The Invisible Hand
Page 5
You know what else I didn’t forget? Your promise to let me go. I know how much your imam hates lawyers, but when I hear about four hundred thousand dollars missing from our trading account, I’ll tell you, I wish I had a fucking lawyer.
Long pause.
BASHIR (Troubled): I don’t know why he wouldn’t tell me.
NICK (Off Bashir’s seed of doubt): I’ve been around money a long time. And I’ve seen a lot of things. But there’s one thing that doesn’t change: what money does to people. When you get a taste, you want more.
Bashir recognizing the truth of this from his own experience.
Tense silence.
Lights Out.
Act One: Scene Nine
The next day.
The same room.
Imam Saleem. Bashir. Nick. And…
Dar. From the beginning of the play. Looking meek, cowed.
All look on solemnly as:
Imam Saleem peruses the folders and papers on the table. Taking things in.
Imam Saleem finally speaks…
IMAM SALEEM (Warmly): We were very impressed with the results of this week’s work. Almost eight hundred thousand dollars, hmm?
NICK: Closer to eight hundred fifty thousand, actually, after today’s session.
IMAM SALEEM: Well done.
NICK: Well, I’m working very hard, Bashir and I are working very hard, to build the capital base—
IMAM SALEEM: I understand.
NICK: Do you? I mean, because my capital base is my only leverage in the market. If you dilute my cash position…
IMAM SALEEM: The health of the local children comes before any other consideration.
NICK: I understand that, sir. But that’s not actually our agreement. If you want to remove funds from the trading account, I think we should be having a conversation about lowering the ransom amount.
IMAM SALEEM: Nick…
NICK: Just hear me out, sir. Three and a third to one. That’s what you want me to make. Take three million, turn it into ten. At that ratio, four hundred thousand dollars is actually worth a million and a half. Which would mean that the more realistic ransom number, now, after the withdrawal, is eight and a half million.
IMAM SALEEM: I see.
NICK: Do you?
IMAM SALEEM (Continuing): Can I call you Nick, or is it Nicholas?
NICK: Whatever you want.
Pause.
IMAM SALEEM: Just yesterday, Nick… I found myself in a conversation with you. My wife thought I was losing my mind, when she found me talking to myself in the evening.
NICK: Okay.
IMAM SALEEM: Humor me, Nick.
(Beat)
I found myself wondering if perhaps you were the sort of person who thought religion is the opiate of the people?
NICK: That’s Marx.
IMAM SALEEM: I know who it is.
NICK: I don’t know why you thought I was the sort of person who—
IMAM SALEEM (Suddenly): So you don’t believe religion keeps the people sedated, unthinking, accepting of the conditions that oppress them?
Beat.
NICK: I… think lots of things can do that.
IMAM SALEEM: Very good answer. Very politic.
NICK: I’m not being politic.
IMAM SALEEM: I’m not sure I believe you.
(Pause)
Do you believe in God?
NICK: I’m not sure what the relevance…
IMAM SALEEM: Humor me. Please.
NICK: I guess…—Yes, I believe in God.
IMAM SALEEM: And what is your God called?
NICK: He doesn’t have a name, exactly…
IMAM SALEEM: A feeling, then.
NICK: Yeah. That’s right. He’s a feeling.
IMAM SALEEM: And what do you do for this feeling?
NICK: What do I do for it?
IMAM SALEEM: What are you prepared to do? Do you feel any obligation to this feeling?
NICK: Not really. It’s just there.
IMAM SALEEM: It’s there for you, to feel at your convenience…—Would you say?
NICK: I’d just say it’s there. Convenient or not.
Pause.
IMAM SALEEM: So let me ask you this: What, in your opinion, can motivate people to do the most extraordinary things? Can money do that?
NICK: I don’t know.
IMAM SALEEM: What do you think? I want to know. Is money at the root of the great fulfilled lives in human history?
NICK: I guess I would say no. It’s not.
IMAM SALEEM: Right. Exactly right.
(To Dar, gesturing)
As I told you.
Dar steps over and starts cuffing Nick’s hands behind his back.
BASHIR (With concern): Imam sahib?
NICK: Wait, what’s going on?
IMAM SALEEM (Continuing): You see, I believe that money is the opiate of the people, not religion. Money is what puts people to sleep when it comes to the moral dimension of life.
And the only tonic, the only remedy for this sleeping sickness of money…—Do you know what it is?
NICK: What?
IMAM SALEEM: Sacrifice.
Silence.
Imam Saleem pulls out a gun. Turns to Dar.
IMAM SALEEM (CONT’D): (In Punjabi) Take it.
