The Emperor's Illusion
A personal tale from Mainland China (c. 2012)
When I lived in Beijing, I knew the owners of a boutique commercial advertising agency. They handled a few select clients, and each one was substantially large. Their most lucrative account was a home supplies company in Jiangsu Province that made laundry detergent, air freshener, liquid soap, and other household items. The agency produced the company’s commercials and then made sure they aired on CCTV during “golden time” slots.
When the company’s CFO graduated from college, she worked as a kindergarten teacher. A few decades later, she was a multi-millionaire in charge of operations for a company that employed 40,000. Her name was Ning.
The company’s factory offered a mid-sized amusement park for the employees. It had three roller coasters, two water slides, a wave pool, and rides for children. The locals were prohibited from entering the park unless they had a relative who worked for the company.
Ning’s husband, Zhang, didn’t have a job but he pretended otherwise. While his wife was at work, he would spend his time gambling with his friends and socializing at KTVs with prostitutes.
Ning and Zhang lived on the top floor of a luxury high-rise. Ning could see her company’s factory from their balcony.
Ning and Zhang had a daughter named Bai. She was 23-years old and resembled her father inside and out. In 2012, Bai couldn’t decide if she wanted a career or a husband. Her boyfriend worked at a Starbucks in Beijing. And although her parents didn’t like him, they knew better than to voice their concerns.
Bai didn’t drink alcohol or party in the traditional sense, but she enjoyed playing with her expensive cellphone, shopping, and drinking ice-blended Frappuccino with her friends. She also liked her $20,000 watch and rarely hesitated to let others know its value.
Bai attended a university in Switzerland where she studied hotel and restaurant management. After she graduated, her mom got her a job at a high-class hotel that a friend of hers owned. It was unclear what Bai had been hired to do, but it was understood immediately that she wasn’t happy. It only took her one month to realize that working 60 hours a week and waking up before 10:30 a.m. wasn’t the career path for her.
Bai set out for Beijing to try her luck at branding. She thought it would be fun. Luckily, her parents owned a three-bedroom luxury condominium in East Beijing’s Chaoyang Park. Unfortunately, her branding career aspirations evaporated within 90 days due to similar reasons that inspired her voluntary exit from the hotel industry.
The boutique ad agency hired Bai after she expressed interest in becoming an advertising commercial producer. She thought that too would be fun. Before her first day, the company issued a memo instructing their staff that under no circumstances was anyone to tell Bai what to do.
The owners wanted Bai to feel important, so they asked her to keep an eye on the commercial actors to make sure they weren’t using drugs or stealing wardrobe items. Outside of that, she was free to come and go as she wished. They paid her $500 a week and provided her with an assistant.
Bai’s assistant was younger and more attractive. Her name was Ming. She had recently graduated from college. It was not an accident that Ming was hired. The agency owners knew it would frustrate Bai if her assistant was prettier and would invariably receive more attention from their clients and other visitors. The end game was for Bai to quit while keeping her mom intact as a client. Ming was paid $80 a week.
Bai would often send Ming to Starbucks to pick up coffee drinks for visiting clients and friends. The balance on her Starbucks card wasn’t lower than $10,000. When it was low on funds, Bai would send her mother a text message as a friendly reminder that the card needed replenishing.
When Ming would return with an order, Bai would yell at her for taking too long or not bringing enough napkins or sugar.
After Bai had been working there for about six weeks, I happened to be in Guangzhou filming an event. The agency owners suggested I visit their production facilities. I had become friends with one of their in-house directors, so I wanted to say hello to him. It had been months since I had last seen Bai, and I wasn’t excited about seeing her again. She didn’t have a lot to say outside of how much a specific luxury item cost that her mom or dad liked to wear. I’m convinced she had never read a novel.
When I entered the studio, Bai walked over and hugged me. She asked if I wanted something from Starbucks and then shouted her assistant’s name, instructing her to come over to take my drink order.
Ming couldn’t have been any nicer, and she was without question more attractive than Bai. I asked Ming if she needed help, but Bai assured me that she could handle going to Starbucks by herself.
After about an hour or so, I caught up with the director and was introduced to his friend, a producer. They asked if I wanted to join them for dinner afterward. While we were talking, I could hear Bai yelling at Ming. What struck me as odd was how I seemed to be the only one who noticed.
My Mandarin wasn’t good, but I did hear the words “kill” or “dead,” and a few pronouns in between. When Bai’s yelling subsided, Ming reappeared but then quickly walked out of the studio. I didn’t see her again. Bai remained out of view and it sounded as though she was throwing objects against a wall.
When I was having dinner with the director and producer, I asked what the commotion was all about between Bai and Ming. They both smiled and laughed. As they explained, Bai yelled at Ming almost daily, and for no reason. Bai’s behavior was tolerated and ignored because her mother was the company’s lifeblood.
I asked them what Bai had said to Ming. “I could have you killed,” the producer answered. I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t. Two months later, Bai quit and moved home to be with her parents.
