What Mr Munroe had to tell us, had nothing to do with the ‘shorting’ problem. The ‘shorting’ problem was a money problem. (I initially wrote, ‘The ‘shorting’ problem was only a money problem,’ but J. Maz wouldn’t like me to write that, so, that’s why I changed it.)
J. Maz had a solution to the ‘shorting’ problem. It was a simple solution. That’s what made it a brilliant solution. Brilliant solutions are often simple. Quite often. Not always. More often than not.
“How do we deal with this?” I asked him.
“We buy,” he said. “Buy everything before it’s had time to fall more. If we wait ’til it falls more, we take big losses, buy now, buy everything, and we lose a bit, keep buying, buy everything from everyone and we’ll push the stock back up. Back up to higher than it was. That way we make a profit, that way the ‘shorter’ makes a loss.”
“Oh,” I said. I almost understood.
So, that’s what we did and we ended up with more. More ‘good money’ for the dilution of the ‘bad money’. I wondered how Prouse was feeling.
Thank God for J. Maz. (You know I’m not.) Thank God for his friendship and his smartness. That’s why I employed him I suppose.
But the second problem was different.
My good name, the Trust’s good name, were important, to me, to all of us. How could they not be? We needed my good name, the Trust’s good name, to do all the things we wanted to do, in the places where we wanted to do them, for the people we wanted to do them for.
If my name was tainted and if the Trust’s name was tainted we wouldn’t be able to do those things, in those places, for those people. I and the Trust would have failed. We needed our good name.
Our good name was under attack, was being attacked, in the same way the stock of the Trust was attacked. Attacked all over and from all over. This wasn’t the same as the ‘shorting’ attack.
I talked to Mr Munroe. I listened to what he said. The things I listened to made me angry. Or did it? I didn’t know. I was never angry before.
I was never angry before, ever. You may know that already. I was twenty-six and was never angry. How many people get to twenty-six without ever being angry? I must have been born under a non-temper-losing star.
I didn’t need anger to decompress my soul, whatever that may be. That was because I used a surrogate for anger. The surrogate was hate. I used hate to decompress my soul. I was good at that. I was experienced in that.
I destroyed Father’s Steinway and his Purdeys in the cold darkness of hatred. I didn’t lose my temper.
If this was anger I was feeling now, it wasn’t a good feeling. I wouldn’t want to be someone who got angry, much.
The ‘shorting’ problem was (only) a money problem. This problem wasn’t. This problem was about me and about the Trust I was the head of. Not the ‘real’ head of, because that was J. Maz, but the ‘titular’ head of. ‘The guy with his name on the door’ sort of head of.
It started with rumours. That’s what Mr Munroe said. Rumours on Fleet Street and rumours on 8th Avenue. Rumours that spread to Fairfax and Murdoch. Then it was more than rumours. Comments on radio, comments on television. Half a column on page two of ‘the dailys’. Then worst of all, a question in Parliament. Not London Parliament, Canberra Parliament. What the hell was going on?
J. Maz was ‘gutted’, if that’s the right word. He couldn’t believe it. Neither could I. He said it was his fault. He ‘took one for the team’. He/they should have looked deeper, should have researched deeper. Deeper into the people we supported. Deeper into the people supporting us. He was right. He/they should have looked deeper, researched deeper. None of us is perfect.
So, The Laroche Trust, we, I, supported apartheid. Had been for a year. Had been giving money, through channels, to Eugène Terre’Blanch. Funding, through channels, ‘Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging’, whatever that may be. I had never heard of ‘Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging’ before. It didn’t sound a nice thing. That was going to really make us popular in Africa. We did a lot of work in Africa. We hoped to do a lot more work in Africa. This would screw that up, for sure.
So, The Laroche Trust, we, I, were funding Sinn Féin. Fuck, how did that happen? The Laroche Trust, we, I, gave money to Hezbollah, The British Nationalist Party, Jean-Marie Le Pen, and took money, accepted donations, from Pyongyang and drug-lords. It was crazy.
