by Kevin Kwan
As they drove along palm-tree-lined Neil Road, Astrid gazed at all the colorful heritage shophouses. Then she realized they had just sped past the restaurant. “Hey, you missed the turn. That was Bukit Pasoh we just passed.”
“Don’t worry, I did that on purpose. We’re going to circle the block for a while.”
“Why? Aren’t we already late?”
“I’ve decided to give them a little more time to cool their heels. I instructed the maître d’ to make sure they get drinks at the bar first, and that they are seated right by the window so that they will have the best view of us pulling up. I want all the guys to see me get out of this car, and then I want them to see you getting out of this car.”
Astrid almost wanted to laugh. Who was this man next to her talking this way?
Michael continued, “We’re playing this game of chicken right now, and I know they want to see who blinks first. They have raging hard-ons to acquire this new proprietary technology that we’ve developed, and it’s really important that I am able to convey the right image to them.”
They finally pulled up outside the elegant white colonial-era shophouse that had been converted into one of the island’s most acclaimed restaurants. As Astrid got out of the car, Michael looked her over and said, “You know, I think you made a mistake changing out of that first cocktail dress. It showed off your sexy legs. But at least you have those earrings. That’s really going to make their jaws drop, especially the wife. It’ll be great—I want them to know that I’m not going to be a cheap date.”
Staring at him in disbelief, Astrid stumbled for a moment on the pristine wooden deck leading to the front door.
Michael grimaced. “Shit, I hope they didn’t see you do that. Why the hell are you wearing those ridiculous boots anyway?”
Astrid breathed in deeply. “What’s the wife’s name again?”
“Wendy. And they have a dog named Gizmo. You can talk about the dog with her.”
A wave of nausea churned like acid at the base of her throat. For the first time in her life, she had a true appreciation of how it felt to be treated like a cheap date.
* * *
*1 The literal translation is “pull vehicle,” but this Hokkien term refers to rickshaw pullers or anything that is deemed low class. (Of course, Michael has never been to Manhattan, where pedicab drivers tend to be out-of-work male models who charge more than Uber Black Cars.)
*2 “Real or fake?” in Hokkien.
*3 Literally “My cock!,” this Hokkien swear is comparable to the American “Fucking hell!”
*4 Pork belly cooked in soy sauce, a simple Hokkien dish.
10
THE BINGS
SHANGHAI
Nick, Rachel, Carlton, and Roxanne stood on the wide stone steps of the Bing estate, watching Colette give a warm hug to the man that had just stepped out of the convoy of SUVs.
“Who’s that?” Nick asked Roxanne.
“Richie Yang,” Roxanne replied, before adding in a whisper, “one of Colette’s suitors, who’s based in Beijing.”
“He’s rather dressed up for tonight.”
“Oh, he is always very fashionable. Noblest Magazine ranked him the best-dressed man in China, and his father is ranked the fourth richest man in China by The Heron Wealth Report, with a net worth of US$15.3 billion.”
A short, slight man in his early fifties emerged from the armored SUV. His face had a slightly punched-in look, something that his neatly trimmed Errol Flynn mustache only served to accentuate. “Is that Colette’s father?” Nick asked.
“Yes, that is Mr. Bing.”
“What’s he ranked?” Nick asked in jest. He found these rankings to be rather ridiculous and more often than not wildly inaccurate.
“Mr. Bing is ranked fifth richest, but The Heron is wrong. At current share prices, Mr. Bing should be ranked higher than Richie’s father. Fortune Asia has it correct—it ranks Mr. Bing at number three,” Roxanne said earnestly.
“What an outrage. I should write a letter to The Heron Wealth Report to protest the error,” Nick joked.
“Oh no need, sir, we already have,” Roxanne replied.
Mr. Bing helped a woman with shoulder-length bouffant hair, dark-tinted sunglasses, and a blue surgical mask over her face out of the car.
“That’s Mrs. Bing,” Roxanne whispered.
“I figured. Is she ill?”
