Dead Money

by Srinath Adiga

  She showed him her middle finger.

  Their bickering was interrupted by the arrival of loud voices. A group of thirty-odd Orange Shirts had gathered around William’s statue, chanting “Nederlandse Trots.” Dutch Pride. The last time Theo had seen these racists was over a year earlier at Hans’s funeral, when they’d staged a rally outside the crematorium. He remembered their leader, Charles Barbour, making a sleazy remark when Mara had squared up to him. Her face was now curdled with disgust, perhaps from the memory of the incident.

  A few moments later, Charles’s reedy figure stood on a milk crate, one hand holding a megaphone, the other pointing to the statue behind him.

  “That up there is William of Orange. The man who freed us from the tyranny of the Spaniards and gave us our independence. I wonder what he’d make of Muslims taking over this country he gave up his life for. What would William do were he alive today? Would he stand back and let them build mosques, open halal restaurants and impose their sharia law? No way. Unfortunately, we don’t have someone like William running this country. Instead, we have a bunch of spineless politicians who allow the cancer of Islam to spread under the guise of multiculturalism. There’s no hope. No hope at all. In fact, I’m starting to think that if we can’t beat these Muslims, we should join them. Maybe I should just grow a beard and make my wife wear a burqa. Because this is the future of our country. Islamic Republic of the Netherlands …”

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Mara hissed. Theo raised his arm for the bill. For once, they were in agreement.

  22.

  THE OFFICES OF THE EU WERE CONCENTRATED in a five-square-kilometer zone in east Brussels. Theo’s rendezvous was in the fourth floor of an ugly nineties’ block with pink granite walls and large tinted windows.

  He arrived at the venue ahead of everyone else. It was a standard boardroom: light wood panels; blue carpet with EU stars; bottles of water and white porcelain cups evenly spaced on a long, oval table. After locating the AV equipment, he connected his laptop to the projector to make sure everything was working.

  Once he’d finished setting up, he stood beside the door, hands clasped behind his back. As he waited for the ministers, he tried to ignore the churning anxiety in his stomach. While he’d been trying to warn politicians of a catastrophic economic crisis, his own finances were on the brink of Armageddon. His bank account was now down to five hundred euro. Not enough for the next instalment of his mortgage.

  What am I going to do?

  Would Walter come through with the job offer he’d promised a few weeks earlier? So far, Theo hadn’t seen any signs of it.

  He took a deep breath to arrest these thoughts before they spiraled out of control.

  The wall behind him went black as his computer slipped into power-saver mode. The ministers arrived shortly, a procession of grey and blue suits with ties making concessions to individuality. The German’s gold noose matched his thinning blond hair, while the Englishman’s dark pink set off eyes that appeared fatigued from a night of excesses. Italy wore green. France, Sweden and a few others came in various shades of blue. Walter sported a patriotic orange. The last to arrive was the American secretary of the treasury. He was in Brussels to sign a trade agreement with the EU and Walter had engineered a minor coup by getting him to attend this meeting.

  After the room settled, Theo introduced himself, loosening the air with a couple of jokes before starting his presentation.

  He hit the space bar on his computer, expecting to see the opening slide on the wall. But to his complete horror, a string of words stared from a wash of blue:

  “Fatal error. Press Ctrl + Alt + Del.”

  Not now.

  He apologized to the room and rebooted his computer. As the machine whirred and whooshed in the uneasy silence, his face threatened to turn the same color as the Englishman’s tie.

  “Murphy’s law,” he said, trying to defuse the embarrassment. “When something can go wrong, it will.”

  “Isn’t that the name of our Irish colleague? Where’s he?” the Englishman said, looking around the table. “Maybe he can fix it.”

  “He isn’t here,” the German replied in a dour voice.

  “That would be logical, wouldn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if everything that can go wrong does go wrong, it would stand to reason that the person who caused it wouldn’t be around to fix it,” the Englishman argued.

