The trip to Kokata takes the better part of a week. First, we take a private jet to Milan. The flight from Milan to Dubai is rough. To my amazement, I get bumped to economy by some Saudi Princess, but travel the last leg of my journey in first-class. I arrive at Kolkata airport tired, cranky and burdened with duty-free goods.
Immediately upon exiting customs I am met by the love of my life, Sir Dudley Gavin Dudley, who is stylishly decked out in a collarless silk shirt and perfectly tailored, tapered black pants. His shoes are hand made. The outfit is entirely new, which cheers me up considerably. “He must have bought these clothes here”, I conclude hopefully. Behind Gavin stand two men in light cotton outfits and mustaches. They both vaguely look like Omar Sharif. Gavin introduces them as Mr. Chatterjee’s men.
As we proceed to our car, a beautiful hunter green Jaguar, I look back and see the words DUM DUM AIRPORT flashing in bright blue-white neon. I smile. Gavin notices and pulls me into his muscular arms. “It’s nice to see you happy, dear heart.”
“I was just laughing at the sign. Was the airport named after Sir Dum Dum the youngest son of the Earl of Stupid, perhaps?”
“Don’t mock my relatives”, Gavin replies sternly.
For a moment I’m taken aback. “Have I offended my fiancé?”, I think. “It certainly is common for aristocrats to have silly names, after all. And Gavin does have a number of nitwit cousins.” Gavin notices my consternation and bursts out laughing. “Its just a name, though a sinister one. A dum-dum is a particularly vicious – and now illegal – type of bullet. This district used to be the British arsenal where the bullets were made. There was a rough side to the British Raj.”
I reply, speaking almost to myself, “What a way to go, torn apart by a dum-dum bullet.” My words don’t make me laugh as I look out my window and see prematurely aged men pulling rickshaws against the faded backdrop of what once must have been glorious townhouses. The interior of the car seems even more plush when set against this foil of poverty and decay.
After a splendid dinner held in the courtyard of Mr. Chatterjee’s home, which is actually one half of a palace (the other half is an exclusive hotel). Tables are cleared and the courtyard is transformed into a market. Along one wall artisans carefully lay out their wares on colourful rugs. In the centre, a group of Rajastani puppeteers and musicians put on a performance.
Though the puppet show is charming, my mind, gaze and eventually body wanders over to the artisans’ stalls to browse and inevitably buy. The selection is astonishingly good. It takes me but a moment to decide to purchase most of the earrings and silver bangles from the first two artisans. It is not until I reach the third artisan’s table, which contains pieces that are more like fine art than jewelry, that I settle into the shopping groove. One piece in particular catches my eye, a silver bracelet embossed with an array of semi-precious stones.
“How much is this?” I ask.
“For you, 400 rupees” he replies.
“It costs a few pence more than 4 quid”, I think with amazement. This doesn’t seem possible: the bracelet is made of two different rare metals and garnished with 6 expertly cut tiny emeralds. All for the amount of money that I make in five minutes hosting my television show.
I overpay the jeweler, secretly hoping that he will use the money to replace his tattered clothing, and place the brooch around my neck. As I do so, Mr. Chatterjee sidles up beside me. He is accompanied by a handsome young man who looks exactly like Omar Sharif.
”Rebecca, I would like to introduce you to my son, Rajit”
Giving how dashing he is, I expect Rajit to kiss me once on each cheek, but instead he modestly shakes my hand. “That is a beautiful brooch you are wearing. Did you just buy it?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He then notices the bags that are lying in a heap at my feet, and the empty tables behind me. “I see that you bought more than just the brooch.”
I flash him a guilty smile as I reply, “It is all so beautiful, and so cheap … I mean inexpensive.”
Mr. Chatterjee notices my awkwardness and smoothly interjects, “Rebecca, I have an idea. Tomorrow, while Sir Gavin and I iron out the details of my IPO, why doesn’t Rajit take you shopping?”
I look towards Rajit to see what he thinks of this excellent idea. “I would love to” he replies, “provided Rebecca doesn’t mind.”
“Of course not!”
To my astonishment Mr. Chatterjee then hands his son a wallet that is thick with money. To his son he somberly says, “Take care of her tomorrow. Buy her whatever she wants.” Rajit takes the wallet and places it in his pocket. The transaction is conducted as if the wallet did not even exist: both Chatterjee and his son are looking at me.
At the best of times I need only the thinnest excuse to go shopping, so this turn of events is more than justification for an excursion to my favorite store.
Though the address of Bouffe is on that highest of high streets, Oxford, its entrance is actually situated on an alleyway, as if its proprietors want to discourage traffic, which I assume they do given that the entrance to the boutique is guarded by a bouncer and a velvet rope. When I arrive, the bouncer is surrounded by a gaggle of teenage girls who insist that their friend has put them “on the list”. As I haughtily glide through these tarts like a hot silver spoon through butter, I remove my foundation applicator and delicately smash it, extract my splurge credit card from the wreckage, and proffer it to the bouncer with both hands, Japanese style. He bows slightly as he accepts it, and in one movement scans it and returns it to me. A silvery chime indicates that my credit limit has been established, and is acceptably large. The bouncer unclasps the velvet rope and gestures for me to enter.
Inside, there are three sales-models languidly posing around the store’s displays: a bottle blonde near the perfumes, a brunette at the jewelry case, and a very young, freckled girl with a copper coloured wig in the clothing section. Though the store is barely twenty paces across, these Charlie’s Angels of ennui each sport adorable, brightly colored microphone headsets and earpieces – just what you’d expect if Coco Chanel designed for MI5.
