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ПРИЛОЖЕНИЕ 1. ОРИГИНАЛ ТЕКСТА ПЕРЕВОДА.
LETTERFROMCHINA
WASTEPAPER QUEEN
She's China's Horatio Alger hero. Will her fortune survive?
BY EVAN OSNOS
Last fall, on the afternoon of October 10th, Cheung Yan was preparing to unveil the year-end financial summary for Nine Dragons Paper, the enterprise that she co-founded thirteen years ago and built into China's largest paper manufacturer. The press conference had drawn reporters and cameramen to a ballroom at Hong Kong's Island Shangri-La Hotel, and, just before it was scheduled to begin, Cheung sat in a hushed anteroom, alone on a silk sofa, collecting her thoughts.
She wore a chartreuse mandarin-collared jacket buttoned to her chin, and her hair was no-fuss short. At the age of fifty-two, Cheung is petite but sturdy, with an expressive face that radiates intensity. Inside her company, she is known as the Chairlady. Throughout China, she is also known as the Queen of Trash. She earned her nickname by conquering an obscure niche that tunes global trade to peak efficiency: she buys mountains of filthy American wastepaper, hauls it to China at cheap rates, then pulps and reforms it into paperboard for boxes bearing goods marked "Made in China." One of her factories is the largest paper mill in the world.
After Cheung registered her company on the Hong Kong Stock Exchange, in 2006, she rose to No. 1 on a list of China's richest people, becoming the first woman to hold the position. The Hurun Report, the Shanghai magazine that produces the list, estimated her worth that year at $3.4 billion. The following year, Cheung's wealth ballooned further, to more than ten billion dollars, and the magazine calculated that she was the richest self-made woman in the world, ahead of Meg Whitman and J. K. Rowling. She became a star of China's industrial revolution: a plainspoken manufacturing baroness and a mother of two. When Oprah did a segment on inspirational mothers around the globe, she showed a clip about Cheung and said, "I love a self-made mom."
Yet to financial analysts the timing of Cheung's press conference was ominous; as in politics, a corporate announcement reserved for 4:15 P.M. on a Friday is rarely upbeat. They were right: consumer demand was sinking in America, and factories in China that buy cardboard were shutting down. The global trade that had built Cheung's fortune was now dismantling it. Almost as remarkable was a recent reversal of her public image. Within a few months, she had become the antihero of an era in China in which unbridled capitalism had driven the gap between rich and poor to its greatest divide since economic reforms began, thirty years ago. A labor-rights group had accused Cheung of being a sweatshop boss, and a Chinese newspaper invoked the exploitation of the American Gilded Age to accuse her of "turning blood into gold." Her stock price had tumbled, slashing her personal wealth by more than seven billion dollars in less than a year, by Hurun’s estimate. Her company was saddled with so much debt that Mark Chang, a Merrill Lynch analyst, told me that the question was "Will they go bust?"
The spectacle of one of China's richest industrialists reduced to a struggle for solvency suggests some of the pressures posed by a slowdown that has unnerved Chinese leaders in its speed and depth. Deng Xiaoping once ordained a starring role for plutocrats. “Rang yi bu fen ren xian fu qi lai”, he declared. “Let some people get rich first.” In the thirty years since Deng unshackled China’s economy, the entrepreneurs who stitched it into global markets have made China far more prosperous, but also, it turns out, acutely vulnerable. In the southern city of Dongguan, where Nine Dragons is based, Smart Union, a giant toymaker with some sixty-five hundred employees that once supplied Mattel and Hasbro, went bust so fast last October that throngs of its workers swarmed the plant's gates, demanding unpaid wages. The local government sent riot police to guard the plant and appealed to the angry workers not to do "anything that would hurt or cause concern to your parents and family." Other factory bosses on the brink have simply fled without a trace. At least six hundred and seventy thousand Chinese businesses failed last year, according to the Chinese Academyof Social Sciences, a government-run think tank. These events hardly signal an end to China's economic rise — a certain level of labor unrest and business turnover exists in China in the best of times – but the scale has begun to look less like an ordinary downturn than like a pivot in the very nature of China's surge into the free market. "One of the characteristic features of American capitalism since the Gilded Age has been its ruthless readiness to abandon unprofitable sectors," Niall Ferguson, the Harvard historian, told me. "Once upon a time, the American textile industry was an enormous part of the economy. It scarcely exists anymore."
Waiting to face the cameras on October 10th, Cheung let out a short, awkward laugh and told me, “I’m in a good mood." She scanned the faces around her, which included her husband, her brother, and two executives. "You have to be confident in order to make others confident," she said, and stalked down the hall toward the press. By the time her event was over, the share price of Nine Dragons had sunk another sixteen per cent, to the equivalent of twenty-three cents, its lowest level ever.
Despite Deng's proclamation, China is deeply ambivalent about its tycoons. For a long time, they were ciphers. (In 2002, Forbes published its list of China's richest, with a photograph of people wearing paper bags over their heads.) But in the early years of this decade tycoons preened as more of them took companies public, and their ranks soared. In 2006, the number of Chinese billionaires jumped sevenfold, to a hundred and six people, by Hurun’s count, encompassing property developers, Internet techies, and retail magnates. But this era of glamour has been accompanied by an era of prosecution. Yang Bin, a flower-growing mogul who was once ranked as the second-richest person in China, is serving eighteen years in prison on fraud and bribery charges. Last November, Wong Kwong-Yu, the founder of an electric-appliance chain called Gome and the reigning richest person in China, was reportedly detained in what the Chinese press called an investigation into manipulation of shares in his brother's pharmaceutical company. (Wong resigned from Gome's board earlier this year, a company representative would not comment on the investigation.) At such moments, the rich list has come to be called the "death list."
