Tash Aw - Five Star Billionaire

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.

“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 before. 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!”