Dead Money

by Srinath Adiga

  “Before we talk business, I’d like to say something,” he said. “I’m not a fan of your music. But I’m a big fan of you as a person. I read your story. You grew up in Shek Kip Mei. A shithole. I’m from Lok Fu, another shithole. We’re boys from poor housing estates. Nothing was given to us on a platter. We had to earn it.”

  “Uh, okay.” Franky appeared bemused by the compliment.

  “There’s something else we have in common,” Raymond continued. “We’ve both had near-death experiences. Of course, in my case, I was actually dead. Gone for a whole hour. Brought back before there was serious organ damage. Tell me something, Franky. The stuff that happened last week, did it make you wonder what’s on the other side?”

  Franky gave him a sharp look.

  “It must have done,” Raymond said, a tiny hint of a smile in his voice. “I know what’s on the other side. Because I’ve seen it.”

  Franky’s eyes narrowed. “What did you see?”

  Raymond told him. The story rolled off his tongue without effort. He’d lost count of how many times he must have done this. Practice made perfect. Franky leaned back on the sofa and listened with a closed face.

  “So you’re here to sell me your product? Is that what this is all about?” he said when Raymond finished.

  “Not exactly. We’d like you to endorse it.”

  Franky’s cheek rose, a confused half smile. “Why me?”

  “Because I’m trying to convince people with preconditioned views about life and death. Your music has the power to reach them.”

  Franky cackled. A strangely harsh laugh for someone with a melodious voice.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Li. I find it amusing that you don’t like my music, yet you want to use it to sell your product.”

  “I don’t like your music, but people do.”

  Franky laughed again. Lim Wei shook his head.

  “You’re honest. I’ll give you that. And now it’s my turn to be honest.”

  “I’ll pay you,” Raymond said, anticipating Franky’s refusal.

  “It’s not about the money. It’s about image. Your product doesn’t fit with my brand. Sorry.” Franky looked at his watch.

  “Oh, but it’s always about the money,” Raymond said with a knowing smile. He leaned toward Franky. “Tell me, what went through your mind when the plane was going down? When you were in the water and felt something move under your feet?”

  Franky glared, cheek muscles twitching to suggest he was fending off a surge of horrific memories.

  “It’s a real ‘oh fuck’ moment, isn’t it?” Raymond said, holding Franky’s gaze. “When you realize it’s happening. That moment we all dread. What do you do? Flap your hands in panic? Watch your life flash before your eyes? Remember all the things you’ve done? All the things you wish you’d done? You want to cut a deal with the man upstairs: one more chance, please? I’ll tell you what I felt when I was dying. It was none of that. Just anger. I felt I was being robbed. Not just of life, but everything I’d worked for. You know what would have been a real tragedy had you died in that crash? Grief-stricken people in Hong Kong rush out to buy your albums. Millions of copies sold. But who gets the money? Not you. No, you’re in some ghetto in the afterlife, slaving away, while in this world, some asshole is using your money to buy sports cars and install gold-plated shitters in his toilet. Is that fair, Franky? Is that fair?”

  Not fair. That had to be the only logical answer. Especially for a mercenary individual like Franky, a man who could drag himself to the recording studio one week after a traumatic, near-death experience to cash in on a sales opportunity.

  “So, you’re saying that I can collect my royalties in the afterlife?” Franky asked.

  “Not under normal circumstances. The Afterlife Central Bank clearly stipulates the time of death as cutoff for all transfers. But I might be able to negotiate an exception. Just for you.”

  “And in return, you’d like me to endorse your product?”

  Raymond smiled.

  The pop star leaned back and folded his arms, sinking into deep thought. Raymond and Lim Wei exchanged glances.

  “Ten,” Franky said finally. “Five in Afterlife Dollars.”

