Tash Aw - Five Star Billionaire

“It’s not about status — she wouldn’t care about that. It’s about showing her the kind of person I am. How I’ve changed.”

“Maybe she’s changed too. People are like that.”

“No, I’m sure she’s the same. With some people, you just know.”

“Are you sure you’ve changed? Because people always think they do, but really they don’t. Chinese people especially. Everyone talks about change, change, change. You open a newspaper or turn on the TV and all you see is CHANGE. Every village, every city, everything is changing. I get so bored of it. It’s as if we are possessed by a spirit — like in a strange horror film. Sometimes I think we’re all on drugs. I used to speak to foreigners on the phone at work. All they would say was, ‘I hear things are changing fast over there.’ It’s as if everyone here is addicted to change. But, really, how much have we changed? I am still the same. I haven’t changed since I was six years old. And I don’t want to.”

He remained silent for a second or two, looking at the skyscrapers shimmering in the night. It was true what people said: The only thing that never changed in Shanghai was that it was always changing.

“But I have to do something about this … friend from my younger days,” he said. “Whether or not I’ve changed.”

“Yes, I understand. You have unfinished business with her, that’s clear. Go ahead, do it. Then you’ll see that probably neither of you has changed. But, first, could you buy me some red-bean ice cream?”

The next day Justin rang an old contact. He’d recently read about a former security guard at one of the condominium complexes he owned, a boy called Little Tang, then about nineteen or twenty and always fiddling with a camera. In just two years he had built a reputation as a fashion photographer; now he was starting a venture turning disused factories into temporary studio space that young photographers and artists could rent for a week, a month, three months — however long it was before that particular site was demolished or reconverted into some other use. Justin had seen the article about him in one of those English-language listings magazines that lay in messy piles in all the Western cafés. He went by the name David Tang now, a short, plumpish man with an amiable smile, hair styled in a deliberately messy fashion, dressed in sleek all-black clothes that the article called his “signature style.” His name was still in Justin’s phone—“Boss, call me if ever you need me, day or night,” he’d once said. “Need” was a changing notion: Back then he’d meant if your bulbs needed replacing or you needed a new driver; now what Justin needed was a whole new career, a new life.

They went for a drink in a small hotel in the area real estate agents nowadays called the Southern Bund, where the old docks used to be. Now it was being redeveloped: A few streets of buildings were under construction — cranes dangled over the water, dust hung in the air, making the river seem blurry even in the early summer sunshine; already there were hoardings for a Starbucks. Justin had problems finding the hotel — it looked unfinished, the concrete rendering on the outside fallen away to reveal the brickwork underneath. Inside, in what must have been the foyer, were bare brick walls scarred by generations of water leaks and rust; exposed steel beams; staff wearing shapeless gray felt uniforms. He found Little Tang in the bar, sitting on a black-and-white cow-skin sofa and drinking a bottle of Tsingtao.

It took them just a few minutes to discard the master-and-servant relationship of old. Little Tang — David — was warm, jocular, and familiar. Any respect he showed Justin was due to the difference in age, not in stature. No mention was made of David’s past employment under Justin, aside from a quick reference to the smart new clothes he wore. Justin thought: Only in China could people deal so swiftly with the past; only in China could they forget and move on without blinking. They talked instead about all of David’s current projects — his forthcoming cover for Vogue China , his booming business, which he called “guerrilla rentals,” his new girlfriend, a razor-hipped model from Dongbei whose photos he showed Justin on his iPhone; she was five feet ten.

“So, boss, what can I do for you?” He used the word “boss” differently now — playfully, almost ironically, as he might have done with the man who ran the fried-bread stall every morning or the janitor who cleaned the toilets.

“I’m not sure,” Justin replied. “I just thought, maybe there was some way we could … work with each other. With my experience, I could be useful to you in some way — though I’m not sure how.”

David leaned over and slapped Justin on the knee. “Excellent idea, boss!” He raised his hand and called across the bar to the waitress to order two more beers. “This is a good moment for the both of us. I heard your family went bankrupt. This means you’ll be free to take part in lots of new projects. Now, what could we do together? You don’t want to run my rentals business for me, do you? No, too boring. We could start a publishing company — publish fashion magazines for Chinese people. Not just Vogue or Elle and all that rubbish, but arty ones. No, not serious enough for you. Let’s reflect on this. So many possibilities!”

He had dealt with Justin’s situation in one short matter-of-fact sentence— I heard your family went bankrupt . And that was it. They had now moved on to the present, surging ever forward. No questions as to why, how come, how do you feel, et cetera. He wasn’t interested in all that, only in what Justin could do for him now. History held no allure for him; all answers lay in the future.

“Well, for a start I could look after your rentals business, and we can think of new ventures for the future.”

“Really? But it’s very boring. You’d be almost like … an office manager. That’s too lowly and ordinary for you.”

“I’m not worried by that,” Justin said, “I’d like to do it.”

“That’s too crazy!” David Tang cried, laughing loudly in a series of hooting look-at-me bursts. Justin knew it was an affectation he had picked up recently, cultivated in the glamorous fashion circles in which he now moved; he had been a soft-spoken boy before. “I’m going into business with Boss Lim — that’s too crazy. We need to celebrate!”

They went to a Guizhou restaurant and ordered far too much food — at least five or six cold starters and eight or ten dishes. Every time Justin urged restraint, David Tang said, “This is completely my treat! We are going into business together — why should we hold back?” He ordered a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label; waitresses dressed in colorful ethnic costumes kept coming into the private room, bringing buckets of ice and cold towels scented with chemical jasmine perfume. Justin had never had Guizhou food before and it was unexpectedly spicy. Every time he reached for his glass of ice water, he realized that every glass on the table now had whiskey, water, and ice in it. He looked at the bottle — it was two-thirds empty. They had had a few bottles of beer before leaving the hotel and a couple more on arrival at the restaurant. It felt like the old days: all those long nights of entertaining business partners and prospective clients. That was why Justin had been useful to the family business, invaluable in the role of family fixer — he was sensible and he could hold his drink, just as Sixth Uncle could before him.

He looked at David Tang, whose jolly round face had turned scarlet from the drink. At this stage in the evening, it was no longer important what was being said to each other; what would count was the impression of camaraderie, of beery bonding, which both men would remember the next day — a hazy memory of trust and openness. He smiled and muttered a pleasantry as Little Tang — David Tang — filled his glass again.