Shadow Banking

by C. M. Albright

  ‘It’s strangely beautiful, isn’t it? The harbour at night.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He didn’t want to talk about the harbour. ‘Krystina. She is very beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, I think they’re very much in love.’ She hoped that might calm things but Francois was nothing if not tenacious. He wanted a row but he had to find a way in. Then he did something that completely wrong-footed Imogen. He put his arm around her and kissed her passionately on the lips. It wasn’t a kiss of affection, it was a kiss as a prelude to more kissing.

  ‘Let’s go back to the hotel.’ So that was it. Francois was going to use a smokescreen of passion to drag her away from her friends. He hadn’t wanted to come on the trip – she had known that all along. His schedule had been frantic; he was tired. But it was more than that. Francois didn’t like her friends. That was the fact of the matter. He didn’t like the way they earned their money. Francois was nothing if not a man who lived his life through the arts. To Francois, photography was as noble a fine art as painting or ballet. He was an artist first and foremost and she had heard him describe people who earned a living from finance as vultures. He had never referred to her friends as such but she knew exactly what he thought of them. And maybe he was right in a way but everyone had to earn a living somehow and who were the people indirectly paying his fees but the self-same vultures of which he spoke. If they were vultures, they were good vultures, and she wanted to spend more time with them.

  ‘It’s only early.’

  That was enough. He rolled his eyes and pulled away.

  ‘We’ll go in an hour or so. I promise.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Oh come on, Francois, let’s not ...’

  ‘I said forget it.’

  ‘Look, I haven’t seen them for a long time. They’re old friends.’

  Francois sighed as though this was the most boring thing in the world.

  ‘You stay, have a nice time, I’m going back to the hotel.’

  There it was. She knew it was coming.

  ‘No Francois. Stay here. Let’s have another drink. It’ll only be another hour, I promise.’

  ‘No, OK? No.’ He hissed the words through gritted teeth; his face was only inches from hers. She had never seen him as angry as this. That wasn’t strictly true. The time he slapped her, he had worn a similar expression.

  ‘Why are you being like this?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question. You drag me half way around the world to see your old friends and behave as though I don’t exist.’

  ‘Francois, you’re talking shit. You’re just trying to start a row.’ He stood there petulantly shaking his head. ‘OK then,’ said Imogen. ‘Go back to the hotel. If that’s what you want to do then do it.’

  Francois looked out over the harbour. The water was choppy, the junks shook from side to side but he saw only what he wanted to see. Imogen glanced back at the restaurant to the large table in the window. Krystina, George and a very drunk Fergal were listening to Rob telling a story. Al was sitting with them but his attention was elsewhere. He was looking through the glass out onto the balcony. At first, she thought that he was watching the boats in the harbour and as she realised that he was looking at her, Francois said: ‘Whatever happened to us? We used to love each other.’

  ‘Are you saying that you don’t love me any more? Is that what you’re saying?’

  Francois didn’t reply. Imogen’s face crumpled for a moment before she composed herself. Hopefully, Al hadn’t noticed. But when she looked back at the table through the window, he was no longer sitting there. She looked to the door and there he was making his way towards them across the balcony. He wasn’t angry or agitated, just looked as though he was taking the air.

  ‘It’s probably none of my business,’ said Al. Francois turned back from the harbour to watch him approach. ‘Well, there’s no probably about it. It almost certainly isn’t my business but I just needed to do something.’

  Nobody spoke as Al looked from Francois to Imogen and then back again. Imogen had never seen him like this before. He looked incredibly focused and yet supremely calm at the same time. Al watched Francois closely until Francois sighed petulantly and said, ‘What is it, Al?’

  That was when Al punched him in the face. It seemed to come from nowhere. One moment, there was Al standing there watching Francois almost benignly and the next he drove his fist into his face. The blow struck Francois’s nose and he dropped to the floor and once the momentary shock had passed, he started shouting: ‘Ah Folle! Fuck!’

  But Al was no longer concerned with Francois. He turned to Imogen and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I just had to do that.’

  - BOOK FOUR -

  18 The New World

  10yr US Treasury yields: 4.8125%

  USD/CHF: 1.6555

  SP500 Futures: 1098.5

  ‘Don’t you ever get the feeling,’ said Fergal as they were borne aloft, ‘that the more you earn, the more you become removed from reality?’

