The Mark and the Void: A Novel

by Paul Murray

  ‘However, many of these acquisitions were not as robust as they had thought,’ I tell Ish. ‘The gold mine is the subject of an enormous lawsuit for environmental damage, the Belgians have been hurt by the collapse of the national government, et cetera, et cetera. Agron does not have the reserves to ride out all of these disasters.’

  ‘The board is looking for a white knight,’ Jurgen says. ‘Porter believes he can convince the market to back us.’

  ‘Wait a second,’ Ish says. ‘Let me get this straight. Agron was doing famously, until it bought a whole load of dodgy banks and overextended itself and now it’s broke, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And now Porter wants us to go and do exactly the same thing?’

  ‘In a sense,’ Jurgen says. ‘But BOT is in a very different position from Agron.’

  ‘Wasn’t Agron in a very different position from Agron before it bought all these dodgy banks?’

  ‘That’s what makes this deal so counterintuitive,’ Jurgen says. ‘No one is doing insanely risky takeovers like this at the moment.’

  ‘Can we raise that kind of capital?’ Joe asks.

  ‘That remains to be seen. But Porter is determined to expand, one way or the other.’ Jurgen pauses, weighing his words, and then says, ‘What I hear from New York is that Porter was very disappointed not to get the Caliph’s sovereign wealth business. Given his long-standing personal relationship with him.’

  ‘Business is business,’ Gary McCrum says.

  ‘Yeah, the guy’s trying to put down an uprising, after all,’ says Joe.

  ‘This is exactly the point. The Tordale episode has made Porter realize that BOT does not yet carry sufficient weight to be a major force at the geopolitical level. It is still affected by global events, instead of setting its own agenda, reality-wise.’

  ‘“Reality-wise”?’ Ish says.

  ‘A sufficiently large bank would create its own reality as opposed to simply reacting to consensus,’ Jurgen explains.

  ‘What the –’ Ish shrieks as the man of the hour seizes her from behind. ‘What the fuck, Howie?’

  ‘I’m creating my own reality,’ Howie says. ‘Can you feel it? Just there against your thigh?’

  ‘You’re a fucking child,’ Ish says, furiously swiping whiskey off her top.

  ‘Congratulations on your trade,’ I tell him.

  Howie just shrugs. ‘I figured somebody in this operation ought to be making some money.’

  Clearing his throat, Jurgen remarks modestly that actually his team has made some money for the bank also, in that we have just submitted BOT’s first ever government-commissioned report. ‘It does not compare to your trade, of course. Nevertheless, from what I hear the Minister is very happy.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll put you in his will,’ Howie says; then, seeing our blank looks, ‘You haven’t heard? He’s dying. It’s just come out.’

  We check our phones in case this is one of Howie’s dubious jokes. It’s not. The Minister has been diagnosed with terminal cancer; somehow a newspaper got hold of it, and broke the news before he even had time to tell his family.

  ‘Fucking journalists,’ Joe says, shaking his head. ‘Fucking vultures.’

  ‘It was bloody Royal Irish that did for him,’ Ish states. ‘He turned the whole country inside out trying to keep it going, and himself with it. And for what? No investor’s going to go near that place with a ten-foot pole.’

  ‘I’ve got a ten-foot pole you might be interested in,’ Howie says.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ Ish says.

  Howie just laughs and swaggers away.

  ‘Seriously, what is that guy’s problem?’ she asks.

  ‘He likes you,’ Kevin says.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘He does like you, Ish,’ I confirm.

  ‘Howie doesn’t like anyone,’ Ish says. ‘I bet he just wants an I for his creepy BOT sex-alphabet.’

  ‘I was his K!’ Kimberlee exclaims in passing.

  ‘Looks like you missed your chance, Kevin,’ Joe Peston says.

  The news the following day is dominated by the Minister’s bleak prognosis. Messages of support pour in from allies and opposition alike, as well as conjecture as to who will replace him. One name that keeps cropping up is Walter Corless.

  ‘Walter?’

  ‘Well, why not?’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to have an ideology to be a politician? Like, believe in something?’

  ‘He believes in money.’

