Tash Aw - Five Star Billionaire

After the restaurant, David insisted on joining some friends at a KTV place down the road. He loved karaoke, was very good at it, he said. Justin had learned to tolerate it. He had had to spend a fair bit of time at karaoke bars in his earlier days, when he was just starting out in the family business and had to entertain contractors and builders and low-level salesmen — the kind of working man who made the family business tick at its most basic level. In the years since, he had left this kind of business entertaining behind, but now, since he was back at that level again — perhaps even lower down, a mere employee — he said yes. Why not, he thought; it was entirely appropriate. But as soon as he walked in to the dim, fabric-lined room, the muffled off-key singing from the other rooms and the rough-edged cries of drunk men made him remember why he had always hated the ambience of a karaoke bar, why every evening he had ever spent in such an establishment had been an evening of wasted life.

“Don’t be such a damn snob,” Sixth Uncle had once told him as they were going into a karaoke bar. It was on one of their trips up north to visit their flagship project, a huge residential development on the outskirts of Kota Bharu, a two-thousand-acre piece of land — old shophouses, paddy fields, scrubby forests, and kampung houses that had been cleared away to create neat lanes of identical single-story link houses. Not cheap, not expensive — perfect for villagers wanting to live in a modern house or young men who worked on the offshore oil rigs. It had been Justin’s first big deal, a long and complicated affair that had dragged on for some years, but he had shown himself more than capable of handling the sticky matter of convincing local officials to grant permission for the felling of trees or the conversion of agricultural land to residential use. He had been affable — more innocent in his twenties than he was now — and his charm made those officials believe that anything he asked for was in good faith; that all the gifts he gave them were out of the goodness of his heart and not an attempt at bribery; that all his projects were for the benefit of the local community. The project went ahead and eventually flourished in spite of the numerous little hitches that continued long after the first residents moved in — protests by aggrieved former villagers, regional officials who had to be constantly flattered with gifts and dinners, maintenance problems arising from the marshy ground in some parts of the development. Every year, Sixth Uncle would insist on traveling up north to inspect the site and take the local contractors for a night’s entertainment.

“But that means … women,” Justin protested, shaking his head.

“Don’t be such a fucking prude,” said Sixth Uncle. “How many years have I been training you? Aiya , you’re so frustrating. You do a great job, but you can’t follow it through. I keep telling you, this side of the business is just as important as all the high-level finance stuff. You’ve got to keep the boys on our side.”

And so they’d had a big meal at a Chinese restaurant, where there was shark’s fin soup and only X.O-and-Coke to drink, and afterward they stumbled in to Ichiban Karaoke Bar — Justin remembered the name because he was struck by the sign on the door, written in a surprisingly elegant hand. Sixth Uncle had hired the place in its entirety for the night (“Until daybreak, no problem,” Justin had heard the manager say to Sixth Uncle). While the men sloped into darkened corners, accompanied by various women, Justin sat at the bar with Sixth Uncle.

“You’ve got to get off your ass with the Cathay site,” Sixth Uncle said. “Four months already and nothing’s happened. The longer you leave it, the harder it’ll get. Look what’s going on already with your brother’s girlfriend and her bunch of heritage-building friends. All their stupid campaigns in the press, written by their journalist friends. Bunch of bloody faggots. They think they’re in Europe or what? Saving old buildings, my foot. Ei , this is Malaysia, my friend! They’re wasting their time, but still — we can do without it.”

Justin could barely hear what Sixth Uncle was saying; a man and woman were singing a duet—“Don’t Go Breaking My Heart”—but the man was drunk and couldn’t keep up, kept missing the beat and misreading words and breaking into laughter instead. “I doe go breakin’ my haaarrr, ha ha ha …”

“Come on, boy,” Sixth Uncle continued, pressing his forehead against Justin’s. Justin could smell the sour stench of garlic and alcohol on his breath. “I got faith in you. Is that a song title? I got faith in you. I’ve told your dad, give you more time. But you have to think of something to replace the Cathay with — fast. Don’t let these spoiled Bangsar kids screw things up for you. You remember, years ago in Japan, I told you — your brother is a good-for-nothing? I was right, wasn’t I? Look at him, letting his girlfriend twist him around her little finger. Screw the both of them. You’ll sort them out, ya ? Promise? Good boy.”

As Sixth Uncle vanished into the shadows, Justin wondered how much longer he would have to stay before slipping away unnoticed. He thought of what Yinghui and C.S. were doing at that precise moment: quarter to midnight on a Friday evening. They would be at the café that Yinghui had just opened, spread out on comfortable sofas, listening to Lou Reed or Cuban music, chatting about films and travel and love. She would be sitting with her legs on his lap, her bare feet moving in the air to the rhythm of the music as she talked; she would not even realize that her feet were moving, or that Justin was watching her, noticing how her second toe was far longer than her big toe, how she had a habit of curling her feet into tight arcs every now and then, particularly when she laughed. Now and then she would get up and make some herbal tea from plants that Justin had never heard of and didn’t think were even drinkable, like nettle, or Indian chai, which they served in the café, inspired by their journeys to the subcontinent.

I woe go breakin your haaarrr .

Someone thumped Justin on the back — the man in charge of the sewage systems in the residential estate. “Thanks for a fantastic evening, boss!” he shouted over the music before walking away.

In two hours’ time, Justin would still be in this karaoke bar, and Yinghui would be dozing on the sofa in her café. C.S. would be talking about a boring book he’d read; he would not realize how delicate Yinghui looked when she slept, would not notice how she had a habit of folding her arms in a loose “X” across her chest, as if protecting herself from danger.

A woman came and sat next to Justin. “You look lonely,” she said. She was maybe ten years older than Justin — not yet forty, but her eyes were bloodshot and heavy and made her seem older, her slim jaw beginning to turn jowly, and she had drunk too much. Justin thought: She’s had a hard life.

“I’m fine,” he said, retreating slightly into his personal space, away from the sudden warmth of her body. Her bare arm had pressed against his for a second — enough time to make him feel at once repulsed by and sorry for her. “Listen, I don’t really want company. Is that okay? Sorry.”

“Sure,” she said, but she did not leave. She stared at the aquarium behind the bar; its glass was hazy with moss and it was full of goldfish with tattered fins. Justin looked at her — the shiny spandex top she wore was too tight for her and made her arms seem thicker than they actually were. Her skirt was too short and her high heels too big for her; they kept slipping off her feet as she leaned forward on the bar stool. It was as though she had dressed the way she imagined women dressed when they went to a karaoke bar. He was sure that she didn’t usually dress like this.