Downfall, p.3
Downfall, page 3
“Unless we are careful, women are always victims.”
Mark is uncomfortable with the subject and does not pursue the thought. She has taken him by surprise. Although Sulin is well-connected, it had never occurred to him she is perhaps politically inclined or may have an unseen agenda.
A knock on the door breaks the tension in the room. Sulin does not get up. The waiter enters, tea is laid out, and when the man leaves, Sulin is again light and happy.
“Pour my tea.”
He does so and offers her a cup. She leans on one arm, watching him over the rim.
“Do not look so serious, my Mark. I should not have given life to memories that do not serve any longer.”
Setting aside the tea, one by one, she lifts each leg and slowly slips off her black stockings. Mark watches as she kneels in the middle of the bed and slides her dress over her head.
She turns her back to him. “Unhook me.”
In a moment, Mark has undone her flimsy bra. She dangles it down her back waving it toward him, in an unusually playful gesture.
“Come, why are you waiting? Make love to me.”
Sulin Wang is a hungry lover—or at times, she is. There are moments when it seems she cannot assuage whatever she is wrestling. But when she, at last, relaxes, with small whispers of ecstasy, and changes in her breathing, it thrills him to know he is the one responsible.
Her focus is on release and satisfaction. From the first coupling, she shows Mark she abhors spooning, stroking, and cooing. Now, after her orgasm, Sulin turns on to her back and hyper-focuses on the ceiling.
“I was born in Shanghai,” she says. “We have the first foreign building, the first Western pharmacy, the first Western department store, and…” she pauses and wraps her knuckles on the bedside table, “one of the oldest cocktail bars in China, the Long Bar, founded in 1861 as a gentlemen’s-only club, at the Waldorf-Astoria.
“In the 1920s and 30s—its heyday—it was the most exclusive club in Shanghai. Let’s go get drinks, and I’ll show you.”
He would prefer to stay in bed, but Mark accepts Sulin is attracted by anywhere once forbidden to her.
She wants—no, she needs—to break boundaries and rules.
They wander along the Bund, past a newly married couple posing for photos. It is busy on the street but quiet when they enter the hotel.
“On the second floor is the world’s longest bar. It measures over 100 feet—raw mahogany.”
A soft-shoed man leads them to a table with plush seating. It is what Mark expected. He spots a raw oyster bar along the west end of the bar, and behind the bartender, a selection of rare whiskeys. Many from distilleries he has not heard of.
“I’ll have a cocktail,” Sulin says, and as if she has conjured them from nowhere, three men Mark met in Hong Kong join them. Inwardly, he groans. He had hoped for an evening with just the two of them.
Whisky is served, the waiter is submissive, almost obsequious, and Mark again questions who these men are. One thing is obvious: they are well known locally.
Although the men are polite and smile often, Mark senses the smile does not reach their eyes or their hearts. Conversation is stilted. One of them, WeiYang, educated at Oxford, speaks perfect, beautifully accented English.
“Import, export, and business have always been the bread and butter of the locals,” he says.
WeiYang is matter-of-fact in sharing information. No hint of pride in his delivery. He simply states facts.
“Since early in the 19th century, our port location allowed the city to flourish faster than other areas of the country.” He makes eye contact, an unusual, non-Asian mannerism. “You have seen the development that is underway?”
Mark nods. How could he miss it? All the cranes, the noise, and the dust.
“We have a possibility we are exploring. It will be quite remarkable. When it is finished, it will dominate the skyline. It needs a man of vision and daring, of course.”
Another of the men produces a schematic. He rolls it out on the adjoining table. It is the architectural plan for a high-design tower, and it surpasses anything Mark has ever seen.
“Our design will rival the Petronas Tower in Kuala Lumpur and the Burj in Dubai. We envision sister buildings. One here, and one in Hong Kong. Independent structures, but a single venture with a common design theme. Here will have exclusively offices; in Hong Kong, there will be a combination of offices and residential.”
