Five Star Billionaire: A Novel (56 page)

“There’s nothing I can do right now,” Justin protested at yet another meeting with his father and Sixth Uncle. “There’s too much bad publicity. No investor wants to touch the place. We just need to let the fuss die down, then we’ll see.”

“You shouldn’t have let it get to this stage,” his father said. “A sleeping site like that is costing millions in lost revenue.”

“You’re too soft,” said Sixth Uncle. “You need to harden up.”

“And do what?” Justin retorted. He thought of Yinghui, of how she would react if he could find some way of preserving the cinema—what would she say when, one evening, he casually announced that he had convinced the family to restore the cinema to its former glory? If he could delay plans for development as long as possible, surely his family would lose interest.

One evening he stopped in at Angie’s, where he knew he would find Yinghui and C.S., along with the general air of hostility that seemed to greet him there those days. It was late, and the closed sign had long since been hung on the door, but they were still sipping green tea and listening to Tom Waits. On the daily notice board, the triumphant front page of that day’s
New Straits Times
had been pinned up like a trophy: “Town Hall Delays Decision on New Cathay Cinema”—a stay of execution, following a huge petition organized by Yinghui and her friends.

“Here comes your property-magnate brother,” Yinghui said to C.S. as Justin sat down with them. “How’s the heritage-destruction business these days?”

“Sweetie, drop it for tonight, okay?” C.S. said. “We’re drinking oolong—want some, bro?”

“Sure,” Justin said. “I’ve just been at a meeting with Dad and Sixth Uncle. I’m so tired.”

“Vandalism is tiring business,” Yinghui said, turning the pages of her magazine without looking up.

“Actually, they’re pissed off at me for not doing anything with the New Cathay. I had to tell them—the whole business isn’t really my cup of tea.”

“Yeah?” Yinghui poured Justin a cup of tea from the small earthenware teapot C.S. had placed on the table. It was incised with a fine drawing of a blade of wheat—a ghost of a shadow, barely noticeable. “Then tell them that there’s no deal to be made.”

C.S. pretended to read his paper—the
London Review of Books
, Justin noticed; every time C.S. felt uncomfortable, he would engage in earnest reading to extract himself from the conversation. It was his default setting.

Justin sipped from the tiny porcelain cup. “You know it’s not that easy with my family, but to tell you the truth,” he lowered his voice, “I am pretty sure I’ll manage to find a way to save the cinema. Please don’t go telling all this to your friends and publishing stuff in the papers. I’m telling you this in confidence, as my brother’s soon-to-be fiancée, not as a random journalist, campaigner, or whatever you are these days.”

Yinghui looked at him and nodded. She refilled his cup. “Sure. Are you serious?”

Justin nodded.

“Listen, did C.S. tell you we’re going to the seaside this weekend? We’re going to fill the family house down there with a bunch of friends. Talk about abandoned old houses—that place hardly gets used. Why don’t you come along too?”

C.S. stood up and ran his hand through Yinghui’s hair. He stretched, yawning, and said, “Yeah, come.” She reached back and gently touched his hands as he stood behind her, massaging her shoulders for a few moments. She closed her eyes and let her chin fall to her collarbone, a faint smile imprinted on her face.

C.S. said, “I gotta take a piss—too much tea.”

That weekend, Justin drove down to Port Dickson on his own. Yinghui and C.S. had already gone there with another couple to set the house up—open the shutters, sweep the veranda, raise the bamboo blinds, make the beds. When he arrived, he found them on the sandy lawn that ran down to the beach; they had brought out the old rattan chairs and were sitting in the scant shade of the coconut trees, sipping cold drinks and listening
to P. Ramlee songs playing from a small portable stereo. The day was overcast, the sun warm but barely visible. Yinghui was on a hammock strung between two trees, fanning herself with a broad-brimmed straw hat.

“Look, it’s Eldest Brother himself,” she said when she saw him. She struggled to get out of the hammock, then came over and greeted him with a touch of her hand on his elbow. In his chinos and long-sleeved shirt, he felt overdressed and stiff—the others were in shorts and T-shirts; C.S. was shirtless, the razor-sharp lines of his ribs and his haunches giving him the appearance of a sixties’ hippie after a month in an ashram, a look accentuated by his long hair, which made his head seem out of proportion with his body—all he needed was a beard, Justin thought.

