Tash Aw - Five Star Billionaire

As she turned to make her way back to their seats, she was disoriented by a group of high school kids wandering past, and for a moment she could not locate her table. She looked for the Functional Man, the shape of his functional body, but could not see it. Then she saw, clearly, the table at which they had been sitting, tucked in the corner next to the newspaper rack. The magazine she had been reading earlier lay on the brown armchair she had occupied, just as she had left it when she got up to buy the drinks, but there was no one at the table. As she wandered over, she hoped that she was making a mistake, that this was not in fact the table she had been at, that she would suddenly hear the Functional Man’s voice calling out to her from another spot in the room, saying, Ei , you silly girl, it’s over here, or, Little miss, I’ve moved to a better spot. But even as she thought these hopeful thoughts, she knew it was no use; she knew what had happened.

She stared at the table. Her handbag was gone. She looked around, but she knew she would not see the man. She had been wrong about him. He had not been functional after all.

As she sat pretending to drink her scalding hot tea, she kept her eyes down, averting her gaze from the people in the café. She was sure they were still looking at her, and she felt humiliated by their stares. They were all thinking, That stupid girl, she was so foolish. Abandoned by a man, and robbed too.

Phoebe Chen Aiping, do not let this city crush you down .

She lifted her eyes, challenging all the people in the world to look at her — she wanted to confront them and scream at them. But no one was watching her. A mother and her daughter were sitting across from her, the small child playing with a handheld video device. Some boys were laughing and showing one another photos they had taken on their mobile phones. A young white man with his hair in short twisty dreadlocks was reading a Chinese newspaper. A businessman was talking loudly to himself, both hands moving angrily, jerking as if he were trying to throw something across the room. It took Phoebe a while to realize that he was not mad, that he had a wire dangling from his ear and was talking to someone on the phone.

As Phoebe walked out onto the streets, she thought about the things in her handbag — the money she had hidden in the inner lining, the makeup she had bought at great expense, her mobile phone, full of the names and numbers of friends she had made since coming to China, people who could help her. They were all gone now, vanished in the encroaching Shanghai winter.

She wrapped her coat around her, felt how cheap and thin it was. What could she expect? It was a low-quality fake, just like her. She had not noticed how lousy it was before, because her body was warmed by optimism, because her life was about to change. Now, she thought, maybe it never will. As she wandered aimlessly through the streets, she felt her shoulders hunch and tense against the cold. The fallen leaves of the plane trees lay thickly on the ground and crackled sharply as she walked on them, and whenever there was a gust of wind, the leaves would swirl around her feet, encircling her ankles.

She stopped outside a shopwindow and stared at her reflection. She looked red-cheeked and sad. Her hair had fallen flat across her forehead, and there were tears in her eyes. It was because of the cold bitter wind, she thought, not because she was crying. No, it was not because she was crying. It had begun to rain, a fine misty drizzle that made the air look gray and the shapes of the buildings vague, as if viewed through a veil. She could feel the moisture gathering on her head, her hair clinging to her face — it felt so damp and sticky and cold.

As she shuffled closer to the shop to take shelter from the rain, she noticed that it had a curious awning made of wood, and when she looked up she saw that it was in the shape of the roof of a village hut, something rustic from Southeast Asia. It was similar to the roofs of the houses on the edge of the jungle from her childhood. The sign on the door was very small, very classy and discreet. It read, APSARA THAI spa. Inside, she could see walls lined with smooth dark timber and floors of expensive black marble. There was a bamboo cabinet with glass bottles displayed like artwork next to a counter made from gray stone. It was not the sort place for people like her, Phoebe thought, but all the same, she found herself walking through the door. She clutched at her purse; it was all that she had now. The money in it was not very much, just enough to pay her share of the rent for this month and buy food for her and Yanyan — not proper food but instant noodles and maybe some skewers or xiaolongbao or noodles from the stalls around Qipu Lu. Just once in her life, she would like to enjoy what other people had, Phoebe thought. Just once, she would like to experience life as a person of comfort and wealth, a happy person. And then she would never wish for anything again; she would become a poor person forever. She would accept it. After all, it was her destiny in life to be poor, as it was other people’s destiny to be rich. It had always been this way; she’d been foolish to think she could change her fate.

She sat on a bench covered in fine silk, worrying that her damp coat would soil the beautiful cloth. There was no one around, and the place was in semidarkness. There were glass jars with unlit candles everywhere, and the air-conditioning was so silent you could not hear it. She heard music, stringed instruments and flutes whose notes were familiar to her ears. Flowing water. Sounds from her childhood. She opened her purse and counted the notes in it. What would Yanyan say if she saw Phoebe right now, about to spend all this money on a manicure, money they could use to buy food and warm clothes for the winter? The cold wind was already sweeping through the windows of their little room now; they could feel winter descending on them. In the mornings when they woke up, they would remain in bed, their bodies stiff and painful after a freezing night. They’d said that they would save money to buy a small heater or more thick blankets so at least they wouldn’t be cold at night, but they never seemed to have enough spare cash. Soon, Phoebe had promised, very soon.

Just once. She wanted just once to know what it felt like to be rich, just for one hour.

But she closed her wallet, feeling the buckle clasp firmly shut, and tucked it back into her coat pocket. Then she bowed her head and rested there for a few moments, while she gathered enough strength to go back out into the cold.

MORNING: THE DISTANT NOISES OF CONSTRUCTION WORK; THE rhythmic pounding of pile drivers that seemed to travel up through the soil, into the fabric of the building, underpinning the growing hum of traffic; the beeping of scooters; the sounds of buses squealing to a halt. Afternoon: children’s after-school laughter echoing in the hallways and stairwell, and rising from the streets below. Dinnertime: the lively clang of steel on steel; the rushing fizz of hot oil; the scraping of plastic stools on bare floors; the ceramic clink of plates and bowls being laid out; the sound of happy families. Evening: off-key karaoke singing; the tangle of voices making it impossible to identify the tunes of the songs.

This is how he marked his days — by the sounds drifting through his open windows, carried on the tepid spring breeze. This is how he knew that day was turning unhurriedly to night and he could emerge from his bedroom to sit in the living room and stare at the view of the skyscrapers, which were just beginning to light up against a mouse-colored sky. He would wait until it was dark before venturing out to the twenty-four-hour convenience stores at the end of the street to buy bottled water and instant noodles, for the city felt safer at night — fewer people, fewer stares, no one to notice his sallow complexion and too-long hair.