“RECOMMENDATIONS OF THE THIRD ECONOMIC AFFAIRS COMMITTEE.”
Walter grudgingly picked up a copy. Theo took the other one and read it. He skipped the first part of the thirty-page report and had a quick glance at the recommendations: rate cuts, quantitative easing, VAT cuts, infrastructure investment.
“How, may I ask, are you planning to finance these?” Walter asked, tossing the report back on the table.
“Gas revenue,” the PM replied.
“Oh yes, that family inheritance that successive governments have squandered.” Walter snorted.
“Madam Prime Minister, I’m afraid none of this is going to work for the simple reason that you’re trying to fight this recession with measures from the last one,” Theo explained. “Have you been tracking Afterlife Dollars since the crash? It’s gone up nearly thirty-seven percent in two weeks. More than gold or any of the other traditional safe havens. So all that money you’re going to pump into the system through monetary easing or government debt is going to create more Afterlife Dollars instead of stimulating demand. This is likely to lead to serious inflation.”
“What would you recommend, Mr. Van Aartsen?” she enquired, fingering the beads of her pearl necklace.
“The same thing I did all those years ago.”
“That’s impossible! There’ll be riots if I touch people’s afterlife investments. There will be hell.”
“Hell’s already here, Madam Prime Minister. It’s already here,” Theo said, clenching his jaw. “I’ve seen it. It was right in the middle of one of the most beautiful parks in Amsterdam. I saw how people were living there, eking out a subhuman existence. Many years ago, you had a chance to nip this in the bud, with manageable political fallout. You chose not to. Maybe you were trapped by an ideology. Maybe you were too scared of losing the elections. But that was then. Let’s talk about now. You have two choices now. Just two. Rein in Afterlife Dollars with a tax, or increase government debt and risk runaway inflation. You’re fucked either way. You might as well do the right thing.”
28.
THE INTERCITY SERVICE ROLLED OUT OF THE Hague Central station. On the upper deck, Walter folded his arms and dozed off. He’d hardly said a word after the meeting with the PM. There was nothing left to say. Theo leaned on the window.
Soon, the flat countryside passed before his eyes: fields neatly partitioned by rows of silver birch; farmhouses with red sloping roofs whizzing by in the foreground, church spires in the distance, unhurried; ditches running alongside the tracks swelling into canals lined with flat-roofed houseboats. A picture of serene normality until the cities rushed past. Linden. Haarlem. Everywhere the same story—deserted industrial estates, tent cities, men trawling the trackside looking for scrap metal, rundown housing estates with orange flags in the windows.
Soon, the train squealed to a halt at Amsterdam Centraal. Walter jerked out of his sleep. After disembarking, they shook hands and went their separate ways.
In the foyer, Theo stopped to admire a busker hunched over a piano. The man’s long fingers glided over the keys, prizing out a string of melancholy notes that seemed to echo with the times.
Theo dropped some money into the upturned hat. As he went to put his wallet back in his pocket, a homeless man appeared out of nowhere. Theo gave him a note too, which of course had the effect of attracting more beggars. Before he knew it, he was mobbed by a circle of outstretched arms vying for his generosity. He fumed at this sudden attack of need, as if he were being exploited. Then he realized what a joke that was.
While everyone else was losing their homes and livelihoods, he’d been accumulating wealth like a feudal lord, selling his properties when the market was at its peak and plowing the money into farmland because he’d correctly guessed it would hold its value. Now he had everything: money, shares, property, enough wealth to last him perhaps two lifetimes. How could he possibly think he was exploited?
He opened his wallet and fed the outstretched hands before him. When he ran out of notes, he gave coins. When he ran out of coins, he gave away his watch. Then he mumbled “sorry” and hurriedly pushed past them.
How did you cope with the skewed results of life’s lottery? Ignore it till all the misery around you became wallpaper? He envied his neighbors who lived in the Oud-Zuid bubble. They drank brandy, smoked cigars and acted as if the tent city in Vondelpark or beggars in Museumplein didn’t exist. He wished he could be a bit more like them. But he’d signed away the right to bury his head in the sand a long time ago.
