by Carolyn Ives Gilman
This story explains a lot. A lot.
Jane,
I was an idiot to let you persuade me into this hellish adventure.
Do you have any idea how far Nanonesia is from London? I have been on planes and in airports for twenty-four hours of sheer torture. First London to Frankfurt, then Frankfurt to Mumbai, arriving at an hour when only the bats were awake. Of course, my flight had been canceled, so I had to rebook. I camped in the Mumbai airport just long enough to pick up an E. coli sandwich with some salmonella on the side, then crammed back into another tin can for another day of living death. Right now my legs are in a persistent vegetative state. The pilot seems to have lost his way, since there is nothing outside my window but endless Pacific Ocean, not a speck of land in sight. The sun is coming up when my circadian rhythms are going down. When we run out of fuel there won’t even be any bleached bones for them to send back for my parents to bury.
I couldn’t possibly take a job out here, not if they offered me the chairmanship of the bank. I don’t care if Tamaroa is the next Dubai; it’s too damned far away. You and your “Head east, young man.” If I had just hung on at Barclay’s, surely I would have become more than a currency trader in time. I know I didn’t graduate at the top of my class, but any sort of degree from the London School of Economics ought to count for something eventually. If you hadn’t tempted me with the thought of sunny beaches under coconut palms, I would have kept my sanity and never applied for this job.
Oh, here comes the flight attendant with a defibrillator to revive the passengers who have passed away.
Curse you,
Simon
* * * *
Jane,
Well, things are certainly looking up.
From the attached photo of my hotel room, you will see that I am finally being treated in the manner I deserve. That is a slate-lined jacuzzi in the foreground, an interactive theater in the background, and my private exercise equipment on the right. The windows are floor to ceiling, but no worry about privacy—I am in the penthouse suite. It takes up the entire top floor. The floors are polished coral, and the bed takes up approximately an acre. Everything is the most modern imaginable. The only concession to local culture is a quaint shrine to one of their gods at the entry. It holds a grotesque mask with bulging eyes, tusks jutting out, and a long red tongue. They tell me she is called Rangda, and she is a witch.
But to go back—I now believe this is the next great Asian powerhouse economy. The island of Tamaroa is the most astonishing sight from the air. It is a mountain of glass towers rising straight from the ocean, not a speck of land visible. It looks like it’s floating, a regular modern-day Atlantis. The airport is built on pylons over the water, so that the pilot doesn’t have much room for error coming down; but he managed to get us safely landed.
Everyone was terribly cordial as soon as they learned I was here on business with Sinoa Bank. I was whisked through customs and immigration, and taken in charge by a uniformed driver who led me out to a white limo parked on the sidewalk (apparently Sinoa Bank can park where it pleases). Inside was a middle-aged Nanonesian man in a charcoal Gucci suit who introduced himself as Mr. Samartha. He was very courteous, in his South Pacific way—said he was expecting an older man, and was surprised someone so young would have such a distinguished resume. I suppose it is distinguished, compared to the average Tamaroan’s. Don’t worry, I won’t let it go to my head.
The car took off through the most astonishing chrome-and-glass skyscrapers. The culture here is a complete mix—Western suits and silk sarongs, kava vendors next to Starbucks. Everything is immaculate; you could eat off the sidewalks. When he saw I was admiring it, Mr. Samartha beamed and said, “We are small, but we have used our resources wisely. Would you believe that twenty years ago, it was just a parcel of volcanic atolls? We had nothing but beaches and coconut palms.”
At the base of every skyscraper there was a shrine integrated into the architecture, each holding a statue heaped about with fresh flowers and bowls of food. Mr. Samartha said, “You will find that we are a very religious people, Mr. Messiter. Our prosperity has not changed that. We are true to our roots, as you Englishmen are.” I wonder how long it’s been since he’s been in the U.K.
He took me to this hotel and deposited me with the manager, promising to pick me up at 8:30 for dinner with the Chairman, and a board meeting at 10:00 p.m. If they meant to impress me, they have—I never dreamed I would meet the Chairman and board, even though it is a supervisory job. They must want me to take it very badly.
I can see the Sinoa Bank building from where I’m sitting now, through the wall of windows in front of my desk. It’s a glass tower topped with a structure like a Balinese temple—it looks like a stack of Chinese hats, diminishing in size as they go up. The Sinoa logo (some sort of Polynesian glyph) is glowing in the setting sun on its face. It dominates the skyline, and looks a little sinister, I have to say. I imagine that is intentional.
