Behold the Dreamers (9 page)

When they got to Columbus Circle, she called Fatou, who told her that Liomi was fine, they could stay out for however long they wanted. So they sat beneath the statue of Christopher Columbus, side by side, hand in hand, surrounded by skateboarders and young lovers and homeless people, looking north as cars came around the circle and went up Central Park West. The spring air was crisper than she would have wished, but not crisp enough to send her rushing into the subway. And even if it had been, she would have stayed in the circle, because it wasn't every night she got a chance to enjoy the sounds of the city and its millions of lights blinking around her, reminding her that she was still living in her dream. Bubakar had assured them that they could be in the country for many years, which meant they could be in the city for many years. A massive smile involuntarily appeared on her face at the thought, and she moved closer to Jende and leaned against him.

“This is the best place in the whole city,” he said to her. She did not ask why he thought so, because she knew why.

In his first days in America, it was here he came every night to take in the city. It was here he often sat to call her when he got so lonely and homesick that the only balm that worked was the sound of her voice. During those calls, he would ask her how Liomi was doing, what she was wearing, what her plans for the weekend were, and she would tell him everything, leaving him even more wistful for the beauty of her smile, the hearth in his mother's kitchen, the light breeze at Down Beach, the tightness of Liomi's hugs, the coarse jokes and laughter of his friends as they drank Guinness at a drinking spot; leaving him craving everything he wished he hadn't left behind. During those times, he told her, he often wondered if leaving home in search of something as fleeting as fortune was ever worthwhile.

“You know what I'm realizing now?” he said to her.

“What?” she asked, looking at him adoringly.

“We are sitting in the center of the world.”

She laughed. “You're so funny.”

“No, think about it,” he said. “Columbus Circle is the center of Manhattan. Manhattan is the center of New York. New York is the center of America, and America is the center of the world. So we are sitting in the center of the world, right?”

O
N
THE
WAY
TO
THE
GOLF
COURSE
IN
W
ESTCHESTER,
C
LARK
COMPLAINED
about his stiff neck, grumbled about Phil inviting a bunch of other people to join them and thus making it hard for him to pull out, griped about spending his afternoon doing an activity he didn't care for when he could be in the office. Jende listened and nodded, as always, agreeing with everything he said.

“Golf's not my thing,” Clark said. “A lot of people like to pretend it's their thing, but I couldn't care less about going today, if it wasn't for a chance to spend time with the guys outside of work.”

“It looks like a very hard game, sir.”

“It really isn't. You should try it sometime.”

“I will, sir,” Jende said, though he had no idea why or where he would ever go to golf.

Halfway to the course in Rye, Clark's mother called to check on him, and he put her on speakerphone, saying he didn't want to stiffen his neck any further. His mother thanked him for the anniversary gift and was about to tell him a funny story about bumping into an old neighbor from Evanston when another call came in. Clark told her he had to go and promised he would call her back after taking the incoming call from his boss.

“You're heading to join Phil and the others?” Tom asked. His voice over the speaker sounded far less powerful than Jende had expected the voice of a CEO to sound. It was genial, but lacked the authority that Clark's possessed.

“Yeah, you're coming, right?”

“No, can't make it. Michelle's not feeling too well.”

“Sorry to hear.”

“How's Cindy?” Tom said after a few seconds. “She looked great on Thursday.”

“Yeah, she knows how to take care of herself.”

“Heard a couple of guys at the bar wondering whose trophy she was.”

Clark chuckled. “I'll take whatever compliments I can get these days,” he said.

Jende cleared his throat, not because it needed clearing but because he could tell Tom wanted to say something important and he wanted to alert Clark of his presence so Clark could switch his phone off speaker mode. He knew enough about Lehman as it was and didn't care to hear anything else, especially something he would be tempted to tell Leah, since she'd been hounding him for details about Clark's conversations so she could know how bad things really were. He always told her he knew nothing, but the woman didn't know how to give up.

“So,” Tom said, finally ready to get to his point, “I imagine you know why I'm calling.”

“I'm guessing you spoke to Donald,” Clark said. “I was hoping to—”

“You have no right to go to a board member behind my back, Clark.”

