a dozen occasions he had paused with his phone in his hand, her card on the table before him, the number already tapped onto the little screen. All he had to do was to press the green button and she would be there. What would he say then? How would he fill the spaces in the conversation if not with tales of what he was doing in Shanghai, descriptions of success? He would have loved to be able to say, Didn’t you hear? Well, yes, I’ve been running an art gallery for five years now, showing a few avant-garde Chinese artists. Or, I moved into film production a few years back—yes, I gave up the family business completely.
“Why do you need to impress her?” Yanyan said one night as she and Justin sat on the front step of the building as they often did. She was wearing her Hello Kitty pajamas and furry slippers with bunny heads on them, even though the night was warm and still, almost muggy. “If she’s the sort of woman who can be won over by money and high positions, is she worth it?”
“It’s not about status—she wouldn’t care about that. It’s about showing her the kind of person I am. How I’ve changed.”
“Maybe she’s changed too. People are like that.”
“No, I’m sure she’s the same. With some people, you just know.”
“Are you sure you’ve changed? Because people always think they do, but really they don’t. Chinese people especially. Everyone talks about change, change, change. You open a newspaper or turn on the TV and all you see is CHANGE. Every village, every city, everything is changing. I get so bored of it. It’s as if we are possessed by a spirit—like in a strange horror film. Sometimes I think we’re all on drugs. I used to speak to foreigners on the phone at work. All they would say was, ‘I hear things are changing fast over there.’ It’s as if everyone here is addicted to change. But, really, how much have we changed? I am still the same. I haven’t changed since I was six years old. And I don’t want to.”
He remained silent for a second or two, looking at the skyscrapers shimmering in the night. It was true what people said: The only thing that never changed in Shanghai was that it was always changing.
“But I have to do something about this … friend from my younger days,” he said. “Whether or not I’ve changed.”
“Yes, I understand. You have unfinished business with her, that’s clear. Go ahead, do it. Then you’ll see that probably neither of you has changed. But, first, could you buy me some red-bean ice cream?”
The next day Justin rang an old contact. He’d recently read about a former security guard at one of the condominium complexes he owned, a boy called Little Tang, then about nineteen or twenty and always fiddling with a camera. In just two years he had built a reputation as a fashion photographer; now he was starting a venture turning disused factories into temporary studio space that young photographers and artists could rent for a week, a month, three months—however long it was before that particular site was demolished or reconverted into some other use. Justin had seen the article about him in one of those English-language listings magazines that lay in messy piles in all the Western cafés. He went by the name David Tang now, a short, plumpish man with an amiable smile, hair styled in a deliberately messy fashion, dressed in sleek all-black clothes that the article called his “signature style.” His name was still in Justin’s phone—“Boss, call me if ever you need me, day or night,” he’d once said. “Need” was a changing notion: Back then he’d meant if your bulbs needed replacing or you needed a new driver; now what Justin needed was a whole new career, a new life.
They went for a drink in a small hotel in the area real estate agents nowadays called the Southern Bund, where the old docks used to be. Now it was being redeveloped: A few streets of buildings were under construction—cranes dangled over the water, dust hung in the air, making the river seem blurry even in the early summer sunshine; already there were hoardings for a Starbucks. Justin had problems finding the hotel—it looked unfinished, the concrete rendering on the outside fallen away to reveal the brickwork underneath. Inside, in what must have been the foyer, were bare brick walls scarred by generations of water leaks and rust; exposed steel beams; staff wearing shapeless gray felt uniforms. He found Little Tang in the bar, sitting on a black-and-white cow-skin sofa and drinking a bottle of Tsingtao.
It took them just a few minutes to discard the master-and-servant relationship of old. Little Tang—David—was warm, jocular, and familiar. Any respect he showed Justin was due to the difference in age, not in stature. No mention was made of David’s past employment under Justin, aside from a quick reference to the smart new clothes he wore. Justin thought: Only in China could people deal so swiftly with the past; only in China could they forget and move on without blinking. They talked instead about all of David’s current projects—his forthcoming cover for Vogue China, his booming business, which he called “guerrilla rentals,” his new girlfriend, a razor-hipped model from Dongbei whose photos he showed Justin on his iPhone; she was five feet ten.
“So, boss, what can I do for you?” He used the word “boss” differently now—playfully, almost ironically, as he might have done with the man who ran the fried-bread stall every morning or the janitor who cleaned the toilets.
“I’m not sure,” Justin replied. “I just thought, maybe there was some way we could … work with each other. With my experience, I could be useful to you in some way—though I’m not sure how.”