Considering the impact this tiny boutique has on the London fashion scene it is, in many ways like the sales-models themselves: a wisp of very fashionable nothing. This nothingness is enhanced by the bright, white walls, which leave you with no sense of depth. The Jackie O’ display dominates the street side of the store. An Andy Warhol print covers most of the back wall. The floor is dotted with small, well-designed spaces which showcase the remainder of the store’s product – some large, brassy jewelry, a couple of bags, one pair of knee-high platform boots, and a delicate belt made of shrunken skulls. The elder models display a professional level of attitude, which presents a formidable barrier to communication. The young, copper-haired model is fastidiously arranging the skull-belt so that it looks like a smiley face. She seems approachable so I speak to her first.
“I’d like the wig that the display model has … “
“Hello” she replies enthusiastically. “Can I help you?”
Her interruption puts me off so I stutter my question a second time, “I’d like the bouffant wig that the display artist is wearing.” The artist, who is standing perfectly still in the store’s tiny window gives me a wink.
“Oh, I’m sorry, but that’s not for sale.”
“What!” I think. “How can a wig in a clothing store not be for sale?” Then a thought strikes me. Perhaps this is a repeat of the dark days of the summer of 1995 when everything I wanted to buy was reserved for Sarah Ferguson or Princess Di. I say, “Oh, has someone famous already bought the wig? Sting perhaps? Or Prince Charles?”
The sales-model nervously adjusts her size 1 dress as she repeats, “No. It’s just not for sale.”
I catch a side-long look of myself in the mirror. “Maybe I’m not fashionable enough to buy it? Bouffe is very fussy about its clientele”, I think with trepidation.
The sales-model notices and replies anxiously to my unspoken question. “It’s not that you’re dressed in last season’s style. You look beautiful. It’s just that the wig is not for sale. It is part of the store’s permanent collection.”
I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of things that I’ve really wanted that I didn’t ultimately get. Though I am one wedding vow away from being rich, I know how to consume on the cheap. I don’t need money. I get what I want because I am persistent. I will suggest, cajole, push, wheedle and on rare occasions even beg to achieve my consumption goals. Despite these formidable skills, at this moment I am overwhelmed by despair. The only words that I can utter are “but … my signature style.”
These are powerful words to the shopping cognoscenti. The sales-model grasps my hand tightly. I look her directly in the eyes just as a tear dribbles down her freckled cheek. I watch as it splashes onto her bony shoulder. She says, “We could sell you something else. Another wig perhaps?” This thought excites her. “Would you consider something a little more mod?” She lightly pushes me towards a corner of the store that I hadn’t noticed before. There, sitting on a plaster pedestal illuminated by ambient light, is a beautiful beehive wig.
“What do you think? It’s made from the same hair as the bouffant wig.”
One of my most important mottoes as a shopper is never to compromise. As soon as you let trivialities like money and convenience guide your purchases you are doomed to mediocrity. I know in my heart of hearts that the bouffant and not the beehive wig is my signature style; the beehive is too much, but the bouffant is … perfect.
I glance towards the store display.
“I’m sorry, but the bouffant really isn’t for sale.”
I look back at the beehive. It is fun and sexy.
“Would you like to try it on?” the sales-gamin asks.
I hesitate.
“Not every outfit can be a signature.”
Though I am heartbroken not to be able to buy the bouffant wig, the girl’s wise words clinch the sale. As I pay for the wig – and the skirt, jacket and go-go boots which go with it – the blonde sales-model who had watched my entire shopping spree with listless scorn, activates her headset and speaks one sentence into it in Italian, ”Abbiamo venduto la parrucca, ora puoi comprare la villa a Parma”1
Remember the Chatterjee and Matheson account? They’re ready to list …”
“That’s great news, honey.” As I listen to my fiancé Sir Gavin prattle on about his work, my thoughts drift to the shops along Oxford St. I can picture each one distinctly in my mind, like a thumbnail Instagram slideshow. Stores like Harrods, Armani Exchange, Tiffany’s, the Body Shop and that most exclusive Shop of all, the 60s-themed store Bouffe. The name sticks to my brain like glitter mascara.
Bouffe.
The store had the cutest outfit on display in its window today: white go-go boots, a tiny mini-skirt the color of cream, a short suit jacket with big, powder blue buttons, topped by a bouffant wig and pillbox hat and veil. The look – slutty Jackie O’ – is one that I love. In fact, I am beginning to think that it should become my signature style.
“… so you don’t mind that it’s in Kolkata?”
I am about to say yes, when I realize that I don’t know what Gavin is talking about. That is nothing new, I am a dreamer and he can be so dreadfully dull. Fortunately, my fiancé is a very expressive speaker so most times I need only to listen to his tone of voice, not its content. I hesitate now because Gavin is hesitant. This is the reddest of flags! If I am going to answer his question I’d better first determine what the “it” is that is happening in Kolkata. It only takes a moment of reflection to realize that it is a meeting – all Gavin ever does is work.
I hazard a question, “Sweetheart, on what day is that meeting?”
Gavin’s voice sounds incredulous as he answers, “May 14”.
Then I understand. “You’re suggesting we spend our anniversary in India? In one of the least glamorous cities in the world …”
As I speak my voice rises in intensity and shrillness. Gavin interrupts me before I explode. “Bexx, discard your stereotypes! We won’t be sleeping with limbless beggars. We’ll be staying with my client Ravi Chatterjee. I understand that he has a very nice house, and that the best parts of Kolkata are quite charming.”
