by Tash Aw
I was touched by the plight of this poor girl, I explained. I am moved by people with extraordinary dreams, and this girl wants to be an astronaut in a country where people yearn only to be bankers and businessmen. I would pay her tuition fees, I said.
“But how?” the woman asked, startled and at a loss for words. “I … you don’t even know me. What could I possibly do to repay you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “This is an act of charity. I, too, was in your daughter’s position, full of dreams, but no one came to help me. Now that I am in a position to change someone’s life for the better, I will.”
“I feel so humbled; I feel at your service,” she continued. If we had not been sitting down, she would have been bowing and scraping. I began to feel quite embarrassed by her over-effusive display of gratitude.
“Please, you’re making me feel uncomfortable. What I am doing is not extraordinary—it should be normal in our world; it should happen more often. Think of it as a just reward for all your hard work. I am …” I paused to find the right words. “I am so impressed by the way you perform your job.”
“You will really do this for a complete stranger?” she continued. “You are an outstanding man. But my colleagues and family will be astonished. How will I explain it to them? Is it possible? Oh, my heavens, I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it. And …” She suddenly looked startled. “What if they think I am corrupt? China is so riddled with that sort of thing these days.”
I explained calmly that there were a number of ways in which I could effortlessly facilitate this transaction. I could have the money paid directly from an account in Geneva and no one would ever know anything. She could simply say her daughter had received a scholarship.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Chao.” She was beginning to cry, dabbing her eyes with a piece of tissue without making any attempt to hide the fact that she was overcome with emotion. “My family and I will forever be indebted to you.”
“Think nothing more of it—say no more, or you will embarrass me.”
“I will forever be indebted to you,” she repeated, ignoring what I had just said.
“Let’s change the subject,” I said, pouring her some tea. “As I said at the start of our conversation, I am quite interested in developing an old landmark building—a project that will help preserve a famous heritage site.”
“Yes, you are such a generous person; you are so admirable.”
“I’ve heard about a place called 969 Weihai Lu—that sounds suitable for me.”
She looked alarmed. “Mr. Chao, 969 Weihai Lu is not possible—it has already been sold. Well, I mean, an agreement in principle has been signed with an overseas developer. Anyway, you don’t want that building—it is too shabby! I will search the records and find you a much better site.”
“Who is to buy 969, then?”
“I’m not sure—I can’t remember.”
“I’ve heard that it is L.K.H. Holdings from Malaysia.”
She looked at me with red eyes and bowed her head. “Yes,” she replied. “It’s supposed to be confidential, but I can confirm that fact to you.”
“Well, that’s a shame, because I really want that site.”
“But, Mr. Chao, there are many other buildings in Shanghai—much better ones!”
I shrugged. “This one has a sort of emotional appeal to me. And, anyway, I hear that company is in trouble. Are you sure they can complete the deal?”
She looked at me for a few moments. “I will check the situation as soon as I get back to the office.”
I signaled for the bill and smiled. “I’m full of admiration for your work. And I’m so excited that your daughter’s future is secured and that she will be able to fulfill all her dreams. It would be such a shame if that didn’t turn out. I would be very sad.”
“If you need any information or help at all, please call me, Mr. Chao,” she said, handing me her name card.
“Please send me your daughter’s details as soon as possible,” I said as I was leaving.
She nodded. “You really are an outstanding, charitable man, Mr. Chao.”
25.
KNOW WHEN TO CUT YOUR LOSSES
PHOEBE DID NOT DARE TO LOOK AT HER PHONE. SHE PUT IT ON “SILENT” mode, but even then, every time she felt it vibrate in her handbag, her stomach would begin to clench, small knots forming in her gut. Looking at her phone really gave her a sick feeling. Walter had left eight voice-mail messages and countless texts, which she now deleted without reading. Luckily, she had not told him exactly where she worked; otherwise, she was sure, he would have come looking for her. It was ten days since their last contact, and he would be very anxious by now.
