Five Star Billionaire: A Novel (4 page)

Yes, but only to scold me for tasks I have not done! Come, eat some more!

The next month, Mr. Lin summoned Phoebe to see him as soon as he arrived. He shut the door; the blinds were already down as usual. There was no fruit basket this time, only a small box. He opened it and held out a brand-new mobile phone, the type with no buttons on the screen, just a smooth glass surface. It was something a tycoon’s daughter would have, or a businesswoman. Phoebe didn’t even know how to turn it on.

But I already have a phone.

It’s okay, take it. Tell your friends you won it in a competition.

She held it in her hands, turning it over and over again. She held it up to her face. It was like a mirror—she could see herself in it.

You like it? Mr. Lin was standing next to her, though she had not heard him approach her. He put his hand on her buttock, the palm flat, burning through her jeans. Hours later, she would still feel the imprint of his hot hand on her, leaving its mark where it had stayed for less than half a minute, maybe not even that long.

In the dorm, someone said, What’s happened to your cousin in Hong Kong? No food hamper this month? I think the cousin must have suddenly died and turned into a ghost!

The next day, two Shaanxi girls from the next block were taken away by the police. When Phoebe asked why, one of her dorm mates said it was
because they didn’t have the right papers. They were illegal, and one of them was underage.

But I thought you said this kind of thing doesn’t really matter, that the employer doesn’t ask too many questions, where you’re from and all that, Phoebe said.

Sure, that’s right, her dorm mate replied, smiling. But rules are rules. You can dodge the regulations for so long, but if someone makes a formal report, there’s nothing anyone can do. Half the girls here are lying about something, and most of the time it’s okay. Even if you don’t have a proper
hukou
or your papers are fake, who cares. Only when you step out of line do others make trouble for you. Those girls were unpopular; they were arrogant and made enemies. They thought they were better than everyone else, so what could they expect? It was just a matter of time.

One morning Phoebe came back after a night shift and saw that the poster by her bed had been defaced. The pop singer’s moon-bright complexion had been dotted with acne, and now he wore round black glasses and there were thick cat whiskers sprouting from his cheeks.

Time was running out for Phoebe. From the first moment she set foot in China, she had felt the days vanishing from her life, vanishing into failure. Like the clock she stared at every day at work, her life was counting down the minutes before she became a non-person whom no one would ever remember. As she sat during lunch break on the low brick wall next to the volleyball court, she knew that she had to act now or she would forever be stepped on everywhere she went. The gray concrete dormitory blocks rose up on all four sides of the yard and blocked out the light. There was Cantonese pop music playing from somewhere, and through an open window she could see a TV playing reruns of the Olympics, Chinese athletes winning medals. She watched the high jump for a while. A lanky blond girl failed twice, flopping down heavily on the bar. One more go and she was out. It didn’t really matter, since she wasn’t going to win a medal. Then suddenly she did something that made Phoebe shiver with excitement. For her third and final jump, she asked for the bar to be raised higher than anyone had jumped so far, higher than she had probably ever attained in her whole life. She had failed at lower heights, but now she was gunning for something way beyond her capabilities. She was going to jump all the way to the stars, and even if she failed she could only come
down as far as the lowly position she already occupied. She stood at the end of the runway, flexing her fingers and shaking her wrists, and then she started running, in big bouncy strides. Phoebe got up and turned away. She didn’t want to see what happened; it was not important to her. The only thing that mattered was that the blond girl had gambled.

She took her expensive new phone to a Sichuan girl who traded things in the dorm and sold it for a nice sum of cash. She washed her hair and tied it neatly before going to Boss Lin’s office. She was wearing her tightest jeans, which she usually reserved for her day off. They were so tight that she could not sit down comfortably without them cutting into the tops of her thighs.

Little miss, it’s highly irregular for us to hand out salaries before payday, he said, but he was already looking for the number of the accounts department.

Come on, it’s almost the end of the month—only a week to go. Phoebe twirled her hair and inclined her head the way she had noticed other girls doing when they talked to the handsome security guards. Anyway, she laughed, our relationship is a bit irregular, don’t you think?

Foshan, Songxia, Dongguan, Wenzhou—she was going to bypass them all. Her bar was going to be raised all the way to the sky. There was only one city she could go to now, the biggest and brightest of them all.

THE GIRL AT THE
next table was still reading her magazine, her boyfriend still sending messages on his iPhone. Sometimes he would read a message aloud and laugh, but the girl would not respond; she just continued to page through her magazine. He looked up at Phoebe, for only a split second, and at first Phoebe thought he was scowling in that familiar look-down-on-you expression. But then she realized that he was squinting because of the light. He hadn’t even noticed her.

The girl’s mobile phone rang and she began to rummage in her handbag for it, emptying out its contents on the table. There were so many shiny pretty things—lipstick cases, key rings, and also a leather diary, a pen, stray receipts, and scrunched-up pieces of tissue paper. She answered the phone and, as she did so, stood up and gathered her things, hastily replacing them in her bag. Her boyfriend was trying to help her, but she
was frowning with impatience. A five-
mao
coin fell to the floor and rolled to Phoebe’s feet. Phoebe bent over and picked it up.

“Don’t worry,” the boy said over his shoulder as he followed his girlfriend out. “It’s only five
mao
.”

