The Greed

by Scott Bergstrom

  He returns with a banker in tow, who shows us to an office off the lobby. Formalities are exchanged; Lila Kereti’s passport is produced and quickly examined.

  “We would like you to check some balances,” Naz says.

  The banker nods as if this were a sacred honor, and Naz feeds him the first account number. He enters it into the computer, says ah and hm, then frowns gravely. “The account was closed, I’m afraid, since three years.”

  Naz feeds him the second account, and gets the same answer.

  On the third, however, the banker gives a hopeful sigh, then smiles and takes up a pen. “Here we are then, like so.”

  Naz takes the paper from him, looks at it, passes it to me. Just over 10,000 francs.

  Fomax Optical, the next account, is a bust, already drained. As is Education des Artes, Ltd. And Caldex Imports. España Shipping, on the other hand, yields 75,000 francs. My heart ticks at the sight of the number. It’s more than I’ve ever seen all together at once, and back in Montevideo, I could live on it for a decade. But it’s not enough, not nearly, not for all this, and not for what’s been done to me. Naz relaxes a little, though; at least now I can pay her bill.

  “Now, Rosenthal-Webb,” Naz says, and gives the account number.

  The banker types it in, then straightens his already straight back. He looks at me with different eyes now. “Ah, well. Good news.”

  Naz smiles as she looks at the number, slides the paper to me.

  A gasp sneaks out, and my hand flies to my mouth to suppress it. I look to the banker, then to Naz, then to the number again. It’s a little more than 1.3 million Swiss francs—about the same in American dollars. My hands tremble, so I shove them under my thighs.

  I’m all set to leave, and leave happy. I even rise a little in my seat, but Naz interrupts me.

  “There’s—just one more account,” she says. “Genza Securities.”

  The banker enters the number as Naz feeds it to him. “Genza Securities,” he mutters to himself, and clicks through to another screen. “Based in Seychelles, yes. Account managed by…”

  Then he pauses and looks down at my passport. He studies it for a long time before going back to his computer screen.

  “Alles gut?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer, and instead lifts the receiver of his phone, presses an extension. “Unusual, yes … perhaps if you could … yes, herr doktor … as I said, this is … no, herr doktor … no, herr doktor … very good, I shall tell them.” He hangs up the phone.

  “What is it?” I ask, voice urgent.

  Naz holds up her hand, then leans forward. “Who were you speaking with?”

  “The bank manager, Frau Doktor. He will—I’m very sorry. It will be but a moment.”

  Naz looks at me reassuringly, but there’s tension in her jaw and neck.

  A polite tap at the office door brings the banker and Naz to their feet. I do the same, standing primly with hands folded in front of me. A gnome of eighty or ninety enters, gray peak-lapelled suit, the knot of his tie so tight it juts straight out from his collar. He bows, showing us the liver-spotted top of a bald head, as the banker introduces him with a preposterously long title. Herr Doktor Kolb is the gist of it, though, and he shakes our hands with shocking strength.

  The banker and Kolb study the computer screen for a moment, the elder man saying, ja, ja, klar, as the younger walks him through his work. Finally Kolb looks up. “Frau Kereti and Frau Doktor Sadik, would you please join me in my office?”

  * * *

  Suddenly, another level of formality, and another attendant in white gloves, just like at Naz’s office, who pours coffee from an elaborate silver service. It’s clearly part of a ritual here, like a sacrament taken whenever business is discussed. Herr Doktor Kolb brings in two attorneys to join us, the original banker apparently too lowly to participate . The two newcomers know Naz by name, familiar with either her or her work.

  We’re all seated around a conference table, deep brown, nearly black, with centuries of use. Heavy velvet curtains, rich maroon, hang sullenly along the sides of windows that face out on a gray Zurich sky.

  “A pleasure to finally meet you, Frau Kereti,” says Kolb. “Hard to believe, after so much business together, this is your first visit in person.”

  All of this is said with a friendly enough tone, but Naz stiffens, preparing her counterpunch. “Herr Doktor Kolb, if we might see the balance of the account.”

  “It was not shared with you downstairs?” he says.

  “It was not.”