And that was our saviour.
There was no point in denying it. Everything was true. But because everything was true, none of it was true. None of it could be true. It had to be a set-up. ‘Blind Freddy’ could see it was a set-up. Even the BBC, the ABC, The Guardian and the Sydney Morning Herald, could see it was a set-up. Could see it, but wouldn’t want to admit it. Wouldn’t want to and wouldn’t. Not until later, not until they had no choice. Not until the truth came out.
Mr Munroe and J. Maz sorted it out. They thought I should stay out of it. I was happy about that. But I couldn’t, not completely. J. Maz was never the ‘monkey’ and I was never the ‘organ-grinder’, but it was my ‘name on the door’, so I couldn’t keep out of it. Not out of all of it. Not out of everything. Not out of the papers, not ‘off-the-air’.
High on the list, of the worst things I have ever had to do, would be the interview on ‘the box’. The interviews with the ABC and the BBC. The ABC I hated, the BBC I came to hate later. If you’ve read the first book, you’ll know about the ABC.
It was up there with reading The Telegraph to Father on Saturday mornings. But I knew I had to do them, and so, in a stoical, resigned, lamb-to-the-slaughter sort of way, I did them. After them, everyone told me I did well. They were being kind. But I was followed by J. Maz, that’s what sorted it out. He was wonderful, succinct, open, honest, humble, and wonderful. The truth came out. Like it did the time before. Like it did with the Melancholy. I wondered how Prouse was feeling.
He over-engineered it. Prouse over-engineered it. That was his mistake. He took too much trouble. He overdid it. He over-cooked it. He did a Disraeli. He ‘layed it on with a trowel’. ‘Blind Freddy’ could see it was a set-up.
If it was just Sinn Féin, if it was just the BNP, just Hezbollah, then he might have been believed. In trying to paint us/me as the ‘mother-of-all-satans’, he was shooting himself in the foot. (How’s that for a mixed metaphor?)
It was a good day for us/me when the truth came out.
So, was this the last shot in his locker? Was this the end of it? I was stupid to think that it might be.
Thirty-Six
I knew I was pregnant and I knew it even before it was time to do the test. I knew the moment Tom’s microscopic sperm entered my microscopic egg. I knew it and the knowledge of it infused me. I knew the moment my fertilized egg glued itself onto the lining of my womb and started to grow. I’d been pregnant before and I didn’t know I was until I’d missed my time. Back then, I never had the special feeling I had now, so this was all different, and all different in all the special different ways it was possible for it to be different in, and that was in a lot of ways, but I won’t list all of the ways, because I might forget one, and that might be one of the ones I shouldn’t forget, and if I did forget one of the ones I shouldn’t forget, you might think less of me, and because I’m just an ignorant black girl who’s writing a part of a book with people much cleverer than me, and because you’re the type of a person who reads books like this, I don’t want you to think less of me because I forgot one of the things I shouldn’t have forgot. (I think I might have said too much.)
When my husband made me have the abortion, I felt sad, and then he left me. That made me feel sad too, but in a different way to the way I felt sad when my baby was gone, because, for me, losing my baby was a lot worse than losing my husband. It was a bad time for me back then, but losing my baby and losing my husband wasn’t as bad as the thought of losing Tom’s baby. Losing the baby Tom and I were making wouldn’t be just a bad thin
g, it would be the worst thing to happen since the beginning of time. The thought of losing my new baby terrified me. He was the size of a grain of rice, but he was our son. I knew he was a son and so did Annie. Annie knew he would be a son from before the time there ever was a him, before he was a grain of rice. Some women can do that, with the babies of other women who are having babies. Annie can do that all the time, and I can too, sometimes.
He was our son and I knew him. I knew what he looked like when he was a boy and what he looked like when he was a man. I knew how strong he was and how good a man he was. I knew he was left-handed like his father and I knew he was smart. Smart with words and smart with numbers too. He was a perfect baby, a perfect boy and a perfect man. He was ours, he was mine, and I loved him.
