The Lehman Trilogy, page 44
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The Americans have learned to invest.
The middle classes no longer hide their money away:
everyone is putting it in bonds and investment funds
and in this way they double it.
Wow! Let’s make money!
Last month alone
Wall Street doubled its shares:
from 500,000 to 1,100,000!
What more can you ask?
A whole nation with money!
Arthur Lehman is beside himself:
he watches
in the street
those busy crowds of $7.21s
destined even to become $10s
and each time he cannot help but hear
a magnificent choir
chanting at the top of their voices
“THANK YOU MR. LEHMAN!”
And there again, what is Wealth (W)
if not a mathematical formula?
Arthur has worked it out like this:
Wealth is a result that depends on
the simultaneous increase of
Risk (X), Ambition (A), Productivity (Pr)
multiplied by a crucial parameter known as FC
or Favorable Conditions:
W = FC•f(X,A,Pr)
The favorable conditions in this case
would be none other than political:
what more can a bank ask for
than such a generous government?
No control on financial groups.
Taxes on capital reduced to the minimum.
Rates of interest at almost zero.
What is this if not a free ride?
Better, of course, not to talk to Herbert about it.
He, being a Democrat, with all his wild liberal ideas, doesn’t agree.
And the fact that Arthur is his brother doesn’t ease the conflict:
“Despite the fact that I don’t expect for one moment
to find flesh and blood in a banker,
if you and Philip had a minimum—and I say a minimum—of public spirit,
you would recognize that this financial anarchy cries out for revenge!”
“Why do you want to hold nature back, Herbert?
The market has always existed, and it wants freedom!”
“Freedom! Have you ever asked yourself what is the price of freedom?
Your mouths are all full of this word,
but can you possibly fail to realize
that too much freedom means the end of rights?
Is the thief free to steal? No, it’s a crime.
Is the drunkard free to go ’round swearing? No, because it’s uncivil.
And you, with all respect: if you see a pretty young girl,
do you think yourself free to squeeze her hips?”
“You confuse freedom with arrogance.”
“Exactly: that’s what it is. You financiers are arrogant.”
“We apply scientific criteria.”
“You apply them with no muzzles, no leashes.
Three citizens out of four live in poverty.
Five percent hold one-third of all the wealth in America!”
“And you’re one of them, Herbie: what are you complaining about?”
“About the fact that it’s unjust, Arthur!”
“Oh for goodness’ sake! And how many other things are unjust?
Sickness is unjust: you get sick, I don’t.
Hurricanes are unjust, earthquakes are unjust!
You want to try and stop those? You can’t.
The law of wealth is part of human society
you can’t change it, even if you don’t like it.”
“It’s pointless talking to a banker about ethics.
I’m putting you on guard, if you want to understand:
you’re creating a monstrous system
which cannot last for long.
Industry everywhere, factories all over the place:
who will they sell to if the vast majority has no money?
You pretend that America is rich
you like to say the whole world is on the road to affluence
but when will you open your eyes?
Or are you going to open them when it’s too late?
Philip Lehman
for his part
has now learned to smile at these arguments.
It’s not worth talking to Herbert:
it’s a pointless effort
all the more since everything’s under control.
Each night
Philip examines the situation
checks the problems
follows the fingers of the dwarf
concludes that
absolutely the best thing
is
to ride the wave.
Perfect.
Ride the wave.
And not just the wave: the clouds too.
For no other reason than that Lehman Brothers
has been investing now for some time
in shipping transport
but now
for some time
has launched into conquering the sky
and each time Philip hears the sound of an airplane
he is happy to look up
and think “that’s one of ours.”
This also makes Philip smile,
a smile that has never been so perfect:
Lehman controls banks everywhere
from North America to Germany
from England to Canada
and only in Russia do they keep us away
even though Mr. Leon Trotsky
has said: “All the same, in Moscow gold is gold
and we communists haven’t abolished money . . .”
So there’s plenty to smile about.
Early
each morning
like today
Philip Lehman
arrives in Wall Street
with a smile on his face.
Each morning
with a smile on his face
he buys a newspaper
from the Italian kid
who calls out at the street corner.
