“Well?”
“You seem to have decided already.”
“I would never make such a decision without you.”
“Yeah, sure,” she said dryly.
I studied my wife, looking for signs of what she was thinking. She was, in her way, as mercurial and difficult to read as I was. She of course had her own family secrets—a hard-drinking and abusive father, a weak and enabling mother—and I knew that a calm and conflict-free home was all she ever wanted in life. She had told me so many times before—and it is what I had provided her.
“Well, it’s an amazing house. I have to admit.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“OK. I will do this on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“We keep an apartment in Zürich, which we can go to whenever we want. If I have to wake up every day, knowing I will only be talking to cows and kids while you’re off working in Zürich, I think I will kill myself.”
“We don’t want that.”
She laughed. “No, we don’t. I have a lot to live for. I have, for some reason, been blessed—by our boys and you and the peaceful home we have created together. I will do anything to preserve that. If buying this farmhouse will make you happy and keep the peace between us—count me in.”
“The attorney general is here,” said Frau Wollenweide, standing before me with the green leather folder full of letters she wanted me to sign.
It was 1978. Privatbank Álvarez’s assets had been growing 30 percent per annum over the previous five years, and we were so busy and at capacity we almost couldn’t poach staff fast enough. But with success came a whole new set of problems. “Bring the attorney general here, not the conference room,” I told my secretary. “Let’s make this informal. And go ask Herr Deutwiller to join us.”
Frau Wollenweide sniffed and turned heel. She was twenty years my senior, and her constant frown made it clear she couldn’t understand how a good Swiss woman who did everything by the book had ended up serving a young Spaniard.
She returned with Attorney General Abegg. We vigorously shook hands, exchanged the ritual pleasantries, before I asked if he would like a drink. He opted for a gin and tonic. Franz Deutwiller slipped inside and the room filled with the singsong of their Swiss cadence. The two old friends, stationed in the same army barracks in Appenzell when they were young men in officers’ training, spent a few minutes catching up with each other. Deutwiller looked at his watch—it was 4:15 in the afternoon—and said he’d have a beer. I retrieved a bottle of Feldschlösschen.
The three of us went out onto the Álvarez bank’s penthouse terrace outside my office and sat on the cushioned iron chairs about the round table. A June breeze was lightly fanning our faces, and when we sat down, a flock of pigeons rose in unison from the Bahnhofstrasse below us, soaring across the jagged rooftops.
We talked about vacations coming up, where we were going with our families, and then the attorney general lightly said, “I came by your office because I have a formal request here from Mexico’s attorney general.”
He retrieved a letter from his inside pocket and gently placed it on the table before us. Deutwiller and I exchanged glances. Abegg took a deep swig of his gin and tonic and smacked his lips, while Deutwiller read the letter.
“The Mexican government is requesting that we, the Swiss attorney general’s office, force you to disclose the ultimate owner of a Panamanian firm sending five million dollars a month to its numbered account at Privatbank Álvarez. The Mexican government believes the account belongs to a general in the Mexican army, suspected of being on the payroll of the Olviera drug cartel.”
I glanced out over the copper-and-tile rooftops of Zürich, while Deutwiller pointedly asked, “And? Do they have evidence of criminal wrongdoing?”
Abegg waved his hands dismissively. “It is a fishing expedition. The Mexican government does not have a solid link between the general and the Panamanian company—which means we cannot allow you to disclose this information, particularly since they have not yet launched criminal proceedings against him. In fact, if you did disclose the ultimate account holder, you would be in violation of Swiss bank secrecy laws—and I would have to prosecute you!”
We all laughed at the absurdity. But I noticed something in his face and said, “Yet you still seem troubled, Herr Abegg. There is a reason why you are here.”
