Lunch with the Generals

by Derek Hansen

‘You’re running very close to the wind,’ he said. ‘The fact is, you’re too highly geared. You’re in danger of losing it all. You’ve been paying too high a price for your success.’

  Eduardo choked. Colour drained from his cheeks. ‘Please explain,’ he managed, in a voice stripped of all confidence. ‘We were under the impression that we’re doing rather well.’

  ‘You’re overextended. You’ve tried to run too far, too fast, too soon.’ The accountant’s thin voice took on a headmasterly quality. It almost seemed as though he took a perverse pleasure in delivering the bad news to his clients.

  ‘You’re updating equipment faster than you’re paying for it. You need a twenty percent increase in turnover, beyond projections, just to service your debt.’

  ‘But we are ahead of projections,’ said Phil defensively.

  ‘So you should be,’ replied the accountant, with irritating confidence, ‘to allow for the Christmas lull and January. All you need is a slow February or a default on a major bill, and you’ll struggle to meet your lease commitments. Of course the banks will help, but that will only compound the problem. If the advertising industry takes a downturn, you’re gone. If you lose one of your direct clients you’re gone. If they take their packaging or catalogues elsewhere, well, you don’t need me to tell you the impact that would have. And there’s one other thing beyond your control or mine. Word’s about that interest rates are set for a hike. Any idea what effect a one percent increase would have on your overdraft?’

  ‘God help us,’ said Eduardo. ‘Phil, are you going to tell him or shall I?’

  ‘It’s your business, Eduardo.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ asked Don.

  ‘We have a small problem.’ Eduardo explained the loss of their two biggest accounts on the typesetting and studio side of their business.

  ‘Well, you’re in serious trouble. But before I suggest a scenario to you, what other exposure do you have that I don’t know about?’

  ‘I’ve talked to all my clients,’ said Phil. ‘Some have knocked back the Burton Simmons deal because they feel we do demonstrably better work. Of course, we’ve had to renegotiate rates, but really they’re just token concessions. Ass protectors, if you like. Eduardo knows more about the printing side.’

  ‘Only one potential problem I know about,’ said Eduardo after some thought. ‘We’ve been asked to quote on the new packaging for our biscuit-making friends. We do this each year. It keeps us honest and sets a benchmark whereby we do all subsequent packaging without requoting.’

  ‘Who are we up against?’ asked Phil.

  ‘Lavenders and Alexander Printing.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Phil had turned pale.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The same people who own Burton Simmons own Alexander Printing. They’re both part of Austral Corp.’

  ‘If I were you, gentlemen, I would not count on winning that account. Let me try out this scenario on you. If you were Austral Corp and you’d just purchased Burton Simmons, and invested who knows how many millions in new equipment, how would you protect your investment?’

  ‘Please continue,’ said Eduardo, though he could see clearly where Don was headed.

  ‘First step, crush your competition. Or if the competition is highly profitable, absorb them. Gentlemen, they’ve chosen their moment to strike very well. Christmas-New Year is the worst possible time for cash flow. Staff move around so they know what equipment you have and what your commitments are likely to be. They know your vulnerabilities. They’ve stolen two of your biggest clients and are all set to steal a third. What does it matter if they lose money on the deal? If you go bad they’ll swoop in and pick you up for next to nothing.’

  ‘What do you propose?’ asked Eduardo. He could not believe they could be so successful yet still go under.

  ‘Usual solutions apply, I suppose. You could sell. I’m sure you could find a buyer other than Burton Simmons. But Burton Simmons may be happy for a quick resolution. They may agree to a price which rewards you reasonably for what you’ve put into the business. They’d want to lock you in on service contracts though. Again, another option, they may even settle for a minority interest. However, it seems a pity to give someone else the benefit of all your hard work. You could take on a partner. That would give you the injection of capital you need, but also lumber you with a partner not of your choosing. And you’d still be vulnerable to price cutting by Burton Simmons.’

  ‘There must be some other way,’ said Eduardo grimly. ‘Please keep talking. It helps me look for ideas.’

