Five Star Billionaire: A Novel (52 page)

The first noise they heard was strange and unrecognizable, as if disconnected from time and space: firecrackers at this time of the year? No way: not the usual rapid chatter but a single sound that punctured the silence of the night with the violence of a whip on flesh, the shattering of a sound barrier by a jet in the sky. The dog barking. And then—one, two, three seconds later?—another noise, and this time they knew. She had never heard a gunshot before, but somehow Yinghui recognized it. The dog was barking furiously now—not its low, lazy calls but a hysterical high-pitched yelp, as if choking, over and over, as if it would never stop. Yinghui ran out the door into the front yard, across the small stretch of lawn—the last bit of the garden that hadn’t been built over—and onto the driveway. She could hear her mother behind her, screaming,
“Be careful, come back, be careful.”
Her father lay on the concrete, facedown, hands bunched together near his face, as if searching for some microscopic object in the earth. In the darkness, the pool of blood that was seeping out under him appeared black and inky against the paleness of the concrete. She looked around, but she knew that she would see no one, knew that she was not in danger, knew that this was the full stop in the messy story that had spanned the whole of the last year, the one everyone referred to as “the scandal.” She crouched down next to her father, thinking that maybe she might hear gurgled, frothy breaths. She could feel the blood—tepid and moist on her hands and ear. She could feel the warm presence of her father’s body, as if he were still alive. But she could hear nothing. Just the dog barking,
crazed and strangulated; her mother standing at the door to the house, shouting,
“Come back, be careful,”
over and over again. The word “careful” was stretched by her low cries; it rang out in the night, care
fuuuuul
, care
fuuuuuuuuul
. And then her mother was sobbing, a deep moaning sob.

And Yinghui thought: It was better this way. It felt like a relief. She remained crouched by her father’s side for a long time, knowing he was dead, comforted by the certainty of it. She did not shout out, “Call for an ambulance,” the way people did in films; she just stayed there, bunched up next to her dead father, listening to her mother’s animal wail settling into a rhythm. And the fat German shepherd barking its hysterical bark, its owners unable to calm it.

Why did they do it? Her mother would ask that question over and over again in the days that followed. He was already ruined; his life was over. They didn’t have to kill him twice. What had he done that was so wrong? He had never hurt anyone; he never hurt anyone in his whole life.

The newspapers adopted the same tone: He was a good, hardworking man who left behind a grieving wife and daughter. There were photos of Yinghui holding her mother’s arm after the funeral, her mother’s face collapsed in anguish; in her pain, she was oblivious to the cameras. It was always like this with Asian people, thought Yinghui: When a man is alive, he is vilified; when he is dead, he is honored. And yet, every time there was an article about his death, there was a little line right at the end of the piece, a footnote to his life:
In the last year of his life, he was involved in a lengthy court case arising from accusations of corruption, but was acquitted of all the main charges
. It was a case of footnotes being more important than the book itself, and Yinghui could not ignore the barb in these throw-away comments, as if every article about him was designed to rob him of all the respect he had wanted, all the respect he had accumulated throughout his life.

“I honestly can’t remember all the details,” Yinghui said, feeling the warmth of Walter’s body; his shirt was getting damp with sweat, for even though it was late, the night was still warm. “It was all so long ago.”

S
ome months ago I had a very interesting meeting with a highly principled young woman who works in the planning department of Shanghai Municipal Council. She is a bright, educated person in her early forties who, in a few years’ time, might easily be the mayor of this great metropolis. But for now she is not yet even the head of the department; she is only one of the deputy heads, with a particular responsibility for preservation and heritage—a thankless task if ever there was one: Look at all the relentless development going on across the city! Nonetheless, she does her job admirably, for she is good with details and vigorous in her approach. She is a
touch
unimaginative, I might add, unwilling to take risks beyond the strict confines of her job. But, still, those are qualities that make her admired in her post, and I daresay she will be head of her division within the next year.

I got her name from local contacts of mine who thought I would find her interesting, given my record of involvement with conservation and my present interest in sustainable development. So I invited her for a business lunch at a quiet restaurant, and I must say, I left the meeting feeling more than satisfied.

She has a daughter who is seventeen and brilliant in her studies, she explained to me over lunch. This young girl has been top of her class every year since the age of ten and dreams of going to Stanford, where she has already won a place. Congratulations! I cried; you must be very happy. But why do you seem sad and worried?

Well, the woman replied, it is because I can’t afford to send her there; tuition fees in the United States are just too expensive.

It turns out that this noble woman is married to a rather feckless petty businessman, who was pampered by his parents and has a tendency to gamble away his earnings in Macau. He recently went to the newly opened casino in Singapore and lost RMB 40,000 of their savings. Even with her respectable salary, there is no way they can afford to send their daughter to the States.

I sighed. This sort of situation is so common in China these days—a woman battling the odds while accommodating a deadweight of a husband.

“Maybe I could help,” I said.

She looked at me, at once confused and hopeful.

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.”

P
HOEBE 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.