01 Mr. Market

 

Mr. Market is a series of fictional stories set in a near-future North America, that are really about contemporary ecological, social and political issues. This particular story features a cargo cult based on the ruins of the Pacific Investment Management Company (PIMCO) headquarters. All references to PIMCO are fictional: its headquarters was conveniently located precisely where I wanted to situate my story, but otherwise all references are thematic inventions.

August 2012, revised February 2025

Start

Our boat, the Yéil, a seven mast, 250 foot schooner, skirted around the ruins of the US Bank Tower and sailed into Los Angeles Bay. The Bay is a narrow but long stretch of water between Long Beach Island to the west and what is left of southern California to the east. We were traveling to a village of perhaps 5,000 souls, where the natives lived – if the hyperbolic words of our scouts could be trusted – amidst a treasure of ruins. Our progress through the Bay was slow because we continuously had to stop to take soundings. The Captain cursed the fools who had made his inaccurate charts, but to me his anger seemed self-indulgent. The collapse of Los Angeles into the Pacific Ocean is a work in progress: better to curse the Earth for moving.

As we neared our destination, we were greeted by a ramshackle flotilla of rafts made of tires and scavenged pieces of plastic. The thin metal masts on these contraptions were fashioned into crude S shapes that looked like dollar signs. We dropped anchor in a sheltered lagoon perhaps three hundred metres from the edge of the village, which was situated in the deepest part of the bowl formed by the bay. The tire-rafts were too light- weight relative to the wind, tide and the waves to maintain a fixed position, so instead bobbed in a slow rotation around us.

The Yéil was oriented to the south-west. Long Beach Island was directly in front of us. The island at most points was little more than a sandbar. On its northern tip, which I now faced, it was far more substantial because a web of ruined expressways had trapped enough sand and seaweed to sustain agriculture. The natives grew several types of fruit including mangoes, pineapples and oranges. The crops had to be genetically modified because the combination of intense summer temperatures, salt-saturated winds and contamination from ruins made the environment inhospitable to most flora: only tough plants grew naturally, particularly bay hops, scrubby pine trees and sawgrass. Our estimate of the island’s total population – 20,000 – was far higher than seemed sustainable.

A dinghy, which I was surprised to see powered by a 2 horse power engine, pushed through the rafts and pulled up along side us. It had two inhabitants, a fair-skinned, lanky young man with knotted blond hair, and a tanned woman with henna-red hair and freckles. The man was shirtless, save for a strip of cloth he tied neatly around his neck, and draped down his chest. He wore finely woven blue pants, which were held up by red, white and blue striped suspenders. The woman was partially covered by a ragged dress, which was also made of red, white and blue material. Her hair was tied into neat braids to which were fastened small coins; she had currency tattoos all over her body.

We threw a rope ladder over the side of the boat. I gestured for the man and woman to come aboard. They declined. Rhonda, our staff anthropologist, mimed that we were interested in visiting the village. The natives did not immediately reply. Instead, the man turned off his boat’s engine, rose, placed his thumbs into his suspenders – no mean feat in a dinghy – and addressed us. He spoke in unaccented Television English. “I see that you are from Alaska.” He nodded at the image of the raven painted onto the bow of our ship. “You’ve come a long way. Catch.” He threw each of us a fruit. Rhonda caught her orange, I caught my lemon on a rebound, and the Captain – a bluff, unsteady man – had to retrieve his avocado from a pile of rope. The native spokesman frowned pensively as he sat down. Before Cody had a chance to interpret the dropped avocado as some form of bad omen, our anthropologist said, “My name is Rhonda. May we stay here for a few days? We would like to purchase – or trade for – provisions. We have many things that will interest you.”

Again the native spokesman stood up. As he did so his small boat was buffeted by the wake made by our nearly stationary, but large ship. He managed to remain balanced. “Nice to meet you Rhonda. My name is Cody. I am the PIMCO.” He spoke his title in a loud, strong voice that carried far out into the bay. He gestured toward his female companion and said, “This is Luck.”

After we returned their greetings, Cody resumed speaking, “You are welcome to stay until the anniversary of Default Tuesday, which you must know is in two days. We have fresh water, and plenty of avocados, tomatoes and citrus fruit.” A small wave knocked his boat; he hastily sat down.

At the request of Doctor Hofstaedter, the aloof, aristocratic man who represented our Patrons’ interests on this expedition, Rhonda and I made first contact. We were assigned this dangerous task ostensibly because scientists are better at establishing trust than soldiers.

Our transportation, a motorized rubber boat called a Zodiac, was lowered into the water by a hoist. Rhonda and I boarded it separately using rope ladders. The Pacific Ocean was choppy enough that entering the boat was awkward, but we were unencumbered so did so with no incident.

If the wind had been favourable we would have rigged a sail, but it was not. We turned on the engine and headed across the lagoon toward a spit of land on the north-east side of the native village. The flotilla of tires haphazardly followed us. About 200 metres inland from the spit I could see the ruins of an office building poking out of the ground. According to my charts, it had once been twenty stories high; now ten of those stories were buried. A symmetrical, relatively intact, second tower was beside it, to the south. Although the intact tower was also skewed and buried, to my amazement, its electric lights still worked.

Our craft was faster than any of the native ones, especially Cody’s dinghy, so we had to cut our engines to avoid beaching before our hosts. We landed just behind Luck and Cody, beside a highway on-ramp the natives used as a dock. The ruined north tower of the office campus was directly in front of us. To our left, perhaps 100 metres down the beach, was a collection of lean-tos built in the lee of the partially intact south tower. This was the island’s main population center.

Rather than mooring our Zodiac, which ran the risk of occupying someone’s parking space, we dragged it a short distance onto a desolate section of beach. The natives made no effort to assist us, but when we were done Cody gestured for us to follow him toward a large fire pit situated at the edge of the village.

The natives were dressed in scavenged beach-ware. Most men wore shiny shorts, no shirt, and sandals made of automobile tires. Their hair was roughly cut, when cut at all, and almost always tied back with electrical cables. Some cables still had plugs attached. The women for the most part wore only bikini bottoms, although some wore smocks made of re-purposed materials; a few wore nothing at all. All of the natives were lean; none looked malnourished. In fact, I was struck by how healthy they were. Even the most wealthy Alaskan has some form of blemish – perhaps a chipped tooth, pock-mark or callous. With the notable exception of tattoos and ritual marks, I could not see even one blemish or scar on any of the hundreds of natives who gathered around us.

Rhonda, noticing this as well, whispered to me, “They’re all genetically engineered.”

I nodded. It was a plausible hypothesis. Although there are few genetically modified people in the Republic of Alaska, there are many in the California and Oregon Territories.

Cody gestured for us to sit on a piece of driftwood, which we did. Luck sat to our right, on a large, rotted office chair. She made a point of being oblivious to our presence. Rhonda began to speak, but Cody gestured for her to be quiet. We sat cross-legged, resting the palms of our hands on our knees.

After several slow minutes Cody leaned over to me and whispered, “San Bernadino County is beside your right shoulder. That is very unlucky. You should face it directly, with your chest.” He indicated that I should shift my torso 45 degrees clockwise, so that I was facing due east.

The setting sun shone so brightly that the Sierra Nevada mountains looked like burning gold. In the foreground, the tips of sky-scrapers poked out of the water like lesser mountains. They too looked like they were burning, but with the kind of fire created by sparks of light. On the beach, directly in front of me, the natives had constructed a sculpture out of rubble and rebar that echoed the shape of the sinking metropolis.

As the sun set several natives appeared with firewood and kindling. A woman stepped out of the crowd. She carried a small, carved box in which lay a metal canister with a spout. After making a ritual gesture, she removed the canister and poured fuel onto the kindling. Her attendant used a square silver lighter from a sequined pouch to light a fire.

Rhonda choose this moment to speak again. She addressed Cody, but pitched her voice so that those nearby could hear, “We have a gift for you.” As Rhonda said this she removed a zippered purse from her satchel, which she opened and displayed to our hosts. The purse was stuffed with hyperinflation dollars. She deposited them in the sand half-way between Luck and Cody.

Luck picked up the gift. She carefully closed and re-opened the zipper on the purse, as if zippers had powerful juju. She then handed the purse to Cody, who opened it and removed a wad of ancient currency. “They are all singles”, he cooed. A scout had told us that the Long Beach natives valued US one dollar bills because the Hyperinflation made them rare. When Cody had finished examining the gift he passed it to Luck, who gave it to an attendant to store away.

We waited for a response. If Cody or Luck gave us a gift in return, that would indicate a sense of equality between us. If they didn’t, they thought of our gift as tribute, and us as inferiors.

They gave us nothing. Instead, Luck leaned forward so that her face was only a couple of centimetres away from Cody. She spoke so that everyone nearby could hear, “It is time to play the market. Let us find out whose side they are on.” As if her words weren’t sinister enough, when she spoke the crowd rearranged itself into two distinct camps, one behind Cody, the other behind Luck. Cody’s people wore medallions shaped like dollar signs around their throats, while Luck’s team was adorned with tattoos of currency symbols and had wore coins as ornaments in their hair.

“I’m on it”, Cody replied with gravitas. He removed a handful of red and green dice from a plastic pouch that was lying in the sand near his feet. With a small, sharp gesture that engaged only his left forearm, he threw the dice onto the beach. He dropped onto his knees, leaned forward, and used his right forefinger to trace a line in the sand that connected the dice. The line pointed upward to the right.

