Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘His name is Claude,’ Ariadne says. ‘I have kidnapped him to show him how the other half live.’

‘This is the Crawley Street shelter,’ I say, realizing where I am. ‘My bank has done some fund-raisers for you. Raffles, fun runs, that sort of thing.’

‘Of course!’ Brendan exclaims. ‘It’s thanks to you we’ve been able to open our East Wing!’ He points behind him, though all I can see is a blank wall.

‘Ay, Brendan,’ Ariadne scolds.

‘No offence,’ he says, the choleric blaze in his eyes belying the words, ‘but you people have a lot to answer for. When there was money everywhere no one wanted to know about this place because we didn’t fit the big success story. Now the country’s broke they tell us there’s nothing left for us. Then next thing you hear they’re giving billions to the banks?’

He is trembling now; Ariadne lays a soft hand on his shoulder.

‘Calm down,’ she says. ‘What’s the use to get angry?’

‘Sorry,’ the hairnetted man says bluntly. Then, turning on his heel, he mumbles, ‘I’ll go and get yesterday’s vat for you.’ He stumps back to the kitchen, leaving Ariadne and me in a slightly strained silence, broken sporadically by bloodthirsty cries from the surrounding tables.

‘He is not normally like this,’ Ariadne says.

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘As I said, my bank is an investment bank, not a retail bank. So we are not the ones who receive these handouts he’s talking about.’

‘I meant, I hope he is all right.’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’

A noise comes from outside: a chorus of angry voices and a series of thuds. Brendan, who is wheeling out the scrubbed-clean double of the vat we just delivered, thrusts it aside and runs to the door, where a large black SUV has pulled up. Its appearance seems to have enraged the men waiting in line: they have surrounded the vehicle and are rocking it on its wheels, thumping the doors and windows while yelling abuse at the driver, a frightened-looking woman, who has a small child in the back seat. Brendan wades into the crowd, tugging bodies away and shoving them back. ‘Lads, lads,’ he shouts. With a screech of its wheels, the SUV promptly reverses, and manages to make it back out through the crowd, though not without more kicks and a few gobbets of spittle adorning the shining bodywork.

‘What’s she doin’, comin’ here?’ a small outraged man demands of Brendan. ‘What’s she doin’ in a fuckin’ yoke like that?’

‘Go in and have your food and stop annoying people,’ Brendan tells him. Then to us he says, ‘Her husband went bust. He’s done a legger. Bank’s kicked her out of the house, she and the kid have been living in that car for two weeks.’ He gazes bleakly into the cloud-mobbed sky a moment. ‘This place is fucked,’ he says, and without further comment returns inside.

We turn back towards the river; I tilt the umbrella against the newly pugnacious wind. Ariadne has fallen silent, although the nature of her thoughts do not remain a mystery for long. ‘These fucking banks,’ she exclaims, and then, ‘Sorry, you work in one, I keep forgetting.’

‘No, you’re right, some banks acted very badly,’ I concur. ‘But …’

‘I know, I know, your bank is an investment bank, not a retail bank.’

‘I wasn’t going to say that.’ In fact I was going to say it, but I also wanted to steer her around to the idea that bankers are capable of doing good. ‘Many corporates, as well as creating employment and contributing to GDP, do have significant charity programmes.’

‘Right, with the fun runs.’

‘Yes, but also we donate a percentage of profits to charity every year.’

‘As a tax write-off?’

‘Well, that’s not the primary reason —’

‘Pff, the only reason you do anything is money. Cheap tax, that’s why all of you are here.’

‘That’s a bit —’

But she cuts me off. ‘You think if the Irish government turns around and says, “We are putting up the tax, but we guarantee every penny can go directly to the people who need it the most, to schools and hospitals and homeless shelters,” do you think any of these companies would stay?’

‘Well, you see, a business has a legal obligation to its shareholders —’

‘Oh yes, just following orders, where do I hear that before?’

Is she serious? Is she genuinely comparing investment banks to Nazi war criminals?

‘I’m not saying they are the same — ’ Ariadne’s cheeks are pink, and as she speaks she gesticulates vigorously with both hands, so that the trolley is unpiloted and is stopped from crashing off the kerb only by my shins. ‘I’m saying that once they have an excuse , people will do anything. They do what they are told, and they take their money, and they think it’s all okay because it’s just their job , while their real self is what happens after work, when they’re bouncing a baby on the knee, or writing poems about snowflakes or whatever.’

The trolley heads for my shins again; I am too despondent to get out of the way. Here I am with the woman of my dreams, and I feel more like I’m having a shouting match with my father.

We push on, silent again save for the metallic yammer of the trolley. There is no food left to deliver, meaning we are on our way back to the Ark. A part of me is glad: Cyrano himself might have trouble reviving this scene. For the sake of closure, however, I say, ‘Let’s talk about your work.’ Ariadne scowls, as if I have proposed we go to the dentist and have all her teeth extracted. Pretending I haven’t seen, I go on, ‘I must tell you, I admire your paintings very much. I think they are very beautiful. And that they deserve a wider audience. I would like to help you, if I can.’ She doesn’t respond; the trolley, which I suspect she is deliberately pushing over the bumpiest sections of the pavement, clatters unencouragingly. ‘Firstly, I want to exhibit them, in a proper gallery,’ I persist. ‘Perhaps hire a space that exists, perhaps find somewhere entirely new. Also, I would like to offer you financial assistance, so you can concentrate on painting full-time without having to do menial work.’

‘Menial work?’

‘The café. Waitressing.’

‘Oh,’ she says.

For a long time it looks like this is the full extent of her thoughts. ‘That’s very interesting,’ she says at last. ‘I am happy you like my paintings.’

‘And … ?’

‘What you are saying, you want to be my patron.’

‘Is it a bad thing? The greatest artists had patrons. Leonardo, Velázquez. Today the big banks sponsor a lot of the major art fairs, as well as buying a great deal of the work.’

‘Yes, “alternative assets”, that’s what you call art, isn’t it? It’s a good source of tax relief?’

I don’t reply; what is there to say?

‘Did you always want to be a banker?’ she asks sadly.

‘Not particularly,’ I say. ‘In college, I studied philosophy. Nietzsche, Foucault, Texier …’

As if I have pronounced a secret code-word, her head whips round and she comes to an abrupt stop.

‘Texier? You mean François Texier?’

‘Well, yes,’ I say. ‘From Paris, he died a couple of years ago —’

‘So, now we can talk,’ she says. ‘Because you know Texier is my great hero.’

Now it’s my turn to come to a halt. Can it be true? Was Paul right all along? ‘You have read his philosophy?’

‘A little bit. I read what he wrote about financial capitalism. He’s very critical, how did you manage to go from Texier to banking?’

‘It wasn’t something I planned.’

‘Anyway, you know he became a painter, late in his life?’ Seeing my confusion, she explains,