Five Star Billionaire: A Novel

by Tash Aw

  My father shook his head. He was still smiling, as if he did not understand why we would need an appointment. I was embarrassed, because I already sensed that this was how the sophisticated world of business worked. Appointments, dates, times, names. This was how rich, successful people lived.

  “Then it’s not possible. He’s a busy man.”

  “But,” my father continued, still unhesitating, still uncomprehending, “it is very important. It’s about our home.”

  The two men looked at us with unchanging facial expressions. I thought they were suddenly going to lose patience and call for the security guard. I looked down at my shoes, noticing how the canvas was worn and soiled against the shiny floor. My hands and fingernails were dirty. I wanted to leave.

  One of the men looked at me. “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “Kelantan,” my father replied on my behalf. “We just arrived.”

  “Kelantan,” the man repeated. “My mother was from Kelantan. How old is your son?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Nearly a man.” He looked at me, and in his regard I saw what I then took to be kindness, but now, looking back, I recognize that it was pity.

  He picked up the phone and muttered a few words I couldn’t hear. He put the phone down and said, “This is your lucky day. The boss is supposed to be on leave today, but he came in for a few minutes and his secretary says he is free. I will take you up there.”

  We took the lift to the eighth floor and sat on a soft brown sofa in the waiting room. My father was humming a happy repetitive tune I didn’t recognize. His optimism made him oblivious to the dangers that lay ahead.

  “This man, Mr. Lim—he’s not your friend at all, is he?” I said.

  “Of course he is, you’ll see. When he sees me he will greet me just like a brother, because I am a friend of Nik’s. It’s how old-style friendships work. You young guys don’t understand how we old men work—everyone helps one another. We’re all simple village people; we don’t make enemies and squabble the way you youngsters do.”

  Eventually a young woman came and led us down a corridor lined with old black-and-white photographs of rubber plantations and tin mines and the occasional portrait of an old Chinese towkay, stiff and formal, almost petrified before the camera. My father was still humming his little tune, walking with a spring in his step, as if impatient to find a long-lost friend.

  We came to an office that occupied the corner space of the floor. A man was sitting behind a desk, talking loudly on the phone, laughing heartily. He glanced at us and then began drawing something on a piece of paper in front of him.

  “Ya ya ya, ha-ha-ha.” He wore spectacles and his hair was styled with brilliantine, slicked back in the manner of a fifties’ rock ’n’ roller. He was plump and jolly-looking, not at all what I expected of the big boss of a huge company. As he laughed, I almost believed that he was a long-forgotten comrade from my father’s village and that he would leap up and embrace my father with the warmth of a brother.

  There was a teenager sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, playing on a handheld video game. He did not look up at us at all. He was about my age, maybe a year or two younger, but his height and broad shoulders made him look much older than me, more powerful. Even seated, he looked tall and athletic. He wore colorful ankle-high basketball shoes and blue jeans; his skin and hair had a luster of health, a protective sheen that looked as if it warded off all illness and bad fortune. But in spite of his large frame, there was something childlike in the way he slumped in his chair and sometimes grimaced when he pressed the buttons of his game. I noticed his hands—clean and long, with fingers that manipulated his electronic toy with a deftness that mine would never have. My own hands suddenly felt thick and rough with calluses, disfigured by the healed-over cuts and flesh wounds I had endured during those years working on my aunt’s pineapple farm as a child. I felt like lifting my fingers to my mouth and biting off all the dead skin and scar tissue I had accumulated over the years, but I managed, somehow, to keep my hands in my pockets, where the shame of their ugliness would not be seen.

  The man ended his conversation and said, “So you are the guy Nik was talking about.”

  My father nodded. But now, suddenly, he was looking down at his feet, as if incapable of holding the man’s gaze.

  “Ya,” the man continued, “Nik told me there might be someone coming to make trouble.”

  “No, sir, I don’t want to make trouble at all.”

  “Then what is it you want?”

