Брайс Куртенэ - The Power of One

After the first year when we had boxed every school twice and I was still unbeaten, it became difficult to get a bet against me. The Afrikaans kids weren’t fools and we were forced to offer more and more attractive odds on my opponent to the point where we were taking unnecessary risks and it was beginning to put me under pressure. In a fight against Geldenhuis towards the end of the second year where the odds were twenty to one on Geldenhuis beating me, I only narrowly won on points.

The Afrikaners had wised up. Profits were down. With our juniors beginning to win they could no longer hedge their bets against me by taking shorter odds on some of the other fighters. Hymie decided it was time to quit the bookmaking business.

‘It’s time to get out, Peekay. There are two important rules of business, knowing when to get in and when to get out. Of the two, knowing when to get out is the most important. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.’

I’d enjoyed two years of regular pocket money and I didn’t relish the prospect of being broke again. ‘These fish we are going to fry, what are they?’

‘I’m buggered if I know,’ Hymie said, ‘but something will come along, business is simply a matter of opportunity and money. If you’ve got the capital, sure as tomorrow is Tuesday, an opportunity will come along.’

We’d built up a considerable bank over the first two years, fifty percent of everything we made went into our capital which was earning interest in the Yeoville branch of Barclays Bank.

That’s when I had the idea. ‘Hymie, we’ve got fifty quid in the bank and we’re getting two and a half percent on our money, which isn’t very much, I mean one pound ten a year, it’s nice but it isn’t world shattering.’

Hymie laughed, ‘There was a time not so long ago …’

I cut in, ‘Yeah, I know, one pound ten was a lot of money, more than I’d ever owned. But listen, pocket money’s on Wednesday and Saturday, by Tuesday and Friday everyone’s broke.’

We were sitting on a bench under the oak trees bordering the cricket field and Hymie jumped up in alarm. I could see he was upset and he leaned over me and gripped the back of the bench on either side of me. ‘Peekay, are you crazy! Don’t you understand? I’m the token Jew around here! What the fuck do you think the Christian gentlemen are going to say? A money lender! Me? Christ, Peekay, the whole purpose of my education at this goy school is so that sort of stigma can be removed from my Jewishness. I’m here for the politics and the polish. I’ve already had several hundred years training in usury!’

‘That’s all the banks do, isn’t it?’ I replied. ‘If you want a loan from a bank you’ve got to go cap in hand and they don’t even have to earn it in the first place, people just give it to them for a lousy two and a half percent interest and they then turn around and lend it for seven percent, that’s nearly two hundred percent profit. That isn’t usury?’

‘Peekay, you don’t understand, when the banks do it it’s business, when a Jew does it, it’s exploitation!’

‘I see, so a Jew can’t own a bank?’

‘Of course he can. Rothschild, one of the world’s most famous banks, is owned by a Jewish family, the Rothschilds are one of France and England’s most respected families.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I said, ‘they started in Frankfurt-on-Main in Germany towards the end of the eighteenth century as money lenders!’

‘Christ, Peekay, I don’t need to do this, there are other ways to make a quid, you’ll see.’ Hymie was clearly distressed. ‘In the meantime you can borrow from our capital for pocket money.’

‘You don’t need to do this, but I do. I’m not going to use our capital, I can earn my own way. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your sensibilities, Hymie, but I’ve climbed into the ring twenty-five times in the last two years to support our bookmaking business, it’s your turn now.’

Hymie released the bench and straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back as though he was preparing to give me a lecture.

‘Do you know why I really came to the Prince of Wales School, Peekay?’ He didn’t wait for my answer before continuing. ‘Let me tell you. When the Prince of Wales, I mean the then future King, came to Pretoria there was a reception held for him by the Red Cross. My old man supplied the red carpet for the occasion. The deal was free carpet for an invitation. He stood in line and the Prince shook his hand. He never quite got over it. It was as though he’d touched the face of the Almighty. He’d made it. He’d reached the social pinnacle. He was a gentleman at last. A gentleman with a heavy Polish accent, but a gentleman no less. He bought his own carpet back from the Red Cross for a huge sum and carpeted the lounge room at home. I don’t think one day of my life went by without at least one mention of the fucking carpet: “A Prince already, with his own feet walked on zat carpet my boy!”’ Hymie mimicked. ‘Then he read in the paper that there was a Prince of Wales school in Johannesburg and that the Prince was to lay a wreath at the school’s war memorial, he decided that if he had a son he would bring him up as the perfect English gentleman… correction, perfect Jewish English gentleman. This school, and Oxford to follow, is going to make me the first “respectable” Jew in our family since Moses bawled in the bullrushes. I’ll tell you something, Peekay, if he had had to carpet every classroom, all three boarders houses and the school quad to get me in here he’d have thought it was a bargain.’

‘What you’re saying is that by becoming money lenders we fuck up everything?’

Hymie grinned, ‘Yup! That’s about it.’

‘Well then we’ll call it a bank. Look, Hymie, it meets every criterion we’ve established for a business. There is a known need for our services. The risk factor is small and easy to control, our creditors can hardly default can they? We don’t have to borrow capital and the profits are reasonable and regular. As Doc would say: “No doubtski aboutski,” it’s perfect and it’s honest… well sort of.’

‘What will you do if I say no?’ Hymie asked.

‘I’d find it very difficult to come to terms with your answer. Now let me tell you a story. The guy who taught me boxing was a Cape Coloured and by any standards a bad bastard. He’d spent more time in prison than out on the street. He was the worst kind of recidivist. By any standards the scum of society. He lied, cheated and robbed. He’d also been beaten up more times than you and I have had hot breakfasts. He was the ultimate loser. That’s how the world saw him. That’s how they judged him.’

‘You’re talking about Geel Piet, aren’t you?’ Hymie said.

‘Ja, well Geel Piet was just about the best friend I ever had. He died for me. A warder named Borman rammed a two-foot baton up his arse until he haemorrhaged to death. Geel Piet could have saved himself simply by confessing that it was me who smuggled the prisoners’ mail into the prison. But he didn’t. I didn’t see him as any of the things he was supposed to be. I saw him as one of the best human beings I am ever likely to know. Christ, Hymie, it’s not what a man does, it’s what a man is that counts!’

We called it the Boarders’ Bank, but it simply became known as the Bank and was an immediate success. Interest was at ten per cent per week and loans were never extended beyond a fortnight. Which was long enough for any kid to write home for money if he got himself into a financial fix. In the four years we remained at school we didn’t incur a single bad debt. The funny thing was that not only the boarders but also the day boys regarded the Bank as a valued institution. Moreover, Hymie’s antecedents never entered into it, although the Bank formed the basis of some of his more spectacular future financial ploys. I could say our spectacular successes, but Hymie was the real wizard and I remained the sorcerer’s apprentice. The Bank also formed the basis for my pocket money; a source of great personal pride to me. I’d solved the major emotional problem confronting my school career and, unencumbered with money problems, was now free to forge ahead.