*1 The literal translation is “pull vehicle,” but this Hokkien term refers to rickshaw pullers or anything that is deemed low class. (Of course, Michael has never been to Manhattan, where pedicab drivers tend to be out-of-work male models who charge more than Uber Black Cars.)
*2 “Real or fake?” in Hokkien.
*3 Literally “My cock!,” this Hokkien swear is comparable to the American “Fucking hell!”
*4 Pork belly cooked in soy sauce, a simple Hokkien dish.
10
THE BINGS
SHANGHAI
Nick, Rachel, Carlton, and Roxanne stood on the wide stone steps of the Bing estate, watching Colette give a warm hug to the man that had just stepped out of the convoy of SUVs.
“Who’s that?” Nick asked Roxanne.
“Richie Yang,” Roxanne replied, before adding in a whisper, “one of Colette’s suitors, who’s based in Beijing.”
“He’s rather dressed up for tonight.”
“Oh, he is always very fashionable. Noblest Magazine ranked him the best-dressed man in China, and his father is ranked the fourth richest man in China by The Heron Wealth Report, with a net worth of US$15.3 billion.”
A short, slight man in his early fifties emerged from the armored SUV. His face had a slightly punched-in look, something that his neatly trimmed Errol Flynn mustache only served to accentuate. “Is that Colette’s father?” Nick asked.
“Yes, that is Mr. Bing.”
“What’s he ranked?” Nick asked in jest. He found these rankings to be rather ridiculous and more often than not wildly inaccurate.
“Mr. Bing is ranked fifth richest, but The Heron is wrong. At current share prices, Mr. Bing should be ranked higher than Richie’s father. Fortune Asia has it correct—it ranks Mr. Bing at number three,” Roxanne said earnestly.
“What an outrage. I should write a letter to The Heron Wealth Report to protest the error,” Nick joked.
“Oh no need, sir, we already have,” Roxanne replied.
Mr. Bing helped a woman with shoulder-length bouffant hair, dark-tinted sunglasses, and a blue surgical mask over her face out of the car.
“That’s Mrs. Bing,” Roxanne whispered.
“I figured. Is she ill?”
“No, she is just an extreme germaphobe. This is why she spends most of her time on the Big Island of Hawaii, where she thinks the air is freshest, and why this estate has a state-of-the-art air-purifying system.”
Everyone watched as Colette gave her parents polite half hugs, after which the maid bearing the chest of hot towels prostrated herself in front of them as if she were offering gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Colette’s parents, who wore matching navy blue cashmere Hermès tracksuits, took the steaming towels and began wiping their hands and faces methodically. Mrs. Bing then stretched out her hands, and another maid rushed up and squirted hand sanitizer onto her eager palms. After they had finished, Wolseley offered his greetings, and then Colette gestured for the group to approach.
“Papa, Mama, meet my friends. You know Carlton, of course. This is his sister, Rachel, and her husband, Nicholas Young. They live in New York, but Nicholas is from Singapore.”
“Carlton Bao! How is your father doing these days?” Colette’s father said as he clapped him on the back, before turning to Nick and Rachel. “Jack Bing,” he said, shaking their hands vigorously. He eyed Rachel with much interest, saying in Mandarin, “You look unmistakably like your brother.” Colette’s mother, by contrast, did not extend her hands but nodded quickly as she peered at them from behind her surgical mask and Fendi sunglasses.
“Richie’s plane was parked next to ours when we landed,” Jack Bing said to his daughter.
“I just flew in from Chile,” Richie explained.
“I insisted he join us for dinner,” Colette’s father said.
“Of course, of course,” Colette said.
“And look who’s here—Carlton Bao, the man with nine lives!” Richie cracked.
Rachel noticed Carlton’s jaw tense up the same way hers did whenever she was annoyed, but he laughed politely at Richie’s comment.
Everyone made their way into the grand salon. Upon entering, they were met by a man who Rachel thought looked rather familiar. He stood by the door bearing a tray that held a sparkling decanter and a freshly poured glass of scotch. It suddenly dawned on her that she had seen him at Din Tai Fung, where he had been introduced as the sommelier. She realized now that the Frenchman didn’t work for the restaurant—he was the Bings’ personal master sommelier.
“Would you care for the twelve-year-old sherry to welcome you home, sir?” he said to Mr. Bing.
Nick had to bite his tongue to keep from cracking up—the man sounded like he was offering Colette’s father