Tash Aw - Five Star Billionaire

A few books toppled over as Phoebe extricated Secrets of a Five Star Billionaire from the pile. Its cover was worn, the spine open and supple. She sat on the bed and slowly turned its pages; many were dog-eared, the corners folded in small, precise triangles. There were neatly written notes in the margins everywhere, and at least two sentences on every page had been underlined carefully with a pencil and ruler. “I know this book,” she said. “The woman who wrote it is really amazing.”

“Oh, but I wrote that,” Walter said. “Under a pseudonym. I hired an actor to make the video for me.”

“Liar!” Phoebe laughed. “You think I can be fooled so easily? You are just telling stories to impress me.”

“It’s true. Why else would I have a book like that?”

At first she was sure he was lying to her, trying to trick her into believing he was the author of the book that changed her life so that she would have sexual intercourse with him. But he looked so solemn, almost sad, and then she was not so sure. Maybe he did write the book — surely a rich man like him wouldn’t need to buy a life manual. Whatever the case, that book had brought him no joy, she thought. She had gained so much from reading it, but he had obviously not. None of those books had given him anything, except maybe money.

He came and sat next to her on the bed. He was looking red and flushed again. Phoebe could feel the alcohol beginning to pulse in her temples. Her face felt hot, and she wondered if her cheeks were also turning pink.

“Walter,” she said, “why do you have so many shitty cheap plates and cups? Can’t a man like you afford better stuff?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. Just habit. We always used to do that at home, my dad and me. He loved collecting vouchers and exchanging them for plates, pens, anything. Everyone did that back then, where I come from. We couldn’t afford nice things — those glass dishes, they were luxury items. You won’t know what I mean; you’re too young, a different generation. All you eighties’ kids, all you’ve known is this.” He beckoned toward the glass wall, the view of Shanghai, its lights stretching infinitely. “Look at you. You young Mainlanders are young and beautiful and affluent; you have the world at your feet. You haven’t known any other lifestyle; you’re so full of self-confidence. That’s why you are so desirable; that’s why all those rich men from Hong Kong and Singapore want a young Mainland concubine. It’s not just that you are pretty, it’s because you make the future seem limitless. That’s why tired old men covet you. But I … I am different. And so are you. You and I, we don’t belong here.” He laughed a little and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He was still holding his glass, but Phoebe noticed it was empty.

“Yes,” she said, “I know you are different.”

“These dreams that men seek — they are so easy but so … harsh. I hate this harshness. Everything is so cruel. Everyone uses everyone else. Even me. I wish there could be a bit of tenderness. I think of the stupid small towns I grew up in, I remember the young women — they didn’t know how to dress; everyone was in cheap casual clothes all the time. Even when they made an effort to smarten up for a wedding, they looked bad. They didn’t know how to behave like these classy Shanghai girls; they didn’t have sophistication — but I liked that. No one pretended to be anything or anyone grand — unlike today. Sometimes I think: I hate China. I hate the whole world.”

Phoebe nodded. He placed his fingers over his brow, rubbing his forehead. He blinked once, twice, and his eyes became glassy and hollow. Then she felt his hand searching for hers, but she did not offer it, she just kept it tucked under her thigh.

“Where I grew up,” he said quietly, his voice lowering the way it always did whenever he became emotional with her. “It’s a million miles from Shanghai. Rural Malaysia is really shit. It hardens you, warps you, but, even so, you never really change. You understand what I mean. I know you do — that’s why I feel close to you, because I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

Phoebe wanted to say, Yes, I know exactly what you mean. I know exactly what you mean because I have lied to you for two months and there is not one aspect of myself that I haven’t lied about. As the words ran through her head, she was filled with a sudden feeling of joy — she saw her whole future open up ahead of her, a life in which she was always joking with him about how lousy their villages were, about whose village was poorer and dirtier — a life in which they were living together, filling this empty apartment with nice furniture and memories of small towns in rural Malaysia. They would joke about the cheap clothes she used to wear, the fake handbags she carried when she couldn’t afford the real thing, the vulgar slutty way she used to dress. The person she used to be, until recently. But maybe it was too late — she couldn’t turn back now. The fake Phoebe had become too much a part of the real one; their histories were the same now, there was no difference between them. Walter would never be able to accept the lies and cheating, the life of a low-class KTV hostess and migrant worker. He would always look down on her if he knew the truth. There was no way out for her — she had to continue being the Phoebe she had turned herself into.

“But you’re a successful man now,” she said. “The past doesn’t matter.”

He sighed softly and closed his eyes. Creases formed around his mouth. He looked half smiling, half in pain, as usual. “I know you understand me. We are very similar.”

She kissed him on the forehead and lay down next to him. His skin was warm and slightly greasy, and smelled faintly of wet leaves.

As she lay on the bed, her head felt uncertain, and the ceiling looked watery above her. She said, “The brandy really gives me a headache.”

WHY WAS IT THAT HE COULD NOT BRING HIMSELF TO GET IN TOUCH with Yinghui? Justin wondered. Simple: It was because he was nothing now; he was no one. Yes, that was the brutal truth. It had nothing to do with the tangled way in which their pasts were enmeshed, like fishermen’s nets washed up on the shore after a storm — if anything, their recent meeting had offered him a chance to set things right, to explain if not rectify past events. She and C.S. used to talk about “closure” and how worthless it was — why was it that everyone these days needed resolution, why couldn’t they just accept that life was messy, that it never ended neatly? American movies were to blame, they said. But Justin knew that he needed “closure”; he needed things to be final.

What stopped him from ringing her now was the absence of achievement. He had done little with his life and had been reduced to absolute zero. On at least half a dozen occasions he had paused with his phone in his hand, her card on the table before him, the number already tapped onto the little screen. All he had to do was to press the green button and she would be there. What would he say then? How would he fill the spaces in the conversation if not with tales of what he was doing in Shanghai, descriptions of success? He would have loved to be able to say, Didn’t you hear? Well, yes, I’ve been running an art gallery for five years now, showing a few avant-garde Chinese artists. Or, I moved into film production a few years back — yes, I gave up the family business completely.

“Why do you need to impress her?” Yanyan said one night as she and Justin sat on the front step of the building as they often did. She was wearing her Hello Kitty pajamas and furry slippers with bunny heads on them, even though the night was warm and still, almost muggy. “If she’s the sort of woman who can be won over by money and high positions, is she worth it?”