“It wasn't my intention. I bumped into him rushing to get to my son's hockey game, quickly told him that I've been trying to get a meeting with you to talk about—”

“About what?” Tom said, his voice rising in authority. “About your bullshit about coming clean? Changing strategy? What do you think we're doing here? Playing patty-cake?”

“I think we need to rethink our long-term strategy, Tom,” Clark said, raising his voice, too. “I've been saying it, and I'll keep on saying it. We're sitting here acting as if we're dealing with forces out of our control when we're not. It's merely a matter of looking at other angles, considering other models. Back in August I came to you when it was crystal-clear that ABS performance was never going to really pick up and the damage was quickly spreading past subprime to Alt-A. Remember we had that talk and I suggested we change course?”

“What's your point?”

“When you and Danny laughed off the Chinese, I pushed for us to take whatever infusion they were throwing at us, get us out of this mess as soon as—”

“And tell the world we're drowning? Sure! Let's become laughingstocks!”

“BS didn't want to become a laughingstock!”

“We're not BS! We're Lehman, and if you don't know that, if you don't know that we're The Brothers and that we always win, then I really can't help you, Clark! If you don't believe in what we're doing here, then you've been wasting your time for the past twenty-two years.”

Jende heard Clark scoff, and imagined he was shaking his head as well.

“Why are you scoffing?” Tom asked.

“All I'm trying to say is that we need to change our approach a bit, maybe get more aggressive on raising capital. Everyone else on the Street's been running around raising capital, and we're sitting here deceiving shareholders that we remain strongly capitalized. If we could so much as even—”

“You will not circumvent me and talk to a board member again, do you understand?”

Clark exhaled deeply, but did not respond.

“Do we have an agreement?”

Clark ignored the question.

“As for coming clean—”

“How long do you think before the world finds out about the leverage ratio?” Clark said. “Are you going to sit in front of Congress and say you knew nothing about Repo 105? 'Cause there's just how long we can sustain this, and at some point we're going to have to—”

“So you think airing our dirty laundry is what's going to get us back in the right direction? You think we should listen to you because you decided to grow a damn conscience?”

“This has got nothing to do with a conscience! You know I love the game. You know I love winning as much as the next guy, and I'm all for doing what we need to do to win. But there's a level where we've got to admit that we've gone too far, and if we keep on going at this rate …”

“Really?” Tom said derisively. “How far back should we go so we're not too far ahead of the curve? Back to the seventies? Why don't we all jump into a '75 Buick while everyone is passing us by in '08 models? That's what you're asking for, right? Because we've become so ruthless, let's try and be sweet and nice.”

“I'm not—”

“I really can't help you, you know?” Tom said almost sympathetically. “Whatever crisis you're going through, I can't do anything to help you, and frankly, this isn't the best time to be dealing with it.”

“I'm simply saying that we should show we stand for something better than everyone else, Tom. That could be our salvation. If we quit pulling the tricks, place the blame on someone else if we must—auditors, rogue accountants, whoever—give ourselves a chance to get straight before it gets worse. Because right now we're pulling these tricks and the SEC's playing dumb, but you know as well as I do that if this shit falls apart and the chaos starts spreading they're going to throw us out for the public to crucify by claiming they didn't know a damn thing, and we all know it's a lie.”

“And you think the board's going to love your suggestion?”

“Donald wasn't exactly opposed.”

“What gives you that idea? Donald thought you'd gone crazy!”

“What's crazy is thinking that somehow we're going to survive doing business this way!” Clark shouted, apparently unaware of how much his voice had risen. “We've made a ton of mistakes already. We're in this shit because we haven't shown great foresight! We've got to think far beyond Lehman. We've got to think about the next generation taking over the Street after we're gone, about how they're going to judge us. About how history's going to judge us!”

Another phone rang wherever Tom was. He picked it up, spoke softly to someone he referred to as “honey,” and assured the person that he would be there, no way in the world was he going to miss it.

“I'd rather not lose you right now,” he said to Clark after hanging up, his voice as soft as if he were still speaking to the other person. “We've survived highs and lows together for eighteen years, and, I know, I'm absolutely certain, we'll survive this one, too. But if you think this is all too much for you then I'll sadly accept your resignation.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Clark said. “There's a battle going on, and I intend to keep fighting for Lehman.”

“Good.”

“Yes, good.”