David leaned over and slapped Justin on the knee. “Excellent idea, boss!” He raised his hand and called across the bar to the waitress to order two more beers. “This is a good moment for the both of us. I heard your family went bankrupt. This means you’ll be free to take part in lots of new projects. Now, what could we do together? You don’t want to run my rentals business for me, do you? No, too boring. We could start a publishing company—publish fashion magazines for Chinese people. Not just Vogue or Elle and all that rubbish, but arty ones. No, not serious enough for you. Let’s reflect on this. So many possibilities!”
He had dealt with Justin’s situation in one short matter-of-fact sentence—I heard your family went bankrupt. And that was it. They had now moved on to the present, surging ever forward. No questions as to why, how come, how do you feel, et cetera. He wasn’t interested in all that, only in what Justin could do for him now. History held no allure for him; all answers lay in the future.
“Well, for a start I could look after your rentals business, and we can think of new ventures for the future.”
“Really? But it’s very boring. You’d be almost like … an office manager. That’s too lowly and ordinary for you.”
“I’m not worried by that,” Justin said, “I’d like to do it.”
“That’s too crazy!” David Tang cried, laughing loudly in a series of hooting look-at-me bursts. Justin knew it was an affectation he had picked up recently, cultivated in the glamorous fashion circles in which he now moved; he had been a soft-spoken boy before. “I’m going into business with Boss Lim—that’s too crazy. We need to celebrate!”
They went to a Guizhou restaurant and ordered far too much food—at least five or six cold starters and eight or ten dishes. Every time Justin urged restraint, David Tang said, “This is completely my treat! We are going into business together—why should we hold back?” He ordered a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label; waitresses dressed in colorful ethnic costumes kept coming into the private room, bringing buckets of ice and cold towels scented with chemical jasmine perfume. Justin had never had Guizhou food before and it was unexpectedly spicy. Every time he reached for his glass of ice water, he realized that every glass on the table now had whiskey, water, and ice in it. He looked at the bottle—it was two-thirds empty. They had had a few bottles of beer before leaving the hotel and a couple more on arrival at the restaurant. It felt like the old days: all those long nights of entertaining business partners and prospective clients. That was why Justin had been useful t
o the family business, invaluable in the role of family fixer—he was sensible and he could hold his drink, just as Sixth Uncle could before him.
He looked at David Tang, whose jolly round face had turned scarlet from the drink. At this stage in the evening, it was no longer important what was being said to each other; what would count was the impression of camaraderie, of beery bonding, which both men would remember the next day—a hazy memory of trust and openness. He smiled and muttered a pleasantry as Little Tang—David Tang—filled his glass again.
After the restaurant, David insisted on joining some friends at a KTV place down the road. He loved karaoke, was very good at it, he said. Justin had learned to tolerate it. He had had to spend a fair bit of time at karaoke bars in his earlier days, when he was just starting out in the family business and had to entertain contractors and builders and low-level salesmen—the kind of working man who made the family business tick at its most basic level. In the years since, he had left this kind of business entertaining behind, but now, since he was back at that level again—perhaps even lower down, a mere employee—he said yes. Why not, he thought; it was entirely appropriate. But as soon as he walked in to the dim, fabric-lined room, the muffled off-key singing from the other rooms and the rough-edged cries of drunk men made him remember why he had always hated the ambience of a karaoke bar, why every evening he had ever spent in such an establishment had been an evening of wasted life.
“Don’t be such a damn snob,” Sixth Uncle had once told him as they were going into a karaoke bar. It was on one of their trips up north to visit their flagship project, a huge residential development on the outskirts of Kota Bharu, a two-thousand-acre piece of land—old shophouses, paddy fields, scrubby forests, and kampung houses that had been cleared away to create neat lanes of identical single-story link houses. Not cheap, not expensive—perfect for villagers wanting to live in a modern house or young men who worked on the offshore oil rigs. It had been Justin’s first big deal, a long and complicated affair that had dragged on for some years, but he had shown himself more than capable of handling the sticky matter of convincing local officials to grant permission for the felling of trees or the conversion of agricultural land to residential use. He had been affable—more innocent in his twenties than he was now—and his charm made those officials believe that anything he asked for was in good faith; that all the gifts he gave them were out of the goodness of his heart and not an attempt at bribery; that all his projects were for the benefit of the local community. The project went ahead and eventually flourished in spite of the numerous little hitches that continued long after the first residents moved in—protests by aggrieved former villagers, regional officials who had to be constantly flattered with gifts and dinners, maintenance problems arising from the marshy ground in some parts of the development. Every year, Sixth Uncle would insist on traveling up north to inspect the site and take the local contractors for a night’s entertainment.