“Only the right man could make it happen.” Sulin’s breathy comment shows how enthralling she finds the idea.
From the chill in his spine, Mark knows, without doubt, he is the right man.
Building his empire and securing his financial success has left him with little time to explore the world, but now it is clear to him: Asia is where it is happening.
The high-octane city of Shanghai has taken him by surprise. He loves it.
For some reason, he suspends all caution. He does not question how these men knew where they would be tonight and why they are feting him. After his fill of oysters and the fourth glass of whisky, he laps up every word they tell him.
He has no recollection of getting to the vehicle, but blurs of lights flash in and out of the windows as they speed past. Sulin and Wei-Yang take him by chauffeured car on a tour. Across the water, he sees up-close the rapid expansion, all the time learning the fascinating history of one of the world’s oldest cities.
“Shanghai has always been a place of affluence and status,” Wei-Yang says.
Somehow, he does not yet know how, but Mark is growing convinced he wants this to be a part of his life.
Wealth is fabulous—but status! Well, status is even more appealing.
Back in the US, his brain won’t rest. New experiences and opportunities present themselves, but none compare with what was suggested by Sulin Wang and her friends.
It becomes an obsession. The image has wormed its way in, laid its eggs, and he cannot get it out of his head.
In less than three months, Sulin presents the CHINA DEAL. He pores over the drawings. An Italian architect has created a stunning proposal.
It takes three more weeks for the hatchling idea to work its way through Mark’s cocoon of doubt before his commitment emerges fully-fledged. He has embraced the concept of high-status, world-class buildings in major capitals, each bearing his name.
In high-gear, things move at lightning speed. Documents are signed, money changes hands, and it is a go.
Mark is flying high, longs to celebrate, but Sulin leaves immediately for a modeling assignment, or so she says.
They speak on the phone a couple of times, but it is always rushed and with poor reception. The following week, when she returns, she is once again with an entourage. Only one of the two men speaks English, but poorly.
Clad in a short, tight-fitting green dress and thigh-high boots, Sulin wears a short red wig and looks dangerous. Mark can hardly wait to be alone with her. Since she left, he has not been with a woman, not for the lack of opportunity, but these days, nothing compares to Sulin, and his wait has him understandably edgy.
“This is Mr. Lee.” She introduces a wiry man with large, black-rimmed glasses, thinning hair, and crooked teeth. The other man remains silent.
Mark shakes hands but wishes both men would disappear. He lifts an eyebrow at Sulin.
She smiles and explains. “Hong Kong was straightforward. For the next phase, you have to go to China to sign.”
“Not a problem.”
“Mr. Lee will accompany you. I am afraid I have commitments, and anyway, he is an attorney. He will be of more use.”
“Okay, whatever you say. But can’t we just go home now, alone? I’ve missed you,” Mark whispers.
Sulin laughs, says a few words in Chinese to Mr. Lee, and with small bows, the two men leave.
At his recently acquired penthouse overlooking Central Park, she opens champagne, pours two glasses of the pale yellow-gold liquid, and carries them to the bedroom. Mark’s shoulders relax, but from a slender folder, Sulin matter-of-factly produces new documents, rolls them out on the bed, sits, and sips her drink.
What is this bullshit? It is far from the homecoming Mark planned. She has not commented on the room full of red roses or the card he wrote for her, but she spotted the damned Winston Churchill, 1999, champagne on ice.
The special vintage marks the 150th anniversary of Pol Roger champagnes. He hoped they would be celebrating, too. No doubt she knows what it is. If something is expensive, she is interested.
Taking a gulp of his drink, he decides to humor her. Anything to get it done with and get her between the sheets. He’s waited a week; he can last another ten minutes. Mark glances at the papers in front of him, but there is no indication of Shanghai, as had been agreed.
“What is this? What happened to the idea of twin statement projects? And where the hell is Zhuhai? I’m not interested in putting a building in someplace no-one has ever heard of.”
