Game of Greed

by Charlotte Larsen

  Lunch is a heavy affair, lots of protein. Clearly designed for men in hard training. She eats about half, reckoning that it is enough, given her narrow frame, and because it is her habit from retreats to eat only as much as is absolutely necessary. It is not even a matter of discipline. She finds the Greek food too greasy and bland for indulgence. And she likes the sense of lightness when eating little. Not just because it facilitates her training and meditation practice, but also because it reminds her of her childhood and her grandmother, a tiny slip of a woman with the imaginative mind of a child and an angel’s ignorance of sex.

  After lunch, they have a two-hour break. Jo usually meditates for an hour before taking a long swim. Most of her colleagues sleep or run or do both. The afternoon is dedicated to classic agent training, like investigative and infiltration techniques, psychological profiling, navigation skills, weapons proficiency, surveillance, communication, data recovery, assets searches, and technology training. Technology classes seem to be nothing but a race to keep up with the newest, whereas weapons practice is mainly about maintaining and expanding one’s skills with guns and knives.

  At night, she sits on her little veranda overlooking the cliffs and the ocean, feeling the bliss of the place slowly seeping through her veins knowing, however, that she’s capable of shaking off that stillness, that peace, in a few minutes and becoming mission-ready in less time than it takes to pack her bags. She’s unreasonably proud of this in herself, this ability to move seamlessly from one state of mind to another without losing attention. Unreasonably, since any Buddhist monk or nun or for that matter, any serious meditator is able to do this. But Jo is proud, nevertheless. She is aware of the value in bridging two universes so very different from one another: her profession as a modern Joan of Arc dressed as a high-tech agent and the timelessness of meditating in the Vipassana tradition.

  A voice calls up to her, breaking her reveries. “You want to come down here for a drink?” It happens every night. Different voices, same line. Not that there officially is any drink around, nor does she fancy herself an irresistible woman by a long stretch. She’s just the only one on this island without a mustache. She smiles in the darkness. “No, thank you.” It is the same ritual every night. An invitation from somebody she doesn’t particularly want to know, and who doesn’t particularly want to know her. It is the game of loneliness. The game of maintaining some kind of meaning by pretending that they are capable of normal human relations.

  She knows that she, herself, and these warriors, her fellow agents, are still at the peak of their game, and perhaps will continue to be for another ten years, tops. After that, life inevitably turns downhill, more often than not ending in a boring security detail for a mobster or a self-indulgent businessperson. Tedious stuff that only can be survived with copious drinking. That is if they live that long. She’s known enough people in her time whose later years in the business were one long flirt with death until something finally gave way. There is no easy pension after an adrenaline-filled life. There is nothing but oblivion. In death or in drink.

  At night, she experiments with dreams and unconsciousness, just to see how much she can actually summon at will. She knows by now that it would be very easy to slip into insanity, to let go of the fragile grip humans have on reality. The vanity of sanity. The ordinary man or woman’s everyday life is filled with minor worries and lesser blessings, but an abundance of mediocre considerations concerning work, family, identity, security, entertainment, and pleasure. People have the illusion of mental stability, of some sort of security, a continuity of identity and self. All of which she knows is a mirage.

  Nevertheless, she’s careful to administer her experiments as if she were experimenting with drugs. Which, in her view, are just a lazy shortcut to the kinds of experiences you can have once you master a modicum of your mind. The trick is to know and respect that there is part of the mind that is definitely not personal, and which easily can slip through one’s grip and take on a life of its primordial, collective self.

  She has no doubt anymore that with further training she would be able to tap into other people’s subconscious, or at least share some of the images and thought processes that are common to humankind. Just as she knows with very strong certainty that training hard enough will allow her to die in her meditation by a sheer force of will. She wants that. Badly. That ultimate control, to be able to stop one’s life at the end of a thought. To her, it would mean the final freedom.

