Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘And you’re sure about all this?’ Ish says. ‘You couldn’t just have — I don’t know, got your wires crossed?’

‘Perhaps this is just another part of his research,’ Jurgen suggests. ‘Perhaps he is now working on the story of a novelist who tries to rob a bank.’

‘It was a scam,’ I say. The monotonous sound of my own voice infuriates me. ‘All of it.’

‘Just like a man!’ Ish, with a sudden access of fierceness, gets to her feet, setting her earrings a-jingle. ‘They promise you the moon and the stars, but they’re only after the one bloody thing.’

‘They are seeking to burgle your safebox?’ Jurgen says.

‘Too bloody right,’ Ish says.

‘I am wondering now what is the next step,’ I say. ‘I suppose we must tell the police.’

Jurgen pulls thoughtfully on the end of his pen. ‘I am not so sure. On one hand, it seems clear that Paul’s plan was a failure. On the other — did you take the notebook with you?’

I shake my head.

‘Yes — I suspect in that case his plot will be difficult to prove. Without hard evidence, it will come down to his word against yours. Furthermore, the negative publicity for the bank would be significant. The idea that BOT’s top analysts were fooled by such an obvious trick, that they sat idly by while prospective bank robbers measured the walls, is not one shareholders will enjoy. My preference would be to keep the incident to ourselves. I will have the small word with security to make sure everything is in order. If it is, we will drop the entire matter. Anyone asks, we can simply tell them the project did not work out.’ His calm surprises me. I expected him to be apoplectic — to hurl office equipment across the room, to plot revenge using the whole mighty legal machinery at our disposal, to express all the rage that I, consumed by shame, cannot.

‘I know that Paul has done a terrible thing,’ he says. ‘Taking advantage of our trust, manipulating us for his own ends, to say nothing of attempted robbery — these are undeniably heinous acts. At the same time, we must remember that artists are not bound by our conventional morality. To a bourgeois sensibility, trying to rob a bank is plainly wrong. But for an artist it is different. In fact, didn’t a famous poet once say, “Bad artists borrow, great artists steal”?’

‘I don’t think he was talking about stealing money,’ I point out.

‘Perhaps not. Nevertheless, we cannot condemn the panther for killing the gazelle. That is simply its nature. The artist is fundamentally a transgressive figure. Michelangelo, Bob Marley, in fact the entire original line-up of the Wailers: these were all men censured by their times. In banking too there are moments when we must act in ways that ordinary Johns would condemn as dishonest or unethical in order to succeed. So let us not rush to judge. Maybe he came among us under false pretences. Maybe he lied to us about putting us in a novel. But Paul changed us, and because of him life will never be the same again.’

‘My life hasn’t changed one bit,’ Ish says.

‘Mine neither,’ I say. ‘It is exactly the same.’

‘A plant does a lot of its growing underground,’ Jurgen says mysteriously. ‘Anyway, as soon as one story ends, a new one is beginning. This morning I have heard from Rachael’s office that an extremely powerful private investor has taken an interest in the Irish financial sector. Apparently, BOT is near the top of the list of investment banks under consideration to be his agent.’

And with that, Paul and his book are put back on the shelf; the oddity, the intrigue of the past weeks, simply dissolves, as if it had been merely a divertissement , like a juggler on the plaza whom the temps observe as they eat their panini, before the security guards arrive to chase him away.

Normality returns. I send emails and study reports; I attend meetings and write notes; I pay my credit-card bill and upgrade my broadband speed. At night, I put myself on the rack, demand to know how I let myself be taken in. Yet there is no mystery to it. My life is interesting; my life has meaning; other people, strangers, will want to know about my life. He told me what I wanted to hear: it’s the same trick we use with clients every day. They prefer buying to selling. They prefer gaining a little to losing a lot. They want to invest in Apple because they like their iPhone. And we say, ‘That’s just what you should do,’ and take their money. People will believe anything, if it’s what they want to hear.

The ‘extremely powerful private investor’ turns out to be none other than Porter Blankly’s old friend the Caliph of Oran — or, to be exact, Tordale, his sovereign wealth fund.

‘The Caliph of Oran,’ Ish frowns. ‘Isn’t he some sort of dictator?’

‘That’s right,’ Jurgen says. ‘He is one of the most successful dictators in the world. His personal wealth is believed to be in the tens of billions, and in the current situation that is growing by the hour.’

‘What’s the current situation?’ Ish says.

‘Unrest,’ I say. ‘Uprisings.’

‘Indeed,’ Jurgen says. ‘Anti-government demonstrations throughout the Arab world have had a highly disruptive effect on oil production. Oran’s capacity, however, has not been affected. Instead the hike in prices has brought the Caliphate spectacular profits. Now his sovereign wealth fund is seeking to diversify.’

‘How’d he find us?’ Ish says. ‘Blankly?’

‘I think on this occasion we may have Walter to thank,’ Jurgen says.

‘Walter Corless?’

‘He’s doing some construction work out there,’ I remember.

‘Yes, the Caliph is taking measures to fortify his oilfields and private city in case the unrest spreads,’ Jurgen says. ‘My surmise is that Walter may have spoken informally to his finance people. Officially they are interested in investing in the Irish banking sector. Unofficially, I hear that they are considering shifting their entire operation to Dublin. The light regulatory regime may suit their needs. A delegation is coming over at the end of the week to hear presentations.’

‘They’re not giving us much time to prepare, are they?’ Ish says.

‘No doubt this is a part of their evaluation process. Consequently it is very important that we —’

But his words are drowned out by a tremendous pounding. What could it be? Construction work in the plaza? A controlled explosion on a nearby building? I look about for an explanation and then find it poised, sculpturally, in front of me. Ariadne has come to our table; the sound is the beating of my own idiotic heart.

‘You are ready to order?’

The others go first; I pretend to study the menu, in order to hide my blushes.

‘And for you?’

I start to speak, but it turns into a cough. Finally I struggle out, ‘Nothing for me, thank you.’

‘Very good.’ She smiles, sashays away.

‘Not having anything, Claude? Are you feeling okay?’

‘I’m fine. Just not very hungry.’ I sink back into my chair, attempting to conceal my laboured breathing. ‘So, this presentation … ?’

‘Yes — so Liam wants them to meet Rachael first, and then our team. Afterwards …’

I concentrate as best I can, but talking about investment with Ariadne in the room is like trying to read the business news by the light of a meteor shower. Finding out the novel was a fake hasn’t dimmed her appeal. On the contrary, every day as lunchtime approaches I find myself getting giddy; I turn brick-red when she greets me, then squeak like an adolescent when she asks for my order. What is happening? It’s as if, simply by making the suggestion, Paul had set something in motion — as if the story had taken on a life of its own, like a genie freed from a lamp. It makes no sense; I’ve spent many hours patiently talking myself out of it. Still the feelings refuse to leave me.