When they put Annie’s eggs inside me, I could feel them too. I could feel the girls growing inside me before they were the size of a grain of rice. I had two grains of rice growing inside me and they were another woman’s grains of rice, but it felt good. I knew what I was doing was a good thing to do, a good thing for the two people I loved most in the world.
This time it was even better than that. It was my egg and it was Tom’s egg. It was our son and we would watch him as he grew to be a man. A man as good as any man could ever be.
I worried about Annie, because she wasn’t who she was before, because now she was someone else. Not a lot of someone else, but a bit of someone else, and more of a bit of someone else than she should have been. I worried when I saw her making love to Tom. I worried about the urgency she had. The urgency to please him and keep him loving her when she knew his love for me was becoming, perhaps, a bigger love, perhaps, just a different love, perhaps, the kind of love she thought could only be hers.
Thirty-Seven
I could see it. Annie was changing. Not a lot. More than just a bit. She wasn’t the Annie I first met. I knew she was changing. I didn’t know why. I should have known why. I was stupid back then. Not as stupid as I was at the start. Not as stupid as I was before the towel dropped. So, not stupid maybe, just narrow.
She was losing weight. It wasn’t a lot, but more than just a bit. When I put my arms around her there was a hardness, a boniness to her that wasn’t the Annie I knew. Her brain was changing too. There was a hardness, a boniness to her brain that wasn’t the Annie I knew. They weren’t big changes. Most people wouldn’t notice them. I did.
I noticed the changes in her brain. I noticed them through the antennae of my insecurity. They were the antennae tuned to ‘Annie’, to watch everything about her. To know everything about her. That happens when you’re in love. If you’re lucky.
To displease her was the mea culpa of my life. The thing most to be avoided. To please her was the raison d’être of my life. It was what I wanted to do more than any other thing. I wanted to make her happy. I knew she wasn’t happy. I didn’t know why. I should have known why.
The antennae of my insecurity failed me. I was a blind and blundering idiot. As much of an idiot as I was when we first met.
So, I knew she was changed and changing. I knew she wasn’t happy. I knew she was unhappy. I didn’t know why. I should have known why. But I didn’t. I failed her. I failed all of us. I was a failure.
I took her to the Sailing Club for lunch. She wore her eyepatch. The change I knew was there, was there. She still looked beautiful to me. We stared at one another. The sadness I knew was there, was there.
“What’s wrong, Annie?”
“What makes you think there’s something wrong?”
“I don’t know, but there is.”
“Becoming a clairvoyant are we?”
“No, but I know. Brosie knows. We all know. What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar… Prouse?”
“No.”
“He can’t hurt us, Annie. Not anymore. All he can be is a nuisance and if we ignore him he’ll go away.”
“Sure?”
“Positive… if we don’t play his game, he’ll pick up his ball and go home.”
“Sure?”
“Positive.”
“Anyway, it’s nothing to do with that.”
“What is it then?”
“Jesus wept.” She got up from the table and went to the Ladies. When she got back I could see she’d been crying. “Take me home.”
Thirty-Eight
Prouse’s hotel was finished. His house was finished. There was an opening. We were invited. I knew we would be. The invitation would unsettle us. It was his game again. They were his rules.
What a thick-skinned bastard he must be. He failed with ‘shorting’ us. He failed with ‘defaming’ us. He failed with ‘defaming’ me. But here he was, just like Punch. Bouncing back and eager for more. You had to admire his perseverance.
Everyone in Darwin was invited. Everyone who ‘mattered’ in Darwin was invited. Everyone who ‘mattered’ in the world of Sir Peter-fucking-Prouse. The warped, myopic, solipsistic world of Sir Peter-fucking-Prouse.
We didn’t want to go. So, we decided not to go. But should we go? We knew we should go. We knew we needed to go. So, we knew we had to go. We had no choice. If we didn’t go, he would think we were scared. We weren’t scared.
But we might not go, because we didn’t want to go. We might not go, because we couldn’t be bothered to go. We might not go, because there were better things to do than go. But that wouldn’t be the way he saw it. And the way he saw it was what mattered. We weren’t scared to go. He mustn’t think we were scared to go. That was the important thing. We needed to go. So we went.