  Weeks pass by and, gradually, her world becomes smaller and smaller. Not much matters anymore. She goes through the routine of the days fully present, but hardly ever allowing her mind to analyze or interpret what she is doing. Nor does she think of the world outside this peaceful monastery-like life. Her mind is free; her body is building strength and lightness. Sometimes, she feels like a being of shadows, an incredible manifestation of a single breath, like somebody else’s dream.

  If somebody had asked her, which nobody did, whether she was bored, she wouldn’t have known how to answer. She just is. No more, no less. She talks to Francis every second week or so. He calls her on the main line of the complex, as she has handed over her phone as well as her computer. For some reason, the people who run this place need to feel they have the guests’ full attention. Or maybe it’s just another of their little power games designed to show who is in charge, who sets the routine. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t care.

  Francis keeps her up to speed on his progress and setbacks in relation to Schwartz. In his manner of relaying all relevant information, she detects urgency, a longing, almost a desperation. She has shed her distrust of him and is by now certain that he is doing his utmost to ensure that she can move freely again. She knows, too, that he does it not only for his personal reasons but for the organization as well. She entertains no illusion as to who or what he is. He may care for her; he may even love her. But his true love, the deep commitment in his heart, is to his own mission in life. And for that, he needs an organization that is beyond excellent. For that, he needs her.

  Their conversations are short, neither quite knowing what to say. The emotional goodbyes were exchanged when he chastised her for killing de Lingua; that was a sharing of feelings that they had never before allowed themselves. They both feel the need now to pull back to a place where they can work together or decide not to. She senses this in him, this mirrored world of inner thoughts and feelings. She’s ambivalent as to whether she wants to go back to him. She loves working for him, appreciating the quality of his mind, the serenity of the missions he supervises. But he has disappointed her badly on two counts. First of all, it shattered her limitless trust in him that it took him so long to find her in Sri Lanka. Secondly, she’s still hurting from the realization that he didn’t understand why she had to kill de Lingua.

  For so long, Francis was the guiding light of morality in her life, without her realizing that his disposition and value system was so different from her own. Why had she not seen that before? Because she didn’t want to? Because she needed to feel she’d found a kindred spirit? Because she needed him to be her protector, her savior, in order to stand a chance of feeling like a woman?

  She doesn’t know and is not certain she ever will. She has a strong feeling that she will need to reevaluate their relationship if she’s ever to work with him again. And he probably needs to do the same thing. Whether they will be able to make that transition, she can’t tell. Doesn’t even speculate about it. It will happen by itself. And if they don’t make it, she will be free to decide whether to go solo, find another agency, or take the full Buddhist vows. It’s just another life. Nothing to get excited about.

  There are times when she thinks of Dhammakarati as the person who is most likely to give her a semblance of a normal life. But she knows that they would never have a life together. Theirs is a love to nurture silently in solitude, a memory so fragile that it would burst if spoken of. He will always reside in her heart as a tenderness, a gentle passion, a
bittersweet longing. As she suspects she will in his.

  Epilogue

  He grabs her firmly by the elbow, steering her past a young woman with bleached hair who is greeting the guests and discretely checking their names against a list on a clipboard. Jo is certain their names are not on any list, but somehow, Francis displays an arrogance that requires a not-insignificant amount of self-esteem, which makes them both look as if they’re not only invited but required. They are a successful, youngish couple, dressed to the nines, Francis in a tuxedo and starched dress shirt, even if not wearing a bow-tie; and Jo in one of her floor-length silk sheaths. As everywhere in the world, when you act as if you belong, people usually accept that without question. Human beings sniff out self-confidence in each other exactly like other animals do, and the most confident quite naturally aspire to be alpha males and females.

  What’s a young woman with bleached hair to suspect?