While I waited for Cody’s verdict, I looked at Rhonda to see if she thought we should make a run for it. She avoided my gaze, which was an answer to my question: she was staying. I expected to flee.

Cody spoke, “Mr. Market is happy today.”

Luck scowled and stormed away.

§

Rhonda struck up a conversation with Cody. I could not hear what they were saying, but thought it best not to intrude. I scanned the village for Luck. I spotted her in the middle of a crowd of large, young men who were sorting through a heap of metal on the eastern edge of the village. Periodically one of them would examine a piece of rebar, checking its weight and balance, as if choosing a weapon. Beyond Luck’s group – toward the dock – three women with long grey hair hovered over a cooking pot. They looked like they were brewing a potion. The witches were but a few metres from our Zodiacs – there were now two. The boats were guarded by a pair of Alaskan marines.

It was now dark, and I need light to explore, so I saw no reason to stay. I signaled my intention to return to the Yéil. Rhonda acknowledged me with a wave of a hand – she was preoccupied by her conversation with Cody.

I departed in one of the Zodiacs. Two marines stayed behind to guard Rhonda. When I reached the Yéil I went straight to bed. I fell asleep in an instant.

The only people awake when I arose early the next morning – aside from the watch – were two divers whose job it was to assess the salvage potential of the sunken metropolis in the bay behind us. I checked in on Rhonda; she had not returned.

I was anxious to get an early start because I knew that the scope of my investigations would be sharply curtailed the moment the economic assessment was done. Whether any part of this site would be protected from Alaskan salvagers depended on what I could discover during the next few hours.

Although I was in a rush, I used sail power to get to shore because the wind was with me and saw no reason not to conserve fuel. I landed just south of where I had done so yesterday, perhaps 100 metres closer to the village. With the exception of a border collie and a lone woman practicing yoga, the beach was empty. The dog, surprisingly healthy looking considering the local living conditions, decided that I was the most interesting thing happening this morning, so chose to accompany me. I wondered if the mutt’s genes had also been engineered.

My goal was to investigate the mostly intact north tower of the ruined office campus. I intended to approach it indirectly because I did not want to be seen entering it.

I walked north-east along the beach toward the land spit that abutted into the bay. At the point where the spit intersected my path I encountered a group of native fishermen who were preparing for a dive. Their gear, snorkels, flippers and diving suits, was mostly made of old, brittle plastic. One man wore a rusty metal tank on his back that once contained compressed oxygen but was now empty. The fishermen casually greeted me in well-spoken TV English, but were preoccupied with their work, so otherwise ignored me.

On the other side of the spit I discovered a kelp-covered wave of asphalt that led to the ruined south tower, cut across the beach and went out into the bay. The hill was porous. When the light from the sun was right I could see collapsed bits of highway, half-buried under the silt and kelp.

I carefully climbed up the asphalt wave. I followed its crest for a dozen steps – toward the ruined tower – and then slid into a ravine, unobserved – except for the dog, who still followed me. The ravine was also part of an abandoned highway that led directly to my destination.

The part of the tower that was above ground was beyond ruined: all of its windows had long since broken, creating a glittering beach of glass and concrete dust at its base. All that was left was a 10 metre skeleton of rebar and steel beams. The underground portion of the building had been somewhat repaired, most likely immediately after the Hayward Quake, when repairing such edifices was still possible.

When I passed through some form of security gate, perhaps 20 metres away from the building, a line of green arrows embedded in the broken roadway became illuminated. The arrows led directly to a large, rectangular metal door at the base of the tower. The door could not be opened from the outside. However, there was a small service door beside it. I entered the building the way people must have 200 years ago, by pressing a green button. This triggered a buzzing sound, and caused the service door to open inward. Because of a difference in air pressure between the inside and outside, a current of air urged me inward. I entered. My dog companion did not follow. Indeed, he mewled sadly, as if warning me.

The space ahead of me was illuminated by green parking signs, most of which still worked. I was on an asphalt road at the top of a small hill, which I quickly walked down. When I reached the bottom of the hill the road curved to the right and entered one of the odder examples of repurposing I have ever encountered: a parking lot created out of an auditorium, on the eleventh floor of a buried building. The parking lot itself was small – there were spaces for 20 cars, half of which were filled. The cars were all parked on what had once been the auditorium’s wooden stage, although one row of parking had been cut into the clam-shell seating that formed a semi-circle around the stage.

At the edge of the orchestra pit, which was at the base of the stage, I saw a red exit sign, which hung over a pair of wide doors . When I reached the exit, I was excited to discover that it opened onto a tunnel to my ultimate destination, the north tower.

The walls of the tunnel were lined with pale blue ceramic tiling and were lit by full-spectrum automatic lights, which suggested late Digital Age technology. On the walls of the tunnel there were safety instructions stenciled in a radiant paint that you could only view from certain angles. That paint was possibly the most advanced technology I’ve ever seen.

The tunnel ended at a circular glass door. When I passed through it, the entire atrium lit up. It was like the building itself was greeting me.

Although the atrium was intact – no windows were broken, a tile mosaic on the north wall was flawless, and the marble floor was brightly polished – it was an odd sort of intact because everything was slightly skewed: the main structure of the building – indeed the entire landscape – tilted north-west. Rows of offices lined the wall to my right. There was a bank of elevators in the center, and a large entrance to my left through which I could see hovels.

I approached the elevators, and pressed the up button. Despite my boundless curiosity about every aspect of this amazing building, I did not hesitate about my destination, which was the top floor. The rich and powerful like to be higher than every one else, so this building’s treasures were likely concentrated there. I watched mesmerized as a flashing display above the elevator bank counted down from 21. When the number hit 11 a bell chimed; the door in front of me opened and I entered. I pressed 21 on the control panel; the doors closed. I expected to be whisked away. The ride was so smooth it took me a moment to realize that I was moving.

The elevator doors opened onto what had once been a reception area. Illumination once again accompanied my entrance. To my right I saw a desk, behind which was a hand painted sign that said “City of New Los Angeles”. The sign was propped up by the skeletons of two office chairs. On the wall behind the sign I could see the faded letters P, M and O.

I walked past the guard desk, through a pair of unbroken glass doors, into the inner offices. I scattered a small fortune in metal cans, as I did so.

The space before me had once been divided into cubes by cloth-bound moveable walls. The cloth on these walls had long since rotted away, revealing yellowed plastic frames. Many cubes still had desks, chairs and office machines. That none of this had been scavenged made me suspect the natives considered this a special, possibly sacred space.

Behind the cubes, along the wall immediately in front of me, was a line of offices. The walls and doors of these offices were decorated in ornamental plastic to make them look wooden. My attention was drawn to a large corner office to my left. It stood out because of the votive candles at its base and the $ symbol that had been etched into its plastic maple-wood door.

I tried to open the door, but it was locked.

I had a portable acetylene torch with me, which I used to destroy the lock. When I entered the office, the burnt handle fell off into my hands.

The office was undecorated except for a desk against the left hand wall, and a bank of filing cabinets on the right. The filing cabinets were locked, but the desk was not. I opened a drawer. It was full of paper documents. I picked up the one on top. It was an excerpt from a hand-written diary, which I read,

Today we sacked the old PIMCO headquarters. It began with a protest by furloughed employees. Starting at 8 a.m. we surrounded both the north and the south towers, and wouldn’t let anyone in or out. Around noon helicopters showed up, to evacuate from the air. They fired at us with rifles, shooting to kill. There were a half-dozen casualties, including Terry from Settlement. The evacuation was completed by dusk.

 

After the helicopters left we forced our way into the north tower. It was empty, except for one computer engineer. He was having trouble backing up his system, and had unwittingly missed the last chopper. Although I tried to save him, the mob killed him. I know nothing about him except that with his death another bit of knowledge is gone.

The chime of an elevator bell startled me

I crawled out of the office, and hide behind a nearby row of dividers. There was a security mirror on the ceiling above me, which allowed me to view most of what happened next.

I watched Cody’s reflection as he exited the elevator and walked over to the office I had just explored. He was dressed simply, in tire sandals and shiny blue gym shorts. A large $ medallion hung from his neck. I lost sight of him as he entered the office I had just explored, but I could hear him open drawers and shuffle papers. After a moment he exited the office, and walked resolutely toward the elevators. There was a chime, and the sound of an elevator door opening, then closing.

The moment the elevator door closed I rushed to the office, swept every loose piece of paper into my satchel, and ran towards the fire exit on the north-east corner of the building. I descended to the eleventh floor, where I was pleased to discover an exit into the courtyard between the north and south towers.

Because this was my last chance to explore unhindered, I decided to return to the Yéil via a round-about route that took me north and west – away from both the native village and my ship.

At the western edge of the courtyard I discovered a path that wended toward the northern tip of the island. From a distance, the path seemed like it was a smoothly paved relic from the Digital Age, but on closer inspection I saw that it was a more recent construction made of salvaged pieces of concrete and asphalt. In the distance I could see the ruin of the US Bank Tower, hovering over the northern tip of the island.

After I had walked north for perhaps one kilometre I stumbled upon the entrance to an untended garden. It was surrounded by a fence made of long, grey pieces of wood. Where the fence intersected the path there was a gate on which hung the sign, “City of New Los Angeles Sustainable Garden and Waterworks.” I entered through the space between a gatepost and the fence.

