VI
AFTER THE WAR, Jack Larrimer, St. John’s father, brought Millicent, his English bride, home to Milwaukee. Jack found work as an accountant in the city’s tax department while Millicent saw to the children, Margaret and Audrey, and six years after Audrey, St. John. They named him St. John because it sounded noble and grand. His name represented their hopes and aspirations for their only son. It also told of the pain of Millicent’s exile and her yearning for England.
St. John was short and chubby and had a funny name, and was relentlessly teased by his schoolmates. He arrived at school at the last possible moment and fled as soon as the final bell rang. When he found himself at an elite college preparatory high school, he felt his fortunes change. There were plenty of smart, rich kids who wanted nothing to do with him. But his intelligence was appreciated by other students and by the teachers. He was bright and capable and won a scholarship to Yale.
Once there, he cast around for a major course of study. But while everything was initially enticing, it was eventually repulsive, or at least boring. One afternoon in the Yale Museum, St. John saw a small exhibition of religious statuary by the medieval German sculptor Tilman Riemenschneider. Each of Riemenschneider’s sublime wooden figures radiated such unshakable conviction and solidity that St. John decided then and there that he would study art history. Adrift on a great sea of uncertainty, it was conviction he sought, the answers to questions, the fulfillment of his longings, belief that was beyond belief.
Of course art history offered more questions than answers. There was no certainty to be found there. He tried history, then sociology, then philosophy, all with the same disappointing result. He finally settled on religion because time was running out and he had to settle on something in order to graduate. He wrote his senior thesis on “Tilman Riemenschneider’s Faith: The Banishment of Doubt Through Artistic Expression.”
St. John was intent on going on to study at the Union Theological Seminary, where he was sure certainty must reside. But an economic history course in his final semester—a required course he had been avoiding—changed his mind yet again. Six weeks after graduation, he found himself in New York, working at Goldman Sachs and drawing what was, for someone just out of college, an enormous salary. His task for the first year at Goldman was to learn the American financial system inside out, to which he devoted himself with the same zeal and intelligence he had directed toward the works of Riemenschneider. And it was here, in the world of money, that he finally found what seemed like certainty to him: a system of thought governed by a set of indisputable truths. Of course the only indisputable truth was the money. Lots of it. But it was there for the taking.
After that first year, St. John was given several accounts to manage, and he did so with efficiency and ruthlessness. The ruthlessness was a new quality in his personality, but he adapted to it instantly, since it accorded entirely with his sense of how capitalism worked and how finance must be done. There must be no sympathy, no forgiveness, in short no human qualities beyond cold, hard logic.
St. John understood that the capitalist system was a system in name only. What he failed to understand—then, but also later—was that the capitalist system is so enormous and multifaceted that even an intelligence as encompassing and nimble as his own could not begin to apprehend its complexity. It is like the Milky Way, whose name is a completely inadequate designation for an immensity of stars and asteroids and black holes and various matter from the gargantuan to the subatomic that are themselves mostly unnamed and yet all together enormous enough that they could, and someday will, consume our entire solar system in an instant, an instant in which everyone, the billionaire St. John Larrimer, the teenage Abinaash Chandha, and everyone in between—all of us—will be instantaneously united in fire and nothingness.
St. John did not know or care about the fire that had decimated the Kavreen Style company or the old lady who had burned to death rocking in her chair in front of her sewing machine or the many others who had been injured or perished. And without knowing or caring about the fire, how could he, or anyone, claim to understand markets, economics, and capitalism, since humanity and the things St. John sought to banish from the system—sympathy, forgiveness, but also greed and venality—lay at its heart?
