Dead Money

by Srinath Adiga

  Walter hunched at a table beside the fireplace, shockingly disheveled for someone who never had a hair out of place. He pinched the stem of his white-wine glass.

  “Are you okay?” Theo asked.

  Walter looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “You ought to know before you hear it in the news tonight. I resigned.”

  Theo’s face fell. “Why?”

  “Officially, for reasons of health.”

  “Unofficially?”

  “What do you think?” Walter snapped, then raised his hand as a gesture of apology. “Apparently, I was too aggressive in pursuing an Afterlife Dollar tax. No one wants it. The Liberals oppose it on grounds of ideology. The Christian Democrats have a heart attack every time you mention tax.”

  “B-but, couldn’t they see why you were proposing it?”

  “People see what they want to see.”

  “And what does the PM see?”

  “She sees herself losing her job if I’m allowed to carry on. She couldn’t understand why I was so obsessed with Afterlife Dollars when we have bigger fish to fry.”

  “Bigger fish. This is a barracuda.”

  “Someone leaked your report. I don’t know who. But the bank got hold of it and went on a PR blitz. You saw the protests this morning. That was them. They’ve created a perception that Afterlife Dollars has popular support. You see, Theo, the coalition game is all about percentages. You don’t need to convince a vast majority of the people. You just need to win the margins. That’s why my colleagues ran scared. In the end, it was me versus the rest of them.”

  Theo grimaced. And here he thought Walter had dumped him for political expediency.

  “I’m sorry. I feel all this is my fault. I got you involved—”

  “Please. Spare me your guilt trip. I don’t regret fighting. I regret losing. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s me. I let you down because I didn’t know how to play the game.”

  “Why did you do it, Walter? You could’ve just ignored my report.”

  “Guess I could’ve. But as my grandfather used to say, you have to do the right thing. Even if it means paying the price.”

  Theo looked at him closely. For the first time, he noticed the resemblance to Walter’s resistance-hero grandfather: the silver eyes, aristocratic nose.

  “So what now?” Theo asked.

  “The good news is my old employers want me back. So I’m going to enjoy a seat in first class while the ship heads for the iceberg,” Walter said.

  “Surely this can’t be it! They’ve got to do something. They can’t ignore it completely.”

  “I’m afraid that’s exactly what’s going to happen. There are no grownups in the room. Not here. Not anywhere. You know what the worst thing is? When the ship goes down, these jerks will find a seat on the lifeboat. It’s the ones in the lower decks who’re going to get fucked.”

  Walter ripped up a soggy coaster and threw the pieces on the table. Then raised his glass and signaled “another one” to the bar.

  Theo felt a sick, hollow feeling in his stomach. That morning, he’d been worried about his finances. But now, there was a bigger problem. Much bigger than anything he had the capacity to imagine.

  “I hope I’m wrong, Walter,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Wrong about what?”

  “About the crisis. I hope there’s no iceberg and we cross the ocean safely.”

  “If it turns out you’re wrong, I’ll breathe a sigh of relief,” Walter said. “Then I’ll come and kick your ass.”

  24.

  A RED-AND-YELLOW SIGN GLOWED IN THE autumn mist: Premier Properties. The lights in the plate-glass window were still burning. Theo pushed open the door, activating a bell that echoed amidst the rows of empty desks. Mathias’s muscular figure emerged from his office, sleeves rolled up, forearm crackling with grooves. A disc of light shone on his bald head.

  “I’m sorry. We’re closed,” he said. Then he slapped his forehead. “Oh, it’s you, Theo. I’ve forgotten what you look like.”

  “Sorry. I know it’s been a while.”

  “A while? How about a century? Don’t tell me it’s because you’ve been busy. You’re not working. What exactly are you up to?”

  Theo shrugged. “Stuff. I saw your light was on, so I thought I’d drop by.”

  “I practically live here these days. Come through.”

  Mathias’s desk was like a bomb site of loose sheets of paper, scattered folders and open ring binders. A pizza box balanced precariously at the edge. He fished a bottle of vodka from his drawer.

  “Drink?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Theo sat down.

  Mathias shook his head. “Don’t know how you do it. I need a release, otherwise I’d go mad.”

  He tipped some vodka into a coffee mug. “Cheers.”

  Theo cupped his hand as if holding an imaginary glass and raised it. “I’ve got some business for you,” he announced.

  “Business is always welcome.”

  “I’m thinking of selling my properties.”

  “Which one?”

  “All.”

  Mathias raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t recommend it. In fact, I’d say you’re crazy. House prices went up fifteen percent last year, twenty this year. They’ll keep going up and up. If you sell, you’ll find it hard to get back into the market. Is this because you need the money? I can lend you some.”

  “I’m not selling because I need the money,” Theo said, irked by the patronizing tone.

  “Then why are you selling?”

  “I have reason to believe house prices won’t keep going up and up as you say.”

  Theo explained to his friend the same thing he’d told the politicians in The Hague and Brussels.

  “This is going to be the mother of all crashes. Virtually every industry will be hit—including real estate. You may be more exposed because the bulk of your business is investment property.”

