Tash Aw - Five Star Billionaire

And she thought, Now I have that life, but I am about to throw it away.

The bowls of ice sand they ordered were too big — they should have shared one between them, but instead they’d ordered one each, mango and peanut, which they couldn’t finish. The fluffy pyramids of shaved ice melted over the sides of the bowls, dissolving quickly into a pool of slush. At the table next to theirs, an older couple was taking turns feeding each other a tapioca dessert. Phoebe thought, They are not even having an illicit affair and yet they are behaving like lovers. She looked at Walter, but now it was he who was avoiding her gaze; he just continued stirring the mud-colored sludge with his spoon. The noises of the restaurant — the people laughing, calling out to the waitresses, the clink of spoons on plates — filled the air, but Walter’s silence was louder than all of them. It crushed Phoebe with the weight of a skyscraper — she thought she was going to die. Yanyan was right: She would have to tell him the truth about herself. She would not be able to leave Shanghai with a good feeling otherwise; she would always have an unclean conscience. That was the only way.

“Let’s go for a ride on Yanyan’s scooter,” Phoebe said. “It’s good to take some air after a big meal.”

They rode along the wide avenues slowly, the scooter too small and shaky to go any faster. Behind her, Phoebe felt the weight of Walter’s body unmoving and solid, as if he was afraid to move a muscle for fear of upsetting the scooter. He did not ask her where she was going or if she knew the way, and his silence added to her anxiety. She tried to think of someplace quiet where she would be able to talk openly about herself, but there were people everywhere — there was no chance of being alone in Shanghai. She should have planned this properly, should not have left the evening to chance like this. She found herself riding farther and farther, trapped by the flow of the traffic, which bore her along like a piece of debris on the surface of a swirling river whose current she could not resist. She noticed she was approaching the intersection near Zhongshan Park — she had just passed the gates of East China Normal University, the handsome pillars framing the lines of trees and lawns, students strolling hand in hand into the darkness beyond.

She drew to a halt, and they began to stroll among the students who were drifting back from late-night dinners in the shopping malls and little street stalls nearby. They went past a basketball court where three students were playing in the half darkness, their faces lit only by the light from the dormitory block nearby. There was a girl among them, her hair cut very short, just like a boy’s. One of the boys came over and kissed her. Phoebe did not know why, but this act made her turn away in embarrassment. It was stupid — she had done far worse things in her life.

They reached the banks of what looked like a small sluggish river or canal, willow trees overhanging the still water. They traced the path that ran along the water’s edge, hoping that it would eventually lead them to the openness of Suzhou Creek, but in truth they had no idea, they were simply wandering in the dark. Couples were sitting on benches, wordless as they rested their heads on their lovers’ collarbones. The noise of the traffic seemed far away.

“There is really a romantic atmosphere here,” Phoebe said. “You could imagine you were not in the middle of a big city.”

“Well, apart from the high-rise buildings and the pollution,” Walter said.

From somewhere in the dark they began to hear traditional music — old love songs played on classical instruments. In the night air Phoebe heard the fine swaying notes of the erhu and the feather-light plucking of the guqin . Someone started to sing — a woman’s voice, old-fashioned and sad.

“I hate these songs,” Walter said. “Don’t know why they are always so tragic. Why aren’t any of them happy?”

“They are about love,” Phoebe said. They found themselves on a bridge over a pond. The music was drifting over the water, but they could not tell where from. They stopped and leaned on the wooden handrail. “When I was young, my mother used to sing these songs. I guess that’s why I feel nostalgic about them. To tell the truth, I don’t really like them — you’re right, they make us feel too sad. But I like them because they remind me of when I was small.”

“But we live in modern times,” Walter said. He perched his elbows on the handrail and folded his arms, stretching his back. “Anyway, didn’t you once tell me that the past isn’t important and that all that matters is what we are going to do in the future?”

“Yes, sure, but …” Phoebe could sense herself getting flustered — men always tried to defeat her by twisting her logic. “But how can you just forget your childhood and upbringing?”

“Quite easily.”

“I can’t. That’s why, in spite of my achievements, sometimes I admit my heart feels heavy. Hearing this music — it gives me a nostalgic feeling. I can’t help thinking of my mother and my childhood.”

“All those years growing up in Guangzhou?”

Phoebe paused. This was the moment. She could say, No, not Guangzhou; I did not grow up in that huge ugly polluted city. I grew up in a place surrounded by forests and lakes and warm winds, not far from the sea, where you could walk in the heavy rain and not fall sick with cold, where the tallest building was four stories high — a place many thousands of miles from here. I am not what you think I am, I am just an idea in your head. I don’t really exist at all.

Yes, he would be confused at first, maybe he would even be angry, because no one likes to be cheated. But soon he would see how he was fortunate to be rid of her. He would say to himself, Thank God I did not end up with an unsophisticated, lying village girl, a gold digger; what a lucky escape that was. He’d been in love with an idea of someone, a simple illusion, and, like all ideas, she would be forgotten quickly. It would take no more than a few days, a week, maybe, and then the memory of her would vanish from his mind. The pain of being cheated — that might linger a bit longer, but the affection would have long since disappeared. Sweetheart. Cutie. He would forget he’d ever called her those things. The past doesn’t matter — he’d said it himself, not half a minute ago. Just a few days from now, the slate would be wiped clean. It would be so easy.

She looked at him, the outline of his face barely visible in the dark — his wide flat nose, the stick-out ears. He was looking out across the water, trying to spot where the music was coming from.

“You know how you once told me you were different?” Phoebe said. “I am different too.”

He nodded. “That’s why … that’s why I like you.”

Phoebe looked away. She wanted to tell him everything that was on her mind, everything about herself, but all she could feel was shame. Crushing, sickening shame. “I have to leave China,” she said. The words choked her, she could hardly speak; she felt she was suffocating with nausea. “I can’t stand it here anymore.”

A song floated over the nighttime park, a thin voice singing “The Wandering Songstress.”

“Are you okay?” he said, turning to face her. He leaned close and looked at her. “You look unwell.”

“I feel a bit sick. My liver has an imbalanced feeling. Must be the food, I think — I ate too much.”

“Who can’t take spicy now? Give me the keys to the scooter. I’ll take you home. You should get some rest — if you don’t feel better tomorrow, we should forget about going to the concert this weekend. I know we agreed to go together, but you can just give the tickets to Yanyan. You really don’t look well.”