Gavin’s tone of voice suggests intense frustration. Even though I am cross-eyed with anger, I desperately want to placate him. It would be so much easier if I could find out what shopping is like in Kolkata. I have to be circuitous, however, because my fiancé sometimes takes issue with my pathological consumerism. “Dear, what kinds of things are in Kolkata? Is there a type of pottery or fashion that the city is famous for?”, I ask coyly.
“It was the capital of the British Raj for a while. And it’s very famous for jute.”
My face is apoplectically quizzical, so Gavin answers the question that’s on my mind immediately, rather than evading or fawning, which would be his normal response to our current situation. “Jute is a type of coarse cloth. It’s used for rugged things like sandbags and potato sacks. There’s more than that, of course. Its a trading city. There’s everything.”
Gavin has anticipated that I would view this trip through the lens of consumption. He says, “Bexx, we’ll be flying through Milan and Dubai so you will have plenty of opportunity to shop en route. In fact, you only need to stay in Kolkata for few days. Or you could stay at home and we could celebrate our anniversary afterwards … ”
I can’t believe Gavin is suggesting that we celebrate the anniversary of our first date apart. “I’m going. I’m only staying for the weekend. But I’ll go.”
Gavin sighs with relief and holds me tightly in his muscular arms. “This trip won’t be so bad”, I think. “I’ll pick up something by Armani in Milan, a case of perfume in Dubai, we’ll have a beautiful dinner together in a Bengali palace and then maybe I’ll drop by Paris on the way home.”
Aliénor looked out over the valley of the River Ithil. The river flowed south-east, to her right, through a knot of blue hills, beyond which it joined the turbulent Andwin, and emptied into the Loire River near Angers. The flood plain was a field of wheat, which stretched to both horizons; the River’s banks were vineyards dotted with villeins paying their labor duty. In her immediate vicinity, other peasants were working under the direction of a dozen journeymen to construct stages and tents for next Sunday’s wedding. Normally on such beautiful days the villeins were lethargic. But it had been a bitter, cold winter, so most were happy to be in the sun, even if today only she, the Lady Ithilæn, profited from their labor.
A cloud of dust appeared on the south-east side of the plain, above the Le Mans road. Aliénor had been waiting for this: the Riders had arrived. She signaled for her Marshall to mobilize the Home Guard.
The flood plain of the Ithil is famously wide where it joins the Andwin, so it took the better part of the morning for the cloud of dust to resolve into a cohort of knights, divided into three companies identified by their banners: the lion of Shem, Jacob’s ladder, and the white bull of Seleucus Nicator. They all rode under the banner of Bactria, which was a flaming golden ring set against a field of sky blue. The knights were followed by a wake of pack animals, wagons, retainers and a rear-guard of mounted archers.
The Riders disappeared into the Arden Glade, a hunting forest which followed the River from the ruins of Os’ Gilieth to the Bridge of Cuts. When they re-emerged they marched in single file, leading their horses by thin metallic reins. They were followed by a flock of madly cawing black birds of a type not found in the Duchy of Mortain. The birds’ screeches were harshly dissonant in the calm, spring air.
Aliénor walked to the edge of the verge, which marked the south-east section of the Château lawn. Even though she could not converse with crows, she could easily deduce meaning from the birds’ terror. They were warning of the approach of a great evil.
The Bridge of Cuts was guarded by a cylindrical brick tower defended by ten archers. The Riders stopped in front of it, but did not relax their guard, nor did they raise a camp. They simply waited while their leader, accompanied by twelve knights in light armor, six men and six women, approached the gate which controlled access to the Bridge. The portcullis was raised with the sound of metal scraping metal: the Lady had instructed that the Riders be welcomed.
The Riders’ mithraël armor gleamed in the sun. From up close their armor was bent and scuffed. The looks of exhaustion on their faces wearied the eyes of onlookers. Their leader was a tall, gaunt, dark-haired man with scarred, chiseled features and a tired face. He approached the Lady Ithilæn; his entourage followed closely behind.
Ithilæn’s Chamberlain, Gui de Ruisseau, stood at Aliénor’s right hand. He leaned over and said in a thin, nasal voice, “Disarm them!” He gave his advice like an order, as he always did with women. The Lady Ithilæn shouted, “Do not!”, and looked at the Chamberlain in disbelief. Gui de Ruisseau was a florid, fat knight. Despite the weather, he wore a heavy crimson velvet cape, lined with spotted white ermine and trimmed with a black sable. The cloak stank. She looked at the Chamberlain for signs of deceit, but he was not hiding anything. The fool, she thought. He has no idea that these Riders are haffen-ælves. She said, “Good Sir Knight, please notice how proud these warriors are. They will not let us peaceably disarm them. I am certain they mean me no harm, so why the bother? Kindly escort their leader and his entourage onto the lawn. The rest of our guests can camp in the Arden Glade.”
“What do you mean entourage?” The Chamberlain was dull but precise.
The Lady turned to face the Riders, “That man”, she nodded at a tall, lank Amharite. His dark brown hair was curly; his thick grey beard was cut short, and square. He who wore light armor caste in a Roman style: two breastplates held together at the shoulder and waist by straps. The sigil which adorned his mantle was a lion. The lion’s mane looked like sun-rays; its golden color displayed prominently against a field of crimson.”
“And those two”. Aliénor indicated the leaders of the other two companies: an olive-skinned, sinewy woman who only wore leather armor; and a tall, wan albino with snow white hair and eyes mottled red and grey. The albino wore brightly polished mithraël chain-mail. on which was emblazoned the image of a white bull against the seven rays of a sun; the women’s sigil was Jacob’s ladder.
