Copper, zinc, nickel, oil and coal producers observed China anxiously, a colossus that now consumed half of all the world’s mined metals.
Commodity businesses of the likes of Glencore’s had seriously got their calculations wrong. They had been slow to note the signs that China’s race to development had reached its limits, its housing market had reached saturation point. Everything now depended on how Beijing would manage the next phase of its development: the transition to mature economy status with a solid home based consumer market.
*
Francis always pointed to the nature of the world’s top thirty businesses; to those who cared to heed his words. Apart from number one, Walmart, twelve were oil companies, five built automobiles, and even Walmart was a major gasoline retailer.
In short, the world ran on oil, a fact that should have put the agreement made at the world conference on climate change in Paris, COP21, into perspective.
John Francis marvelled at the naivety of transient politicians, ecologists and commentators. It would take more than a few declarations of good intention to stop the big oil juggernaut. If oil powered the planet then money money greased its wheels. Trillions of dollars ensured the continuity of oil as long as it could be pumped from the ground or the sea.
Never in human history had such a cheap easily accessible form of energy existed. Each barrel of oil was the equivalent of eight years human labour. It was an easily transportable commodity, stockable and safe to use, providing a minimum of precautions were taken. Oil put the equivalent of approximately one hundred and fifty Roman slaves at the disposition of each Western consumer, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week and three hundred and sixty five days a year, year in year out.
PART FIFTEEN
WEIHNACHTSMARKT
Hand in hand they strolled down Hohegasse towards the Dom. It was ten in the morning and Christmas was in the air. With just six more days to go shoppers were out in search of their last gifts or for a stroll in one of the many of Cologne’s Weihnachts markets.
That Friday morning as the Paris-Cologne Thalys pulled into the Hauptbanhof, Liam glanced at his watch and noted its punctuality, then as the doors slide open he spotted Gisele waiting on the platform. He had barely time to get out of the train when to his immense pleasure she threw herself into his arms, his bags and parcels falling to the ground.
It was just a short walk from the crowded Hauptbanhof past the towering Dom to the Excelsior where a gaggle of black Mercedes and a Porsche Cayenne attended by a uniformed doorman announced they had arrived at the hotel.
Liam was pleased to note all the markings of a stylish upmarket establishment, which was confirmed when they were quickly checked in and shown to their well appointed room facing the Dom.
Later that day Pat O’Connelly and Claire would join them for a weekend in the city, but in the meantime Gisele was determined to give Liam a walking tour of the city centre.
W
eihnachtsmarkt before the Dom
Clancy was riding high, whatever happened to the British economy he was sure he had backed the right horse by his fortuitous link with Pat Kennedy’s world. Whatever happened in the UK, where sheer size of the City in relation to the rest of the economy meant the whole country would suffer if oil, assets and commodities collapsed, he would be immune. His bank account had grown at a phenomenal rate and having learned by his bitter experience of Ireland’s 2008 collapse, he had wisely parked his money in solid investments.
But that was not the only reason for his buoyant mood: his Spanish firm was seeing a resurgence of business in the property business. Against all the negative soothsayers’ predictions, the sun was shining again on the Spanish Costas and foreign property buyers were back. Liam Clancy’s Spain was experiencing a renaissance thanks to the disastrous experiment on the opposite shores of the Mediterranean. Tourism and property were booming as Europeans forsook North Africa and Turkey as holiday destinations and second home options.
That evening, after an afternoon of sightseeing, they caught up with Pat and Claire in the comfort of the Hanse Stube, the hotel’s bar, which had little in common with a typical stube. Christmas was under way and it was time to relax, have fun, and after a couple of happy drinks the two couples set off to explore the Weihnachtsmarkt.
They joined the crowds of visitors pouring into the square, where a banner proclaimed Gloria in excelsis Deo. Young people, old people, Germans, Americans, Chinese, Japanese, from just about every corner of the world mingled together for the feast, a modern Saturnalia. It was all good fun, a mug or two of glühwein, a piping hot bratwurst, followed by a tour of the town’s bierkellers and brauhauses.
*
Liam had a lot to be thankful for unlike the luckless traders, analysts and advisers at Nomura in London, who suddenly found themselves out on the streets of London, just a stones throw from the Bank of England. It was a dark miserable morning as they glumly filed out of Nomura’s offices on Angel Lane, making their way to their familiar haunts on Upper Thames Street and Suffolk Lane: local pubs, the Folly and All Bar One. there they tried to come to terms with Tokyo’s brutal decision: they were no longer needed, the bank had decided to pull the plugs on equities in Europe.
Summarily gathered in conference rooms a little after eight in the morning they were told in a short to the point speech to gather their belongings, leave their key cards at reception and quit the building.
It was a repeat of a scene Liam Clancy had known in December 2008, when INB abruptly shut down its trading unit and he found himself in a Dublin pub staring into a half pint of Guinness wondering what had happened to him.
Then it had been the banking crisis, now it was a toxic blend of zero-interest rates and a collapse in trading revenue. Nomura was not alone in its retreat: Barclays Plc, Deutsche Bank AG and Credit Suisse Group AG had already announced large cuts in their European operations.
