had been carved out of solid blocks of wrought iron, or perhaps lead. Flip had told her that there was a shop somewhere selling foreign-style mountain bikes for 400 yuan, but she had not been able to find it.
When she first arrived in Shanghai from Singapore she had assumed, pityingly, that Chinese people would be unable to afford expensive imported bikes. But she soon learned that assuming Chinese citizens were poor was always a fallacy. Big cities like Shanghai and Beijing always seemed to be overflowing with things that most people—even in London or New York—would not be able to afford. It was what she quickly learned to call ‘the no small numbers’ principle. Since China had so many people, the smallest proportion of them— ten per cent, two per cent, a quarter of a per cent, whatever— was a big number anyway. She’d read that by 2009 there would be more middle class people in China than the entire population of the United States. Plus a billion others aspiring to join that class. Middle class people would want decent bikes, so they’d have to import a few more nice shiny ones, hopefully with chrome fittings and whitewall tyres. Joyce could hardly wait.
By standing up and putting the full weight of her 53 kilos on the pedals, Joyce managed to get her wrought iron bike accelerating up to a reasonable speed, despite the fact that she felt like she was dragging a bicycle factory with her. Then she turned the corner from Ruijin Lu to Changle Lu and approached Maoming Nan Lu, where she came within sight of her destination: the Jin Jiang Plaza Tower. It was a skyscraper in the classic Western mould—gold and glittery, with thousands of watts of light bulbs focused on it from ground level, turning it into some sort of glowing monolithic monument. It was gorgeous and crass. Looking at the spate of new angular spikes rising from the Shanghai cityscape, it became obvious that human nature had really not changed an iota from the days of the Tower of Babel. Let us build a tower to heaven and then we shall be as gods.
She turned the bike down a side street just before the hotel and looked for a sign which identified her drop-off point. There it was: Herborium, written in English and Chinese over a small shop with packets of herbal medicines in the window. She took out her mobile phone and dialled the number Linyao had given her.
‘ Wei ?’ barked a young woman’s voice.
‘Er, I’m from the Shanghai Vegan Café Society? I bought the hyper-vegan meal packs? I’m outside the Herborium place?’ Joyce spoke in slow, careful English, still not confident enough to use her halting Chinese on the phone.
‘Leave them in the shop doorway,’ a female voice replied.
‘When’s the operation actually going to—’ Joyce began to ask, but the signal clicked off. Vega’s staff were obviously in no mood for idle conversation.
She placed the basket of food in the doorway, taking out one meal pack—she’d made a spare—for herself.
Instead of heading for home, she walked smartly to the Jin Jiang Plaza Tower. While Vega and his crew were eating their lovingly prepared meal, she planned to go to the hotel’s new restaurant, find Wong, and tell him to leave immediately. If Vega and his gang were somehow going to stage some sort of stunt to spoil the opening party or humiliate the individuals there, her boss needn’t be among the victims. In fact, she might earn some major brownie points with Wong if she persuaded him to leave before Vega turned up and embarrassed all the unfortunate people who stayed.
As she walked, she straightened her clothes as best as she could; dressing to be a cyclist in Shanghai did not really leave one chic enough to swan through the cafés of fancy hotels. But she had quickly learned that being a Westerner gave her a certain power of entry in China. Since young Western people tended to dress in such class-inappropriate ways (the poor ones often dressed stylishly, the rich in denim rags),
When she first arrived in Shanghai from Singapore she had assumed, pityingly, that Chinese people would be unable to afford expensive imported bikes. But she soon learned that assuming Chinese citizens were poor was always a fallacy. Big cities like Shanghai and Beijing always seemed to be overflowing with things that most people—even in London or New York—would not be able to afford. It was what she quickly learned to call ‘the no small numbers’ principle. Since China had so many people, the smallest proportion of them— ten per cent, two per cent, a quarter of a per cent, whatever— was a big number anyway. She’d read that by 2009 there would be more middle class people in China than the entire population of the United States. Plus a billion others aspiring to join that class. Middle class people would want decent bikes, so they’d have to import a few more nice shiny ones, hopefully with chrome fittings and whitewall tyres. Joyce could hardly wait.
By standing up and putting the full weight of her 53 kilos on the pedals, Joyce managed to get her wrought iron bike accelerating up to a reasonable speed, despite the fact that she felt like she was dragging a bicycle factory with her. Then she turned the corner from Ruijin Lu to Changle Lu and approached Maoming Nan Lu, where she came within sight of her destination: the Jin Jiang Plaza Tower. It was a skyscraper in the classic Western mould—gold and glittery, with thousands of watts of light bulbs focused on it from ground level, turning it into some sort of glowing monolithic monument. It was gorgeous and crass. Looking at the spate of new angular spikes rising from the Shanghai cityscape, it became obvious that human nature had really not changed an iota from the days of the Tower of Babel. Let us build a tower to heaven and then we shall be as gods.
She turned the bike down a side street just before the hotel and looked for a sign which identified her drop-off point. There it was: Herborium, written in English and Chinese over a small shop with packets of herbal medicines in the window. She took out her mobile phone and dialled the number Linyao had given her.
‘ Wei ?’ barked a young woman’s voice.
‘Er, I’m from the Shanghai Vegan Café Society? I bought the hyper-vegan meal packs? I’m outside the Herborium place?’ Joyce spoke in slow, careful English, still not confident enough to use her halting Chinese on the phone.
‘Leave them in the shop doorway,’ a female voice replied.
‘When’s the operation actually going to—’ Joyce began to ask, but the signal clicked off. Vega’s staff were obviously in no mood for idle conversation.
She placed the basket of food in the doorway, taking out one meal pack—she’d made a spare—for herself.
Instead of heading for home, she walked smartly to the Jin Jiang Plaza Tower. While Vega and his crew were eating their lovingly prepared meal, she planned to go to the hotel’s new restaurant, find Wong, and tell him to leave immediately. If Vega and his gang were somehow going to stage some sort of stunt to spoil the opening party or humiliate the individuals there, her boss needn’t be among the victims. In fact, she might earn some major brownie points with Wong if she persuaded him to leave before Vega turned up and embarrassed all the unfortunate people who stayed.
As she walked, she straightened her clothes as best as she could; dressing to be a cyclist in Shanghai did not really leave one chic enough to swan through the cafés of fancy hotels. But she had quickly learned that being a Westerner gave her a certain power of entry in China. Since young Western people tended to dress in such class-inappropriate ways (the poor ones often dressed stylishly, the rich in denim rags),
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