One company of archers, and a second of foot-soldiers, took their positions on the east side of the River, within range of the Riders. The rest of the foot-soldiers were assigned to crowd-control. They set up a cordon to block the crowd of on-lookers from trampling on the Château lawn. Aliénor watched as they did so, proud that her soldiers looked sharp in their green, black and white uniforms. Their pomp and discipline allayed her dread for but a moment. She feared this meeting. No, she corrected herself. The fear wasn’t hers. Her guests brought fear with them, in the form of a Ring of Power.
The Chamberlain said “Very good”, bowed slightly and withdrew to implement the Lady’s will. Her commands were always very good to the Chamberlain. He was Duke John’s man, so his job was to spy and undermine and redirect the Lady Ithilæn’s policies so that they would concur with those of her liege Lord. (He never directly opposed them.) De Ruisseau shuffled over to the Captain of the Home Guard, a pious yet violent Christian who followed the fanatic Durand. Two pages, twins from the de Blois family, attended him. They were boys of no more than 10 years of age, who wore leggings and brown woolen tunics, which came down to their thighs. After a few words with the Chamberlain, the Captain and his attendants cantered on their horses over to where the Home Guard awaited the Chamberlain’s orders.
The Bactrian leader’s white and black beard was well groomed; he had dark grey eyes. He stepped onto the Château lawn. The moment he did so, Aliénor heard a voice in her head,
The children of Ailronde and Galadraël are pleased to meet you, Arwyn’s daughter.
Introduce yourself, Sir Knight, the Lady replied.
I am Dmitrius Anikētos, grandson of Ailrondeof the House Euthydemus, last Macedonian King of Bactria.
Welcome cousin. Who accompanies you?
The female haffen-ælf replied with a thought, I am Jothama, the youngest child of Gideon.
Why is the ladder your sigil?
Jothama nodded her head as she replied, Like Jacob, I strive for heaven. She stood beside a steed which had a copper-red pelt and markings like flames. She was short for a haffen-ælf but as tall as any member of the Ithilæn Home Guard. She had olive skin, dark brown eyes and straight jet black hair, cut bluntly across her forehead. Although fine-boned, she had pronounced muscles, which were taut because of the force she was exerting to control her anxious mount. Jothama’s aura was an unsteady mixture of purple and crimson. Aliénor sensed that a powerful magic had attached itself to her; she wondered whether Jothama had the ability to wield it.
The third haffen-ælf had a deep yellow aura. He had short curly white hair, maroon-red eyes and skin so fair he disappeared in the glare of direct sunlight, like a white shadow. His mount, untethered, unsaddled and docile, was mottled white and black. The haffen-ælf introduced himself with a thought, I am Hephestion, grand-child of Galadraël. I conquered the world with Alexander … and wrested his Bane …
Hephestion punctuated his incomplete thought with a slight, rueful smile.
And you?, Aliénor turned her attention to the African man.
He said, I am Shem Toposa. I was born on the shores of the white Nile. He pulled the sleeves of his tunic back, revealing ritual scars on his upper arms shaped and dyed into the image of a smiling lion, and echo of the rampant lions on the shield of her liege-lords guests.
As the haffen-ælves introduced themselves, they led spread out along the far shore of the Ithil, from the Arden Glade to the dusty market square that clustered around both entrances to the Bridge of Cuts. The haffen-ælves were tall, lank, muscular and alert, varying not so much in their manner and dress as in the color of their hair, skin and eyes. Most wore light, polished mithraël armor, which sparkled crimson-silver in the afternoon sunlight, although several were dressed like Jothama, in leather armor and sandals. Despite looking like they had fought in dozens of battles, or more accurately like a people who had never known peace, few of the haffen-ælves had visible scars; most had soft, blemishless skin.
The Chamberlain, who was once again hovering by the Lady’s right hand, rose solemnly, floated across the lawn toward Dmitrius, his swift small steps hidden by his cloak’s fur trim. As he did so, the Ithilæn bow-men cocked their weapons.
The Bactrian King walked slowly and silently onto the lawn to meet him. The crowd of villeins and craftsmen clustered at the edge of the verge strained to see him; barely held back by knocks from the cudgels wielded by the Lady’s foot-soldiers. The soldiers were dressed in leather jerkins on which were emblazoned images of a white cat with green eyes, the sigil of House Ithil. The crowd’s chatter was incessant, insistent, but not loud.
A spring on an Ithilæn archer’s crossbow broke with a loud, metallic twang, causing a bolt to fly askew toward the haffen-ælves. A tall, fine-boned woman from Shem’s company immediately flung a grappler at the arrow, knocking it to the ground. The Lady Ithilæn shouted, “Lower your bows”. Her archers obeyed, though many looked to the Chamberlain for a countermanding order before they did so. The haffen-ælves looked on, alert and implacable.
The Chamberlain retained his poise but was shaken. While he considered what to do next the Lady gathered her linen skirts and rose with the earnest assistance of her two attendants, Celeste Innocente, the eldest daughter of Hainault and her companion, a vain, forgettable niece of France names Marie. The Lady, who was now beside the Chamberlain, spoke in a loud voice to both the Riders and her people, “Welcome. My name is Aliénor , the Lady Ithilæn. My liege Lord is John Plantagenet, Duke of Mortain. This man” she nodded to the Chamberlain, “is Gui de Ruisseau. He is my Chamberlain, though he is sworn to my lord Duke John, not to me. And this man”, she motioned to the scarred, gaunt soldier to her left, “is Sir Alain de Caen, my Marshall”.
Dmitrius bowed to the Lady and the to her men. The Chamberlain acknowledged his bow with a slight nod of his head; the Marshall’s bow was deeper and more respectful. Aliénor responded to Dmitrius’ formal greeting with a shallow curtsy.