  Just then, the computer came on, but this time, it was the projector’s turn to misbehave. Theo clenched his fist as sighs of impatience broke out behind his back. He did the only thing one with limited technical knowledge could do, which was to turn off the devices at the mains, turn them back on and pray.

  This time-tested technique worked, thankfully. As the delay had cost him a few minutes, he rushed through his presentation, stumbling on more than one occasion. He invited questions after the last slide.

  For a few seconds, he was looking at a silent wall of knitted brows and skeptical frowns. The Englishman was the first to speak.

  “You say Afterlife Dollars are going to kill consumerism. Yet it’s very much a product of the consumer culture. Can you not see the contradiction in your argument?”

  “It’s not a contradiction when you see the bank’s message isn’t about giving up consumerism altogether. But deferring it to another life, where you can supposedly enjoy it forever.”

  “That sort of mumbo jumbo might work in oriental countries. But we’re an agnostic society. We’re all about the here and now.”

  “Once again, data’s showing something else,” Theo argued. “In the last three years, the market share of Afterlife Dollars in Europe has grown an average of seventeen percent. It’s all in the language. Bank of Eternity has been careful to avoid overtly religious terminology in their advertising. Instead, their marketing has been based on fear of missing out and buzzwords such as ‘afterlife-style.’ However ridiculous that might sound, it seems to be working. East or west, some things don’t change. We all want to live happily ever after, don’t we?”

  “Not me.” A morose voice surfaced from the other side of the table. It was the German. He had the face to go with the voice: grey, sagging, mouth turned down at the corners.

  “You don’t want to live forever, Josef?” The Englishman slanted an eyebrow.

  “No. He means he wants to live miserably ever after,” someone said.

  The German dismissed him with a wave. “Do you have something that actually validates your theory?” he asked.

  “The data from the last two quarters shows a strong correlation between the exchange rate of Afterlife Dollars and the dip in key economic indicators,” Theo replied.

  “But that could be caused by the debt crisis, no?”

  “Possibly. But highly unlikely.”

  “Ah, we’re talking probabilities now.”

  “I see dark clouds. I think it’s going to rain.” Theo shrugged.

  “Mr. Van Aartsen,” the German said, splaying his crooked fingers on the table. “My father was a simple, hardworking factory worker, but he had one vice, if you can call it that. Playing the lottery. He used to purchase a ticket every week on payday. His friends used to say, Christopher, you’re a fool, you’re never going to win. But he did, one day. A few ten-thousand marks. You know what he did with that money? Installed a nuclear shelter in our backyard. This was the year American and Russian tanks faced off at Checkpoint Charlie. At that time, it seemed like a good idea. Needless to say, the shelter was never used, and the family that bought the house from us converted it into a wine cellar. The point of my long-winded story is, in our enthusiasm to predict the end of the world, we often overestimate man’s stupidity and underestimate his desire for survival.”

  “I’m afraid this isn’t an equation about self-preservation. This is about self-interest versus the welfare of the greater community,” Theo replied. “Also, the decision to use nuclear weapons rests in the hands of a f
ew individuals, presumably acting in accordance with the principles of mutually assured destruction. With Afterlife Dollars however, that decision is being made at an individual level, based on considerations of self-interest. How will you control the behavior of seven billion people? What really worries me is that at a philosophical level, Afterlife Dollars are undermining this life. Just like suicide bombers, consumers are being conditioned to believe that what really matters is the next life. And they’re more likely to press the button when they care less about this world.”

  “We live in a materialistic society,” said the American. He had silver hair and sharp brown eyes. “I refuse to believe that people will forsake worldly pleasures for unverifiable rewards in an afterlife. I just don’t see that happening. I mean sure, some folks might. But most won’t. I think we’ll come to a point of equilibrium.”

  “That’s the trouble. I’m struggling to see an equilibrium when the exchange rate is rising sharply and there’s no opposing force to drag it back. Besides, isn’t the phenomenon of consumerism relatively new—”

  “I disagree,” the American countered sharply. “I believe we’ve been consumers since we lived in caves. The only thing that’s changed with progress is that we have access to more goods. Coming back to your point about the exchange rate, isn’t the current demand being fueled by fears of a Mayan apocalypse?”

