Майкл Ридпат: The Partnership Track

‘Drugs,’ he said. ‘I did drugs.’

‘What kind of drugs?’ asked Bill.

‘All kinds.’ Trent’s thick lips curled into a smile of knowing menace. ‘I spent six months in rehab a year before I joined the firm.’

‘I see,’ said Bill without surprise. He knew; Cray had told him. ‘And do you still do drugs, Trent?’

‘I’ve beaten it,’ said Trent. He paused. Looked straight at Bill. ‘I do a little from time to time, but nothing like I used to. It’s under control. And doesn’t everybody?’

That was a bold move. Trent was gambling that Bill took drugs every now and then. A fair bet.

‘Very good, Trent,’ said Bill. ‘Thank you for sharing that.’

A good bet, well made.

Next he moved on to Cynthia Riviani. Cynthia — Extravert, Sensing, Feeling, Perceptive — was the oldest among us, mid-thirties, and had been at Labouchere the longest. She was a tall blonde woman from the Houston office, with a chin and a nose that were just a little bit too big for the rest of her face. She was fiercely loyal to Labouchere and to Bill. She was hard-working and diligent, but not quite as bright as the rest of us.

She squirmed. It turned out that as an intern at an investment bank in Chicago right out of college, she had given her sister some inside information on a new gas find. Her sister had made twelve hundred bucks’ profit and she and Cynthia had almost been prosecuted, but the DA had decided it wasn’t worth it. She claimed that in her innocence she hadn’t realized what she was doing was wrong. I believed her. She looked totally miserable and ashamed as she admitted this to Bill. We all felt for her.

It was cruel. What did Bill learn from that? I wondered. Cynthia was basically honest. She was loyal. And she was dumb; too dumb to become a partner.

Harald Utnes was next — Introvert, Sensing, Thinking, Judging. His offering was a time he had missed the plane for an interview with a German bank, and hadn’t got the job. Bill pressed him for more, but Harald had nothing more to give. His large handsome face was set in an expression of earnest puzzlement. He was smart in his way, which was essentially numeric; he was as good with forecasts of hydrocarbon yields as he was with cash-flow models, but he was out of his depth here. Maybe he really was as honest as he seemed. Or maybe he just didn’t get what Bill was after. Hard to believe he was really in pole position for the partnership, even if he was an introvert.

‘Peter?’

My turn.

‘Nothing,’ I said. And there wasn’t anything, really.

‘Nothing?’ said Bill. ‘How can there be nothing? We all have some skeletons, even Harald here.’

‘Nothing that’s relevant.’

‘Isn’t it up to us to decide what’s relevant? Your colleagues? Perhaps your future partners?’

‘No.’ I smiled. I meant it. And, when you came to think of it, I was right.

Bill stared at me. I stared at him, holding his gaze, the small smile fixed on my lips. Time passed, very slowly. The fire was crackling, but otherwise there was silence around the table. I can do this all night , I told myself. I can do this all night.

‘All right,’ said Bill eventually. ‘Thank you, Peter. Oh, and give my love to Henrietta.’

I knew it was coming, but I felt a tiny eruption of heat in my face. Was I reddening? I turned my face away from Bill and checked the others. I was reddening.

‘And lastly, Manuela.’

Manuela drew herself up, inhaled and slowly looked around the table.

‘I too have done drugs,’ she began. ‘In fact, I’ve even sold a few. I’ve sold other things. I’ve never killed anyone, but I’m pretty sure my brother has. I have seen someone stabbed to death. Two people — no, three. One of them was my father. I didn’t actually see him stabbed, but I saw him die.’

If this was supposed to shock us, it succeeded. Total silence.

‘Go on,’ said Bill.

‘I was brought up in Rocinha, on a hill with one of the best views in the world, overlooking Copacabana Bay with a view of Sugarloaf Mountain. Rocinha is a favela, a shanty town, and it’s a very tough place.’

‘I thought your father worked for Petrobras?’ said Bill.

‘My guardian. I used to go to a school run by a charity, the Children of St Catherine. It was only for a few hours in the day, but I loved every minute I spent there. And they loved me; the teachers gave me extra lessons. I didn’t know it then, but the main backer of the charity was Ana Clara de Sena, the wife of a wealthy businessman from Rio who had moved to São Paulo. She visited us quite often — I thought she was rich, beautiful, everything I wanted to be. And I was right: she is all those things, plus she is a truly good woman.

‘When I was fourteen, a couple of months after my mother had died of TB, the headmistress took me out of class into her little office. Senhora de Sena was waiting for me. She had decided she wanted to “adopt” two children, to take them out of the favela and give them a chance in life. We chatted for an hour. I could tell she liked me, and I was dazzled by her.

‘So she took me, along with a thirteen-year-old boy named Jorge. Jorge and I moved to São Paulo and we lived in her house there. She and her husband didn’t formally adopt us, but they became our guardians. They educated us, fed us, clothed us, and introduced us to their closest friends. With their permission, we took their last names.

‘Jorge, sadly, took drugs, more drugs. He’s still taking drugs. But I did well: high school, university, graduate school in the States. And I was able to help my brothers. One of them, little Oscar, is working as a chemical engineer in Curitiba. The other one, my elder brother, Gilmar, is more difficult. He got involved with the narcotraffickers. A couple of years ago, he said he needed to raise a hundred thousand dollars within a week or he would be killed. I believed him. I gave him the money, most of which I borrowed from Ana Clara, who was very unhappy about it. It was humiliating.

‘So you see, I have a large debt which I need to pay off. I really need to become a partner here.’

Bloody hell.

Bill was smiling with a mixture of admiration and condescension. ‘I see,’ he said. He clearly knew this; Cray must have dug it up. ‘But why didn’t you tell us this, your colleagues? We wouldn’t have held it against you.’

‘Probably not,’ said Manuela. ‘I know that “poor girl made good” is something to be proud of in this country — and, to be fair, it can be in Brazil too. But I wanted to be successful, to mix with the highest society in Brazil and elsewhere, to be someone Ana Clara would be proud of. To be Ana Clara. And to do that, I needed to pretend. I thought if I pretended to be someone I was not for long enough, then eventually I would become that new person. And I have. Haven’t I?’

‘Yes,’ said Bill. The condescension gone, and just the admiration remaining. ‘Yes you have.’

‘I have one request, before you move on.’ Manuela was speaking to all of us. ‘I have shared this with you because, as Bill says, I trust you. But I ask you as my colleagues not to mention this to anyone outside the firm. It is my secret and I have done a good job keeping it until now.’

‘You have my word,’ said Bill. And actually, that was worth something. Bill had a reputation to protect, and when he gave his word, he kept it.

There was a murmur of assent.

‘That was brave,’ I said as Manuela sat down.

Manuela glanced across at Professor Behbehani, who was looking the other way. ‘Not really. Any half-decent detective would have uncovered it, and Cray are better than half decent. So Bill knows. Bill knows, and I am still here, which means I am still in line for a partnership. So admitting it was all upside, provided I could make something positive of it.’