To the surprise of all, the Bactrian knight turned his back to the Lady, beside whom he now stood, and addressed the assembled crowd in the local dialect of the langue d’oil. The crowd, despite the vigilance of the Lady’s Home Guard, had pushed onto the lawn, so many were within arms length of him and reached out to touch him, as if he were a saint. He said in a loud voice, “My name is Dmitrius Anikētos, deposed and yet unconquered. I am the last Bactrian King of the House Euthydemus. I am a great hero.” The Chamberlain scoffed quietly as Dmitrius spoke these grand words, but the crowd murmured with excited awe. The Marshall stepped forward to hear better.
The dialects of the Langue D’Oil. Ithilæn is in Mainiot.
Dmitrius walked along the edge of the crowd, graceful and lithe despite his armor. As he strode, he detached a rough-looking cotton bag from his belt, on which was emblazoned an image of Christ Pantocrator. He first displayed the trophy to the crowd, and then presented it to Aliénor with a flourish. A force surrounded the knight that caused an evil hum that beat the sullen spring air.
Christ Pantocrator
Aliénor was deafened by a blast of silent noise. The Marshall, who stood to her left, caught her as she swooned. The harsh grip of his strong right hand sent a jolt of pain up her arm and brought her back to her senses. He eyed her quizzically, uncertain [about] what had just happened. “Thank you” she whispered breathlessly. She collected herself and anxiously surveyed the scene. No one else had noticed her stumble; all eyes were fixed on the Bactrian hero, who had removed a desiccated head from his trophy-bag. The head was still wearing a diamond-studded iron crown, which sparkled like the River Ithil in the bright afternoon light. There was one giant blue sapphire above the brow (a tribute to the Sky God) on which was mounted a thin gold crescent.
A craven voice rang out in Aliénor’s head. It implored: Take me. Kill the fallen Bactrian king and take me. Do you see me? I am the ring hanging from the Bactrian’s neck. Take me. I will give you what you desire! I know what you want! I know exactly what you want!
Aliénor looked at the Bactrian’s neck and noticed a tiny gold ring attached to a thin necklace made of beaten metal.
Take me. Kill him.
Temptation stirred [in the repressed human side of Aliénor’s nature.]
The Bactrian leader shouted, “Behold the head of the tyrant Jamukha!”
The crowd, in unreflective obedience to authority knelt as Dmitrius paraded the grotesque trophy in front of them. Even though the tyrant’s head had been severed several years previously it was still animated. Its teeth chattered and it constantly strived toward the ring hanging from Dmitrius’ neck. When the peasants saw the trophy they fell back in terror, anxiously making the sign of the cross and averting their eyes, while monks and priests urgently pressed to the front of the crowd brandishing crosses.
Put the head away!
Dmitrius acknowledged the Lady’s thought and command and returned the head to its bag, which he carefully re-attached to his belt. The bag rocked against his hip. Even in death Jamukha remained in thrall to the Ring of Power, which had enslaved him.
What is that Ring? Although the thought was addressed to herself, Hephestion replied, It is known in this age as Alexander’s Bane. Ælves call it Ankmar’s Power.
I know it as Albimelech’s Doom, and Shalmanezer’s Folly, Jothama added.
Dmitrius picked up the trophy sword and turned to face the Lady. The Chamberlain tried to speak, but the Bactrian spoke loudly and drowned him out. He shouted, “Aliénor Ithilæn, I and my men pledge fealty to you!”
While the crowd murmured with excitement, Aliénor assessed the Bactrian’s forces: one company of knights and two of archers, enough troops to secure her lands against all but the greatest Lords, perhaps even her liege lord Duke John and his brother King Richard.
The Chamberlain, who had been fuming beside her, interrupted her reverie, “Lady, these men belong to Duke John, not to you.” He pitched his voice quietly so that bystanders could not hear him. This provided Aliénor with an excuse not to hear him. She turned her back on the murmuring Chamberlain so that she could address the Bactrian leader directly. She cried with a loud voice:
“So be it Dmitrius son of Heliocles of House Euthydemus! Swear allegiance and I will give you land and you will serve me!”
Dmitrius handed the Lady Ithilæn his trophy sword. As he did so, he bent his knee to the ground; his entourage joined him with a harsh but subtle metallic clatter.
[Aliénor looked at the townsfolk. Their chatter lessened under her gaze.]
Dmitrius spoke his vow in a quiet but deep voice that could be heard across Château grounds and on the far side of the River Ithil. He said,
“Aliénor Ithilæn, I pledge to become your liege-man! I will bear to you against all that love, move or die. I will defend you in matters of life and limb, and eschew earthly honor in favor of that which promotes light and fights darkness. Never will I, nor my people, bear arms for anyone against you.”
Aliénor picked up the sword by its pommel, which was adorned with a stone carving of a sapling silver birch tree, the sign of House Galadræl. She tapped the Fallen King lightly on either shoulder, and then spoke, “We will it and we grant it. Be it so!” She turned her back to her knights and faced her people, to whom she said in Frankish, “Fehu-ôd Os Gilieth”. The Bactrian’s fief would be the cursed abandoned town of Os ‘Gilieth, at the edge of Old Ithilæn, abutting the Duir-Wydd.
Aliénor bade the Bactrian knight to rise. As he did so the crowd erupted in cheers. The Chamberlain looked troubled and ill. The Marshall was solemn, though quietly pleased by the doubling of his Lady’s, and therefore his own, military power.
The Lady moved so close to Dmitrius that she could feel his body’s heat. She said while handing him his trophy sword, “Take this. I have no need for it.” Dmitrius stopped her with an upraised hand and said solemnly. “I insist.” He placed his mailed hands around hers and pushed the short sword toward her bosom.
