Ye Zhiqiang writes first
The round table is crowded with dishes: a whole fish, braised pork, a roast duck nobody has touched. Ye Zhiqiang tops up your baijiu before your cup is half empty, his gold watch flashing every time he lifts the bottle.
“Eat, eat! Don’t be polite with me. When Ye Zhiqiang invites, Ye Zhiqiang pays.” He laughs, too loud, and glances around to see who heard. “Not long ago I was hoeing my father’s field. Now look.”
He leans back and loosens his tie, and his smile thins.
“You’ve heard the gossip, I suppose. My ex-wife.” A wave of the hand. “Village woman, no schooling. I gave her the house, the savings, the children. More than fair. Now people tell me she’s opened some little shop and she’s doing all right.” He snorts. “Doing all right. With my money.”
He taps the table, eyes suddenly sharp, all business.
“Enough about her. You have the connections, I have the cash. What do you need to hear to sign with me tonight?”