  It didn’t seem to matter how many times he travelled in New York elevators, Al could never get it out of his mind that all that separated him from a long drop into oblivion was a thin metal cable. He was probably suffering from a mild form of vertigo but whatever it was, he was grateful for Fergal’s distracting comment. Before he could respond in the affirmative, however, Miles said, ‘No, if anything, I find that money actually heightens my sense of reality. Take yesterday at Flushing Meadows for example. We were sitting close enough to Hewitt and Sampras that we could see the beads of sweat on their foreheads. We were breathing the very same air as them. We would never have had tickets like that if it wasn’t for money. We could have watched it from seats up in the gods. We could have watched it on television. But no, we were there, right on the side of the court. Money made the experience all the more real.’

  ‘Yes but maybe reality is defined by the experiences of the masses,’ countered Fergal. ‘Now you have to admit that not many people can afford the best seats on the court for the US Open. So in those terms, what we did yesterday was unreal.’

  ‘Semantics,’ said Miles. ‘We’re employing different meanings of reality.’

  The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened. Fergal was about to come back to Miles regarding his last comment but Al beat him to it.

  ‘OK, Fergal, best behaviour now.’

  Fergal rolled his eyes and Al grinned at him. He was only half joking. Whilst Fergal undoubtedly moved in rarefied circles as well and knew exactly how to conduct himself, Al also knew that in Fergal’s eyes they were on holiday. A long weekend in New York with his two oldest friends in the business and Miles had managed to get hold of some tickets to the tennis. What could be better than that? All three of them had meetings in the morning and normal business service would be resumed but Al felt it worth ensuring that Fergal was aware of the importance of the meeting tonight. It was a house-warming party at Count Boris Wenzel’s recently completed New York base, the top floor penthouse at 1 Columbus Circle. When Al had told the Count that he would be in New York with a couple of old friends, the Count had said for him to bring them along. The Count had known Miles for some years of course. Al knew they had developed a relationship but quite how close they clearly were he hadn’t realised until he saw the way that the Count greeted him, clapping him on the back and shaking his hand like he was a long lost friend.

  ‘And this,’ said Al making the introductions, ‘is our very old friend, Fergal Quinn.’

  ‘You’re not Irish by any chance, are you?’ asked the Count, taking Fergal’s hand.

  ‘No, it’s just a vicious rumour,’ said Fergal grinning.

  ‘Good, good, well splendid that you could all make it.’ The Count seemed more youthful and energetic than in all the time Al had known him. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a quick grand tour before we’re mobbed. I sort of overdid it a bit on the guest list but it’s nice to have a party once in a while, isn’t it?’

  The apartmen
t’s living space was palatial – it was comprised of a series of interconnected rooms on varying levels, the centrepiece being a huge living area constructed beneath a huge glass atrium. The sunset over the Hudson River bathed the room in a pinkish glow. Al’s boss, Vittorio, had often mentioned the Count’s legendary art collection and clearly much of it had found its way onto the walls in his new Manhattan home. Al’s knowledge of art was rudimentary at best but he knew a Warhol when he saw one, and a Rockwell. The enormous Mark Rothko canvas above the marble fireplace was unmistakable.

  ‘I like to keep my art relevant to its surroundings, in tune with it if you like. So in New York, it’s Warhol and Pollock. In the Bahamas, there’s much more of a Latin American influence, like Rivera and Velasco – sneaking in a Dali by way of Spanish association. And in Surrey, it’s Nicholson, Hepworth and Bacon.’

  ‘It’s funny that,’ said Fergal and Al winced at the thought of what he might come out with. Al had made sure that they hadn’t had more than a couple in Clementine’s on Fifth Avenue before they caught the cab over so whatever it was, it wouldn’t be fuelled by alcohol. ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a modern art kind of fella. No offence but I somehow see you as more of a fan of the Impressionists.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  All eyes were on Fergal but he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

  ‘Well, look, I’ve only known you for five minutes and I know that that’s a pretty quick time to make a value call on someone’s character and personality so forgive me if I overstep the mark, but look at this room. Look at the reality that you’ve created here with the stunning view over Manhattan, the light, the colour, the electricity in the air, the sense of – I don’t know,’ – he searched for the words – ‘infinite possibility. It’s very impressionistic to my mind. One of my heroes, W.B. Yeats, said that, ‘The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time,’ and art to me – whether it be fine art, poetry, literature, whatever – is timeless. It’s the only thing that really transcends time. And with this place,’ Fergal looked around the room admiringly, ‘I have to say, you’ve come pretty close to doing just that.’