  I looked at the two empty chairs in front of us and wondered if the man was going to ask us to sit down, for my feet had begun to ache. We had walked a long way to find this place, and I felt a cramp starting to seize the little toe of my right foot. I tried to keep still but was aware that I was fidgeting.

  “We just want to keep our house,” my father said.

  “We just want to keep our house,” the man repeated, mocking my father’s heavy rural Chinese accent. “This guy is really something.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Do you understand what is happening to the whole damn area around your house? It is being redeveloped.”

  “Yes,” my father replied, “that is why I came to talk to you. To ask you to make an exception for us.”

  “You are going to be paid for your property, you know—it’s not some illegal land grab. You’re being compensated, so what more do you want?”

  “The money is too little,” my father said, a note of anger creeping into his voice. “Everyone is unhappy.”

  “Oh, I see. Like that, ah?” the man said, leaning back in his chair and casually tossing the pen he was holding onto the desk. “First it’s ‘please let me keep my house,’ but now we see the truth. It’s all about money. Okay, so how much do you want?”

  My father shook his head. “I want to keep my house, I don’t want money. Many people are angry. If you don’t change your plans, I can organize a protest.”

  “Wa-seh!” the man exclaimed, laughing. “Justin, did you hear that? Ei, Justin, turn that stupid game off and come and sit here.” He beckoned the boy over to an empty chair next to the desk.

  “Yes, Sixth Uncle.” The teenager sat facing us now, his face blank, eyes staring at us with a mixture of boredom and irritation.

  “Justin, these guys have come here to threaten us over a normal, legitimate job we are doing. What shall we do under these circumstances?”

  Justin stared at us without answering.

  “You think we should give in to their demands or tell them to fuck off?”

  “We should not be intimidated by anyone under any circumstances,” the boy answered robotically.

  “Good, you’ve remembered what I’ve told you.”

  All this time, my father remained motionless, his back stiff and unyielding. I could tell, even at this point, that he was still expecting a favorable outcome. He turned back briefly to look at me, and I could discern the glint of optimism in his eye, the look of a man on the brink of great triumph. I wanted to say: No, stop—we should just go now, Father. We are being kept here for another man’s amusement; we will never get what we came for. But the silence that had settled between us seemed too great a barrier to surmount, and I said nothing.

  “We are just the damn developers, you know,” the man said, continuing to lean back in his chair. It rocked gently, giving him the appearance of someone relaxing in a hammock. “That whole shitty rural area has been earmarked for development, so if you want to protest, go and talk to the minister for housing. Ha, ya, see what Minister Leong will say.”

  “You cannot expect us to move out of our homes. The money is … so little. I can tell the newspapers.”

  The man looked at his nephew and then pulled his chair closer to the desk, leaving his forearms on the green leather surface. “Listen, old man,” he said calmly. “You are being paid peanuts because your house is worth peanuts. I would explain to you how much the development project is worth, but the figures would
be too great for your simple little head. You can try to organize your stupid protests—go on, be my guest!—but if you do, I will make sure that your life will be hell. You think the newspapers care about people like you? Friend, no one cares. I make one call to Minister Leong right now and no paper will ever print what you say. You really make me laugh.”

  “I can pay you,” my father said; he was breathing quickly now. “I can borrow money and pay you the right price. Then maybe you can let my house remain.”

  “Borrow money, huh. Check that out, Justin. He wants to borrow money to pay us off. He’s going to have to borrow fucking Fort Knox.”

  The young man was looking out the window—our plight was too minor for him; he barely noticed that we were present. He sat shaking his legs and only smiled when his uncle repeated the joke.

  The door behind us opened. “Minister Leong on the phone,” the secretary said.

  “Speak of the devil,” the man said, picking up the phone and cupping the receiver. He began to scribble a few notes on a piece of paper without looking at us. We stood there for a few moments, but it was clear that we had already disappeared from his world. We had scarcely existed for him, and I knew that in a couple of days he would not be able to recall our faces—our bland, rustic features. In a couple of weeks, he would not even remember that we had ever come to his office.