  More importantly, money believes in him. As CEO of a major multinational, Walter has the financial acumen to steer the nation through the present economic cataract – or such is the hope.

  ‘A BOT client as head of Finance, I like the sound of that,’ Jocelyn muses. ‘Plenty more sweet consultancy work.’

  ‘Walter’s a fucking nutcase,’ Ish says. ‘Put him in charge and he’ll turn the whole country into a rendition site and sell it to the CIA.’

  ‘Gotta make the money somewhere,’ Jocelyn says, shrugging.

  It seems that the revelation of his illness has pushed the Minister past some point of no return. In his press conferences now he looks not merely sick but, for the first time, defeated. ‘The fundamentals are sound,’ he keeps saying, the same blanket denial to every question, in the same leaden, exhausted tone. His face is suddenly gaunt, wasted. I can’t work out quite what it reminds me of; then I look out and see the grey hulk of the unfinished Royal Irish headquarters, rain lashing in through the empty sockets of the windows.

  The international news is even worse. The Germans are castigating the Greeks; the Greeks are burning German cars. In Texas the blackened husk of the self-immolated congressman has made a speech from his hospital bed, declaring that he might not have any skin left but he can still shoot a gun (at least that’s what his press officer says he says; the croaking is to my ears unintelligible); hordes of elderly people storm the streets of El Paso, his home town, waving Confederate flags and flaming torches. In Oran the Caliph’s new fleet of British-made bombers, bought in an oil-for-weapons deal brokered by the ex-Prime Minister, raze what is being called a rebel stronghold, though it looks, in the ‘before’ photos, like a village harbouring nothing more dangerous than goats.

  The whole world is becoming angrier and angrier – but not me. Paul is coming over tomorrow night to lay out his initial plans, and already it seems I can feel Ariadne’s warmth stealing into my life, like the first rays of light creeping into a room as outside the sun wheels into view.

  On the day of the dinner, however, he calls to tell me there’s a problem. ‘Remember that volleyball try-out Clizia went to the other night? Well, she made the team.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say neutrally. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yeah, only the thing is, she’s got a game tonight, so I have to babysit Remington.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say again.

  ‘You know, make him his food and so on.’

  I realize he’s angling for something. ‘I would be happy to prepare something for Remington too.’

  ‘Why, Claude, that’s very kind of you,’ Paul says, with painfully false surprise. ‘But I don’t want to impose on you.’

  ‘No imposition, I don’t very often have the chance to cook for others.’

  ‘Fantastic – listen though, Igor’s probably going to come over too –’

  ‘Igor?’

  ‘Yeah, but don’t worry about him, he’ll eat anything. Except fish. He hates fish. And chicken. But don’t go to any trouble.’ He tells me he will see me at seven, then ten minutes later calls again to say that it might be closer to half seven, and also that Igor doesn’t eat beef but does eat veal.

  I put the phone down, not sure what to do. A part of me wants to tell him about the perfume in the stairwell, the clothes stuffed in the bag. But what business is it of mine? Anyway, it’s not impossible that there really is a volleyball game. Isn’t it?

  They arrive at
7.45. Paul apologizes again for the change in plan. ‘This whole Cleaners’ Volleyball League is all a bit out of the blue.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘And how are you, Remington?’

  ‘Remington’s got a joke, haven’t you, Remington?’ Paul prompts him.

  ‘Will you tell me your joke?’ I ask, bending down to the boy.

  ‘What do you call a man who’s been attacked by a cat?’ Remington mumbles.

  ‘I don’t know, what do you call a man who’s been attacked by a cat?’

  Remington sways shyly back and forth a moment, then goes to hide himself behind his father’s leg.

  ‘It’s funnier when he does the punchline,’ Paul says.

  ‘Not to worry,’ I say, and then to Remington, ‘Do you like hamburgers?’

  He nods solemnly, then tugs his father’s trouser and whispers in his ear. ‘Oh, right – Claude, we’re wondering if it would be possible to watch a little Rainbow Mystery Epic?’

  A minute later Remington is installed on the sofa, the serenity of his attention in almost exactly inverse proportion to the blizzard of lightning flashes, screeching robo-animals and epileptic scene shifts issuing from the TV screen.