In the first of the messages she’d listened to, he sounded happy and calm, wanting to know when they were next going to meet. For him, it was as if nothing had happened. In fact, she thought his voice carried more intimacy than before, as if he assumed that their relationship had passed to another level. In the second message, still sounding happy, he signed off by saying, “Okay, well, see you on Sunday as usual. Think you will like the restaurant … sweetheart.” There was a moment’s pause before he said the word—as if he was searching for the right expression or summoning enough courage to say it. His voice quieted slightly as he said it, hurrying the syllables the way teenage boys do when they are afraid or nervous. She felt a darkness rising from her belly and spreading into her chest; it gave her such a sad feeling. She deleted the message at once, but Walter’s low voice remained in her head. Sweetheart. Sweetheart.
She had been avoiding him ever since that night at his apartment. She did not even want to think about what happened, she was so embarrassed. She had gotten drunk on Hennessy X.O, she had not felt well, she had even been a bit teary, though luckily he had not noticed. She had refilled her glass several times, and on one occasion she had heard Walter say, “It’s brandy, not wine; you shouldn’t pour so much.” He said it weakly, his voice surprising her because she thought that he had fallen asleep. He had been stretched out on the bed, his feet dangling over the side, his leather shoes so smooth and clean that they shone in the light of the crystal table lamp. She had stretched out next to him, talking, telling him stuff that made no sense, all sorts of secrets about herself—things she liked, disliked, things that made her sad. She had spoken in long, breathless sentences that ran on and on, tumbling from one subject to another. Once or twice, she knew, she had become agitated; she had lost her temper and lashed out at all the injustices in the world.
She could not remember most of what she’d said, but one or two sentences would come back to her now and then, making her freeze with terror and shame at the things she might have revealed about herself. She recalled saying at one point, “… and my most hated thing of all is when men lie about being married or having a steady girlfriend. If you are already attached, who cares? I can just use you for sexual relations, so why hide it? You think I’ve never experienced casual sex acts with men? Huh! Men always think that women only want love, but do you really think I want love? You truly think I need a man to love me? Hey, big brother, I’m okay by myself, you know.”
She had felt his immobile body next to her, his breathing deep and heavy but steady. By then she had lost her composure, she knew she had. All of what she had learned from her books and practiced over the last nine months in Shanghai had vanished into the early-summer air. She could hear the quality of her voice becoming rough, the coarse nature of her pronunciation creeping through. When she sat up, she felt her shoulders hunch and her back slump, the way lazy girls in rural coffee shops sat while waiting for customers who would never come. She did not have the strength to keep up her perfect posture, so she lay down flat on the bed again. That way at least he would not see the silhouette of a harsh village girl. And she had said, “I only came to this city to find love. I don’t care about the rest; I don’t care about money or handbags or an apartment. All I want is to find someone who will love me and look after me.”
She waited in silence for his response. There was a problem with the automatic dimmer on one of the table lamps—it would light up brightly, casting the room with blinding light, before dimming to near darkness. It really gave Phoebe a sick feeling. Then she realized that his breathing had gotten sharper, noisier. His nose was blocked; he was snoring softly. She got up and turned off all the lights before coming back to bed.
She crept next to him and put her head on his chest. She listened for his heartbeat, which was quick and strong. But then she thought that maybe it wasn’t his heartbeat she was hearing but the pounding in her head, the blood coursing through her temples. She held her breath and tried to locate his heartbeat again, but it was gone—it was like a radio frequency that she had briefly tuned in to but then lost. She could feel only the warmth of his body through his shirt; it was burning, sticky. She realized she was falling quickly into a heavy sleep. It felt as if she were stepping off a cliff, dropping like a stone into warm, dark water.