As he did so, the sword addressed her with a thought. I am glad you have accepted me, Aliénor daughter of Arwen. I will serve you well.
What is your name, weapon?
Moira.
A Greek name? Surely you are more ancient than the Greeks?
I have fought against evil since before the Age of Heroes.
But you are a trophy taken from the dead hands of a tyrant.
True. I have been captured by evil in three Ages. That is why I am glad to serve you. You are not evil, Aliénor daughter of Arwen.
Am I good?
Yes, but Good can be corrupted. My mission is to see that you meet your fate.
My fate is my own to meet as I will. I do not need you, Moira.
If your fate is to confront evil, then you are my business. You forget that I am a well wrought sword and your world is corrupt. Be true, Aliénor daughter of Arwen, and I will protect you.
How is it that a weapon claims prescience?
I do not: as long as there are men with weapons there will be violence. That is not foresight.
If you were a hammer would you predict nails?
I only make predictions based on human nature, not my own.
The Lady handed the short sword to her attendant Celeste Innocente, who was dressed in a blue velvet dress, trimmed with Flemish lace. The young woman reluctantly let the edge of Aliénor’s train fall to the ground in order to receive it. Aliénor noticed her concern and waved it away. As she did so she noticed Sir Gui looking at the sword covetously.
Celeste Innocente said, “Shall I place this weapon with your heirlooms or in the armory, m’lady?”
“Put it in my bed chamber, on the oak wood table where I keep my candles.”
The maiden curtsied and left.
Aliénor turned to face the Riders, who lined the far shore of the Ithil, and addressed them with a thought, Welcome cousins.
The haffen-ælves raised their swords and cheered. The crowd joined in. In the racket few noticed the approach of Duke John along the Normandy Road. His small, ragged army had been fighting the Capetians near Alençon. Aliénor noticed, but her attention never strayed for more than one breath from the Ring of Power hanging from the neck of Dmitrius Anikētos, the unvanquished, yet fallen king.
City of Rats is a fictionalized-beyond-recognition account of my time at Lehman Brothers between 1999 and 2002. A lot of the back-ground descriptions are true-ish. A couple of episodes are verbatim true. Most are exaggerated (and/or simplified) for the sake of the story.
Start
The subway ride downtown is as much of a circus as usual. This morning’s entertainment involves a slightly nasty competition between a busker who is singing Motown classics for tips and a gospel singer whose soulful performance is an unpaid advertisement for her church in Astoria. Fortunately, the hostilities are limited to looks and not deeds so I easily remain detached.
The jostle caused by the train leaving City Hall station allows me to read a headline over a nearby shoulder: US adds $3 trillion to economy, year to date. I think, “One entire Canada and one quarter to go”. Unbelievable. The companion story laments traffic congestion in the Tri-state area.
Our train screeches into Fulton St. station and I exit along with half of the commuters in my car. The rest will get out at Wall Street, the next stop. At the exit turnstiles, the passengers from my overcrowded train mix with passengers from 10 others, the locals maneuvering for minor positional advantages in order to exit as fast as possible. I lose this round of turnstile arbitrage to a large woman and her wide-eyed child, which is just as well because the child looks like he is about to die from fright.
Once out of the subway I figure I’ll easily see the World Trade Center. I can’t. All that I see is a cluster of grungy, though ornate, retail buildings on Dey Street. I catch a headline from CNN news, on a television in a bar window: record volumes result in record highs on both NASDAQ and NYSE. I follow a swollen stream of people west across Broadway, and then the Twin Towers swing into view. They are huge, more so in contrast with the 6 story walk-ups around me. The crowd pushes me westward past Century 21 and across Church St. I flow through the WTC plaza, the book store Borders is on my right and a silver & brass sculpture of a meteorite is on my left. I enter the North Tower through an anonymous, though impressively arched alcove. I take the escalator down into the shopping concourse where security is located. The concourse is a clone of every rich mall in America, with the exception that every store is a fraction of its expected size because of the astronomical rents. In the heart of the main promenade there is a bank of escalators to the Port Authority trains up which cascades an endless, well-dressed stream of commuters from New Jersey. More people than I’ve ever seen before, and they keep coming.
The lineup at security is long. As I wait, I watch the goings-on in a shoe store right beside me. Although the store is microscopic – perhaps 8 metres wide – the sales-people are wearing head-mounted microphones: two people standing side by side with outstretched arms can touch facing wall. There is no apparent business reason for the headsets, so I imagine that they have a vanity purpose, perhaps a direct connection with the store’s owner, who wants to pretend she’s managing while drinking piña coladas on a beach.
Security is the tightest I’ve experienced outside of Germany, and just as efficient. Before I know it I’ve got a temporary photo id and am on an express elevator to the 38th floor. There is no reception. Of course. Information Technology has few admins. My photo-id doesn’t yet work on the scanners near the frosted doors so I sneak into the offices behind some soon-to-be co-workers.
I’m intercepted by Debbie from Human Resources, who is primly, yet sexily dressed in a pin-striped blue blazer, skirt and white stockings. We’re both exactly on time.
She’s too efficient to introduce herself when its obvious who we each are. She curtly says, “Now that you’ve passed your drug test…”
“I studied hard.”
“… all you have to do is sign some papers. Here’s your contract.” She manages to be both brusque and desultory when she adds, “Welcome to the team”. Up until this moment I thought I’d just scored by landing this job, but her manner makes me feel like a loser, which I guess on one level I am because I’m a software developer not a banker. Nevertheless, I move to shake her hand, which I understand is appropriate when being welcomed to a team. She puts a letter into my proffered hand, on which is typed my three sentence contract.