  ‘Jeez, Claude, where’s all your stuff?’ Paul says, gazing around the apartment at the abundance of white surfaces.

  ‘I left most of my things in Paris.’ In fact it had been a relief to get away from them – the artworks, antiques, juicers and coffee-makers, the shelves of unread books, unwatched DVDs, unlistened-to compact discs, all carefully arranged in alphabetical order: everything that had promised to be the final piece of the jigsaw, and then wasn’t. Now, apart from one or two objets, I just download everything; it sits unseen and forgotten on my hard drive, an alternative life I can own instead of living or even needing to think about.

  ‘These your parents?’ Paul flashes a photograph at me.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I have been putting the family pictures on computer – how do you say, making an archive?’

  ‘Your father looks like a pretty serious individual,’ he says, leafing through a stack of old Polaroids. ‘Look at those arms. What did he do?’

  ‘He was a blacksmith.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Does it seem funny?’ I strip the foil away from the neck of the bottle he has brought.

  ‘No, no, it’s just…’ He looks down at the picture again. ‘I mean, talk about a dying art. Can’t be many of those left.’

  ‘No, there are not many,’ I say.

  ‘So what was it like?’

  ‘What was what like?’

  ‘Being the son of a blacksmith?’

  I shrug. ‘It was just his job. I didn’t pay so much attention. I was busy with my studies.’

  ‘Of course. You were his greatest creation.’

  ‘I don’t think he saw it that way.’

  ‘Old father, old artificer,’ he says obscurely, gazing at the picture. ‘Maybe there’s a book in you after all.’

  ‘That’s his story, not mine,’ I say, handing him a glass of wine, delicately taking the photographs with the same movement and replacing them on the shelf. ‘So, you have had a chance to think of some ideas?’

  ‘I sure have. But I’d rather wait till the big guy gets here.’

  ‘About that,’ I say. ‘Why are we involving Igor, exactly?’

  ‘Well, he could really use the money,’ Paul says. ‘I mean, he’s having a hard time getting by at the moment. By the way, I told him to invoice you separately, is that okay? He’s going to put it down as a termite infestation.’

  ‘I don’t intend to be rude,’ I say, going to the hob and rattling pots to cover up any trace of anger in my voice, ‘but I am not sure that Igor has something to contribute to this project.’

  ‘I fully understand what you’re saying. You don’t need to worry. Igor’s an extra pair of hands, that’s all. Also, he’s the one who knows how to use all the equipment.’

  ‘Equipment?’

  ‘The surveillance equipment. He’s got a real knack for it. Back in the Communist days, he did quite a bit of work in that field. Say what you like about the Soviets, in terms of surveillance, those guys were the gold standard.’

  I stare at him in mystification, but before I can ask for clarification, the intercom sounds.

  ‘That must be him!’ Paul says.

  With great reluctance, I go to the speaker.

  ‘Hello! Hello!’ shouts Igor’s voice.

  ‘Push the door,’ I tell him.

  ‘Hello! Hello! Can you hear? Igor calling!’

  Eventually he manages to get in. I have not seen him since his plot with Paul was exposed, and it seems to me a guilty look crosses his face as I open the door; but then, he may have many other things to be guilty about. His furtive appearance is accentuated tonight by a large, clinking bag and a beige rain mac of the kind favoured by perverts in films; he enters the apartment shoulders hunched, head bowed, legs taking long, loping strides, as though stealing down an alleyway.

  ‘There you are!’ Paul greets him. ‘You remember Claude?’

  Igor brandishes his stained teeth at me in the kind of duplicitous smile one might employ while secretly installing surveillance equipment in the home of a friend in the former Soviet Union.

  ‘You are very welcome,’ I say coldly.

  ‘Make yourself at home, Igor,’ Paul encourages. ‘There’s wine on the counter, and some really nice cheese. Hey, Remington, look who’s here! Say hello to your Uncle Igor!’

  ‘Hello, little Remington!’ Igor crooks his knees and spreads his arms out wide, like a degenerate bear. On the couch, Remington starts to cry. Igor, unhugged, creaks to his feet again. ‘Well!’ he says to me. I do not reply. He hovers uneasily between couch and kitchen; I sense that he wants to say something about the bank deception, but he just shifts from foot to foot, as if suppressing a bowel movement. Then he asks me where the bathroom is, and I realize with horror that he is suppressing a bowel movement.