With a smile on his face
he drinks a coffee
served at the counter
leafing through the paper
reading the figures.
Then he wipes his lips
with his handkerchief
picks up his bag
and heads toward the entrance.
By that time
each morning
like this morning
Solomon Paprinski
is already
standing on the
taut
straight
wire.
“Good morning, Mr. Paprinski!”
“Good morning, Mr. Leh . . .”
It’s as though time
had stopped still.
At that moment.
Stop.
Halt.
Still.
Solomon Paprinski
after fifty years
for the first time
has fallen
down
has fallen
to the ground.
His ankle broken:
finished, forever.
It is Thursday October 24.
Of the year 1929.
10
Ruth
Teddy
is the first stockbroker
to kill himself.
He puts a gun in his mouth at 9:17 a.m.
in the restrooms at Wall Street.
It’s Thursday October 24.
Year 1929.
Teddy ran off
took to his heels
as soon as he realized
that everyone on the trading floor
all of a sudden
is selling
selling
selling
“but what the hell’s going on today?”
they’re selling
selling
“what’s going on today?”
they’re selling
selling
yet till yesterday
shares were sticking to people’s hands like glue
and now
all of a sudden
they want to unload them
everyone
to be rid of them!
They want to see money, real money
not shares
not securities:
money.
Full stop.
Money.
Full stop.
Money?
Teddy isn’t used to money.
You don’t see money on Wall Street.
Money is tacit.
For years, now:
increase value
price goes up
this is what they’ve taught him:
the more it costs, the stronger it is
the more it costs, the bigger it is
the more it costs, the more to celebrate
yes, okay
agreed
but if then
all of a sudden
someone sells?
Teddy knows how to pay, of course
but in shares.
And if someone doesn’t want other shares
but only only only wants money?
If he no longer feels safe
if he wants to see
if he wants money
here
in front of him
now . . .
“then what do I do?”
“then what do I do?”
Teddy ran off.
Locked himself in a bathroom.
Bullet.
Trigger.
Fire.
Bang.
* * *
Bang!
And the horses race off!
All in a line
no one pulls away yet
with number 1 Nelson
2nd Davis
3rd Sanchez
4th Tapioca
5th Vancouver
6th . . .
Bobbie Lehman’s horse is number 6
his Thoroughbred, Wilson:
12 trophies
12 races
12 podiums
12 times Bobbie Lehman has sat on the terraces
white suit white tie
immaculate
with binoculars
restrained, dignified
—a man of measure—
hissing between his teeth
“That’s it Wilson! Go on Wilson!”
but only between his teeth
not opening his mouth
immobile, expressionless
even when Wilson at number 6 pulls away
as he usually does
and unstoppable
unstoppable
unstoppable
crosses the finishing line
Wilson wins
Wilson wins
Wilson wins
Wilson wins
once again
the thirteenth time
that Wilson has won
that Bobbie Lehman has won.
Today too, here
at Churchill Downs, the top race.
Bobbie smiles.
Nothing more.
He smiles.
Has he won? Yes.
Has he triumphed? Yes.
But he is restrained.
A man of measure.
Bobbie Lehman says nothing.
Just a smile.
Even when he sees
a green hat with veil
and two eyes beneath the hat
peering at his mouth:
“Do you know there’s some blood coming from your lip?”
“Pardon me, Miss?”
“I said you have a drop of blood
here, on the side of your mouth.”
“I? Do I?”
“Yes, sure. As if you’ve bitten your lip.”
“I don’t bite my lip, Miss.”
“Will you let me wipe it off?”
“Wipe it off, Miss?”
“With my handkerchief: it will stain your suit if it runs down . . . May I?”
“If it’s necessary.”
“It’s urgent.”
“Very well.”
“There, it’s done.”
“That’s very kind. I’m obliged to you, Miss.”
“I may be kind but I’m not a Miss.”
“You’re married? Do I know your husband?”
“Jack Rumsey, ex-husband.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Long live divorce! I’m still celebrating.”
“Very frank.”
“Realism, pure realism. In fact, you can offer me a drink.”
“I’m expected at the prize giving.”
“It’s your horse that’s won?”
“So it seems.”
“Heavens, are you Robert Lehman?”