  ‘If your business was more broadly based, provided you could broaden it without adding to your debts, you could solve the problem. At least, it would provide a cushioning effect. The difficulty is, you’d have to move very quickly.’

  ‘Why don’t we all have another beer?’ suggested Phil.

  ‘Ah, Phil, I can always count on you in a crisis.’ Eduardo began to laugh. The accountant was nonplussed, but his high pitched laugh joined theirs.

  ‘I have an idea,’ said Eduardo. He could see a possible solution to their problem which would secure his business and his place in the social life of Sydney.

  ‘We’re going to expand,’ he said. ‘We’re going to broaden our base, and I’m going to take on partners.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Phil.

  ‘You for a start. Come on, Phil, it’s time you owned a part of the action. Profit share is just fence-sitting. Mortgage your house, sell your children, do whatever you have to do. Our friend here will make sure the price is right, for he too is now invited to become part of our business.’

  He turned to his accountant.

  ‘You know so much about our business, Don, why don’t you run it? Leave Phil and I free to do what we do best. Your job will be to keep the business on a secure and profitable footing. Sell your business. Use the money to buy into ours. In ten years time you will be able to retire a rich man.’

  ‘I would like time to think about this,’ said Don.

  ‘What have you got to lose?’ Eduardo was persistent. ‘If it doesn’t work out, we’ll sell. Try and tell me you won’t do very nicely out of that. Besides, it’s time you had a job that added value to the community, you’ve said so yourself. It’s time you did something more than just look at the books of other people who are out there doing something. Making something. Come on, you are living vicariously. What is your expression? Yes, it’s time to piss or get off the potty.’

  ‘Burton Simmons will make things very difficult for us.’

  ‘Yes. And we will make things bloody difficult for them!’

  ‘Count me in.’ Phil took a long pull on his beer and wiped his hand across his mouth ‘God help me when the wife finds out.’

  ‘Tell her you’re going into the publishing business,’ said Eduardo. ‘Phil, you and I and our fiscal friend here are going to publish magazines. Tell me, Phil, what do you know about Indonesia?’

  ‘They make bloody good satays. What do you know about Indonesia?’

  ‘A booming economy and fledgling advertising industry. I’ve been talking to a creative director who has just come back from Jakarta. I suspect our old equipment would be quite useful up there. It could provide cash flow while we set up our main interest which will be publishing. Labour costs there are minimal. We can set up the publishing operation in a bonded area and serve Singapore, Australia, New Zealand and all south-east Asia from there.’

  The detail would follow, Phil knew. Eduardo would need time to think it all through. He also knew Eduardo well enough to know this idea must have been maturing in his brain for some time. He felt euphoric. Eduardo had returned to his normal confident self and Phil would back him with every cent he had. So would the accountant. He’d hinted at it more than once. They’d be a good team. And Phil could not help but feel flattered whenever Eduardo displayed his confidence in him so publicly.

  He forgot Eduardo’s brief moment of panic and the weakness he had glimpsed. Confidence is
contagious. Isn’t that what had almost brought them undone?

  Of course, it would take time. And in the meanwhile they would come under increasing pressure from Burton Simmons and their associated companies. But they would hang in. Now that they knew the nature of the game, they would take appropriate action. God damn it! They were just too good to go under. Weren’t they?

  Ramon eased slowly back into his seat to indicate intermission. ‘I have told you enough for now about this man Eduardo Remigio Gallegos. Last week we all went home exhausted. Today I will pace myself.’ He wondered who would be first to speak.

  ‘You’ve done it again,’ said Neil, and Ramon knew instantly that the seeds he’d sown had taken root. ‘You’ve given this Eduardo your mannerisms. Or have you just lent them to him?’

  ‘They are his mannerisms. But there is no reason why they should be dissimilar to mine.’

  ‘Neil’s right,’ said Milos. ‘The man you describe is also about your vintage, no? And of course you would have similar backgrounds.’

