Jun Wei motioned to one of the girls, and she poured Zhang a cognac on the rocks in a balloon glass and passed it to him using both her hands.
“How long have we known each other?” Jun Wei asked.
“Twenty-eight years.”
Jun Wei nodded slowly. “It’s a long time, and we have done well for ourselves.” He sipped his drink. “Without you, though, none of it would have been possible.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Zhang said. “You would have succeeded—with or without me.”
“You think?”
One of Jun Wei’s inner circle—a cousin—stood up, took hold of the microphone, and, putting out his cigarette, began to sing a romantic song.
“Life wouldn’t be life if it was smooth all the way,” Jun Wei said.
Zhang looked at him. “Is something the matter?”
“The Iran deal fell through.”
“I’m sorry.” But Zhang felt a small burst of relief. He hadn’t wanted to be involved in the first place.
“We had to work all through Golden Week,” Jun Wei said, “for nothing.”
“Maybe we can salvage it.”
“No.” Jun Wei shook his head several times, firmly.
“There will be other deals,” Zhang said.
“It’s of no great consequence to you, I suppose—the man who has everything.” Jun Wei looked out across the room.
The man who has everything. Zhang was sure the phrase was intended as a piece of gentle mockery, but he was troubled by the bitterness that seemed to coat the words. Perhaps Jun Wei had sensed Zhang’s relief—or his indifference, at least. He had always had an instinct for such things.
“How’s the new girlfriend?” Jun Wei asked after a few moments.
“She’s been in London. She’s due back tonight.”
Jun Wei looked at Zhang with sleepy eyes. His gaze had a weight that was uncomfortable, and unfamiliar.
“What?” Zhang said.
Jun Wei shook his head again, then handed his empty glass to one of the pretty girls, who replenished it. “She and I had a little talk,” he said, “on the night of the banquet…”
Zhang remembered.
“I think she forgave me for my crass remark.” Jun Wei swirled the cognac in his glass. “How was I supposed to know she spoke Chinese?”
Zhang smiled, but said nothing.
Reaching into his cognac with finger and thumb, Jun Wei pulled out a cube of ice, put it in his mouth and began to chew on it. He seemed to relish the splintering and cracking sounds it made. His cousin finally came to the end of his dreary, sentimental song, and Jun Wei and Zhang applauded.
Zhang’s phone rang. It was Naemi.
“I have to take this,” he said.
Jun Wei nodded.
Standing up, Zhang pressed Accept, then he crossed the room and sat down on a sofa that wasn’t occupied.
“Are you back?” he asked.
“I just landed,” she said. “Can I see you?”
Zhang watched as Jun Wei took hold of the microphone and began to sing “Don’t Say You Don’t Care About My Tears,” which was the song he always sang. The collapse of the Iran deal had upset him. To see him performing, though, you would never have guessed. He seemed his usual affable self.
“Zhang? Are you there?”
“I can’t tonight,” he said. “I’m with some people.”
“You can’t get away?”
“Not really.”
He was still watching Jun Wei. On high or heartfelt notes, his friend would move the mic away from his mouth and then back again, as pop stars often do, but there was really no need, since his voice was weak, almost effeminate.
“I’m actually pretty tired,” Naemi said. “It was a long flight.”
“You should get some rest.” He had adopted a distant, soothing tone, as if they were at a completely different stage in their relationship. A much later stage. He could easily have made his excuses and left. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t.
“You remember Kung Lan,” she was saying, “the artist I told you about? His opening’s tomorrow night, at the gallery. Why don’t you come along? We could go out afterwards.”
“Text me the details,” Zhang said.
“All right.” She paused. “I can’t wait to see you, Zhang. It’s been ages.”
“I can’t wait to see you either.”
He ended the call and rejoined Jun Wei, who was sitting down again.
“Your singing hasn’t improved,” he said.
Jun Wei grinned, then reached for his cigarettes and looked around. “Do you like this place?”
“It’s better than the place on Dapu Road.”
“There are women here. On another floor.” Jun Wei’s smile was sudden, unnerving.
“I’m sure,” Zhang said.
“Do you want a woman? Do you want two?”
“You know what? I think I’ll get an early night.” Zhang rose to his feet. “Thanks for the drink.”
Jun Wei stood up and put a heavy arm round Zhang’s shoulders. “You’re sure you don’t want a woman? You seem a bit tense. It might relax you.”
“I already have a woman.”
“She’s not here, though.”
Zhang looked at the floor and smiled and shook his head. Jun Wei was always trying to push you into doing something you didn’t want to do. It was as if he knew best. And if you didn’t give in, if you didn’t go along with what he was proposing, you were made to feel you were questioning his powers of persuasion, or even his judgment. In resisting him, you were insulting him.
“And anyway,” Jun Wei went on, “it never stopped you before.”
“This is different,” Zhang said.
“If you say so, my friend. If you say so.” Jun Wei stood back and slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “But perhaps everything isn’t as straightforward as you think.”
Zhang smiled.
When he reached the doorway, he stopped and looked back. Jun Wei was sitting on the sofa again. He had scooped up a handful of peanuts and was lobbing them, one by one, towards an empty glass. The first three missed. The fourth bounced off the rim. The fifth landed inside. Smiling to himself, Jun Wei tossed the rest of the nuts into his mouth. There was always a moment in the evening when he tried to lob peanuts into a glass, usually when he was by himself and he thought nobody was paying attention. But he was Wang Jun Wei. There was always somebody paying attention.