Dear Money (37 page)

Even if you had no idea who he was, he struck the image of a bold speculator of some kind or another, one who knew how the world worked and used that knowledge to extraordinary advantage. Trailing behind him was his Indian wife (a novelist and much younger and, yes, published by him) and their two young sons. Then he said my name, asking Theodor where he hid the charming India Palmer. He said my name loudly and with a flourish that legitimized his moniker. He was Dashing, extremely so. Strong broad face, suitable height, defined pose. I popped up to greet him, feeling the familiar unease I had always felt around him that spelled his power over me—that he could change my life if he wished, that he could save me with the fine publication of a book. It was as though I stood trembling before an old lover. The emotion startled me.

And then, at the sound of my name, Tiger turned from the boats toward me, and the four of us—Tiger, Theodor, Cavelli and I—formed a quartet of surprised greetings: Tiger and I a little stunned to see each other out of context, as though the sun made us palpable and real. And then Cavelli between us, trying to sort out Tiger, giving him a sweeping once-over with his eyes, sizing him up, deciding that he was from a different orbit. Tiger introduced his girlfriend, pulling her into the mix. Her name was Veronica. The name suited her simply in the way she tossed back her hair. She extended her hand to Cavelli and Theodor. Tiger introduced himself, using his given name, Robert Lippincott, which he never used. It seemed funny to hear it, as if I were speaking about a stranger—which, after all, he was to me in the clear light of day. He explained that he was my colleague. I'm sure that at first Cavelli assumed Tiger to be a university colleague. Then Cavelli and Theodor explained their connections to me: former publisher; husband. It was all very awkward—there are those moments in life in which chance en counters collide to form an avalanche. "But he's called Tiger," Veronica offered helpfully, as though that piece of information would sort it all out. "Indeed," Cavelli answered with a smile, extending his hand.

Tiger grasped it and a satisfied look spread over his impatient lips. His impatience could help him at times, but often it got in his way. Then he looked at me, and it seemed I grew—the girls raced over and hugged me and, as if on cue, I popped Goldfish into their mouths—and in this gesture grew even more, from thirty to, say, forty-five. Tiger was seeing Win's creation naked before him in all humility, and it gave him a sudden edge. All traders relish an edge, though he wasn't certain what to do with this one.

Cavelli absorbed Tiger absorbing me. In Cavelli's curious fashion he wanted to get to the bottom of Tiger, who announced to the quintet that I was a "rising star." "She'll be trading her own book by year end," he said.

Cavelli, his chin raised, asked Tiger what in the world he was speaking about. His eyes twinkled. He'd never before been so curious about me. Tiger looked at me, and Cavelli looked at Theodor with raised eyebrows, the king of my old universe, waiting for an answer. My new universe had a different king. And though Cavelli hadn't thought about me in years, he smiled and exhibited a well-timed, mildly proprietary concern that was ever so charming. I had left him, not he me. He had made a reasonable offer for the third novel and I had rejected it as paltry. But he knew how the world worked. He did not take offense. So I told him.

"I've become a bond trader," I said. It was not dissimilar to when, in the beginning of my writing career, I would tell people (when asked what I did) that I was a novelist. "I am a novelist," I would say, and I could feel myself stand a bit taller. I am a novelist. I am a bond trader. Except that most people didn't burst out laughing, as Cavelli did then. So much for elevation.

Even so, something wonderful happened, wonderful and unexpected: I had a strong desire to return to B&B, for Monday morning to be here so that I could walk back to my desk and start trading and learn from the mistake and then learn some more and take on this world again, not as a game but with a passion. I did not want to be laughed at, simple as that. I did not want to be afraid of Cavelli (and all he represented) ever again, simple as that. I held him with my eyes, watching how beautiful laughter can also be.

"You'll have to tell me all about this sometime, India," Cavelli said.

"I will," I said and offered him my most lovely smile.

Veronica, now part of the group, confided that she believed mine to be an amazing story: "It's all Tiger has spoken about for months." She gave me a genuine look of admiration, which warmed me to her, made me want to know more about her.

"I should say," Cavelli said. "That's not the end I'd have imagined for India."