The old lady—Safia Atwal was her name—rocking in flames and chanting something, at least Abinaash thought she had been chanting—could be said to have been situated in the instant of her death, as closely as anyone was, to the epicenter of the capitalist system. The necessity of that old woman’s labor—to her, to her family, to Kavreen Style, and on up the economic ladder to Pascal couturier and beyond to the moguls and predators, along with the horror of her exploitation and final hour—made her a sort of fulcrum on which the entire system was balanced. There are, of course, other possible fulcrums; one could posit infinite fulcrums throughout the system and infinite ladders leading from them up through poverty, through comfort, through prosperity, wealth, and beyond. And, oh, if only the fire brigades who showed up at the Kavreen fire had had such ladders!
* * *
Abinaash Chandha did not perish in the fire. Once she had lowered herself to the bottom of the rope made of Insouciente pocket squares, she was still nearly twelve meters above the alley below. She hesitated only a moment before she let go. She woke up two days later with her body swimming in pain. She cried out. She opened her eyes to see a woman peering down at her. The woman held her hand and called out to someone who was out of Abinaash’s view. “She’s awake.”
The other person came into view. “This will stop your pain.” And whatever they did stopped the pain. When Abinaash awoke again, she recognized that she was in a bed. Dust mites danced in pale light slanting across the room from a high window. The pain was duller than it had been and somewhat removed from her so that she felt it as though it belonged to someone else. There was a bag of pale fluid hanging from a pole above her that fed through a plastic tube into her arm. She tried to turn her head, but couldn’t. A different woman came into view. “You’re in hospital. Do you know what happened?”
Abinaash lowered her eyes to indicate she did.
“You’ve got a broken back and two broken legs and some cuts and bruises.”
“What else?” said Abinaash. The strength of her own voice surprised her.
The woman smiled. “We think that’s the worst of it, but time will tell. You are in extreme traction because of the breaks. That is why you cannot move.”
“What will happen to me?”
“Your wounds will heal. Your back and left leg should heal with time on their own. You will have surgery on your right leg, which has multiple fractures.”
“I don’t have money for surgery.”
“You will have the surgery; do not worry about the money.” The woman, a doctor, took Abinaash’s hand and gently squeezed it. Abinaash let out a little cry.
The hospital notified Abinaash’s family where she was. Her younger brother and her mother came from the village and stayed by her side. They were allowed to sleep on mats on the floor beside Abinaash’s bed. Her mother fed her broth and lentils and rice. She caressed Abinaash’s hair and wept to see her eldest child in such a state. She told her stories of the village. “Mrs. Niim has run away from her husband again. He is mostly too sick to get out of bed. But sometimes he can, and then he beats her. ‘I have had enough of his abuse,’ she told me. ‘I take care of him, I feed and wash him, and what does he do? He beats me. I have had enough.’ She has gone to her sister as she always does.” She paused. “You will come home with us when you are well enough. You can work with us in your father’s field.”
“And what will one more of us working there accomplish?” said Abinaash. It was a discussion they had had before.
“Your sisters want you home. Your brother wants you home.”
“I do,” said her brother. “I want you home.”
“It makes no sense, Mamaji. We need the money I earn here.”
“Your life is not worth
money, Abinaash.”
“There is fire in the village too, Mamaji. I could burn up there.”
“And what will you do when you are out of hospital?”
“I will find work. It won’t be hard. I am an excellent seamstress. My skills are in great demand.”
“And if you do not find work here?”
“I will find work. Don’t cry, Mamaji.”
VII
IN SEPARATING THE GULLIBLE from their money, St. John believed that he played a crucial role in the capitalist system, performing a kind of radical surgery on the failing economy. It had long been understood—since Adam Smith and even before—that the economy was a self-correcting mechanism. By exploiting weaknesses within the system, St. John helped it excise these weaknesses and make the necessary corrections, just as one might have a tumor excised from one’s body so the body can rehabilitate itself and grow stronger.
