by Chan Ho-Kei
“You look surprised,” Szeto Wai said, chuckling as he opened the door. Chung-Nam hastily nodded his thanks and got in. The first thing he noticed wasn’t the famous Model S dashboard, which was basically a tablet computer, but that their driver was Doris, the Eurasian woman from the other day.
“Something wrong?” Szeto asked as they shook hands.
“No, no. It’s just my first time in a Tesla.” Chung-Nam was trying hard not to act like a kid in a candy store, staring hungrily at everything around him.
“This model’s pretty snazzy—same horsepower as a sports car, plus four-wheel drive. Shame Hong Kong traffic is so bad, or I could floor it.” Szeto smiled. “You a gearhead?”
“Yes. I can’t afford to own one, but I love checking out the car mags and so on.”
“I see.”
For the next fifteen minutes or so, Szeto Wai talked cars—he had an opinion about everything from the history of auto manufacturing to which models were most cost-effective. The USA really was a nation of car nuts.
“It’s a shame Hong Kong’s so crowded. There’s not enough space for everyone to have cars, like in the States,” said Chung-Nam.
“Life without cars is a snore,” said Szeto, looking smug to be American. “Cars tell you a lot about their owners, just as you can judge a person’s taste from his clothes.”
“Hong Kongers show our personalities through our phones.” Chung-Nam laughed. “We can’t afford cars, so we change our phones like mad. They’re as seasonal as clothes, for us.”
“You have a point. I heard there are seven million people in Hong Kong, but over seventeen million phones. That’s more than two per person! You guys probably change models about as often as real auto freaks in the States do their cars.” He thought about it for a moment. “No, you’re probably much crazier, actually.”
“Ha! It’s much cheaper to get a new phone.”
“True.” Szeto turned to look at the passing scenery. “Well, as long as there’s consumerism, the world’s economy can keep functioning, and investors like me can go on creating wealth.”
Chung-Nam followed his gaze out into Tsim Sha Tsui, to the luxury-brand shops lining Canton Road and their well-heeled customers. This neighborhood was Hong Kong in a nutshell: a place that valued money over humanity. Whether you’d accumulated your wealth by honest hard work or by screwing over other people, riches were what commanded respect. Even if you didn’t agree with this power structure, in order to survive in this society, you had to abide by it. He remembered Hao saying, This city’s about survival of the fittest, fleece or get fleeced.
The car turned onto Peking Road and stopped opposite iSQUARE shopping mall to let Chung-Nam and Szeto Wai out. Doris then turned onto Hankow Road.
“Isn’t she joining us for dinner?” Chung-Nam asked, a little confused.
“This isn’t official business, so Doris doesn’t need to stick around.” Szeto grinned. “Or did you mean you’d rather be on a date with her?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“Nothing wrong if you did.” Szeto laughed brightly. “Doris is an attractive woman. What straight man wouldn’t be interested?”
“Mr. Szeto, are you—with her—” Chung-Nam stammered, uncertain how to ask this tactfully.
“No, she’s just my assistant,” said Szeto, unruffled. “Don’t the Chinese have a saying—rabbits don’t eat grass by their burrows? She’s good at her job, and I definitely don’t want to affect our working relationship or make her less efficient. Besides, I know plenty of hotter women who don’t work for me.”
Chung-Nam couldn’t help thinking of Mr. Lee and Joanne. Clearly Mr. Lee would never achieve the heights of a Szeto Wai.
They walked into iSQUARE and headed for the elevator. When Mr. Szeto pressed 31, Chung-Nam gaped. This mall had all sorts of shops, plus an IMAX cinema, but everything above the twentieth floor was fine dining; the higher the floor, the more expensive the restaurant. These places could cost one or two thousand Hong Kong dollars for a single meal, not something a wage slave like Chung-Nam could afford.
“My treat tonight—don’t argue,” said Mr. Szeto blandly, as if he’d read Chung-Nam’s mind.
“Oh, ah, thank—thank you.” Chung-Nam thought of putting up some token resistance, but his wallet wasn’t up to the task, and he couldn’t risk Mr. Szeto’s suddenly agreeing to let him pay. Better to simply accept. Who knew what exquisite foods awaited him?