Cheung hedges by casting herself as a kind of socialist Horatio Alger hero. "We all sacrifice a lot for the company," she told me when I visited her at her office last fall. “It is very demanding. It's not like, Today, I expend effort andtomorrow I go off and play golf or go shopping!" The headquarters of Nine Dragons Paper sprawls across a site, nearly a square mile in area, in Dongguan, a port-city fusion of industry and luxury that calls to mind the oil capitals of the Persian Gulf. Cranes and smokestacks shimmer in the heat beside manicured topiaries and overchilled office towers. The twelve-story office of Nine Dragons is topped by an emerald-green glass pyramid directly above Cheung's executive suite. Visitors to her floor are greeted by a gurgling white stone fountain in the shape of a lotus, roughly as tall as she is. Since her announcement in Hong Kong, Cheung had been inundated with questions from bankers, investors, and securities analysts about the fate of the company, and this had sharpened her characteristic pugnaciousness. "Why are we in debt?" she asked, fixing me with a level gaze. "I didn't misuse this money on derivatives or something! I took a high level of risk because that is the preparation for the future, so that we will be first in the market when things change."
Compared with some of the flashier members of China's new generation of super-rich, Cheung is ah unreconstructed industrialist. Where they are cool and serene, she is impish and combustible. They pursue a work-life balance and experiment with Taoism; she maintains devout faith only in production. Like others her age — she is old enoughto have witnessed the havoc of the Cultural Revolution and young enough to have recovered from it — Cheung is impatient with ideology, but her faith inefficiency borders on the counterproductive; by her count, she is pulled over for speeding at least once a year, because she "can't stand wasting time on the road”. Cheung is perpetually leaning forward, propelled aroundthe room by spasms of exuberance. In conversation, she can sound as if she were channelling China’s industrial id. When I asked her about the future of a company that seemed to have grown faster than its market, she shookher head. “The market waits for no one”, she said. “If I don't develop today, if I wait for a year, or two or three years, to develop, I will have nothing for the market, and I will miss the opportunity. And we will just be very ordinary, like any other factory!" She wenton, "We only have a certain number of opportunities in our lifetime. Once you miss it, it’s gone forever."
Opportunities have vanished faster than expected. A year ago, China's leaders worried about inflation and an economy that they believed was growing too fast. Since then, economic growth has dropped to its lowest point since 2001, and the World Bank is forecasting that China's growth will sink to 6.5 per cent this year, the lowest point in at least nineteen years. To check the slide, the government has announced a stimulus plan worth four trillion yuan, or five hundred and eighty-six billion dollars. Nearly half of that will go toward the construction of railways, roads, airports, and power supplies, and a quarter is earmarked for reconstruction following the Sichuan earthquake and other disasters. (Some economists warn that the effect could be limited, because part of that spending was already planned.) Unemployment and crime are increasing, and the state media have begun to warn that social unrest could rise. President Hu Jintao hasn't bothered to conceal the fact that the crisis has become a matter of political survival – "a test of our Party's capacity to govern," as he put it in the official People’s Dailynewspaper.
As Cheung and I talked, her husband, Liu Ming Chung, ambled in and slumped into a chair beside her. He had been trained as a dental surgeon, but he now serves as the C.E.O of Nine Dragons. He is tall and approachably low-key, her physical opposite. When she speaks, she swats and grips the air for emphasis, alternating between Cantonese and Mandarin, which she utters with a pronounced Manchurian accent. To Chinese ears, this identifies her as a product of China's frigid northeast, a hard-drinking industrial domain known for its prolific production of two species: entrepreneurs and corrupt bureaucrats. Cheung spends much of her time in Hong Kong, a city that sanctifies aristocracy, yet the persona she projects is that of a harried manager. Her fingers are bejewelled, but she shows little interest in amassing influence, real estate, art, or any of the usual trappings of wealth. Over the years, she has shed a wardrobe of loud prints and lacy cuffs in favor of Chanel-style suits, yet she seems interested in name brands only insofar as, in her words, they represent "the kind of image" she tries to maintain. Her ambition is so specific to expanding her business that, had she not become a billionaire papermaker, she would, she thinks, have enjoyed being a stay-at-home mother. At the company's headquarters in China, she and her husband live in a large converted apartment on the top floor of a managers' dormitory. In America, where her two sons are in school, they own a ten-bedroom house in Diamond Bar , California, an affluent cul-de-sac town that is also home to Snoop Dogg.
While Cheung was describing her plan to shore up the business, her husband interrupted. “I have something to add," he said softly. "Recently, many people came to knock on our doors.So I say, if things are as bad for us as the press is saying, why are they still thinking of buying us? If I have a cold and am really sick, why do you still want to sit right next to me?"
"It means we're still very attractive!" Cheung said, and she howled at her own joke.
Cheung was born into a military family, the eldest of eight children. Her parents named her Xiuhua, a revolutionary-era catchphrase meaning "excellent China." She later swapped it for Yan, a more contemporary name. (She also goesby Zhang Yin, the Mandarin version ofCheung Yan.) She grewup in thecoal-mining city of Jixi, which lies so far north-east — north of Vladivostok — that its inhabitants take a steely pride in being the first Chinese to see the sunrise.