— Gold … hardly the issue any more. When you think of the crisis, nearly floored us not so long ago … first London sales that sent the market crashing… —
— a full vault somewhere doesn’t earn anything—
— well exactly. Wasting asset. For any country. Sell it, sell, sell for dollars deutschmarks whathaveyou and buy blue-chip stocks. Assets must earn, law of survival, ay!—
— pretty sure AngloGold’s going to reduce its forward hedge position within a year … more than fifty percent of production’s probably there, with a big drop likely in the physical market—
— thirty-three thousand tons of the bright stuff in the vaults—
— Shift over and make room for platinum, wha’d you think—
— No profitable future in mining gold here, anyway—
— all that outcry about robbing the poor of their jobs, killing the industry — the unions, the government must face facts — economics of the past don’t work, unemployment’s not going to be solved by shoring up an industry that’s lost its place in terms of global finance. It’s the end of an old industrial era, not just something on a calendar—
— With an increase in operative efficiencies some mines—
— strikes? Huge labour problems?—
— Look, it was a bad day, sector down twenty-three percent—
— relief buying, block traders—
— I don’t know … pretty broad-based recovery, a dedicated programme of expansion … chromium… —
— software — more hostile take-over bids—
— oh and more unbundling coming, you’ll see—
— You must have at least a whole day for Ellora and Ajanta even though the road, my God, you can’t believe your bones won’t rattle apart. — A counterpoint of voices was exchanging enthusiasm about a holiday in India; as if she had spied a familiar artifact or perhaps out of a well-intentioned move to draw into conversation someone who did not seem to be heard anywhere in the company, a woman wearing individual handcuffs of silver bangles turned, jangling, to speak to the stranger.
— I long to go again, can’t explain, so belonging there, I think I’m some sort of old soul who once had a previous existence… I suppose you were born here, but your ancestors … have you ever been home to India?—
— I’m not Indian.—
He doesn’t offer an identity. She jerks her head in dismissive apology (if that’s what’s called for) and makes some remark about the delicious food; —I’m on my way for seconds of Danielle’s fish. — The set of her back is the conclusion: some sort of Arab, then.
— but when the Dow and Nasdaq differ significantly—
— a twenty-one percent rise in headline earnings, four billion—
— ah but that’s well below expectations—
— how’d the Minister put it—‘toughing it out against inflation’—I mean three and six percent as a test case at the whim of the global financial system—
— how to hammer into their thick heads … their survival, privatization’s the only answer, when a service must make profit it’s made to work cost-efficiently, and that’s when the public gets what it needs—
— I have a hunch, everyone rushing in, it’s going to boom or bust with IT—
— our company’s been reaping the benefit of rising exports in base metals and chemicals, pretty satisfying—
— look, nothing — zero—nada will happen unless the Reserve Bank—
The other black man among the guests was sitting forward in his chair, palms on knees. — Ah-heh… I don’t dispute diversification, no no not at all. But our real problem is that there is not enough venture capital. Not enough in equities.—
— no question, global buffeting has queered our pitch for growth in many ways, currency down-down, oil prices up-up—
— turnover more than thirteen billion, futures dominating—
The enthusiastic interruption by the guest returned from India has deflected Julie’s companion’s attention only momentarily; his reply a polite aside. She watches how he listens to this intimate language of money alertly and intently — as he never listens at the EL-AY Café; always absent, elsewhere, entering whatever discussion only now and then, when confronted. She is overcome by embarrassment — what is he thinking, of these people — she is responsible for whatever that may be. She’s responsible for them.
Suddenly she has left, through the living-room, through the shadowy indoors and up the staircase.
But it is another house she’s running away to hide in; she has never lived in this one. This is not the upstairs retreat of the house where she was a child. Each room she looks into up there — no one of them is the room that was hers, with the adolescent posters of film stars and on the bed the worn plush panda her father bought for her once on an airport. It is not that house she is wandering, pausing, listening to herself. The shame of being ashamed of them; the shame of him seeing what she was, is; as he must be what he is, away beyond the dim underworld of the garage, the outhouse granted him, the anonymous name she introduced him by, his being in the village where the desert begins near your house. Rejection implies hidden — her rejection hid this origin of hers now expansively revealed before him, laid out like the margaritas and the wine and the composed still-life of the fish-platter, salads and desserts. She blunders to one of the bathrooms; but cannot succeed in retching to humiliate herself.
— Enjoying yourself, sweetheart — it’s an order to settle down again, after wherever she disappeared to, from her father who is standing up apparently about to propose a toast.
— We’re not going to weep and implore don’t leave us, we’re not even going to complain about being deserted, but we do want to tell you we’ll get flabby on the squash court without your smashing serve, Adrian, not to mention the darts with which you hit — infallibly, you shrewdy — prediction in the rise of interest rates and fiscal matters. Always been there for us before the tax man cometh … and Gillie, her open house down at the coast in summer, her open heart … Danielle and I have brought friends together just to wish you enormous luck and happiness, may you triumph over Down Under, Adrian, with the huge expansion in relocation of your interests, this splendid recognition of your global-class expertise the communications giants have had the good fortune to take advantage of. You don’t need any advice— just don’t eat kangaroo meat if it’s patriotically served at Aussie corporate dinners, that’s strictly for Gillie’s two labradors I hear she’s taking with you …—
With laughter and clinking of glasses the talk is of Australia, in place of Cisco Systems, gold or India. The women show appropriate interest in the house the emigrants will choose, suburban or out-of-town, lovely climate anyway. The man explains that he has a complete set-up ready — excellent Australian staff chosen by himself on preparatory visits. — You’ll perhaps not be surprised to hear of the exception, my old driver — Festus, remember? Yes — his wife died recently, he wants to try a new life, he says, so he’s being relocated with anything else we feel inclined to pack up.—
The young foreigner (coloured, or whatever he is) moves from Nigel Summers’ daughter’s protection into the general exchange.
— Was it easy to get entry?—