The lift doors opened, and they were greeted with a wall of pale yellow rock formations, a very fancy Chinese restaurant entrance that combined Asian and Western styles. The name TIN DING HIN was carved into the stone. Standing behind a counter was a hostess in her twenties. Her tight purple uniform showed off her model-like body, and her features were even more outstanding—it wasn’t hard to see why she’d been chosen to be the first face customers saw on entering.
“Good evening, Mr. Szeto. This way, please.”
With great deference, the hostess led the two men inside. Chung-Nam had never been anywhere this classy, but he guessed that Mr. Szeto must be an honored guest.
When he saw their table, Chung-Nam knew he was right.
They were in a private room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the eastern side of Victoria Harbour. There was enough space for a dozen people, but right now there was only a small square table set for two. Their server was also in purple, and just as stunning.
Chung-Nam silently rejoiced that he’d worn a suit and tie—his normal outfit of shirtsleeves would be far too casual. Mr. Lee had kept up the exhortations to dress suitably and appear professional, probably worried about a surprise visit from Mr. Szeto.
Mr. Szeto gestured for Chung-Nam to sit, and he took the chair farther from the door.
“The lighting here is just right,” said Mr. Szeto. “It’s bright enough, but we can still enjoy the nighttime view. That took skillful design.”
The last rays of the setting sun had coated the skyscrapers on both sides of Victoria Harbour with a sheen of red. Neon lights in all sorts of colors were coming on, setting the stage for the evening. Chung-Nam had read that during the Edo period in Japan, shoguns would look out over cities from their towers as thousands of households slowly lit up. Perhaps this setting was a contemporary version of that ritual, allowing the wealthy to feel as if they ruled over all they surveyed.
The hostess left, and the server offered a menu to Mr. Szeto, but he refused it, turning instead to Chung-Nam. “Is there anything you don’t eat? Seafood, for instance?”
“No.” He shook his head
“That’s good.” He turned back to the server. “Two imperial set meals, please.”
She nodded and politely withdrew. As soon as she stepped out, another long-haired server entered, this one in a black suit and tie.
“What would you like to drink tonight, Mr. Szeto?” she asked, handing him the wine list.
“Mmm …” He put on his glasses and looked. “The Buccella Cabernet Sauvignon 2012, please.”
“Very well.” She smiled and left them.
Mr. Szeto looked as though he’d just thought of something. “Do you drink red wine, Chung-Nam?”
“Yes, of course—though I don’t know much about it, and I haven’t tried it with Chinese food.”
“I thought wedding banquets here usually served wine with the meal. Anyway, I recommend this one—it’s every bit as good as anything from Europe.”
“From Europe? So this isn’t French?” Chung-Nam had thought a billionaire would surely be drinking a French Bordeaux.
“No, it’s American, from Napa Valley. That’s in California, same as Silicon Valley. When Satoshi and I set up Isotope, we had quite a few staff retreats to Napa. It was only a couple of hours by car. Have you been to California?”
“No. Nor anywhere else in North America. To be honest, the farthest I’ve ever gone is Japan.”
“You should go, if you ever get the chance.”
Mr. Szeto was in the middl
e of describing various Californian tourist attractions when the sommelier returned with a dark-colored bottle on which the year 2012 appeared in an artistic font on a white oval, with a red seal above it. The whole thing had an austere feel to it.
“Buccella Cabernet Sauvignon 2012.”
The sommelier held the bottle up for Mr. Szeto to inspect, and when he nodded, she placed it on a side table, pulled out an opener, and carefully removed the cork. A tiny amount went into Mr. Szeto’s glass. He held the ruby liquid up to the light, sniffed it, sipped a little, and nodded.
The sommelier filled Chung-Nam’s glass halfway, then topped up Mr. Szeto’s.
Chung-Nam had never seen red wine handled properly—normally he bought a bottle at the supermarket, brought it home, and gulped it down. Luckily, this was a Chinese meal—he thought. There probably weren’t as many rituals involved. If they were at a French restaurant, he’d be embarrassing himself left and right.