  For a few seconds, Mathias’s face was expressionless, like a child that had been told something it didn’t quite understand.

  “Impossible. House prices always go up. Remember what you said to me all those years ago?” he said. “Supply—i.e., land—is fixed, while the demand—i.e., population—is growing all the time. You can’t lose in real estate. Those were your words. Remember?”

  Theo nodded. “Yes. I remember. I remember very well. But things have changed. The dream of home ownership is being replaced by something else. From an investment perspective, Afterlife Dollars are appreciating way faster than anything on the market. Property, gold, shares. It’s becoming the most attractive option for storing wealth. That’s why even people who don’t necessarily believe in it are investing in it.”

  “But this can’t happen! There may be ups and downs, but house prices have always gone up in the long term.”

  “There was a time when salt was the most valuable commodity on earth. More valuable than gold or silver, because there was no other way to preserve meat. But now you can get it for less than two euro at the supermarket. Nothing has any intrinsic value. The price tag is just a figure that represents how much society values something at any given moment. That can change. Everything changes.”

  But even as he uttered these words, Theo detected an invisible wall going up on the other side of the desk. The same wall he’d encountered in those rooms in The Hague and Brussels.

  “I’m sorry, Mathias. I know this isn’t what you want to hear. But forewarned is forearmed. Just hold back investing in new offices and relook at your business model.”

  Mathias gulped down his drink, wiping a dribble with the back of his fist.

  “The government’s not going to let this happen.” He thumped the desk. “They’ll be all over this. You watch.”

  “The government?” Theo laughed bitterly. “The government’s too busy trying to stay in power. The only person who gave a shit got the boot today.”

  “Damn it, Theo. Why does it always have to be doom and gloom with you?
You’ve changed after Hans’s death. Afterlife Dollars has become like your … I don’t know … Ahab.”

  “You mean Moby Dick?”

  Suddenly Mathias rose, sending his chair rolling toward the map on the wall behind him. “You know what causes crashes? It’s people like you,” he spat.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you … with your negativity. You make crashes happen by talking about it. You know how hard I’ve worked for this business. You know what it means to me. And now you’re going to destroy it with your trash talk,” he said, and stormed off.

  A THIN STRIP of light shone in the gap between the curtains. The muffled noise of the TV confirmed she was awake. So Theo knocked.

  A few moments later, Mara’s bony figure materialized in the doorway, not surprised by his appearance at this late hour.

  “Come on in,” she said.

  Inside the living room, he fell heavily on the sofa and stretched legs stiff from hours of aimless wandering.

  “I suppose you heard the news?” He gestured to the TV, babbling away at a low volume.

  She nodded.

  “Our last hope gone.” He sighed. “You were wrong when you said governments give a shit only when the economy is threatened. Seems they don’t. This whole experience has shaken my faith in human rationality. You try to convince people using logic and facts. Yet no one wants to listen. After a while, you’re like a warning on a cigarette pack. No one gives a shit what you say, because they don’t think it’s going to happen to them. There are no Bond-movie villains stroking Persian cats, plotting to destroy the world. We do it ourselves, by creating institutions that divest individuals of moral responsibility and reward short-termism.”

  “Do you know how many decades of campaigning it took for politicians to even acknowledge global warming?”

  “We haven’t got decades. We need to act now.” He grimaced, sick at the sound of his own voice. Word after word, floating out of his mouth like dandelion seeds, going nowhere, achieving nothing. Nothing could be achieved.

  “I’m going to make myself some tea. Would you like some?” she asked.

  On another night, he would’ve said no. But tonight, he didn’t want to be on his own. He had no one else to turn to but Mara; nowhere else to go but this smelly, cluttered apartment; nothing to comfort him other than a brew that would likely taste like treacly dishwater. This crusade had cost him everything—job, lifestyle, friendships. But had given him nothing in return. Not even a small victory to savor. What else was it going to take? Nothing, because he’d been sucked dry, an empty shell of flesh clothed in black trousers and a grey cashmere sweater.

  A few moments later, she returned from the kitchen with two mugs. She sat next to him and they quietly watched a wildlife documentary on TV. A tiger prowled in the shadow of pine trees, leaving a trail of deep paw prints in the snow. Siberia, he guessed, unless the climate had changed so drastically that it was now snowing in South Asia. The low drone of the commentary was comforting white noise.

  A few moments later, he felt something. He looked down and saw Mara’s bare knee touching his. The heat of her skin seeping through the fabric of his trousers sent a tingle down the side of his thigh.

  It had been a while since he’d had sex, about six months, in fact. On that occasion, it was a university student with tongue piercings, black lipstick and a Megadeth T-shirt. He’d insisted on seeing her ID before taking her home. Later, he lay in bed, Grim Reaper cloak hitched up to his chest as she straddled him, whispering in his ear that she was fucking Death.

  The recollection triggered a pulsing ache in his groin. His eyes drilled through the thin fabric of Mara’s nightgown, scanning the outline of her small, perky breasts.

