The Lehman Trilogy, page 43
but is competing with the birds for air space.
This is pure art, Mr. Rockefeller.
If for you it is only a question of money
then I believe that you and I don’t have much to say to each other.
Begging your pardon: I have here somewhere
two Flemish masters that await me.
Am I not right, Dad? I’d like to go.”
And without adding more, he left the room
in such haste
that everyone wondered who were the Flemish financiers
who had come from Europe to meet him.
Before they could ask him
however
the old man with the eyebrows
waved his stick at Philip:
“Devil of a Lehman: you hadn’t told us anything!
Competing with the birds for air space!
Civil aviation!
Your son wants to fly humanity up and down the planet?
A sensational idea: pure art, he’s right!
Rather than using airplanes just for war
let’s use them to move ourselves about for pleasure!
My bank is prepared to support you in the deal.”
“We too!”
“May I join in?”
“I offer a third of the capital!”
“Very smart, Lehman!”
“A textbook success!”
While all these voices were echoing ’round the room,
Philip could barely hold back the tears:
a baron’s baptism had just been performed.
And so, with paternal pride,
he uttered a phrase that turned into a shout:
“Talk all of you with Robert, not with me!
Talk with him tomorrow!”
Well.
It was here that Arthur Lehman’s
own mathematical dose of tolerance (TL)
reached a definite end.
He could expect anything from his cousin.
Anything apart from seeing him emerge
without warning
as a claimant to the throne.
And then what shred of good sense did he have?
Hadn’t Bobbie always been a wastrel?
Okay, he had graduated from Yale
but who had ever heard of him discussing finance? (BY ≠ FIN)
Through what algebraic formula
was old Philip
now wanting to promote him in the bank?
Yes. All this whirl of question marks
exploded like a volcano in Arthur.
And as often happens with human beings
anger doesn’t always go hand in hand with logic (A ≠ L)
so that
this was what he yelled:
“Well done! That’s it! Go on! Why not?
You want to fill the sky with airplanes?
They’ll go crashing into skyscrapers!”
“I heartily hope not”
came the immediate reply from Louis Kaufman
who was financing the Empire State Building.
“It’s a mathematical certainty!”
Arthur said or thought
(this was never clear)
before slamming the door.
In any event
this was how Lehman Brothers
began investing in Pan American Airways.
And apart from this
it was how Bobbie Lehman
without realizing it
rose from chamberlain to heir to the throne.
8
Business in Soho
Since that day a few months ago
Philip is always smiling.
Once again he feels
he has turned up the right card.
It matters little that his son, Bobbie,
on the other hand
has sunk into a leaden silence
and often bites his lip until it bleeds:
the boy has the feeling
he has entered a strange game
whose rules and field of play he cannot figure.
And why then does his cousin Arthur
no longer speak to him
nor even say hello?
A mystery.
Bobbie watches all this
with resigned melancholy.
No one explains things clearly.
No one tells him what they expect of him.
Even Harold and Allan,
potential masters of ruthlessness
limit themselves to a
“Are you getting ready, Bobbie?”
“For what?” he asks biting his lip.
“For the worst” comes the reply
seasoned with one of those smiles of compassion
that nurses reserve for the dying.
Now
it is well known that each human being
has their own particular way
of exploring the lowest depths
of their own inner ocean.
There are those who go off into the mountains
those who climb to the top of a cliff
and those like Bobbie Lehman
who venture alone
on foot
into working-class districts.
It matters little
that his cousin Irving has strongly warned against it:
“Two out of three villains that I sentence in court
come from those districts
where you go wandering!
They are training grounds for criminals.
One of these days, dear Bobbie, you’ll find yourself
with a knife right in the middle of your chest.
You kids have this obsession about risk.
You’ll all end up in court, and then don’t go looking for me.”
“I, on the other hand, approve of this type of tourism!”
retorted Herbert the democrat:
“Just by feeling the suffering
of less-privileged classes
we can plan a path for redemption!
People must stop pretending not to see!
The middle class is proudly blind!
Congratulations, cousin: you have my approval and my encouragement.
And I say more: I’ll follow your example.”
Bobbie didn’t have the courage to tell him
there wasn’t an ounce of altruism
in those wanderings of his.