  Herr Kolb takes up a pen, writes something on a piece of paper, and passes the folded sheet to Naz, who reads it like a poker player, utterly without reaction. I expect her to show me, but she doesn’t, so, instead, I move my eyes from face to face, looking for clues, and wondering why people in this town have such an aversion to saying numbers out loud.

  “As you can understand, Frau Doktor, a sum like this—precautions must be taken. Identities verified, and so forth.” Kolb intertwines his fingers in front of him as if praying.

  “You yourself have copies of the articles of incorporation for Genza Securities that give Frau Kereti fiscal authority, yes?” Naz says.

  A nod from Kolb.

  “And the documents I’ve shown you today—passport, driver’s license, even a library card—they correspond exactly with your own records, yes?”

  A pause as Kolb exchanges glances with his attorneys. “It appears, our own records are, in that regard … inadequate.”

  The attorney immediately to Kolb’s left, a pretty young man, trim and pink-cheeked, clears his throat. “Frau Doktor, records are occasionally misplaced, and we have only the names of the beneficial owners. Frau Kereti’s name is among them, but…”

  Naz sees her shot, and cuts him off. “So your own records are not in compliance with Swiss banking law. Herr Doktor, I am aghast.”

  The attorney wrinkles his lips at the distasteful drama. “Since Genza Securities is not based in Switzerland, banking disputes, must, by law, revert to the law of the country in which the company is registered—Seychelles, in this case.”

  Naz looks at him, just a hint of a smile on her lips. “Oh, you’re saying this is a banking dispute now?”

  “Of course not,” the young man says. “Only a question of—authenticity.”

  “And poor record keeping,” Naz says sharply. “Article one, Section nineteen of the commercial code. When there is no financial dispute, only a claim, Swiss law applies.”

  Kolb’s posture stiffens. “Frau Doktor, you can’t expect us to hand over control of a sum like this based simply on what you’ve shown us today.”

  “I do, Herr Kolb,” Naz says. “Article forty-two, Section three of the Civil Code of 1907, under which you have more than enough proof to verify my client’s identity. Now, if you’re going to continue obstructing my client’s right to her own property, we can have the courts settle it.”

  I sink lower in my chair and give Naz a look. She ignores me.

  Kolb and the attorneys whisper among themselves, then Kolb turns to us and gives us a thin smile. “Frau Doktor, since it is our own records that are, apparently, not in optimal compliance, we would prefer to handle things privately.”

  The lawyer on Kolb’s other side, a heavy woman of around forty, raises a finger. “A declaration confirming Frau Kereti’s identity from the Office of the Registrar will be sufficient for us.”

  Naz smiles, looks at me. “I think we can agree. Wouldn’t you say, Frau Kereti?”

  I flash her a worried expression: Do we? But I can tell it’s the answer she’s looking for. “Certainly,” I say.

  Details are hashed out between them, then we all shake hands, without my being certain what just happened. It’s only on the staircase to the ground level that Naz squeezes my forearm and gives me a wicked smile.

  * * *

  She doesn’t speak until we’re on the street in front of Hindemith & Cie. Then she turns around suddenly, her face
beaming. “It’s a simple hearing,” she says. “Have your papers looked at and verified.”

  “And—will they be?”

  Naz tilts her head, that strand of auburn hair breaking loose again. “It’s a formality, really. To cover their asses. If your papers are as good as they look, then—I’d say better than fifty-fifty.”

  I swallow. “And the amount. You never showed me the amount.”

  She closes her eyes, inhales deeply. “A drink,” she says. “Let’s have one. I know a place…”

  Then she’s leading me by the hand like we’re two old friends down the block and around the corner into a narrow alley that ends at the river. Naz opens a wooden door with no sign and nods for me to enter. Soft piano and dim light and a curving wooden bar, still empty at this time of day. We slide into an empty booth.

  Naz removes the folded piece of paper Kolb had given her and hands it to me.

  My body is numb, from my face to my fingers, and the numbness makes them clumsy. The paper slips to the floor and I pick it up.