“No, she is just an extreme germaphobe. This is why she spends most of her time on the Big Island of Hawaii, where she thinks the air is freshest, and why this estate has a state-of-the-art air-purifying system.”
Everyone watched as Colette gave her parents polite half hugs, after which the maid bearing the chest of hot towels prostrated herself in front of them as if she were offering gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Colette’s parents, who wore matching navy blue cashmere Hermès tracksuits, took the steaming towels and began wiping their hands and faces methodically. Mrs. Bing then stretched out her hands, and another maid rushed up and squirted hand sanitizer onto her eager palms. After they had finished, Wolseley offered his greetings, and then Colette gestured for the group to approach.
“Papa, Mama, meet my friends. You know Carlton, of course. This is his sister, Rachel, and her husband, Nicholas Young. They live in New York, but Nicholas is from Singapore.”
“Carlton Bao! How is your father doing these days?” Colette’s father said as he clapped him on the back, before turning to Nick and Rachel. “Jack Bing,” he said, shaking their hands vigorously. He eyed Rachel with much interest, saying in Mandarin, “You look unmistakably like your brother.” Colette’s mother, by contrast, did not extend her hands but nodded quickly as she peered at them from behind her surgical mask and Fendi sunglasses.
“Richie’s plane was parked next to ours when we landed,” Jack Bing said to his daughter.
“I just flew in from Chile,” Richie explained.
“I insisted he join us for dinner,” Colette’s father said.
“Of course, of course,” Colette said.
“And look who’s here—Carlton Bao, the man with nine lives!” Richie cracked.
Rachel noticed Carlton’s jaw tense up the same way hers did whenever she was annoyed, but he laughed politely at Richie’s comment.
Everyone made their way into the grand salon. Upon entering, they were met by a man who Rachel thought looked rather familiar. He stood by the door bearing a tray that held a sparkling decanter and a freshly poured glass of scotch. It suddenly dawned on her that she had seen him at Din Tai Fung, where he had been introduced as the sommelier. She realized now that the Frenchman didn’t work for the restaurant—he was the Bings’ personal master sommelier.
“Would you care for the twelve-year-old sherry to welcome you home, sir?” he said to Mr. Bing.
Nick had to bite his tongue to keep from cracking up—the man sounded like he was offering Colette’s father the services of a child prostitute.
“Ah Baptiste, thank you,” Jack Bing said in heavily accented English as he grabbed the heavy cut-glass tumbler from the tray.
Mrs. Bing removed her surgical mask, headed for the nearest sofa, and plopped down with a satisfied sigh.
“No, Mother, let’s not sit here. Let’s sit on the sofa by the windows,” Colette said.
“Aiyah, I’ve been flying all day and my feet are so swollen. Why can’t you just let me sit here?”
“Mother, I had the maids specially fluff the lotus silk pillows on that sofa for you, and the magnolia trees are in full bloom this week. We must sit by the windows so you can enjoy them,” Colette said sharply.
Rachel jumped at Colette’s tone. Mrs. Bing got up reluctantly and the whole group made their way to the wall of glass at the end of the grand salon.
“Now, Mother, sit here so you can face the topiaries. Dad, you sit here. Mei Ching will bring li
ttle stools for your feet. Mei Ching, where are the pillow-top stools?” Colette demanded. Colette made herself comfortable on the chaise lounge facing in from the windows, but for everyone else sitting in that spot, the setting sun cast a blinding glare. It began to dawn on Rachel and Nick that the elaborate welcoming ritual they had witnessed outside wasn’t something that Colette did out of fear or filial respect for her parents. Rather, Colette was just an absolute control freak and liked everything done precisely her way.
As everyone leaned at awkward angles to avoid the glare, Jack Bing gave Nick a discerning look. Who is this man married to Bao Gaoliang’s love child? He has a jaw so chiseled it could slice sushi, and he carries himself like a duke. He nodded at Nick and said, “So, you are from Singapore. Very interesting country. What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a history professor,” Nick replied.