The people I knew, were people who ‘mattered’. The people I knew were going.
Hoppy didn’t want to go. He decided not to go. Then he changed his mind. He decided to go. I asked him why. He told me why.
“Someone’s got to look after you lot. Can’t trust cunts like Prouse. Eats babes-in-the-wood like you lot for lunch. Taking a Jimmy?”
“No.”
“Taking a Mac?”
“No.”
“I would… few of ’em.”
“Don’t want him to think we’re afraid… We’re not, but we don’t want him to think we are.”
“Best to be afraid of cunts like Prouse. Look what he did to Annie. Cunts who can do that, can do anything. I’ll bring Dad’s Webley.”
“Thanks.”
I couldn’t take the Macs and Jimmies. It would tell Prouse what he hoped to know. To know we were afraid of him. So, I couldn’t take them. So, I didn’t take them. But we needed to take care. I liked the idea of Hoppy’s father’s Webley. I didn’t expect trouble. Not that sort of trouble. But it was good to be sure. This was a psychological game. Subtlety would win it. Subtlety of inference. Subtlety of obliquity. Things Prouse wasn’t good at. Not as good as he thought he was. Not as good as me. We could win this game. I knew that.
I knew it wasn’t a simple game. Could never be a simple game. I knew it was a complex game. A complex game, woven with surprises. He was that sort of man.
Ambrosia wasn’t invited. People like Prouse didn’t invite black people. Not to the opening of things. People like Prouse didn’t invite black people to anything. Anywhere. Ever. Prouse wasn’t a good person, not a fine person. That made me feel good. That made me feel fine. Good and fine, to know I wasn’t like Prouse.
I asked her to come. I knew she must come. I explained why to her. So she came.
I knew how Prouse would feel. I knew what Prouse would think. What Prouse would feel and think when he saw her. I knew the man he was. Seeing her would irritate. Seeing her would say the rules weren’t his to make.
We left from the City. The ferries were full. His new jetty was bigger. Prouse liked things to be bigger. Always bigger, always more. Bigger and more, for ever. Growth of his wealth, for ever. How does that work? Growth made him important. It made him part of an infi
nite and expanding universe. An infinite and expanding universe on a tiny finite planet. How does that work? How could anyone think it might? How could anyone think it should?
To men like Prouse, the world was infinite, put there just for them. To do what they wanted with it. To get what they wanted from it. To use it for what they could make from it. If that meant fucking the planet, so what? The planet was put there just for them.
Men who fuck the planet are ‘heroes’. We make them ‘heroes’, men like Prouse and my father. We give them knighthoods. We open doors for them. We call them ‘Captains of Industry’. We stand in awe of them. Why do we do that? Because we know we shouldn’t do that. Men like Prouse and my father were the enemies of the planet. The enemies of everyone on it. If our world has a chance to survive. And we all want it to survive. We need to be rid of them. Men like Prouse and my father. The enemies of the planet.
The jetty was bigger. The new hotel was bigger. The old hotel was gone. The old hotel was ‘Heritage’. But Prouse wanted it gone. So it went. Prouse wanted a new hotel. That was what he got. Prouse always got what he wanted. He was the enemy of the planet.
A tour of inspection, lunch on the terrace, nothing to worry about, for anyone to worry about. Or was there? Everyone was there for a reason. We were there for another reason. I didn’t know what that other reason was. I knew the others were padding, smoke, camouflage, distraction. Distraction from what we were there for. I knew that much.
I knew that much, so I wasn’t afraid. I knew that much, so I was alert. There’s a difference between ‘afraid’ and ‘alert’.
We moored at the jetty. There was another jetty further along. The Esmeralda was moored there. She was there for a purpose. She was there to unsettle us. It didn’t much, perhaps a bit. I wasn’t surprised. This was Prouse. I knew Prouse. Annie did too.
A Judgement on a Life Page 12