There is only one thing that makes me a little nervous. Before he left, Mr. Samartha leaned close and whispered in a conspiratorial way, “Bring the book.” I have no idea what he was talking about. Was I supposed to have prepared some sort of presentation? Oh well, I suppose I’ll find out soon. It’s almost time to leave.
Ta ra,
Simon
* * * *
Jane,
I have just been through the strangest experience of my life.
Mr. Samartha showed up at 8:30 sharp, full of apologies because the Chairman had been called away by an emergency and couldn’t dine with me. “He has asked me personally to lay our case before you,” he said.
We went in the limo over to the Sinoa Bank building. The lobby was a multistoried, domed affair. We passed a security desk and went to a private elevator that Mr. Samartha called with a handprint recognition device. Inside, he inserted a key card and punched a code before the doors would close. We then rode up for a very long time. When the elevator doors finally opened, he held up a hand for me to wait. There was a niche in the door jamb, rather like a holy water font. He took a pinch of some sort of crumbled herb from it and sprinkled it over the threshhold.
He then led me into a lounge paneled in tropical wood, but not a window anywhere, so I couldn’t orient myself. There was a bowing hostess who showed us into a private dining room, just the two of us.
Over drinks, Mr. Samartha explained that Sinoa Bank had a problem he hoped I could help them with. “I’ll do what I can,” I said.
It was the usual developing-country story. Tamaroa had contracted a great many debts in the course of their remarkable expansion, and now the payments were weighing down their economy. “We are anxious to find a way to reduce the burden,” he said. Of course, I nodded sympathetically. Who wouldn’t?
He leaned forward across the table. “This is where I must swear you to secrecy,” he said.
“All right,” I said.
“Our debts are mostly in dollars,” he said. “If the dollar were to fall in value while our own currency rose, it would greatly reduce the debt we owe.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“So we wish to make the dollar fall.”
He was looking at me expectantly. I said, “Well, good luck with that.”
“That is why we have brought you here.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We want you to help us bring down the dollar.”
I had no idea what to say. Was it some sort of job-interview test, to see if I knew my basic fiscal theory? Was it a joke, and he was waiting to see how I would take it? Or was he just barking mad?
“Umm,” I said.
“I see you are cautious. I want to assure you, we do not ask this lightly. We realize how delicate the operation must be. And what powerful enemies you will be facing. We ourselves have tested our powers in this, and found that we cannot yet challenge the Massachuseti.”
He said the last word with a kind of fearful reverence. Jane, I swear to you, he was dead serious.
“But we have many allies as well. Rising young nations who chafe under the sway of the IMF and World Bank, with their rituals of self-denial, their strict canons that keep us powerless to strike back. Venezuela, Argentina, Brazil, Thailand, Vietnam.”
I nodded as if I were impressed.
“For many decades we believed we were powerless in this new world of interlocking global finance. We thought only Western ways were effective, and so we cast aside our own traditions, to chase after ones that were alien to us. But now we have come to the realization that we were wrong, and our own ways can influence the markets; we just need to learn how to adapt them.
“But still, to challenge the Massachuseti we need more experience. And so we look to you, to Great Britain, where the tradition first began. We look to the ancient London School of Economancy.”
I wanted to take him by his 1000 pound lapels and say distinctly and clearly, Economics! What did this barmy primitivist think we dealt in—spells and incantations? I mean, I am as respectful of other cultures as the next person, but really! It was all I could do to keep from laughing in his face.
“You are very silent,” he said after a pause.
“Silence becomes the wise man,” I said. I read it on a fortune cookie once.
“You must be disposed to help us, or you would not be here.”
“It is ... not what I was expecting,” I said.
“Ah,” he said. “Perhaps the compensation we offered is not adequate.”
No kidding. It was only a 70,000-pound-a-year job. To bring down the U.S. economy I require a great deal more than that.
“I will speak to the Chairman about it,” Mr. Samartha promised. “But first, let us eat.”
He rang a bell then, and servers appeared bearing a wealth of savory dishes—roast pork, duck, scallops, vegetables I barely recognized, all with a tang of brine and garlic. I packed it in with a will. If the whole trip was to be a complete fiasco, at least I was determined to get a good meal out of it.
We finished off with a kind of coconut liqueur, very tasty, which gave me a pleasant buzz. Mr. Samartha looked at his Rolex and said, “The board of the Tamaroa Central Bank will soon be here. They are very anxious to meet you.”
I had no idea that the Board I was scheduled to meet was the Central Bank, but nothing surprised me by now.