  Francis and Jo enter the huge hall in which the celebration is about to commence. Decorated, forty-foot ceilings, silk-draped walls, gilded chairs, silverware on white damask, hundreds of candles reflecting the gold, the silver, and the shiny silk. At one end, a stage runs the length of the room, a single speaker’s rostrum in the middle. Behind the stage is a massive plasma screen, mirrored by two smaller ones in the corners next to the stage. From any angle in the room, one can watch the speaker in close-up. One can see every pore on his face, every muscle movement, and any indication of authenticity or lack of it.

  At present, all three screens show the logo of an Italian insurance company alternating with the blue Forbes logo and the tagline Forbes 2000. Somebody must be very proud to display such an ostentatious lack of taste. The party is hosted by an Italian insurance broker, in honor of Georg Schwartz, who has been the architect of changes that put the company on the Forbes 2000 list. Getting into the illustrious Forbes sphere has apparently been the CEO’s lifelong and deeply felt desire, Francis whispers to her as they make their way toward the hall. She’d recognized the name of the Italian insurance company, but she’d missed out on its quest for this holy grail of the international business community. But then again, she’d spent the last many months in isolation. The world had turned a few times in her absence.

  Nondescript classical music plays softly in the background, creating an atmosphere of gentility and the kind of peace that can only be achieved through the accumulation of significant wealth. This is a protected universe, a universe that looks after its own, a universe that doesn’t let idle talk or gossip slip through to the mob outside these beautiful walls.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, Francis?” she whispers, smiling for anyone who might be observing. He pats her hand, patronizingly. “But of course, darling. Time to show my most gorgeous agent back to the world.” A shiver runs down her spine. Either he’s altogether too sure of himself, or he has something up his sleeve. Being this exposed, without knowing exactly what’s going on, let alone what Francis has in mind, makes her feel dangerously vulnerable. Not just physically, but emotionally and mentally as well. Coming straight out of a several-months-long retreat or training camp, whatever you want to call it and heading directly into the Botoxed heart of materialism and power games is not for the fainthearted. Which she is. Right now. Fainthearted. Feeling her very soul to be transparent and her defenselessness apparent to all. Not a comforting thought. And it is not entirely a positive feeling to be at Francis’s mercy.

  The vast room is gradually filling up. Some tables are nearly full while others are still empty, probably because a number of patrons had better offers this evening. Jo guesses that Francis either actually has an invitation or that he’s just going to wait in the wings until the doors are closed, and it is evident which seats are not taken. But and not for the first time she has underestimated him.

  He takes her around the room, greeting a number of people she only knows from TV or the newspapers, but with whom he seems to be on intimate terms. With each of them, he exchanges a few words, sometimes introducing her by her real name, which seems to her not only unnecessary but stupid. In other cases, he doesn’t introduce but manages through his body language to suggest that she is just this evening’s escort.

  Just when she is deciding that there really are only two choices available to her to leave immediately or to trust Francis his attitude changes and she feels his body stiffen ever so slightly. Stealing a glance at him, she notices that on his face is a grimace, a wolf’s smile: dangerous, raw, bloodthirsty under a thin veneer of polite charm. And then she spots Schwartz coming toward them, a puzzled expression on his face. She instinctively pulls closer to Francis, even though she’s more likely to protect him than the other way around, should it come to a physical confrontation. There is something about Schwartz that is frighteningly impressive and yet still attractive. One wants him to be one’s uncle or mentor, sensing that he holds secrets and wisdom well worth having. Yet his eyes, penetrating under bushy eyebrows, are merciless, cold, and calculating.

  The two men size one another up. But not with total animosity, it occurs to Jo. If you didn’t know better, you could be excused for thinking that the men actually respect each other. Schwartz, being the host, slowly extends his hand to Francis. “What brings you here, Wren?”

  Francis looks the older man in the eyes. “I wouldn’t miss your day of glory. Congratulations! It’s a fine recognition.” In his voice is a trace of admiration.