Or rather: he was about to explain
but was preceded by Peter,
Herbert’s high school son
who had grown into a beanpole almost six feet tall:
“You have my deepest respect, Bobbie.”
It’s always dangerous to destroy a model for an adolescent.
So it’s better to say nothing:
let them think his visits to Soho
grew out of a social concern.
Whereas
ever since he was a boy
a strange form of calm
fell over young Lehman
at the mere sight of those
cramped and noisy slums
drowned like sardines in their rotting stench.
Bobbie walked slowly
not missing a single detail
enjoying the pleasure of not feeling rich
but of sensing
that another path was yet possible
far away from money and from the Stock Exchange
far away from such an awkward surname
far away
in short
from all that took away the thirty-year status
which made him Robert son of the great Philip Lehman.
If someone then looked out
from a window
in one of those hive-like houses
he felt a splendid and heartwarming relief
when he saw that a smile—on those dirty faces—was not at all impossible.
And his eyes even reddened with joy.
The fact is
that Bobbie’s visits to the vaults of hell
became more and more frequent.
Until the day we are now describing.
Life, at times, is funny:
surprise lurks nearly always
among the recesses of normality
where you least expect it.
That evening
in fact
Bobbie Lehman was walking with his head down
under a light rain.
His coat lapels up over his face.
His hat tight over his eyes.
Almost as if he wanted to disappear.
Not from others: from himself.
He was about to leave
the last block of Soho behind him
when several wild shouts
reached his ear.
They came from an inner alley
a kind of gorge between high concrete walls
closed on either side and above
by a metal roof and rusty steps.
Life, at times, offers an alternative.
Bobbie therefore had to choose
between continuing on toward the driver who was waiting for him
or stopping at the beginning of that passageway.
He chose the second.
And more: he moved
a few steps closer
to that metropolitan lane
driven partly by curiosity and partly by a civic instinct
seeing not only that the shouts didn’t seem to diminish
but merged with a background sound
more resembling a human cry
than any animal call.
Bobbie looked about.
The path was almost empty.
He paused for a moment
restrained the hero’s fury
and urged himself to be cautious.
And only when he heard
another shout of “Megöllek!”*
did he decide to let his lower limbs loose
in an unprecedented display of courage.
Once inside the stinking hole
Bobbie could see
only cats around him
scurrying frantically
after which he glimpsed at the far end of the alley
a sign in Hungarian
above an open door.
“Megöllek!”
a man shouted
from inside the workshop
and Bobbie distinctly heard
the plaintive cries of a child
the likely object of paternal rage.
Once again Bobbie was faced with a choice:
he thought of the route he could take to find a policeman
or
could continue on with all the risks involved.
And once again he rejected the more cautious path
and rushed inside the building.
Laid out on a workbench
were various chisels:
the Hungarian was making table lamps
which filled the shelves up to the ceiling.
In a corner of the room
a corpulent man with sand-colored apron
was repeatedly kicking and slapping
a fragile being
that looked more like a frog than a child
crouched between crates
protecting itself with its arms.
Bobbie summoned all the breath he could find:
“That’s enough, or I’ll call the police.”
At these words, the shoulders of the craftsman
swiveled ’round as though on a hinge
revealing
the absolute predominance of two round eyes
under a mop of red hair:
“And what do you want? A lamp?”
Bobbie was caught unprepared:
“I’ll buy a lamp, if you leave the child alone.”
“I’ve no lamps to sell this evening
since this scoundrel hasn’t lacquered the metal!
I told him to do it but he hasn’t!
And now you’re asking me for a lamp
and I can’t give you one! Should I not kill him?”
And he aimed a kick which the child jumped to avoid.
“But if I pay you for the lamp all the same?”
He went silent.
All of a sudden the discussion turned
to a fundamental law of craftsmanship:
“I don’t sell lamps unfinished.
Are you going to pay for stuff half finished?”
Bobbie searched for a more confident tone:
“I’ll pay for the lamp if you stop beating him.”
And he pulled out his wallet as proof of intent.
The runt, meanwhile, watched him from below.
“How much do I owe you for an unfinished lamp?”
Bobbie ventured, optimistically.
