The bellhop collapses to his knees and begins literally kowtowing. Zhang 
looks disgusted, hooks one of his sandaled feet under the bellhop's collarbone, 
and prods him back upright, then speaks a few words to him in the hillbilly 
accent of his native Fujien. The bellhop can hardly bow enough on his way back 
into the hotel; displeasure registers on Zhang's face—all he wants is 
some fast service. During the next minute or so, progressively 
higher-ranking hotel officials cringe out the door and 
abase themselves in front of Zhang, who simply ignores them, looking 
bored now. No one really knows whether Zhang is a Confucianist or a 
Maoist at this point in his life, but at this moment it makes no 
difference: for in the Confucian view of society, as in the Communist, 
peasants are the highest class and merchants the lowest. This hotel is 
not for peasants.