“Go on, try it. I’ve always thought this goes well with Hangzhou cuisine. California wine is more acidic than European, and its unique jamlike taste doesn’t clamor for attention, so it won’t get in the way of the food.”
Chung-Nam took a sip. He had no idea what French wine tasted like, so it was not as if he could make a comparison, but he could tell how rich and delicious it was.
As Mr. Szeto held forth about red wine, the purple-clad waitress came in again with a silver tray and started serving their dinner.
“Hangzhou Dragon Well shrimp.”
Chung-Nam’s only experience of Chinese food was family-style platters. This looked more like a French dinner: tiny dishes containing expertly peeled prawns appetizingly surrounded by a vegetable garnish.
This was followed by course after course of exquisite food: honey-glazed ham, fried stuffed bean curd rolls, West Lake vinegar fish, Dongpo pork belly, and other Hangzhou delights, along with premium seafood that didn’t have much to do with Hangzhou: abalone, sea cucumber, fish maw, complemented by such Western ingredients as black truffle or asparagus in a perfect example of fusion cuisine. Portions were small, the variety endless. It reminded Chung-Nam of Japanese kaiseki, though the order of courses and plating was more like a European meal.
Szeto Wai kept up a stream of bright chatter through the meal, but only around three topics: food, cars, and travel. Chung-Nam wanted very much to know what he’d meant a few days ago when he’d said, You seem like a smart person, but he restrained himself from mentioning GT Net or SIQ Ventures. Bringing up anything work-related would seem desperate. He’d have to wait for Mr. Szeto to broach the subject, then trim his sails according to the wind.
Finally Mr. Szeto brought up their encounter at the Cultural Centre, but from a completely unexpected angle. “Chung-Nam,” he said, nibbling at his bird’s nest dessert and sipping some red wine, “you don’t actually have a good friend who likes classical music, do you?”
“Huh?” Chung-Nam thought he must have misheard.
“You came to the Cultural Centre on your own last Saturday, and you weren’t there to hear the concert.” Mr. Szeto gestured with his wineglass for emphasis, his tone level.
Chung-Nam’s heart was thudding so wildly he wondered if Mr. Szeto could hear it from across the table. Trying to calm himself, he was about to protest that their encounter had been a complete coincidence, but just before opening his mouth, he had a vague sense that this wasn’t the correct answer.
“Uh … yes, I came there to see you.”
“Very good.” Szeto Wai smiled. “That was the right call—you know when to lie and when to tell the truth. The industry is full of bluffing and trickery. That’s never bothered me, but when you know I’ve seen through you, and you insist on keeping up the pretense? That becomes an insult.”
Chung-Nam felt a huge weight lifted off him.
“Another question.” Szeto Wai put down his glass. “This idea of packaging G-dollars and information trading like financial products—that was just some nonsense you made up on the spur of the moment, right? Your company has no such plans?”
Chung-Nam nodded.
“Do you watch football, Chung-Nam? Soccer, not American.”
Why the sudden change of topic? “Not particularly, but I do keep an eye on the UEFA League.”
“And here I was thinking that nine out of every ten Hong Kongers were soccer-mad.” Mr. Szeto grinned. “Then you don’t know the difference between a first-class forward and a regular one?”
Chung-Nam shook his head, not understanding where this was going.
“It’s in the ability to take opportunities as they arise. For instance, let’s say Team A has a forward who gets one goal every ten attempts, while Team B’s forward has a one-in-five rate. Now say there’s a match where each team creates seven opportunities. Team A might manage to get a goalless draw, whereas Team B has a shot at a one-zero win. This is a bit oversimplified, but my point is that a first-rate talent can quickly see the lay of the land, identify where the advantage lies, and make the most of the opportunity. Any forward might get lucky during a particular match and score five or six goals, but a true talent is consistent across an entire league, able to seize every opening. And that’s who an intelligent coach would choose for his first team.”
Szeto Wai paused briefly, then lightly jabbed a finger in Chung-Nam’s direction. “In the whole of your company, you’re the only one with this ability.”