  As we left the office, I could hear his voice, jovial once again as he spoke on the telephone. I heard the electronic beeping of the teenager’s game, and I caught one last glimpse of his bored face and colorful shoes.

  We took the bus back up north that same day, and when we were in Kota Bharu it was suddenly my turn to be optimistic. I remembered those surprising things my father had said, about organizing protests and journalists—and kept expecting him to spring into action. I even said, “Let’s get some people together and organize a protest outside the land office.” But it was one of those things that, as soon as they are articulated, dissolve into thin air, like nighttime dreams vanishing into the clarity of day. Neither he nor I ever organized anything, of course. He began gambling to pay off his debts—first on four-digit numbers, then at mah-jongg, then cards. I went back down south to continue my studies, and occasionally I would get a letter, optimistic as usual, about plans to develop the birds’-nest business. It was as if he had deliberately ignored the fact that the building would soon be destroyed and he would be left with nothing but a small amount of cash that would pay off only a fraction of his debts. The more cheerful and optimistic his letters were, the worse I knew the gambling had become, and after a while I stopped opening the letters.

  People talk about what parents leave their children: a legacy of money or education, or even the unquantifiable qualities of life, such as healthy genes or happy memories. Mine would leave me only debts; I knew this in advance. And so I changed my name by deed poll, abandoned my studies, and got a job in Singapore, working my way up the glittering skyscraper of life until I reached its summit.

  There were times when I remembered our last days together—that fateful journey to KL. And, curiously, what I remember most is not my father begging a complete stranger for one last chance before descending into total ruin. I remember, instead, that tall teenager and his good hair and colorful shoes, playing on his computer game.

  He would never, I’m sure, be able to recall me.

  But I remember him, always.

  28.

  TRAVEL FAR, KEEP SEARCHING

  “NO, YOU GO,” YANYAN INSISTED. SHE SAT ON THE BED HOLDING the pair of concert tickets out to Phoebe.

  Phoebe remained sitting on the mattress on the floor. She sucked at her bubble tea, but a gummy black pearl had gotten stuck in the straw and she found she wasn’t drinking anything, just making a loud foamy noise. “Ai, Yanyan, you are really giving me a headache. How many times do I have to tell you: I don’t want to go. I told him I still had stomach problems from the spicy crayfish the other night and he said, no problem, give the tickets to Yanyan. Take your new boyfriend. He likes you.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend; he’s just a neighbor I talk to sometimes.”

  Phoebe snorted. “You think I’m a stupid innocent girl, but, hey, little miss, I know what you are up to!”

  “You don’t know anything at all. It’s not like you and your rich man. I’m telling you, you must not let go of him. At least go and seek an explanation.”

  Phoebe shook her head. She did not need an explanation—everything was clear. In fact, it had been clear right from the start, only she hadn’t seen it. Of course no man like him would be interested in a girl like her; he would be interested only in real women of class like Boss Leong, even though, to the rest of the world, women like her seemed unstylish and unsophisticated. Because, even though you wear fashionable dresses that show your beauty to the whole world, you will never have what Boss Leong possesses, which is an education. All those people who look at you—they know. They know that you are nothing; they know that when the man you are with is tired of you, you will fade back into obscurity. So when they look at you, it is not just with jealousy but with mockery. They want what you have now but they know that they will never end up like you. And while they will never be jealous of Boss Leong, they will never mock her either, because all the things that she has, she can never lose.

  “Hey,” Yanyan continued, “this is not a matter of snaring a husband or becoming a rich man’s concubine. It is a matter of love.”

  “You really have mental problems,” Phoebe said. “I don’t love him.”