  Raymond pursed his lips. He could see what Franky was doing: hedging his bets like any smart businessman. The five million in Afterlife Dollars wasn’t a problem. It was the remainder, the five million Hong Kong dollars. It was much more than Raymond had hoped to pay. It would require dipping into the buffer fund, money he’d set aside in case one of the gangsters decided to liquidate his investment. If he spent it all, he’d be leaving himself completely exposed. Was that a risk he was willing to take? And if he did, what were the chances that it was going to work? He had only a few seconds to decide.

  “So, what do you say, Mr. Li? Do we have a deal?” Franky said, taunting Raymond with a smile.

  “You bet,” Raymond said, pumping the pop star’s hand to seal the deal. But inside, his heart was running. He was now all in.

  This had better work.

  15.

  March 2003

  A POOL OF DAYLIGHT WASHED A FLOOR LITTERED with wood splinters, wire ends and bits of joinery. Raymond tiptoed, careful not to step on any sharp objects. He passed the newly installed teller windows and went through a doorway.

  The light dropped sharply as he entered the back office. But even in the semi-darkness, he could see this section was complete. The walls had been painted, floors carpeted. The cubicles were up, as was the false ceiling with its banks of currently non-functioning lights. In less than a week, this branch would be ready. Their fifth, to add to the ones in Tsim Sha Tsui, Yau Ma Tei, Kowloon Tong and North Point.

  The inspection complete, Raymond was about to leave, but something in the empty space called out to him. He lowered himself, feeling the hardness of the floor through the thin carpets as he sat down. He realized what had made him stay: the absence of ringing phones, endless meetings and the clamor of people outside his office, demanding to see him.

  Silence. A rare treat.

  He stretched his arms and legs, releasing a sigh of pleasure. The ache in his muscles was delicious, the result of working eighteen-hour days. He leaned against the cubicle wall, mulling the events of the last few months.

  Like buses, good luck arrived all at once. First, it was the Franky Soo commercial. The day after it ran, the queue at the branch snaked all the way down to the atrium. More branches had to be opened to keep up with the demand. At the same time, they were also dealing with a new bank manager, one who was much more lenient than his predecessor when it came to approving short-term loans to fund the expansion. For the first time, it felt like this crazy venture could actually work, and one day, he might be able to pay off his gargantuan debt.

  The arrival of voices and footsteps signaled that the workmen had returned from their lunch break. Raymond looked at the glowing hands of his watch. It was time for him to leave.

  Twenty minutes later, he was back in the hustle and chaos of the office. As soon as he walked through the sliding doors, he was accosted by Lim Wei, who drew him into a quiet corner in the waiting area.

  “A lady wants to speak to you,” he said in a low voice.

  “What lady?”

  “A customer.”

  “I haven’t got time for customers anymore. You know that,” Raymond snapped.

  “This one insists on talking to you.”

  “I don’t care. Get rid of her.”

  “I tried. She won’t go away.”

  Raymond looked up and down Lim Wei’s burly frame. “You let yourself get pushed around by a woman? No wonder your ex-wife took you to the cleaners.” He snorted.

  “Just talk to her,” Lim Wei said wearily.

  “Where the fuck is Yau? Why isn’t he doing this?”

  Lim Wei shrugged and started walking. Raymond hissed and followed. They went past the teller counters to the back office, and came to the small meeting room.

  “You brought her in
here?” Raymond frowned.

  “What was I supposed to do? She was making a real scene out there,” Lim Wei whispered.

  Raymond dismissed him with a brusque wave. He flashed a couple of fake smiles to change his grumpy countenance, then pushed the door open.

  The meeting room was small and square, grey walls like the rest of the office, no windows, a round white table, three chairs, a waist-high cabinet running along the length of one wall. She was sitting at the far end, dressed in a loose black top, no makeup or jewelry, totally sexless. She appeared to be in her early thirties, with short, spiky hair and the face of a ticket examiner: dark and unsmiling.

  “So, you’re Raymond Li?” she asked, looking up and down his body.

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “Not really. I just didn’t know what to expect.”

  As he sat opposite her, he noticed her handbag on the table: inconspicuous, like the rest of her outfit, clasp closed but unzipped on the sides.