  Come to think of it, she wasn’t bad looking. A bit of styling and makeup, smart clothes, a few squirts of perfume to cover that vintage-store smell, she could be sexy in a waifish way. Of course, in all the time he’d known her, he’d never seen her make that effort. If anything, she seemed to go out of her way to be unattractive, presumably because she wanted to be taken seriously and not objectified. But unbeknownst to her, that’s exactly what he was doing.

  His eyes crawled the length of her body, stopping at the leg. Her nightgown had slid a long way up, exposing a dusting of blonde hair on her thighs. He considered laying a hand on it, testing the waters.

  Suddenly, he rose, snapping out of whatever was dragging him to a place he’d regret going.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, startled by the sudden movement.

  “I better go,” he blurted, averting her gaze.

  “I suppose it’s late.”

  He mumbled goodbye and left before his face flushed, or worse, he was betrayed by a telltale growth in his trousers. Out of sight in the corridor, he cringed.

  Sex with Mara. What was I thinking?

  He stood at the door, about to turn the brass handle, when it suddenly came to him. Out of the blue, as things often did. Maybe it was the sugar hit from the tea or the embarrassing burst of testosterone afterwards. But whatever it was, it had shaken his brain out of the stupor of self-pity and led him to an answer.

  He turned around and walked back to the living room. The TV was off. Mara emerged from the kitchen with a glass of water, looking surprised to see him.

  “How much savings have you got?” he asked.

  She arched her neck. “None of your bloody business.”

  “Actually, I want to make it my business. Have you considered what’ll happen when the shit hits the fan? How it will affect you personally?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what’s going to happen to that trust fund your uncle left behind?”

  “How do you know …” She gaped, unaware that her inheritance was possibly the world’s worst kept secret.

  “Where’s your money invested right now?”

  “Uh, some guy’s looking after it.” Signs of worry were creeping into her face. “Why’re you asking these questions?”

  “There’s a crash coming. Not tomorrow. Not the day after. But it is going to happen. And when it does, if your money’s in the wrong place, you could lose everything.”

  She swallowed. She had that look, not quite life flashing before the eyes, but close. That was the thing about money. You could get on your anti-capitalist high horse, label it the root of all evil. But often, this came from the privileged position of having it. Not millions maybe, but enough so it wasn’t a source of existential worry. Take that away, money didn’t become a subject of principle or dogma. It came down to your next meal and rent payment.

  “The coming economic crisis will destroy many industries,” he said. “But some will survive in the post-consumer world. The basic human necessities will remain. People need to eat. If they don’t go out to restaurants, they’ll eat more at home, which means supermarkets will thrive. The need for power, water, gas and heating won’t go away, either. When they don’t buy cars, they’ll use more public transport. If you know where to invest, you can preserve your capital. Perhaps even grow it.”

  “And you know where to invest?”

  “I know what’s coming. That’s a huge advantage in the financial markets. I may as well use it to help regular folks like you, because God knows the government’s not going to.”

  “What’re you going to call this fund? Noah’s Ark?”

  “Too religious. So would you like to be my second customer?”

  “Who’s the first?”

  “Me,” he replied. “I’m going all in.”

  A few years later

  25.

  THEO HAD PREDICTED THE CRASH WOULD OCCUR this year. But not on a day like this, a warm, sunny spring morning that promised a gloriously hot summer.

  He was in his “office,” a tenth-floor cafe overlooking the tea-colored waters of the harbor. The light streaming in the glass wall was the same yellow as the scrambled eggs on his plate.

  A text message beeped on the table. It was from Mara.
/>   “It’s happening.”

  He dropped his fork and picked up his phone to check the markets.

  FTSE down twenty-five percent, DAX down seventeen percent, CACS down twenty-one percent. Euronext 100 down eleven percent.

  A few hours earlier, Asia had reported panic selling in the last hour of trading. All signs indicated this wasn’t a flash crash.

  Mara was right. This had to be it.

  His heart ran as he pushed the plate away and opened his laptop, first to check the holdings in the portfolio, and then to start typing an email to his clients. “A stock-market crash isn’t the start of an economic malaise,” he wrote, “but a sign that after years of burying their heads in the sand, investors have finally woken up to it. The great crash is here. In every crash, there are winners and losers. Thanks to our preparedness, I’m pleased to report we’re in the former category.”

  He explained how all their short positions were coming in the money, making the fund several million euro richer. Once the market hit the bottom, he was going to scour the bargain bins for the stocks that would secure the portfolio’s long-term health.

  As he penned his message, he couldn’t help feeling pleased with himself, as his clients weren’t exactly high-net-worth individuals: teachers, nurses, tradesmen, small-business owners, retirees. Many of them had lost their jobs and depended on their investments for an income.

  After he sent off the email, he returned to the markets, where the bloodbath continued. A few minutes later, someone turned on the TV above the bar’s mirrored liquor shelf. The newscaster’s glum voice filled the premises.

  “Trading has been suspended in London, Paris, Frankfurt and other major centers as European markets witnessed an unprecedented crash …”

  The screen flashed scenes from various stock exchanges around the continent. The faces everywhere had the same blanched look as they stared at the monitors, hands on heads, as if they’d seen Death. A cruel smile spread across his face as he savored their shock and panic.