He took me into an inner room that was fitted out in the style of a Hindu temple—wooden panels carved in the images of fantastical deities, an altar heaped with an arrangement of fruit and flowers, and in the center a mahogany conference table with built-in flat-screen monitors at every seat, each showing a rotating mandala screensaver.
The board members soon started arriving, all elderly men in black suits. I was the youngest in the room by three or four decades. As they entered, they each shook my hand, then went to the altar to throw a pinch of spice onto a brazier, which filled the room with a pungent aroma.
Mr. Samartha, at my side, explained in a low tone, “It is a mix of crushed garlic and jangu leaf. In our ancient tradition, it keeps away the Buta and the Kala spirits, so that our minds are clear and uninfluenced.”
Some of the men took strips of colorful cloth from their pockets and wrapped them around their waists like cummerbunds. The mood was very grave.
The Chairman was last to arrive. He was an ancient, blind, arthritic creature, like a mannikin assembled from twisted bag closers. Mr. Jakwamano, his deputy, led him slowly in by the arm. When they passed the threshhold, the door bolts shot to and a red light on the security panel showed that the room was secure. Everyone in the room rose in unison, and the Chairman acknowledged them with a skeletal upraised hand. Then Mr. Jakwamano steered him to me. He was smaller than I, but his grip on my hand was firm.
“You are welcome, Simon,” he said. “I hope Mr. Samartha has taken good care of you.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. He frowned and tried to adjust his hearing aid.
Mr. Jakwamano took my hand next. He had piercing eyes, and I had to force myself not to step back or look down. “Mr. Samartha told me you were a prodigy,” he said. “Your colleagues must have taken you into their councils at a very early age, for you to have risen to such a position of power.”
“Mr. Samartha exaggerates,” I said.
“This is English self-effacement,” he answered.
I sensed he was a person not to contradict, so I said, “As you say, Mr. Jakwamano.”
He stood studying me for several very awkward seconds. At last he led the old man over to the altar, and a hush filled the room. The Chairman began to speak in his own language.
“He is invoking the goddess Durga, the patroness of our profession,” Mr. Samartha explained in a whisper.
When he was finished, everyone resumed their seats and Mr. Jakwamano took over chairing the meeting.
“Mr. Messiter, welcome. Our ways may seem exotic or primitive to you—”
“Not at all,” I lied politely.
“But I assure you, the financial system we have developed here is tested by the centuries. We have based it on an ancient tradition we call the pangiwa, or left-hand path. From the earliest times it was a way of deep learning and discipline, though derided by outsiders. Léyaks, the practitioners of pangiwa, went through a training so rigorous that many who aspired to it went mad; it is said their minds burst like balloons under the strain of the knowledge. But those who succeeded learned to imagine the unimaginable. They could visualize the powers that circulate through this world and give all life its animation. By this means, the léyaks long ago acquired power over disease, the mind, and the organic world.
“But our Chairman was first to realize that the economic world can also be visualized. He trained himself to see the circulation of capital flows, the breathing of business cycles, the way labor digests the food of natural resources. He saw it as an organic system full of feedback loops. The combined efforts of humans have created a superorganism whose health is critical to our well being. If the flows become blocked, one part becomes too hot or too cold, and illness results. His talent at seeing what others could not allowed him to build everything you see on Tamaroa today.”
At this point I was thinking that there was something psychoactive in the jangu leaf, because he actually made a kind of sense.
But then he continued, “Around this table you see the most skilled practitioners of the Tamaroan system of economancy. Mr. Pavala is our graphomancer; he has seen patterns in the charts that no one else has discerned. Mr. Mombrana has adapted some ancient methods for freezing and thawing to keep our capital markets liquid.”
Mr. Mombrana, a jovial-looking man, winked at me. “Why turn one’s enemy into stone when one can simply freeze his assets, eh?”
Each man had a specialty: one was an expert at toxification (you know, making things untouchable, like the Hope Diamond or Long Term Capital Management shares); another cast stabilization spells (on prices, naturally); another did transparency spells to reveal things hidden in audit reports. One of them did something called astromarketology.
Mr. Jakwamano concluded, “Mr. Vishwatara is our risk specialist. He has pioneered new risk-management strategies.”
I was afraid to ask, but Mr. Vishwatara told me anyway. “Risk, as you know, is a demon.”
“I’ve often thought so.”
“It is impossible to control, though many have claimed to do so. Our ancient léyaks were proficient at summoning the buta and kala demons, and I have found that risk is not so very different.”
