Tash Aw - Five Star Billionaire

There had been a campaign in the press to save the New Cathay cinema, led by Yinghui and her Friends of Old KL — unprecedented in its consistency and its coverage. On the cover of the Sunday Star magazine, there was a portrait of the old Indian jaga who had sat in his little booth in the parking lot for fifty years, making sure the cinema didn’t get broken into at night. The photo was taken by a friend of Yinghui’s, a professional photographer who had used an old-fashioned large-format camera to capture every line in the old man’s face, the white of his eyes glowing milk-like as he stared at the lens. What would be his fate if the cinema closed down? Every day there was a famous person in the newspapers reminiscing about childhood outings at the New Cathay — actors and filmmakers, local celebrities who had been inspired to act by early experiences at the New Cathay.

“It’s all these stupid rich kids coming back from university overseas,” Sixth Uncle complained on the telephone to Justin. “No one gives a shit about that old dump; it’s just a bunch of idiots who have taken over the newspapers. Why are your friends so stupid?”

Justin wanted to point out that they were not his friends, they were his brother’s. But C.S., with his customary ease, managed to escape being implicated. He spent all his time with the same people who were campaigning against his family’s plans to redevelop the cinema, but in his family’s eyes, his “artistic temperament” excused any lapses in judgment and absolved him of any responsibility. No one ever told him to have a discreet word with his girlfriend or stand up for his family’s interests; Yinghui continued to visit the family home and dine with his parents. By virtue of being C.S.’s future fiancée, she was exempt from criticism. And she, too, played her part in the transaction, becoming strangely docile and uncombative whenever she was with his parents; it was as if C.S.’s presence smoothed away all conflict: Everyone was willing to forget their disputes to make him happy. It was Justin who bore the brunt of his family’s frustrations at not being able to advance with plans for the cinema.

“There’s nothing I can do right now,” Justin protested at yet another meeting with his father and Sixth Uncle. “There’s too much bad publicity. No investor wants to touch the place. We just need to let the fuss die down, then we’ll see.”

“You shouldn’t have let it get to this stage,” his father said. “A sleeping site like that is costing millions in lost revenue.”

“You’re too soft,” said Sixth Uncle. “You need to harden up.”

“And do what?” Justin retorted. He thought of Yinghui, of how she would react if he could find some way of preserving the cinema — what would she say when, one evening, he casually announced that he had convinced the family to restore the cinema to its former glory? If he could delay plans for development as long as possible, surely his family would lose interest.

One evening he stopped in at Angie’s, where he knew he would find Yinghui and C.S., along with the general air of hostility that seemed to greet him there those days. It was late, and the closed sign had long since been hung on the door, but they were still sipping green tea and listening to Tom Waits. On the daily notice board, the triumphant front page of that day’s New Straits Times had been pinned up like a trophy: “Town Hall Delays Decision on New Cathay Cinema”—a stay of execution, following a huge petition organized by Yinghui and her friends.

“Here comes your property-magnate brother,” Yinghui said to C.S. as Justin sat down with them. “How’s the heritage-destruction business these days?”

“Sweetie, drop it for tonight, okay?” C.S. said. “We’re drinking oolong — want some, bro?”

“Sure,” Justin said. “I’ve just been at a meeting with Dad and Sixth Uncle. I’m so tired.”

“Vandalism is tiring business,” Yinghui said, turning the pages of her magazine without looking up.

“Actually, they’re pissed off at me for not doing anything with the New Cathay. I had to tell them — the whole business isn’t really my cup of tea.”

“Yeah?” Yinghui poured Justin a cup of tea from the small earthenware teapot C.S. had placed on the table. It was incised with a fine drawing of a blade of wheat — a ghost of a shadow, barely noticeable. “Then tell them that there’s no deal to be made.”

C.S. pretended to read his paper — the London Review of Books , Justin noticed; every time C.S. felt uncomfortable, he would engage in earnest reading to extract himself from the conversation. It was his default setting.

Justin sipped from the tiny porcelain cup. “You know it’s not that easy with my family, but to tell you the truth,” he lowered his voice, “I am pretty sure I’ll manage to find a way to save the cinema. Please don’t go telling all this to your friends and publishing stuff in the papers. I’m telling you this in confidence, as my brother’s soon-to-be fiancée, not as a random journalist, campaigner, or whatever you are these days.”

Yinghui looked at him and nodded. She refilled his cup. “Sure. Are you serious?”

Justin nodded.

“Listen, did C.S. tell you we’re going to the seaside this weekend? We’re going to fill the family house down there with a bunch of friends. Talk about abandoned old houses — that place hardly gets used. Why don’t you come along too?”

C.S. stood up and ran his hand through Yinghui’s hair. He stretched, yawning, and said, “Yeah, come.” She reached back and gently touched his hands as he stood behind her, massaging her shoulders for a few moments. She closed her eyes and let her chin fall to her collarbone, a faint smile imprinted on her face.

C.S. said, “I gotta take a piss — too much tea.”

That weekend, Justin drove down to Port Dickson on his own. Yinghui and C.S. had already gone there with another couple to set the house up — open the shutters, sweep the veranda, raise the bamboo blinds, make the beds. When he arrived, he found them on the sandy lawn that ran down to the beach; they had brought out the old rattan chairs and were sitting in the scant shade of the coconut trees, sipping cold drinks and listening to P. Ramlee songs playing from a small portable stereo. The day was overcast, the sun warm but barely visible. Yinghui was on a hammock strung between two trees, fanning herself with a broad-brimmed straw hat.

“Look, it’s Eldest Brother himself,” she said when she saw him. She struggled to get out of the hammock, then came over and greeted him with a touch of her hand on his elbow. In his chinos and long-sleeved shirt, he felt overdressed and stiff — the others were in shorts and T-shirts; C.S. was shirtless, the razor-sharp lines of his ribs and his haunches giving him the appearance of a sixties’ hippie after a month in an ashram, a look accentuated by his long hair, which made his head seem out of proportion with his body — all he needed was a beard, Justin thought.

“Sorry, I’ve just come from the office,” Justin said, undoing the top button of his shirt as he sat down.

“But it’s Saturday afternoon — you must be very busy,” said a Malay girl whom Justin did not recognize. She had a small, oval-shaped face and was wearing a T-shirt that said LOVE HATE over bright pink shorts.

“Didn’t you know?” Yinghui said, pouring Justin some iced lemon tea. “Justin’s working to save the New Cathay.”

“Really?” There was a murmur of excitement, soft exclamations of approval.

“No, well, yes,” Justin began. “I’m working on it. There’s still a long way to go — you know what things are like in Malaysia. Bureaucracy, the whole system, you know …”