Netherland. Joseph O’Neill

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СКАЧАТЬ he said, showing off. ‘The eggs of kosher fish are generally shaped differently from non-kosher fish. Also, they tend to be red, whereas non-kosher are black. Then there are issues with rice, issues with vinegar. Sushi vinegar will often have non-kosher ingredients, or will be made using a non-kosher process. There are issues with worms in the flesh of the fish, with utensils, with storage, with filleting, with freezing, with sauces, with the broths and oils you pack the fish in. Every aspect of the process is difficult. It’s a painstaking business, I’m telling you. But that’s my opportunity, you see. I don’t mind complication. For me, complication represents an opportunity. The more something is complicated, the more potential competitors will be deterred.’

      ‘So you’re a restaurateur,’ I said, moving my chair to let pass two dramatically bearded and turbaned men who had risen to their feet to face up to whatever night toil awaited them.

      ‘I’m a businessman,’ Chuck quibbled agreeably. ‘I have several businesses. And what do you do?’

      ‘I work at a bank. As an equities analyst.’

      ‘Which bank?’ Chuck asked, filling his mouth with Vinay’s chicken. When I told him, he improbably declared, ‘I have had dealings with M——. What stocks do you analyse?’

      I told him, eyeing the television: Fleming had just punched Akhtar through the covers for four runs, and a groan of disgust mixed with appreciation sounded in the restaurant.

      ‘Do you think there’s much left in the consolidation trend?’

      I turned to give him my attention. In recent years, my sector had seen a rush of mergers and acquisitions. It was a well-known phenomenon; nevertheless, the slant of Chuck’s enquiry was exactly that of the fund managers who questioned me. ‘I think the trend is in place,’ I said, rewarding him with a term of professional wiliness.

      ‘And before M——you worked where?’ Chuck said. He was blithely curious.

      I found myself telling him about my years in The Hague and London.

      ‘Give me your e-mail address,’ Chuck Ramkissoon said. ‘I have a business opportunity that might interest you.’

      He handed me a second card. This read,

      CHUCK CRICKET, INC.

      Chuck Ramkissoon, President

      He said, as I wrote down my own details, ‘I’ve started up a cricket business. Right here in the city.’

      Evidently something showed in my expression, because Chuck said good-naturedly, ‘You see? You don’t believe me. You don’t think it’s possible.’

      ‘What kind of business?’

      ‘I can’t say any more.’ He was eyeing the people around us. ‘We’re at a very delicate stage. My investors wouldn’t like it. But if you’re interested, maybe I could use your expertise. We need to raise quite a lot of money. Mezzanine finance? Do you know about mezzanine finance?’ He lingered on the exotic phrase.

      Vinay had stood up to leave, and I also got up.

      ‘So long,’ I said, mirroring Roy’s raised hand.

      ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Chuck said.

      We stepped into the night. ‘What a crazy son of a bitch,’ Vinay said.

      After the passage of a week or so, I received a padded envelope at my office. When I opened the envelope, a postcard fell out.

      Dear Hans,

      You know that you are a member of the first tribe of New York, excepting of course the Red Indians. Here is something you might like.

      Best wishes,

      Chuck Ramkissoon

      Smothered by the attentiveness, I put the envelope back in my briefcase without further examining it.

      A few days later, I caught the Maple Leaf Express, bound for Toronto, to Albany, where a group of investors awaited. It was a brown November morning. Rain spotted my window as we pulled away into the tunnels and gorges through which the Penn Station trains secretively dribble up the West Side. At Harlem, the Hudson, flowing parallel to the track, came into view. I had taken this journey before, yet I was startled afresh by the existence of this waterside vista, which on a blurred morning such as this had the effect, once we passed under the George Washington Bridge, of cancelling out centuries. The far side of the river was a wild bank of forest. Clouds steaming on the clifftops foxed all sense of perspective, so that it seemed to me that I saw distant and fabulously high mountains. I fell asleep. When I awoke, the river had turned into an indeterminate grey lake. Three swans on the water were the white of phosphor. Then the Tappan Zee Bridge came clumsily out of the mist, and soon afterwards the far bank reappeared and the Hudson again was itself. Tarrytown, a whoosh of parking lots and ballfields, came and went. The valley slipped back into timelessness. As the morning lightened, the shadows of the purple and bronze trees became more distinct on the water. The brown river, now very still, was glossed in places, as if immense silver tyres had skidded there. Soon we were inland, amid trees. I stared queasily into their depths. Perhaps because I grew up in the Low Countries, where trees grow either out of sidewalks or in tame copses, I only have to look at New York forests to begin to feel lost in them. I drove upstate numerous times with Rachel, and I strongly associate those trips with the fauna whose corpses lay around the road in great numbers: skunks, deer and enormous indecipherable rodents that one never found in Europe. (And at night, when we sat on a porch, gigantic moths and other repulsive night-flyers would thickly congregate on the screen, and my English wife and I would shrink into the house in amazement and fear…) My thoughts went back to a train journey I’d often made, in my student days, between Leiden and The Hague. The yellow commuter train ran through canal-crossed fields as dull as graph paper. Always one saw evidence of the tiny brick houses that the incontinent local municipalities, Voorschoten and Leidschendam and Rijswijk and Zoetermeer, pooped over the rural spaces surrounding The Hague. Here, in the first American valley, was the contrary phenomenon: you went for miles without seeing a house. The forest, filled with slender and thick trunks fighting silently for light and land, went emptily on and on. Then, gazing out of the window, my eye snagged on something pink. I sat up and stared.

      I’d caught sight of a near-naked white man. He was on his own. He was walking through the trees wearing only underpants. But why? What was he doing? Why was he not wearing clothes? A horror took hold of me, and for a moment I feared I’d hallucinated, and I turned to my fellow passengers for some indication that might confirm what I’d seen. I saw no such indication.

      I was relieved, then, at the appearance shortly afterwards of Poughkeepsie. I’d visited the town, with its merry name that sounds like a cry in a children’s game – Poughkeepsie! – for the first time that summer. In its bucolic outskirts a colony of Jamaicans maintained a cricket field on a lush hillside. It was the only privately owned ground we played on, and the farthest north we travelled. The trip was worth it. There was a bouncy but true batting track made of cement; rickety four-deep bleachers filled with shouting spectators; and the simplest wooden shack for a locker room. If you smashed the ball down the hill it landed among cows, goats, horses, chickens. After the match – marked by an umpiring crisis, inevitably – every player went to the clubhouse in downtown Poughkeepsie. The clubhouse was a cabin with a small bar. Prominent signs warned against the use of marijuana. Presently women appeared with platters of chicken and rice. We ate and drank quietly, half following a dominoes game being played with the solemnity that often marked the social dealings of West Indian СКАЧАТЬ