Mr. Jakwamano saved me from having to respond by saying, “I will not conceal that we have debated about bringing you here, Mr. Messiter. As you see, we have a wealth of talent in this room. But it is a serious thing to challenge the Massachuseti. Their numerologists are the best on Earth. If they find we defy them, they will visit insolvency upon us, inflate our currency, and bring the commodities futures crashing down on our heads. They are ruthless and cold, and wish to dominate the world. Am I not right?”
Heads nodded around the table.
“But as you know, it takes only a well-placed butterfly to start a hurricane. We do not have the skills to pinpoint the butterfly that can bring down our proud adversaries. That is why we need your help. Your book of formulas is the most ancient in the world. They say it was begun by Adam Smith himself.”
He looked to me for verification, so I said, “Oh yes, absolutely.”
“We need you to identify the butterfly that will bring down the Americans.”
It was not a job interview question I had prepared for, but I had to say something. So, bluffing ferociously, I said, “Derivatives markets. No one regulates them. Hell, no one even understands them. Put your butterfly there.” I thought to myself, Can I go now?
But they seemed more keyed up than ever. Little conversations in Tamaroan rippled around the table. With my execrable luck, I had apparently hit on something plausible.
At that moment the Chairman spoke up for the first time. “Value,” he said. It was like an oracular crow speaking. There was a dead silence. I began to think it was all he intended to say. Then he went on.
“Value is the essence that underlies the whole system. Credit default swaps, securitized debt packages—how do we know their value?” He reached into his pocket and took out a folded page of computer printouts. “I just bought these CDOs today. Mr. Bambeg, you are the best divinatician here. Tell me what they are worth.”
Mr. Bambeg was a nervous, heavy-spectacled man sitting across from me. He studied the printout a few moments, then put it on the table. I stole a look at it; then, holding my BlackBerry under the table, looked up the bond rating. It was triple-A.
But when Mr. Bambeg activated the display panel in the tabletop in front of him, it didn’t take him to Standard and Poor. It showed a colorful symmetrical pattern like a compass rose.
“The panca déwata pattern,” Mr. Samartha whispered.
Mr. Bambeg spread the paper over the tabletop diagram so the light of the monitor showed through. He then stared at it till his thick lenses started to steam up.
“Well?” the Chairman said.
“Mr. Chairman, I regret to say that a normal transparency spell will not work on this derivative. It is so opaque I doubt even its originator knew what its underlying obligations were worth.”
I gazed at my own divinatory screen, and wondered if it were any more accurate than Mr. Bambeg’s. What is bond rating anyway, if not witchcraft?
“Then there is only one way to determine its value,” the Chairman said. “We must actualize its risk.”
The circle of gray-haired men looked very grave.
Mr. Bambeg handed the paper to Mr. Vishwatara. “Risk is not my specialty,” he said.
“Then I will do it,” Mr. Vishwatara said, a bit reluctantly. He looked up at me. “Unless Mr. Messiter wishes to—”
“No, no, be my guest,” I said modestly.
I have no idea how he did it. The room was obviously rigged, but even so it was a very effective illusion. First he stood and cast something on the brazier, so that it flared up. The room lights dimmed, and he stood silhouetted against the flamelight. He began to chant in Tamaroan. All around the table, the bespectacled men joined hands and echoed his invocation. Mr. Samartha and the man on my other side clasped my hands so the circle would be complete. As the repetitive chants grew louder and overlapped, I began to hear other sounds—clashing, brazen sounds they seemed, like traffic, shouting, and slamming doors. It was as if something large and loud were in the room with us, trapped in the circle of joined hands. It reminded me of private jets taking off, and trading floors, a whirlwind of supercharged action. It seemed to dart around the room, looking for a way out. There was a pressure against my chest, and it grew difficult to breathe. As my vision began to go spotty, Mr. Jakwamano gave a peremptory order, and all the illusion of power condensed into an image somehow projected onto the smoke: a stringy, pathetic thing in a tank top, whining cravenly about how everything was someone else’s fault. Then it vanished, leaving only a smell of stale cigarettes.
As the light returned, everyone released hands and drew breath. In the relieved silence, Mr. Samartha said with distaste, “That was an American demon.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Jakwamano. “Typical dual nature.”
“Well, what did you learn?” the Chairman demanded.
Mr. Vishwatara looked thoughtfully at the paper in front of him. “Mr. Chairman, the underlying value of this instrument is based on a spell that convinces all who behold it that it has great value. It may, or it may not. But as with any confidence spell, once broken it will boomerang back and work its opposite: it will convince everyone the instrument is worthless, which also may not be true. In short, this is a risk bomb.”
