I shook my head and rolled my eyes. But what could I do? He was a grown man, wasn’t he? Well, yes and no. But that was besides the point. I needed to be thinking about Aunt Patricia right now. In a couple of hours I would be seeing her. She always had a calming influence over me. And a little bit of calming would go a long way.
“So, love,” said Aunt Patricia, strolling arm in arm with me along a narrow tree-lined path in London’s Hyde Park, “when shall we get started on this wonderful adventure of ours?”
I smiled warmly at Patricia, then took a deep breath and relished the cool British air, which at this particular moment was thicker than a bowl of split-pea soup. To my eyes, Hyde Park was very much like New York City’s Central Park, insofar as it being a tiny slice of heaven encircled by a burgeoning metropolis. I felt right at home here. Even with the fog, by ten a.m. the sun was high enough in the sky to bring the entire landscape into high relief—turning five hundred acres of lush fields and towering trees and well-trimmed bushes and immaculately groomed horse trails into a vision so picturesque it was worthy of a postcard. The park was favored with just the appropriate number of sinuous concrete walking paths, which were all freshly paved and hadn’t a speck of litter on them. Patricia and I were walking on one of them at this very moment.
For her part, Patricia looked beautiful. But it wasn’t the sort of beauty you see in a sixty-five-year-old woman in Town & Country magazine, the supposed barometer of what it means to age gracefully. Patricia was infinitely more beautiful than that. What she had was an inner beauty, a certain heavenly warmth that radiated from every pore of her body and resonated with every word that escaped her lips. It was the beauty of perfectly still water, the beauty of cool mountain air, and the beauty of a forgiving heart. Physically, though, she was entirely average. She was a bit shorter than I and on the slender side. She had shoulder-length reddish-brown hair, light blue eyes, and fair white cheeks, which bore the expected wrinkles of a woman who’d spent the greater part of her adolescence hiding in a bomb shelter beneath her tiny flat, to avoid the Nazi Blitz. She had a tiny gap between her two front teeth that revealed itself whenever she smiled, which was often—especially when the two of us were together. This morning she wore a long plaid skirt, a cream-colored blouse with gold-colored buttons running down the front, and a plaid jacket that matched her skirt perfectly. Nothing looked expensive, but it all looked dignified.
I said to Patricia, “If possible, I’d like to go to Switzerland tomorrow. But if that’s not good for you, I’ll wait in London as long as you like. I have some business here, anyway. I have a jet waiting at Heathrow that can have us in Switzerland in under an hour. If you want, we can spend the day together there and do some sightseeing or some shopping.
“But, again, Patricia”—I paused and looked her dead in the eye—“I want you to promise me you’re going to spend at least ten thousand pounds per month out of the account, okay?”
Patricia stopped in mid-stride, unhooked her arm from mine, and placed her right hand over her heart. “My child, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to spend that much money! I have everything I need. I really do, love.”
I took her hand in mine and began walking again. “Perhaps you have everything you need, Patricia, but I’m willing to bet you don’t have everything you want. Why don’t you start by buying yourself a car and stop taking those double-decker buses everywhere? And after you get a car, you can move to a bigger apartment that’s got enough room for Collum and Anushka to sleep over. Just think how nice it would be to have extra bedrooms for your two grandkids!”
I paused for a brief moment, then added, “And within the next few weeks I’ll have the Swiss bank issue you an American Express card. You can use it to pay all your expenses. And you can use it as often as you like and spend as much as you like, and you’ll never get a bill.”
“But who will pay the bloody bill?” she asked, with confusion.
“The bank will. And—like I said—the card will have no limit. Every pound you charge will bring a smile to my face.”
Patricia smiled, and we walked in silence for a while. But it wasn’t a poisonous silence. It was the sort of silence shared by two people who’re comfortable enough not to force a conversation ahead of its logical progression. I found this woman’s company to be incredibly soothing.
