***
Shanti drifted around the entrance hall of the palace, towing Gavin behind her. She stopped to admire a circular rug emblazoned with a pair of red dragons chasing each other through golden clouds, talons outstretched. A small tent-card sat on the edge of the rug, announcing: DON’T STEP ON THE CARPET.
‘Tempting though, isn’t it?’ came a voice from behind them. They turned to see Trent grinning, arms folded. ‘Can you believe this place?’ he asked, extending his arms to welcome his partners. Gavin slapped a palm onto Trent’s, while Shanti accepted a kiss on the cheek. They swapped the obligatory airline mini-reviews.
‘You know why you’re here, don’t you?’ asked Trent after a pause in the small talk.
‘Of course,’ answered Gavin. ‘We’re here to get this thing done in thirty days, just like the book. Got my copy. Read it on the plane.’
‘Yes, thirty days is correct, but I meant right here, in the Reunification Palace?’ Trent gestured past the rug, towards the corridor.
‘Because you think it’s cool, in an ironic way, and it makes a grand statement. And you like grand statements,’ offered Shanti.
‘As much as I appreciate the psych evaluation, the real reason we’re in this palace is because it has a story to tell us. You guys ready for your company induction?’
They took a series of stairs to the basement, a drab and claustrophobic collection of small rooms filled with imposing desks and banks of rotary-dial telephones, connected by corridors that would not have felt out of place in a warship. Trent led them into a small two-room apartment, furnished with a desk, three telephones, a tactical map of the ‘American War’, a bed, a lamp and absolutely nothing else.
‘This,’ he gestured around the room, ‘is how we’ve been working for the last couple of weeks. Each in our own little bunkers, relying on technology to communicate, following a map we’ve drawn that may or may not be connected to reality. And it’s worked okay so far. We have the basic technology scope, a start on the visual identity and some ideas for the product roll-out. But now it’s time to come out of our bunkers, form a team and start the real campaign on the battlefield. Let’s take a look at what we’re up against.’
He pointed up at the ceiling, smiled and walked out of the room. Gavin and Shanti followed him through the narrow corridors, emerging in a cramped hall filled with plaques and exhibits. It was crowded with tourists, mainly because it was the only room in the vicinity with functioning AC.
‘Is this where you tell us we’re going to war?’ asked Gavin, raising an eyebrow.
‘We need to be prepared to go into battle,’ said Trent. ‘Not only will we be fighting to build the product and to secure the next round of investment, but we’ll also be fighting to control how our company is perceived. Because the market will want to dictate the story of what it is that we do. Take a look at these walls.’
They spent a few minutes jostling with the tourists, following the chronology of the palace as told by photographs, newspaper clippings, the odd medal and a handgun. A couple of images were instantly familiar – a burning monk, a tank smashing through tall iron gates, a line of desperate people trying to board a helicopter on the roof of a building – but the story this collection told differed slightly from the popular understanding the West had fashioned from the conflict.
The room told of a proud, hard-working people, whose rule had been interrupted both by meddling foreigners and traitorous, treacherous brothers. More than half of the display featured colour photographs of the palace serving as a gala reception hall for visiting diplomats, trade delegations and the odd, un-named western tourist. Essentially the story was: we had a few problems with the neighbours, who were acting like dicks, but they surrendered in shame so it’s all good now and lately everyone wants to be our friend.
‘Do you know who put this display together?’ asked Trent, motioning around the room.
‘Some officials from the Vietnamese Tourism Authority?’ ventured Gavin.
‘The winners.’ Trent deepened his voice and adopted a chiding British accent. ‘History is written by the victors.’
‘Churchill never actually said that,’ countered Shanti.
‘He didn’t?’
‘Everyone attributes the quote to him, but there is no actual recording of it. Can’t be found.’
Gavin regarded Shanti with admiration as Trent was momentarily taken aback.
‘But I think I get your point,’ Shanti reassured him. ‘It’s not just about building product. It’s about delivering an experience and managing our reputation.’
‘Exactly. And that’s a big part of why you’re here,’ Trent turned to Gavin. ‘Shanti told me she was impressed by your approach to user experience. How it’s not just about efficiency on the screen, but making people feel part of the experience of being someone else, right from the start.’
Gavin shot a quick look toward Shanti, who gave a nod.
‘The thirty days book talks about it a lot and I want us to keep it as a core focus: winning the market over, one user at a time. That’s how we control the story of our company, how we appear like winners,’ Trent paused, as if he were already at the microphone of his own presser. ‘We can’t leave it to the venture capitalists, or the incubators, the angels, the trade press or the bloggers. Those guys are just money in search of a story and if they aren’t chasing ours, they’ll use us to chase someone else’s. So that’s lesson one: we write the story of our company. Okay, time to level up.’
They climbed an uneven stairwell into a courtyard on the ground floor, open to the low-slung tropical sky. A severe garden of succulents sat at the centre of a ring of private apartments, their outer walls replaced by floor to ceiling glass panels, creating a small museum of executive living for five-star generals. Some of the apartments were connected to shared private dining rooms, the cherry wood tables standing to attention under cut glassware and jade-handled serving utensils. The bedrooms were upholstered in various shades of opulence but one design point united them: each contained one bed, a single. It seemed there was no time for getting to know your comrades when you were busy defending your nation from invaders, foreign and domestic.