  ‘Thank you, Fergal,’ said the Count, smiling. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘And as modern art becomes more accepted in the mainstream art world,’ said Miles gesturing to a Warhol nearby, ‘its desirability increases. Warhol’s value has quadrupled in the past fifteen years or so.’

  ‘Quite,’ said the Count. ‘Although I’m sure dying did have something to do with that.’ There was a terseness in his response to Miles that Fergal didn’t pick up on, absorbed as he now was in the appearance of the actress Shannon McGuire who had just entered the room. The Count noticed Fergal’s look of wonder and smiled to himself, and took him by the arm, ushering him towards the Hollywood star.

  ‘Fergal,’ said the Count, ‘This is Shannon.’

  ‘Hi there Fergal,’ said Shannon, looking up into Fergal’s rapidly reddening countenance. In the pinkish light cast by the sunset through the giant windows, Fergal was faced with a vision not only of beauty but also unattainable celebrity and it was all too much for him.

  ‘Urgh,’ was all he could manage as he presented Shannon with a terrified grimace.

  ‘Shannon is staying with us at the moment. Although for God’s sake, don’t let the press know that. Anyway, you must excuse me. More guests to welcome.’ The Count moved away and Al watched Fergal go rigid with fear as he was left all alone with Shannon McGuire. Fergal made no attempt to introduce Al and Miles – he was lost in the moment – so they both took a glass of Champagne from a passing waiter and turned to admire the view.

  ‘We’ll give him a couple of minutes and then we’d better rescue her,’ said Al.

  ‘She’s looking good,’ said Miles as Fergal attempted to relearn how to articulate words. His affliction of being rendered sub-normal by beautiful women was something that had never diminished over the years but at least its symptoms were more short-lived than in the past.

  ‘Looking good? That’s the understatement of the year.’

  Fergal had been right about the Count’s apartment. It was a thing of beauty. Floating up in the sky in this glass bubble, caught between the epic sunset above the deep canyons and ravines of Manhattan on one side and the comfort and exclusive luxury of this rarefied art-lined realm on the other made Al feel strangely enlightened. They were surrounded by opulence, celebrity, conspicuous wealth and beauty and if ever a location summed up his ambition, this was it. Miles could feel it to, he could tell.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and save her,’ said Miles, ill-concealing his own fascination with the A-lister in their midst. As they approached, Shannon was wearing that expression that Al had seen her wear so many times in romantic comedies he had been taken to see by girlfriends over the years. She puckered up her nose as she tried to figure out what it was that Fergal was trying to say to her.

  ‘You’re what? You’re packing a semi? What the hell does that mean? You mean you’ve got a gun on you? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No, no, no ...’

  Al knew exactly what it was that Fergal was trying to say but it was the fact that he was trying to say it at all that baffled him.

  ‘What he’s trying to say,’ said Al, as he deliberately interrupted Fergal’s stream of consciousness, ‘is that meeting you is a dream come true.’

  ‘Oh OK.’

  ‘Packing a semi, well, it’s an Irish expression,’ said Al.

  ‘For a moment I thought he was telling me that he had a hard on.’

  Al and Miles laughed nervously before Al said, ‘I’m Al Denham by the way, this is Miles Ratner. We do business with Boris. The three of us,’ he gestured at Fergal and Miles, ‘used to work together.’

  ‘What the hell were you doing saying that to her?’ Al said to Fergal after Shannon had moved away to talk to the fashion designer, Fabrizio Roma, who entered the party as though taking to the stage in front of thousands of fans.

  ‘Well you know who she is, don’t you?’ asked Fergal.

  ‘Yes, of course we know who she is.’

  ‘Well in that case you’d know that she won best one-on-one scene at the Adult Film Awards last year ...’