“Sorry, I’ve just come from the office,” Justin said, undoing the top button of his shirt as he sat down.

“But it’s Saturday afternoon—you must be very busy,” said a Malay girl whom Justin did not recognize. She had a small, oval-shaped face and was wearing a T-shirt that said
LOVE HATE
over bright pink shorts.

“Didn’t you know?” Yinghui said, pouring Justin some iced lemon tea. “Justin’s working to save the New Cathay.”

“Really?” There was a murmur of excitement, soft exclamations of approval.

“No, well, yes,” Justin began. “I’m working on it. There’s still a long way to go—you know what things are like in Malaysia. Bureaucracy, the whole system, you know …”

“Bureaucracy? You mean corruption! But well done, man.”

“
Ya
, man, we’re proud of you,” the Malay girl’s boyfriend said. Justin recognized him; Tony Ramakrishnan was a contemporary of C.S.’s at St. John’s. When Tony was small, he used to wet the bed every time he stayed over, even when he was ten or eleven—anxiety, Justin’s mother had said; now he was six feet one, Oxford-educated, and recently qualified as a criminal lawyer. “People like us, we have to take a stand. Funny, I always thought of you as a real establishment figure, but actually you’re a pretty cool guy—you’re one of us.”

Yinghui laughed. “You know these Lim boys—full of hidden depths.” She looked at Justin as she climbed back into the hammock, her legs scrabbling awkwardly as she hauled herself up.

Time—how it expands to fill the spaces you create; how it makes meager
experiences seem never-ending. Whenever he heard people talk about the ravages of time, about how it robbed and deprived, Justin always smiled, because for him, time was always an accomplice, plugging the gaps and fleshing out morsels of memory so that he would have something substantial to hang on to later. That way, however little he had seen or felt, he would always feel as if he had more: a life far richer than the truth.

Later that afternoon, they went swimming. The sea was warm and gray, and there was flotsam in the water—small pieces of driftwood, rafts of casuarina needles, plastic bottles. There must have been a storm out at sea, someone said: Everything was churned up. The boys had had a few beers; Yinghui was the only girl who’d joined them in drinking, but the alcohol had made her silent, not raucous. She swam on her own, breast-stroking placidly with her head above the low waves. They swam for an hour, perhaps, until dusk began to settle, an unshifting cloud dampening the colors of sunset. But, in Justin’s mind, that relatively brief time spent floating in a warm sea swelled and expanded over the years and now seemed like hours and hours, stretching into eternity. Any remark she made—a compliment on his powerful swimming stroke, his unexpected grace in the water, the fact that his skin seemed to tan easily or that the turtles on his shorts were kind of cute, offhand comments, blithely delivered over the foamy wash of the waves—seemed rich with meaning, even though she meant nothing, he knew that. She might have said the same thing to everyone present, but time made those compliments belong entirely to him.

They stayed up late that night, chatting about how they were going to save their country. They had a vision of how the future should be. But how their vision would shift: They could not know that, in planning so assiduously, they’d failed to take into account that they would change. Tony Ramakrishnan would eventually abandon the criminal bar to set up a telecommunications company with a former client of his, supplying satellite-TV and mobile-phone services to 80 percent of the country; his pretty Malay girlfriend would soon be discovered by a new TV channel and become a celebrity, famous for being famous. C.S. would end up running the family firm when it was on its last legs, trying in vain to save it from total collapse, spending his days looking over accounts and spreadsheets he could not understand, married to a wife who had fallen in love with him
because of the lifestyle he once represented but now didn’t, their marriage permanently alternating between states of boredom and semi-separation; they would stay together only for the sake of their two young children and because they lacked the youth and courage to start afresh with anyone else. Yinghui would go to Shanghai, where she would, against all odds and contrary to everyone’s expectations, become a businesswoman—a job description she once described as worse than a death sentence. And Justin—he would meet a sad fate; “gone a bit loco,” people would say. Or, as the more polite put it,
“he opted out of the system.”