“Who engineered this clumsy contrivance?” Mr. Bambeg asked, wiping his glasses.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Vishwatara said, “But it has the style of a Merrill Lynch spell.”
“I suspected as much,” the Chairman said. “Merrill Lynch, Lehman Brothers, and Credit Swisse are buying them like candy.” He struck the table forcefully. “Messiter is right! This is where we must strike.”
They all turned to me expectantly. “We are ready to act whenever you are,” Mr. Jakwamano said.
They wanted me to lead them in casting juju on Merrill Lynch. What was the proper protocol for an English spell—to hold hands and chant, “PDV=(FV)/(1 + r)t”?
“Er, I didn’t come prepared for this tonight,” I said. “I need to make some arrangements.” Plane reservations out of here, to be specific.
They were keenly disappointed, but I stayed firm. Jane, you would have been proud of me. Not a spell passed my lips. The Federal Reserve can sleep easy another night.
I am now back in my hotel room, all packed and ready to abscond at dawn. Back to the land of sanity. How did you ever get me into this?
Simon
* * * *
Jane,
I need your help. Please don’t let me down.
I was waiting for dawn after emailing you last night, and only noticed I was asleep when a thunderous banging woke me up. I opened my eyes to find a troop of body-armored military police taking possession of my room. Two of them yanked me rudely upright, flourishing stun guns and yelling in Tamaroan. I barely managed to get some shoes on before they shoved me into the elevator and marched me down into a police van that screeched away from the curb, flinging me onto the floor.
At the police station they flashed a camera in my eyes, took fingerprints, then shoved me into a cinderblock cell with a stained concrete floor. I waited there, still dazed, till two uniformed officers came in. The one in charge was studying some documents. I fixated on the fact that he had a riding crop hanging from his wrist—though I doubt a horse has ever set hoof on Tamaroa.
“Who are you?” he demanded peremptorily.
“Simon Messiter—” I began.
“No. Who are you really?”
“I’m really Simon Messiter.”
He began to tap the crop against his boot.
“Look, I don’t know what you want me to say.”
He showed me my own passport. “Where did you get this forgery?”
“It’s not a forgery, it’s my passport. I got it from the London Passport Office.”
“You have entered this country fraudulently, with false documents. That is a serious offense.”
This was getting even more deranged than the night before. I tried to keep my wits. “Look, I came here for a job interview with Sinoa Bank. Mr. Samartha can tell you.”
The mention of Sinoa Bank had always worked wonders before. Not this time.
“Yes, we know what your game is. You are posing as a banker.” He said it with a sneer, eyeing me up and down as if to say bankers don’t go around looking as if they had been yanked out of bed by gendarmes.
“Yes,” I said. “I work at Barclay’s.” I rattled off my supervisor’s name and phone number, and begged them to call and check.
“Doubtless you have confederates to help you defraud our citizens,” he said. “We will call the real Barclay’s.”
“Please. Do it. The sooner the better.”
He stood looking at me carnivorously, flicking the crop as if longing to use it on me. Then he turned and left.
I waited what must have been several hours, first pacing, then huddled on the floor, all the stories I had heard about prisons in developing countries racing through my head. What was the sentence, I wondered, for the crime of impersonating yourself?
Finally, a guard showed up and gestured me to the door. He put handcuffs on my wrists and led me down a concrete hallway to another interrogation room. There, two men sat at a plain metal table awaiting me. To my great relief, one of them was Mr. Samartha. I was about to ask him to explain when I saw his face. All smiles and benevolence the day before, it was cold and angry now. I stopped in my tracks.
The other man at the table was a European—a balding, slightly pudgy man in a business suit, the completely forgettable type you see by the drove in the City. He was studying me as if I were an untidy balance sheet.
The guard pushed me into a chair and left without taking off the handcuffs. There was a long silence as I looked from one to the other of them. At last Mr. Samartha took my passport from his pocket and slid it across the table to me. “It seems,” he said, “that this actually is yours.”
“Yes. Thank you,” I said, taking it.
“Your name is Simon Messiter?”
“Yes. Always has been.”
“You claim this is just a strange coincidence.”
Things had been getting so normal for a moment, and now I was back in nutter land. “What coincidence?” I said.
“That there should be two Simon Messiters, both London bankers, both scheduled on the same plane to Tamaroa.”
This would explain quite a lot. “Oh,” I said, the light dawning.