Rage swells inside him, and a fleeting suspicion. He is frustrated. The cold bitch shows no sign of having missed him, makes it clear she doesn’t need him, and he hates being out of control.
“But it will be in Shanghai, my Mark,” she nibbles his ear, and with her free hand, she begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. “It is simply that some of the men putting the deal together are not Shanghai natives, and they want to meet on their own home territory.”
She touches her tongue to his chest, skillfully changing topics. “Mmm, you taste good.” She kisses him. “And this champagne is graceful on the palate. I taste peach and juicy tangerine.” Another kiss.
She sips again and lets remnants fall between his lips. “Bruised apple and candied ginger. Do you like the taste?”
“They only made twelve hundred bottles.”
“Let’s drink them all!” she laughs, and for the next two hours, she is attentive and compliant.
Slowly, Mark’s stress subsides. Sulin is back with him, his body is satisfied, and his mind is at peace. He fleetingly thinks of being with her forever before his mind inevitably drifts to the deal. He imagines standing atop each of the new ventures.
When that day comes, he will ask her to marry him.
Sex is out of the way, and he is in a light slumber when the door clicks.
Sulin has left, again.
HOW IT HAPPENED, HE IS not certain, but somehow, he lost sight that the Chinese have been around for a long time, and over centuries, they have perfected the art of the deal—moreover, they are inscrutable.
The deal makers laughably pretend they speak no English. Two he recognizes from Hong Kong and Shanghai, but there is no sign of WeiYang and his perfect English.
Today, they use a translator. But when he reflects, Mark knows—he just f***ing knows—they must have understood every word.
“Just a couple more million to grease the wheels” is the constant cry.
He is so sick of hearing the refrain, “The authorities need…” that by the end, he simply coughs up.
The pay-day will be worth it, but it is beginning to pinch. Mark has borrowed heavily for this second deal.
“Please, not to forget, we are put in far more than your investment. It is for all our benefits, no? To see this conclude, we are just a paltry billion away.
Paltry? Where the f*** did they learn the word paltry? When, and in what world, did a billion dollars classify as a paltry sum?
Mark just wants it done, so he can be gone. He is angry at Sulin for not being here. He is a great deal maker, but how can he know what he is doing when there is no possibility of communication?
He does know for a fact there are other interested parties, from cleverly placed brochures and letterhead from his competitors strewn across the table. Because Mark suspected the deal was being seriously considered by his competitors, he knew time was running out.
When the phone call came through, mid-negotiation—in Chinese, of course, translated by their translator—both he and his lawyer fell for it.
A typical con. Up the ante and strike.
How the men across the table could keep their expressions unreadable as they watched him fall for it only adds insult to injury.
A professional businessman—a gweilo, a foreign devil, who got what he deserved.
The locals offer proof of deposits, transfers, updated papers with translations, but they need just a couple of minor changes.
That is why they chose Zhuhai for the meeting, of course.
If it had been Hong Kong, Shanghai, or Macau, perhaps he would have known where the hell they were taking him. But all the sweet genuflecting and soft talk, as he was whisked around someplace where not one person spoke English, had lulled him into a false euphoria.
Greed is the root of evil. The profits they were talking about were so enormous, numbers almost impossible to believe. That should have been the first clue.
Like an addict, only vaguely cognizant, his perceptions may have changed from when they floated the deal. But greed is an effective, unfailing narcotic, and he is entirely unconscious that his awareness of the world around him has been impaired, along with his ability to think or act quickly in this financially dangerous situation.
Back in his hotel room, he takes time to reflect. He has been played. They selected the hotel, they picked him up by limousine, and after driving around for half an hour, in streets with names written only in Chinese, they took him to their astonishingly modern and exclusive high-rise office building.
It was impressive, and he was impressed.