“I sell them new for eight dollars” the Hungarian said
adopting the manner of a bookkeeper
(if only because the other had a whiff of higher stock)
and after pretending to do a few sums, he made the offer:
“7 dollars and 21 cents: it’s a good price.”
Bobbie started looking for the money. And meanwhile:
“For 7 dollars 21 you’ll sell me the lamp
and the promise that the boy is safe.”
“Ah! Safe! That’s very nice! What’s that got to do with it?
He has to work, because we all work in here!
And I’ve decided his job for me is to lacquer the metal!”
This was the third choice of the day:
Bobbie could close the deal at 7 dollars 21
or
follow an uncertain path
like Mallory and Irvine who on climbing Everest
lost their way on an icy ridge.
Maybe it was the thrill of taking a risk.
Or maybe it was because that story
of the runt
stuck down there
lacquering metal in his father’s workshop
seemed in the end so familiar
that it was worth any price to help him.
And so:
“How many lamps do you sell each day?”
“Oh, it depends! How can I put it?
Five if it goes badly, double if it goes well.”
“So an average of seven lamps a day.”
“You can even say eight, let’s not be mean about it.”
“Which makes sixty dollars, more or less, if I’m not mistaken.”
“And you’re not mistaken” the Hungarian said, taking a seat,
since the matter was becoming interesting.
He gestured to Bobbie to sit down
but he didn’t move:
“How many of you work in this place?”
“Me, the boy, my wife, and my five sisters.”
“Excellent. Since there are eight
each of you produces one
of those lamps you sell each day.
So each contributes to the business
eight dollars every day
forty-eight a week and more or less 200 a month.
In a year that is 2,400. How old is the boy?”
“Seven!” the runt shouted
jumping out as though he had been bitten
and up to the table.
Bobbie prepared for the grand finale:
he wiped a trace of sweat from his brow,
savored the last silence, then:
“With 30,000 dollars I will indemnify you
totally
for the child’s work over the next eleven years.
You leave him in peace:
he will do as he wishes.
The money I’ll give to him, of course, not to you:
each month he’ll give you the amount he owes you.
And it will be as though he has done his duty.
If you beat him, I’ll stop paying you, and that’s a fact.
Do you have anything to say? Don’t you like it?
It’s an offer: take it or leave it.”
The Hungarian stared at his son.
Then scratched his ear.
“7 dollars 21 for the first lamp, however . . .
That’s not part of the 30,000, is it?
That’s separate, it came before the agreement.”
Bobbie smiled:
“I’ll give 30,000 dollars to the child, and 7.21 to you.”
“It’s a deal, sir.”
“It’s a deal.”
They shook hands.
Bobbie paid as agreed.
And having raised his lapels, he returned the way he came.
As for the runt
he didn’t even say thank you.
9
The Fall
Solomon Paprinski
is now seventy.
And yet
over the fifty years that he has walked the wire
in front of Wall Street
he has never fallen.
Philip Lehman
is also getting on for seventy.
And yet
for the fifty years he has run Lehman
in Wall Street
he has never fallen.
Solomon Paprinski
can manage
for the moment
without his tightrope walker son
just as
he has managed without cognac.
Philip Lehman
can manage
for the moment
without his economist son
just as
he has managed without whisky.
Between
Solomon Paprinski
and
Philip Lehman
however
there’s a small
trivial
difference
and it’s a diary
written in block capitals.
LEHMAN CORPORATION.
is the last note in it.
It sounds so good.
Philip Lehman’s idea.
Pure finance.
Lehman Corporation.
Which means: Investment Funds.
To invest money just to make money.
No brand-name to finance
no industry to launch
no market to explore:
money for money.
Pure adrenaline.
It’s the excitement, the continual excitement.
The excitement of risk.
Of the kind that keeps you awake at night
for Philip Lehman
doesn’t sleep now
ever since
in his nightmare
the Sukkot hut
has a gigantic sign on the front
with HOLDING written on it
and whoever passes below
no longer has a human face
but a large + where its skull should be.
Maybe this is because America
is a horse that is racing madly
on the Churchill Downs racetrack
and Philip Lehman
with his gray hair
is its jockey
who every evening signs his accounts