My left leg was feeling somewhat better now, but that had little to do with Patricia. Activity of any sort seemed to diminish the pain—whether it was walking, playing tennis, lifting weights, or even swinging a golf club, the latter of which seemed rather odd to me, considering the obvious stress it placed on my spine. Yet the moment I stopped, the burning would start. And once my leg caught fire, there was no way to extinguish it.
Just then Patricia said, “Come sit down with me, love,” and she led me toward a small wooden bench, just off the walking path. When we reached the bench we unhooked arms and Patricia sat down beside me. “I love you like a son, Jordan, and I am only doing this because it helps you—not because of the money. One thing you’ll find as you grow older is that, sometimes, money can be more trouble than it’s worth.” She shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, love, I’m not some silly old fool who’s lost her marbles and lives in a dream world where money doesn’t matter. I’m well aware that money matters. I grew up digging myself out of the rubble of World War Two, and I know what it’s like to wonder where your next meal is coming from. Back in those days we weren’t sure of anything. Half of London had been blown to smithereens by the Nazis, and our future was uncertain. But we had hope, and a sense of commitment to rebuilding our country. That was when I met Teddy. He was in the Royal Air Force then, a test pilot, actually. He was really quite dashing. He was one of the first people to fly the Harrier jet. Its nickname was the Flying Bedstand.” She smiled sadly.
I reached my arm around the back of the bench and gently placed my hand on her shoulder.
In a more upbeat tone, Patricia said, “Anyway, the point I was trying to make, love, is that Teddy was a man who was driven by a sense of duty, perhaps too driven. In the end, he let it get the best of him. The higher he climbed, the more uneasy he became about his station in life. Do you see what I’m saying, love?”
I nodded slowly. It wasn’t a perfect analogy, but I assumed her point had something to do with the perils of chasing a preconceived notion of what it meant to be successful. She and Teddy were now divorced.
Patricia soldiered on: “Sometimes I wonder if you let money get the best of you, love. I know you use money to control people, and there’s nothing wrong with that. That’s the way of the world, and it doesn’t make you a bad soul to try to work things in your favor. But I’m concerned that you allow money to control you—which is not all right. Money is the tool, my child, not the mason; it can help you make acquaintances but not true friends; and it might buy you a life of leisure but not a life of peace. Of course, you know I’m not judging you. That’s the last thing I’d do. None of us is perfect, and each of us is driven by our own demons. God knows I have my share.
“Anyway, getting back to this whole caper you’ve cooked up—I want you to know that I’m all for it! I find the whole thing rather exciting, in fact. I feel like a character in an Ian Fleming novel. It’s really quite racy, this whole overseas-banking business. And when you get to my age, a little bit of raciness is what keeps you young, isn’t it?”
I smiled and let out a gentle laugh. “I guess, Patricia. But as far as the raciness goes, I’ll say it again: There’s always a slight chance that some trouble might arise, at which point the raciness might get a bit racier than old Ian Fleming might’ve liked. And this won’t be in a novel. This’ll be Scotland Yard knocking at your door with a search warrant.”
I looked her directly in the eye, and I said in a tone implying the utmost seriousness, “But if it ever comes to that, Patricia—and I swear this to you—I’ll come forward in two seconds flat and say that you had no idea what was going on with any of this. I’ll say t
hat I told you to go to the bank and give them your passport and that I promised you there was nothing wrong with it.” As I said those words I was certain they were true. After all, there was no way that any regulator on the planet would believe this innocent old lady would take part in an international money-laundering scheme. It was inconceivable.
Patricia smiled and replied, “I know that, love. Besides, it would be nice to spoil my grandchildren a bit. Perhaps they would even feel indebted enough to come visit me while I’m doing time in prison—after the bobbies have carted me away for international bank fraud, right, love?” With that, Patricia leaned forward and started laughing raucously.