At around 1:00
A.M
. they began to tire. They had promised to stay up to witness the dawn, but the beer had taken its toll and, slumped in their deep rattan armchairs, they began to doze. Yinghui was snoring gently with her mouth open, her head thrown back, face to the night sky. C.S. was fidgeting as he tried to find a comfortable position, pulling his knees up to rest his feet on the chair. Justin tried to fight the weight of slumber, but eventually he, too, fell asleep, and when he opened his eyes no one was there. The chairs were empty, the kerosene lamps that had lit their little circle gone; the lawn was dark, bounded by the silhouettes of the coconut trees that ran parallel to the beach.

The house, too, was dark—Justin had no clue as to who was sleeping in which room. He stood up and began to walk down to the beach. He was tired but did not want to go back into the house and stumble around trying to locate his room, waking everyone up in the process. He walked along the beach, tracing the line where the waves washed onto the shore. Even in the dark, this stretch of the coast was familiar to him, as if illuminated in permanent daylight. He had known it ever since he was a small child—with his eyes shut, he knew where the fine sand became studded with seashells before turning briefly to gravel; he knew where the lines of fishing boats were tethered to a row of coconut trees; he knew where the rocky barriers jutted out into the water, knew the best places to clamber over them. He walked for a long time, until he was far from the house and could see it from the other end of the bay. Framed by low hills, it looked the same as it always had. He had spent the whole evening talking about change, and yet it was familiarity that moved him, he thought.

He decided he would walk home along the road. He would have to cut through a small coconut plantation to reach it—a place he had been forbidden to enter when he was a child, because it had for a while become
known as a gathering place for drug users. It was overgrown with low shrubs, but its paths were still clear enough, even at night, and he had no trouble easing his way through the vegetation. He was just approaching the run-down
attap
hut in the middle of the grove when he saw two people standing in its shadows. One of them remained close to the shack, the other kept pulling away before drifting slowly back to the first person, their T-shirts gleaming a ghostly white in the gloom. Justin crouched down behind some bushes. Even from a distance he could tell that the person leaning against the hut was his brother—the movement of his arms, the way he inclined his head to kiss the other person: C.S.’s traits were unmistakable. Gradually the other person ceased to move away from C.S. but remained close to him, their forms becoming indistinct. Justin looked at the ground, at the black earth under his feet. He was trapped—any movement would alert the amorous couple. Eventually the other person walked away swiftly, down another path that led to the beach. As she passed not ten paces away from Justin, he saw that she was the pretty Malay girl, Tony Ramakrishnan’s girlfriend, picking her way doelike through the shrubs. Ten long minutes later, C.S. made his way in the opposite direction, toward the road, where Justin had been heading.

Justin waited, crouched in the dark. Long after C.S. had gone, he was still there, motionless, as if he had done something wrong—which was ridiculous, he thought. Yet he was incapable of moving. Eventually he turned back and made his way to the beach, walking as slowly as he could. By the time he arrived at the house, the inky sky was beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn appearing.

He sat on the sand in front of the lawn. The waves seemed stronger now, as if enthused by the prospect of dawn; a westerly wind blew across them, rippling their crests. He heard footsteps approaching, the creaking of the low gate that led from the lawn to the beach. He turned around and saw Yinghui walking toward him.

“I didn’t think anyone else would be awake,” she said. “Everyone said they would be up to watch the sun rise, but I think it’s going to be only you and me. Don’t think C.S. is going to make it—he just stumbled into bed not long ago. Guess you guys have been chatting all night long.”

Justin nodded. “Yes. You know, brotherly stuff.”

“That’s what he said—shooting the breeze and all that. It’s good for him to chat with you. Sometimes I think you guys are so different that you
have nothing in common, but I guess brothers always have a lot to talk about—especially now.”

Justin shrugged.

“Will you get into huge trouble with your family for saving the New Cathay?” she asked after a while. She was rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands, but when she looked at him she seemed alert, her gaze steady, patiently awaiting his response, as usual.

“I’m going to try to find a way to please everyone,” Justin said. “There’s got to be a solution that will appease them while saving the cinema.”