I had once known Cavelli quite well, or well enough for a publisher. He liked to have long lunches with wine (on occasion, bottles) at his table at Dino's. I was not special; he did this with all the local authors, or the authors who came through town, on his list. He did not discriminate. If you were worth publishing, you were definitely worth having lunch with. Cavelli announced that I'd been an author of his who had left him for the ugly lure of money. Veronica offered me a sympathetic look, but apparently she'd had it with this encounter
(ugly money?),
and tugging gently on Tiger's hand, she told him they'd be late if they didn't get going. With farewells, they left.

Theodor was called away by the girls, and Cavelli and I stood there for a moment before his wife called for him to leave. "That was your mistake, India," he said, assuming he understood the larger picture, the route that had led me to this—what to call it?—this decision, and once again I pictured vividly the eagerness with which I would return Monday morning. I had worn the dress of failure. I would never forget how it fit. My former world would never have power over me again. I was released. I was releasing myself. For what became clear right then, falling into sharp focus, for an instant crystalline, was that I had been so willing to throw it all away because the writing had stopped belonging to me. Rather, for me it had come to belong to the opinion of others and mysterious market forces and the power and influence of money, money as the great indicator of everyone's worth. I could not work so hard at writing when I could no longer allow it to belong to me.

"We would always have published you, India," he continued. "I had great regard for your talent. I hope you don't mind my avuncular nature." Off he strolled, catching up with his wife, the boys running on ahead. As soon as I was out of his vision, I vanished from his thoughts, but he did not leave mine so quickly. What good would that have done me, his publishing me? I watched him make his way around the pond, his slow gait parting the Saturday idlers, not as a swan parting water, as once I would have seen him, but as the elderly man that he was. I had done this thing, you see, I had challenged myself here, and I was going to succeed. This did not have to do with Win now. Monday morning. My desire to return carried me aloft, for the moment, on the great wave of hope. This was a bet with myself now.

I
WANTED ONE THING.
I wanted to win.

To feel the risk, the exhilaration, the intensity of the present moment, the never-ending now. Risk created the dancing-on-the-cliff's-edge opportunity I was seeking. Without risk, you were just a schlub selling Treasury notes. A plodder. Risk became the wind at my sail, the elixir that fueled me. I came to live under the influence of its sensation, under the influence of the whirl of events flashing across the Bloomberg screen. The challenge was to be the master of it, to use it to my advantage.

The intensity could make me scared. The speed of the market could make me scared. The large sums in play could make me scared. But as Win reminded me, you're better at your job when you're a bit scared. You just had to harness that emotion. Stay over your skis. The bumps will come—no way around that. But if you're not risking something, you're not making as much. I wanted to win, so I went big.

Sure, I'd had some small successes and had earned respect. But people seem to remember only when you tank, when you eat it or get eaten. It wasn't only for the small taste of Schadenfreude, but because, aside from tribal rituals—hamburger-eating contests and the like—the financial belly flop was the true test, which showed them who you were, whom they were dealing with. Equanimity in failure knitted you to the tribe. The trick was, then, to cultivate within yourself a fantastic and selective memory for such things, which became, with time, a lot of time—two years is a geological age in this world—like layers of sediment, the stuff that made and defined you in your own mind and in the mind of the tribe, that became the ground upon which you finally stood on your own, a made man, as the mobsters say, an equal among your fellows.

Everyone knew what the calamities looked and felt like. The knot in the stomach like a bayonet. The sweaty palms. The sense of total isolation, of being thoroughly unfit to command the post entrusted to you, while the trading floor, all abuzz with actual traders earning their way to stardom, silently mocked you as you sat on the egg you'd just laid and braced yourself for the summons to Win's office. Then the yelling, the throwing of things across the room. The boys all wanted to see that—sure, it was spectacular entertainment of the sort comedians speak of when their fellow craftsmen bomb onstage.
Now, that's funny!
Nothing in the world funnier, really. But the boys mostly wanted to watch how I would
walk through that,
how I would carry myself. This they would note with the attention of connoisseurs, because in the end we relied on each other. We were under fire together. They wanted to know whom they had with them in the foxhole.

And so, the day after the big failure I wore—into the foxhole, as it were—a skirt to work, chocolate-brown wool, a loose weave of lace at the hemline, an ivory satin shirt, chocolate slingbacks, a gold wire wrapping pink jasper (designed by Theodor, who was making his way into jewelry, mostly for me) around my neck—a style that could be called corporate chic. I wasn't going to subordinate my feminine side any longer. Most of all, I wore a big, broad smile. I knew one thing clearly: I was not going to make a career out of being a low-level associate. I swiped my security card like a pro, rode the elevator to my floor, swiped my card again, walked to my desk, said my hellos and did not look back, did not dwell anymore on the world I'd left behind.