As I walked through the orchard, along a path that followed a slight upward incline, I realized that the garden was tended, but by machines, not humans: there were signs of automated controls everywhere, including monitoring devices, a still functioning irrigation system powered by an array of solar panels.

Thirty minutes of slow walking later the garden gave way to an open area, in the center of which was a huge, flat building with long, narrow windows. There was a functioning engine on the western side of the building, which was attached to a pump. Beyond the pump was a semi-circular channel that sloped at an angle into the Pacific Ocean. The building – a desalination plant – was powered by a large, flat field of solar collectors which wrapped around its northern and eastern edges.

I walked around the perimeter of the building. From a distance it appeared intact. Up close I saw that it had been repeatedly vandalized. The vandalism reminded me of another great archeological site I had learned about in school: the ruins of Persepolis. The Persian capital city, reputedly the most beautiful city in the iron-age world, was destroyed by Alexander the Great. I remember asking a teacher why Alexander had done so and got an uncertain answer to my question: perhaps he was drunk, perhaps his soldiers needed to be paid with loot, perhaps he simply wanted to demonstrate his power.

Why vandalize this garden? Doubtless the motive was just as base as Alexander’s in Persepolis.

The midday sun was burning my skin, so I decided to sit in the scented shade of a hedge row of blooming hibiscus bushes. My mind became quiet; for once in my life I forgot about violence and decay. I sat for I do not know how long listening to the sound of birds and wind, and the flow of water through sluices. The machinery itself was silent.

Silent machines.

That’s what I’d expect in Eden.

I removed my purloined documents from my satchel. The first folder that I opened contained correspondence between the Illinois National Bank and a woman named Miriam Livingston. The cover letter read,

Dean,

 

I am pleased that our September wheat call options were in the money. I am writing to make arrangements for the delivery of the wheat to our warehouse at City Pier 3, 222 Ocean Drive, New Los Angeles.

I have enclosed a map, including the latest soundings from Los Angeles Bay. Needless to say, the topography of the region has altered dramatically in the past year.

Please excuse my use of snail-mail, but as you probably know the entire west-coast telecommunication system is still down.

Regards,

Miriam Livingston
Chief Financial Officer, City of New Los Angeles

Attached to the letter was a reply from an organization called Abacus Legal Services. The logo at the top of the letter depicted a blindfolded woman taking a gold colored coin from a scale she held at eye level with her left hand. The address below the logo was Lakeshore Drive in Chicago.

Dear Miriam,

 

I’m writing on behalf of Dean Wright at Illinois National, who was fatally injured in last week’s food riots. I’d like to begin by congratulating the City on its recent, very successful, hedges. Your wheat call options, in particular, were dramatically in the money.

As far as the delivery of the wheat is concerned, I am surprised a sophisticated investor such as yourself did not realize there was no delivery provision in this particular contract (please see Section XXIX of the master trade agreement).

I recommend you take your profits and purchase what you need on the open market. Most financial analysts anticipate that the price of wheat will continue appreciating for the foreseeable future, so act quickly.

We look forward to doing business with the City of New Los Angeles again.

Tim Russo
General Counsel

At the bottom of the letter, in embossed type, were the proud words, “Delivering the world to our clients”.

The next entry read,

Although Jimmy thinks that I messed up, I know that I’ve been swindled. That terrible man knew we weren’t speculators. I told him again and again that all we wanted was to ensure enough wheat for next year. And what did I get for my successful efforts? Money. Money money money money money. A king’s ransom in US dollars that because of the hyperinflation can buy us nothing. We have an abundance of avocados and oranges but we can’t even trade them because of the pirates.

I skimmed through the chronicle of Miriam’s attempts to avert the complete collapse of the City’s infrastructure. I read the last entry, which was written exactly two decades after the Quake,

When we got swindled on those wheat options I was certain that famine would kill us. But it won’t. We are going to die of thirst. I mean die because of insufficient water. Our desalination plant is working flawlessly, but it can only provide potable water for 5,000 people. Long Beach Island now has over 5,600 people. By vote we have chosen to have everyone over 65 kill themselves – or go into exile, which amounts to the same thing. Most of us are OK with this – us old folks know the world that was, and find the rough life here barely tolerable. Our children are not burdened by memories of how it used to be. When their time comes, will they resist? Or adapt. Adapt how?

 

I intend to kill myself with tranquilizers on the anniversary of the Hayward Quake.

I just re-read what I wrote: what terrible final words. I’m lucky and I know it. I lived most of my life at the peak of the Digital Age, and what a peak it was. I don’t know whether you – unknown reader – surf, but if you do it was like catching the biggest wave.

Even now, its not all bad. We’ve created a Garden of Eden in our Sustainable Garden. I’m looking at it now. The idea was to expand it until it was the size of the Earth, but we figured out how to make Eden too late. No. We got around to making it too late. We knew what needed to be done one hundred years ago.

But back to my garden. That’s where I’m going to kill myself and why not? Its my reminder that despite our hubris we can still find glory. Who wouldn’t want to die in a garden of hope? So much better than hubris and despair, which are the dominant emotions of this troubled time.

I don’t know whether you’re reading God, but this time we almost rivaled you. Better watch your back – if we don’t become extinct first, next time we may go all the way.

We should have gone all the way this time.

Instead we tripped one step before the finish line.

There were several more sentences that had been written, edited and crossed out.

What’s worse is talking with my granddaughter and seeing how much farther away from the Digital Age she is than I am. Not only will she never experience it again, she has no idea what it was. That’s why I voted for the culling ritual. My opponents argue that stabilizing our population through lottery and euthanasia is a descent into barbarism. They are wrong because we are barbarians already. Descent? Tosh! Our Eden, New Los Angeles, will only survive if we stick to a brutal program.

I heard someone approach. I folded myself into the bushes, hoping that my khaki clothes would camouflage me.

The visitor was a marine from the Yéil. She entered from the east, through a gate that once was used by trucks servicing the desalination plant. Behind the entrance I could see a sign indicating that this place was once an on-ramp to Highway 110.

The marine withdrew a map from her satchel. She rotated the map several times, apparently trying to align it with what she saw before her. When she had done so, she scanned the compound, pausing periodically to refer back to points on the map, as if taking inventory. When her scan was completed to her satisfaction she folded the map, and returned it to her satchel.

I stood up and took two steps forward. When the marine heard me, she quickly turned, gun in hand. She caught herself when she recognized me. “Good afternoon, Doctor”, she said. She was a stocky, dark-haired Corporal named Karana.

“Good afternoon”, I replied.

I thought it best to question what she was doing before she did the same to me. “Where did you come from? Have you been exploring?”

“What are you doing here?” she replied brusquely.

I said, “Doctor Hofstaedter suggested I find the source of the natives’ fresh water. I’ve found it, so I’m done here. I’m going back to the ship”.

“Good. I’ll walk with you. Let’s go straight to the east coast. I have orders to avoid the village.”

The desalination plant was situated at the crest of a small ridge, so our path took us through a field that sloped down toward Los Angeles Bay. The field – sparsely covered by sedge and flowering herbs – was no longer part of the island’s irrigation system although, judging from the broken control mechanisms we encountered, it once had been. After two hundred metres the slope flattened; we found ourselves walking through the ruins of a long, flat commercial mall. When we reached the coast the ruins gave way to an orchard maintained by durable machines. The border of the orchard was demarcated by a row of bougainvillea and a bleached wooden fence. We entered through an arched trellis crowned with roses, and then walked south along an ancient stone path. The bay was immediately to our left.

After a few minutes the path opened up into a circular area that, judging from the rusted remains of a see-saw and monkey-bars, must once have been a children’s playground. We paused to inspect a waist-high stone edifice.

“These used to be everywhere”, I remarked.

“What do you mean?” Karana replied.

“Water fountains.” I pressed a metal lever near the crown of the device and a 10 centimetre spray of water emerged. The water initially startled Karana. Once she composed herself, she stepped forward to try the device.

“Where do you pay?” she asked.

“The water is free.”

“Even slaves can drink here?”

“I don’t know about now, but there were no slaves when this water fountain was first put here.”

“Huh.”

When I tell Alaskans about water fountains most find them fabulous. Perhaps Karana felt like she was in a fable, watching such a valuable resource be so casually dispensed, but if so, she showed no signs. I wondered what she was thinking. Was she recalling one of the water usage lessons we all memorized in middle-school? Possibly her thoughts were personal. Was she was wishing that the Republic of Alaska had free water so she could afford to have three children?

I continued to speak, not so much to converse as to voice my thoughts. “Many historians think that potable water might have been the key to American democracy.”

I didn’t expect Karana to respond, but she did. “Yeah. Could be. I could never explain America any other way. I mean back then people used to cross their Betters all the time, didn’t they? Totally chaotic. So perhaps the reason why is that back then Patrons used water to keep their Clients in line. You know, like the Romans did with bread.”

I was still trying to formulate a response to this statement when Karana stiffened. She muttered something under her breath.

“What did you say?” I asked. I thought my voice was normally pitched, but it sounded loud in the suddenly quiet space.

Karana leaned toward me and whispered, “There are some men behind those trees. Maybe five.” She nodded toward the eastern edge of the playground. A second gang of six men now blocked the path to the south. I looked up just as a net enveloped me. Karana fired one errant shot before she too was taken down.

Someone sprayed me with a harsh substance that made my eyes and throat burn.

I passed out.

