We’re here.
Even though Winnie had given me a shop number, #04-21, I’d somehow still expected an outdoor, sprawling mass of stalls, like the night markets of Mong Kok and Temple Street. But there was nothing temporary, nothing illicit about this shopping center where the world’s best replica designer handbags were displayed and sold. Steps away from the entrance stood a makeshift police kiosk housed inside a trailer, further contributing to the surreal nature of this place, and of my impending assignment. How could I be about to commit a crime when the entire city seemed, blatantly and nonchalantly, to be doing the same?
A woman sidled up and snapped a flyer at me, Vegas-strip style. Handbags for a beauty like yourself? Designer handbags?
A young man in uniform emerged from the trailer and lit a cigarette.
No, thanks, I said.
Inside the mall, I peered into shop after tiny shop, ogling the handbags crammed onto shelves like grocery cans. These lower-tier stores stocked a hodgepodge of brands, a compilation of the luxury handbag industry’s greatest hits: the Gucci Dionysus next to the Fendi Baguette next to the Louis Vuitton Speedy. The more upscale, higher-priced stores focused on single brands: Celine or Goyard or Issey Miyake’s Bao Bao line in every style and color ever dreamed up.
The stores in the highest tier held prime locations right by the escalators. They were spacious and decorated with intention and had actual business names like Cherished Dreams Handbags and Revive the Nation Leather Goods. Taking their cues from real designer boutiques, they displayed each bag like a sculpture beneath a single spotlight. Even their sales staff was super-A quality. When I asked to take a closer look at a Chanel clutch on a high shelf, a lithe young woman, clad in a classic tweed jacket, thigh-high cap-toed boots, and a little newsboy cap adorned with interlocking C’s, walked me through the replica’s many virtues, from the buttery calfskin (imported from France) to the glistening gold-toned hardware.
Across the way, a gargantuan chartreuse Birkin the size of a bassinet lured me into an immaculate store that sold only Hermès. With its opulent Instagram-ready windows, featuring random accessories for the haute-bourgeois life of leisure—a backgammon set crafted entirely from untreated cowhide, a glossy horse saddle and matching riding crop—this store would not have been out of place on Madison Avenue or Rue Saint-Honoré. In addition to the sizable handbag section, a corner of the store was devoted to those iconic silk scarves, another to candy-colored enamel jewelry, a third to riotously patterned dishware. I lifted a Kelly bag in a vivid amethyst shade off the shelf and turned it this way and that, as though I knew what to look for.
A sales associate dressed all in black except for an emerald-and-magenta silk triangle draped from her neck told me it was a brand-new fall color.
It’s lovely, I admitted. How much?
I converted yuan to dollars in my head and was sure I’d done the math wrong, so I sheepishly tapped the numbers into my phone: fourteen hundred dollars.
How much did you say? I asked.
She repeated the number. It’s a good deal.
Right, I said. I see. Winnie had said the real thing went for twelve grand, so, in a sense, the associate was right. I gingerly returned the bag to the shelf and left, still firmly under the belief that no handbag, real or fake, could possibly be worth that much.
No longer in the mood to explore, I went straight to the fourth floor to complete what I’d come to do. It was late morning and the mall bustled with wholesale shoppers wheeling oversized suitcases that would soon bulge with merchandise to be fanned out across shelves in Manila and Buenos Aires and Moscow.
Tucked away in the very back of the complex, #04-21 was modestly decorated and badly lit and had no sign above the entrance. (Winnie would later assure me that their workshop produced some of the most authentic-looking bags she’d ever come across, but they kept the good stuff hidden away whenever they were tipped off about a police raid.) I told the attendant, a model-thin young man with hollow cheeks, that I worked for Fang Wenyi, and he offered me a stool and a glass of hot tea before calling to check on my order.
It’s ready, he announced, and then went back to tapping on his phone.
I looked around, wondering what I was supposed to do next—pick the bags right off the shelves? Was that the Gabrielle right there in the corner? Could I pull out my phone to discreetly compare it to the picture I’d saved earlier that morning?
An older man burst into the store. He was short and muscular, sporting fashionably ripped jeans and pristine white high-tops.
Nice to meet you, nice to meet you, come with me, he said without bothering to introduce himself.
I was confused. Where?
Now he was confused. Where? To get your bags.
Oh, I said. Good. Let’s go.
He led me down a back staircase that reeked of cigarette smoke.
You’re American? he asked, scanning me from head to toe.
Yes. That’s why my Chinese is so bad.
He laughed. It’s decent.
So where are we going? I asked.
He pointed into the indeterminate distance. Down the road.
He walked briskly, dodging motorcycles, ignoring traffic lights, and I fought to keep up, raising the palm of my hand to drivers in both a gesture of apology and a plea for them to brake before they hit me.
We passed another massive shopping center that specialized in the metal hardware that festooned bags and belts and shoes. I didn’t dare ask my companion how these stores, all of which sold the same few items, could possibly survive side by side. That’s how little I knew. It would take me a few more months to grasp the size and complexity of the counterfeit accessories trade.
The man turned down a narrow street and stopped in front of a shabby-looking apartment building.
Here? I asked. I’d expected a warehouse with security, maybe a receptionist.
He shot me a sidelong look. Yep. He pulled out a ring of keys and unlocked the front door.
I followed him down a darkened hallway, listening for any signs of life beyond the walls, sniffing the air for cooking smells. The building was eerily still. If, for some reason, I had to scream, would anyone come to my aid?
He stopped before the last door at the end, and I sized him up. He was only a couple of inches taller than me, but when he pushed open the door, his forearm flexed, displaying ropy muscles, bulging veins. He flicked on a light. A slim length of neon yellow glinted in his back pocket—a box cutter. I took a step back.
Hold on, I said, pulling out my phone and studying the blank screen. Sorry, I have to take this call.
He left the door ajar. I typed a message to Winnie: This man, older, short, muscular, wants me to go inside his apartment to get the bags. This can’t be right? I stared at the screen, willing a response to appear. Who knew who else was inside that apartment, waiting for a naive American to stroll right through? I removed the money from my wallet—two measly twenties—and jammed them into my bra. I laced my house keys between my fingers and wondered if, when push came to shove, I’d really dare gouge out an eye. I checked my phone. No response.
The man’s head popped out around the side of the door, startling me.
Ready?
What choice did I have? I stuffed my phone in my purse and went inside.
Bulging jumbo-size garbage bags filled the floor of the main room, which was unfurnished except for two plastic chairs and a plastic table with an overfilled ashtray, all pushed up against one wall. The door clicked shut, and I heard the man turn the lock. Sweat surged beneath my arms but my mouth went dry. Behind my back I clenched my fingers around my keys.
Want something to drink?