‘We are here, just like the generals before us, to get the job done.’ Trent looked from Gavin to Shanti and back again, but neither reacted. He inhaled mightily and ploughed ahead. ‘So this part of the story is about how we’re going to be living and working together in a relatively confined area. We’ll be eating from the same table, so to speak, but leading separate lives, right?’
Gavin had hoped to reach the palace early and talk to Shanti about their night together, but flight delays thwarted that plan. And he’d never quite found a segue to the topic during their emails. He’d waited for her to bring it up and, when she didn’t, he was terrified that if he did, she would laugh it off as inconsequential, or claim it was a drunken mistake. His particular brand of male logic led him to believe that if he didn’t ask her the question, he couldn’t hear her say no. Now he decided it would be best not to talk about it, at all. Except, Trent was talking about it. And now, so was Shanti.
‘London was different, Trent. I told you before that I have a policy on mixing business with pleasure: I don’t.’ Shanti said flatly, crossing her arms. Gavin was so entranced by the way her arms pushed her cleavage up and slightly forward he almost didn’t hear her forceful dismissal of their budding romance.
‘Look, we’re all adults here and everyone is free to behave as they see fit,’ continued Trent, looking slightly uncomfortable. ‘I’m not here to tell you what to do, except that I kind of am. Same table, separate rooms. That’s all.’ His tone left no room for further discussion.
Shanti shot Gavin a look of disapproval. He countered with a wide-eyed, open-palmed show of innocence and then let her walk on ahead. Gavin wasn’t sure which made him more uncomfortable: having their entanglement brought up by Trent as a potential operational issue or having it shot down so quickly by Shanti as a potential
breach of her personal code of conduct. Maybe she was just putting on a show for Trent, to prove that she was genuinely committed. After all, Trent was the one pouring his own money into the project. It made sense she would want to impress him. Gavin decided it was a lead he should follow. He stared wistfully at the carved rosewood bedheads in the display apartments for a moment, then resolved to put on an even more forceful show of disinterest in romantic entanglements. At least for a while.
They strolled past open doors, roped off to protect the cavernous rooms decorated in variations of late-60s Asian Totalitarian Military Ruler. One room featured high-backed lacquer chairs with emerald cushions, arranged in a perfect circle. Another huge, rectangular room was dominated by a long conference table in high-gloss ebony flanked by two opposing rows of boxy leather chairs, the sort you might expect to find in mission control during the Apollo program. A pair of long, thin microphones sprouted from the centre of the table. It looked like the perfect room to sit face to face with your enemies while your minions served them glasses of tepid water and you threatened them with swift and decisive military retribution.
A tour group of French retirees shuffled past the open double doors on the opposite side of the space, pausing to take in the grand negotiating room and nod as if to say, ‘Ah oui, that’s exactly how I would have arranged my negotiating table if I was running a politically-troubled nation in Indochina during the Sixties.’
Gavin marvelled at how it had been virtually weaponised by its scale and structure. It was the sort of room that offered the opposing team of negotiators no better possible outcome than a quick yet honourable death.
‘Is this the part where you tell us how we’re going to handle decision-making?’ asked Gavin, embracing the change of topic.
‘I could see you securing us a good deal in a setting like this,’ Shanti weighed in.
‘Not here, exactly. But you’ve both got the right idea. We’ll be doing a lot of presenting, a lot of negotiating, a lot of deal-making. And when we do, I want us to appear formidable,’ said Trent. ‘If we look ramen profitable, we’re going to be funded like we’re ramen profitable. So when we meet with investors and partners, I want us to look powerful and expensive to run. Which will make us look expensive to buy. Which is what we want.’
‘Do we actually have to be ramen profitable?’ asked Shanti.
Gavin didn’t want to reveal his ignorance but it seemed like decisions were being made about food and money, both of which were too important to remain un-investigated. ‘What’s ramen profitable?’
‘Valley-speak for a startup that is turning a profit on paper, but only because the founders are being paid survival wages,’ Shanti offered. ‘Just enough to buy instant ramen.’
‘Sometimes they get paid in actual ramen. But seeing as we’re in Vietnam, let’s aim to be pho profitable. Or at the very least, bahn mi profitable,’ laughed Trent. ‘As discussed separately with both of you, my investment fund will cover flights and accommodation, a small per diem, plus any costs associated with the business. But otherwise, your only payment this month will be in the form of equity. So yes, “ramen profitable” is absolutely the model.’
‘But your point,’ Gavin gestured at the negotiating table, ‘is that we want people to think we eat lobster for breakfast, right?’
‘Seafood is pretty cheap here, apparently,’ Shanti chimed in.
‘Guys, please,’ Trent said clapping his hands together loudly and bringing them up below his chin. ‘A little focus. The plan is to appear well-funded.’
‘Even though we’re eating noodles,’ Gavin added.