When she woke up, daylight was flooding the room—the pale golden light in the minutes just after dawn. She found that she had somehow become wrapped up like a steamed dumpling in a blanket, which was gathered around her neck. Walter was asleep on the far side of the bed. His back was turned to her and he was wearing the same clothes as last night. She, too, was fully clothed. She found her shoes on the floor and gathered her handbag before leaving the apartment. She walked for a while before she was able to find a taxi. As the cab sped through the empty streets, she sent Walter a text to say, Unexpected work call—new business proposal, sorry. Even though it was very early in the morning, the day was already warm and she could feel the humidity gathering in the air. She wound down the windows of the taxi and thought, Alcohol really gives me a bad feeling.
Not only was she ashamed at her nonclassy behavior (all her books were clear that excessive consumption of alcohol was a huge barrier to attaining feminine elegance), she was also worried about what she had revealed about herself. She had not only lost face, she had lost control. That was the most worrying aspect of the evening—maybe she had given away too many clues that she was a liar and a fake, an illegal immigrant from a poor background and not the sophisticated girl he thought she was. It was so embarrassing to think that she might have divulged her secrets by accident—she could not be sure of what she had said or how much he had heard. Therefore, she no longer knew how she should behave with him, whether she should be shy or forthright, seductive and sexually wanton, or cool and educated. She spent all her time thinking about it, trying to devise a strategy to cover her lies, but the shame of being revealed for who she really was felt too crushing; it blackened her days completely. Her head felt as if it would explode with all the conflicting thoughts spinning around in her brain.
Of course, her distracted and unstable mood immediately began to affect her work. She tried to hide it, but the other girls noticed her lack of concentration, her fatigue, the way she started nervously every time her mobile phone rang, the way she remained slumped in the office in front of the computer, no longer sitting proudly at the reception or making half-hourly rounds of the spa to check every smallest detail, such as whether the towels had been folded and stacked with the beautiful precision for which their establishment had become famous.
“Phoebe, you must be very tired these days—are you sleeping well?” the girls said. They could not conceal their sly pleasure at her shabby and unprofessional appearance. Once, when she unexpectedly came out to the reception area from the office, she interrupted a whispered conversation between the receptionists: “… and her unwashed hair …” she heard them say, huddled together. When they saw her, they pulled away abruptly and pretended to look through some papers, but they could not suppress their smirks, which remained drawn on their faces even though they had their heads bowed.
Phoebe went straight to the bathroom and locked the door. It was true: Her immaculate styling had evaporated in the heat of the Shanghai summer. Lit by the unforgiving fluorescent bulbs, her complexion looked dry and powdery, her makeup uneven. Her eyes were bloodshot, and when she tried to smile she saw none of her usual radiance, only the beginnings of fine lines along her temples, like the skeletons of frail paper fans. Usually she would go to the salon twice a week to make sure her hair was blown and set exactly as she wanted it, but it was now nearly two weeks since she had been, and the constant heat and humidity that hung in the air had made it flat and damp. Her eyeliner and eye shadow had been applied too thickly. The worst thing was, she didn’t really care.
She tried to reimpose control over the spa. She sat at the reception desk to make sure that all the girls knew she was still the manager, but somehow it did not work. The girls lounged on the silk-covered sofas normally reserved for clients, drinking tea and gossiping. Once, even when there was a client waiting for her treatment, one of the beauticians sat on the other end of the sofa, chatting loudly to her boyfriend on her mobile phone. Two masseuses walked in with their takeaway lunch, the smell of their noodles overpowering the delicate fragrance of the waiting room. Phoebe watched them as they sat down in the guest waiting area, snapping apart their chopsticks and slurping on their iced bubble tea. She could not find the words to reprimand them or move them away. In front of her, on the smooth granite reception counter, the huge bouquet of flowers was beginning to wilt. The water in the vase was turning murky and a bit slimy. It smelled of blocked drains. It should have been changed days ago, but Phoebe could not be bothered.
