The Marketmaker Read online

  I recalled the tough little boy with the big smile, and tried to imagine what adulthood would hold for him. If he ever made it that far.

  ‘Euclides is a funny name for a kid, isn’t it, anyway?’

  ‘Brazilians can be very imaginative in naming their children,’ Isabel replied, ‘especially in the favelas. Cordelia looks after a skinny five-year-old called Marcos Aurélio.’

  I smiled briefly at this, but only briefly. The favela had depressed and angered me. How could something like that exist in a supposedly civilized country like Brazil? How could so many fabulously wealthy people live so close to such poverty? You couldn’t really blame the Brazilians – indeed many, like Cordelia and Isabel, were doing their best. Yet I was still angry with them, and angry with myself as well for accepting what I saw around me. But what could I do? What could anyone do? I longed for the simple answers of my more naïve past.

  We drove on out of the favela, and into a green suburb of white houses hiding behind high walls and electronically laden iron gates.

  ‘I admire your sister,’ I said.

  ‘I admire her. And I love her. But I think she’s stupid. Stupid!’

  I glanced over to Isabel. Her cheeks were flushed. ‘I know she’s doing good, a lot of good. But she’s going to end up dead. God, I hope she gives it up when she has the baby.’

  ‘Do you think one of the kids will kill her?’

  ‘No, not them. She’s a sitting target to be kidnapped. That’s a popular sport here in Rio. And you heard all that stuff about the police and the death squads. How do you think they feel about their victims escaping? Cordelia’s had death threats. They’ve tried to burn down the shelter.’

  ‘But she won’t give up,’ I said. I’d seen the determination in Cordelia’s eyes.

  ‘No,’ said Isabel. ‘She says that they wouldn’t dare do anything to her. Because of who our father is, and the high media profile she has, it would be counterproductive for the death squads to do anything. It would start a public outcry against them.’

  ‘Do you think she’s right?’

  A tear glistened in the corner of Isabel’s eye. ‘I pray she is. But one day some off-duty policeman is going to decide that enough is enough.’

  ‘Can’t your father stop her?’

  ‘No one can stop her. Not him, not her husband. Don’t get me wrong. If she wasn’t my sister, I’d think she was doing a tremendous thing. But she is my sister …’ Isabel rubbed her eye.

  ‘I think I would be very proud of her if she were mine,’ I said carefully.

  Isabel glanced at me for a moment, and gave me a small smile.

  ‘Um, Isabel?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you have dinner with me tonight?’

  7

  Isabel met me in the lobby of the hotel wearing the simple black dress she had worn when she had gone out with her friends a couple of nights before. It suited her perfectly, complementing the smooth graceful glide of her body as she walked.

  ‘Let’s have a drink by the beach,’ I said.

  ‘Fine. Lead the way.’

  Outside, the Avenida Atlântica was lined with hookers in skimpy tops and tight shorts leaning against the backs of parked cars, hoping to entice passing trade. We stopped outside one of the many little kiosks that lined the edge of the sand and ordered a couple of beers.

  We sat and watched the world go by. We exchanged a few words, but it was difficult. I wasn’t sure whether Isabel was shy, or being evasive, or both.

  A little boy of about four came up and stood beside us, offering us chewing gum. He had a delicate face, and large brown trusting eyes. ‘Não, obrigado,’ I said, and tried to shoo him off, but he took no notice. Then Isabel spoke some sharp words of Portuguese to him. Wordlessly he turned away from us and approached the next table. The barman left his post, clapped his hands and sent the child on his way.

  We fell silent. The boy was Oliver’s age. I wondered if he would turn into another Euclides, a twelve-year-old hit-man with attitude.

  Just then a woman with a puffy face and dyed blonde hair, who had been drinking a caipirinha sloppily at the table next to us, staggered to her feet. She lurched a few yards and threw up on the sand.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Isabel. ‘I knew there was a reason I preferred Ipanema to Copacabana.’

  We ended up at a fish restaurant just back from Ipanema beach. It was crowded and lively, with a menu I couldn’t understand but wine I could.