Hundreds of banking staff at Nomura’s European stylish headquarters on One Angel Lane, would have to find a new job in a sector struggling for profitability. The business acquired from Lehman Brother’s in 2008 had finally succumbed to the fate of its previous owner.
As usual an e-mail had convoked Nomura’s staff to a compulsory meeting on the eleventh floor of the bank. By nine it was all over and to rub salt into the wounds they were informed no year end bonuses would be forthcoming. In the precipitation many of Nomura’s staff had not even the time to gather their personal belongings, which they were informed would be gathered and stored waiting for collection at a later date.
*
The next morning after breakfast they set off for a shopping tour. Claire was delighted by the seemingly endless streets of shops and stores of every description. The men put on a brave face, waiting patiently as every potential gift was examined and discussed in the greatest of detail by the women.
But behind all of that was a vast machine: Cornucopia - pouring out its goods: clothes, electronic goods, souvenirs, food and drink, invoking Christmas shoppers to Buy! Buy! Buy! Wherever Mary and Joseph were they were not very present … perhaps in the Dom, but that was not on the programme.
Later hat day under the stern shadow of the vast Medieval Hohe Domkirche St. Petrus, they headed for the Weihnachtsmarkt, which they discovered was one of the many in the city. Dusk was falling and the market was filling up. Already smell of glühwein hung in the air mixed with that of roasting pork, bratwurst and spekulatius, as the sound of Christmas carols echoed from loudspeakers. The only thing missing was the snow and with the temperature at fourteen or fifteen degrees centigrade and rising that was not about to make its appearance.
They made their to the Heu Market where they enjoyed a fun filled hour of ice skating in vast Christmas rink. With aching legs they then headed towards the Alter Markt where they fought their way into the Sion beer Brauhaus and downstairs to the bierkeller, where Liam squeezed past the waiting crowd and discretely flashed a fifty mark note to the oberkellner, who pocketed it without a bli
nk, showing them to a table table just vacated by two merry couples. It was a trick he had picked-up in Central America, much to the disapproval of Gisele.
The ambiance was that of a traditional bierkeller: scrubbed wood table tops, waiters in their long black aprons rushing about bearing trays loaded with Kölsch and plates piled high with steaming food, and above all a crowd of boisterous drinkers revving up for ten days of festivities.
Kölsch, bratwurst and sauerkraut were consumed in vast quantities with few visible signs of suffering or economic hardship in Germany, and on the surface, at least, few visible migrants fleeing the horrors of war. In fact compared to Paris, Cologne was remarkably European. Liam, as always, marvelled at the cultural differences once he crossed a border. How different France was from Spain and Germany from France.
T
he Sion Brauhaus in Cologne
The revellers were well dressed, many were what O’Connelly would have described as bobos, bourgeois-bohemians: sleek professionals from the prosperous upper-middle classes enjoying a traditional evening drinking beer in a culturally proud city with its monuments, museums, concert halls and night life. Others were more ordinary Germans, out on the town, visitors from other parts of the country, ending their day of Christmas shopping drinking beer and eating currywurst, enjoying a festive moment with their friends and family.
Sunday morning, Gisele insisted on taking Liam to the Dom before breakfast. A mass was in progress and the small congregation, dwarfed by the vastness of the nave, confirmed his idea that like Ireland, paganism was back, even though a tall banner in the narthex proclaimed Gott tut uns Gut.
After a pause at the Christmas Manger, they left the vast monument to the the city’s fervent Christian past, crossing the square to the Excelsior where they caught up with Pat and Claire already installed in the comfort of the richly appointed breakfast room. Gisele’s programme for the day was a cultural tour of the city, starting with a visit to the Roman Museum.
Outside, the sky was blue and the weather for the day promisingly mild, which to Gisele’s great amusement, Liam was convinced was normal for the Roman city. She had the greatest of difficulties in persuading him that Cologne was normally damp, cold and windy at that time of the year, and probably the rest also.
*
Monday morning the good weather persisted and O’Connelly left the women to their Christmas shopping and Liam to his business calls and messages.
It was another great day for Cornucopia. O’Connelly’s new book was progressing and evidence of his futuristic vision was at hand. Looking around, the word’s Henry Miller used to describe America in 1939, came back to him: nowhere in the world is the divorce between man and nature so complete, the same description suited Cologne in Christmas 2015.
The contents of brilliantly light store windows were separated from shoppers by nothing more than a fine pane of glass, behind which were the objects that promised to transform prospective buyers into the alluring small screen images of their idols.
A flash of plastic and anything they desired within reason was theirs: fashions, sports wear, jewellery, watches, iPhones, gadgets, in brief just about anything! Kaufhof, Karstadt, Sportscheck, C&A, Saturn, Peek & Cloppenburg, as well as smaller outlets lined every street, vying with each other to attract customers. The centre of Cologne, like so many other cities, was a vast emporium, where for weary shoppers there were beer kellers, coffee shops, bakeries piled high with pastries, pretzels, schinken and käse brötchen, and of course the ubiquitous McDonald’s, not forgetting a multitude bars and stands at the various Weinachtsmarkts. And if all that was not enough to satisfy the desires of consumers, travel agents proposed ten days all inclusive on the beach in Phuket, Cuba or the Yucatán for prices the average shoppers grandparents could have never dreamed of.
