by Donal Conaty
‘They are going to have to,’ Ajai said.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘That's not the real problem though, Mr Chopra.’
‘What's the real problem?’
‘They remain completely fixated on saving the banks to the detriment of everything else. I cannot get Dermot or Liam to pay any attention when I ask them to focus on improving competition and changing work practices.’
‘So they don't mind what becomes of the wider economy?’ Ajai asked.
‘Not one bit, sir,’ I said. ‘As long as their own privileges are not removed they don't give a damn about anything else.’
‘I see,’ Ajai said. ‘It sounds as though we're going to have to save Ireland from the Irish.’
Dermot was on the phone as soon as he got up the next morning. He had a sense of urgency about him, which made me think he was probably planning a social function. But I was wrong. ‘Pack a bag,’ he said. ‘We have a dinner engagement in Lisbon.’
‘Not another dinner, Dermot. Ajai will be here next week. We should be focussing on how to introduce a property tax, not dining out in Portugal.’
‘Saddling people with a property tax when they can't pay their mortgages isn't going to get you your money back,’ Dermot said. ‘We have to think bigger than that.’
He phoned Liam and got him to arrange the tickets. At the airport, I went to the bathroom and came back to find Dermot paying for an €8,000 watch.
‘Nice, isn't it?’ he said cheerfully.
‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘I see Sinéad gave you your credit card back.’
‘Fat chance of that,’ said Dermot. ‘Anyway I cancelled it and got myself some new ones. This is on the Department's card. It's an investment in Ireland's future.’
‘That's a ridiculous extravagance, Dermot,’ I said. ‘And you don't need a watch to know Ireland's time is up. The writing is on the wall.’
‘Don't be so wet,’ he said. ‘There's all to play for yet.’
After checking into our hotel we took a taxi to Dermot's mystery engagement at a restaurant called Tavares. Dioguo Abalada, Dermot's opposite number in the Portuguese Department of Finance, greeted us on our arrival. He was a handsome man, dark and swarthy, and he evidently had similar taste to Dermot when it came to the finer things in life. His suit was beautifully tailored, and a big, brilliant diamond shone from the centre of his tiepin.
‘So good to see you, Dermot. It has been too long,’ he said, embracing Dermot warmly.
‘It has, Dioguo,’ Dermot said. ‘We must organise another Scottish golfing holiday.’
‘That would be delightful,’ Mr Abalada said as he turned his attention to me. ‘This must be your friend from the IMF. He looks as though he hasn't two euros to rub together.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Dermot sighed. ‘He buys his suits in bargain stores.’ The two civil servants shuddered simultaneously. ‘Will they let him into the restaurant, do you think?’
Mr Abalada nodded. ‘Don't worry,’ he said. ‘They know me well here. I will get them to make an exception.’
As we entered the restaurant Mr Abalada had a discreet word with the maître d', who looked over at me and shrugged. ‘Everything is OK,’ Mr Abalada said. ‘Don't worry.’
The maître d’ showed us to our table and went to get us aperitifs on the house. While he was gone Mr Abalada told us something about the restaurant. ‘This is Lisbon's oldest restaurant,’ he said. ‘It opened in 1784. It has had many great chefs but none greater than our current host, Portugal's youngest Michelin-starred chef, José Avillez.
‘He trained in the kitchens of masters such as Ferran Adrià, Alain Ducasse and Eric Frechon and is now a master himself. For you gentlemen I recommend starting with the traditional Portuguese sopa alentejana, which is a soup concocted of garlic, bread and egg.’
‘That sounds very nice,’ I said.
Dermot put two fingers down his throat. ‘Sounds vom, Dioguo,’ Dermot said. ‘Isn't there any foie gras?’
Mr Abalada and Dermot laughed hysterically for a few moments.
‘You are right, Dermot, it does sound vom. Why don't we all have sautéed foie gras to start followed by lobster with mushrooms and chestnuts, or “The Civil Servant's Supper” as they call it here?’