  “Yes, that’s having an impact.”

  “So once it passes, things should be back on an even keel.”

  “I very much doubt it. The product is bigger than an end-of-the-world scare,” Theo said. “It addresses some of our most basic fears: fear of dying, fear of being poor, fear of missing out. These aren’t going anywhere. On top of that, you’ve got demand from Afterlife Dollar investments. We’re dealing with a very complex problem here.”

  There were more questions. Unlike the group at The Hague, this lot was really grilling him.

  “Gentlemen, I understand your resistance to the ideas in my presentation,” he said in conclusion. “The business of forecasting is tricky. We can only see what’s in the headlights. What lies beyond is a matter of debate. You say this is going to happen. I say that. We all have our reasons for believing what we do. However, there’s no denying one thing: what’s happening out there is unprecedented in the history of money. So far, the global economy has been a closed system. But now, we’re seeing a flight of capital to a shadowy destination called the afterlife. This is a totally new paradigm. Even if you don’t agree with me about where this could lead, we ought to at least investigate it.”

  “Hey, aren’t you the Grim Reaper?” a voice said.

  Theo stiffened. It was the Frenchman. He’d been staring disconcertingly from the end of the table for the last few minutes. Suddenly, they were all studying Theo closely, as if he were an animal in a zoo.

  “My God, he is, too!”

  “You should have come in your costume.”

  “Better yet, you should have sent us a video.”

  “Get off my turf.”

  A different room now: everyone laughing, joking. And Theo at the fringe of this boys’ club, smiling sheepishly. He turned to Walter, who was gathering his things. Soon, others joined him. One by one, they left, like air seeping out of a balloon.

  Theo’s forlorn figure stood in the empty room, disconnecting the laptop, putting it away. Then he pounded his fist on the table.

  23.

  An open letter to Walter Martens, Hon’ble Minister of Finance.

  Dear Minister,

  In response to your proposed tax on Afterlife Dollars, we’d like to begin by saying we have the utmost respect for your abilities. We’re aware of your impressive track record in the corporate world, but we believe in this instance, you might be misguided.

  Here are some facts:

  Fact 1: Afterlife Dollars drive growth.

  •The retail and investment parts of the financial services sector have grown at 13 percent per year since the launch of Afterlife Dollars. More importantly, our product has provided a much-needed psychological boost for an industry crippled by the global financial crisis of 2008.

  Fact 2: Afterlife Dollars create jobs.

  •In Europe alone, we employ a total of 131,123 full-and part-time staff. Many more are employed by industries associated with us, such as afterlife financial planning. We are currently one of the biggest engines for employment generation.

  Fact 3: Afterlife Dollars do NOT discourage spending.

  •The current slowdown has been attributed to the sovereign debt crisis. This isn’t a matter of opinion; it’s been said by your own economists. If we’ve created thousands of jobs, then one can argue that we’ve in fact boosted spending.

  Fact 4: Afterlife Dollars fuel positive sentiment.

  •We all know markets are driven by sentiment. Thanks to Afterlife Dollars, the mood in Zuidas, not to mention Wall Street and other major financial centers, is one of optimism. A vibrant financial sector, as we know, is crucial for growth.

  •But there’s something else, the effects of which we shouldn’t underestimate, and that is the spiritual well-being of our customers. When they know that their next life has been taken care of, they can embrace this one with gusto and become more productive citizens. This can only benefit the economy.

  Mr. Finance Minister, we understand that our product, by its very nature, inspires passionate opinions. But as men of finance, we must be guided by logic and numbers, not passion.

  Sincerely,

  Thomas Stromberg, Chairman

  Bank of Eternity

  The letter had been published as a full-page advert. The newspaper crackled in Theo’s hands. Afterlife Dollars creating jobs, encouraging spending. What spin doctor came up with this bullshit? And how did they know about the tax? It hadn’t even been discussed in the cabinet.