  The thing about numbers is that they’re written differently in different countries. Sometimes sevens have a slash through them, nines look like lowercase g’s, and ones look like little tents. Sometimes the decimal place is marked with a period or apostrophe or even just a space instead of a comma. Thus my brain stalls out at the numbers on the paper: 17’394’117, which look like coordinates instead of an amount. I look up at Naz, mouth the words, seventeen million, three hundred—

  She nods violently—emphatically, gleefully. Then she’s hugging me, which seems like an inappropriate thing for a lawyer to do until I realize she’s actually keeping me upright.

  I brace my hands on the table. “Altogether, the amount.” My voice cracks. “The math, it’s kind of hard right now.”

  Naz calculates the total from all the accounts in her head. “Just under—nineteen million francs.”

  I nearly cry and have to look away.

  Just then a waiter appears and Naz orders champagne.

  * * *

  We’re buzzed by the time we leave, and I find myself stumbling back over our conversation as I take the tram back to Lego Village. There will be a hearing in a day or two, where someone called a registrar will examine my papers and hand down an edict that answers the question, am I really Lila Kereti? Or, as Naz is quick to emphasize, legally Lila Kereti. My odds are better than fifty-fifty, she’d said. A cautious estimate on her part, or an optimistic one? We’ll find out soon enough.

  As the tram rumbles along, I consider how to tell my father, and decide to wait until the situation resolves itself, one way or the other. So much wisdom out there about announcing things prematurely. Counting chickens before they hatch. The hallmark arrogance of the fool. Still, though. Nineteen million francs. Neunzehn millionen. So much fun to say. Sorry, German, I take back all the nasty things I ever said about you.

  That night I lie on my makeshift mattress at the side of the studio wrapped in a scratchy wool horse blanket. In another corner of the structure, two artists are giggling quietly and passing a weed pipe between themselves as they discuss work.

  It’s the artist’s identity, his identity, that money destroys, says one.

  Bullshit, says the other, we do it to ourselves—art is masturbation, has been since cave paintings—so take the money and stop bitching.

  What about what Mao said? says the first. Art as the purest form of revolution.

  Fucking Mao is dead, says the second. Anyway, he never even said that.

  From somewhere else in the structure, there’s a loud shhh, and the two fall silent. They sit for a time, smoking and saying nothing, then drift off to sleep.

  But there’s no silence in the structure and there never is. Outside, trucks hurtle past on the road, and the vibrations shake the metal walls. I hear dripping water, too, from a few different places, none of the drips timed to bring anything like a steady rhythm that one could fall asleep to.

  The goal of the money—at least the goal I’d told myself—was a better life for me and my dad. Not safety; there can never be that. But school. A good shrink. A life a rung or two higher than submerged.

  However, the estimate I’d imagined—one, two million tops—had been far, far off the mark. Now my greed has multiplied with it and I must adjust my expectations accordingly. What life can’t you lead with 19 million francs? It’s not private-jet level, but it’s never-having-to-worry-again level. It’s good-doctors-and-a-comfortable-ass-in-a-safeish-country level. A lusty thought: some dilapidated old villa on the beach somewhere, Dad on a chair in the sun, me—should I take up painting?—sure, painting, my easel set up by the water. White cotton dress, long hair. Hire a local kid to bring the groceries. Never bother the outside world with my presence again.

  * * *

  The hearing takes place beneath gold ceilings eight meters above us, my body dwarfed by the vast courtroom. A woman in a robe and powdered wig, glowering from high up behind a mahogany judge’s bench, listens to Naz’s argument carefully before heading back to her study, where she consults an enormous book filled with a thousand years of Swiss law.

  That’s how I picture it, anyway, and it’s why I’m both relieved and a little disappointed when Naz and I find ourselves waiting on a bench in a hallway with worn-out vinyl floors in front of a clerk’s office.

  Promptly on the hour of two p.m. the door to the clerk’s office opens and we’re led to a woman in a white blouse in a tiny office barely big enough for the three of us. There’s a clear plastic container with the remnants of a salad in the garbage can next to her desk. I can smell the vinaigrette from my chair. The registrar is a round, lovely woman, a grandmother maybe a dozen times over, with a cheerful ruddiness to her skin and a friendly, singsongy voice. I understand almost none of the Swiss-German legalese that comes out of her mouth, but I could fall asleep listening to her; I bet she’s good at telling bedtime stories.