The contract had been typed on a typewriter.
This disturbs me given my desire to work with cutting edge technology. I scan Debbie quickly looking for evidence of contemporary technology. I notice the tip of a cellphone peaking up out of the rim of her breast pocket, and, to my surprise a pager nestled beside it. It had never occurred to me that a mid-level HR employee would need a pager. Is there ever that kind of urgency to hire … or fire, I wonder? The sinister thought lingers while I read what I’m about to sign.
Brothers International Enterprises (BIE) agrees to hire Patrick Coffey for $115,000 per year (USD); BIE may supplement Mr. Coffey’s salary with a bonus. For 1999, this bonus is guaranteed to be at least $25,000. Either party to this agreement can terminate it at any time, with no cause.
The last line makes me think of Debbie’s pager.
I pretend to read the dozens of pages of Compliance documents that are attached to the contract. I know what they say, “BIE owns everything that I do. If I fuck up they’ll fire me and don’t talk about business with anyone outside the firm.” I sign the last page with a flippant wave of my hand. With that, we’re done. Debbie snatches the signed docs and flees south. I set out to find the so-called ‘fishbowl’, where I’ve been told my new office is located.
I follow the smell of stale farts and acidic coffee to a beverage station where I figure I can get both a coffee and directions. The lighting makes most people look sickly though those with fair hair and skin do look striking. It makes sense given that this is their habitat. I impatiently wait in line as an overweight blond-haired man wearing grey pinstripe pants held up with red braces fills a one litre Dunkin’ Donuts coffee mug with French Roast coffee made on the espresso setting.
As I prepare my own mug of strong coffee, I ask litre-of-espresso-man for directions to the fishbowl. He smiles knowingly (let-us-say-a-prayer for those less fortunate than us) then points north. I know its north because I can see Tribeca through distant windows.
The view outside the 15 foot high windows is terrific, if somewhat depressing. Metro News got it right: because of construction today traffic congestion is general in the tri-state area. As I approach the northern windows I can see cars flow ever so slowly along highway 278 in Brooklyn and a mirror image of the BQE traffic jam on the FDR. The Brooklyn Bridge, joining the two highways, looks like a still-life. On the west side I see cars crawling north alongside the Hudson River, caught in a jam that probably stretches to the Tappan Zee Bridge. In the far west I imagine that I can see the Meadowlands through a fog of roads, smog and airplanes.
The fishbowl is a square glass-enclosed room on the first isle beside the north windows. It is an after-thought architecturally – it has no structure behind its temporary walls. It is enclosed for security reasons: inside there are direct telecommunications connections to a dozen different exchanges on four continents, as well as a high-bandwidth connection to our trading floor.
I enter noticed but not commented on.
“What’s going on?” The question comes from Ashulm, my new boss, who I have inadvertently pushed behind a stack of servers as I entered. In the half-shadows he looks like a stick drawing of a mean man: he has a spiky military haircut, horned-rimmed eyebrows and is wearing an expensive 30’s style suit that hangs poorly on his angular frame. His shoulders are elevated almost to the level of his chin, and rise and fall as he speaks.
The angles slide from Ashulm’s frame to the man beside him, Janus, who I met during my second interview. He is built of right angles, in contrast to Ashulm’s, which are acute. Like Ashulm, Janus is also dressed in Brook’s Brothers retro, though he makes a better Gatsby. Ashulm makes me think of Warren Harding.
The angles theme ends abruptly with Opia, from the first interview. Though dressed in the same blue pin-striped uniform as Debbie, she manages to look both sexier and more austere. She is standing in front of a mainframe terminal, with her back to me. Beside her, on a metal rack within easy reach of her right hand, is a nest of branded accessories including a purse and silk scarf. She abruptly turns around to greet me, which stirs the air up enough that I can smell her perfume. Opium. We lightly shake hands; I vaguely bow. She responds by vaguely curtsying, and then turns back to her work.
“Patrick, what do you know about nonsense?”
My eyes are lingering on Opia so I miss Ashulm’s question. Achilles gently kicks me in the calf – more a nudge – which allows me to remember what he just asked.
The data received from my aural cache, unfortunately, doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Nonsense?
I blink stupidly.
I blink again.
In my book, two consecutive stupid blinks is one stupid blink too many, particularly when discussing a problem with your new boss. Fortunately, I’m saved by Lance, from interviews one, two and three, who prompts me with a peace sign while lip-syncing the word “virus”. Lance is the most comfortable looking man I have ever met. He doesn’t give the impression of someone who is comfortable because he has found his habitat, so much as he is someone who could be comfortable almost anywhere because he knows how to make places his own. Which he has indeed done in the fishbowl, if the surround-sound speaker system quietly playing Dark Side of the Moon is any indication.
Virus!
I now understand what Ashulm is talking about. I reply, “You’re asking about the Nonsense Virus? I’ve heard about it. It scrambles data, but keeps the check-sums intact . Its damage is invisible to simple integrity checks.”
“Like most of our security …” Peace-sign Lance notes with a wry smile.
“Hah argghh bah”, Ashulm replies, conveying more with this dyspeptic semaphore than one might think.
I ask, “How many trades could be affected and how many do you think actually were?”
The question centers Ashulm. He says, “1 million and less than 1 percent.”
Ashulm’s voice is less carnivorous now that we have defined our problem. I make a note to feed him numbers when he’s upset. He continues, “Team, those damaged trades are your needles, but check the entire haystack, every trade, not one faulty trade can go out.” We all know why. Every trade gets settled.