  ‘I liked your father,’ I said. ‘He’s a nice guy.’

  ‘Yes, he is. He just drives me crazy sometimes.’

  ‘Did you always want to be a banker like him?’ I asked, pouring her a glass of wine.

  She glanced up at me. Her large liquid eyes considered me, weighing up how much to tell me. I held her gaze, although it was difficult to maintain a dispassionate expression rather than just stare.

  Then she gave me that quick smile, and replied, ‘No. I hated banking when I was a student. I thought the last thing I would ever do would be to become a banker. I was sickened by what I saw around me. Poverty surrounded by wealth. So I wanted to do something about it. Attack the root causes, not just treat the symptoms like Cordelia.’ She was relaxed now, talking much more freely. ‘You know how it is when you’re twenty. You think that if only the world knew what you knew, then it would be a better place. So your job is just to explain to everyone how stupid they are.’

  ‘I know just what you mean,’ I said. ‘I used to be convinced that if the government ran the economy for the benefit of all the people, not just the rich gits, everyone would be better off. Then I went to the Soviet Union for two years. It was quite difficult to stay a socialist after that. In the end I just gave it all up and read books instead.’

  ‘I was fascinated to hear you talk to my father about that,’ Isabel said. ‘I mean I like reading books, but you’re in love with them. Just like Papai.’

  ‘ Yes, I do love literature. Especially Russian literature. It seems to speak directly to the soul. Economics is all bullshit. It’s all about understanding money, and no one ever gets the right answers anyway. But when I read a poem by Pushkin, I feel that I have glimpsed some deeper truth about humanity. And I can read the same poem again and again, and learn something new each time.’

  I had always loved reading. When I was a child, I had friends enough to play with outside the house but no one within its four walls. So I read. It became more than just a pastime, or even an escape into an imaginary world. Books became my security, my family, my home.

  A waiter hovered on Isabel’s elbow. She ordered.

  ‘So what on earth are you doing here, now?’

  I smiled. ‘I need the money. And I want to see if I can do it. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in the City. Just a few years, enough to earn a lot of money. And then I’ll go back to reading and teaching.’

  ‘And will you be able to do it?’

  ‘I think so. What do you think?’

  Isabel studied me for a moment. ‘Perhaps. But I’m not sure you’ll want to.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’re intelligent, you pick things up incredibly quickly, and you do well with people. But to succeed in this business you need a killer instinct. And I’m not sure you’ve got it.’

  For some reason, this criticism bit into me deeply. It was what I had half feared, and it was what I was out to prove was wrong.

  ‘Believe me, when I want to do something, I do it,’ I said. I meant it as a bold statement, but it came out a bit like a whine.

  The corners of Isabel’s mouth twitched. Her eyes mocked me. ‘You’re just too nice a guy for this game.’

  ‘Grrrr. Cancel the fish. Give me a raw steak.’

  Isabel shook her head. ‘You don’t convince me.’

  ‘Well, what about you, then? Do you eat government officials for breakfast?’

  ‘I surprise myself sometimes. And them.’

&nb
sp; ‘So how did you end up in this business? I mean Dekker isn’t exactly the World Development Fund, is it?’

  ‘You’re right. After I left university here in Rio, I studied development economics in the United States. At Columbia. And I guess I came to the same kind of conclusions as you. There was very little real difference that I could make.’

  ‘But why banking? I mean, wasn’t that a total sell-out?’

  ‘It was to do with my father.’

  ‘He put pressure on you to go into the family business?’

  ‘No. Far from it. Now, if I had been a son, that would have been different. Papai always wanted a son, I’m sure, but my mother died before she could give him one.’

  I had wondered about Isabel’s mother, but I hadn’t liked to ask. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  Isabel shrugged. ‘I was only two. It would have been nice to have known her, but…’ Her eyes wandered off into space for a moment. ‘Sorry. Anyway, I was a girl, and girls of my father’s class get married before they are twenty-five to men of good family. Education is OK, and perhaps a job for a couple of years, but not a career.