The two civil servants chatted amicably as I took in the opulent décor of mirrored walls with gold trim and crystal chandeliers. The setting suited my dining companions down to the ground.
‘So,’ said Mr Abalada as we sipped brandy at the end of our meal. ‘I suppose you don't get to do this too often now that the IMF are footing the bill.’
‘On the contrary, my dear Dioguo. Life in Ireland is very much as it was before the IMF came in. If anything it is better. We never have to worry about where the money is coming from,’ he said.
‘So you would recommend an IMF bailout?’
‘Wholeheartedly and unreservedly,’ said Dermot. ‘It's the best thing we've ever done.’
‘Hmm,’ said Mr Abalada, ‘you surprise me.’
Dermot surprised me too. As ever I wasn't entirely sure what he was up to but I supposed it wasn't necessarily a bad thing to be giving a good review of the IMF to Mr Abalada when Portugal would almost certainly be our next client.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘I must use the bathroom.’
When I returned, the bill had been settled and Dermot and Mr Abalada were embracing at the door. As I approached them Mr Abalada turned to me with outstretched arms. I couldn't help but notice that he was wearing the watch Dermot had bought in Dublin.
‘My dear friend from the IMF,’ Mr Abalada said as he embraced me, ‘thank you so much for the beautiful watch. It is just what I was looking for.’
We were back at the hotel before Dermot agreed to explain what he had done.
‘It's no big deal,’ he said. ‘I just had the watch engraved “For Dioguo, looking forward to working with you, the IMF”.’
‘You did what?’ I could feel my blood pressure rising.
‘Come on,’ Dermot said. ‘I had to. You said yourself that we needed Portugal in the mix to improve our Ts & Cs.
Dioguo is going to talk to his colleagues about persuading their political masters to opt for a bailout. Portugal gets a bailout and Ireland gets a lower interest rate – everyone's a winner!’
‘How the hell am I a winner? I didn't tell you to frame the IMF by bribing a civil servant to persuade his government to take an IMF bailout,’ I screamed at him.
‘Steady on,’ said Dermot. ‘I didn't really see it like that.’
‘You didn't see it like that?’ I said. ‘What the hell am I going to tell Ajai?’
Dermot laughed. ‘I wouldn't tell him anything if I were you,’ he said.
‘Since when have you cared about the bailout or the interest rates anyway, Dermot?’ I asked him. ‘You weren't interested when you had a chance to negotiate it.’
‘Believe me I am not interested now either,’ Dermot said. ‘It's all terribly dreary but I am trying to do right by the Department of Finance. We have been getting a very bad press recently. Last week I went to Patrick Guilbaud's and was given a table by the toilets. If sorting out this bloody bailout is the price I have to pay for a bit of respect, then so be it.’
It was several days before I spoke to Dermot again. They were hectic days as the Department gradually got used to its new ministers. Mr Noonan's unpredictable behaviour modified and he slept for almost the entire day. I suspected Liam had come to an arrangement with one of his nurses about increasing his medication levels.
Mr Howlin was a different story. His extraordinary capacity to rub people up the wrong way became more and more pronounced and he quickly established himself as a hate figure among the staff.
The civil servants took a lot of abuse from him but it was inevitable that someone would eventually snap under the pressure. It happened early one morning, when two clerical officers had had enough and decided to take revenge on him. They grabbed Mr Howlin from behind, hoisted
him up and hung him on the coat rack outside our office. The Minister was livid. ‘When I am finished reforming you even your own mothers won't recognise you,’ he screamed.
I tried to help him down but was intercepted by the staff's union representative, who informed me that I did not have the right to interfere with the Minister and that my actions could lead to a diplomatic incident. It was next to impossible to get any work done for the rest of the afternoon with the Minister screaming abuse at anyone who passed him. Thankfully, Dermot dropped by in the evening and lifted him down.
‘I suppose I ought to thank you,’ Mr Howlin said.
‘Don't mention it,’ said Dermot with a smile. ‘Us politicians must stick together.’