‘Yes. Tasty, nutritious, authentic, bought on the corner, eaten in the street, Saigon noodles,’ said Trent, chopping the air impatiently with his hands to underline each word. ‘Got it? Good. Let’s continue.’
Shanti suppressed a giggle like a naughty schoolgirl and Gavin’s heart soared. They exchanged glances and scurried after Trent up another set of stairs.
They emerged into a vast room on the second floor that contained a bar, billiard table and grand piano. The entire space appeared to be tailor-made for a cadre of relaxing generals. A circular orange sofa dominated the centre of the room and offered a perfect view of the fighter jets and tanks on the front lawn. The whole scene was a spit-polished highball ying to the battered water canteen yang of the lower levels.
‘Can you imagine the parties that must have gone on in here?’ said Gavin, wide-eyed.
‘This Steinway must have seen a pretty varied repertoire,’ said Shanti as she peered inside the open lid of the piano. ‘I bet the nights started with patriotic workers’ songs but finished with “I Am the Walrus”.’
‘Imagine if generals brought in a troupe of lounge singers, but they turned out to be sexy female assassins, sent to –’
‘Okay, Gav, that’s very good material,’ said Trent placing a firm hand on Gavin’s shoulder, ‘but maybe you should save that storyline for your Tarantino homage. Now this was obviously the party floor, no matter which party was holding office.’
Trent paused as another herd of elderly French tourists flooded the room, fanning themselves with brochures while nodding appreciatively at the furnishings.
‘It didn’t matter how serious things got down in the bunker, or how badly the negotiations were going on the ground floor, you could always come up here to take a break with a game of billiards, a couple of fingers of fine scotch and, quite possibly, a little singalong with a pod of sexy yet deadly female assassins.’
Gavin gave a little fist-pump to celebrate the acknowledgement.
‘We will operate in a similar fashion,’ Trent continued. ‘We will work these next thirty days like our lives depend on it but we will also pause and relax from time to time, provided we’re meeting our development milestones. This should be fun, right? Otherwise, why bother?’
‘I created a production timeline while I was on the plane,’ offered Shanti. ‘I’d like to make that a priority discussion this afternoon.’
‘Excellent work, Shanti. Agreed,’ Trent clapped lightly.
‘And can we set up a time to talk about onboarding?’ Gavin stepped forward. He wanted to demonstrate his commitment to the task. Especially considering Trent’s earlier warning about mixing business with pleasure. ‘If we don’t have live support and conflict resolution systems fully functioning at launch, a couple of negative reviews can snowball pretty quickly. We’ll never be able to turn it around.’
‘And I want to talk to you about the affiliate marketing stream,’ said Shanti, talking more quickly as she went. ‘Airlines and insurance brokers pay referral fees that are more than decent. We could make almost as much revenue from that deal flow as on the life-swap commission itself.’
‘Guys,’ Trent broke into a warm smile, ‘I’m really impressed by the thinking and yes we’re going to tackle each one of these opportunities in the build. But first you’re going to let me finish the company induction. Let’s head upstairs.’
They made the final ascent to the roof where they found another small, upholstered bar, now serving as a drinks kiosk for tourists. Trent bought three beers and they wandered over to the edge of the terrace to look out across the city, wiping the chilled cans across their foreheads. The buzz of Saigon’s thousands of motorbikes drifted up through the heat, accompanied by the slow shuffle of tourists’ flip-flops on the roof. A slight breeze offered momentary relief.
Trent pointed to the terrace below where an ageing military helicopter sat beside some potted palms and a discarded market umbrella. ‘There’s our final chapter for today.’
‘Don’t get it,’ said Shanti, shaking her head slowly.
‘Is it something about hitting our targets?’ ventured Gavin.
‘Sort of. This is about what happens when it’s time for us to get out. There are, theoretically, only two ways to leave a startup. One involves climbing back down all the stairs, winding up lost in the basement, alone, with nothing but rotary dial phones and sin
gle beds. The other way…’ Trent trailed off, motioning with his eyebrows down towards the helicopter.
‘Is by using our eyebrows?’ suggested Shanti.
Trent smiled. ‘Okay. It’s hot and you guys are probably a bit jetlagged. I’ll make this easy. The other way we get out is by chopper,’ Trent gestured with his beer can. ‘It’s fast, it’s furious and it can take you almost anywhere you want to go. But when it comes, we will have to get in quickly, because the load window is short. And the number of seats is strictly limited.’
‘You’re talking about having an exit strategy, aren’t you?’ said Shanti.
Trent nodded and took a pull of his beer.
‘That’s from the thirty days book, too, isn’t it?’ said Gavin, squinting against the flat midday sunlight. ‘The wrong ownership structure, a product that doesn’t scale or a lack of customer care systems can all scare off potential buyers. But if we set these things up correctly we become a much more attractive acquisition target.’
‘Ten out of ten, Gav. Very strong summary,’ said Trent with a wink. ‘It may seem incongruous to be talking about the end when we’re at the beginning, but it’s one of the most common mistakes founders make. You don’t wait to see what the exit looks like, you design it in advance.’
‘It looks like cash, doesn’t it?’ asked Gavin.
ShelfLife Page 6