“So why don't you get back to work and fight the way I've decided is best? And if someday I'm proven wrong, you can look back at this moment and be damn proud of yourself.”

H
E
HAD
BEEN
WAITING
ON
THE
CURB
FOR
THIRTY-FIVE
MINUTES
WHEN
Vince finally came out of his apartment building and hopped into the backseat, a cup of coffee in one hand.

“Jende, my man,” Vince said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Good morning, Vince.”

“So sorry for making you wait. I wish I had a good excuse.”

“It's no problem. I will try to drive fast so we are not late for your appointment.”

“No, take your time. I'm never eager to be on time for a dental appointment. I wouldn't even be going all the way to Long Island if my mom didn't insist Dr. Mariano is the world's best dentist.”

“It's good to have a dentist,” Jende said, imagining how good it would feel to have someone else clean his teeth. He made a right turn onto Broadway and drove from the Nineties to the Fifties and then from west to east, onto I-495. “Would you like me to turn on the radio?” he asked Vince.

“No, I'm good,” Vince said distractedly. He was fidgeting and looking around the car. “I think I left my phone at home,” he said.

“I can go back,” Jende said.

“No, it's fine.”

“It is no problem for me, Vince.”

“No, it's all good,” Vince said, leaning back in his seat and taking a sip of his coffee. “It'll be a good exercise in disconnecting from the world. Besides, I get to talk to you uninterrupted and continue trying to unindoctrinate you on all the lies you've been fed about America.”

Jende laughed. “There is nothing you can say, Vince. Nothing you or any man can say to me to make me stop believing that America is the greatest country in the world and Barack Obama will win the election and become one of the greatest presidents in the history of America.”

“That's cool. I'm not going to argue too hard with that. But what if I tell you that America killed the African revolutionary Patrice Lumumba in their effort to stop the spread of communism and tighten their grip around the world?”

“Ah, Lumumba! I used to have a T-shirt with his face back in Limbe. Whenever I wore it, people stopped me on the street to look at his face and say, oh, what a great man.”

“So, what if I tell you America killed that great man?”

“I will say I am sorry for what happened to him, but I don't know the whole story.”

“I'm telling you the whole story.”

Jende chuckled. “You are so funny, Vince,” he said. “I like how you want to help me see things another way, but maybe the way I see America is good for me.”

“That's exactly the problem! People don't want to open their eyes and see the Truth because the illusion suits them. As long as they're fed whatever lies they want to hear they're happy, because the Truth means nothing to them. Look at my parents—they're struggling under the weight of so many pointless pressures, but if they could ever free themselves from this self-inflicted oppression they would find genuine happiness. Instead, they continue to go down a path of achievements and accomplishments and material success and shit that means nothing because that's what America's all about, and now they're trapped. And they don't get it!”

“Your parents are good people, Vince.”

“In their own way, sure.”

“Your father works so hard. Sometimes he looks so tired I feel bad for him, but it's what we do for our children.”

“I don't doubt his sacrifices.”

“Even if you don't like America too much, I think you should still thank God that you have a mother and father who give you a good life. And now you can go to law school and become a lawyer and give your children a good life, too.”

“Become a lawyer? Who said anything about me becoming a lawyer?”

Jende did not respond. He thought he was mistaken; maybe law school wasn't only for people who wanted to become lawyers.

“This is my last semester at law school,” Vince said. “I won't be returning in the fall.”

“You're not going to finish school?”

“I'm moving to India.”

“You are moving to India!”

“I'd rather you don't tell my parents any of this just yet.”

“No, I would never—”

“I'm only telling you this because I enjoy talking to you. And maybe as a parent you can advise me on how I can tell my parents.”

Jende nodded and for a brief stretch of time said nothing. The highway was mostly empty and quiet, except for the siren of an ambulance far in the distance. On the side of the westbound lane, billboards displayed advertisements for hotels and hospitals with pictures of good-looking people, the people at the hospitals looking as healthy and happy as the ones at the hotels.

“I just do not know what to say, Vince,” Jende finally said. “I only think that you should please finish school and become a lawyer. Then maybe you could visit India for vacation.”

“I don't want to be a lawyer. I've never wanted to be a lawyer.”

“But why?”

“A lot of lawyers are miserable,” Vince said. “I don't want to be miserable.”