“Unless proved otherwise.”
“Now I understand why you bite your lip.”
“I really don’t bite my lip.”
“Oh you do, you do it a lot.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“And the blood on your lip?”
“Pure chance.”
“Let’s take a bet?”
“I never bet.”
“You’re most amusing! Shall I come with you to the prize giving?”
“It’s not permitted.”
“Are you joking? You Lehmans can do as you please
from biting your lip to whatever else.”
“I told you . . .”
“Don’t repeat yourself: it’s tedious. Let’s go to the prize giving!”
“But if they ask me . . .”
“If they ask who I am, just say: Ruth Lamar.”
“Ruth Lamar.”
“Here, stop: can’t you see you’re biting your lip?
I’ve won!”
* * *
Vernon
is the second stockbroker
to kill himself.
He blows his brains out at 10:32 a.m.
at his desk
second floor at Wall Street.
Ever since everyone
on this infernal Thursday
began selling madly
Vernon hasn’t stopped a moment
he hasn’t lost heart:
the shares are holding for now
there’s a drop, yes, but 3 percent
you just have to keep calm
to say that if all the others fall
there’s a chance for big opportunities a moment later
just keep calm
yes, keep calm
—“light another cigarette, Vernon”—
the drop is now 5 percent
it’s no big loss, 5 percent
—“light another cigarette, Vernon”—
he reads the numbers on the board:
Goldman Sachs has lost 30 million
—“light another cigarette, Vernon”—
he checks his shares:
down 15 percent in not even half an hour
he looks at the board again
Goldman Sachs loses 40 million
—“light another cigarette, Vernon”—
he checks his shares:
down 25 percent
“I’m not going to pick up like this”
“I’m not going to pick up like this”
Goldman Sachs loses 50 million
—“light another cigarette, Vernon”—
down 27 percent
down 30 percent
down 34 percent
“I’m not going to pick up like this”
“I’m not going to pick up like this”
—“light another cigarette, Vernon”—
he opens the drawer
down 37
bullet
down 38
“I’m not going to pick up like this”
down 40
trigger
down 44
fire!
down 47
bang
down 4 . . .
* * *
4 . . .
3 . . .
2 . . .
1 . . .
Hurrah!
Applause from the whole street.
Doors open:
the start of the Lehman Collection art exhibition.
Seventeenth-century Flemish masters.
Bobbie Lehman feels at home
in his element
Bobbie the connoisseur
Bobbie the expert
Bobbie who for years
has traveled the length and breadth of Europe
in search of paintings and drawings:
now it is he who inaugurates museums and galleries
at the table with the dignitaries
white suit white tie
immaculate
he has just praised the power of chiaroscuro
“which exalts the union
between realism and the ethereal transcendence of light.”
Applause throughout the room.
And at the end of the speeches
a queue to congratulate Mr. Lehman
who shakes hands
greets
and kisses the hands of the ladies.
Ruth Lamar is behind him
smoking her Philip Morris—
which Lehman Brothers also finances.
“Do you know your hands shake when you speak in public?”
“Let me say hello to these people:
good evening, Mrs. Thornby.”
“And yet it’s true: your hands shake,
I’ve been watching you, I do it each time.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Not allowed?”
“I don’t like it when other people see you looking at me.”
“As if they don’t know . . .”
“Keep your voice down! To many, you’re still a married woman.”
“Divorced.”
“They don’t know that. Good evening, Mr. Guitty.”
“There: can’t you see your hand is shaking?”
“Because I’m not at ease, that’s all.”
“That’s all.”
“I’m 37! I don’t want people to think I’m playing around with . . .”
“With a pretty divorcée?”
“Keep your voice down!
Good evening, Mrs. Downs.”
“So marry me.”
“Pardon?”
“Let’s get married, darn it!
I’ve already done it once, I know it’s not the end of the world.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Meldley.”
“If we get married will I be able to look at you?”
“Oh, Professor Rumoski!”
“After all, it’s just a swapping of rings, no more no less.”
“My dear Mr. Nichols!”
“Life isn’t so different once you’re married, I guarantee.”
“Senator Spencer!”
“But I tell you now, we’ll get married in Canada.”
“General Holbert!”