The European reached across the table and introduced himself. “Simon Messiter,” he said. “Of Messiter Consulting. I was supposed to be on your plane, but I missed my connection in Mumbai.”
I shook his hand as best I could with handcuffs on. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“It appears,” Mr. Samartha said to me sourly, “that the Euro branch of our currency department actually was scheduled to interview you. We had no idea.”
“So this is all a case of mistaken identity,” I said. “What a relief.”
But instead of apologizing and letting me go, they simply sat there.
“We have a problem now,” Mr. Samartha said. “Our Chairman does not like to be trifled with.”
I did not know what the Nanonesian protocol was, but short of human sacrifice, I was willing to comply. “Please convey my profound apologies. I had no intention of trifling with him. I am as surprised as you about all this.”
Mr. Samartha did not look appeased. “You see, our Chairman does not believe in coincidences. Especially ones with calamitous results.”
My foggy brain took several seconds to work out what the calamitous results were; then I saw he meant my attendance at the little coven last night. “My lips are sealed,” I said.
“You will understand, we cannot accept such an assurance.”
I was still in a world of trouble.
“Could I speak to him alone for a moment?” the duplicate Messiter said.
Mr. Samartha looked reluctant, but deferred. He rose and left the room. The man put his clasped hands on the table and said, “Well. You certainly have gotten yourself in a muddle.”
He didn’t have the plummy public-school accent of most senior bankers; instead, there was a trace of the Midlands about him. He had a forthright and energetic manner. It was unaccountably encouraging.
“Can you help me?” I said. “They would take your word. They respect you. They think you’re—” What they thought was so ludicrous I couldn’t even say it.
He chuckled tolerantly. “Yes, I know. It’s amusing, but it’s best not to let on. They take it very seriously, you know.”
Finally, a rational human being. “Then you know what this is all about. They think you’re some sort of grand magus.”
“Your first visit to Nanonesia?” he asked.
I nodded. “And my last. I had no idea such superstitions hung on in the midst of all this Westernization.”
He smiled. “If you look at it with a squint of intercultural tolerance, it’s not so irrational,” he said. “After all, what is the economy based on? Belief. It is my belief that you will perform your contract, your belief that I will pay you. Our mutual belief that the symbols we use to represent value will be honored by all. And what is magic? It is belief, too: my belief that I have power, your belief that mine exceeds yours, our mutual belief that spells have value to influence the world.”
“But surely it can’t be ethical to encourage them.”
In answer, he took a bill from his pocket and tossed it on the table between us. It was a U.S. dollar. “Is it unethical to encourage people to think that has value? It’s a piece of paper, young Simon. Only delusion makes it valuable.”
“That, and the full faith and credit of the United States.”
“Do you wish me to list the beliefs that is based on?”
“But it’s not a magic spell!”
“It might as well be. Belief in currency acts exactly like a spell. It is a mass delusion, and it works.”
His cynicism alarmed me. “You’re not seriously going to do what they ask? I mean, pretend to put a hex on the United States?”
He shrugged. “What harm can it do?”
Now I saw he was a complete rogue. “So this is a scam,” I said. “You’re preying on their superstition.”
“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “The global economy really is run by a secret cabal of sorcerers.”
“You charlatan! I’m ashamed to share a name with you.”
He only laughed. “The young are so judgmental. So sure they are right. Very well, you may unmask me. Shall we call in Mr. Samartha?”
I saw what he meant. There was no doubt which of us Mr. Samartha would trust. Against the power of belief, the truth would be helpless. “All right,” I said glumly. “What do you want?”
“I will help you,” he said, “provided you answer truthfully one question. Last night, when they were discussing what to do, you told them to target the derivatives markets. Why? Truthfully, now.”
I tried to think back. “Well, truthfully, I was a little drunk.”
“Yes? Go on.”
“And I was playing them a little. All right, I was no better than you.”
“Go on.”
“I thought it was a safe answer. No one really knows the value of the underlying assets in derivatives. The bond rating companies are just whistling in the dark. If ever there was a market based on belief, that’s it.”
He nodded, and seemed to accept that. He got up and went to the door to call Mr. Samartha back in.
“Well?” Mr. Samartha said, looking from one to the other of us.
When we were alone, Messiter’s demeanor had been relaxed and jovial. Now, in an instant, he went through a frightening change. His gaze on me was ruthless and cold. “He is one of them,” he said. “He is in the pay of the Massachuseti.” He nearly hissed with malice.
“I thought so,” Mr. Samartha said.
