Tash Aw - Five Star Billionaire

Now, when his newfound friend Phoebe asks him, Are you gay? he tells her about these encounters, changing the scenarios to more banal settings in order to disguise his identity but maintain the authenticity of the situation (the first one, for example, he says took place in an office where I worked; the second, in a hotel with a colleague ).

I think you are closed to the world , she replies. You cannot let yourself be close to anyone. Therefore gay or straight is an irrelevant question. In order to fall in love, first you have to love yourself .

En.

He thinks about Phoebe all the time — not the romantic thoughts that he imagines other men having about women, but something more meaningful. He has so many things to tell her about himself, and though for the moment he keeps his life hidden from her, he realizes that the reason he is so excited about his relationship with her is that it offers him a chance to do the most exciting thing of all: to reveal his true identity to her. He keeps thinking about how and when he will do this — how he will tell her absolutely everything about himself, from childhood to the present, and because she understands him so well, she will be moved by his honesty and love him even more. When he thinks about this, a huge rush of pleasure courses through him and makes him feel strong.

There is rarely a moment when he does not think about how wonderful it will be to tell her about himself; even now, as he steps onto the stage in this suburban shopping mall, he is imagining the sheer relief of sharing his life with someone, imagining the liberation and clarity and warmth.

“Hello, everyone!” he shouts as he skips across the stage. “Are you happy? I am so happy to see you!” The microphone has not been tuned properly, and his first words are swallowed up in a mangled squeal of screeching static from the speakers, which makes everyone cover their ears. Some of the teenagers are smiling and swaying to the music, but he can tell that something is not right: They do not recognize him. In the past, as soon as he appeared in public, even when walking swiftly through a restaurant toward a private dining room, he could feel the quick flush of excitement rippling through the crowd as they spotted him. But now a few people turn to one another, and he can tell that they are discussing who he is — whether he is the real Gary or just an impersonator. As he begins to sing, he notices a group of schoolgirls huddled in discussion. One of them laughs, shakes her head, then they all walk away. There are so many copycats these days, bad singers who make a living by touring cheap bars pretending to be a celebrity. Everyone knows they are imitators, but no one cares, for they can sing along to the songs and they appreciate the kitsch appeal of someone who looks like Aaron Kwok or Jacky Cheung or Selina from S.H.E.

China is the land of copycat power, people say. There are even Mao Zedong copycats, so a Gary copycat is nothing special.

He got the call from his agent three days prior to this appearance — a quick, breathless voice message left at 2:31 A.M., when she was obviously standing at the entrance to a nightclub, the heavy thumping of the bass notes tapping out a rhythm in the background. “Found you a job — a small thing, but better than nothing. You need to start rebuilding your brand, get close to the ordinary people again. You need … sympathy. Don’t fix your hair or wear any special outfits, just dress in jeans, a T-shirt, and some clean sports shoes. Simplicity and innocence, okay? Like before, when you were starting out. I will arrange the music and dancers. You just turn up and do your thing.”

Dressed in his simplest clothes, his hair washed but unstyled, he had been driven along expressways lined with perfectly symmetrical apartment blocks, colorless in the haze of pollution. The boulevards that led out of town were lined with boxy hotels for businessmen and low squat office blocks with opaque windows of blue mirrored glass. He could tell by the names of the factories that they were moving farther away from Shanghai — Nanxiang Apollo Everbright Electrical Co.; Jiading Apollo Cement Factory; Lontang No. 1 Friendly Light Industrial Machinery — until they reached their destination, the newly opened Taicang Greenleaf commercial center, whose inauguration was being marked by “a special performance by a mystery guest.”

“Is this still Shanghai?” he asked the driver.

“Actually, we are in Jiangsu province.”

As Gary walked in to the mall, he had to dodge the construction workers who were putting the finishing touches on the not-quite-completed building; the drilling and hammering and sanding blotted out the music inside. He tried not to remember that only last year he had played to fifteen thousand people at the Taipei Arena.

As the first verse climbs to a crescendo, Gary knows that the dancers will appear at any moment, as they usually do at this point in the song. He worries that the troupe will not fit onto the stage — in Wuhan, during his last concert, he had a troupe of twenty-four, which, even halved, would not fit on this flimsy platform. He closes his eyes and lets his voice soar for the first notes of the chorus, and as he does so he feels footsteps behind him. He smiles and turns around to applaud the dancers. There are just two of them — two girls dressed in matching outfits of spangly red blouses over black trousers, with what look like feathers attached to their arms — twirling awkwardly in the narrow space behind him.

He turns to face the audience once more. The air is rich with the smell of varnish, paint thinner, and glue, and above the thumping of the bass line, Gary can hear electric saws slicing into plywood, stop-start drilling and the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of hammers. Across the atrium he sees a vast restaurant. RED ROOSTER HOT POT SPICY … DO YOU DARE??? Their emblem, printed on posters everywhere, is a rooster straddling three red chilies. In the forecourt of the restaurant, there is a children’s play area with a bouncy castle and plastic seesaws. Some of the staff has come to the front of the restaurant to watch the show and listen to Gary. Their uniforms are red and black — the same as his backup dancers. He turns around once more, sweeping his arms together in exaggerated applause of his dancers; behind them is a big sign that says: RED ROOSTER WELCOMES YOU TO TAICANG GREENLEAF CENTER.

He doesn’t know why he had not noticed it before.

He has another chorus to go and then two more songs. That was the deal — it is not so bad, he can do it, he is a true professional. A few people in the audience are swaying to the music; a mother is holding her child by both hands and dancing in little jerky steps. Gary closes his eyes and allows his voice to do its work as usual, but his mind begins to drift, imagining all the things he is going to tell Phoebe on the Internet later this evening. He wishes he could tell her about this awkward, even humiliating experience, but he can’t. He will say, simply, that he had a difficult time at work, that he had lost face. But don’t worry, he will say brightly. I want to change jobs; I am going to change the direction of my life. I want to be more like you. I want to have a quiet life doing what I enjoy doing; a glittering career and burning ambition will not make me happy. I want to follow your example; you are so good for me.

The audience applauds, a thin smattering of claps that cannot compete with the building noise around them. He waits for the next song to start, so that his misery will end, but there is a problem with the music system. He can hear the technician behind the stage cursing as he tries to fix the problem; someone groans and says, “I hate this cheap equipment.” The dancers hold the pose in which they ended their last routine — kneeling on one knee, arms spread wide to reveal their chicken feathers, superbright smiles etched on their faces.