The bank stress testers from BlackRock Solutions were also rubbing Department of Finance staff up the wrong way. The consultants had been called in to convince Ireland's paymasters in Europe that the estimate of how many billions would be needed to save Ireland's banks was accurate. Of course, they were used to consultants round the Department, but these ones were, as one of the clerical officers said, a cut above butter. ‘They have calculators and everything,’ he said bitterly.
It didn't help that the consultants openly mocked the Department of Finance officials.
‘You guys sure made one hell of a mess of managing your economy,’ one of them said to Liam. ‘Didn't any of you ever play Monopoly?’
‘Actually, we prefer Texas Hold'em,’ Liam replied sniffily.
The stress tests eventually revealed that the Irish banks would need a further €24 billion to help them cope with potential losses. The Ministers for Finance were hoping to bring this information to the EU and haggle for a better interest rate. But they hadn't reckoned on Dermot's trip to Portugal. Just as Minister Noonan was preparing his pitch to the EU and ECB, the news broke that Portugal had applied for a bailout. Ireland's problems were off the agenda as Europe's Finance Ministers focused on their latest problem.
Dermot was furious. ‘We did everything right,’ he said. ‘We hired proper consultants and did proper tests and they still won't listen to us.’
‘They will, Dermot,’ I said. ‘They just have to absorb the Portuguese situation first.’
‘You said it would help us if Portugal had a bailout,’ he said, with a venomous edge to his voice.
‘It probably will, Dermot,’ I said. ‘Be patient.’
‘Be patient, he says. Be patient! We do horrible stress tests that upset everybody and cost us a fortune, we get Portugal to apply for a bailout and what thanks do we get? None!’ he said. ‘A big fat zero! In fact, worse than that, the bloody ECB put up interest rates. Roddy Doyle was right – the Irish are the blacks of Europe.’
‘You really should stop with the self-pity, Dermot,’ I said. ‘It is making matters worse instead of better. You need to keep taking action and prove to Europe and to Ajai that you are putting your house in order.’
‘What a bore,’ said Dermot. ‘I have to go. I'm late for a meeting of the real Cabinet.’
Two hours later Dermot and I were in the so-called Senior Civil Servants’ Recreation Room among the assembled Chiefs of Staff of the Irish civil service. Everyone was congratulating Dermot on his coup in getting Portugal to apply for a bailout when Liam called the meeting to order.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘our miniature Minister for Finance has been causing quite a bit of grief. For a man who had neither a job nor the prospect of one only a few weeks ago, he has shown himself to be irritatingly determined to make his mark on Irish history. I am sorry to say that Minister Howlin is determined to wreck the Irish civil service and we are all that stands in his way.’
A gasp echoed around the room.
‘What information do you have?’ Dermot asked Liam.
‘The Minister came to me this morning and said he was going to carry out a root and branch reform of the civil service,’ Liam said with a tear in his eye.
I was disappointed to see him so opposed to reform.
‘But we knew that,’ Dermot said. ‘I told you that.’
‘It was the way he said it,’ said Liam. ‘There was a demonic look in his eye. He means to crush us, gentlemen.’
Again a shudder went around the room. It was as though the most cosseted men in Ireland had suddenly been touched by the icy finger of the recession.
Dermot stood to address the room. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we will still be here long after Mr Howlin is gone. After all, he cannot reform the civil service without the civil servants.’
Almost immediately the tension in the room dissipated as the men realised that they were essential to the success of the Minister's plans.
‘This is what we must do,’ Dermot said. ‘The Minister knows I have the Taoiseach's ear, so he doesn't trust me. Liam, you must gain his trust.’
‘But how?’ said Liam.
‘Nothing could be simpler,’ said Dermot. ‘You are just an acting Chief of Staff. We can use that to our advantage. Warn the Minister that the Chiefs of Staff of each department are determined to thwart his plans for reform. He can't work alone. He needs someone to trust. That someone will be you.’
The room again erupted into spontaneous applause as it became clear that Dermot, through Liam, would take control of civil service reform, thus ensuring that there wouldn't actually be any reform. I was disappointed with Liam and told him as much when the meeting ended.