“Hang on,” I protested. “Messiter, you said—”
But Mr. Samartha had already turned to give an order to the waiting policemen. Two of them trooped in to take charge of me. This time, after shoving me into the cell, they sprinkled the threshhold with their sacred herb, no doubt to keep me from bewitching them into making bad investments.
I’d sat in a stew for several hours when the lack of a toilet in the holding cell became a problem that all the economagical powers on Earth couldn’t solve. I managed to attract a guard’s attention, and he took me across the hall to a lavatory. Coming back, as we were passing his desk, I saw my BlackBerry sitting on it, and without even thinking reached out and picked it up. I expected him to notice right away, but he hasn’t yet, so I have been passing the time writing you. I know you will think I handled the situation badly. Of course I should have foreseen that a swindler would not let me go once I was on to him. Please make allowances for the fact that I’ve barely slept in three days.
And please contact the British embassy to let them know I’m here in jail, accused of espionage and sorcery. I need an attorney. I’m not at all sure what they intend to do with me.
Simon
* * * *
Jane,
Why haven’t I heard from you? Did you get my last message? I have no idea what is going on; I’m totally isolated here. There has been no attorney, no contact from outside at all. Please email me. Let me know if you got through to the embassy, if they know I’m in jail. Don’t let me down.
Desperately,
Simon
* * * *
Jane,
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I wish you would send me some advice.
Earlier this evening they came to collect me from my jail cell. I was expecting a visit to some sort of court; but when the police van door opened I was back at the hotel, like some sort of recurring dream. Two plain-clothes officers led me to the elevator and we all went together up to the penthouse suite again. When the door opened, the mask of the witch-goddess Rangda was grinning maniacally in her shrine. They gestured me out alone.
The mountebank Messiter was standing by the wall of windows, a glass in his hand, looking out on the pinnacles and precipices of this fantasy-city. It was sunset, and all the buildings were glowing orange in the sinking sun.
He heard me and turned, looking benign and self-satisfied again. He raised a bottle and said, “Fancy a dram?”
It was single-malt whiskey. “Don’t mind if I do,” I said.
He went to the bar and found me a glass, then poured in three fingers of the universal solvent. I’ve never tasted anything so welcome.
“We can all relax now,” he announced. “The butterfly has flown. Even your employers cannot stop it now.”
I had resolved this time to humor him, to agree and be agreeable. But I couldn’t resist a sarcastic, “You mean you’ve put a curse on the U.S.?”
“You really don’t think we’re capable of it, do you?” he said. “Well, just you wait. You’ll see soon enough.”
We both sat on the bar stools with the dimming cityscape at our backs. He said, “So where did they find you, young Mr. Simon Messiter? It turns out we’re distant cousins, by the way.”
I wanted to say, I’m sorry to hear that, but I stuck to my resolution to be pleasant. “My friend Jane showed me a job advert and persuaded me to apply,” I said.
“That simple, eh? Well, I applaud your zeal. You succeeded in creating quite a lot of consternation. I rarely meet aspirants your age who are interested in more than get-rich-quick schemes—influencing people to send money to deposed Nigerian kings over the Internet, and such child’s play. No long-term ambition.”
“Are you offering me a job?” I said sourly.
“Do you want one?” he said seriously.
I was taken aback. I admit, it was both offensive and flattering to be judged a fit candidate for an apprentice swindler. Separating credulous neocapitalists from their wealth was not a career path I had ever contemplated. That is, other than the usual way it’s done by banks.
“Lucrative, is it?” I said.
“Very. But that’s not really why I do it.”
I stared at him. “Why else?”
He actually looked thoughtful. “This part of the world has a great deal to teach us. They are just beginning to find their true power, starting to refine their techniques. They think they need to learn from us, but it’s actually the other way around. If we don’t keep ahead of them we’ll find ourselves working for them in a few decades.”
It sounded so much like what you told me, Jane, that I half suspected you of colluding with him. Sorry—just kidding.
“We belong to an ancient and honorable profession, young Simon,” he said earnestly. “But our colleagues are conservative and complacent. The European tradition of economancy has been in the ascendant so long they think they are invulnerable. How mistaken they are.”
The whiskey had obviously put him in a voluble mood. He rested his elbows on the bar and started to explain. “The old men in power today learned their profession during the conflict between the Marxomancers and capitalist economancers, and they can’t let go and move on. I know it was a nasty time, and it took some truly black arts to resolve the war, but it’s over now. Marxomancy was doomed because it drew its power from idealism, and when that well ran dry they had to tap shallower sources, like class resentment. But capitalism draws its power from human greed, and there is an endless supply of that, renewed with every generation. Greed is the solar energy of our world. We don’t need to drill for it, only focus it.