  Schwartz turns to Jo, taking her hand and kissing it softly. A glimmer of something uncomfortable lingers in his eyes. Jo feels her insides cringe but keeps a neutral face. “Congratulations, Mr. Schwartz,” she says to the top of his head. Schwartz waves the compliments aside with his free hand. “It’s the passionate Italian vanity at play. Really, it has nothing to do with me. They just need the international recognition for expanding the business outside of Italy, and this seemed to be the simplest way to go about it.” He turns back to Francis, saying in an undertone, “My compliments!” Francis nods.

  A nervous-looking aide appears by Schwartz’s side. “Sir, you are on in a few minutes. Please.” Schwartz makes his excuses and walks away. A dignified man going toward his due honor.

  People are picking up that the serious part of the party is about to commence, and those who had been milling about return to their seats. Faces are being arranged in suitable expressions. Not too complimentary, not too blasé. An elegant woman in her thirties steps to the platform, her smart dress suit, professional makeup, and not-insignificant amount of gold suggests an Italian business executive who has definitively given up on love. Bending the microphone toward herself, tapping it twice with well-manicured nails, she addresses the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! We are here to celebrate a great step in the company’s growth toward becoming a considerable global player. Making it to the Forbes 2000 list is no small feat, and it is largely due to the tireless effort of Sir Georg Schwartz…” she pauses to let people applaud, which they dutifully do “…that we have come this far. Ladies and gentlemen, I present you, Sir Georg Schwartz.” The woman leads the guests in convincing, although polite applause, and then Schwartz appears on the stage, his face enormous on the screens.

  To the casual observer, this is a man of great self-esteem, a man used to the recognition of the crowd, safe in his knowledge of the unsurpassable results he has produced in his career. However, for somebody with Francis’s insight, underneath the confident exterior, a small boy lurks as he does in all great men. A small boy hoping that finally, now, father or mother, or whoever withheld their affections, will be pleased, will love, will recognize. But it takes one to see one. Francis can easily recognize another love-starved soul when he sees one. And this is exactly what Francis sees now, a man who desperately hopes for a kind of love that is forever out of his reach.

  Schwartz holds out his hands in a benevolent gesture for the applause to end. And it does. Perhaps slightly too willingly. “Friends! I am honored to see you all. But let’s not for
get why we are here today.” He pauses and nods to somebody in the shadows on the stage. A few seconds later, a slide show begins on the huge plasma screen behind him as well as on the two smaller screens in the wings. In the upper right corner of each screen, Schwartz’s face appears. The show apparently will tell the story of the Italian insurance company. An inaudible sigh seems to pass through the room. Like the rest of the guests, Jo settles in for a tedious lecture, stealing a glance at Francis, who seems surprisingly alert and slightly amused. She wonders why.

  Schwartz’s voice is recounting the early days of the company, the time when the current owner’s father worked sixteen-hour days, tirelessly pursuing his dream. The slides accompanying the story are supported by Schwartz’s face in the corner of the screen, expressing the approximate feeling of the particular phase of the story, soul-crunchingly boring to anybody who is not a direct part of it.

  Jo soon stops paying attention to Schwartz and concentrates on Francis. Something is up. As the slides change, she observes how Francis seems to have eye contact with a number of people in the room. Very subtle, yet unmistakable, if you know what you are looking for. There is one younger man in particular who seems to have a tight, wordless communication going on with Francis, and when the young man slips away to the back of the room, presumably going behind the scenes, she no longer doubts that Schwartz is being set up. And then, suddenly, as Schwartz recounts how the company built its first major headquarters, the slideshow changes. Now, pictures of Schwartz alternate with slides that each present a short sentence. His face still appears in the upper right corner of each screen.

  It takes a minute or so for Schwartz to realize that something is not right. Only then does he notice the changed atmosphere in the room. His confused expression is projected onto the screens. It is the image of a man whose control is slipping away. He looks across the tables of puzzled faces. Slowly, he scans the crowd, finding the eyes of Francis. The two men lock eyes as the show continues behind Schwartz.