  Naz makes some obscure but emphatic point, points to a spot on some document, references Article Something, Section Something, of the Swiss Civil Code—that’s all I’m able to make out. The registrar frowns, and I have to look away or I might throw up—it all rides on her. There’s a framed picture on a bookshelf, three of her dozen grandchildren, as ruddy-faced as she is, cavorting in some meadow with the Alps in the background. I think of The Sound of Music and name her grandchildren accordingly, Gretl, Friedrich, and pretty Liesl, the oldest, the cause of so much trouble, dating that bike messenger and aspiring fascist, Rolf.

  Naz pats my arm and I snap back to the room. The registrar is looking at me expectantly, and so is Naz, answer the question.

  “Excuse me,” I say in German. “Please repeat.”

  The registrar sighs. “Shall we administer the oath?”

  I look to Naz, who gives me a single slow nod.

  “The oath,” I say. “Yes. Of course.”

  The registrar rises, opens the door, and calls for a clerk. When he arrives, the four of us gather in the hallway, and I’m asked to raise my right hand. I repeat after the registrar:

  Do I affirm that I have not given false testimony, under penalty of law?

  Yes, I affirm it.

  Do I affirm that I have not forged, stolen, or in any way misappropriated the documents used in today’s proceedings, under penalty of law?

  Yes, I affirm it.

  Do I affirm that my legal name is Lila Kereti, citizen of Hungary, who is the owner of the accounts at the bank known as Hindemith & Cie, currently at issue, under penalty of law?

  Yes, I affirm it.

  With that, the registrar coughs into the crook of her elbow, places a document against the wall. The clerk signs in the witness box, then the registrar signs it herself.

  * * *

  The visit to Hindemith & Cie is a surprisingly agreeable one. When the certification is presented to Herr Doktor Kolb and his pair of attorneys, Naz tells them I’d prefer to keep the money just where it is for the time being, only under a new
account. This delights Kolb, whose cheeks rise in a gnomish smile. With coffee served and Kolb and the attorneys satisfied, the paperwork begins.

  From time to time, I’m handed a sheet of paper to sign. Lila Kereti’s signature flows naturally from my pen. It’s only halfway through the ceremony that I ask for a moment alone with Naz. I expect the two of us to step out into the hallway, but instead, Kolb and the attorneys are the ones who leave. Evidently, this is the kind of courtesy a client like me can expect from now on.

  “Could I—I would like some cash.” The words come out shyly, almost embarrassed.

  “Ah. Of course. Everybody does,” Naz says. “How much?”

  “I was thinking—half a million.”

  Her eyes narrow and she purses her lips. “They don’t have cash like that in the bank, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  When the others come back, Naz makes the request. Kolb blushes, and the pink-cheeked attorney smirks. But a hushed phone call is made, and just as the visit is about to end, the money arrives. The same white-gloved attendant who’d served the coffee places five packets of notes on the table and presents a withdrawal slip for me to sign.

  Five hundred thousand francs in 1,000-franc notes. My head cants to the side as I look at it, and the pink-cheeked attorney makes a comment to the other attorney that causes her to smile. Kolb fires them a look like a father to unruly children in church.

  There are handshakes all around, wishes for everyone’s mutual success and continued relationships, but I process none of it. Instead, all I feel is the weight of the large zippered envelope of fine, pebbled leather that Herr Doktor Kolb himself had given me. A gift, he said, from Hindemith & Cie. I feel self-conscious about the cash, that maybe I’d come off as childish or provincial by asking for it. But it’s my cash, and that goes a long way toward making me feel better again.

  * * *

  On the steps in front of the bank, I ask Naz whether I’m safe carrying this much. She just smiles, reminds me we’re in Zurich. Naz squeezes my shoulder, then tells me we should celebrate tomorrow because there’s much for her to do. Whole corporations to conjure up for me to be president of, new certificates in a variety of tropical and business-friendly nations to be filed, preparations made for the movement of nearly 19 million lovely, colorful, cream-textured Swiss francs into entities controlled by me.