“Ja,” he said, studying a young secretary, in the office window opposite us, discreetly adjusting her pantyhose. “Things are changing. I am fielding more and more of these requests, as are our diplomats abroad, and there is a growing anger out there at how Swiss bank secrecy laws are shielding alleged wrongdoers in other parts of the world. Next month the US Congress is opening hearings on tax evasion and how Swiss banks are often used to hide money from US authorities. Imagine this. They are treating Swiss bankers like they are common criminals! The Zürich Union Bank and Swiss Federal Credit Bank are furious their executives have been summoned. It is lost on the Americans that we are a sovereign nation with the right to make our own laws.”
We tut-tutted over this state of affairs and then he said, “But the world is changing. Becoming more connected. Borders are not what they used to be. You know, Herr Álvarez, your friend in Zug, Marc Rich, I think the US authorities are starting to take an interest in his activities.”
“Ah. Thank you. I will keep my distance.”
Deutwiller put the letter back down on the table. “And what about this request from Mexico?”
“Well, they can’t get the banking information they seek, of course. Not without proof of criminal behavior. Out of the question. We cannot have foreigners challenging our banking laws.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“But it would still be good for Switzerland if we could turn down this official request in—how shall I say this?—a productive way. It would be helpful for everyone concerned if we could throw the Mexican authorities a bit of information that might help their cause to prosecute a corrupt and murderous general—without, of course, violating Swiss bank secrecy laws. It would earn us goodwill with the Mexican government that, quite frankly, we need for other diplomatic and prosecutorial reasons, which I cannot disclose.”
I looked over at Deutwiller. He scratched his jowls and said, “Du, Peter. Our clients come to us because we are utterly discreet. They know they are in safe hands. If word got out we were helping overseas criminal investigations . . .”
“Gottes Willen nicht! That would be terrible. We wouldn’t want that. It would be very damaging to Finanzplatz Schweiz. You misunderstand me. I am just throwing out the idea—unofficially, of course—in case something comes to you. The attorney general’s office would be extremely grateful to Privatbank Álvarez, if such a thing could happen.”
He smiled lightly. “Who knows?” he said, glancing up from his drink and looking directly at me. “Maybe such gratitude by the Swiss attorney general’s office will come in handy to Privatbank Álvarez one day.”
I stood up and offered my hand.
“Thank you for coming, Attorney General Abegg. Excuse me now, but I have to drive back to Ägeri. I try, whenever possible, to have dinner with the family.”
“Ja. Ja. Of course. This is important.”
“Please feel free to stay, have another drink, and enjoy the view. Franz, will you please see our distinguished guest out when you are ready to close shop?”
I decided to go fishing. I needed the mental space to think this Mexican problem through. When I pulled into the farmhouse entrance, John and Rob were running toy cars through a speedway maze they had created out of Legos and tea trays. Sam was bouncing a ball against the side of the garage, while Lisa sat off to the side on a lawn chair, her eyes closed, her moistened skin worshipfully facing the setting June sun. Susi Iten’s car was parked to the side of the far barn. She was upstairs, preparing dinner.
The boys—seven, eight, and eleven—stopped playing and looked up when I came out of the gara
ge holding an empty duffel bag. Their round little faces, big black eyes, silently stared up at me.
“Hello, boys.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
I stepped over a fire-red Ferrari. The German shepherd puppy rose, wagged its tail, and came over to nuzzle my leg.
“You look upset,” Lisa said.
“There’s a problem at the bank. I’ve decided to go fishing in Andermatt for four days. To think things through.”
Lisa closed her eyes again. “Just remember,” she said sleepily, “we have the opera in Zürich on Wednesday. And the fundraiser for the school is on Friday. So you can’t stay longer, even if the fishing’s good.”
“Bueno. Understood.”
I went to the far barn, gathered my boots, nets, and trout flies, and placed the gear in the trunk of the BMW. I came back out of the barn with wool socks, fishing vests, and waxed coats packed in the duffel bag, and then headed to the farm’s main door, in order to finish my packing upstairs.
