Now 35, Zhang thinks that China's urbanites are ready for the simple country life again — and that they are willing to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to get it. She and her husband, Beijing property developer Pan Shiyi, are building 50 high-end homes in the rolling hills near Badaling, 60 km northwest of Beijing, to provide retreat from the complexities of the city. The project, called Commune by the Great Wall, is not especially groundbreaking by Western standards. Wealthy families for centuries have counted the country estate among their obligatory possessions, and property developers have long marketed summer homes to rising middle classes. But entirely untested is the appetite of China's newly rich — few of whom are eager to revisit the mud-and-dung spattered villages of their youth — for a back-to-nature lifestyle.

To be sure, the Beijing power couple are not building hovels on the hillsides. Commune by the Great Wall homes feature ultramodern, environmentally friendly designs commissioned from 12 young Asian architects (see box page 54). But the understated, pricey (at least $500,000) villas push the limits of mainlanders' tastes. China's booming real estate market is characterized by freewheeling construction standards and derivative designs. Affluent buyers usually prefer the tried-and-tacky: faux Tudor-style homes or garish knock-offs of colonial mansions.

Zhang and Pan, 38, believe they have already demonstrated there is demand for more sophisticated dwellings. Through their development company, Redstone Industries, the couple has livened up a dull Beijing property market with stylish, quality apartments. They set up Redstone after marrying seven years ago, and established a value-for-money reputation. The company's broadband-connected SOHO New Town development in a smart Beijing district sold out within three months of its debut last year generating $543 million in revenue and what Zhang calls "a decent profit." Redstone launched a second, larger project in an adjacent district this month.

Zhang is among a new breed of Chinese entrepreneur — media-savvy, style-conscious and nimbly straddling the cultures of East and West. Her parents moved to China in the 1950s after riots in Burma, where the family owned confectionary businesses. Following the divorce, Zhang and her mother emigrated to Hong Kong in the early 1980s. They shared a grimy one-room flat and worked 16-hour shifts in electronics factories. The teenage Zhang had to escape the poverty trap. Her ticket out: night classes in accounting that allowed her to study economics at Sussex and Cambridge universities in Britain. Once something of a neo-Marxist, she joined Goldman Sachs in New York as an investment analyst.

It was on a China trip for Goldman that she met Pan, who was seeking backing for a real-estate project. He is an unlikely looking developer, seldom seen without a book in hand and given to expounding Taoist philosophy. But Pan's ascetic image belies a business mind. An ex-oil-ministry official, he had followed a former professor into the construction industry in Shenzhen and went on to make his first pile during a building boom in Hainan. Zhang rejected his business deal, but the pair hit it off.

Zhang, Redstone's president, has little patience for architecture grounded in affectation. She hosts garden parties attended by government ministers and poets, but her family lives in a plainly decorated flat. Her office, a tiny space inside the company's Beijing showroom, holds none of the antiques and classical paintings normally displayed by executives trying to make a public point about their good taste. The only art she has are the doodlings of her two sons, aged 1 and 3. "I can't stand antique this and antique that," Zhang says. "To me, it's total pretension. I like things simple, straightforward." China's construction boom presents developers with a rare opportunity to create impressive, lasting structures, she says, but most produce "trash."

The Commune is an attempt to lead by example, by erecting a community that is both modern in design and at peace with its surroundings. The couple was originally inspired to go country during a visit to a French-style cottage of a novelist friend. The rustic pleasures of lounging under a shady walnut tree as they gazed across rolling hills outside Beijing was hugely appealing. In 1997 they decided to build their own getaway, hiring Chang Yungho, head of the Architectural Research Bureau at Peking University. There was just one design stipulation: "I wanted to sit in the house and still feel as if I'm in nature," Zhang says. The result, called Shanyujian or Mountain, Dialogue, Void, is a low-slung, split-level building with exposed brick walls, I-beams across the roof and picture windows that make the most of a picturesque setting.

Construction involved plenty of hassles. Poor roads made transporting building material to the site a headache. Hiring laborers was an exercise in diplomacy as peasants squabbled over jobs. The villagers' laid-back style meant schedules had to be somewhat flexible. The retreat still requires tinkering on each visit. Drought has forced the installation of a water tank. Nature takes a bit of getting used to. "I was so afraid of snakes and dogs," Zhang recalls.

Today her family has a couple of pet hounds of their own, and she and her husband find themselves adjusting to the slower pace of life. The couple's trials are not unlike those chronicled in British writer Peter Mayle's best seller, A Year in Provence, which recounts his renovation of a cottage in France. They have begun to record their experiences in a book tentatively titled We Build A House in the Mountains, but it's a romanticized version. "I want people to read this and feel the urge to move out of the city," Zhang says. Excerpts are posted on the Commune website www.commune.com.cn — a convenient form of promotion.

The Walden Pond philosophy that underpins the Commune project is not meant to be exclusive. "This is not something for the rich and famous," Zhang says. "That is not at all my intention." But while the Commune winks at past proletarian ideals, each home costs $500,000 or more — including servants' quarters. At that price, Zhang concedes, ownership will be limited to those with big bank balances. Foreigners can buy, but they are not the target market. A weekend country house has become the new aspiration for wealthy urbanites in China. It means status and a respite from the stress and pollution of the city.

The first 11 of the homes and a clubhouse complex are scheduled for completion in October. Initially estimated at $24 million, the project is proving to be more costly than Zhang anticipated. She has tried to cut costs by paying the architects somewhat less than their standard rate. "The design fee is low and the project is very risky," says Japan's Shigeru Ban, the most high-profile of the architects involved. "But Zhang is so enthusiastic, I decided to do the work."

Her vision of a blend of innovative design and construction in the Chinese countryside is indeed seductive — she says the homes will be so trend-setting the project will serve as "contemporary museum." Kelly Morris of property consultants CB Richard Ellis agrees that the project could succeed as a showpiece. "[Zhang and Pan] have the money; they've got the connections," he says. Some of the elite, he suggests, may be enticed into parking their money in an experimental trophy house. Whether Beijing buyers are ready for the country again is uncertain, however. If not, Zhang's "commune" may become a museum in a way she hadn't intended: looked at but not lived in.

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