§

I awoke in an office – probably somewhere in the ruined PIMCO headquarters – that had been turned into a prison cell. Karana was in the office-cell beside mine. I could see her through a semi-transparent plastic divider. We were both attached to metal beds by electrical cables wrapped around our ankles. Our mattresses were made from vinyl chair covers held together by thread made from carpet fiber. Our blankets, likewise, were made of crudely sewn patches of cloth. The area outside of our office-cells – the atrium of the south tower – was guarded by two large men with $ medallions around their necks, who were armed with sharpened pieces of rebar. The guards sat passively on rotted vinyl office chairs.

I called out to Karana; she did not answer.

Whoosh.

I looked toward the sound. Luck had just entered through the main doors, accompanied by an entourage of women. She passed by without acknowledging me, and went straight to where Karana lay. Her entourage followed.

Luck moved to the head of Karana’s bed. She carefully gathered Karana’s hair into a bowl of soapy water that one of her attendants was holding. The touch of water on her skin caused Karana to stir slightly. One of Luck’s entourage forced Karana’s mouth open, while another poured a milky liquid into it. Karana struggled feebly, but was too woozy; she eventually slumped back onto her bed, asleep. Luck finished washing Karana’s hair, and then spent the better part of an hour braiding it. She inserted coins into the braids, which made Karana glitter and chime dully when she shook her head.

When Luck was done with Karana’s hair, she reverentially withdrew with her entourage. They whooshed as they exited the building.

I was still watching the entrance when a half-dozen tall, young men dressed in shiny gym shorts and dirty sneakers entered. They arranged themselves in a militaristic, though not quite military, formation in the middle of the atrium. Once in position, one of them whistled. A group of people were pushed through the rotating door into the office-cells opposite mine. The majority of the prisoners were old, although only a couple were obviously near death. The rest had injuries, such as missing limbs or digits. One baby – into whose mouth a cloth had been stuffed – had a hair lip.

Although most of the prisoners were either old or damaged, there were two exceptions: a teenage girl with scared green eyes, and a younger boy with scraggly blond hair and a subdued manner. The girl held the boy as if he were a teddy bear. Siblings. Orphans.

I fell asleep.

§

When I awoke Cody was standing beside me. He wore the same outfit that he had been wearing earlier but he now also wore a dirty white jacket with thin black stripes. The jacket had a fringe made of dried human fingers. Cody took a seat near the head of my bed. With some difficulty, I sat up beside him, taking care not to touch his grisly fringe. One guard stood at the entrance to the cell, watching us with a blank, passive face. I noticed that his pupils were dilated.

Cody spoke, “Look at this.” To my surprise he withdrew an ancient communication device from a small plastic pouch hanging by a string from his waist. He proudly showed it to me. I thought he was offering it to me to handle, but he pulled it away as I moved to take it.

“Be careful with your price signals”, he said sharply.

“I thought you wanted me to take it. I’m very sorry.” I tried to sound contrite, but my parched throat could only croak. He signaled for some water, which I gratefully drank.

Cody spoke, “I was offering the Black Berry to you for inspection. It will never be yours.” He handed the object to me again, in slow-motion. I accepted it with a show of reverence. The device was made of hard, dark plastic. When folded it fit into the palm of my hand; when unfolded it was the size of a small book. I turned it over. Its backside was a solar panel.

“Watch.” With a mischievous smile Cody leaned over me and pushed a button. To my amazement the Black Berry turned on.

The opening screen displayed the message, “Welcome Mr. El-Erian”. The message faded and was replaced a 2 digital runes, one with the caption email; and a second with the caption news.

Without thinking, I pressed the news rune. The screen immediately altered to look like a tiny, two column broadsheet, complete with photographic illustrations.

My heart nearly stopped: it appeared that the Black Berry was accessing the Internet. One of the challenges archeologists face while trying to investigate the technologies of the Digital Age is the interdependence of them all: one artifact cannot be complete without so many others. With our limited resources and knowledge, to say nothing of chronic shortages of rare earths, we can only reconstruct parts of these networks.

Was it possible that one node of the Internet was still active here?

It was unlikely. But the sustainable garden was equally unlikely and I had just seen it functioning untended centuries after it was built.

I looked at the Black Berry display again. In tiny print at the top of the screen, above the first headline, was the date, exactly two centuries ago: Default Tuesday. The infamy of the date mitigated my disappointment at discovering that this device was showing me a cache of one day’s news, and was not connected to a live node of the Internet after all.

I touched a rune. For the next 5 seconds there was an advertisement for a golf tournament. This was followed by a conversation between two men in suits, a taller, thin one with blond hair, and a stockier man with darker hair that was parted in the middle. The two men were talking about how T-Bills had just been given a haircut. Although I recognized most of the words they spoke – of course they used TV English – many were used in ways that were mystifying to me. For example, the word “market” was used repeatedly, but in a broader sense than it is used today. For me, a market is a place where farmers sell produce. The men in this video used the word as if it were a substitute for all forms of economic activity, including mining, education and manufacturing. Phrases like, “The apocalyptic collapse of the bond market” suggested a religious aspect to the word.1

The specific meaning of the story was equally obscure. I deduced from the conversation that a T-Bill was some form of promissory note issued by the United States federal government, but I could not understand how a T-bill could have a haircut, nor why the blond commentator was so insistent that a 25% haircut was somehow insufficient and should have been “more along the lines of 50%”. It was as if he welcomed more of something that he thought was bad. He did so because of the “moral hazard” posed by small haircuts, which reinforced my feeling that there was a religious angle to this story. I was excited: The Crash has always been attributed to political, economic and ecological factors. Religion is never mentioned. This could be a big story, at least in the world of 22nd Century archeology.

The video faded to grey; the right-pointing arrow reappeared. I was silent, intently trying to understand the religious aspect of Default Tuesday and the Hayward Quake. The two commentators appeared to be proponents of two different sects, one which advocated stern practices and one which preached tolerance. It was possible that a religious schism contributed to the Collapse. Perhaps these two sects couldn’t agree on courses of action, even in the face of disaster, and as a result broken infrastructure was never repaired and the Digital Age ended.

Cody broke my reverie, “Read a story to me.” he commanded.

“Certainly” I replied.

I moved my index figure over the list of blue headlines in the right-hand column of the main page.

  • Was Malthus an optimist?
  • Roubini predicts bull market
  • Rebalancing your portfolio without Treasuries
  • CFPB files suit against the Treasury
  • Rogue seismologist predicts massive quake
  • Fed Chief Shot

I clicked on the headline, CFPB files suit against the Treasury. The following story appeared,

In a move that just months ago was legally impossible, the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau today filed suit against the Treasury for illegally manipulating debt auctions.

“Excellent choice.” Cody said. “A very important text.”

I waited for Cody to say more. He gestured impatiently for me to continue.

I read,

This morning the Consumer Finance Protection Board rocked global markets by laying charges against officers of the Bureau of Public Debt for allegedly manipulating Treasury Bill auctions. Opinions are divided. Financial infotainer Jim Kramer said, “This is insane. The Treasury just destroyed trillions of dollars of wealth by discounting T-bills. Two hours later the Administration does this?” On main street the move was applauded. The Coalition for Financial Justice described the charges as “overdue” and “much welcome.”

“You can see how Regulators and Inflators are the enemies of Mr. Market”, Cody said gravely. I did not reply. I could not reply. I could not conceive of what his words meant.

“Do you understand me?” Cody pressed.

I hesitatingly replied, “No. Not at all. I don’t know. Its all about money. But I don’t understand half of what it means.”

Cody scowled as he said. “This is scripture. Show respect.”

I continued, despite reservations. I said, “I am familiar with the assassination of the head of the Federal Reserve. It happened on Default Tuesday, just hours before the Hayward Quake.”

Cody leaned toward me so that his lips were near my ear. He said in a soft voice,“What do you know about the Ben’s death? That is one of our mysteries.” He paused, stood up, and then clapped his hands together, “Of course. You are the Ben!”

“No. You are mistaken … I mean what do you mean?”, I protested.

Cody grabbed the Black Berry. “Don’t try to regulate me, Fed!!”, he shouted with a staged furor. “You cannot tell Mr. Market what to do. One day he is up. The next day he is down. But every day he is chaos!” He exited the building with a whoosh.

Although Cody’s words suggested intense anger, his manner was ritualistic: I had unwittingly become an actor in this savage’s passion play.

§

I awoke to the sound of drums

Whoosh.

A dancer flew into the building. She, like all of the natives, was lean and tall. Her body was covered in henna tattoos of currency symbols; her lip was pierced with a $ shaped stud, and her dreadlocks were full of coins. She was followed into the atrium by a small rhythm orchestra, whose members were banging noisily on instruments made from found metal objects. The tattooed woman was dancing in an African style, alternately / asymmetrically stamping her left and right feet. Her arms were bent; she shook her hands beside her head. Her right hand was missing its middle finger.

While the tattooed woman danced, the guards began to remove the prisoners. The baby went first. The cloth that had plugged his mouth when he had been brought in had been removed, but the infant was quiet. He was so still I assumed he was drugged or deathly ill. The children went next, followed by the adults, and the rhythm orchestra. The tattooed dancer went last.

Two guards came into our office-cells, a man who attended to me and a woman who attended to Karana. They cut our bonds with pieces of sharpened rebar, and then herded us through the revolving doors. My head was throbbing, and I was unsteady on my feet. I looked over to Karana. She was in far worse condition than I was. Her skin was tinted green; she had to be supported by her guard.

