But that word she used—there’s no excuse, I said. We’re people, not rugs. And what gives her the right to judge how you spend your money? She knows nothing about you.
Winnie laughed. You Asian Americans are so sensitive. Us Chinese, we know the world looks down on us, but we don’t care! It takes only a couple generations for nouveau riche to become old riche, am I right?
She stepped off the escalator and led the way to the handbag department, stopping at the cash wrap. She set her shopping bag on the glass countertop, and a petite white saleswoman with a pageboy haircut and crimson lips hurried over. Mrs. Lewis, you’re back in town.
Clearly, she’d mistaken Winnie for some other rich Oriental, but instead of correcting her, Winnie said, Deidre, hi, I hoped you’d be in today. She pulled out a square mass shrouded in a taupe dust bag emblazoned with the word CELINE. She went on, My mother-in-law says the color is too bright. She doesn’t dare carry it.
I shot Winnie a quizzical look. She’d been divorced for years and never mentioned her ex-husband, much less her ex-mother-in-law. Did they really keep in touch? How close would they have to be to warrant such an extravagant gift? Winnie’s placid expression revealed nothing.
Inside the dust bag was a boxy minimalist tote—the Luggage Tote, I’d later learn—in royal blue, the pigment so brilliant and saturated, it was like gazing at the sole Technicolor object in an otherwise black-and-white world. Winnie slid a receipt across the counter, and I squinted at the numbers. Three thousand one hundred and forty-six dollars.
Oh, that’s a shame, the saleswoman said. But we knew it was a risk.
I tried to convince her, Winnie said, turning her palms skyward. Let’s go ahead and exchange it for black.
Oh dear, said Deidre. Didn’t I mention this? We’re out of black. The entire company is sold out.
Oh no, said Winnie.
I’m so sorry.
It’s my fault.
I examined my friend’s face, trying to parse the conversation’s many twists and turns.
Well, said Winnie, I guess I’ll have to return this.
Of course, my dear. Deidre typed rapidly into the cash register and scanned the barcode on the tag. It all goes back onto your Amex.
Thank you, Winnie said, patting the saleswoman’s sun-spotted hand.
Come back and see us soon.
Winnie turned and headed for the side exit. I followed close behind.
Lewis? I asked.
She answered, For a time.
And you buy your ex-mother-in-law superexpensive gifts?
It’s better to have a story.
Better for what? What are you talking about?
Out on the sidewalk, Winnie stopped and backed up against a wall, tugging me along with her. When she next spoke, her voice was so quiet, the traffic nearly drowned her out. I leaned in until my hair brushed her lips.
Remember how I told you I’m in handbag manufacturing?
I nodded.
I work with a particular kind of handbag. Replica designer bags.
What does that mean? Knockoffs?
She motioned for me to hush and held up her Birkin. How much do you think this cost?
A pair of Asian teenage girls slowed and stared unabashedly at the bag. Winnie took my arm and pulled me around the corner into a small, dingy coffee shop.
How much? she asked again. She sat down at one of the greasy-looking tables, as far away as possible from the only other customer, an elderly man in a fedora, reading the paper.
I threw out a wildly improbable number. I don’t know, ten grand?
Sure, she said. If I bought this at the Hermès store down the block, it would have been close to twelve, including tax. That is, if I could somehow convince them to sell me one—they claim they’re never in stock.
Where’d you get it then?
She gave me a smile that hid her teeth, inviting me to run my fingers over the supple grained leather, the gleaming gold hardware inscribed with the words Hermès-Paris, the Made in France stamp, the tiny H-imprinted lock. She let me take in every detail before answering.
This is from Guangzhou, the replica designer bag capital of the world.
It looks very nice, I said, though back then I had no idea I was looking at the crème de la crème of replicas, what’s known as a one-to-one bag. Better than super A and just-plain A. (Even the replica handbag industry suffers from grade inflation.)
I was losing patience. What does this have to do with Neiman Marcus?
There again was that enigmatic smile. What do you think?
I think you import fake bags from China and sell them for a profit.
She grunted in disgust. Every Tom, Dick, and Henry does that. Where’s the creativity? Where’s the innovation?
I didn’t bother correcting her. So tell me your brilliant business model.
Her eyes flashed like my son’s did when he was about to dump his cereal bowl on the floor. What did I do in there? She pointed her thumb in the general direction of the department store. Didn’t you watch the entire thing?
And then, it hit me. That gorgeous royal-blue bag was a fake. She’d returned a knockoff to the most exclusive department store in the world and pocketed the three thousand–plus dollars.
What did you do with the real one?
Sold it on eBay last week.
How did I react? I was furious. Much more so than I would have guessed. My whole body burned. My pores oozed sweat. I couldn’t stand to look at Winnie’s smooth white face. All at once, I understood how Joanne must have felt back in freshman year, punching the wall and cursing the injustice of it all.
I sputtered something like, But that’s cheating!
Winnie was unperturbed. What about selling a bag for ten times what it costs to make. Is that not cheating?
Not at all. No one’s holding a gun to your head forcing you to buy it.
What about manufacturing an entire bag in China, except for the handle, and then embossing the handle with a prominent Made in Italy?
What do you mean? That’s neither here nor there.
What about forcing workers to go hours without bathroom breaks? Squeezing them for every cent and then turning around and selling their handiwork for thousands?
What are you trying to say? Many people do terrible things, that still doesn’t make what you’re doing okay.
She said, I’m merely suggesting that all of us fixate on certain kinds of cheating, while willfully ignoring other kinds.
A young man in a soiled apron sidled up and said, I’m sorry, tables are only for customers.
I’ll take a double espresso, said Winnie, at the same time as I said, Don’t worry, I’m leaving.
Confused, he backed away.
Ava, don’t go, Winnie said. Those luxury brands, they’re the villains. We’re on the same side here. She pinned down my hand like she had the saleswoman’s, as though she’d read in some manual that a firm touch at the right moment could weaken a person’s resolve.
You’re disgusting, I said before charging out the door.
Why did her admission infuriate me so? Why had I bothered trying to reason with her? We’d only just reconnected, and I owed her nothing. And yet, as I sped down the sidewalk, the conversation continued in my head, our respective retorts piling up like a tower of Jenga blocks. And what disturbed me more was her utter lack of shame, her certainty that I would be receptive to her message.
In hindsight I see it was all part of her strategy: in hiding nothing, she forced me to consider the possibility that she had nothing to hide.
I met my Lyft at the end of the block. Safely ensconced in the back seat, I dropped my head and massaged my aching temples.
The driver called out, Temperature okay back there? A gold ring pierced her dainty snub nose.
Yup.
She turned up the volume on the stereo and a decade-old pop ballad filled the car. She sang along in a sweet, breathy voice. I keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding love. She eyed me in the rearview mirror. I love this song.
I’d always thought the lyrics were “keep breathing, keep, keep breathing,” and I told her so.
I keep breathing love? What does that even mean?
I gazed out the window. An ancient stooped Chinese woman inched a shopping cart of flattened cardboard boxes into the crosswalk.
Nothing, I said. It makes absolutely no sense.
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