Paul Murray: The Mark and the Void

For half a decade — since, in fact, the previous financial crisis, which at that point represented the greatest destruction of capital in history — the world had been living on borrowed money. Wages went down, but credit was cheap; you were getting paid less, but borrowing the money to replace your car, take a holiday, buy a new house, was easy. The banks themselves were borrowing money at enormous rates, taking it from megabanks in Europe and lending it out again at a nice margin to you with your car, to the entrepreneur with his start-up, to the developer with his housing estate. As for the governments, they were content to let this happen, because everyone was so happy with their cars and holidays and houses; and of course the governments too were borrowing hugely to fund the services that workers’ taxes no longer paid for.

In short, the whole world was massively in debt, but it didn’t seem to matter; then, suddenly, almost overnight, it did. Someone, somewhere, realized that the global boom was in fact a pyramid scheme, a huge inflammable pyramid waiting to catch light. Investors panicked and began to pull their money out of the megabanks; the megabanks desperately began to call in loans from the regional banks, the regional banks called in loans from their customers, the customers called in loans from their trading partners, or tried to, though all of a sudden no one was answering their phones.

The consequences of this cataclysmic freeze-up of credit are still unfolding. Around the world, banks have been falling like ninepins, illustrious financial dynasties blown away like smoke. In the United States, Bear Stearns, Merrill Lynch, Lehman Brothers are among the major casualties, while in Ireland the high-street banks are still trading only after a government bailout. That bailout, in turn, has triggered a catastrophic series of events: factories shutting down, homes repossessed, mass emigration — nearly four hundred thousand people from a country with a population less than half the size of the Paris metropolitan area. Every day on the news there is another horror story: the pensioner who’s been living on pigeons; the horses whose owners can no longer afford stable fees and have turned them loose to wander the byways, slowly starving to death. Nothing the politicians do seems to help; in Greece, in Spain, in Portugal, in Italy, public fury mounts, and revolution is in the air.

Buy to the sound of cannons, sell to the sound of trumpets, the saying goes. If you have positioned yourself correctly, there is a lot of money to be made.

At 4 a.m. I give up trying to sleep. I have a cup of coffee, then cross over to use the gym in the basement of Transaction House. Two traders on the Smith machines are anticipating how BOT strategy will change with the new CEO in charge — bragging about how much money they will make once they’re ‘off the chain’, how ruthlessly they will ‘fuck’ rivals from other banks.

Upstairs, Thomas ‘Yuan’ McGregor and his Asian Markets team are already at their desks; I take advantage of the early start to read through the headlines, the latest prognostications of doom for Europe. The sun creeps through the window; faces appear in the lobby, still puffy with sleep. Slowly at first, then in a flurry, the day’s small rituals begin: the tray of coffees delivered by the rain-speckled intern; the baffling jokes in the inbox amid endless emails flagged URGENT, HIGH PRIORITY, READ IMMEDIATELY; the collective groan at the sight of the courier with his package of amendments, redos, overnight changes of heart. As 8 a.m. approaches, the tension mounts. Positioning themselves for the market opening, traders call constantly, looking for updates, price-sensitive developments, anything that will give them the edge over the invisible hordes doing exactly the same thing, here and across the water. Soon the entire research floor is speaking intensely into phones, everyone completely oblivious to everyone else, eyes fixed instead on screens or on that empty point in mid-air where so much of life now takes place. It seems you can actually feel the market, straining like a dog on a leash for the moment trading begins.

The first couple of hours pass in a blur; after that, things begin to relax a little. I have arranged to meet Paul at ten. Ish and Jurgen want to come downstairs with me, but I prevail upon them to stay where they are. ‘He wants to see my life as it is every day,’ I say. ‘Everything must be natural.’

‘All right,’ they say reluctantly, and slouch off in the direction of their desks.

Riding down in the lift, I am surprised at how nervous I feel. It’s the same kind of anxiety that used to spring up years ago, as I made my way to a rendezvous with some girl I had fallen in love with, knowing that today was the day I had to make my feelings clear, knowing simultaneously that I wouldn’t do it. And when the lift doors open and I find the foyer empty, the lurch of despair is familiar too.

I check my phone, but there is no word. Has he changed his mind? Was he merely having some fun at my expense? I hover by the doors, pretending I don’t notice the security guards glare at me from their desk. And then I see him, hurrying over the rainy plaza, and just as it did at the appearance of Sylvie or Valou or Aimée or the others, I feel my heart soar.

He smiles at me brittlely, apologizes for being late; he looks almost as nervous as I am. I tell him not to worry, and bring him over to the security desk. There are various forms for him to fill in; then he is told to stand still while the guard photographs him, takes his fingerprints, scans his iris. For a long moment we wait in silence as the guard stares at a screen we cannot see. Then he sighs, and there is a clunking sound, and he reaches down to produce Paul’s pass.

‘Thought that guy was going to ask for a blood sample,’ Paul says as we turn away for the lift.

‘Ha ha, yes,’ I say.

The lift takes a long time to arrive. Finally the doors part, and I press the button for the sixth floor. ‘We are on the sixth floor,’ I say, redundantly.

‘Right,’ Paul says.

We ascend. I search about for some fact or detail that might be useful to him, or at least break the silence.

‘Otis,’ I say.

‘Excuse me?’

‘The lift. It is manufactured by Otis. They are one of the most famous lift producers.’

‘Yes.’

‘That does not necessarily mean they are the best, of course. Still, this particular lift has in my experience always been very reliable.’

‘That’s good to know.’

‘I presume that Otis was the name of the inventor. Though it might have been simply a name he made up … perhaps you know?’

‘No, I can’t say I do.’

‘There is the option of the stairs also,’ I add. ‘But usually I take the lift.’

‘Right,’ he says.

Ah, quel con ! I’m half-expecting that when we reach the sixth floor he’ll thank me for my time and ride back down to the ground again. It’s with some relief that I find Ish and Jurgen standing in the lobby, pretending to have an intense conversation about the potted plant by Reception.

‘It’s that fine line between watering it too much and not watering it enough,’ Ish is saying; then a hush falls as we step inside. The two of them stare expectantly at the two of us, and my anxiety gives way to an upsurge of pride.

‘Ish, Jurgen, this is Paul,’ I say to them carelessly. ‘He will be my shadow in the office for the next few weeks. Paul, may I introduce to you my colleague Ish, and Jurgen, the Financial Institutions team leader.’

‘Hello,’ Paul says.

We all smile at each other awkwardly for a minute — then, just as I am about to lead him away, Ish asks Paul quickly, as if she cannot help herself, ‘Are you really a writer?’