And two years passed. My drive and determination were an engine cutting across time and its debris. Two years, from October 2004 to September 2006. George W. Bush was officially elected President of the United States. Yasir Arafat died. Hamid Karzai was inaugurated as Afghanistan's president. An earthquake in the Indian Ocean triggered a tsunami that killed 225,000 people in eleven countries. Ruby played Offenbach's Barcarolle perfectly, and like a sixteen-year-old, in her winter concert, which, as it happens, I missed, as I missed most of the girls' events. But for now this was as it had to be, and I believed it was a good lesson for them to see their mother work. And Theodor could always attend.
Brokeback Mountain
won an Academy Award. Gwyneth was invited to play goalie on her lacrosse team, and she accepted. Pope John Paul II died. Will Chapman's
Never Say Die
was published.

Let me pause here, amid the flotsam on the shoreline, to let you know that the reviews were universally spectacular. On May 3, 2005, there was an enormous sendoff for the book, hosted by Win on a rooftop terrace belonging to another banker friend of the Chapmans—champagne and canapés and men in tuxedos with gloved hands serving with silver trays, a mixture of artists and bankers who blended well, having ascended to the same plateau. Cavelli worked the crowd effortlessly. To me he said, "Ah, my bond trader. Mortgage-backed securities?" And I, "Good memory." And he, "We still need to get to the bottom of this." And I, tapped on the shoulder by Win, was swept into a different conversation. "You don't miss this world," Win said. Not a question but a command. He was dating a girl named Ginger now, a name more fitting than Beatrix somehow, sleek and young, with her eyes on him possessively as we spoke—the only girl of his I ever met, seen at this party and not again. High fashion, long silky hair.

The reviews of
Never Say Die:
"Chapman is incapable of writing an uninteresting sentence." And "The author does not have a banal thought in his brain." And "He can write about the contours of a woman's desire like no other contemporary novelist." And "
Never Say Die
is a tour de force." And "His publisher has likened him to Thomas Wolfe, but against this comparison it is Wolfe, not Chapman, who comes up short." More than just the book pages trumpeted his "riches to rags" transformation. Will held court, his strong jaw projecting the confidence of a man who knew his way in this world. Emma was radiant, all previous signs of fracture erased by the anti-aging elixir of success and its reward.

That was all fine, if somewhat predictable. I, on the other hand, had gone the other way, done the unexpected—the skirt in Agency Fixed had become a made man, earned a reputation as a savvy trader with quick and unwavering views on market positions. My cut-to-the-chase nature was alluring to clients looking for clarity amid market ambiguity. The pace suited me. The constant need to be attentive to twenty things at the same time suited me.

"A little ADD is a good thing," Win had once said. And I now understood what he meant. Up at 2
A.M.
with Japan, calculating figures, the hedge rations of MBS as the market moved. On the line with clients—Blackride, Johnson, with Texas and Georgia. I could do it. It wasn't so different from managing the family—the finances (or, I should say, the debt), the appointments, the insurance, the playdates, the sleepovers, the scheduling of school and camp and lessons and how we'd juggle this and that to pay for it all—grateful every day that those concerns no longer occupied me. I had so many balls in the air at once, and I loved it, loved catching them for an instant simply to throw them right back up there into the swirling circle. I flew to Georgia, to Iowa, to Texas, to South Dakota, to coddle clients, play a little golf. The duffer's game I'd learned under my father's tutelage I had to relearn with the help of a pro, became good enough, just, to pass. I wanted these clients to believe I cared. I listened to them talk about their children, their marriage woes, their third-home ambitions: a chalet in Aspen—was invited there with a ski tour of Ajax, led by an impossibly handsome Patagonian ski instructor. The wife of my client whisked me away from the slopes for a manicure-pedicure at the chateau, administered by an overly Botoxed mobile manicurist—her age hidden in her face like the faintest silhouette of a boat sunk in the shallows of a lake—who announced several times, "I only use French polish," and filled us in on the local gossip (a movie star, a former President, a renowned CEO and their revolving lovers), the wife believing that I'd prefer nail pampering to skiing with the boys. I pretended to keep up with their epic drinking, all of us believing (if not admitting) we were all fine—just fine!—up here, breathing a thinner air.