  “Yes, you do,” Yanyan said, throwing the tickets down at Phoebe. “I know you do, because I stole a look at your journal. You wrote, This man is so sweet, he is so kind and nice to me, he—”

  “You looked at my journal?” Phoebe cried. “You are too outrageous.”

  Yanyan shrugged and reached for her bubble tea. She was smiling—she didn’t care if she had invaded Phoebe’s privacy. Sometimes, Phoebe thought, Yanyan really knew how to give her a bad mood.

  “Go on,” Yanyan said, “ring him and tell him you will meet him there after all. You should take control of the situation and not let him disappear from your life. If he wants to leave you, at least make him justify his actions. He should not just vanish like smoke. He owes you something. And if he doesn’t come, at least you can listen to the concert. Chang Chen-Yue is confirmed, and I hear rumors that Gary is singing too.”

  Phoebe shook her head. She looked at the tickets lying by her toes. They were marked: EXCLUSIVE PRIVATE SEATS. She imagined what they would be like—big and velvet-covered, soft and bouncy.

  THE ROAD LEADING UP to the stadium was full of people, like a river flowing the wrong way. Phoebe stood by the west doors, the entrance marked on the ticket, at the exact place she had agreed with Walter. There was a sign saying VIP AND ARTISTS ONLY. There were men in security uniforms checking the handbags of women going into the stadium—women who dressed the way Phoebe used to dress, stylishly and with refined elegance. But today she had come simply in her usual clothes, her three-quarter-length jeans, which she knew were not fashionable but were comfortable in the heat of the summer night. She had sold all her expensive clothes and handbags and shoes on the Internet and used the money to buy herself a plane ticket back to Malaysia. She knew she no longer looked as attractive as she did a few weeks ago, but she did not care. In fact, what she had not told Yanyan was that she did not intend to go to the concert. She would merely wait for Walter and return the tickets to him as a gesture of politeness. She wanted their story to be closed, for everything to be in its place when she left China. She was not hoping for him to say sorry and take her back. She knew that would not happen. She did not even want an explanation.

  In the stadium, there were cheers and applause, rising like a swelling wave. Phoebe checked her watch—it was early; there were still ten minutes to go before the start of the concert. There was a constant stream of people coming in through the VIP entrance, though fewer now than befor
e. Around her, hawkers were pushing their carts, selling grilled-meat skewers and dumplings and fruit and ice drinks. A young couple, teenagers, ran past, arm in arm, dashing toward the main entrance around the corner.

  “Hey,” one of the hawkers called out to Phoebe, “you’ve been waiting a long time. You sure your friends are not around at the other entrance?”

  She held up the special green-colored VIP tickets for him to see.

  “Lucky you!” he said.

  There was a deep rumble, like thunder—music had started inside the stadium. The first notes were accompanied by a huge cheer, and when Phoebe looked up into the sky, she saw multicolored laser lights crisscrossing, pulsing to match the excitement of the crowd. She could hear the heavy beats of a bass drum, starting up rhythmically, and more loud cheers. She looked down the road at the thinning crowd—the last few people were walking briskly up to the stadium. The path was lined with trees laced with twinkly white fairy lights, and the smoke of the street stalls looked silvery as it rose into the night air.

  The music ebbed and flowed, and then, suddenly, there was a burst of bright sound—drums, guitars, and voices singing in chorus. The audience cheered and began to sing along. Phoebe recognized the song but couldn’t place the singer. It was a breezy, rhythmic tune that made her want to dance, and she could imagine the people in the audience bouncing on their toes, swaying to the music and singing along. There were three more songs like this, and then someone spoke, but Phoebe couldn’t quite make out what was being said. The next songs were slow and sentimental, though Phoebe couldn’t make out what language they were being sung in. The voice was low and muffled and sad and made Phoebe want to leave. She had to say, she didn’t like this music. It was not very cheerful.

  “Hey, little miss,” the man selling skewers called out again, “I think your friend is not coming. You should go in and enjoy the concert. Give me the other ticket—I will be your date for tonight!”