  ‘Now in the States I saw women who were making careers for themselves in all sorts of different fields. They were becoming lawyers, bankers, doctors. But not me. I wasn’t supposed to do any of that. And then I found out that the man I was supposed to marry, Marcelo, was messing around with one of my friends while I was in New York!’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Yes. Oh dear. So I decided to make my own career in banking, in my father’s business. I joined Banco Evolução in São Paulo. But it’s difficult to be a woman and a banker in Brazil, especially if you have a father like mine. So I went to work for Dekker three years ago. Since then, I’ve won them fifteen bond mandates in Brazil.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘I must sound terrible,’ Isabel said. ‘I’m not really a radical feminist. I’m just proud. And stubborn.’

  ‘And you like to annoy your father?’

  For a moment I thought I had gone too far. ‘I love him,’ said Isabel defensively.

  ‘I know that. I could see that when you were with him. And he adores you. Maybe that’s why you rub each other up the wrong way.’

  Isabel smiled. ‘That’s exactly why. My poor father. Somehow he has no control over us. He must wish we were ladies of leisure like all his friends’ daughters. Could you believe it when he offered me a job in the bank? “I’m sure we could find you something,” he said. I mean, I know Horizonte is one of the most successful investment banks in Brazil. But Dekker dominates the whole of Latin America, for God’s sake! And I’m responsible for most of their Brazilian business. And he thinks he can find some corner for the boss’s daughter!’

  Actually, I was jealous of Isabel for her father. His deep affection for her was evident. He was a banker yet, unlike my father, this did not seem to automatically exclude all interest in other things. It’s true that his love of Russian literature appealed to me, but I was sure Luís could speak knowledgeably about a wide range of topics that would leave my father looking blank and uninterested. You don’t choose your parents. But Isabel seemed to have taken hers for granted.

  ‘You are pretty good at this banking business,’ I said. ‘I’m very impressed with this favela deal.’

  Isabel blushed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s good to see a case of international capital genuinely providing a solution for poverty.’

  ‘We don’t know whether it will work yet but, yes, it is. It’s probably the most satisfying thing I’ve done in my career so far. But that’s the exception rather than the rule. You just wait till you have to gouge a competitor’s eyes out to win a deal providing finance for a local bank to dodge taxes. And you won’t have to wait long.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  At Isabel’s suggestion I ordered a fish I had never heard of and that neither she nor the waiter could translate.

  ‘You’ve seen my father,’ she said. ‘What about your parents?’

  ‘I don’t see them much,’ I said. ‘My father was in finance too.’

  ‘Well, then,’ she said. ‘You know what it’s like.’

  ‘I’m afraid my father’s a very different kind of man from yours,’ I said. ‘Or, at least, he seems that way to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he worked for an old British stockbroker. Much like Dekker Ward used to be, I would imagine. He had lunches with his friends, gave his customers good tips, and then when his firm was bought out by the Americans in 1986, he retired to a small village in Norfolk. You know, on the east coast.’

  ‘I’ve been there,’ said Isabel. ‘It’s cold.’

  ‘It certainly is.’ I smiled. ‘He spends all day in his garden or reading the paper. I think at first he tried investing his retirement money on the markets, but he lost most of it so he stopped. I’ve never found it easy to talk to him, and I suppose I’ve given up now.’

  ‘What does he think about you joining Dekker Ward?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t told him.’

  ‘You haven’t told him!’

  ‘No. Awful, isn’t it? He always wanted me to go into the City, and I always refused. I can’t face telling him I’ve finally succumbed. I’ll tell him next week. Or the week after.’ I took a gulp of wine. ‘I’d love to have the relationship you have with your father. But we find it difficult to talk. My father doesn’t understand my life at all, and although I’m sure my mother could if she wanted to, she chooses not to discuss it. So I gave up.’

  We were silent for a moment. I watched Isabel expertly parting the white flesh of her fish from the bone, biting her lower lip in concentration. Her skin glowed in the candlelight.

  Then she spoke. ‘Nick, I’m sorry about being a little cold with you earlier. It wasn’t very fair of me. And it has nothing to do with you. Nothing. It’s just that I’ve got myself in trouble with men at Dekker before, and I don’t want to let it happen again.’