The girls said, “Poor Phoebe, she got dumped by her boyfriend.” But they were not sad for her; they were happy because she no longer had a rich boyfriend, because she was now just like them. When she was arranging the bathrobes in the laundry room, she heard someone say, “That’s what happens when you go after rich men.”
She began to stretch her lunch breaks, staying out longer and longer until she was spending almost two hours away from the spa. The pavements were sticky with heat, and even in the shade of her special reflective umbrella she could feel the strength of the sun, burning her everywhere she went. As she walked without direction through the streets, she realized that the buildings she had only recently found fascinating and impressive now looked identical in their silvery blandness. Every road, every alley seemed the same to her, empty and unyielding. Around her, everyone was complaining about the heat. There was no air, they said; Shanghai in the summer is really suffocating; it gives us heatstroke. She went into a shaved-ice drinks store she liked—it gave her a nice cooling sensation as she entered the shop, and it was far enough from the spa that none of the girls would want to walk there in this weather. She was sitting there one afternoon when her handphone rang, startling her. When she checked, there was no voice-mail message, just a text from Boss Leong Yinghui, who on a whim, had visited the spa and was shocked to find it in such a sorry condition, obviously due to Phoebe’s neglect and unprofessionalism. Unless there was a good explanation, Phoebe should not expect to be employed there much longer. She was leaving for Beijing but demanded a meeting with Phoebe upon her return. She did not sign the message, but there was no need to—only Boss Leong wrote in language so dry and robotic. Phoebe stared at the message … should not expect to be employed …
But all she could think of was the feeling of dread and sickness that she had experienced when she woke up that morning in Walter’s apartment—the feeling that she had shamed herself and thrown away a golden chance to improve her life status. She could not stop worrying that he now looked down on her.
“You should ring him back,” Yanyan said late that night. She was sitting on the bed eating pumpkin seeds, stopping every few seconds to split one with her front teeth. “That is the only solution. He obviously loves you a lot; he is a really romantic guy.”
“Huh? Romantic? The guy doesn’t even want to kiss me—holding my hand is the highest form of his romantic expression. I want a soul mate, Yanyan, not just some boring … practical guy.”
“In this world, everyone is
always looking for something better. Nothing they have is good enough. As soon as they achieve their goals, they want something more. Always more and more and more.”
Hmph, what would you know, Phoebe thought. Yanyan’s last employment was as an office girl in a baby-food company that went bust because its products were full of silicon, and even that was more than a year ago now—she did not have the right qualifications to lecture Phoebe on ambition.
“This is the problem with China these days, everyone is so arrogant,” Yanyan continued. “No one can take criticism anymore. Look at you, willing to sacrifice love because you lost face. He doesn’t judge you; he knows you are a decent person. You behaved like a slut with him and he didn’t even take advantage of you. I don’t know why you think that’s a loss of face. Just ring him.”
Phoebe turned over and closed her eyes, listening to the sharp splintering noise as Yanyan split open the pumpkin seeds one by one before dropping them into an empty tin. She had not told Yanyan that she was probably going to be fired and that soon they would not be able to eat crabmeat dumplings and Australian grapes, that they would be back to where they were before, unable to pay the rent. “You only want me to get back with him so that he can give you concert tickets.”
Yanyan laughed. “Who doesn’t want to hear Chang Chen-Yue live? You’re really crazy. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me. Anyway, I think my time in Shanghai is over.”
Phoebe sat up and looked at Yanyan. She was still eating her pumpkin seeds, one by one, like a machine in a factory, each movement identical to the last.
“You’re not joking,” Phoebe said quietly.
Yanyan shook her head.
“But where will you go? To … your village?”
Yanyan nodded.
“But you can’t do that, you said there’s nothing there.”
“What else can I do?”
Phoebe got up and sat on the bed next to Yanyan, watching her thin dry fingers cling to each pumpkin seed. “When you first left your village, when you first went out—didn’t you dream of seeing the world? Didn’t you want to make lots of money and achieve great things?”