The beggars from the station continued to occupy his thoughts that night. As he lay in bed, he also cast his mind back to the squalor in the tent city he’d witnessed a few weeks earlier. The following morning, he drove to an industrial estate just off the main artery connecting Amsterdam to Haarlem. He passed a series of grey blocks scarred by graffiti and came to a yard. A few dozen second-hand food trucks were stationed on the tarmac, their waxed chassis gleaming in the late-morning sun.
He parked beside a container office. A man greeted him as soon as he stepped out of his car, late thirties, greasy blond hair, clip-on tie, cheap cologne.
“I’m just having a look around,” Theo informed the man.
He strolled the yard inspecting the trucks, the man shadowing him at a distance. Most vehicles still bore the logos of their previous owners. But one of them looked like it had arrived straight from the factory floor. When he went in through the back door, he observed that the inside looked just as pristine. Not a spot of grease on the appliances, splashback or vents. When tested, the burners hissed and freezers hummed.
“Why don’t you take her for a spin?” the man suggested, perhaps sniffing a sale.
Theo drove it around the block. He was no automotive expert, but the handling seemed good. The brakes worked, and he didn’t hear any worrying noises.
“Is this your best price?” he enquired, pointing to the windscreen sticker.
“It’s brand new. Try getting a brand-new truck for this price.”
“Then why’s it still here?”
The man smiled, baring crooked yellow teeth. “Don’t screw me. I gotta eat.”
The following week, Theo picked up the truck from the paint shop. It had been sprayed black with white slanting letters on the side.
“Een Warme Maaltijd.”
One hot meal.
He drove it back home, where the next piece of the puzzle was waiting for him: three men with shaved heads and black T-shirts. They used to work in a restaurant he frequented before it closed down early the year before.
He invited them into his living room. While he was in the midst of explaining his plans for the food truck, one of them interrupted. “We’re chefs, not cooks,” he said. The other two tilted their bulbous noses in agreement.
Theo nodded as if he understood, but thereafter took great pains to ensure he used the word “cook” as often as he could.
The next week, he invited a nutrition expert to the menu meeting. Once again, there were murmurs of protest from the three amigos. Well, from two. The third one sat glumly, arms folded. From the look on his face, it appeared he was beginning to understand the score. He must have had a word with the other two when they went out for a cigarette, because they came back strangely acquiescent.
A few weeks later, when the permits finally came through, Theo drove the truck to Nieuwmarkt, crawling behind the army of cyclists in the cobbled alleyways between crouched buildings.
He parked in the main square next to a red medieval structure with tall doors and round towers: remnants of the original city gate. He climbed down from the truck, pleasantly surprised to see the three amigos had arrived before him.
They donned aprons and got to work. Soon, the breeze carried the smell of grilled meat and advertised it in the square. A small crowd approached the truck gingerly, grimy rag dolls of human beings, licking their lips.
“Free food. You don’t need a reservation. Come on,” Theo touted.
Before long, a l
ine of hungry stomachs snaked from the truck. He stood to one side, smiling as they shovelled food into their mouths and let out a string of appreciative mmms and aahs.
The scenes triggered a recollection from many years earlier, when Theo was thirteen and had earned his first paycheck working in the butcher’s shop. He decided to spend it by treating Hans and Mathias to a meal at FEBO, a restaurant that dispensed fast food in vending machines. Burgers, croquettes, hot dogs and hamburgers were placed behind rows of steel doors set in the wall, which could be opened by inserting a token. Theo got a whole bunch of them from the cashier and divided them into three equal piles, one for Hans, one for Mathias, one for himself.
They sat on high stools and stuffed their faces as if they hadn’t eaten in days. Especially Mathias, who’d just discovered the gym and had several concealed compartments in his stomach.
“Can I have another one?” he asked after a while.
Theo raised an eyebrow. “Have you used yours up already?”