“Nick studied law at Oxford, but he teaches at New York University,” Colette added.
“You went to all the trouble of getting a law degree at Oxford, but you don’t practice?” Jack asked. Must be a failed lawyer.
“I’ve never practiced. History was always my first passion.” Next he’s going to ask me how much money I make or what my parents do.
“Hmmm,” Jack said. Only these crazy Singaporeans can waste money sending their children to Oxford for nothing. Maybe he comes from one of those rich Indonesian Chinese families. “What does your father do?”
And there it is. Nick had met innumerable Jack Bings over the years. Successful, ambitious men who were always looking to make connections with people they deemed worthy. Nick knew that by simply dropping a few of the right names, he could easily impress someone like Jack Bing. Since he had no interest in doing that, he answered politely, “My father was an engineer, but he’s retired now.”
“I see,” Jack said. What a waste of a man. With his height and looks, he could have been a top banker or a politician.
Now he’s either going to dig further about my family, or move on to Rachel’s inquisition. Nick asked out of courtesy, “And what do you do, Mr. Bing?”
Jack ignored Nick’s question and turned his attention to Richie Yang. “So Richie, tell me what you were doing in Chile, of all places. Scouting for more mining companies that your father can acquire?”
Oh very nice—I’ve been deemed inconsequential, and he obviously couldn’t give a damn what Rachel does. Nick chuckled to himself.
Richie, who was staring intently at his titanium Vertu phone, scoffed at Jack’s words. “Good God no! I’m training for the Dakar Rally. You know, that off-road vehicle endurance race? It’s held in South America now—the course starts in Argentina and ends in Peru.”
“You’re still racing?” Carlton piped in.
“Of course!”
“Unbelievable!” Carlton shook his head, his voice laced with anger.
“What? You think I go running home to Mommy after just one little wreck?”
Carlton went red in the face, and he looked like he was about to leap out of his chair and lunge at Richie. Colette placed her hand on his arm and said in a cheery voice, “I’ve always wanted to visit Machu Picchu, but you know I get terrible altitude sickness. I went to St. Moritz last year and got so ill, I could hardly do any shopping.”
“You never told me that! See how you constantly put your life in danger by going to dangerous places like Switzerland?” Mrs. Bing admonished her daughter.
Colette turned to her mother and said in an irritated tone, “It was fine, Mother. Now, who died and made you Jackie Onassis? Why are you wearing those sunglasses in the house?”
Mrs. Bing sighed dramatically. “Hiyah, you don’t know my latest suffering.” She took off her sunglasses and revealed puffy, swollen eyes. “I can’t open my eyes properly anymore. See, see? I think I have this very rare disease called mayo…mayonnaise gravies.”
“Oh, you mean myasthenia gravis,” Rachel offered.
“Yes, yes! You know it!” Mrs. Bing said excitedly. “It affects the muscles around your eyes.”
Rachel nodded sympathetically. “I’ve heard it can be very debilitating, Mrs. Bing.”
“Please, call me Lai Di,” Colette’s mother said, warming up to Rachel.
“You do not have mayonnaise gravy, or whatever you call it, Mother. Your eyes are all swollen because you sleep too much. Anyone would look like that if they slept fourteen hours a day,” Colette said disdainfully.
“I have to sleep fourteen hours a day because of my chronic fatigue syndrome.”
“Another disease you do not have, Mother. Chronic fatigue syndrome does not make you sleepy,” Colette said.
“Well, I’m going to see a specialist for mayonnaise-athena gravies next week in Singapore.”
Colette rolled her eyes and explained to Rachel and Nick, “My mother keeps ninety percent of all the doctors in Asia employed.”
“Well, she’s probably seen quite a few of my relatives, then,” Nick quipped.
Mrs. Bing perked up. “Who are your doctor relatives?”
“Let’s see…the one you might know is my uncle Dickie—Richard T’sien, he’s a GP who has many society clients. No? Then there’s his brother Mark T’sien, an ophthalmologist; my cousin Charles Shang, a hematologist; my other cousin Peter Leong, a neurologist.”
