Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘For my sins,’ Paul says.

‘Wow,’ Ish murmurs.

I roll my eyes at Jurgen, only to see an identical expression of schoolgirlish reverence. ‘A writer!’ he says. ‘It must be so exciting!’

‘Beats working, I suppose,’ Paul says.

‘Ha ha, I hear that !’ Jurgen says. He looks down at his shoes and then adds casually, ‘In fact I am being a little disingenuous, as I know something about being a writer myself, from my work for Florin Affairs , the journal of medieval economics — perhaps you have heard of it?’

Paul makes a show of racking his brains.

‘It is not to be confused with Forint Affairs , which is the journal of the Hungarian currency.’

‘Right,’ Paul says.

‘If I may say so, you have made an excellent choice of subject,’ Jurgen goes on. ‘Bank of Torabundo is one of the most fascinating institutions in all of capital allocation. And Claude is one of its most valued employees.’ He pauses, then turns to Ish. ‘Though all our employees are valued,’ he says.

‘I’m Claude’s best mate in this dump,’ Ish volunteers. ‘Which is funny, because people say that Frogs and Ozzies don’t get on? ’Cos the Frogs are all, you know, Shmuhh-shmuhh-shmuhh , and the Ozzies are all, Wa-hey ! But we get on like a house on fire, don’t we, Claude?’

I picture the flames, the screaming. ‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Anyway, if you want to know his secrets, you know who to come to!’

‘Claude’s got secrets?’ Paul eyes me with a half-smile.

‘There’s his drawer of Carambars,’ Ish says. ‘That’s the tip of the iceberg.’

‘We should definitely talk,’ Paul says.

‘I will show Paul the rest of the office,’ I tell them meaningfully.

‘If you’re writing about him, you have to put me in the book too, ha ha!’ Ish calls after us. ‘Only if you do, say I’m a size eight, ha ha!’

I tug him away. Eyes glance over at us with carefully prearranged expressions of indifference as we cross the room; it seems everyone has heard about the visitor. ‘So this is the research floor,’ I tell him, gesturing broadly at the clocks on the walls, the muted televisions, the cubicles crowded with screens, phones, paperwork.

‘Where’re all the guys shouting at each other?’

‘The traders work upstairs, on the seventh floor, but we’re in contact with them all day. Part of our job is to provide them with information on the securities they’re trading in — the key drivers affecting share price, any relevant developments in the sector …’

‘Is that Torabundo?’ Paul points to a print hanging by one of the southerly windows, a verdant square of lush forests and effulgent sunshine. ‘It’s an island, right?’

‘It is basically an extinct volcano in the middle of the Pacific Ocean,’ I say. ‘A big extinct volcano with an extremely benevolent tax climate.’

‘Ever been?’

‘No. The headquarters are registered there, but most of our operations are directed from New York. So, as I was saying, our role here is to study the market on behalf of our traders, and also to advise the clients of the best investment strategy —’

‘Someone’s got some pretty interesting desk ornaments,’ Paul says, eyeing the cornucopia of shells, feathers, figurines and other relics that festoon the cubicle next to mine.

‘Yes, those belong to Ish,’ I say, experiencing simultaneously a flush of gratitude that he finds something in our environment interesting, and a pang of jealousy that it should be Ish. ‘She spent a couple of years travelling around Oceania.’

‘How’d she end up here?’

‘I believe she started at the bank shortly after she split with her fiancé. She will no doubt tell you the story herself.’

‘Came here to forget, eh?’ Paul says, as he examines a shark’s jawbone. ‘Like the French Foreign Legion.’ He turns to me. ‘What about you, Claude? You here to forget too?’

I flinch inwardly, but keep my expression neutral. ‘You can make the argument that we have all come here to forget,’ I say. ‘Although in most cases before anything has actually happened to us.’

‘Nice,’ he murmurs to himself, and taking from his back pocket his little red notebook, he jots down the line.

‘So, if you look at this terminal here,’ I say, pretending I have not noticed, ‘you will see the very latest market information. And this one —’

‘You know what, Claude, I don’t want too much detail, it’ll overload it. Why don’t you just get back to what it is you do. I’ll pick it up by watching you. It’s better that way.’

‘Are you sure?’ I say dubiously.

‘Please,’ he says, with an ushering gesture towards my chair. ‘Just forget I’m here.’

‘Right,’ I say, taking my seat and feeling, foolishly, as if I am an astronaut strapping himself into the cockpit of a rocket. Paul crosses the room and sits in an unoccupied chair; here — from a distance of about twenty feet away — he crosses his legs, lays the pad on his lap, affixes his eyes on me and waits.

‘So I will continue with my morning call-around,’ I turn to tell him. ‘This is when we give our clients the state of play in the market and the movement we are expecting —’

‘Honestly, I’ll pick it up.’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’ I summon a deep breath. Just be, I tell myself.

Around me my colleagues are making their own calls, each passing on his own predictions for his own particular specialism — oil, utilities, telecoms. Clients pay tens of thousands for this daily service, but usually we go straight through to voicemail, so I’m taken aback when someone actually picks up.

‘Hello?’ he says.

‘Hello? Ah —’ I have forgotten who I called.

‘Is that Claude?’

‘Ah … oh, hello’ — possibly it’s Jim Chen? ‘Hello, Jim?’

‘Hello,’ he says, not contradicting me. Relief courses through me, until I realize I have also forgotten what I wanted to say. ‘It’s about the market,’ I say. That seems a safe bet.

‘Yes,’ Jim Chen says.

But what about the market? My mind has gone completely blank.

‘Ah, I am just getting some news over the wires, I’ll call you back,’ I say.

‘Okay, whatever,’ Jim Chen says.

I put down the receiver. My shirt is soaked in sweat.

‘Claude,’ a voice calls across the room.

I revolve my head to see the silhouette of Paul against the window.

‘You’re trying too hard,’ he says.

‘I know,’ I say.

‘Stop thinking about it.’

‘This is not so easy as it looks,’ I say.

‘Just pretend I’m not here. In fact, you know what, I’ll go and roam around for a while, give you a chance to get into your stride. Is there a coffee machine around here somewhere?’

I give him directions to the canteen.

‘Do you want anything?’

‘No, thank you,’ I say. Paul passes out of sight. Idiot! I chastise myself. Just be! Just be, can’t you? Yet even when he’s left the room the pressure is almost unbearable. I send an email to Ish and Jurgen, begging them to find time for lunch this afternoon. Then the phone rings. It is Geolyte, one of my clients. The board has called an emergency meeting for this afternoon after hearing rumours of an incipient takeover bid. How robust are its finances? Will it be able to fight off its attackers? For an hour and a half I am continuously on the phone, during which time I quite forget to be. Then, with a start, I remember. I look around hastily; from his chair, Paul nods at me, and toasts me with his paper cup.

Before we know it, it is lunchtime, and Paul and I are back in the lift, going down. ‘Everything is all right?’ I ask. ‘You are not finding it too dull?’