I laughed right along with her, but inside I was dying. There were certain things that you just didn’t joke about; it was simply bad luck. It was like pissing in the fate god’s eye. If you did it long enough, he was certain to piss right back at you. And his urine stream was like a fucking fire hose.
But how would Aunt Patricia know that? She had never broken the law in her entire life until she met the Wolf of Wall Street! Was I really so awful a person that I was willing to corrupt a sixty-five-year-old grandma in the name of plausible deniability?
Well, there were two sides to that coin. On one side was the obvious criminality of the whole thing—corrupting a grandma; exposing her to a lifestyle she’d never needed or wanted; placing her liberty at risk; placing her reputation at risk; perhaps even causing her a stroke or some other stress-related disorder if things ever went awry.
But on the flip side—just because she’d never needed or wanted a life of wealth and extravagance didn’t mean it wasn’t better for her! It was better for her, for Chrissake! With the extra money, she’d be able to spend the twilight of her life in the lap of luxury. And (God forbid) if she ever got sick, she would have access to the finest medical care money could buy. I had no doubt that all that British nonsense about their egalitarian utopia of socialized medicine was nothing more than a bunch of happy horseshit. There had to be special medical treatment for those with a few million extra British pounds. That would be only fair, wouldn’t it? Besides, while the Brits might not be as greedy as the Americans, they weren’t fucking commies. And socialized medicine—real socialized medicine—was nothing short of a commie plot!
There were other benefits too, which, when taken together, all tipped the scale heavily in favor of recruiting the lovely Aunt Patricia into the illicit lion’s den of international bank fraud. Patricia herself had said that the sheer excitement of being part of a sophisticated money-laundering ring would keep her young, perhaps for years to come! What a pleasant thought that was! And, in truth, what were the chances of her really getting in trouble? Almost zero, I thought. Probably less than that.
Just then Patricia said, “You have this wonderful gift, love, to be engaged in two separate conversations at once. There’s one conversation that you’re having with the outside world—which, in this case, is your beloved aunt Patricia—and then there’s another conversation that you’re having with yourself, which you alone can hear.”
I let out a gentle laugh. I leaned back and spread my arms on either side of the top wooden slat, as if I were trying to let the bench absorb some of my worries. “You see a lot, Patricia. Since the day we met, when I almost drowned in a toilet bowl, I’ve always felt that you understood me better than most. Perhaps you even understand me better than I understand myself, although probably not.
“Anyway, I’ve been lost inside my own head for as long as I can remember—from the time I was a kid, maybe even as far back as nursery school.
“I remember sitting in my classroom and looking around at all the other kids and wondering why they just didn’t get it. The teacher would ask a question and I already knew the answer before she was done asking it.” I paused and looked Patricia square in the eye and said, “Please don’t take that as being cocky, Patricia. I don’t wanna come off that way. I’m just trying to be honest with you so you can really understand me. But since I was small, I was always far ahead—intellectually, I mean—of all the other kids my age. The older I got, the further ahead I became.
“And from the time I was a kid, I’ve had this bizarre internal monologue roaring through my head, which doesn’t stop—unless I’m asleep. I’m sure every person has this; it’s just that my monologue is particularly loud. And particularly troublesome. I’m constantly asking myself questions. And the problem with that is that your brain is like a computer: If you ask it a question, it’s programmed to respond, whether there’s an answer or not. I’m constantly weighing everything in my mind and trying to predict how my actions will influence events. Or maybe manipulate events are the more appropriate words. It’s like playing a game of chess with your own life. And I hate fucking chess!”
I studied Patricia’s face for some sort of response, but all I saw was a warm smile. I kept waiting for her to respond, but she didn’t. Yet by her very silence her message was crystal clear: Keep talking!
“Anyway, when I was about seven or eight I started getting terrible panic attacks. I still get them today, although now I take Xanax to quell them. But even thinking about a panic attack is enough to give me one. It’s a terrible thing to suffer from, Patricia. They’re absolutely debilitating. It’s like your heart’s coming out of your chest; like every moment of your life is its own eternity; the literal polar opposite of being comfortable in your own skin. I think the first time we met I was actually in the middle of one—although that particular one was induced by a couple a grams of coke, so it doesn’t really count. Remember?”