When we exited the building we found that we were on a stage, which was defined by a ring of torches. Luck and Cody were to our right, seated on office-chair thrones. They faced a large crowd. The prisoners were sitting on a long driftwood log between us and Luck. We were pushed onto the sand beside them. As I struggled to sit up, I saw that the full moon was watching us from the eastern sky.

Cody stood up. In his left hand he held the Black Berry, in his right he held a golf-club. He was wearing baggy surf pants made of a shiny red material, a golf shirt, and the finger-fringed jacket I’d seen earlier. After a moment, the noise of the dancers, drummers and crowd faded into silence. He addressed the crowd in loud, clear TV English, “Today is the 200th anniversary of Default Tuesday. Since that day we have been children lost in the wilderness, wondering what madness has Inverted the Yield Curve. Let us make the Sign of the Crash.” As he spoke, Cody drew a diagonal line with his left hand that started at his right shoulder and ended at his left thigh.

“Dow 14,000 Dow 100” the crowd chanted. “Dow 42,000 Dow … ” “Dow what?” “Dow … zero !!”

After the repeated chants of Dow zero settled down, Cody said ritualistically, “Neither bonds nor equities were safe. Did you hear me? Neither bonds nor equities were safe!” and then sat down. Luck stood up. She cleared her voice and said. “We will begin with the options. Calls. Puts. Gather yourself.” As she spoke, the sibling prisoners were led forward by a female guard. The girl had a dazed expression on her face; the boy’s face was streaked with tears. The boy tightly squeezed the sister’s hand.

Luck said, “Does anyone present wish to use their call option to purchase these orphan children? Because they are brother and sister they must be optioned together.”

A gaunt man with leathery skin stepped into the torchlight in front of Luck, “I would.”

“So would I.” A younger man with dirty blond hair stepped forward.

The gaunt man looked aghast when the younger man spoke: he fell to his knees in the sand in front of Luck and said, pointing at the younger, fitter man, “Please cancel his bid. I am 41 years old and do not have a wife. This man has the rest of his life to breed. My time is running short. Please.” The second bidder watched the old man with a bemused look on his face.

Luck scowled as she said, “I deny your petition. On this day of all days, we must let the free market decide.” The older man began to protest, but thought better of it. He withdrew several metres, still prostrate, before he stood up.

Luck turned her back on the two bidders and addressed the crowd. “This is a zero sum trade. It must be settled by arms.” As Luck spoke these words a man pulling a child’s wagon emerged from the crowd. He was wearing nothing but shiny blue athletic shorts; he had a collar around his neck that was connected to the handle of the wagon by a cord fashioned from carpet fibre. The rickety wagon, once painted fire-engine red, was now spotted by rust. Metal shards were piled on wagon; several toppled off as it was dragged through the sand. The wagon-puller went first to the older man, who chose a rusty metre-long piece of rebar for his weapon. The younger man chose a rust-free weapon that was short and thick.

The wagon man traced a fighting circle in the sand. When the circle was complete Luck shouted, “Begin.”

The older man concentrated on avoiding the swings of his larger, stronger foe, frequently moving to the edge of the fighting circle. When he stepped out of the circle he was roughly pushed back into it by the crowd. He had no strategy but to avoid being hit, and appeared to be motivated by nothing more than a desire to prolong his life by one more dodge. Eventually the younger man landed a solid blow onto the older man’s right calf. The blow broke the skin and perhaps punctured an artery.

The older man left a trail of blood as he crawled through the sand. The younger man calmly stalked him, waiting for an aesthetically pleasing moment to end the fight.

Someone in the crowd flung a piece of chipped concrete at the younger man. It struck him in the cheek but didn’t injure him. The blow nevertheless proved fatal: the distraction provided an opening the older man seized. He painfully, but quickly, raised himself part way up, and then with all of his force, he swung his weapon at the young man’s neck. The young man died the moment the blow landed.

The victor, his face crazed with pain, hobbled over to where his prize, the girl, and her brother sat. He used his weapon as a cane so was hunched over, like a crippled dwarf. He grabbed the girl by her right wrist and dragged her away into the crowd. The girl tried to hold on to the hand of her brother, but failed. The young boy tripped along after her, crying uncontrollably.

In the distance an engine back-fired.

Luck raised her arms beside her ears and waved her hands at the agitated crowd, while shouting, “Extras!” As she exclaimed, the drummers began to play with an insistent but irregular beat.

The prisoners were chided to their feet by the guards. One man, quivering with fear, did not rise until he had been struck several times by a sock stuffed with stones. The prisoners’ faces expressed emotions ranging from equanimity to terror.

The wagon man emerged from the crowd. This time his load was a large wicker basket that contained old plastic water bottles filled to the brim with a murky liquid. He dragged his wagon over to where the prisoners stood. A half dozen guards simultaneously approached the prisoners from behind. The crowd began to chant the mantra, “One day it is up, one days it is down, every day it is chaos” in time to the drums.

The wagon man approached the baby [with the hair-lip] first. A guard grabbed a bottle from the wagon, unsealed it, indelicately forced open the child’s mouth and poured liquid into it. The child sputtered and protested feebly. The guards moved down the line, offering drinks to each of the prisoners. Some hesitated before drinking; others simply closed their eyes and gulped. One man had to be forced to drink. The liquid was clear and bitter: several prisoners vomited and had to drink a second time. After drinking, each made the Sign of the Crash, and then took a seat on the driftwood log. They began to shake violently.

After ten minutes all of the prisoners had fallen over dead, save for one scrawny old man who – although he shook uncontrollably – had not received a fatal dose. Cody nodded to two guards, one of whom grabbed the old man’s hair and pinned him against his left knee. The second guard slit his throat with a knife fashioned out of a fractured copper pipe.

A crew of young boys collected the corpses and roughly dragged them to the beach. The corpses splashed as they were dumped into the Bay.

Luck shouted, “Bring the Regulator and the Inflator.”

Karana and I were hustled forward. Karana was so limp she had to be supported by two guards. Her shirt was flecked with vomit. I too felt nauseous but resisted offers of assistance. We were roughly pushed to the ground in front of Cody and Luck.

Luck handed Cody a leather pouch from which he removed a handful of red and green plastic dice. Cody threw the dice onto the ground in front of our prostrate bodies. He made a show of inspecting the dice. Still crouching, with a severe expression on his face, he traversed the perimeter of the torch-lit stage while waving his hands beside his ears. When he had completed his circuit he stood straight. He said in a loud voice, “Mr. Market is very angry.”

Luck spoke with a loud voice, “Begin with the Elizabeth.”

While Cody had been playing the market a metal gurney had been rolled – or more accurately, pushed – across the sand into the space in front of Luck. Two guards put Karana onto it. She was limp and sweating profusely. I was nauseous with fear; my saliva was so acidic I gagged.

Cody raised both his Black Berry and his golf-club scepter to the sky. He held the pose for a dramatic moment, and then handed his symbols of office to a retainer. In return he was given a tiny plastic box from which he removed a saw-toothed knife. He approached Karana.

I thought I heard a muffled cry from the direction of the dock. I could not be certain because the drummers began to play again. The tattooed dancer resumed her spirit-hands dance.

Cody’s voice boomed. He affected a ritualistic manner, “Bear witness to what happens to those who would Regulate.” He placed Karana’s right hand in his. With one quick, sharp gesture he cut off her ring finger.

Karana’s screams were muffled by the t-shirt in her mouth. She shuddered and then she was still.

Cody solemnly picked up Karana’s bloody finger. He displayed the trophy to the crowd. Luck shouted, “Rehypothecate the Ben! Show him who really owns the money!” In her right hand she brandished a stick of bleached drift-wood studded with nails, and decorated with strands of bright cloth. I stopped breathing.2

There was a loud crack. Luck collapsed. I heard another four pistol shots. The men who had been guarding us crumpled. A final gun shot grazed Cody’s shoulder; it was enough to knocked him to the ground. The crowd dispersed in a chaotic stampede. It took several moments for my fear-wracked brain to register that a rescue party had finally arrived. I tried to stand up but was so disoriented and weak that I toppled to the ground. A marine rushed to my side. He threw his thick arm around me and began to drag me along the beach toward the dock.

“The Black Berry. The Black Berry.” My rescuer looked at me quizzically. Rhonda – who had accompanied the rescue party said, “He’s talking about the plastic device near that man’s right hand.” She pointed. “It’s an incredibly valuable artifact.” My rescuer, a Sergeant, hesitated: although Rhonda was not in his chain of command, she was the granddaughter of our Patron. Rhonda repeated her words as a command. Two marines fired at the ground in front of the scattering crowd while the Sergeant moved resolutely toward Cody.

When the Sergeant got to where Cody lay, he raised a pistol to shoot him a second time. Rhonda shouted with a tone of hysteria in her voice. “Don’t shoot! Bring him with you. We need prisoners.” The soldier’s arm swerved, but he fired anyway. Cody twitched as a bullet punctured his right foot. The soldier picked up the Black Berry, carefully placed it into his satchel, and returned to my side. He signaled for the two Privates to pick up Cody’s limp body. Before doing so, one of the two bandaged his wounded foot.

My vision was distorted; I had lost my sense of balance. Fortunately, my escort was strong enough to propel me forward despite myself. I made it all the way to the dock, where I tripped and fell face first onto the beach, immediately in front of where my rescue boat bobbed in the water. My marine escort swore colourfully while he tossed me into a Zodiac. I looked at Karana. She was vomiting over the edge of the other Zodiac.

