Tash Aw - Five Star Billionaire

“Thank goodness we invested so much in your gym work,” his agent said as they drove past the fifth billboard along the highway. “Your physical condition is crucial. We can’t afford to have a repeat of Taipei last year.”

Gary did not answer. As usual, the previous night’s concert had left him both exhausted and unable to sleep. It was always like this. The adrenaline of the performance would rush through his veins, and he would feel the deep pounding of the bass notes reverberating in his chest and rib cage hours after the concert had ended, when he was lying in bed trying to sleep. Every tiny light in the room — the green numbers showing the time on the DVD player, the red dot on the TV set — seemed noon-bright and blinding, even when his eyes were closed. Often, he would sit in front of the TV with the remote control in his hand, staring at the black screen. He could not even summon enough enthusiasm to turn on the TV. Sometimes he would eventually fall asleep at around three or four o’clock, but often he would just count the hours until dawn, which would come as a relief, because daylight brought with it activity, and he would not have to sit alone with only his thoughts for company.

In Wuhan the night before, he had tried to surf the Internet for the porn sites he had recently become addicted to, but had failed. This was the problem with China — he could not access any of his usual sites. It had become a late-night ritual for him: turning on his laptop and idly searching for new, more-dangerous sites each time. He did this after work or a concert, when he was alone in his apartment or hotel room and the night ahead of him seemed very long. He was not even excited by looking at these sites anymore; they had simply become something like a calming reassurance after a long day. The moment he arrived on the Mainland, however, he was deprived of this source of comfort. He had spent several frustrating hours after the concert searching for the kind of hard-core images he was used to, but the best he could find were immodestly dressed women who wore more than the models he was now seeing on billboards in Shanghai. And so he had opened the minibar and drunk all the vodka in it, and when he finished he rang to order some more.

Drinking was a recent thing. It helped him sleep, that was all.

He had now been on the road for sixteen days, and in that time he had played fourteen concerts.

“But, little brother,” his agent continued, “you need to sleep. I don’t know what you are doing at night — probably chasing girls, I suppose — but we need to do a lot of public appearances, and you can’t wear your sunglasses all the time. The photo shoots — they’re okay, because we can always adjust the photos later, but in public … That’s different. You know what these Shanghainese are like. They will scrutinize your appearance to the very last detail! Please remember what a huge investment we have made for this album — who else gets concerts like the one you’ve just had? Don’t waste this opportunity.”

Gary adjusted his sunglasses. They were becoming his trademark — oversize black plastic shades that gave him a mysterious, futuristic appearance.

“We can’t say no to the press conferences and guests appearances at malls. You have to look good, little brother. To be honest, at the moment even our makeup artists are saying it’s hard to disguise the shadows under your eyes. If we send you out wearing too much makeup, these Shanghainese will laugh out loud. They’re haughty and not easily impressed like provincial Chinese, you know. Hey, little brother, are you paying attention? Shanghai is at your feet. You can be one of the biggest stars in China — you’re almost there! We have two weeks to charm them before your concert.”

As his agent spoke, Gary knew that sleep would be impossible. He tried to remember when he last slept through the entire night and woke up feeling refreshed and free of worries. It did not seem as if there had ever been a time. He could fall asleep easily on planes and in cars and have uncomfortable fifteen-minute naps, but night sleep was unattainable.

That evening, when he had finished the last round of press obligations, Gary went back to his hotel. He promised his agent that he would have a bath and a massage and go straight to bed, but of course he turned on his laptop instead and began to search idly for sites that did not load properly. He did not feel like drinking on his own while continuing with his frustrating search for Internet porn, so he took a cab to the Bund, where he knew the high-end Western bars were located. Going out in public, unaccompanied, just before a concert, was contrary to all the advice he had ever received, but he thought that if he went to a place frequented by only Westerners he would not easily be recognized. His guess proved to be correct. He found a place with a view of the wide sweep of the river and the skyscrapers of Pudong. Although the music was loud and there were plenty of people in the bar, it was large enough to have plenty of darkened nooks and comfortable chairs where Gary could sit on his own and watch the crowd of foreigners, some of whom were dancing in the spaces between the tables. They were heavy-footed and big-thighed, their buttocks clattering into chairs and occasionally upsetting the drinks of passersby. He ordered several unfamiliar cocktails that turned out to be too sweet and then began to order vodka. Throughout this time, he kept his baseball hat on, having decided that the sunglasses would be too ostentatious. It was a relief for him to be away from his hotel room, to hear music that he did not have to perform. He spent at least two hours in a spot near the windows, quietly sipping his drinks. He felt his cheeks flush with the alcohol and his temples started to throb, but it did not matter, for he was not alone.

His discomfort began when he noticed a few of the Chinese waiters huddling together and whispering. They were trying not to look openly at him, but their curiosity was such that they could not resist glancing at him. He did not want to leave the bar. It was not yet one o’clock, and there were too many hours of darkness left ahead of him. And then the pleasant Australian couple sitting near him — who had just been holding hands and kissing — left, and their place was taken by a sweaty Western man, who tried to engage Gary in conversation. The man was drunk, but Gary did not feel like moving from his spot. Soon the man would grow tired and leave him alone.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue? Don’t feel like speaking, eh? Jeez, you Chinese are so goddamn unfriendly. Hey, look at me when I talk to you.”

Gary looked around. The bar was full and there was nowhere to move to.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Gary turned and said, “Fuck off.”

The reports that appeared the following morning were full of inaccuracies, as usual, and there were conflicting accounts from bystanders as to who had provoked the ensuing argument, what the altercation had been about, who had taken the first swing. What was in no doubt was that Gary had swiftly lost control and knocked the other man off his feet, even though the man was heftily built. The Internet was full of photos taken with camera phones — grainy and badly lit but clearly showing Gary standing over the man with his fist raised. The now-infamous video — again captured on a mobile phone and freely available on YouTube the next day — shows Gary swaying and unsteady on his feet, then bouncing up and down like a boxer ready for a fight, before stumbling toward the man on the ground and aiming a casual kick to his midriff, as if toe-poking a football. When the man shouts out an inarticulate insult, Gary attempts to pick up a bar stool, presumably to attack him with it. But the bar stool is fixed and doesn’t budge, so Gary turns his attention to a signboard that says WOW! and he rips it off the wall, using it to attack the man. When some of the waiters attempt to restrain him, he fights them off and shouts, “Don’t touch me, do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?” The camera wobbles and cuts out, and when it starts to play again, Gary is seen surrounded by a group of consoling friends. The rest of the bar is emptying and the music has stopped. His head is in his hands, and his shoulders are heaving up and down as he sobs. In the gray-pink half-light of the video, he is briefly shown in profile, silhouetted against what seems to be a curtain made from shimmering glass beads that look almost electric in the way they sparkle. Although it is dark and his face is not properly lit, Gary’s features are unmistakable — the perfect straight nose that ends in a delicate point, the soft angle of the jaw, the hair that falls over his brow. His head is bowed, his shoulders hunched and defeated. It is this image that graces the cover of all the tabloid newspapers the following evening.