To his everlasting dismay, St. John was only rarely able to expound on this philosophy these days. Of course many of the powers that be thought exactly as he did. He had met them—senators, presidents even, judges, business leaders, and entrepreneurs who confessed to worshiping at the altar of the Marketplace. Of course they would never have admitted to sharing a predatory worldview. That would have meant admitting, albeit tacitly, what was true: that they were the lords of the universe and thieves, and that the great masses of everyone else were there for their convenient exploitation. Therefore they spoke in an opaque code: “Business drives the world economy. That is why the world needs new markets,” said the French president, shooting his cuffs and flashing his Rolex.
“Of course,” said St. John, “we need to encourage the creation of new markets, but”—he raised a forefinger in a cautionary gesture—“while protecting the least of those among us.” He did not know who the least among us might be, but he felt a kind of warm sympathy for them, like what he felt for his sons. He could never have imagined Abinaash or the world she lived in, given the world he lived in. St. John and the French president stood on the deck of the Enterprize, St. John’s yacht, watching the crew going about their tasks. St. John gestured out across the open water, as though there might be yet undiscovered lands beyond the horizon, where people were just waiting to be swept into the world of capital and markets.
“Yes, the unfortunate,” said the president. He looked wistful, since he thought of himself as unfortunate, at least compared to the American billionaire.
“By the same token,” said St. John, “the unfortunate must not be allowed to drag the economy down. Those unwilling to pull their weight, well, we can’t encourage sloth and dependency, can we? Forty-seven percent of the people of the world”—he may have made up the number, which caused him to repeat it for emphasis—“forty-seven percent, nearly half, expect their government to provide them with health care, clothing, food, you name it.…”
Only when St. John was in the company of Richard J. Smythe could he speak freely. He was fond of the argument in its unvarnished form. And though Richard knew it by heart, St. John became animated each time he brought it up. “We—you and I—are the purest of capitalists.” In St. John’s mind purity was the necessary condition that excused many things.
Richard had been two years ahead of St. John at Yale, so the two had not known each other there. Richard was on the crew team and in the secret society Skull and Bones. And while St. John still had lofty aspirations, Richard was already discovering his own criminality. Richard eventually became a lawyer and then went on to found a small and very profitable bank whose main business was laundering money.
Richard and St. John first met at Goldman Sachs, where Richard had come to propose a joint enterprise between his young bank and Goldman. The two men discovered their Yale connection. They also discovered a shared a fascination with medieval art. Their friendship did not blossom right away. It was only after St. John had left Goldman and had founded Larrimer, Ltd., after his study of capitalism and finance had led him finally to embrace untrammeled capitalism—for its philosophical purity, of course, but also for its promise of extreme wealth—that their purposes intersected and their friendship was sealed. St. John remained, in part at least, a true believer, while Richard’s motives were less complicated. He just wanted other people’s money.
Their shared passion for medieval art became, as their wealth multiplied, a passion for collecting rare and expensive things, priceless things if possible. Their passion was for the value rather than the thing itself. And their passion was competitive. They would meet at one or the other of their various residences to show off the latest acquisition. Richard had only recently acquired a Gutenberg Bible. He donned white cotton gloves and slowly turned the heavy vellum pages—they made a deeply satisfying rustling sound—while St. John watched.
St. John in turn had a new Picasso, his new Picasso, a musketeer, painted very late in the artist’s life. “It’s one of his last paintings and one of the best in the series. I got it for six million. It’s worth twenty at least.” As enthusiastic as each man was about collecting, both were more or less indifferent to the beauty of the things they collected. All that mattered was to own something of great value.
Neither man knew many particulars about the other’s business. Each would have considered it imprudent and unwise to ask the other how he came by his wealth. They had known each other long enough that they could guess the rough outlines of the other’s dealings, but for the sake of plausible deniability, they preferred not to speak of it. They were content to revel in their mutual success and to celebrate capitalism and its triumphs.
They celebrated in tufted leather chairs beside the great fireplace at the Yale Club, or on the deck of Richard’s yacht in Bali, or St. John’s at Cap d’Antibes, or on the grand marble terrace on Biscayne Island watching the black water spill over the edge of Richard’s enormous pool with Miami spread out before them.