The moment our boats pulled away from the beach a group of male villagers rushed to the dock. One native tried to get into a launch but was shot repeatedly; this caused the rest of the natives to pull back. The recoil from the guns rocked our boats.

Our Zodiacs curved around the on-ramp spit, and then sped into the bay. The desalination plant and gardens were now directly west of us, on our left. I heard a loud noise. I reached for a pair of binoculars that lay on a discarded pile of gear near my head. I raised them, with shaking hands, to my eyes. The desalination plant was on fire. It was surrounded by a crowd of natives. I began to curse violently. My words enraged my rescuer. He shouted at me, “Shut the fuck up. We didn’t destroy the water factory. We just blew up some switches so those clowns can’t use it any more. We’ll salvage it later.”

The air was full of popping sounds, which suddenly grew much louder. There was an explosion that I heard as a deep rumble and saw as a flash of light. The native surge around the desalination plant tried to ebbed following the explosion, but the press of bodies was too great. The natives surged forward again. They began to pile on top of each other, desperately trying to get enough height to smother the now raging fire from above. Limned by the fire, and from a distance, they looked like a river of soldier ants flowing over dead prey, except they were far more disorganized than ants. The hapless souls didn’t even have buckets that worked.

As I watched clouds of smoke engulf the desalination plant, I wanted to shout at the marines, “It looks like we’ve forgotten how to blow up switches, doesn’t it? Big surprise. We’ve forgotten how to do all sorts of things. We can’t make photovoltaic cells, we can’t make integrated circuits, we can barely make elevators!” I wanted to say this but I had lost the strength to fume. Instead, I rested my tired head on a pile of cables so that I didn’t strain myself while I watched Eden burn.

Fin

Author Notes

The story begins when a ship called the Yéil arrives at Los Angeles, two centuries after California was destroyed (mostly flooded) as a result of the Hayward Quake. The name of the ship (Yéil ) is a reference to the trickster, Raven, who in Tlingit mythology is credited with (among other things) stealing the moon on behalf of mankind (unlike Prometheus he got away with it). Disruption is an important narrative device in all of the stories.

Long Beach Island was created when the Hayward Quake (a major fault) – and its numerous aftershocks – caused much of the western coast of North America to flood. The “Island” is what remains of the southern suburbs of Los Angeles. It is comprised of what is now the area west of highway 405 (the San Diego Expressway), including land currently under the Pacific Ocean. Its northern tip is the area between Highways 110 and 405, just south of downtown Los Angeles. Downtown Los Angeles is completely under water.
The set for the story is the shanty town that has grown up around the old Pacific Investment Management Company (PIMCO) headquarters, in Newport Beach. In the story, the ruins PIMCO headquarters is slightly closer to downtown Los Angeles than it is today because of aftershocks from the Hayward Quake.

I chose the PIMCO headquarters as the set for this story’s parody of financial shamanism because at the time of writing PIMCO had more bond assets under administration – $1.8 trillion in May 2012 – than any other company, and was the largest financial firm on the west coast of the USA. Mohamed el-Erian, the person whose personal communication device is featured in the story, is one of the two CEOs of the firm. I hope he’s nice enough to not sue me for some reason or another.

The idea behind the parody is that when the Collapse happens, trade decays and, as a result, communities have to draw upon local resources in order to survive. The natives who live on Long Beach Island have few skills to help them survive – knowledge about bond and equity trading has become practically useless, and quite meaningless in a world without global financial markets. Over time this “knowledge”, because of its association with the lost wealth of the early 21st Century, gets turned into the magical language of the local religion. All this is to parody our current deification of free market economics.

The Sustainable Garden – aka Eden – was built during the Collapse. This is one of my favorite historical themes, that even in dark ages technology develops.

 

05 A New Beginning

 

The next morning is my last. The plan is for one of Ravi’s men to drive me to the airport. We leave in the late morning after a leisurely breakfast. The streets are empty compared with yesterday, so our journey is uneventful. As I sit in the rear of the car I find myself in a pensive mood. Having found my signature style I feel unexpectedly unsettled, like a sailor who has stepped off of a ceaselessly rocking boat onto solid ground. The quest for a signature style, which has been such a defining characteristic of my life, is now over. Undoubtedly a time will come when I will feel compelled to change my look again, but that time is in the distant future. What will my next move be now? Can I be content simply expressing the identity I have chosen for myself?

At the entrance to the airport, at the point where the rickshaw drivers patiently wait at that invisible but all too real barrier between powered and human traffic, I have my driver stop our car and say to him, “Can you please ask one of the rickshaw drivers over there who speaks for them?” I ask. He looks at me quizzically so I rephrase the question. “Please ask to whom they pay baksheesh.” He shrugs then rolls down the window, says something quickly to one of the rickshaw drivers, and then addresses me. “Their manager is not here, Madame.”

Perfect. “Please wait”, I say as I step out of the car and approach the cluster of rickshaws. The drivers are a thin, unkempt lot, wearing rude dhotis. Their shoes are made of some form of recycled rubber, probably old tires. I am impressed with the craftsmanship, but saddened. You can only do so much with such material.

“Do any of you speak English?” I ask. Most nod mutely no, but one man speaks up. “I do Madame. Can I help you? Would you like a ride to the airport?”

“No.” As I reply, I remove what remains of my money from my pocket and divide the bills into ten groups, one pile for each rickshaw driver plus one pile for my driver. When I am done distributing the money, the English speaker asks again, “We are all most grateful for your gift, Madame. Please, can we help you?”

“There is no need. Chatterjee’s man is taking care of me.” I nod to my driver.

The rickshaw driver rolls his head in agreement but nevertheless asks again. “Are you certain that there is no help that we can give you?”

I look into the back seat of the car, which is crammed full of packages. On top of the pile I see my carry-on suitcase, which I know contains my bouffant wig and tiara. “No thank you. I have more than enough.”

Fin

References

1. Bouffe is a reference to Opera Bouffe, typically a light, comic Italian or French opera.

2. The Italian phrase ”Abbiamo venduto la parrucca, ora puoi comprare la villa a Parma” means “Now you can buy your villa in Parma”, which is an indirect way of suggesting that the outfit Bexx has just purchased is expensive.

3. Sourav Ganguly was am extremely famous cricket star in the Oughts. This reference is added for the benefit of readers who are familiar with Kolkata to underscore the seriousness of the cricket riot.

4. Rosa Luxembourg was a famous German communist revolutionary who was murdered in January 1919. The child is named after her to emphasize that the wig manufacturing family is aware of the class ramifications of Bexx’s materialism. This is not such a stretch. There is a very strong tradition of communism in Kolkata. That’s why one of its main streets is called Lenin Sarani.

Author’s Note

This story was originally written for a media and the law course. I hope that I have succeeded in parodying Kinsella’s series as much as is allowed by our first amendment rights – but no more. This is a friendly parody. I also hope that my work gently prods shopaholics everywhere to consider how it is that their relentless pursuit of style is harming themselves and our planet.

Because I am writing a parody of an English book, I have chosen to use English spellings. I have chosen to use Calcutta instead of Kolkata in the title to underscore the class divide between Bexx, Gavin, and the people of Kolkata.

If you see any grammar or writing errors, I would kindly appreciate your input. I find my paragraphs can get overloaded with moods, tenses and aspects!

I can’t believe you got this far, thank you for reading!

Fin

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04 Shopping at Last

 

The next morning I strike quite a figure walking down Lenin Sarani in my Jackie O’ digs. Even without heels I am tall. In go-go boots and a beehive I tower over the locals.

Initially I am disappointed by the shopping: the retail stores are a pale imitation of my favorite London shops and the branded goods are more expensive than at home. Though the shopping doesn’t improve, the stores certainly become more interesting when we turn off of the main thoroughfare and enter the New Market.

My favorite stores are magical places where the wares of the world are conveniently gathered and prettily displayed for my consideration and purchase. There is nothing pretty or convenient about the New Market. The streets are crowded with hustling retailers engaged in the rawest forms of commerce. I see chickens tied by their necks to bicycles racks, asphyxiating fish flopping in filthy buckets of water, blacksmiths smelting metal in tiny furnaces, and children creating silver leaf with tiny hammers. You would think that I would feel out of place in my cream-coloured mini-skirt and powder-blue go-go boots. But I don’t. The realization gives me a thrill. “This really could be my signature look”, I think. My sunshiny thought is quickly covered by clouds. “Provided I can find a bouffant wig.”

After 30 minutes of uneventful browsing through silk scarves and jute bags I notice an old woman sitting on the stairs in front of a building. Her tattered clothes are stiff with dirt. She is not wearing shoes. Her thickly calloused feet suggest that she has never worn shoes. I want to help her. I quickly search through my purse. I only have credit cards, a cheque book and odd bits of makeup and accessories. I have left my money behind because this excursion is Mr. Chatterjee’s treat. I consider asking Rajit for some change but hesitate because it may be rude to spend Mr. Chatterjee’s money on a poor, homeless woman. And besides, charity should be personal. If I choose to give I should do so with my own possessions.