Ashulm straightens up and says, “Task time. Achilles, restore Fixed Income from last night’s backup so we can do regression tests. Patrick help him. Opia, make sure Transaction Management calls the counter-parties. If any code changes need to be made in production. They shouldn’t but if money is at stake … Only Lance is authorized to make them. Achilles is in charge.”
I join Achilles at a long flat table top lined with workstations where he has already begun to restore last night’s data. We haven’t been introduced this morning because I already (sort of) know him, having meet with him in interviews one through three, and coffee afterward. He is my ally. We’re both dressed like we’re about to go clubbing in Soho – with narrow modish wool dress pants, pin striped shirts, styled black jackets and identical Kenneth Cole shoes. We look so similar that I wonder which one of us is the evil twin of the other.
The counter is strewn with parts, tools and screws. Achilles has taken off his jacket, which reveals a tailored shirt and cuff-links studded with tiny diamonds. It is a bit much for IT, but he’s not dressing for us, he’s dressing for our clients, the investment bankers and traders.
As I take my seat Opia crosses between Ashulm – who is exiting – and me. Strangely, her shadow seems to illuminate Ashulm rather than casting him further into darkness. I notice his red eyes, and the band of gray, mottled skin which encircles them. He’s not going home to sleep, though he needs it. He affectionately pats Opia on the back and opens the door. I notice that the tension in his neck and upper back has raised his shoulders up to his ears. He hrrmphs and then – as if he has just come to a decision – stops and turns to face us, the left side of his face in the shadow of the door, the right illuminated by blue light.
“Gang, this is not a trivial problem. Nonsense – and all viruses – are an existential threat to trading businesses like ours; they’re anarchy and they’ve got to be stopped. ” Without another word he strides away.
What strikes me about his exit is that he ended on a point of philosophy. If I’d given that pep talk I would have never talked about a Manichaean battle between order and anarchy. I’d have focused on team spirit. After-all, his real point was that we have to work until we drop or fix the problem.
The moment the door closes behind Ashulm Opia says, “I agree with Ashulm. What a leader. This is just like Star Wars. There’s no middle ground between the dark side and the light side of the Force.” She speaks so earnestly I conclude she actually means what she says.
Achilles smiles and says, “Exactly, Opia. There’s no middle ground. You either solve problems or you’re fired.
Opia appears shocked. She understands Achilles’ cryptic remark and is offended by it.
Lance breaks the ice by putting on “Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy” as a soundtrack and begins to parse log files using Perl expressions that look like the Library of Alexandria after it was sacked.
34 hours later, blank eyed and barely able to move I slog along Dey St. to the Fulton St. subway station. Just west of Broadway I pass by a car that has fallen halfway into a hole in the pavement, out of which is hissing a cloud of steam. A couple of city workers are hanging around the orange pylons surrounding the scene, pointing at it and laughing. What else is there to do? The hole has been punched into what is probably the gnarliest piece of transit in this city of fucked up infrastructure: it goes down past the ACE, NR, JMZ, 2/3 and 4/5 subway lines, doubtless intersecting with one or two levels of hell on the way. I think, Someone else’s infrastructure problem. I still have enough energy to smile, but hesitate to stop and look in case I’m too tired to start walking again.
I stumble upon a rat who has mis-calibrated his scurry path and rebounded from my shoe into the hole I just passed. I’m surprised to realize that I’m more curious about where the rat scurried to than revolted that it bumped in to my foot. The workers are looking the other way so I walk through the security pylons and peer into the hole, looking for the rat. At first I don’t see it, then I spot a dozen proxies or more, depending on whether the clusters of white lights I see everywhere are eyes or reflections of eyes against metal, peeking out through a mesh of structures down to bedrock. A city of rats built on a foundation of granite.
All the dingy shops at the subway entrance are closed and Fulton St. station is deserted except for a homeless woman who is fastidiously applying makeup, and a twitchy Black man with gray, curly hair who I assume is her boyfriend. My metro-card is empty, there is no attendant and the card machines are broken. I just don’t have the energy for this. Fuck fuck fuck.
Twitchy man approaches and says, “I’ll sell ya ride.”
“How much?”
“Buck fifty”.
$1.50 for one ride. Exactly what it would cost me to buy a token. I give him $2.00 and let him keep the change he claims not to have. He scans me in.
Fair trade.
The subway ride is mercifully, though terrifying fast. I exit through the main hall at Grand Central and take my glorious end-of-day walk home down Lexington, past the Chrysler building on my left and the Chanin building on my right. Lex turns residential at 41st St. Two blocks of brownstones later I’m home.
Crazy Dewey is sitting on the stoop eating an ice cream crêpe that my roommate Earl has doubtless just given to him. He is tapping out a complex beat, as usual. “Hey Dewey”, I say. “Hey” he replies. I wonder if he even recognizes me. I nod as I walk up the stairs and open the door. The main entrance way is clouded by marijuana smoke. Earl-Jay and Gina are in good spirits, methodically preparing a tremendous meal of grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches with made-from-scratch ice cream crêpes for desert. The cooks are huddled around the stove with their backs to me.
I hear muffled sounds from Troy’s room – he’s probably fucking his boyfriend Angel. I discretely enter the kitchen, open my nightcap beer and exit through the living room to my bedroom with the sound of “Want some bacon?” trailing behind me.
“Naw. I’m beat. ‘Night.”
I don’t turn on the light. Still mostly clothed, I do a face plant onto my bed. My shoes fall off my feet onto the floor. I close my eyes. They pop open.
I desperately try to catch some sleep. Even though my mind is moving at a million miles an hour I don’t succeed until moments before dawn.