BASHIR: What are you doing?
Dar steps forward, meekly. Hesitant. Finally takes the gun.
NICK: Did I say something wrong?
Imam Saleem gestures for Dar to point it at Nick.
Dar does as he’s told. Clearly in pain.
IMAM SALEEM: One thing that has always made me very angry about Americans is the way they confuse money with righteousness. Being rich does not give you moral superiority, Nick Bright…
BASHIR: We made an agreement.
NICK: If I did something wrong, I’m sorry.
BASHIR: He’s making us money—
IMAM SALEEM (Continuing): Three thousand of your people are killed on one day and it gives you license to kill hundreds of thousands of our people…
NICK: We can leave it at ten million. It’s fine.
BASHIR: Imam sahib.
IMAM SALEEM: And to feel so good about it. You are murdering hypocrites! And for that you deserve to die!
NICK: For God’s sake. Listen to me.
BASHIR: What are you doing?
IMAM SALEEM (Ignoring Bashir, to Dar): Kill him.
NICK: Dar. Please, no. Don’t kill me.
Bashir approaches Dar, Imam Saleem…
BASHIR: Why are you doing this?
IMAM SALEEM (To Dar, in Punjabi): Kill him, I said.
BASHIR: No. You’re not doing that.
(Stepping in front of the gun)
Not now. No. That’s not what you promised.
Imam Saleem strikes Bashir.
IMAM SALEEM: I changed my mind.
(Beat)
Move…—I said, Move!
NICK: What I made for you two days ago? I can do it again. I can. Just don’t kill me!
IMAM SALEEM (To Dar): Do it.
NICK: Please! No! Dar! Don’t!
Dar pulls the trigger.
Click. Empty.
Pulls again. Empty again.
NICK (CONT’D): Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
Dar’s shoulders collapse. Broken by the test.
Nick reels from the surge of adrenaline, terror.
Imam Saleem steps over to Dar, approving. Takes the gun. With a kiss to Dar’s forehead.
IMAM SALEEM: Free him.
Imam Saleem turns to Bashir.
Bashir can’t meet the imam’s gaze.
Imam Saleem looks knowingly at his charge. Having learned all he wanted from this display.
IMAM SALEEM (CONT’D): (To Nick) We are expecting great things from you.
Just don’t ever forget where you are. And who you are.
(To Dar, in Punjabi)
Go.
Dar leaves. Imam Saleem turns to Bashir.
IMAM SALEEM (CONT’D):
I’ll see you at Jummah prayers.
Bashir nods.
Imam Saleem exits.
Nick looks over at Bashir. In shock.
Beat.
Lights Out.
Act One: Scene Ten
Night.
The same room.
Nick at the wall, the cot pulled away from the area he has been working on.
He is pulling bricks quietly. One by one. A hole he has created, just large enough for him to wiggle through.
A sound outside the door.
He stops.
Listens.
Nothing.
Then back to work. Pulling the last few bricks.
With a final look around, he begins to crawl through.
The stage is empty.
Silence that lasts a long moment.
Finally, the aggressive barking of dogs in the distance.
Lights Out.
Act Two: Scene One
Ten weeks later.
A different room.
(It is important that this be very clear.)
Perhaps roomier. Perhaps more homey. Whatever the case, certainly more inhabited. Weeks have passed here, and the tables and walls are covered with the result of Nick and Bashir’s work in the market: stock charts, stochastics, Black-Scholes models. Perhaps starting to appear more like an outpost conference room of some emerging market hedge fund than a captor’s cell.
As lights come up, there is only Nick. Standing at a wall, with a ruler to one of the charts, making calculations and then marking the chart with a pencil.
He leans back, with a thought.
As he turns to head for the table…
… we hear metal scraping along the floor.
We realize—Nick’s feet are cuffed and chained, affixed to a weight that he has to drag across the floor as he moves…
Finally getting to the table, where he shuffles through some papers and makes another note. And takes a sip from the glass of dark purple juice there. Savoring.
We hear a door unlocking and see Bashir enter from stage left.
Bashir has a large bag dangling from his shoulders.
BASHIR: Morning, Nick.
NICK: Bashir.
BASHIR: Enjoying your pomegranate juice?
NICK: How can’t you love this stuff?
BASHIR: You gettin’ everybody hooked around here.
Bashir is unpacking his bag at the table. All part of a routine…
BASHIR (CONT’D): You want some tea?
NICK (Indicating his feet): Bashir, please…
BASHIR: Of course. I’m sorry…
(Toward offstage)
Dar!
Dar appears at the door.