  ‘I understand.’ I thought of what Jamie had told me about her and Eduardo. How could this woman possibly have had anything to do with him?

  ‘Your friend Jamie, for example.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Yes. He kept on trying to ask me out. He made a pass at me twice.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ I said, laughing. ‘He was just flirting. He’s very happily married. You’ve nothing to fear from him.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I’m Brazilian. I know all about flirting. I can tell when a guy is just having fun, and when he really means it. And, believe me, your friend Jamie really means it.’

  I looked at her sharply. She must be mistaken. ‘No. He always used to chat up women. He just wants to make sure he can still do it, that’s all.’

  ‘Nick, I think he wants to prove that he can do more than just chat them up.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sure you’re wrong.’

  ‘OK. He’s your friend. You know him best. I’m just glad I’m not his wife.’

  Despite my protests, Isabel had planted some seeds of doubt. I hadn’t been able to understand what Jamie had against her when he had warned me about her. Had he tried his luck and been rejected? It did fit. But Jamie was a good friend, and so was Kate, and I just didn’t want to think that there was any infidelity there. If that meant I had to bury my head in the sand, so be it.

  Isabel could see my doubt and irritation. She put her hand on mine. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you that. It’s just that after Marcelo, and um – ’ She broke off. ‘After Marcelo, I’m not very impressed with unfaithful men. I probably judged Jamie too quickly. Please forgive me.’

  That wasn’t difficult. ‘I forgive you.’

  And so our conversation eased gently into the night.

  Some time after midnight we spilled out of the restaurant, and headed for the sea, only a couple of blocks away. We crossed the road, pushed our way through the throng of people along the pathway, and headed down
to the water itself. The beach was floodlit, and a game of foot volleyball was in full swing. The skills of the players amazed me, rally after rally of three touches, with head, chest or feet.

  We walked all the way down to the water, watching the foam beat rhythmically on to the sand, the flecks of salt water picked out brilliant white by the floodlights. We took off our shoes and padded along the strip of wet sand at the water’s edge, letting the strongest, most adventurous waves wash over our toes. On one side was the dark sea, on the other the life and lights of Ipanema. We didn’t speak. The beauty of the night hung around us. I wanted to walk for ever with Isabel along that beach.

  We were approaching the favela I had seen tumbling down into the sea the day before, a mass of pinpricks of individual electric lights. It was quieter and darker at this end of the beach, down by the shore.

  Suddenly we were surrounded by figures, small, thin and lithe. I don’t know where they came from. There were four of them, I think. Instinctively, I tried to move in front of Isabel, but I was stopped by a long thin knife, an inch from my chest.

  I glanced at Isabel. She was standing still. ‘Don’t move!’ she said, in a voice of surprising calmness. ‘Give them what they want.’

  A kid of about fourteen waved his blade in front of me, and said something in Portuguese.

  ‘OK, OK,’ I said. Slowly, I reached into my trouser pocket, and produced some notes. It was a healthy bundle. Fortunately I had left my wallet at the hotel, with my passport, as Isabel had suggested.

  The kid snatched the money. Isabel was carrying a cheap shoulder bag, and she slowly handed that over.

  I began to relax. They’d got their money. Now they’d let us go.

  The kid in front of me tucked the notes into his pocket, keeping his eyes on me all the time. He didn’t move, standing there, still. He was half my age, much smaller than me, but he had a knife, and he certainly knew how to use it.

  I sought his brown eyes with mine, but they flicked away. Then his thin shoulders tensed. I knew what he was going to do. I started to turn, but I was too late. The knife flashed, and I felt a hot piercing pain in my chest. Isabel screamed. My hands flew to the hilt of the knife. The kid tried to pull it out, but I clung on to it, determined not to let the blade leave my body. My chest was on fire. It hurt to breathe, but I kept trying, short gasps, each one agony. My legs buckled underneath me, and I sank to the ground, pulling the knife and the kid with me. He yanked a couple of times, and then gave up, letting me slip down to the sand.