The crowds in the Weihnachtsmarkts, the Bier Kellers, restaurants, shops and on the street’s, looked happy. Cornucopia was not a world of misery. The consumers: families with children, couples, young men and women, retirees, were all well fed, well dressed, warm and looking forward to the year-end’s festivities with the families and friends.
On the great day, the birth of Christ, they would exchange gifts. Then, after a celebratory feast, they would sit back to listen to their country’s leader speak of hope and happiness, some, in passing, would listen to the Pope’s year-end’s message, who in contrast to the world’s leaders, would remind his brethren of the world’s ills.
The Holy Father would spare a word for those huddled, somewhere beyond view of plenitude, in gymnasiums, halls, dormitories and camps on the outskirts of the Cornucopian cities of Germany and other European nations: a million or more Syrian asylum seekers and immigrants from benighted lands, who knew nothing of Weihnacht and Jesus, waiting patiently in the hope they could one day partake in the outpouring of Cornucopia.
Further away, much further, were the Chinese workers and those of the third world. They supplied the haves with their needs. In Shenzhen, the home of the iPhone, the average assembly worker earned three hundred euros a month. In Indonesia or the Philippines it was much less.
Somewhere in the pedestrian zone outside of Peek & Cloppenburg or Kaufhof, a well dressed young woman gave a beggar a lunch pack … a generous Christian act, but what would happen if everyone gave the poor fucker a lunch pack. They were unnegotiable! He could not buy a warm bed with a surplus of lunch packs!
*
Gisele’s family owned in a modern penthouse appartment surrounded by a broad terrace. From the uncurtained panoramic windows was a view of the Rhine and its cruise boats, and the steel girdered railway bridge crossing the river to with Deutz. To the right was St Martin’s church, and looking back over the Altstad was a magnificent view of the dark spires of the Dom.
He was the head of a fiduciary firm. She a doctor, head of a psychiatric clinic, which according to Gisele’s wry remarks explained many things. Both parents had been careerists, which left little time for Gisele and her sister. Materially the family had everything, but their life was a constant race as each tried to fulfil his or her professional and family obligations.
Within the ring, the city had a human dimension, everything was within arm’s reach of the Dietl family, whose respectable bourgeois existence was filled with the satisfaction of accomplishment and security. It was very different from Liam’s upbringing in a small Irish town and its near rural atmosphere.
Liam was their guest for Christmas Day lunch, an unavoidable family obligation, Gisele told him, though she evidently enjoyed the family reunion, protecting Liam from the subtle, probing, questions of her parents. Who was this young man Gisele had brought home? What did he do? Was it serious?
When Liam spoke of the bank he found himself on common ground with Rudi Dietl, which seemed to satisfy the bourgeois Kölsche, as to his suitability as a possible son-in-law.
Liam enjoyed the day, it was yet another discovery, but he was pleased when they quit the Rheinisch city the following morning, heading south in the direction of the Schwarzwald for the New Year weekend.
MOSCOW
In another place, in another world, not really that far from Cologne, Francis and Ekaterina headed out to the Mega shopping mall on the outskirts of Moscow. The idea of spending the afternoon shopping for last minute Christmas gifts had not really excited him, but in spite of that and apart from pleasing Ekaterina, Francis was curious to visit one of Russia’s biggest shopping centres.
The giant mall, which had opened in 2002, overflowed with the cars as Moscovites and those from often distant towns flooded in for their Christmas shopping. It was December 26, but with Christmas coming a week later, according to the Gregorian calender, shoppers swarmed out for their annual spending spree.
Francis was surprised not only by the size of the mall but by all the familiar names: IKEA, Auchan, OBI, Leroy Merlin, Stockmann, Zara, Starbucks, C&A, The Body Shop, Marks & Spencer and many others.
It was difficult to find a parking spot and as they drove
around they found themselves passing a group of heavy trucks decorated with what looked like some kind of protest banners.
“What are they,” asked Francis.
“They’re protesting.”
“About what … those banners? Food for our families, not oligarchs; Let us work; Legitimized robbery. And there’s no police?”
“No. They’ve been here for three weeks now.”
Francis was astonished, in his experience protesters got short shrift from Russian authorities.
“It’s a new road tax, they’re truckers. They’re protesting in different places.”
Francis was lost for words.
“They are not political. You know, not human rights and that stuff.”
“So truckers can demonstrate, but not human rights protesters.”
“That’s it.”
The truckers were threatening to block roads roads to Moscow, but for the moment the movement had not been sufficiently large to create any serious threat and the government was reluctant to risk any crackdown as truckers and such workers made up the majority of Putin’s loyal supporters.
“Putin’s still very popular after the annexation of the Crimea and his action in Syria. It makes us look like a great power,” Ekaterina said wryly. “They’re not very organized, for the moment and they don’t have a union. If they got serious they could shut down the whole country with tens of thousands of trucks.”
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