John was off to the side of the courtyard, standing behind the ornamental pot of carnations and studying a trail of ants. Sam was teasing the dog, bouncing the ball against the barn’s far wall, as the puppy ran back and forth trying to catch it in his jaws. But little Rob was standing in my way, with his messy hair, clutching his gull-wing Mercedes Matchbox car and staring at me with his big black eyes.
“Daddy! Daddy! Stop. I want to ask you something.”
“Not now, Roberto. I have to go.”
I was already at the front door of the chalet, ready to shoot up the stairs, when Rob’s plaintive and pleading voice rang out into the courtyard.
“Daddy, please. Can I come fishing with you? Please. I promise not to bother you.”
Those words.
I am not sure how long I stood there frozen in time, holding tight to the door handle, caught somewhere between Swiss adulthood and Spanish adolescence. But I eventually turned around, came back, and kneeled by Rob’s side. I hugged him.
“Of course you can, Roberto. Claro. I would love it if you came fishing with me. It would make me very happy.”
His two older brothers were staring at me, eyes wide with surprise at this remarkable turn of events.
“Listen up, boys. Who wants to come fishing in Andermatt?”
“I do! I do!” the boys yelled in unison.
We took the BMW and it roared us lustily down the highway to Chur. The boys held their breath in the tunnels and named all the foreign license plates they could spot. Germany, Italy, France, Netherlands. We started the hairpin ascent up the St. Gotthard pass, and at the final bend, the village of Andermatt became visible through a small opening in the mountains towering to the left and right.
We hauled our bags into the Hotel Sonne, the old inn in the center of town, with its weather-blackened wood exterior and rooms decorated with simple pine beds. The boys were in a large room with three twin beds and a breakfast table, and I had the adjoining room, accessed through an interconnecting door. I could hear the boys jumping on the beds as I unpacked. “Boys! Stop that. These beds are made of wood, not springs. You’ll break the slats.”
I must have barked because silence instantly followed. I felt bad. “Come here,” I said, and they all came piling through the connecting door and clambered onto my bed. “All right, chico malo. First thing tomorrow we get our fishing licenses, which we do at the local barber. We’ll have a quick bite to eat and then start fishing.”
“Will I have my own rod?” asked Rob.
“Naturalmente. All of you will have your own rod.”
“Yeah, doofus,” said John. “What? You thought you were going to fish with your nose?”
“But I don’t know how to fly-fish,” Sam said.
“Not to worry, Sam. You’ve caught trout with a worm on the casting rod. This is not much different. We use a bobber and flies. It’s just a little more delicate than worm fishing.”
“I bet you I’ll catch the first fish,” said John.
“Yeah, with your stinky farts,” Rob said. “You just have to cut one and all the fish will die.” He grabbed his throat and made a face, like he was choking to death.
We marched together down the pebbly run to the high-altitude lake, flat and gray-blue like a marble tabletop. The wild Alpine grasses were shivering, and from the other side of the lake, we could hear the clinking bells of the cows sent in summer to graze in the high meadows. The boys followed me, in order of height, down a finger of land jutting into the lake, a little army of fishermen following their general. I showed them how to stand at the water’s edge, cast the bobber out, behind which ran a line of three dry flies, and slowly reel in. They quickly spread out along the finger, ten meters or so between them. Sam staked his claim at the top of the peninsula, casting into the darkest part of the lake. John and Rob began casting into the coves on either side.
“I got one!”
“Me too!”
Sam’s and John’s bobbers were zigzagging across the lake.
“Don’t play them so hard! Check the drag. Loosen it.”
Rob and I ran first to Sam, and by the time we got there, he had a 15-centimeter Canadian lake trout near his feet. I netted it for him. I bent over, smacked the trout’s head hard against the rock. It spit blood and shivered, and then went still. I laid its gray-blue-and-cream flank against the grass, kissed the top of Sam’s head.
“Well done, Sam!”