“I don’t hoard like you lot. My motto is carpe diem. Seize the fries.” Mathias patted his belly.
“You can watch while we carpe diem our hot dogs.” Theo snorted.
Mathias made a sad face and looked yearningly at a tradesman munching on a hamburger at the next table.
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” Theo sighed, unable to watch his friend’s torment. He opened his fist to Mathias. There were two tokens in his palm.
“Just one.”
But Mathias snatched both and dashed off to the wall.
“Hey!”
Theo jumped off the stool and went after him. But by the time he got there, Mathias had already removed two burgers and taken a big bite out of them.
Nearly thirty years later, Hans was dead, and Mathias had dropped off the face of the earth. Both somehow related to Afterlife Dollars.
29.
THEO KNOCKED AND HELD THE CHILLED WINE bottle to his face, sighing with pleasure as it cooled his skin. According to the papers, it was the hottest August on record. And it sure felt like it. Nature’s thermostat wrecked, just like the economy.
A few seconds later, Valerie’s svelte figure materialized in the doorway, signs of creeping age carefully concealed beneath the makeup. The translucent white dress highlighted her contours, but he didn’t allow his gaze to linger for fear of reawakening old feelings.
“Come on in.”
She linked arms and escorted him to the living room, where he was welcomed by the sight of Jan sprawled out on the sofa, drops of sweat beading his weak chin, log-like legs covered in a thick pelt of ginger fur.
Jan squinted at the sight of Theo and his wife standing arm in arm. “You look cozy. Are you having an affair?”
“Maybe,” Valerie responded with a sly look. “Perhaps I can get him to pay for my Botox.”
“You can have her. Been there, done that,” Theo said, feigning boredom.
“Hey!” Valerie punched him lightly.
It had been many years since they’d split up. Enough time for the bitterness to pass and allow for a facade of friendship, however shallow.
The room was black and white. A bit like Valerie. Theo settled on a white armchair while Valerie snuggled up to Jan on the black sofa.
“Any news of Mathias?” It was the first question Theo asked anyone these days.
Valerie shook her head to say no.
“I went to his apartment the other day. No one there.”
“Don’t worry. Mathias will survive. By hook or by crook. Remember the time he sold pills in the nightclub?”
Theo frowned. “That’s what worries me. I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Jan coughed in an attempt to draw attention to himself.
“Valerie tells me you went to The Hague. Does the government have any ideas on how to sort out the economy?” he enquired.
“They do. But not good ones. Nothing’s going to happen. Not while this government’s in power,” Theo moaned.
“I don’t believe mainstream parties are capable of getting us out of this mess. We need to think outside the box.”
Theo slanted an eyebrow. “What do you mean, outside the box?”
Then it struck him.
“Not the Orange Shirts!”
Jan shrugged. “Can they be any worse than what we’ve got now? I mean, sure, I don’t agree with some of the things they say. But they have a point.”
“About what?”
“The Chinese haven’t exactly been playing fair, have they? Cheapening their imports by maintaining a low exchange rate, then using their trade surplus to buy up Western assets.”
“No one had a problem when we were buying shirts for ten euro,” Theo scoffed. “It’s one thing to want to correct a trade imbalance, but it’s another thing to spread hate and xenophobia. Besides, I question the economic efficacy of going after the Chinese. Industries and skills that have long disappeared can’t be reinstated overnight. And neither are consumers willing to pay for high labor costs. The move is only going to worsen inflation. China isn’t the problem here. It’s Afterlife Dollars. That’s what’s caused this downturn. But no one wants to do a damn thing about it. If it were me, if I were PM …” For a moment, Theo pictured himself in Elke’s chair. “I’d tax the hell out of them. Actually, forget taxing. I’d ban the damn thing.” He thumped the armrest.
“The hell you would,” Jan hissed. “I’d kill you if you did.”
Theo flinched at the sudden vehemence.
Fucker’s invested in Afterlife Dollars.