  ‘Fergal, that’s Shannon McGuire, she stars in romantic comedies, family movies. What the fuck are you talking about?’

  Fergal looked around as Shannon chatted animatedly with the diminutive Italian designer whose voice boomed around the glass atrium.

  ‘Oh shit. I could have sworn that she was someone else. This one – the one I’m thinking about – she’s called Shannon too.’

  ‘You’ve basically stood there, at the house-warming party of my most important client, a man whose happiness and satisfaction is essential for my own future success, and apropos of nothing, you’ve gone and told his personal friend – an internationally respected and admired Hollywood film actress – that you’ve got a partially engorged penis. What the fuck were you thinking?’

  ‘Jesus, Al, I thought she’d be flattered. I thought she was someone else.’

  ‘Fergal, just stand over there and don’t say anything.’

  ‘I said I’m sorry.’

  Miles couldn’t hide his amusement and when Al saw him grinning, he couldn’t stop himself laughing as he punched Fergal on the shoulder.

  ‘You complete arse.’

  10yr US Treasury yields: 4.8100%

  USD/CHF: 1.6545

  SP500 Futures: 1096.5

  ‘The way that I see it now – and I’ll admit that I lost sight of this a while back – is that they’re paying us to have fun. That’s all it is. We’re paid to have fun. Well, I am anyway.’

  Al watched Fergal as he held forth in the elevator on their groundwards journey from the Count’s house-warming party. He had decided that it was a good time to leave while Fergal had still not broken anything or mistaken anyone else for a porn star. It was still only early and Al was looking forward to a few drinks with Mile
s and Fergal. But as much as he might have wanted to concur with Fergal’s statement that they were being paid to have fun, he couldn’t. There was nothing fun about his job any more. He was a hostage to the fortunes of the market.

  ‘That’s the best way to look at it,’ said Miles.

  ‘That’s not how you look at it,’ said Al.

  ‘Yes it is, only my sense of fun manifests itself in a different way from Fergal’s. That’s all. Fergal likes to go to work, do the work, leave work and play. I don’t necessarily do that. Part of my play is the work itself. I know that makes me sound like a jerk but it’s true.’

  Al was surprised by Miles’s candour. He had never heard his friend talk about himself in such an off-hand and self-deprecating way. Al also realised that Miles had articulated one of the reasons – if not the primary reason – why Al would never be able to compete with Miles even if he wanted to. Even at its best, when he was making lots of money both for the bank and for himself and even when he was enjoying the intellectual stimulation of the process, of developing an idea and then seeing it do exactly what he had hoped it might, the work was still just the work. It was something that he was always running away from, escaping from. For Miles, it was different. Even when he wasn’t at work, he was thinking about the work, researching, evaluating, appraising, strategising. What was the best position to be in in at any given moment? Of late, Al had found himself fantasising about what he might be doing if he didn’t work in the City. He thought about sailing. The summer before he had taken Krystina on a sailing holiday and they had navigated a thirty footer around the Greek Islands. He had loved it, enjoyed the Spartan below deck existence even if Krystina hadn’t. He thought about giving it all up so he could buy a yacht and charter it out – with him as skipper. He could spend his life sailing around the Mediterranean. Other times, he thought about buying some beach front land somewhere in France or Spain maybe and running a little Bistro. It was the simplicity of these fantasies that made him return to them again and again. But fantasies they remained. He felt nostalgic for those times in his professional life when he could have got off the merry-go-round. Until he had met Krystina, he could have given it all up, taken what money he had earned and chosen a new career. But that wasn’t possible anymore, hadn’t been for a few years. Since the burning that he’d had over Krystina’s parents on the Nasdaq, not to mention Krystina’s increasingly expensive tastes in clothes, cars and residential property, he had found himself more and more trapped within this lifestyle that he could ill afford. His earnings were big, bigger than he might have ever imagined but his outgoings were massive too. Be careful what you wish for. Neither Fergal nor Miles were trapped. They could walk away any time they wanted to. Not that they would. Miles, definitely not. And why would Fergal want to when he truly believed that he was being paid to have fun? Al still had fun away from work from time to time. He wasn’t so jaded that he couldn’t put his worries aside and enjoy himself. And that was something that he intended to do as the warm New York night stretched ahead of them.