Sila's Fortune (12 page)

But Matthieu was not devoid of character. And when he made a decision, it was final.

‘We need to be in finance. That's where the money is.'

‘What are you talking about?' said Simon. ‘You don't know the first thing about finance and neither do I.'

‘So what?'

‘If you're going to work in a profession it's better to know something about it, don't you think?'

‘Stop thinking like a civil servant. You're intelligent, you can adapt.'

‘And why finance rather than something else?'

‘Because the world changes. And because if we want to stand under the rain of gold, that's where we need to be these days.'

Simon rolled his eyes.

‘You don't get it, Simon. You don't get it because you don't monitor things. The world has changed. It changed over ten years ago, but since the fall of the Berlin Wall it's become more marked. Huge tides of money are flowing around the world – legal and illegal, but money just the same. Russia has exploded, Asia is waking up, everything's changing. Even France has got into deregulation. Markets are being deregulated. Because we need money. People have got things the wrong way round, they think we should make the most of opportunities. Actually, it's the reverse: we have to make opportunities that suit us. People needed money so we found a way to create it. By throwing open all the doors, we found a way to make some cash. That's what finance is: people want to get rich and they find a fantastic way to do it, they make money work. They make money with money. We're going to get into banking.'

Simon said nothing.

‘I've given it a lot of thought,' Matthieu went on. ‘I'm leaving.'

‘What?' said Simon, taken aback. ‘To go where?'

‘London. The English really understand how money works. I'm joining them.'

‘But have you got a job? Anything?'

‘No, I'll sort something out when I get there. I'll check things out, worm my way in and then mount an assault.'

‘You're just going to desert me?'

The heartfelt cry of an abandoned child made Matthieu smile.

‘No, but you have to move your arse. I've always told you you've got the brain of Einstein but the arse of a diplodocus. So I'm going to move for both of us. You'll join me later.'

‘In England?'

‘You know how to catch a train, don't you? I'm leaving tomorrow.'

There was a degree of arrogance about this sudden departure. Matthieu wanted to have a story to tell, the story of the determined man who is capable of uprooting himself overnight. But he was sure about it, the time had come for the snake to shed its skin. He had been going round in circles for years, late nights and one-night stands, he needed a new world, needed to be a new person. In a city where no one knew him, in a different language, he would be able to reinvent himself.

The next day, in London, when his landlady asked him his name, he answered: ‘Matt B. Lester.'

And this is who he became. The abbreviation of Matthieu, the American B. and his English mother's name. A different man.

Hotel Cane, Paris, June 1995

The man ate. The courses kept coming, graced by curious names carefully articulated by waiters: murex, tuna tataki with obsiblue prawns, lacquered pork belly, Sicilian snakes, Buddha's hand,
merinda
with rare herbs, goujons of sole in a cornflour veil, white summer truffles … Precious poetry. And the flavours, mingling delicate ingredients into a coherent multiplicity, melted on the tongue in explosions of flavour, constantly conjuring new subtleties.

But the man, who was about thirty, heavy-set and broad-shouldered, was as insensitive to words as to taste. He consumed this culinary bliss with complete indifference. From time to time he exchanged a few words with his partner, a young woman with a careworn expression, or glanced over at his son, a boy of six or seven wearing a baseball cap who was finding it difficult to sit still.

‘That guy isn't really eating, he's just guzzling,' said Sila, coming back into the kitchen.

‘And he doesn't look like a big tipper,' said another waiter.

‘He's about as friendly as a rattlesnake. Not a smile, not a thank you. And the kid seems like a chip off the old block,' said Sila.

‘Like father, like son,' said an elderly head waiter sententiously.

‘He's not getting any,' interrupted a tall, thin, brusque waiter.

‘Whatever.'

‘I'm telling you, he's not getting laid. That's always the problem.'

‘I'm working the Russians' table,' said another waiter as he came back in. ‘Russians are big tippers and this guy, he's the jackpot.'

‘That's Kravchenko,' the maître d' said gravely, ‘one of the oil oligarchs. He's filthy rich.'

‘Where do you know him from?'

‘He always comes here when he's in France. His wife speaks very good French, actually, she teaches it.'

‘A teacher?! With all the money her husband's got?'

‘She's something of a genius, apparently. She does research or something … She told me she gives lectures at the Sorbonne.'

‘She can lecture me any time,' quipped the tall thin waiter, ‘she's hot.'

The door swung closed. Sila had already left, carrying a large tray.

At precisely that moment, Matt was raising his champagne glass.

‘To your new job.'

Simon smiled diffidently.

‘And at Kelmann. You couldn't have done better.'

It had taken a little time, but Matt's influence over his friend was such that Simon finally took the plunge. The decision had been made easier by the fact that his career at
the maths laboratory was stagnating. He hadn't managed to get a post at the CNRS – and though he suspected that recruitment for the research post had been rigged in favour of another candidate, the result merely confirmed what he already suspected: he was not a first-rate academic, he would never win the Fields Medal. He was a good, maybe a very good mathematician, but would never rise beyond the level of a decent researcher. He was careful not to mention any of this to Matt, preferring to preserve his brilliant reputation, but it was what he believed.

The day he found out he hadn't got the job at the CNRS, he contacted the École Polytechnique's Alumni Association.

‘I want to work in banking,' he said.

‘Now that's original!' sighed a voice on the other end of the line. ‘Anywhere in particular?'

‘London.'

‘A French bank?'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘What year did you graduate?'

‘1986.'

‘What have you been doing up to now?'

‘Maths research.'

‘Oh, okay … so, financial engineering, then?'

‘Yes,' said Simon, who didn't know what this meant.

‘I'll give you the numbers of three students from your year. They're at J.P. Morgan, Kelmann and SocGen. They might be able to help.'