  I hurriedly point him in the right direction.

  ‘The flush, in this house, she is good?’ he asks urgently.

  ‘What?’ I say, but he doesn’t expand, instead hastening away.

  ‘That Igor,’ Paul says fondly, shaking his head. ‘I could tell you some stories.’

  ‘There is no need,’ I say, and remove myself to the safety of the cooker.

  Not long after, the bathroom door opens and Igor saunters back into the room with an unconcealed air of unburdenment. ‘Very nice facility! Toilet roll soft like velvet! I feel like it should be wiping its ass with me!’ He stretches, then sets himself down on the couch. Remington edges in the opposite direction. ‘Why you bring the boy, eh?’ Igor says.

  Paul explains that Clizia has gone to play volleyball.

  Igor makes a tsk noise, and wags his finger. ‘You are playing a dangerous game, my friend,’ he says. ‘Sports can give these womens crazy notions, as well as unsafe muscle mass.’

  ‘She’s never been the sporty type,’ Paul concurs. ‘But she’s been so damn angry lately. I’m hoping this’ll help her relax.’

  ‘In old days of Ectovia, no sport for the women,’ Igor reflects. ‘Unless incest! Ha ha! If incest is Olympic sport, Ectovian womens win every gold medal!’

  ‘I told you before, Igor, I don’t like you spouting all that Soviet BS about Ectovia. There was no more incest there than anywhere else.’

  ‘Ach, you are right. Incest is everywhere, and it is just the political correctness gone mad that peoples must say they do not incest, when everyone is incesting all the time.’

  ‘Dad, what’s incest?’

  ‘Dinner is served,’ I say quickly, even though it is not, quite. The television is silenced and Remington reluctantly seats himself at the table; it feels odd to hope that a four-year-old boy will have a civilizing effect on the conversation.

  ‘Sorry, Claude, I should explain. Igor’s from Transvolga, and when the Ectovians seceded, they took most of th
e carpet manufacturing business with them.’

  ‘Ha!’ booms Igor, pounding his meaty hand on the table. ‘We do not want them or their shitty carpets! What is Ectovia, only the shithole city of Karakel, and a few crappy fields where the fey menfolk practise their gymnastics and the women walk their dogs that are like little furry gays!’

  ‘As you can see, it’s still something of a sore point.’

  ‘They are short bastards too, these Ectovians,’ Igor adds judiciously.

  ‘Bastards,’ Remington repeats.

  ‘That’s right, little one!’ Igor chuckles, reaching over to stroke the boy’s cheek.

  ‘This looks fantastic, Claude,’ Paul says, as I deliver the plates.

  ‘Escalopes de veau cordon bleu,’ I say. ‘It is the characteristic French dish.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, if you ever get as far as cooking a meal for Ariadne, you’ll be home free.’

  ‘So,’ I say, seating myself, and ignoring Remington’s mistrustful stare from under the bun of his burger, ‘your plan.’

  ‘Okay. Well, without blowing my own trumpet, I think I’ve had a breakthrough. What happened was, I looked up that play you mentioned, Cyrano de Bergerac. And it turned out to have all these great ideas! What happens is, there’s this guy who likes this girl, but he’s shy, so he gets this other guy –’

  ‘I am familiar with the story.’

  ‘Right – so what I’m thinking is, we do a Cyrano of our own! Like, I give you the lines, and you say them to Ariadne!’

  ‘This is your breakthrough?’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘It just sounds very similar to what I proposed to you already.’

  ‘Well, superficially, maybe, but see, with the surveillance equipment I can not only give you lines, I can also monitor her response to – what’s up, buddy?’

  Now Remington needs the toilet. Apologizing, Paul goes to escort him, leaving me alone at the table with Igor, who fixes me with a silent, ghoulish smile. I try to think of something to say but the smile is too disturbing, so instead I get up from the table on the pretext of fetching something from the fridge – only for Igor to rise too and stroll around the living room, appraising my sparse possessions with a nakedly avaricious eye.