Mrs. Bing gasped. “Dr. Leong? Who shares a clinic in K.L. with his wife, Gladys?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“Aiyah! Small world—I went to see him when I thought I had a brain tumor. And then I went to see Gladys for a second opinion.”
Mrs. Bing began rattling away excitedly to her husband in a Chinese dialect that Nick couldn’t recognize. Jack, who had been listening to Richie describe the special off-road vehicle he was designing with Ferrari, immediately circled back to Nick. “Peter Leong is your cousin. So Harry Leong must be your uncle?”
“Yes, he is.” Now he thinks I’m a Leong. My market value is rebounding again.
Jack eyed Nick with renewed interest. My God, this boy is one of the Leong Palm Oil people! Ranked number three on The Heron Wealth Report’s list of richest families in Asia! No wonder he can afford to be a teacher! “Is your mother a Leong?” Jack asked excitedly.
“No, she’s not. Harry Leong married my father’s sister.”
“I see,” Jack said. Hmm. Family name Young. Never heard of them. This kid must come from the poor side of the family.
Mrs. Bing leaned toward Nick. “What other doctors are in your family?”
“Er…do you know Dr. Malcolm Cheng, the Hong Kong cardiologist?”
“Oh my God! Another one of my doctors!” Mrs. Bing said excitedly. “I went to see him for my irregular heartbeat. I thought maybe I had micro-valve relapse, but it turned out I just needed to drink less Starbucks.”
Richie, who was getting increasingly bored of all the doctor talk, turned to Colette. “When’s dinner?”
“It’s almost ready. My Cantonese chef is making her famous parchment chicken with white truffles.”*1
“Yum!”
“And as a special treat, I’ve also asked my French chef to make your favorite Grand Marnier soufflé for dessert,” Colette added.
“You sure know the way to a man’s heart, don’t you?”
“Only certain men,” Colette said, lifting one eyebrow.
Rachel glanced at Carlton to see how he was reacting to this exchange, but he seemed to be staring intently at his iPhone. He then looked up and nodded quickly at Colette, who caught his gesture but said nothing. Rachel couldn’t decipher what was going on between them.
Wolseley soon announced that dinner was ready, and the party adjourned to the dining room, which was a glassed-in terrace up a short flight of steps overlooking the big reflecting pool. “It’s just a casual family dinner tonight, so I thought we could dine informally on our little air-c
onditioned terrace,” Colette explained.
Of course, the terrace was neither little nor informal. Lining the perimeter of the tennis-court-size space were tall silver hurricane votive lamps filled with flickering candles, and the round zitan-wood dining table that seated eight was elaborately set with “casual” Nymphenburg china. Maids stood at attention behind every chair, waiting as if their life depended on it to help ensure that each guest could properly manage the feat of sitting down.
“Now, before we start dinner, I have a special treat for everyone,” Colette announced. She glanced at Wolseley and nodded. The lights were dimmed, and the first strains of the classic Chinese folk song “Jasmine Flower” began to boom from the outdoor loudspeakers. The trees around the great reflecting pool outside suddenly lit up in brilliant shades of emerald, and the waters of the pool, lit in deep purple, started to churn. Then, as the operatic singing began, thousands of water jets shot up into the night sky, choreographed to the music and morphing into elaborate formations and a rainbow riot of colors.
“My goodness, it’s just like the Bellagio dancing fountain in Las Vegas!” Mrs. Bing squealed in delight.
“When did you have this put in?” Jack asked his daughter.
“They’ve been working on it in secret for months. I wanted it to be ready in time for my summer garden party with Pan TingTing,” Colette proudly explained.
“All this just to impress Pan TingTing!”
“Nonsense—I did this for Mother!”
“And how much is this costing me?”
“Oh—it was much less than you might think. Only around twenty bucks.”
Colette’s father sighed, shaking his head in resignation.