  “You asked to see me. Here I am,” he said with a thin smile.

  “I want to hear your story. How you happened to come about Afterlife Dollars.”

  “You didn’t need to wait for me. Any of my staff could have told you that.”

  “It’s more convincing coming from you, is it not?”

  “I’m sure it is. But if I have to convince every customer personally, I won’t have time to run the business.”

  “I’m not every customer, Mr. Li. My aunt’s a billionaire. She wants me to do the due diligence before investing in your product.”

  Raymond studied her again. The boxy top, the plain, unmade-up face. No signs of wealth anywhere, but then again she spoke Cantonese with an accent, suggesting she’d studied overseas.

  “Okay, what do you want to talk about?”

  “I want to hear about your near-death experience. How it happened. And what happened in the moments you were dead?” she said.

  “Why are you interested in that particular part?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “Isn’t it the most important part of your story?”

  “Very well.” He drew a deep breath, as if summoning the strength to talk about a traumatic experience. In reality, he was recalling the details of the made-up story. Consistency, the trick to lying.

  “Do you remember that terrible typhoon a few years ago?”

  She nodded.

  “It happened then. I was driving back to Mid-Levels—”

  “Where were you driving from?”

  “Stanley.”

  “And what were you doing out there?”

  “I took the car for a spin.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “In that weather?”

  “Stupid, I know. But it didn’t look so bad in the morning, and I was getting cabin fever. So, I was driving along, everything fine, just a light drizzle. But when I got to Repulse Bay, it started to pour cats and dogs. I could hardly see out the windscreen. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, a pair of headlights came at me. I turned sharply to avoid the vehicle. Next thing, I was flying off the embankment. Then, wham! The car hit the ground.” He thumped the table to illustrate. “I was out. Black. Like someone turned the lights off.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I was in this darkness, feeling a wild rush. Without a frame of reference, it took me a few moments to realize I was falling. I screamed in panic, but no sound came out of my throat. It was terrifying. Then suddenly, I landed on hard ground. I looked around and it was no longer black. I was in this awful place. The buildings were run-down. The streets were damp with overflowing gutters. The stench. My God!” He screwed up his face. “Do you remember the Walled City before it was demolished?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s what this was like. I looked up. The sky was the sort of grey you see before a storm. But you could sense that the storm never came, and neither did the sun. For a moment, I was confused. Didn’t know where I was or what was going on. But I got a feeling I wasn’t alone. I turned around and saw this gwailo in a tattered suit. He looked and smelt as if he hadn’t showered in weeks. He was staring at me with his crazy eyes. Suddenly, he caught my arm, scaring the daylights out of me. Took me a few moments to recognize him, because all the photos I’d seen of him were black-and-white. Can you guess who it was? Baron Rothschild.” Raymond made his eyes wide. “Can you believe that? One of the world’s richest men, now living like a vagrant.”

  He held that amazed look for a moment. Her face was deadpan.

  “‘Are you really Baron Rothschild?’ I asked him. ‘You’re not dead yet, leave!’ he shouted at me. ‘Go, before they get you.’” Raymond assumed the character of the dead billionaire, raising his voice, gesturing theatrically. “So I ran down the street, bumping into more people along the way. Most of them strangers, but some were familiar: John Rockefeller. Henry Ford. Andrew Carnegie. More billionaires living like bums. My mind boggled, but I didn’t stop to think about it. I ran and ran till I came to a bridge. A boom gate blocked my path. ‘Let me through,’ I pleaded to the man at the guardhouse. He sized me up and then much to my relief, raised the gate. Perhaps he could see I wasn’t dead yet. The bridge must have been a few miles long. When I got to the other side, I felt warmth on my skin. The sun!” He turned his palms up and smiled at the white light on the ceiling. “Can’t tell you how delighted I was. I was in the most beautiful garden I’d ever seen. The flowers were blooming, insects buzzing. Freshness and life, everywhere you looked. It wasn’t just beautiful, there was also an element of supreme serenity, as if this state of well-being was permanent. I walked amongst lush hedgerows, soaking it all up, when I saw a high gate. And beyond it, a building that looked grander than a third-world dictator’s palace. I was gawking like a tourist from the mainland when I heard a sound behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw a man observing me from his buggy. He patted the empty seat next to him, so I jumped in. He gave me a tour. Luxury villas. Shopping malls. Movie theatres. Concert halls. Restaurants. Opulence and grandeur on a scale beyond imagination. Then finally, it struck me. This was heaven, and what I’d seen earlier was hell.”