BASHIR (CONT’D): (In Punjabi) Unchain him.
Dar does as he’s told, more reserved around Nick than he was at the opening of the play.
NICK: This thing hurts.
BASHIR: I know.
Nick stretches his legs.
NICK: You’ve got me locked in here. Guarded. Why this on top of—?
BASHIR: Don’t start with that. You know why you’re wearing it.
NICK: For God’s sake, that was three months ago. I didn’t get past the front gate.
BASHIR (Firm): Nick.
NICK: Those guys beat the shit out of me.
BASHIR: Nick. Please.
Nick retreats. Beat. Bashir pulls a folder, checking inside.
BASHIR (CONT’D): Balance sheets you wanted.
NICK: Oh, good. You found them.
BASHIR: Took a bit of doing…—I’m going to have a cuppa. You?
NICK: Yeah. Fine.
BASHIR (To Dar, in Punjabi): Bring some tea. No sugar for me. Don’t forget.
Dar nods. Exits.
Nick looks down at his notepad.
NICK: So I had a few ideas last night that I want to look into this morning.
BASHIR: Sounds good.
NICK: I’ll need the complete financials on these. And sixty-and ninety-day moving averages. So I’m gonna need you to hop on there…
BASHIR: Just got to get it going…
(Setting up)
You had breakfast already?
NICK: Eggs and parathas. Don’t know how many times I’ve had those eggs. I still can’t get used to how good they taste.
BASHIR: Nothing like an egg fresh from the hen.
NICK: And the butter. Oh, Lord.
BASHIR: I don’t touch the stuff. Heart disease runs in my family. Can’t remember the last time I had butter.
NICK: I pity you. The butter here is a thing of beauty.
Nick makes notes as Bashir continues setting up the laptop. Attaching a portable printer.
BASHIR (Nodding): D’you sleep all right?
NICK: Fine. Though the comics kept me up late. Thanks for those, by the way.
BASHIR: I loved Archie as a kid.
NICK: Great stuff.
BASHIR: You know, I was in love with Betty.
NICK: Were you?
BASHIR: My whole childhood. And I couldn’t understand why Archie wanted Veronica.
NICK: I’m a Veronica man.
BASHIR: She’s a dish. I’ll give you that. But so spoiled.
NICK: That’s the appeal, Bashir.
BASHIR: Your wife? Julie?
NICK: She’s got enough Veronica to keep me interested.
Shared chuckle.
NICK (CONT’D): Can I ask you a question?
BASHIR: Go for it…
NICK: Don’t take this the wrong way.
BASHIR: What is it?
NICK: I don’t want you to take it the wrong way…
BASHIR: Now I’m curious.
NICK: What’s the deal with the virgins in heaven?
BASHIR: Right.
NICK: I mean…
BASHIR: To be honest, Nick, I really don’t know.
NICK: I mean, why would you want virgins in heaven, right? Virgins aren’t actually any good in bed.
BASHIR: Right.
NICK: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be—
BASHIR: It’s fine, Nick.
(Beat)
You know, Imam Saleem says it’s a metaphor, something about going back to innocence. The pleasure of the body. When it was still pure. Still innocent.
(Beat)
For whatever that’s worth.
NICK: Like Adam and Eve before the fall.
Bashir doesn’t register this as he starts typing at the computer.
NICK (CONT’D): How long have you known the imam?
BASHIR: Five years.
NICK: That all?
BASHIR: When I first ended up here in Pakistan, I spent a couple of years fighting in Kashmir. In the north. Though it didn’t take that long to see what a corrupt crock of shit that was. So I left that.
(Beat)
I was staying with a cousin in Attock, who kept talking to me about this imam.
NICK: Imam Saleem.
BASHIR: Right. That’s how I met him.
Dar appears at the door. With tea service.
Dar serves the cups.
Bashir pulls out a copy of the Financial Times. And tosses it across the table.
BASHIR (CONT’D): Picked it up this morning. Article about that boss of yours on the back page. Carey Martin.
Nick takes up the paper.
NICK: What’s it say?
BASHIR: He got the sack.
Beat.
NICK: Finally did, did he?
BASHIR: You saw it coming?
NICK: Incompetent. I was doing his job.
BASHIR: Well, with you gone, they figured that out.
NICK: You kidnapping me did what people in my department have been trying to get done for three years.
BASHIR: Funny how that works.
NICK (Reading): “Taking time off to spend with his family.” Fucking family? He’s getting a divorce. His kids hate him.
BASHIR: If he was such a wanker, why was he in charge?
NICK: Get other people to do the work for you, and t
ake credit. It’s what bosses do.