They treated him like a visiting prince, but he should have been used to this kind of adulation by now. In hindsight, he sees it was calculated, so there would be no way of knowing where they were. Perhaps it was never even their building.
No—they did not give a damn about who he was, what he had achieved. For them, it was definitely the money. A billion in any language is a lot of moolah, and they had the audacity to call it paltry. He has no guarantees, of schedules, of income, and no idea how long his money will be tied up.
He opens the bar in his elegant suite and pours a glass of the scotch he ordered earlier. Outside the window below, people scurry to the ferry terminal to Macau. He has allowed himself to be completely turned around by their arrangements. He takes out their letter and instructions. Cathay Pacific, to Hong Kong, with no stopover, just a transfer.
Dear Henderson, Mark,
Regarding ferry transfer from SkyPier at HKIA to Mainland China/Macau. You must travel by ferry between Hong Kong and the Pearl River Delta. You connect to the ferry using the SkyPier, and travel onwards to your next destination in one easy step. The ferry will stop at Zhuhai Jiuzhou.
You will be met in the Arrivals Hall at Hong Kong International Airport before immigration, where tickets will be made available at least 60 minutes before scheduled departure time.
1. Proceed to CKS Ferries to Mainland China/Macau Ticketing Counter located at Transfer Area E2 and DO NOT go through immigration procedures and reclaim baggage.
2. Present baggage tag at CKS Ferries to Mainland China/Macau Ticketing Counter for baggage transfer.
3. Passenger must transfer to Mainland China/Macau within the same day of arrival.
4. Passenger must hold a valid travel document and visa to destination.
Mark has always hated rules and regulations. That should have been a sign. Stick to places where they speak English and where you can read the signs.
Once they left Hong Kong, he felt like Marco Polo, traveling into the unknown.
Sulin set everything up. How come, at the last minute, she became unavailable to travel with him? And that piece-of-shit attorney, Lee, whom she recommended, had been about as much help as—well, he was no goddamn help at all. The man may have had Chinese parentage, but his command of the language couldn’t even get them a porter.
“Be not the first by which the new is tried,” Mark mutters. Has he been fooled by their glossy literature, the numbers they floated, his desire to get a foot in China? Specifically into the property development boom, and above all, the seductive idea of improved status?
“Fucking Chinese.” He tosses the literature in the bin, and in an uncharacteristic display of ire, he sets it on fire.
I should have suspected it was a scam. Mark tells himself. After all, I have a Ph.D. in the art of the scam.
He is inclined to go down and get on the ferry to Hong Kong, and from there, just fly home. But the deal is done. Money has already changed hands, invisible commitments made. It’s too late. He fights off the fear that he may not live to see a return on his investment. Without Sulin or WeiYang, he is at their mercy—not a place he likes to be.
He pours more scotch and tries to set aside his annoyance at being helpless. Perhaps he is overreacting?
Within two years, with any luck, he will have established the Henderson Summit Centre in Shanghai. A twin tower skyscraper complex, the top of which will often be hidden in the clouds. And another, identical one in Hong Kong. No small achievement. When they are finished, it will be his legacy. No doubt it will serve his desire for status. He has to be patient.
Over the coming year, Sulin accompanies him on inspection tours. She conducts a lot of the discussions with the architects and contractors for him, and he continues to delight in her. Mark does not like that she frequently disappears without sufficient explanation. But it is part of the challenge, the obsession she has created. When he grows angry, she calms him with mind-blowing sex.
For the most part, Mark has stopped his nocturnal visits to Melissa. He explained he is now working in Asia and will be gone for some time. She accepts him at his word.
The money to support her, and her daughter—his daughter, too, he reminds himself—is regular and substantial. She has no reason to complain.
Melissa has re-involved herself with the winery, and she is doing a great job. Her successful endeavor brings some satisfaction, but—as she reminds Mark whenever they speak—she is lonely.
When he returns from Asia, she tells herself, he will come to her. Perhaps then they can try again?