‘I thought better of you Liam,’ I said. ‘I thought you would realise the importance of reforming the civil service.’
‘What ever made you think that?’ Liam asked.
‘The conversations we had,’ I said. ‘You made it clear you didn't approve of the way Dermot did things.’
‘I don't remember that,’ said Liam, with a broad grin as he flicked a speck of dust from the sleeve of his designer suit jacket. ‘No, I don't remember that at all.’
TEN
WE ARE WHERE WE ARE
Iwas sitting across from Ajai in the Merrion Hotel eating a simple breakfast of a croissant and coffee. I envied him staying here now. It seemed so clean, so well ordered, so normal. My apartment was the opposite since Dermot had moved in. Ajai and his European counterparts had returned to Ireland to begin a two-week review of Ireland's progress. It was the first quarterly review – the first of many. The first review is usually a gentle affair. We recognise that a country and its people need time to absorb the reality that the IMF is now in charge. At the first review you are never where you said you would be but always where we expected you to be. Unlike the Irish, we have done this before.
‘So,’ said Ajai, ‘what's it like working with the new Government?’
‘Pretty much the same as working with the old Government, Mr Chopra,’ I said. ‘The faces are new but the level of incompetence is similar. Mr Kenny has turned out to be the lightweight you described on the plane when we first came here.’
Ajai smiled coldly. ‘I saw he got his balls handed to him by Merkel and Sarkozy,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘He went out to Europe full of bluster about burning the bondholders and came back with his tail between his legs. The Government have been sulking ever since.’
‘Sulking?’ said Ajai. ‘They are like children.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘like children with special needs.’
Ajai shook his head. ‘Merkel and Sarkozy,’ he sighed. ‘If I didn't know better I would say they are determined to bring down the Euro. They keep driving broken countries into our embrace, all to save banks that should have been let go to the wall. No one who lent cheap money to the Irish is blameless.’
I sipped my coffee and said nothing.
‘So Dermot's star has risen?’ Ajai said eventually.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He has manoeuvred himself into a position of considerable power. The Taoiseach doesn't turn around without consulting him – he thinks they're best friends for ever. And now he has the Civil Service Cabinet answering to him. Nothing happens here without
Dermot's say so.’
‘And you and he still have a good relationship?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. So what will he do with his power? Will it cause us problems?’ Ajai asked.
I cast my mind back an hour to when I had left Dermot at the apartment. He was playing Red Dead Redemption with fellow independent TDs Ming Flanagan and Mick Wallace. The three new TDs bonded on the first day of the new Dáil, finding that they shared a similarly low opinion of politicians. They have been hanging out together ever since and seem to have an alarming amount of free time. Like Arts students avoiding their lectures, they spend their time watching Charlie's Angels re-runs and playing on the Xbox. They each see something of themselves in Red Dead Redemption's anti-hero John Marston, a one-time outlaw who hunts down his former gang members for the government after they have taken his wife and son hostage.
‘Isn't that just typical of a government?’ Ming said in disgust. ‘I've had to stop smoking cannabis in case they use it as an excuse to intimidate my family.’
‘I don't care what the government do, I'm not changing my shirt,’ Mick Wallace said heroically.
‘I asked you a question,’ Ajai said sternly.
‘Sorry, Mr Chopra. It's early days but I don't think Dermot is going to rock the boat. He knows where the money is coming from. He'll make sure the Taoiseach sticks to the terms and conditions – as long as they don't affect Dermot's terms and conditions.’ And until the €85 billion is spent, I thought to myself.
‘Good,’ said Ajai. ‘You have done well with Dermot. Have you any concerns?’
‘Yes, Mr Chopra, I am worried about one thing in particular. All the government and civil service seem to care about is saving the banks. They remain bizarrely proud of them despite the fact that they have brought the country to its knees. This obsession with the banks consumes them and leaves them no time for getting the real economy back up and running. And if they don't do that, I don't see how they will ever be able to pay us back. To be honest, I'm not sure they have any intention of paying us back.’