  Once again, he made his eyes wide and once again, she returned a blank look.

  “After the tour, we sat in a coffee shop,” he continued. “It was then my kind host revealed his identity: chairman of the Afterlife Central Bank. That was when I was hit by revelation number two, the existence of the afterlife economy. Everything in the afterlife runs on a commercial basis. The likes of the Rothschilds were in hell, not because of karma or anything, but because they had no money? Can you imagine my shock when I learnt this? It was then I floated the idea: currency exchange between our world and the afterlife. It would allow more people to experience paradise, while the influx of earthly money would benefit the afterlife economy. There’d be fewer ghettos. My host had his reservations. He was worried that the increase in money supply would cause inflation. But I assured him this could be managed. So we were in the midst of a lively discussion when suddenly, my body began shaking. I was wrenched away from my seat and hurled into a dark tunnel, the same one I came through when I passed out. And next thing, I woke up, and I was in an ambulance. The paramedic who revived me looked relieved when I opened my eyes. ‘You asshole, I want to go back!’ I shouted. You should’ve seen his face.” Raymond chuckled.

  “How long were you dead for?” she asked dryly.

  “About an hour.”

  “Sounds like you were gone a lot longer.”

  “Time moves differently in other dimensions,” he said.

  She looked at him skeptically. “So what happened after you were revived?”

  “I was keen to go back to the afterlife and finish the conversation. At first, I toyed with the idea of inducing a near-death experience. Controlled asphyxiation or carbon monoxide inhalation. But I realized it could go horribly wrong. So I tried various meditation techniques. Finally, I found one that worked. My friend at the Afterlife Central Bank was delighted to hear from
me. In my absence, he’d discussed my idea with the board. It seemed everyone was in favor of it. So we thrashed out the finer points. You know, stuff like exchange rates, settlement protocols, remittances and so on. And that’s how it all started.”

  “What meditation technique did you use to contact the Afterlife Central Bank?”

  The question triggered an alarm bell. No one had asked him this before. He looked at her. Her spiky hair, the unsmiling face. Was she with the police? Couldn’t be, because the police had been taken care of.

  “Have you heard of the pineal gland? It’s up here,” he said, tapping the center of his forehead. “Taoists call it the third eye. When stimulated, it can receive signals from the next world.”

  “So, if I did this meditation, I could talk to them, too.”

  “Maybe. There’s a knack to it. And it depends whether anyone wants to talk to you.”

  “Can you teach me?”

  He laughed. “Now you’re asking me for my secret sauce.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

  “Do you know what Afterlife Dollars derive their value from? Spiritual effort. The ability to establish a reliable line of communication with the afterlife is proprietary information. It’s critical to maintaining the bank’s competitive edge. I’m sorry, I can’t share it with you.” He looked at his watch.

  “In other words, I have no way of knowing if what you’re saying is true or not. How convenient,” she scoffed.

  “The knowledge I carry is a curse. Can’t prove any of it, yet I can’t sit tight and do nothing, either. We’re all trapped in a hamster-wheel of birth and rebirth. And purely by chance, I happen to have the keys to the cage. For a long time, I was tormented by the question: should I keep the keys to myself because I fear no one’s going to believe me, or share it and help people? I decided the latter. And having made that decision, I have to accept that disbelief and cynicism come with the territory.”

  “How noble of you.”

  “I’m no saint,” he said, dismissing her sarcasm with a shrug. “I’m just a businessman with a niche product.”