  ‘The memories are bitter and no useful purpose is served in reviving them.’ Neil caught Ramon’s accent and inflections to perfection. ‘You obviously learned to speak English by studying classical English. Your sentence structure, if you don’t mind my saying so, is archaic, though your grammar is probably better than mine. Where did you learn your English? Where did Eduardo learn his? Or have you just given him the benefit of your education? Lent that to him as well, perhaps?’

  Ramon was pleased by the continual reference to Eduardo. Nobody mentioned Jorge. And Neil always left the gate open, offering him a chance to distance himself from his double in the story. Unquestionably, they all wanted him to dispel their nagging suspicions. Ha! The game had only just begun.

  ‘I learned my English in school and I graduated in English with honours at the University of Buenos Aires. I told you that porteños are Italians who speak Spanish but think they are English. There are parts of Buenos Aires where only English is spoken. Parts of Belgrano and Ranelagh. I had many friends there.’

  ‘And Eduardo?’ asked Neil.

  ‘Eduardo also learned his English this way. That is not surprising. It is a very popular course. Some students, however, adopt Americanisms. Eduardo was not one of them.’

  ‘You still maintain this is a true story?’ asked Lucio, who had been uncharacteristically silent.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For once I think he’s telling the truth,’ said Neil quietly. ‘I guess time will tell. Gancio’s kindly brought our coffees. May as well drink them while they’re hot.’

  They sipped their coffees and cognacs in reflective silence.

  ‘What will you tell us next?’ asked Milos eventually. ‘Will you tell us what happened to the boy Roberto? My wife also would like to know. She believes Roberto is the key to the story.’

  Ramon smiled. Milos claimed he always went straight home and brought his wife up to date with whatever story was being told while it was fresh in his memory. Ramon suspected, however, that he also used her name to make observations which, if proved incorrect, would not reflect upon him.

  ‘Perhaps. I thought you’d be more interested to hear what happened to Annemieke. I thought I would give the rest of the afternoon to her, though you complain that I always send you home with the weight of tragedy upon you. Perhaps I should continue with the story of Eduardo Remigio Gallegos. You tell me, which one would you like to hear more about?’

  ‘I would like you to tell us more about Eduardo,’ said Neil without hesitation.

  ‘No!’ cut in Lucio. ‘I would like to know what happened to Annemieke. She did not die, you have already indicated that she did not die. You said death may have been a greater kindness. I think you should explain that.’

  ‘I am surrounded by children.’ Milos pretended to pull out what little hair he had left in frustration. ‘Can you simpletons not see that Roberto may be the key to the story? Why do you think Ramon began with Roberto? Tell us more about Roberto. If that does not answer our questions, at least our questions will be more clearly defined.’

  ‘It seems I have the casting vote. That is how it should be. The storyteller should never surrender control of his story.’ Ramon smiled but inside he was furious with himself. Hadn’t he just put control of his story up for auction? He could not think what had possessed him to do so. What if they had persisted with Roberto? It wasn’t yet time to pursue Roberto’s story. Milos was right. Roberto was the key, but the key was not yet ready to be cut. He would have to be more careful.

  ‘I cast my vote. I give it to Lucio.’

  ‘I will warn Gancio,’ snorted Milos. ‘He can reset the table. We will need handkerchiefs instead of tissues, no?’

  Chapter Twenty

  Bromeus Hospital is the best in Bandung, though there are many who dispute the claim in favour of Rajawali. Its theatres are well equipped and it is staffed by the elite of the medical profession. But that night, as Annemieke lay on the operating table, its resources were sorely tested by the casualties of Mt Galunggung.

  Besides the horrific lacerations to Annemieke’s face, broken ribs had punctured a lung, she had multiple fractures to both arms, and her nose and right cheek were so badly smashed, the sight of her right eye was threatened. She had lost a lot of blood, some of which pooled dangerously in her damaged lung, and she was badly concussed.

  The surgeons who operated on her worked zealously to save her life. They put the broken child together again, set the broken bones, stitched the torn flesh, inflated the collapsed lung, and replenished her dwindling blood. They did a good job. But they were not, nor would they ever claim to be, cosmetic surgeons.