“At the beginning of my career, the American school of free-market economancy was enchanting the entire world, and all of us were on board. Oh, there was the row between the Keynesians and the moneturgists, back when we used to meet in Davos, but that didn’t seriously slow the spread of American ideas. But then the Americans started to overreach. They did something very stupid.”
“What?” I said, too stunned to be coherent.
“They bewitched their own population into believing a revival-meeting style of economics. Praise be to the markets, brother! The markets are all-knowing and will bless us with prosperity. They dismantled all the restraints that prevented abuse, and let mass delusion run wild. The result? A bubble economy. First tech stocks and dot-coms, then financial stocks and hedge funds, then real estate. They began to think they could conjure value out of thin air.”
He took a drink, and said, “The Tamaroans say that a sorcerer can turn into an animal, but only a foolish person will be taken in. A wise person will see a man pretending to be an animal. But who worries about that when you’ve taught ninety-five percent of the populace to value foolishness? The Americans have a public who not only see men turn into animals, they see animals turn into gods.”
By now, my entire perspective on him had changed. He was a trickster who had fallen for his own hocus-pocus. He actually believed what he was saying.
“They’re about to learn that they underestimated the Asians,” he said, winking at me. “And if you’re wise, my namesake, you will leave the sinking ship and climb aboard the rising one. The American system is better at delivering phantoms and illusions than results. Not that illusions don’t have their power; but the Asians are subtle and long-term thinkers.The Chairman has been preparing this particular trap for almost ten years.”
He refilled my glass. I should have turned it down, but my head was already spinning and I decided to go for broke.
He said casually, “By the way, how did the Massachuseti find out what we were up to?”
“They didn’t,” I said recklessly.
“No?” He raised an eyebrow. “So your mention of the bond rating firms was just a lucky guess?”
“No,” I said. “I figured out what you were up to.”
He gave me an admiring look. “You are better than I thought.”
“Not particularly,” I said. “They were acting so irrationally, someone had to be tampering with them.”
“And yet, the SEC sages never noticed.” He chuckled, full of his own cleverness. “Subprime mortgage-based securities, indeed. The enchanted fools.”
“A lot of European banks have been taken in, too,” I said.
“But not Sinoa Bank,” he said. “When it all falls out, our nest will be full of golden eggs. And China will be very sorry it underwrote America’s debt binge. Have I convinced you yet?”
I paused, weighing which answer would get me out of here fastest.
“Not yet, I see. Well, tomorrow I will show you certain proofs that may tip the balance.”
He turned to look out the window. The sun was gone, except for a demented orange glow on the horizon, and the buildings were twinkling with lights. “Just think of it, Simon,” he said reflectively. “Billions of dollars flashing across the wires of the world each day, making some rich, others poor, a turbulent river of wealth. To control it is beyond anyone’s power: it is the life force of all those who toil to create value. And all of it is entirely imaginary. It exists only because we agree it exists. If we ceased believing, it would vanish and we would be immeasurably impoverished.”
As he was speaking, his head started to sink, and at the last word his forehead hit the bar. He started snoring gently.
I looked around me. I had no doubt my police escorts would be waiting at the bottom of the elevator, but there had to be a fire escape. After a few minutes of searching I found it; but when I eased it open I saw a closed-circuit camera trained directly on me. I waved to it and closed the door again. It struck me then that it would do little good to escape, since I would still be trapped on the island with a plane ticket the only way off. So I helped myself to some food from the refrigerator, took a shower, and sat down at the complimentary computer terminal to write you.
Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do. My plans are very short-term: to enjoy the hotel room, to see what proofs the madman thinks he is going to show me tomorrow, to stay out of jail as long as possible.
But there is something I keep wondering. Why do people send money to deposed Nigerian kings, anyway?
Simon
* * * *
Dear “Jane,”
Yes, I have figured out who you really are.
This is the real Simon Messiter. I have your confederate’s BlackBerry, and I have read all his messages to you. I would be concerned, if I didn’t know that you can no more reveal this little caper than I can, you abject tool of the Massachuseti. So you thought you could put me off my stride, did you? Well, better luck next time.
I have your man, and you’re not getting him back. He has decided to join me, and I am finding him quite useful. In fact, I owe you for sending him my way, so I will do something very generous. I will give you a tip. If you have invested in the stock of any banks with much exposure to securitized mortgage debt, best to sell it now.