“My cousin is a lawyer.”

“Is he happy?”

“Sometimes he's happy, sometimes he's not. Is there anybody who is happy all the time? A man can be unhappy doing any kind of work.”

“Sure.”

“Then why can you not just think you will be a happy man no matter what kind of work you do?”

“I can't even stand law school right now. I look at my classmates and I feel terrible—just saddens me to see them spending all those precious hours of their lives being indoctrinated with lies so they can go into the world and perpetuate the lies. They don't know they're about to become pieces of a ruthless machine that specializes in ripping out the innards of innocents. The whole system is a joke! People going around living meaningless lives, because it's what they've been conditioned to think is good for them. Walking around completely mindless of the fact that they're living in a society ruled by a cold-blooded cabal. How long are we going to remain in this bondage? I mean, really, how long?”

Jende shook his head. Vince's rant made no sense to him, but from the manner in which the young man's voice was rising and his tone hardening, he could tell Vince truly hated law school and anything to do with lawyers. And he could tell this wasn't even about law school or lawyers or America; it was more about Vince wanting to leave his world and everything his parents wanted for him; Vince wanting to become a whole new person.

“I am so sorry, Vince,” he said.

“You don't have to be sorry for me. I'm living my Truth.”

“No, I am sorry … I am not sorry for you … I am just sorry for how you feel.”

Vince chuckled.

“I am not going to lie to you,” Jende said. “If my son tells me that he is going to leave law school and move to India, I swear I will bring out my
molongo
and whip his buttocks well.”

“What's a
molongo
?”

“The stick our parents use to beat us back home when we behave like bad children. I have one for my son, but he is lucky—I cannot use it here; I don't want any trouble whatsoever.”

Vince chuckled again.

“I can't do anything besides shout at him—”

“And in your country you'd beat him even when he's my age?”

“No, man,” Jende said, laughing. “I was just joking with you there. Our parents stop whipping our buttocks when we are like nineteen.”

“Nineteen!”

“Or twenty, sometimes. But the thing I am trying to say is that if your father and mother are angry when you tell them this news, I hope you will understand.”

Vince did not respond, and for a minute he was quiet, staring out the window. “I know it won't be easy for them to understand,” he said, “considering I'm nothing like them. Then again, all the hundreds of thousands of dollars they spent at Dalton and summer camps and NYU and Columbia was for me to be what they want me to be. So my mom can tell her friends about her son's new job as a clerk with Judge So-and-So. Total bullshit.”

“Oh, Vince,” Jende said. “Someday when you have children, you will not talk like this.”

“It amazes me, you're so different, and yet you're so like my parents in many ways.”

“Maybe that's why me and your father get along very well. In fact, I think that if you could just take it easy on your father, maybe you will see him from another angle and see that he is a very nice man.”

“Yeah, well, maybe someday I'll see this super-niceness that you see,” Vince said. “We've never been a close family, so I've never been able to see him as much more than an absent provider who's going through the motions for the sake of his family.”

“It's not easy,” Jende said, shaking his head as he turned onto Elm Street, where the dentist's office was located.

“Who is it not easy for?”

“For you, for your father, for every child, every parent, for everybody. It's just not easy, this life here in this world.”

“No,” Vince said. “That's why our only choice is to embrace Suffering and surrender to the Truth.”

“Embrace suffering?” Jende laughed. “You are talking some funny things here, eh?”

“Well, we can talk about what that means on the way back,” Vince said, smiling and sitting up as Jende moved toward a parking spot. “But please, whatever we discussed about law school and India, that's just between me and you for now.”

Jende nodded, turned around, and extended his hand, which Vince shook before exiting the car. When Vince returned to the car an hour later, his mouth was heavy from the anesthesia that had been used to numb him before his wisdom tooth extraction, and he could barely talk. He fell asleep within minutes, his right hand holding the ice pack soothing his lightly swollen face. At intervals, Jende looked through the rearview mirror at Vince's face, and every time he imagined Liomi in about eighteen years. He knew he would never permit Liomi to throw away a chance at a successful career and a good life to go walking around India talking about Truth and Suffering, and yet he couldn't fully denounce what Vince was doing. Looking at the young man sleeping, he felt proud of him, even as he worried for him.