They had just left when Phoebe noticed something on the table. Half hidden under a paper napkin was the girl’s ID card. Phoebe looked up and saw that they were still on the pavement, waiting for a gap in the traffic in order to cross the road. She could have rushed out and called to them, done them a huge favor. But she waited, feeling her heart pound and the blood rush to her temples. She reached across and took the card. The photo was bland; you couldn’t make out the cheekbones that in real life were so sharp you could have cut your hand on them. In the photo, the girl’s face was flat and pale. She could have been any other young woman in the room.

Outside, the boy was leading the girl by the hand as they crossed the road. She was still on the phone, her floppy bag trailing behind her like a small dog. The skies were clear that day, a touch of autumn coolness in the air.

With a paper napkin, Phoebe wiped the bread crumbs off the card and tucked it safely into her purse.

E
VERY BUILDING HAS ITS OWN SPARKLE, ITS OWN IDENTITY. AT
night, their electric personalities flicker into life and they cast off their perfunctory daytime selves, reaching out to one another to form a new world of ever-changing color. It is tempting to see them as a single mass of light, a collection of illuminated billboards and fancy fluorescent bulbs that twinkle in the same way. But this is not true; they are not the same. Each one insists itself upon you in a different way, leaving its imprint on your imagination. Each message, if you care to listen, is different.

From his window he could see the Pudong skyline, the skyscrapers of Lujiazui ranged like razor-sharp Alpine peaks against the night sky. In the daytime, even the most famous buildings seemed irrelevant, obscured by the perpetual haze of pollution; but at night, when the yellow-gray fog thinned, Justin would sit at his window watching them display boastfully, each one trying to outdo the next: taller, louder, brighter. A crystal outcrop suspended high in the sky, shrouded by mist on rainy days; a giant goldfish wriggling across the face of a building; interlocking geometric shapes shattering into a million fragments before regrouping. He knew every one by heart.

Buildings were in his DNA, he sometimes thought. They had given him everything he ever owned—his houses, his cars, his friends—and
even now, they shaped the way he thought and felt. The years were rushing past, whatever he had left of his youth surrendering to middle age, yet bricks and mortar
—real estate
—remained a constant presence. When he revisited his earliest memories, trying to summon scenes of family life—his mother’s protective embrace, perhaps, or praise from his father—the results were always blank. They were present in his memories, of course, his parents and grandmother, hovering spectrally. But, just like in real life, they were never animated. All he could see and smell were the buildings around them, the structures they inhabited: cold stone floors, mossy walls, flaking plaster, silence. It was a world from which there had been no escape. A path had been laid down for him, straight and unbending. He had long since given up hope of departing from this track, indeed could not even remember any other option—until he came to Shanghai.

The summer of ’08 had been notable for its stillness, the unyielding humidity that lay trapped between the avenues of concrete and glass. He had arrived in Shanghai expecting a temperate climate, but summer had stretched far into September, and the pavements were sticky with heat, the roads becoming rivers of exhaust and steam. Even in his gated compound in Pudong, with its American-tropic-style lawns and palm-filled gardens, the air felt lifeless.

He had known little about Shanghai and assumed that it would consist solely of shopping malls and plastic reproductions of its history, its traditional life preserved in aspic, as it was in Singapore, where he went to school, or else inherently Third World, like in Malaysia, where he grew up. It might be like Hong Kong, where he had begun his career and cemented his reputation as an unspectacular yet canny businessman who would hold the reins steady as head of the family’s property interests. Whatever the case, he had assumed he would find it familiar—he had spent his life in overcrowded, overbuilt Asian cities, and they were all the same to him: Whenever he looked at a tower block, he saw only a set of figures that represented income and expenditure. Ever since he was a teenager, his brain had been trained to work in this way, calculating numbers swiftly, threading together disparate considerations such as location, purpose, and yield. Maybe there was, in spite of everything, a beauty in the incisiveness of his thinking back then.

But, in fact, during those initial few weeks it was not easy for him to get any sense of Shanghai at all. His driver picked him up at his house and
drove him to a series of meetings relieved only by business lunches, each day finishing with the soon-familiar flourish of a banquet. He lived in a development called Lisson Valley, which was owned by his family. This, together with a more modest development in Hongqiao and a condominium block in Xintiandi, was all that his family owned in the largest city in China, and they had decided that they needed to expand, which was why he had been sent here. They had spent a hundred years in Malaysia and Singapore, and now they needed to branch out in a serious way—like the great Jewish families of Europe in the nineteenth century, his father had explained, as if the decision needed to be justified. On the annual
Forbes
list of billionaires, his family’s business was listed as
Henry Lim and Family—Diversified Holdings
. It always made him wince, the term “diversified”: The lack of specificity carried with it an accusation, as if the source of the wealth they had amassed was uncertain and, most probably, unsavory.

“You’re too sensitive,” his father had chided him when he was young. “You need to grow out of it and toughen up. What do you care what other people think?”

It was true: What other people thought was entirely irrelevant. The family insurance firm, established in Singapore in 1930, had not only survived but prospered during the war and was one of the oldest continuous companies in Southeast Asia. The original company had extended its reach over the years, diversifying into property, shipping, and, recently, “environmental services,” a lucrative business in the waste-producing economies of Asia these days. By any reckoning his family now counted as “old money,” one of those overseas Chinese families that had risen, in little over a century, from dockside coolies to established billionaires. Every generation built on the achievements of its predecessor, and now it was his turn: Justin C. K. Lim, eldest son of Henry Lim and heir to the proud, vibrant legacy of L.K.H. Holdings, established by his grandfather.

Property clairvoyant. Groomed from a young age to take over the reins of the real estate divison of LKH. Steady hands. Wisdom beyond his years
.