Crazy Rich Asians (23 page)

“That’s
kueh pie tee
, a
nyonya
dish. Little tarts filled with jicama, carrots, and shrimp. Try one,” a voice behind
her said. Rachel looked around and saw the dapper man in the white linen suit who
had been sitting next to Nick’s grandmother. He bowed in a courtly manner and introduced
himself. “We never met properly. I’m Oliver T’sien, Nick’s cousin.” Yet another Chinese
relative with a British accent, but his sounded even plummier than the rest.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Rachel—”

“Yes, I know. Rachel Chu, of Cupertino, Palo Alto, Chicago, and Manhattan. You see,
your reputation precedes you.”

“Does it?” Rachel asked, trying not to sound too surprised.

“It certainly does, and I must say you’re much more fetching than I was led to believe.”

“Really, by whom?”

“Oh, you know, the whispering gallery. Don’t you know how much the tongues have been
wagging since you’ve arrived?” he said mischievously.

“I had no clue,” Rachel said a little uneasily, walking out onto the terrace with
her plate, looking for Nick or Astrid but not seeing them anywhere. She noticed one
of Nick’s aunties—the lady in the Chanel suit—looking toward her expectantly.

“There’s Dickie and Nancy,” Oliver said. “Don’t look now—I think they’re waving to
you. God help us. Let’s start our own table, shall we?” Before Rachel could answer,
Oliver grabbed her plate from her hand and walked it over to a table at the far end
of the terrace.

“Why are you avoiding them?” Rachel asked.

“I’m not avoiding them. I’m helping
you
avoid them. You can thank me later.”

“Why?” Rachel pressed on.

“Well, first of all, they are insufferable name-droppers, always going on and on about
their latest cruise on Rupert and Wendi’s yacht or their lunch with some deposed European
royal, and second, they aren’t exactly on your team.”

“What team? I didn’t realize I was on any team.”

“Well, like it or not, you
are
, and Dickie and Nancy are here tonight precisely to spy for the opposition.”

“Spying?”

“Yes. They mean to pick you apart like a rotting carcass and serve you up as an
amuse-bouche
the next time they’re invited to dine in the Home Counties.”

Rachel had no idea what to make of his outlandish statement. This Oliver seemed like
a character straight out of an Oscar Wilde play. “I’m not sure I follow,” she finally
said.

“Don’t worry, you will. Just give it another week—I’d peg you for a quick study.”

Rachel assessed Oliver for a minute. He looked to be in his mid-thirties,
with short, meticulously combed hair and small round tortoiseshell glasses that only
accentuated his longish face. “So how exactly are you related to Nick?” she asked.
“There seem to be so many different branches of the family.”

“It’s really quite simple, actually. There are three branches—the T’siens, the Youngs,
and the Shangs. Nick’s grandfather James Young and my grandmother Rosemary T’sien
are brother and sister. You met her earlier tonight, if you recall? You mistook her
for Nick’s grandmother.”

“Yes, of course. But that would mean that you and Nick are second cousins.”

“Right. But here in Singapore, since extended families abound, we all just say we’re
‘cousins’ to avoid confusion. None of that ‘third cousins twice removed’ rubbish.”

“So Dickie and Nancy are your uncle and aunt.”

“Correct. Dickie is my father’s older brother. But you do know that in Singapore,
anyone you’re introduced to who’s one generation older should be called ‘Uncle or
Auntie,’ even though they might not be related at all. It’s considered the polite
thing.”

“Well, shouldn’t you be calling your relatives ‘Uncle Dickie’ and ‘Auntie Nancy’ then?”

“Technically, yes, but I personally feel that the honorific should be earned. Dickie
and Nancy have never given a flying fuck about me, so why should I bother?”

Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Well, thanks for the crash course on the T’siens. Now,
how about the third branch?”

“Ah yes, the Shangs.”

“I don’t think I’ve met any of them yet.”

“Well, none of them are here, of course. We’re not supposed to
ever
talk about them, but the imperial Shangs flee to their grand country estates in England
every April and stay until September, to avoid the hottest months. But not to worry,
I think my cousin Cassandra Shang will be back for the wedding next week, so you will
get a chance to bask in her incandescence.”

Rachel grinned at his florid remark—this Oliver was such a trip. “And how are they
related exactly?”

“Here’s where it gets interesting. Pay attention. So my grandmother’s eldest daughter,
Aunt Mabel T’sien, was married off to Nick’s grandmother’s younger brother Alfred
Shang.”

“Married off? Does that mean it was an arranged marriage?”

“Yes, very much so, plotted by my grandfather T’sien Tsai Tay and Nick’s great-grandfather
Shang Loong Ma. Good thing they actually liked each other. But it was quite a masterstroke,
because it strategically bound together the T’siens, the Shangs, and the Youngs.”

“What for?” Rachel asked.

“Oh come on, Rachel, don’t play the naïf with me. For the
money
, of course. It joined together three family fortunes and kept everything neatly locked
up.”

“Who’s getting locked up? Are they finally locking you up, Ollie?” Nick said, as he
approached the table with Astrid.

“They haven’t been able to pin anything on me yet, Nicholas,” Oliver retorted. He
turned to Astrid and his eyes widened. “Holy Mary Mother of Tilda Swinton, look at
those earrings! Wherever did you get them?”

“Stephen Chia’s … they’re VBH,” Astrid said, knowing he would want to know who the
designer was.

“Of course they are. Only Bruce could have dreamed up something like that. They must
have cost
at least
half a million dollars. I wouldn’t have thought they were quite your style, but they
do look fabulous on you. Hmm … you still can surprise me after all these years.”

“You know I try, Ollie, I try.”