St. John turned to Richard with a smile. “We agree then,” he said as though the premises had all been stated, as indeed they had many times before, “that capitalism is the biggest con game of all.” Both men barked with laughter. They sought to outdo each other in the cynicism department. Each found the other’s audacity bracing and reassuring. Cynicism protected them from the anguish of the hoi polloi.
“I mean, seriously, it depends on more and more people buying more and more things they don’t need, doesn’t it? Produced by ever-growing industries that by all rights shouldn’t exist.
“Everyone dreams of being as rich as we are. That’s the necessary part of it, isn’t it? Whether they’re hawking Vitapunch or Mercedes-Benzes or shares. What’s the difference? What’s the difference between laissez-faire capitalism and a pyramid game? Nothing, really; there’s no difference. Each depends on more and more consumers in pursuit of more and more stuff.”
“No difference,” Richard chimed in, affirming his friend’s assessment of things. He studied his whiskey glass. He shook it lightly so the ice cubes clicked against the crystal. “It might be different if there were infinite, ever-expanding markets,” he added, as though it were an afterthought. “But there can’t be, can there? The world is finite, isn’t it? The population is finite. Those down at the bottom end up holding the bag.”
“As they should,” said St. John. He could not imagine those down at the bottom.
Neither could Richard. “Indeed. As they should.”
“Well,” said St. John as though he had just thought of something. “Maybe there’s one small difference.” Richard turned toward him expectantly. “Well, the pyramid game is invisible, isn’t it? While the capitalist game is entirely visible, right there for everyone to see.”
“If only they would look,” said Richard.
“But, wonder of wonders, nobody ever does. Or if they do, they don’t see. They just believe.”
“Well,” said Richard, “believing is faith, and faith is the end of thinking, the end of seeing—”
“And the beginning of confidence.” St. Jo
hn raised his glass in Richard’s direction. “To confidence,” he said.
Richard returned the salute. “To confidence!” Their conversations always ended with this toast to confidence in its myriad of meanings.
VIII
AMONG THOSE WHO HAD RECEIVED Larrimer, Ltd.’s last statement there were some whose suspicions had finally been aroused beyond soothing. They realized Larrimer could not possibly have anticipated the extent of the devastation, nor could he have hedged his investments sufficiently to avoid massive losses. Bear Stearns was gone; Lehman Brothers was going. Larrimer’s good returns were simply not possible.
On Monday morning when Lorraine Usher came into the Larrimer, Ltd. offices—she was always the first to arrive—the phone was ringing. Without taking off her coat or laying her purse aside, she answered the phone.
“Put Larrimer on the phone.”
“He’s not in yet, Mr. Ballard. I’ll have him call you as soon as he arrives.” Winston Ballard, a retired tire manufacturing executive, had several millions invested with Larrimer, Ltd.
“When will that be?”
“Any minute, Mr. Ballard. He’s usually here by now. I expect him any minute.”
Ballard snorted. “You’re covering for the son of a bitch while he makes off with our money.”
“I assure you, Mr. Ballard—”
But he had already hung up.
After the third or fourth such call, Lorraine called St. John’s cell phone. She got a busy signal. She tried his home number. It was busy as well. Every number she had for him was busy. She tried Jeremy Gutentag and got no answer. She went up to the trading room, where everything seemed normal, except for the absence of Jeremy. No one knew where Mr. Larrimer or Mr. Gutentag was.
She went back downstairs and into St. John’s office to see whether she might find some indication where he might be—an airline itinerary or a calendar entry she had missed, something like that—but she found nothing. When she turned to leave, Lorraine saw that the little Rembrandt was gone. Jesus and the money changers. The other prints remained, but the Rembrandt was missing from its spot on the wall. Her hand flew to her mouth. She knew in that moment that St. John was not coming back and that he had taken the money with him. “He’s gone,” she whispered.
The Capitalist Page 3