Patricia nodded and smiled warmly. Her expression bore not an ounce of judgment.
I plowed on: “Well, that aside, I was never able to stop my mind from racing, even when I was small. I had terrible insomnia when I was young—and I still have it today. But it’s even worse now. I used to stay up all night long and listen to my brother’s breathing, watching him sleep like a baby. I grew up in a tiny apartment, and we shared a room. I loved him more than you can possibly imagine. I have a lot of good memories about that. And now we don’t even talk anymore. Another victim of my so-called success. But that’s another story.
“Anyway, I used to dread the nighttime…or actually fear the nighttime, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. I used to stay up all night long and stare at a digital alarm clock that was next to my bed and multiply the minutes times the hours, mostly out of boredom but also because my mind seemed to force me into repetitive tasks. By the time I was six years old, I could do four-digit multiplication in my head faster than you could do it on a calculator. No kidding, Patricia. I can still do it today. But back then my friends hadn’t even learned to read yet! That wasn’t much conciliation, though. I used to cry like a baby when it was time to go to bed. That’s how scared I was of my panic attacks. My father would come into my room and lie down with me and try to calm me down. My mother too. But both of them worked and couldn’t stay up with me all night. So eventually I was left alone with my own thoughts. Over the years, most of the bedtime panic went away. But it never really left me. It still haunts me every time my head hits the pillow in the form of intractable insomnia—terrible, terrible insomnia.
“I’ve spent my entire life trying to fill a hole that I can’t seem to fill, Patricia. And the harder I try, the bigger it seems to get. I’ve spent more time than…”
And the words started rolling off my tongue, as I began the process of spewing out the venom that had been ripping apart my innards for as long as I could remember. Perhaps I was fighting to save my life that day or, if not that, then certainly my sanity. In retrospect, it was as good a place as any for a man to bare his soul, especially a man like me. After all, on the tiny isle of Great Britain, there was no Wolf of Wall Street and no Stratton Oakmont, both of which were an ocean away. There was just Jordan Belfort—a scared young kid—who’d gotten himself in way over his head and whose very success was fast becoming the instrument of his own destruction. The
only question I had was, would I get to kill myself first—on my own terms—or would the government get me before I had the chance?
Once Patricia got me started, I couldn’t seem to stop. Every human being, after all, is possessed with the undeniable urge to confess his sins. Religions were built on such things. And kingdoms were conquered with the promise that all sins would be forgiven afterward.
So for two straight hours I confessed. I desperately tried to rid myself of the bitter bile that was wreaking havoc on my body and spirit and driving me to do things that I knew were wrong and to commit acts that I knew would ultimately lead to my own destruction.
I told her the story of my life—starting with the frustration I’d felt growing up poor. I told her of the insanity of my father and how I resented my mother for failing to protect me from his vicious temper. I told her how I knew my mother had done her best, but, somehow, I was still viewing those memories through the eyes of a child, so I couldn’t seem to completely forgive her. I told her about Sir Max and how he was always there for me when it mattered most and how, once again, it made me resent my mother for not being there like he was at those crucial moments.
And I told her how much I still loved my mother despite that and how much I respected her too, even though she’d drilled into my head that becoming a doctor was the only honorable way to make a lot of money. I explained how I rebelled against that by starting to smoke pot in sixth grade.
I told her how I overslept for my medical boards because I had done too many drugs the night before and how as a result of that I ended up in dental school instead of medical school. I told her the story of my first day of dental school, when the dean got up before the incoming class and explained how the Golden Age of Dentistry was over and if you were becoming a dentist to make a lot of money, then you should quit now and save yourself the time and aggravation…and how I got up right then and there and never went back.
The Wolf of Wall Street Page 19