Turbulence Page 4

  I move on my elbows. I have a huge open wound on my right elbow, so with every move I feel the twigs and dirt rubbing against my flesh. I have no choice: my hips feel unhinged, and my legs are broken. I have to pull my body along with my arms. I move past the dead man, past the dead girl, her fist no longer clenched. She holds a linen bag. I guess no circumstances are horrifying enough to let go of one’s bag. We all held on to ours: me, the girl, the man next to me. What does this say about us? I decide to take the bag. I put it around my shoulder and move downhill, toward the loose wing of the plane. Everything hurts like hell. Hell! Don’t look back. Don’t think of Pasje. I settle down next to the wing. This is my new spot.

  I look around. I have a more open view here. The scenery is just as pretty. Many new things to look at. I can see a huge mountain on my right. The plane has left a swath of shattered trees. It has also made a kind of clearing. With the tops of the trees gone, the sun can get all the way down to the ground. I warm myself contentedly in its rays.

  I open the girl’s bag. It looks like those linen bags they give out at Barnes & Noble. It contains a Vietnamese grammar book and a blue rain cape. The cape has a pointy hood and a long front. I recognize the design. It is meant to be worn while biking, with the front of the cape over the handlebars. In Holland, the newspaper boys and girls wear them a lot. I put the cape over my head. Maybe it will help me stay dry and warm.

  I stay put. Still cold. So cold. Shivering. Exhausted, I put my head down.

  The moon rises next to the mountain. It is almost full. There are some clouds. The setting resembles a Disney movie. Real nature, only moonlight. I am such a city girl! Bedtime, go to sleep. I dream about the office, about my boss, Ana Botín, Helen, Jaime, the markets . . .

  AMSTERDAM, 1986

  After we finished our studies, Pasje and I moved to Amsterdam. My brother-in-law had just become mayor of the city. My sister was a member of parliament in The Hague. She didn’t have the time or enthusiasm to play the part of a mayor’s wife. I did, so off I went to official receptions, concerts, football matches, and award ceremonies. Pasje would often come along. We had just finished our studies, and our only job was to apply for one.

  Like my sister and her husband, Pasje and I were living apart. He shared a house with some of our good friends, while I lived “anti-squat” with two other friends. In the 1980s, Amsterdam’s empty houses on the market were at risk of being taken over by squatters. Housesitting was one of the solutions. We would live short-term in these houses, at the owner’s request. The houses were often beautiful, in the best locations. Once the house was sold, we would move on to the next one. By sheer coincidence, I lived right next door to the mayor—and sometimes my sister—for six months.

  Pasje and I spent most of our time together at his place, which was better furnished. He did not move all the time. It was also on a lovely canal right next to the red-light district. We did our shopping at the same local supermarket as the professional ladies. We regularly exchanged jokes and small talk with them—all very Amsterdam.

  When Amsterdam made its Olympic bid, we helped my brother-in-law entertain the International Olympic Committee. On one of the outings, a canal tour on the city’s official boat, we passed one of the smaller canals in the district. One of our new prostitute acquaintances was just locking her red-lit door. When she looked up to see who was on the official boat, her face lit up and she yelled, “Hey, Willem!” Everyone looked at me.

  • • •

  I got a job at ING Bank, for they were known for asset trading: Latin American debt swaps. Pasje ended up there too, though at the domestic division. He was considered too old to be part of the management trainee program at the foreign division. But he turned out to be the real banker. He fit in; I did not.

  Perhaps the disdain I encountered from my all-male colleagues during my first year of banking had to do not only with the fact that I was the first female executive trainee, but also with their intuition—right enough—that I was in the wrong place. I needed a whole different set of skills if I was going to survive there as the first woman.

  The first six months of my traineeship I worked at a local branch of the bank in the north of Holland. So did Pasje. We took the train there together. It was more of a culture shock for me than working in Chile had been. The people of the north were reserved and old-fashioned. I was a strange bird from the big city. Too worldly, too irreverent, too . . . something.

  I had to spend time in each department, beginning as a cashier and ending at credit analysis, the core business. On my first day there, the department head bluntly told me he would try to teach me the business, but he had little hope of getting a woman to analyze anything at all.

  All day long I had to crunch numbers, describe them in a page or two, and fill out an accompanying form. My crunching and writing weren’t great, but it was the forms that really got me. I was too sloppy with the details, and had to redo them time after time.

  At first, I was not allowed to see any clients—that was the privilege of the senior executives and the branch manager—but then something unusual happened. The branch’s largest client singled me out and wanted me to be his account manager. Until that moment, he had not talked to anyone other than the general manager. Although quite socially awkward, he was the kind of Dutchman who had made Holland a trading power: thrifty, no-nonsense, with not much regard for appearances, but full of good common sense. He somehow always managed to invest large amounts of money in the right up-and-coming company. My colleagues were piqued when he asked me along to a cocktail reception for a local businesswoman who was getting an award. “It must be because you’re a chick,” they joked. Perhaps, although the man was in his late fifties, still lived with his mother, and did not flirt with me at all. He did, however, give me very good advice: “Always follow your instincts.”