  Lita’s injuries, although considerable, were less severe. Her seatbelt tore rib cartilages, and the buckle ruptured her spleen. Her hip was broken. She was also concussed and badly lacerated where the dashboard had buckled inwards and met her forehead.

  Jan, too, was knocked out, but on doctor’s orders. He wanted to be with Annemieke. He wanted to be with Lita. He wanted to hold them and tell them he was sorry, and beg for forgiveness. He was distraught with guilt. He was judge and jury, convicting himself without representation by the defence, or acknowledgement of mitigating circumstance. He fought the nurses and their aides until their numbers and the searing pain of his broken shoulder took its toll. He never felt the needle that brought temporary peace to his troubled mind. They kept him under heavy sedation for three days.

  It didn’t matter. They would not have let him in to see Annemieke or Lita and, even if they had, there was little to see of either beneath the swaddling of their bandages.

  They took him to see Lita on the fourth day. The drugs that relieved her of her pain also held her in the twilight between sleep and reality. Her face, but for her eyes and mouth, was still mercifully hidden by dressings. Jan looked at her bare arms, swollen where they should be so slender and splashed purple with bruising where they should glow with coppery translucence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered as tears filled his eyes. Tears for her suffering. Tears for his regrets. Tears because he couldn’t take her in his arms and find the comfort he needed—the comfort she’d always provided him. He could not even bend down to kiss her. The rigid cast holding his arm and shoulders prevented him.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered again.

  Lita reached out and took his good hand in hers and squeezed as hard as her diminished strength would allow. She locked her eyes on his and Jan drew comfort as he had so often in the past. But Jan had misread the signals.

  ‘Annemieke,’ she gasped, and clawed at his hand. She desperately wanted reassurance that Annemieke was all right in this brief moment of clarity before the sodium amytal once more reclaimed her. But Jan interpreted her desperation as accusation and pulled away from her. His worst suspicions were confirmed. She blamed him! She blamed him! She had turned from him when he needed her most. He was bewildered and hurt, like a wronged child.

  Fortunately for Li
ta, the effort took its toll and her eyes closed. She drifted off into troubled sleep. Does the mind heal during sleep, retaining what information it has need of, and discharging the rest? Possibly. For when she awoke Lita had no recollection at all of Jan’s visit.

  Jan left Lita’s ward feeling damned. He needed absolution. Perhaps Barnaby and Neneng could have provided it. But they’d broken their vigil and returned to the Savoy Homann to sleep. There was only one person he could turn to. Once more reason fell victim to emotion, and he stomped the corridors demanding to see Annemieke. Once more nurses had to abandon their tasks and rush to pacify him.

  ‘She is unconscious still, Bapak,’ they said. ‘She will not recognise you. Your visit will serve no purpose.’

  ‘Where is she?’ he bellowed. ‘Take me to her. Now!’

  ‘She is still in intensive care, Bapak. We do not allow visitors there. Please, Bapak, let us take you back to your ward.’

  Jan’s grief and despair was there for all to see, and the nurses and orderlies were not immune to it. He was the girl’s father, she his daughter, and her life may yet be lost. They said they would take him to her ward. They would let him peep through the doorway. But they cautioned him that if he set one foot inside the door they would hit him with a needle.

  They were good people and Jan had used his size and strength unfairly. He suddenly felt ashamed as his unanchored emotions swung with this latest change in breeze. His shame extinguished the fires of his rage and his strength left him.

  ‘Take me in a wheelchair,’ he mumbled, and they gratefully raced to fetch one.

  They let him peep through the door but he never saw her. All he saw was a child’s form swathed in bandages and plaster, and hooked up to nightmarish machines. Jan’s guilt flooded back and unbearable remorse bore down upon him. He buried his face in his good hand. They sedated him then and there as an act of kindness.

  Annemieke did not regain full consciousness for another two days, and drugs held her in her own never-never land for another three. Young bodies are fast healers, but healing and recovery are always a matter of degree. She was out of danger, there was that to be grateful for. But she was unrecognisable, even to her parents, when her dressings were being changed.