Daniel Friedman - Riot Most Uncouth

“Be serious,” said Burke. “After swindling our banker, you cannot really intend to play the naif.”

“You just accused me of serious criminal fraud, and this isn’t the first time you have done so. I think I should have no further dealings or conversations with you or your client without Mr. Hanson present.”

“You have our money, and are spending wantonly, by all reports. We lack proper collateral to secure our interest, due to your false representations. With each day that passes, you waste more of our funds, which we shall later be unable to recover. Only last night, I’ve learned, you and several dozen guests feasted on foie gras and champagne, though you’d refused to discuss business with me earlier the same day because you were overwhelmed with grief over the death of Felicity Whippleby.”

“Are you upset because I didn’t invite you to the party?” I asked. “I felt the adversarial tone of our dealings might have caused tension or awkwardness in a social setting. Also, I find your company unpleasant.”

Burke leaned toward me. On the public street, without the Professor around, he was less frightened of me than he’d been the previous day in my residence. “If you need a lawyer, find one in Cambridge.”

“Absolutely not.” I would stand firm on this point. “I will not engage in dealings with you if I am to be deprived of my trusted advisor.”

“This matter needs to be resolved at once.”

I nodded. “I understand, Mr. Burke, and you can rest assured that Mr. Hanson and I will treat this with all due urgency. His practice in London is, of course, quite busy, and I am deeply engaged with my studies here in Cambridge. However, I am confident that, with some effort, we can arrange to meet together within three months, assuming your availability coincides with ours.”

Burke stared at me, aghast. I think, if I had struck him, he might have been less piqued. “In three months, you will have wasted all of my client’s money,” he said. “I must have either security or repayment, and I must have it immediately.”

“Perhaps you should sue me. How much money do you think I can waste before a court rules on your petition?”

“I came here to seek your assistance in finding an amicable resolution to this problem. If proceedings become adversarial, you’ll find I can be much less friendly. If we involve the courts in this matter, they’ll rule for my client and order you to return the funds. If you cannot, you’ll face debtors’ prison.” He poked his finger at me, and I slapped it away.

“Debtors’ prison? Do you think I’m stupid? I’m shielded by the privileges of nobility, and your client is a foreign concern based in a nation that is presently at war with England. Given those facts, an English court is likely to rule that the defects in the agreement absolve me of all repayment obligations.” I had no idea whether this was true, but my rage was fully stoked, and aggression seemed a necessity under the circumstances.

“Such an outcome would be unprecedented.” He stammered as he spoke and he took a step back, away from me. All at once, his rage seemed to break open, exposing the impotence behind the threatening facade. I could see the fragility of his negotiating position in his downcast eyes and in the quivering corners of his mouth. And I lost all interest in his precedents or his threats. Really, I lost interest in the insignificant personage of Frederick Burke.

“It might be unprecedented, or it might not be. I really don’t know, which is why I must rely on my lawyer.”

Burke’s hands clenched and unclenched. His Adam’s apple seemed to crawl up and down his weird, long throat. A vein throbbed on his forehead. His whole body seemed poised for action. I wondered if he might try to hit me, or if he might flee in terror and humiliation.

He did neither; instead, he lowered his voice, nearly to a whisper. “Why on earth does a man of high birth defraud a bank? Why did you need the money so badly? Did you spend it on anything but women and drink?”

“I am not going to speak to you anymore without my lawyer.”

“I’ve learned about you, Lord Byron, in performing my due diligence; my preparation to handle this matter. You delight in flouting rules and systems. You have treated your corrupt and dishonest dealings with Banque Credit Francaise as a kind of game. You twist the rules of the College by keeping that awful bear. Even men who number you among their friends would not trust you alone with their daughters or wives. Nor with their sons, for that matter.”

“I don’t need your scolding, Mr. Burke. If we have business to conduct, you may contact Mr. Hanson.”

Burke ignored me and continued speaking. His voice grew even softer, but the cords of his neck were tight with rage, constricting his Adam’s apple so tightly, I thought his throat might burst. “You avail yourself unashamedly of all the advantages that come with your inherited title. Yet you defy the very strictures and norms that have elevated you to your position of privilege. Why should you be celebrated for your knavishness? Why should your wrongs go unpunished?”

I turned and walked away from Burke in a crisp imitation of Archibald Knifing’s military gait. I’d actually been somewhat worried about what he might able to do, but it was now clear that he was entirely helpless. I would not be subjected to the indignities my father had suffered at the hands of his creditors. I was a baron, while Mad Jack had only been the nephew of one.

To tell a lie is the most unnatural thing in the world. It’s a contravention of human nature, a violation of the social contract. Most people can’t do it, or at least they can’t do it well. Language fails them when they try. Their twitchy eyes betray them. Their hands sweat. There aren’t many people who can maintain a steady gaze and an authoritative tone while telling a lie.

I can. I’ve had a lot of practice.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a secret ritual, one I have concealed from even my mother, Joe Murray, and the Professor.

Late at night, while everyone else sleeps, I sit in front of a mirror, and I lie to myself.

“Your father loves you,” I say. “He would never abandon you.”

A gifted liar believes every word he says, even though he knows his statements misrepresent the facts. Such is his faith in his own narrative that he believes he can remake the world through the exercise of charisma, persuasion, and sheer force of will. Only falsehood can reconcile the world as it exists with the world as it should be. Or, at least, if there’s another way, it requires a great deal more effort.

Alone, in my darkened bedroom, I stare into my own reflected visage and try not to blink.

“He is away, in the East. He has traveled beyond the horizon, beyond the sunrise, in search of secrets.”

If there is doubt in my voice, I reproach myself for my faithlessness. How dare I slander the father who loves me so much that he has gone questing, like Odysseus, through the savage places of the world so that he may bring back the secret of immortality?

In any case, he had to leave; he was in my way. If he’d stayed, he’d be Lord Byron, and thus, he’d be keeping me from my special destiny. He forsook his own birthright, such was his love for me.

A lie is like a seduction, and the skillful liar knows a falsehood’s recipient is a co-conspirator rather than a victim. If the lie is framed in a way that makes the listener want to believe it, he becomes a willing party to his own deception.