An idea pops into my head. I’ll write this woman a cheque. Ten quid seems about right. I pin the cheque to her lapel using a beautiful hat pin from Harrods that is in fact more valuable than the money I’m giving her. As I turn away from her I feel that something isn’t right. A cheque seems such an incomplete present in such an intimate situation. I sift through my purse looking for something else to give her and to my delight I find the perfect gift. Though I cannot be certain what exactly her colours are given how filthy and unkempt she is, my intuition tells me that maroon lipstick will look perfect on her. I place the applicator in one of the folds of her skirt. As I do so, her hand tightly clasps it but she doesn’t wake up.

Going to Kalighat to die

The encounter leaves me inexplicably fatigued. Rajit senses this and signals for our car. Our next stop is the Barabazar market. We take the Strand along the Hugli River, towards the Howrah Bridge. The roads are appallingly congested, apparently because of a cricket match between Dhaka and Calcutta that is about to begin. In the shadow of the bridge, across from the Armenian Ghat, a flash of tinsel catches my eye. My gaze drifts towards the bridge … I can’t believe what I see. I shout “Rajit, stop the car!” It’s an impossible request: though the traffic is crawling it nevertheless has an inexorable momentum. Fortunately, we’re only moving at 2 kilometres an hour so I don’t injure myself as I leap out of the car door and race towards a tiny wig shop nestled in the shadow of the bridge. I really can’t believe it. There in the window is the same beehive wig I am wearing.

The wig is not why I am here. Synchronicity with loud accessories is not a good thing. For starters, the best accessories are always expensive because you can’t skimp on gaudiness, and, as I have learned from my work as a financial reporter, one contributor to a high price is scarcity. To see an expensive accessory that you thought was unique in a tumbledown store can be devastating…

That isn’t what motivates me. Seeing my wig here suggests that perhaps my bouffant …

Rajit catches up to me at the entrance to the store and manages to hold the door open for me as I enter. The store owner at first says nothing to me but merely looks at my beehive wig and then at the wig in the window. She has an expression of disbelief on her face, mixed with – I’m not certain what. After a moment of silence Rajit impatiently says something to her in Bangla. To my surprise she then addresses me in English.

“What is your name?”, she asks. She has an Oxford English accent.

“Rebecca” I hesitantly reply. “Call me Bexx.”

“My name is Rachana” she replies. As the shop-keeper addresses me Rajit slips out the front door, probably to assist our driver, who is having an animated discussion with a traffic cop.

“I bought mine in London.” I point to my wig and then at the one in the window and laugh. I fear that this may not be the best conversation starter but the wigs in the window and on my head are the elephants in this room.

Rachana asks, “Do you like it? It was made with my daughter’s hair.” After she says this Rachana pokes her head through the beaded curtain behind where she is sitting at the cash register, and speaks quietly in Bangla to someone in the back room. A wisp of a girl responds to her call. The child’s colourful sari is clean, if somewhat ragged. Her alert, dark eyes remind me of the sales-gamin at Bouffe.

Now I have as dirty a mind as any Essex girl. But it is a nice dirty that fantasizes about alternative uses for silk scarves and what kind of lingerie should start where my thigh-high boots end. Looking at this girl – whose jet black hair I am wearing on my head – seems raw, even vaguely obscene to me. Perhaps that is why I take off my wig as I kneel down beside her, so that my eyes are level with hers. Though she shyly plays with her dark tresses as I kneel she does not flinch. She is a very beautiful girl. I hope that Gavin and I have a daughter who is this pretty.

Then a most unsettling thought races through my head. “I don’t just want this girl’s hair, I want her.” I wonder, “Can you adopt someone who has parents? Can it be done in person or does it require a broker? How much does it cost?” I restrain my enthusiasm. “Hold on! I mustn’t be hasty”, I think. “If I am considering adopting her then I should find out if we get along.” While still looking into her beautiful brown eyes I ask her mother, “Does she speak English?” Rachana nods. The child says nothing, but continues to look at me. “What is your name?” I ask.

The child continues to play with her hair for another moment and then to my delight, replies, “Rosa. After Rosa Luxembourg. Do you know who Rosa Luxembourg is?”

I recognize the name from a college history class, so nod vaguely yes as I present the child with my beehive wig. “Rosa, this wig is made from your hair. I bought it in London.” The child responds to my words with a very expressive look, though I have difficulty determining exactly what it is she is expressing.

I continue to speak, “Everyone thinks the wig is really cool.”

The child bursts into a smile but steps away from me and closer to her mother, who puts her hand affectionately onto her child’s head. I know in that beautiful, sad moment that I will never possess this child. Rosa’s place is here, with her own mother.

My reflective mood is dispelled by Rachana, who asks “Miss Bexx, are you looking for another wig?” As she say this she hands me the same bouffant wig that I could not buy for love or money in London!

I gingerly inspect it. I don’t know exactly what I am looking for – cobras, perhaps – then quickly put it on and pose in front of the mirror. Though there is such a subtle difference between a bouffant and a beehive, the bouffant is the look for me. I look so good that I squeal with delight. In fact I look exactly like the display model at Bouffe.

As I think this I freeze in terror.

A good shopper is never derivative. To look like a store display is to say to the world, I have no creativity; I do not deserve to call myself a shopper. I am simply someone who picks and choses, or worse I am no more than a compulsive spender of money. This harsh realization breaks my heart, and judging from the look on the shopkeeper’s face, her heart as well. My hands actually shake as I remove the wig and return it to her. I wistfully say, “It is very beautiful, but no thank you.”

I’m feeling guilty and unsettled by my sudden change of heart so I look for something to buy. Ten scarves, 3 saris and 5 coarse but durable jute bags later I return to our car.

As we slowly pull away from the wig store towards Mohandas Gandhi boulevard, a poor looking woman with a finely wrought necklace made of beer can tabs, bangs on the window of our car. She speaks – or more accurately moans – at me and then thrusts her naked child against the glass of the car window directly opposite my face. Our driver shouts at her to leave us in peace while I reflect on my shopping experiences.

“What would you like to buy next?” Rajit asks, once we’ve pulled away from the beggar and her child.

“How about jewelry?” I suggest.

“That is a very good choice. I have an excellent suggestion for you.” He pulls out his mobile phone and makes an appointment.

We turn off of Mohandas Gandhi Boulevard onto a winding street called Biplabi Trailakya Sarani that leads directly into the Barabazar Market. As we approach our destination the dress of the men changes dramatically. The area under the bridge had been dominated by mustached men in dhoti, while the men in this neighbourhood wear pants, and most have beards. At one point a tall, thin man who is entirely naked walks by, whisking the ground in front of him with a swatch of twigs. From his actions I assume he’s a nutter, however the crowd parts reverentially to let him pass.

Our car stops in front of a textile store. I am deep in conversation with the owner before Rajit has had time to tell me that the jeweler who we are visiting lives upstairs. The jeweler, Samir, is a small, round man with a well-kept beard several shades greyer than his hair. He wears a tiny pillbox hat, a brightly braided vest, and printed pajama pants. The combination of this outfit and his obsequious manner makes me think of him as a chauffeur for a magic carpet service.

Pardon my stereotypes. Despite my comic-book prejudgements, Samir has tremendous skill as a jeweler. I am impressed – almost overwhelmed – by his work. His materials are the best and his subjects are varied. I could wear his pieces dressed as Jackie O’, as a punk rocker or to evensong. Once again I am paralyzed by choice. I wonder if it would be excessive to buy everything.

I pause to reflect on why I would want to buy everything and realize I have been looking at the problem of shopping all wrong. I have always told myself that I purchase so many accessories because I want to keep my options open; I cast acquisitiveness as freedom. Each item is a possible look, and the possibilities increase the more you buy, because things go with each other. But I have all the freedom I want – why do I need more choice? What am I really looking for here? I look at my reflection in one of the dozens of mirrors in the shop and see a face adorned with a pillbox hat and beehive and answer my question. I am looking for my signature style. I am looking for my identity.

Just as my mind flits to thoughts of bouffant wigs Rajit speaks, “Samir, this is not your best work.”

Samir replies calmly, ignoring Rajit’s sharp, patrician tone. “Sir, this is my best work. However, you are correct in implying that it is not the best jewelry I have to sell. My best piece was made by an unknown craftsman. Behold.”

I have always thought about what it must be like to be a princess and to be able to wear accessories that are national treasures. But the pragmatic side of me until now has prevailed: “That jewel-encrusted crown is beautiful” I would think during my visits to the Tower of London, “but I certainly can’t wear it with a slight, sexy, black dress.”

That is how I would joke about treasures before I saw the Raj Mahal Tiara.

Samir speaks as he unlocks a tiny silver box, “This piece comes from the Raj Mahal Hills, which is a remote area in northwestern Bengal on the border with Bihar.” As he tells me this story, he opens the box and removes a crimson pillow on which rests a gorgeous band of wrought platinum inset with deep blue star sapphires. “The Hills are in a region which was ignored by the world until the Mughals arrived from Afghanistan. Then the Hills’ position overlooking a narrow point on the Ganges River became very strategic. First the Bengalis built a fortress. Then the Mughals stormed it and took the area for their own. Later, under the British, when the border between Bengal and Bihar ceased to matter, the fortress was still used, though to suppress local dissent. The peasants who lived there were reduced to poverty by the wars and eventually the Zemandars, who ruled the area, enslaved them.” He pauses dramatically and then says, “It was those slaves who mined these sapphires”

I am transfixed by the star sapphires. “It looks like there are little angels dancing on the stones”, I say haltingly.

“Some say those are the souls of those who died mining the stones.”

“Can I have it?”