The veneer of friendship carefully built over time shattered as Theo stared, fueled by the same hate he’d felt all those years ago when the gorilla had stolen Valerie from him.
Jan slid forward in his seat. “Say it,” he snarled, veins bulging under the skin in his forehead.
“Honey.” A worried-looking Valerie touched his arm, but he pushed her away.
“Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say what you’re thinking. I know what you were thinking.”
Theo cackled. “So you’re a mind reader now. Okay, tell me, what was I thinking?”
“Stop provoking him,” Valerie snapped.
“You stay out of this,” Theo shot back.
“Hey! Don’t talk to my wife like that.” Jan’s big hands clenched into fists.
“Before she became your wife, she was my girlfriend. I can say what I want,” Theo spat.
The room was charged, like the atmosphere before a lightning strike. One word was all it was going to take.
“I’m pregnant.”
Theo arched his neck. Jan jerked his head. Both of them turned to Valerie, who was beaming, all teeth. The moment was surreal. Almost comedic. If the announcement was timed to defuse a bomb, it certainly worked. From wanting to punch Theo a few seconds earlier, Jan now looked like a coy bride.
Theo let go of the armrests and leaned back, muscles slackening as tension slowly drained from the room.
“Wow. That’s big news. Congratulations,” he said, forcing a smile.
“It was an accident,” Valerie divulged, slipping her hand into Jan’s. “But we’re glad it happened. As you know, my dad disappeared after I was born. Jan’s mother left when he was three. So it’ll be nice to have our own family. We’d ask you to be the godfather, but I know how you feel about babies.”
She turned to Jan. “One time, when Theo and I flew to Majorca, we were seated next to a mother with a screaming baby. You should’ve seen the fuss he kicked up. Do you remember?”
Theo confessed he didn’t.
“You know what he said to the mother when she gave us filthy looks?” Valerie continued. “He said he’d ask for a change of seat even if the baby were his.”
Valerie laughed, and Jan responded with a distant smile. Theo raised a cheek while an old feeling worked its way inside him. A twinge of jealousy, when he’d thought the past was a dot in the rearview mirror. Was that the real reason she’d left him?
Because he didn’t want a child?
Every decision in life—whether it was purchasing a car, giving money to a beggar or having a baby—was ultimately driven by cost-benefit analysis. A course of action was deemed viable when the benefits, material or emotional, outweighed the cost in terms of money, time, effort or inconvenience. And the simple truth was, the equation just wasn’t stacking up for him as far as fatherhood was concerned. He’d heard some people describe it as a transcendental experience, the moment you realized you were no longer the center of the universe. But that wasn’t something he could relate to. Nor was he compelled by egotistic motives of leaving a legacy, creating a mini-him. Did the world really need another fussy, awkward, passive-aggressive human being who fretted about everything and carried a mountain of baggage?
He looked across to the sofa as Valerie craned her neck to kiss Jan.
“When’s the baby due?” he asked, feigning interest.
30.
THE MERCURY HIT FORTY CELSIUS IN THE BLAZE of the late-morning sun. The food truck, with its burning grill and roaring hobs, felt like the innards of a volcano. At the serving window, a man eyed the plate of meat and salad placed before him. His face was red, with snail trails of sweat slicing through the grit on his skin.
“How about some ice cream?” the man demanded.
“We’ve only got this.” Theo offered a bottle of cold water from the freezer.
“How about some beer?” The man flashed a sly grin, like a child testing the limits. He was also testing Theo’s patience, frayed severely by the scorching heat.
“Next,” Theo said, looking over the man’s shoulder.
A lady came up to the counter, baseball cap tipped back, strands of brown hair stuck to her glistening forehead.
“What about you, madam? Do you have any special demands?”
“Yeah. Make this goddamn recession go away,” the lady said.
“I did try to stop it. But no one listened.”
He heaped an extra helping of salad on the plate and slid it across the counter. As he went to serve the next in line, he was distracted by a small group of Orange Shirts drifting into the square.
Dead Money Page 32