Simon carefully noted down the names, job titles and phone numbers.

‘Good luck,' said the drawling voice on the phone. ‘Polytechnique forever!'

Simon phoned J.P. Morgan where he was coolly received by a fellow-graduate who in a smug, disagreeable tone informed him that his profile was too parochial, not sufficiently international.

‘You've never worked the markets, your whole life is a maths lab, you've never even been out of France. Forget about J.P. Morgan.'

He was told he would be better off contacting SocGen, who were always interested in the Polytechnique graduates. He called the Société Générale but the woman he spoke to there clearly remembered him as a nerd just about capable of spouting formulae.

‘I don't think SocGen is right for you. Maths would lose a first-class researcher and you wouldn't gain anything. I don't think it would work out. You know, I think what you're doing is very noble. The best Polytechnique graduates have devoted themselves to research, not to making money.'

At Kelmann, his fellow-graduate gave him a warm welcome.

‘Hey, Rimbaud! So you want to work in finance? Well, it'll make a change from reciting
Les Illuminations
, that's for sure, but I'm happy to do anything I can to help.'

Once again Rimbaud had saved him. Sometimes at the École Polytechnique, when he felt particularly isolated and helpless, unable to communicate with the other students, ill-equipped to join the casual, urbane conversations which to him seemed so Parisian, he would start reciting Rimbaud. This idiot-savant routine sometimes had him bracketed with the idiots, sometimes with the savants. His classmate, it seemed, had fond memories.

He told Simon that there were openings at Kelmann, that the financial sector was attracting the best brains on the planet and that this was just the start.

‘They're buying up everyone. No one says no to the banks because they're the ones with the money and they're prepared to pay top dollar. Everyone who gets sucked into the system likes money and that's what the banks count on. They're going to get everyone, apart from the saints and suckers. But there's a hefty admission price to pay.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘First off, Kelmann is very particular, they'll scrutinise you like you've never been scrutinised. You'll have to pass a series of gruelling interviews and, take my word for it, even then nothing's guaranteed. On top of that, to make senior grade you'll have to work like you've never worked in your life, even for the Polytechnique entrance exam. You can kiss your private life goodbye.'

‘That's handy, I haven't got one.'

‘Perfect. Lastly, and this might be a sticking point for a poet like Rimbaud – you have to accept the rule of the game, the single rule.'

‘Which is?'

‘Money, money, money. Making money for the bank, making money for the team, making money for yourself.'

‘I'm no Rimbaud. But then again I can't say I'm obsessed with money.'

‘Okay, first, that's something you keep to yourself. You never admit it in interviews. Second, you say that now but in a couple of years, you'll be like the rest of us. Money will be the only
thing you talk about. You'll be constantly talking about the level of your positions, thinking about your bonuses, you'll be a money-making machine. Either that or you'll be out on your arse,' concluded his mentor.

Simon worked on his English in preparation for the interviews. The bank had done some research on him, talked to his fellow Polytechnique graduate, scrutinised his career, grilled him about concrete examples. Bizarrely, he came through it all with flying colours. Perhaps it was the years spent with Matt, and Simon's chameleon-like efforts to be more like his friend, to emulate his quick-wittedness, his poise. He surprised himself. Without being brilliant, he managed to answer satisfactorily – without blushing and in English – questions that would previously have left him speechless. Only one question genuinely flustered him: an elderly man in glasses asked pompously whether he played sports. Simon managed to stutter that he loved sport.

‘Do you row?'

He stammered that he had rowed a little but that he was very interested in it as a sport. The old man had gone on staring at him as though waiting for some revelation.

The final interview was conducted by a man and a woman barely older than he was. The woman, who was English, questioned him about his mathematics research. He was surprised to discover she completely understood his frame of reference and followed up with more technical and probing questions. The interview was becoming an exam.

After twenty minutes, she said: ‘Welcome to Kelmann. You'll be working on my team. Together we're going to do great things.'

And this was how he and Matt, having come back to Paris for the weekend, came to be celebrating his new job at the restaurant. Simon took a small sip of champagne, thinking that at these prices he needed to savour it. He felt happy he had lived up to his friend's expectations but – and this was more surprising – he also felt a certain pride. He had been
chosen
. He took more pride in this than he had when he was accepted at the Polytechnique because, though the entrance exam had confirmed his aptitude for mathematics, it was not as though the Polytechnique had specifically chosen
him
. And in fact, in his years at university, it was obvious that most people thought of him as a likeable half-wit, just as they had back in school. And girls hadn't paid him any more attention. But now a girl – and a pretty English girl at that – had chosen
him
. And it was his personality, he thought, that had made it possible for him to get through the interviews. He had been able to answer, to persuade, in a word, to seduce. He, Simon Judal. The spotty boy in glasses sitting in the front row near the blackboard. He was very much his aunt's nephew, he thought, feeling pangs of guilt that he hadn't been to see her for a long time. Now here he was, wearing an Armani suit, rich with the proceeds of a salary he was yet to earn, treating his best friend, the most fascinating man he knew, to a meal in a restaurant whose prices were obscene. The ballet of waiters traced a sinuous curve around him, eager to satisfy his every desire.

At the next table was a foreign couple. Simon was more or less sure the maître d'hôtel was speaking to them in Russian. A short man, with a woman somewhat taller than him who was now chatting pleasantly to the waiter.

In fact Elena, who made a point of speaking in French, was telling the maître d'hôtel that they loved Paris and that whenever their work brought them to France, they always made the most of it and spent a couple of days in the city, and always had dinner in this restaurant, which was their favourite thing of all. And the maître d'hôtel, overjoyed yet solemn, not knowing how to express his contentment, wandered off with a rictus he intended as a smile but looked like the ecstasy of suffering, like Saint Sebastian pierced by arrows of pleasure.