Both Samir and I look to Rajit for an answer.

I stop breathing while I wait for a response. “Rajit has to say yes.” I think. “He has an entire purse full of money, after all. How much can this piece cost?” I answer that question myself. “A lot. Maybe a room full of rupees.”

Rajit says something quietly and quickly to Samir in Bangla and then nods assent.

I exhale a little bit too loudly as I thank Rajit, a thanks I cut short because I cannot keep myself away from the treasure on the crimson pillow. “The tiara will go perfectly with my Jackie Onassis outfit and wig”, I think.”…the bouffant wig I didn’t buy.”

I’m suddenly alarmed.

“Rajit, can we pay for the tiara and leave? Now. I loved meeting you Samir, but we’ve got to go. Now.”

“Yes. Yes. Certainly.” As Rajit pays Samir he asks him, “Who won the test match?”

“You don’t know?” Samir sounds surprised, “The game never ended.”

“What do you mean?”

“An umpire made a very unfavourable call against Kolkata. You’d best be careful when driving home. There are groups of hooligans causing trouble throughout the city. There is a rumour that Sourav Ganguly himself has been called to restore order. The rioting is particularly bad near the Howrah Bridge…”

Where my wig is.

As we exit, I hesitantly ask Rajit if it will be OK for us to quickly pick up my wig before returning to Ravi’s place. He insists that we will have to return for it tomorrow because of the riot.

My flight home is tomorrow.

Our car exits from the bazaar exactly where we entered, just below the Armenian Ghat, on the edge of the River, scant metres from my goal. Through a thick, restless crowd, I can see the wig shop. I imagine that I can even see the anxious look on Rachana’s face as she struggles to bar the entrance to her shop. Though she is so very close, she might as well be on a different planet; the crowd is impassable and looks dangerous.

Some people think that shopaholism is about compulsive materialism. That’s like saying that anorexia is about the denial of food. It is a true but shallow statement. Shopping for me is about defining who I am in an ungrounded world full of choices. I remember when I first realized I was a shopaholic. I was a little child. I wasn’t buying anything. I didn’t even fully understand what buying was. I had just dressed up in one of my sister’s outfits and some of my grandmother’s costume jewelry. When I looked at myself in the mirror I thought, “I love how I look. This is so cool.” It was a complete feeling, though from the first time so transient. I wanted a different look scant moments after achieving my first. Is my disease dissatisfaction or hunger? Perhaps if I could settle upon one look my identity would settle down and my symptoms abate.

I normally reserve such reflections for my therapist, but I tell you this one to explain what I do next.

As our driver leans his elbow onto our car’s horn and begins a slow turn right, away from the store I have the profound realization that my signature style is nobody’s priority but my own. If I do not get that wig now I will never get it. And I have to get it myself. Before Rajit realizes what I am doing, I step out of our idling Maruti, slam the door shut behind me, and am immediately sucked into the centre of the riot.

I briefly glance back towards the car. Rajit is struggling to exit but the Maruti has now been completely enveloped by the crowd and he can’t open the car door. One exuberant fellow is actually standing on its hood shouting and waving a cricket bat wildly around his head.

“I must keep focused”, I think as I continue to push forward. “I must get to the wig shop before Rachana finishes barricading the entrance.”

Though I am in the middle of a cricket riot I am somehow not a part of it and my presence – aside from the odd astonished look – goes … if not unnoticed, at least unopposed. Without too much effort I tack across the flow of the crowd and break free several metres from my destination. Thankfully Rachana is still struggling with the metal gate she uses to protect her shop. It seems rusty and rarely used. “The wig! The wig!” I shout above the noise of the riot but she doesn’t appear to understand me. Instead she wordlessly marshals me into her shop and then gestures for me to hold a bent metal bar in place while she padlocks the metal gate. which she had finally succeeded in pulling down to the ground. I am so relieved to have made it into the store before it is closed that it takes me a moment to realize that we are now sealed in. I reach into my bag for my cell phone to call Rajit, but it is not there.

The bouffant wig is where I left it. I pick it up and walk towards the cash register to pay. To my surprise Rachana turns off the lights and pushes me and her daughter into the back room. There’s a bearded man there already. He politely introduces himself as Mohsin. I look closely at how he is dressed. Suddenly things begin to make sense. Though Rachana is Hindu, at least culturally, her husband is Moslem. That appears to be a problem.

I haven’t even completed this thought when a crowd of people start banging on the metal gate and shouting. As they bang I wonder what the rioters are wearing. Are they men wearing dhoti’s who look like so many angry Omar Sharifs, or are they bearded and dressed in pajama pants and pillbox hats. Are there women with them? What about teenagers and children?

We remain silent while, for one tense moment, the rioters try to break through the metal gate. After a long moment, they give up and drift away to other easier targets.

“What did they want?” I ask Rachana.

She doesn’t answer my question. After a brief, uncomfortable pause her daughter Rosa does. “The men want to kill my father because he is a Moslem and a communist and married to my mother who is a high-caste Hindu.”

I don’t have a response to this so I bring the conversation back to the topic that is foremost on my mind. “I’d like to buy this wig. Which credit cards do you take?” I lay my best cards down like a royal flush. To my surprise there is a long pause before Rachana answers, “We don’t take credit cards.”

… and I have no cash.

This is one of those moments that separate the pros from the amateurs. “Rachana, I have an idea. Why don’t we trade?” She looks at me skeptically so I hastily add “… I’ll give you my wig, which must be worth the same as that bouffant, and I’ll throw in this broach”, which I pray is as real as the money I paid for it. The merchant carefully inspects the gold and emerald brooch for a moment and then to my relief she nods assent.

I have a feeling of profound trepidation as I replace my beehive wig with the bouffant. I look into a large mirror beside the cash register and see reflections of myself in the mirrors that are scattered around the store walls. I reach into my purse, remove the Raj Mahal Tiara and put it on. I can confirm from thousands of reflections that I have completed my look.

At that very moment someone starts banging on the door of the shop. It turns out it’s Rajit’s man. He’s come back for me! It takes only a few moments to unbolt the door. As I exit, Rajit sees me and immediately makes a call on his mobile phone. I see to my relief that the rioters have moved on. A moment later a hunter green Jaguar pulls up in front of the store and out bursts my dear fiancé Gavin who rushes over to me and gives me a huge hug. A long moment later we separate and he checks me out, “Bexx, I expected to find your mutilated corpse, but … but … not this … you look perfect.”

 

03 Dum Dum

 

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.

I am beaming, of course.

 

02 Bouffe

 

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 Parma1

1Now you can buy that villa in Parma.

 

01 An Unexpected Trip

 

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.”

 

Protected: 02 Penelope

 

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01 Riders from the East

 

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 moving in the sun, even if today only their Lady 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 sounded possessed, their screeches harshly dissonant in the calm afternoon air.

Aliénor walked to the edge of the verge which marked the south-east section of the chateau lawn. Even though she could not converse with crows, she could easily deduce meaning from the terror in the birds’ cries. They were warning the world 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 barred metal gate which controlled access to the Bridge. The portcullis was raised with the sound of metal scraping metal: the Lady had already given instructions that the Riders be welcomed.

From a distance 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 observers. Their leader was a tall, gaunt, dark-haired man with scarred, chiseled features and tired eyes. He approached the Lady Ithilæn; he was followed by his entourage.

The 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 looked at him in disbelief. Gui was a florid, fat knight. Despite the weather, he wore a heavy crimson velvet cape, lined with ermine and trimmed with a sable collar. It stank. She looked at him 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 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 offset 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 red-grey eyes. The albino wore brightly polished mithraël chain-mail on which was emblazoned the image of a white bull against a stylized sun; the women’s sigil was a 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.

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 Lady Ithilæn’s policies, but never to directly oppose 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 Ailronde and last Bactrian King of the House Euthydemus

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 and 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 some kind of powerful magic had attached itself to Jothama, and wondered whether she 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 captured his Bane] …

Hephestion punctuated his sentence with a slight, rueful smile.

And you? She turned her attention to the African man. [describe ritual scarring]

I am Shem Toposa. I was born on the shores of the white Nile. He pulled the sleeves of his tunic back, revealling ritual scars on his upper arms.

As the haffen-ælves introduced themselves, the companies they led spread out along the far shore of the Ithil, from the Arden Glade to the dusty square in front of 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 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. 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, the 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 to Aliénor with a flourish. Though the spring afternoon was clear and fair, and the air clean and warm, a force surrounded the knight; it caused an evil hum that beat the 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 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 Bactrian and take me. Do you see me? I am that ring hanging from the Bactrian’s neck. Take me. I will give you what you desire! I know exactly 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 with raised crosses.

Put the head away!

Dmitrius acknowledged the Lady’s 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.

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.

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 have come to 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 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 the Lady Ithilæn 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 Euthydemus, son of Heliocles of House Euthydemus! Swear allegiance and I will give you land and you will serve me!”

Dmitrius handed the Lady Ithilæn the trophy sword. As he did so, he bent his knee to the ground; his knights joined him with a soft 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 even 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.

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 you 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.

You forget that I am a well wrought sword and your world is violent. You will need me Aliénor daughter of Arwen, and I will defend you well.

How is it that a weapon can predict the future?

I can predict the future because I am a weapon. As long as there are men with weapons there will be violence.

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.”

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 undefeated, yet fallen king.

 

Protected: 02 Finding Imbalance

 

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01 The Nonsense Virus

 

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.

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