  He tossed aside the newspaper and picked up his phone. It rested in the meat of his palm as he weighed up whether to call Walter. They hadn’t spoken since that disaster in Brussels three weeks earlier. Theo had left numerous messages on his voicemail but didn’t get a call back.

  A few minutes later, the phone did ring. He looked at the caller ID, disappointed when it wasn’t Walter.

  “Turn on the news,” Mara’s voice crackled in his ear when he answered.

  He picked up the remote with his free hand and switched on the TV. The screen flickered with images of a noisy demonstration at Dam Square, a large group of people waving banners and chanting against the sooty backdrop of the Royal Palace.

  The reporter, an aging Barbie-doll type, had a hand pressed to her ear as she raised her voice over the crowd noise.

  “The sight of anti-Afterlife Dollar demonstrations is all too familiar. But this isn’t one of those. These people are for Afterlife Dollars.”

  She turned to interview an elderly couple.

  “Sir, madam, can you tell us why you are here?”

  The man spoke, his eyes sharp with fury.

  “The government wants to tax our afterlife savings. We pay taxes all our lives. Do we have to pay them even when we’re dead?”

  The man turned to his silver-haired companion, whose face puffed with outrage.

  “What’s the tax for? Are they providing us services in the afterlife? We’ve worked hard all our lives. We should be entitled to happiness when it’s over. It’s a fundamental human right. What the finance minister is proposing is not a tax. It’s an attack on our freedom.”

  The interview was interrupted by a commotion behind the couple. Four men emerged from the crowd, bearing a large black coffin on their shoulders. They laid it down near the reporter’s feet. One of the pallbearers, a burly man in his early forties, yelled:

  “This is a message to our finance minister!”

  He pointed down, directing the camera to a “No entry” sign on the coffin lid.

  “Stay out of our afterlives, Walter, you hear? Stay out.”

  “Attack on freedom?” Mara hissed in Theo’s ear. H
e’d forgotten she was on the line. “What freedom? I hate that word now. It’s being used by anyone wanting to protect their narrow self-interests.”

  “Did you see the letter in the paper this morning?” he asked.

  “Yes. Do you think it’s a coincidence?”

  “No way. They’ve somehow found out about the tax and have launched a campaign to preempt it.”

  “Where’s Walter? What’s he got to say about all this?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know? I’m not his secretary,” he snapped. “Hey, why so touchy?”

  Theo sighed, not sure what had upset him more: being dumped by Walter or the fact that he was no longer in the middle of the action and had to rely on the news, just like everyone else.

  This bitterness lingered after he finished his call with Mara. But he couldn’t afford to dwell on it for too long, as there was a more pressing matter to attend to.

  He opened his laptop and logged in to his online bank account. A wave of relief washed over him when he saw his balance. The sale of his Alpha Capital stock options had gone through and the money was in his account, enough to keep the wolves at bay for another three months. And then what? He couldn’t just keep liquidating his assets till there was nothing left.

  He needed a job. By now, it was obvious that he couldn’t expect one from Walter. So what was he going to do? Flip burgers? Stack shelves? Drive a taxi?

  He clenched his jaw and glared at the newspaper on the coffee table. The bane of his existence stared back at him. The Bank of Eternity ad. Afterlife Dollars. He had to walk away before it destroyed him.

  Just then the phone rang. His eyes widened when he saw the number.

  He let it ring three times before answering.

  “I’m at Cafe Max on Prinsengracht. Meet me here,” Walter said. From the tone, Theo knew something was wrong.

  CAFE MAX WAS a brown bar stained by three centuries of smoke. Framed vintage posters and yellowed nautical maps adorned the walls. A collection of dull brass antiques hung above the bar: bugle, coffeepot, goblet, beer mug, weighing scales. Theo walked past a noisy group of men and women clad in bathrobes. They appeared to be savoring a celebratory drink after completing the Amsterdam canal swim.