He was beaming with that intoxicated look Álvarez men get when they beach a fish. I held Rob’s hand and we ran giggling around the lip of land, to where John stood on the other side, still frantically yelling for help. We soon saw why. His trout was triple the size of Sam’s and giving him a good fight. But the boy—I was so proud of him—was stern-faced with concentration and played the fish like the knowledge simply existed in his Álvarez blood. We got that fat fish into the net and onto shore and knocked her dead against an Alpine rock.
Rob made me give him the car keys. He ran up the hill, came back with my boxy Kodak Super 8, and began filming John holding his fish up and smiling. In the background, the Swiss Alps soared majestic. Sam yelled again as he hooked yet another Canadian lake trout, which had been fed into these frigid waters half a century ago and had somehow flourished in this high-altitude world. I told Rob to put down the camera. It was his turn to catch a fish.
I took my youngest boy by the hand, with his yellow-fiberglass casting rod, and we walked solemnly to another cove in the lake. I studied the glassy water and saw, within easy casting distance, a natural rise. It was the ring of a good-size trout, hiding under a pale rock and greedily coming up for flies.
“Stand here, Rob. Now see that cowshed on the far side of the lake?”
“Yes.”
“OK. Stand here and cast as far as you can toward the cowshed, like you are trying to reach it.”
Little Rob brought back his rod, and then swung it forward with all his might, but he let go of the line too soon and off to the side, and the bobber went flying in the wrong direction.
“OK. Reel it in slowly and we will try again. The lake is full of hungry fish.”
“I got one. I got one . . . ooohhh.”
“Never mind. It was just a small one. When you get a strike, don’t pull too hard. OK, now let’s try that again. Aim for the cowshed.”
This time the bobber and flies sailed directly toward the cowshed on the far side of the lake, the bobber landing two meters past the white rock.
“Perfect. Now reel in slowly.”
Just as the trailing flies passed the submerged white rock, there was a boil on Rob’s line, and the large trout was hooked.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
“Bueno, Roberto! Now concentrate. Don’t pull too hard. Let me check the break.”
We got the trout on shore, a fighting cock fish, which I quickly killed. Rob was beaming bright light as I kissed him and congratulated him on his fine catch.
I went and knelt by a tiny tributary stream coming down the mountain and
gutted the trout. I suddenly felt my youngest son’s arms around my neck, his lips brushing against my stubbly chin, heard his little voice.
“Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”
Before I could respond, Rob twirled around and ran hard in his Wellingtons, back to the water, to cast again, looking now for where there were natural rings in the water, signaling feeding fish.
When I packed Rob’s fish away, and looked up again, all three boys had trout on at the same time. I never got to fish, but methodically went from one to the other, helping them bring in the trout, which I cleaned and slid into our plastic sack growing ever fatter with fish. Then John came timidly in my direction, handing me his rod, looking frightened that I would yell at him. His entire reel was a snarl of tangled nylon. I smiled, to let him know I wasn’t angry, and told him to fish with my fly rod as I worked at unraveling his snarl, which took a good forty-five minutes and lots of swearing to sort out, even after a cutaway.
The mountain air temperature was falling rapidly, the sky darkening.
I looked at my watch and discovered it was already after five. I suggested we eat one of the fish we caught, an old Spanish ritual to guarantee luck, before heading down the mountain to our hotel and dinner. But we would rise early the following morning and start again. The boys hollered their agreement.
We hunted along the shore for any brush, bark, or wood we could find, and though there wasn’t much above the tree line, we found enough scraps for a small fire. John was at my side the entire time, like a burr, carefully watching me as I found some sweet Alpine grass, a kind of wild rosemary and thyme, which I pulled, washed, and placed inside the trout’s cavity.
“There. When we roast the fish on the fire, the mountain herbs will perfume the meat.” John was wide-eyed, watching my every move as I stuck a twig through the mouth of the fish and down its cavity and used it to hold the trout and its crackling skin over the fire, turning the fish this way and that so it wouldn’t burn.
The Man With No Borders Page 17