“You’re—You’re too kind.”
“When I picked holes in your business plan and said it might never be profitable, your boss Kenneth couldn’t string a sentence together to defend himself. He clearly can’t think on his feet and has no flexibility at all. Your coworkers were all far too deferential in that very Chinese way—they didn’t dare step forward without the boss giving them leave. The usual mind-set: do nothing and make no mistakes. You were the only one who took action—you understood that I was a big fish and you mustn’t let me get away, even if you had to invent a project out of thin air. You even went on about some ‘proprietary information’ to further pique my interest.”
Szeto Wai was never interested in GT Net, Chung-Nam realized. He was just giving them a hard time to see what they were made of.
“You sounded so confident, I almost fell for it,” Mr. Szeto went on. “If Kenneth’s every thought hadn’t been written on his face, I would have thought that these ‘intelligence stocks’ actually existed. Ridiculous. Let’s be honest—GT’s whole plan is deeply stupid. Gossip will never be a real commodity. You can manufacture infinite amounts of it, but good luck trying to trade that on the open market!”
Chung-Nam almost confessed that Mr. Lee was making him and Hao work day and night to make this ridiculous plan a reality that would be presented to Szeto Wai in half a month. He knew perfectly well that the idea of trading gossip was sheer fantasy, and his chances of producing a coherent report were not great. For the last few days, he and Hao had been stressing out about how to salvage a project that became more obviously lousy the further they got.
“Even though it’s a crazy scheme, I’d still rate your performance that day more than ninety out of a hundred,” said Szeto Wai. “So I carried out a second test, and you didn’t disappoint me. You passed.”
“A second test?”
“Why do you think I started talking about classical music in front of you and said I’d be at the concert on Saturday?”
So this was part of a plan the whole time—and to think Chung-Nam had been smugly congratulating himself on snaring Szeto Wai.
“This meal is my way of congratulating you.” Szeto Wai raised his glass. “When I meet a talent who combines decisiveness, action, and confidence, I always treat them to a good dinner and fine wine. Quite a few of these individuals have become important partners of SIQ.”
Screaming and cheering inside, Chung-Nam felt as if he’d won the lottery. Even though Szeto Wai hadn’t actually promised him anything, he reckoned he’d successfully gotten this tech titan’s attention.
“Don’t get too excited, though,” Szeto Wai went on without waiting for a reply. “I peg the value of this gift to performance. This Buccella cost only two hundred American dollars—that’s about fifteen hundred Hong Kong dollars. I once opened a thousand-dollar bottle for another young person. If you’d come up with a workable idea rather than this nonsense about futures and options, we’d be sitting on the hundredth floor of ICC.”
Indeed, the ICC—or International Commerce Centre, to give it its full name—was the tallest building in Hong Kong. The top eighteen of its 118 floors housed a six-star hotel and a number of exclusive restaurants, all of which cost the earth.
Chung-Nam felt a twinge of regret that he hadn’t come up with a better idea, but that passed in a flash. The main thing was to seize the opportunity presenting itself to him right now. Never mind dinner at ICC, he had bigger dreams. Maybe one day he’d buy the Burj Khalifa!
“Mr. Szeto, how did you know I wasn’t at the Cultural Centre to hear the concert?”
“You haven’t said a single thing about music this evening. If you were going to keep up the lie, you should at least have mentioned it during dinner.” Szeto Wai chuckled. “Anything else you want to know? Ask away!”
“Why did SIQ set its sights on our company? If you really think GT Net will never be profitable, then SIQ has no reason to invest in us. No matter how good my performance is, that doesn’t change.”
“Have you heard of Metcalfe’s law?”
“It’s something to do with the internet, isn’t it?”
“Very good. Metcalfe’s law states that the effect of a telecommunications network is proportional to the square of its users. That means a network with fifty clients is worth twenty-five times as much as one with ten—not five times. This explains why big tech firms are always buying up smaller companies with a similar model. If a firm with fifty clients buys up one with ten, they’ve only increased their customer base by twenty percent, but their value has gone up fifty percent.”
“What does that have to do with GT Net?”