Rachel stared with renewed wonder at the earrings. Did Oliver really say half a million
dollars? “How’s Cassian doing?” she asked.

“It was a bit of a struggle at first, but now he’ll sleep till dawn,” Astrid replied.

“And where is that errant husband of yours, Astrid? Mr. Bedroom Eyes?” Oliver asked.

“Michael’s working late tonight.”

“What a pity. That company of his really keeps him toiling away, don’t they? Seems
like ages since I’ve seen Michael—I’m beginning to take it quite personally. Though
the other day I could have
sworn
I saw him walking up Wyndham Street in Hong Kong with a little boy. At first I thought
it was Michael and Cassian, but then the little boy turned around and he wasn’t nearly
as cute as Cassian, so I knew I had to be hallucinating.”

“Obviously,” Astrid said as calmly as she could, feeling like she had just been punched
in the gut. “Were you in Hong Kong before
this, Ollie?” she asked, her brain furiously trying to ascertain whether Oliver had
been in Hong Kong at the same time as Michael’s last “business trip.”

“I was there last week. I’ve been shuttling between Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Beijing
for the past month for work.”

Michael was supposedly in Shenzhen then. He could have easily taken a train to Hong
Kong
, Astrid thought.

“Oliver is the Asian art and antiquities expert for Christie’s in London,” Nick explained
to Rachel.

“Yes, except that it’s no longer very efficient for me to be based in London. The
Asian art market is heating up like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I hear that every new Chinese billionaire is trying to get their hands on a Warhol
these days,” Nick remarked.

“Well, yes there are certainly quite a few wannabe Saatchis around, but I’m dealing
more with the ones trying to buy back the great antiquities from European and American
collectors. Or, as they like to say, stuff stolen by the foreign devils,” Oliver said.

“It wasn’t truly
stolen
, was it?” Nick asked.

“Stolen, smuggled, sold off by philistines, isn’t it all the same? Whether the Chinese
want to admit it or not, the true connoisseur-ship of Asian art was outside of China
for much of the last century, so that’s where a lot of the museum-quality pieces ended
up—in Europe and America. The demand was there. The moneyed Chinese didn’t really
appreciate what they had. With the exception of a few families, no one bothered to
collect Chinese art and antiquities, not with any real discernment, anyway. They wanted
to be modern and sophisticated, which meant emulating the Europeans. Why, even in
this house there’s probably more French art deco than there are Chinese pieces. Thank
God there are some fabulous signed Ruhlmann pieces, but if you think about it, it’s
a pity that your great-grandfather went mad for art deco when he could have been snapping
up all the imperial treasures coming out of China.”

“You mean the antiques that were in the Forbidden City?” Rachel asked.

“Absolutely! Did you know that in 1913, the imperial family of China actually tried
to
sell
their entire collection to the banker J. P. Morgan?” Oliver said.

“Come on!” Rachel was incredulous.

“It’s true. The family was so hard up, they were willing to let all of it go for four
million dollars. All the priceless treasures, collected over a span of five centuries.
It’s quite a sensational story—Morgan received the offer by telegram, but he died
a few days later. Divine intervention was the only thing that prevented the most irreplaceable
treasures of China from ending up in the Big Apple.”

“Imagine if that had actually happened,” Nick remarked, shaking his head.

“Yes indeed. It would be a loss greater than the Elgin Marbles going to the British
Museum. But thankfully the tide has turned. The Mainland Chinese are finally interested
in buying back their own heritage, and they only want the best,” Oliver said. “Which
reminds me, Astrid—are you still looking for more
Huanghuali
? Because I know of an important Han dynasty puzzle table coming up for auction next
week in Hong Kong.” Oliver turned to Astrid, noticing that she had a faraway look
on her face. “Earth to Astrid?”

“Oh … sorry, I got distracted for a moment,” Astrid said, suddenly flustered. “You
were saying something about Hong Kong?”

Peik Lin

Wye Mun and Neena Goh were stretched out on teal-colored leather recliners in their
screening room at Villa d’Oro, munching on salted watermelon seeds and watching a
Korean soap opera, when Peik Lin burst into the room.

“Mute the TV! Mute the TV!” she demanded.

“What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” Neena asked in alarm.

“You’re not going to believe where I just came from!”

“Where?” Wye Mun asked, a little annoyed that his daughter had interrupted during
a pivotal moment of his favorite show.

“I just came from Nicholas Young’s grandma’s house.”

“So?”

“You should have seen the size of the place.”

“
Dua geng choo, ah?
”
^*
Wye Mun said.

“
Dua
doesn’t even begin to describe it. The house was huge, but you should have seen the
land. Do you know that there is an
enormous
piece of private land right next door to the Botanic Gardens?”

“Next to Botanic Gardens?”

“Yes. Off Gallop Road. It’s on a street I’ve never even heard of called Tyersall Avenue.”

“Near those old wooden houses?” Neena asked.

“Yes, but this wasn’t one of the colonial houses. The architecture was very unusual,
sort of Orientalist, and the gardens were unbelievable—probably around fifty acres
or more.”

“Bullshit,
lah
!” Wye Mun said.

“Papa, I’m telling you—the property was immense. It was like the
Istana
. The driveway itself went on for miles.”

“Cannot be! Two or three acres I might believe, but fifty? No such thing,
lah
.”

“It was fifty acres
at least
, probably more. I thought I was dreaming. I thought I was in another country.”

“
Lu leem ziew, ah?
”
^†
Neena looked at her daughter in concern. Peik Lin ignored her.

“Show me,” Wye Mun said, his interest piqued. “Let’s see it on Google Earth.” They
walked over to the computer desk in the corner, pulled up the program, and Peik Lin
began searching for the place. As they zoomed in on the topographical screen, she
immediately noticed something amiss in the satellite image.