  When my time at the branch was up, I moved on to the larger credits department at the head office in Amsterdam. I was put on the construction industry desk. Was I sent here on purpose, to find out whether I could handle the testosterone? The office consisted of a huge, open floor plan with blocks of desks put together. All men. My only distraction was a walk to the coffee machine. I could feel people looking at me. I was their distraction.

  It was boring to analyze one annual report after another. I was supposed to give my opinion about whether loans should be approved or declined. There was no real wiggle room, because the advice was really supposed to be positive, for these were mostly renewals of existing loans. Then one day, I was looking at a credit application and going over some press cuttings of a certain company, when something did not feel quite right. I didn’t know why, but there was something about the company’s CEO that I just didn’t like. The company was located in Eindhoven, so I picked up the phone and called my cousin who worked for Philips and was well connected in that town. Everyone was listening in on my conversation. “Are you working for a detective agency now?” they asked when I hung up. My cousin called me back to tell me the CEO gambled on horse races. I stamped “Negative” on the application. Later the general manager came over to my desk and asked whether I could provide more detail regarding my decision. He was going to defend it to the board.

  After work, Pasje and I went to Hoppe, a popular bankers’ pub in Amsterdam, to celebrate my first success in credits. Later that evening, as we sat down for dinner at his house, Pasje got a phone call from Hoppe’s friendly bartender. I had left my briefcase in the pub. With the very confidential file in it.

  Once a month, the management trainees—seven guys and I—would meet at the head office to discuss our progress. Afterward, John, who managed the trainees, would take us for a drink at Hoppe. He was always looking for new ways to develop the program and discuss his latest ideas. We were his guinea pigs, if not his laboratory rats.

  At the pub, John told us that AMRO Bank had just sent its management trainees on a survival course in the Ardennes. “Rafting down the river, being dropped in the woods
at night, and so on. Do you think we should send you guys?” John asked.

  The boys immediately loved the idea. Great way to discover your skills. Real character-building stuff. But John, who always visibly enjoyed governing by dividing us, said the aim of the course was to find out who the natural leaders were. Then he looked at me sardonically. “What does the lady think?” he asked.

  I purposely shrugged my shoulders. “Be my guest! You might be surprised. I might very well survive—be one of the fittest.” I looked at my co-rats and added: “But that does not necessarily make me a good banker.”

  We didn’t go rafting, but as time went by, our traineeship did become more and more competitive. Two-thirds of the way into the program we were going to hear what our first foreign posting would be, and everyone was scurrying to get into position. The most sought-after spot was New York. I—and everyone else—was well aware that if I survived the program, I would be the first female executive trainee ever to be sent abroad by a Dutch bank. I don’t believe I deserved it, but I got New York.

  DAY FOUR

  I wake up in my new spot. No more dead neighbors. No watch either, but it seems early. I look at the sun. The mountain on my right sticks out like a giant cone. The ravine that separates me from that mountain is full of wild vegetation. Like Tarzan’s jungle. Me Jane. Yeah, right.

  About ten feet below my feet, the clearing created by the plane ended and the jungle became jungle again. I must be pretty high up my mountain. It is going to be quite a hike if I have to get out of here by myself. I hope I don’t have to. According to the plan, I still have four more days of waiting. I flip through the girl’s German-Vietnamese grammar book and read one page of declensions. I never liked German. Maybe I can use the Vietnamese. I can’t concentrate. My head is light. It seems as if a blanket of clouds is covering my brain. Forget it! I turn back into myself. I wait.

  I enjoy the open view there at my new spot. I miss the detail of the leaves, but I can look farther down the ravine on my right, where the jungle seems so dense, like a giant green wall. And, hey, I can see the search planes when they come! And they can see me!

  Suddenly I realize how important it is just to be there, alive and conscious. My mind becomes both hazy and determined at the same time. Water! I must have water. I need water. My perceptions have both sharpened and narrowed. I look at the airplane’s broken wing and see that the insulation material is made out of paper or foam. I get an idea: the insulation could work like a sponge, to soak up the rain! I have to get to it! I somehow force myself to stand up slowly on my broken legs. I reach for the broken wing. I feel an excruciating pain in my hips. I can’t reach. I move closer. I try again. I feel a stab in my chest, but I put all my life into my effort to get to the wing. Finally, I can reach right into the insulation material. I grab little pieces and drop them onto the ground next to me. When I think I have enough, I even more painfully get back to the ground. “Aaahhhhh!” I scream out in pain. When I am lying down again, I collect the pieces of foam. I mold seven little balls. I line them up and wait for it to rain. So thirsty, oh-so-thirsty. I am awfully tired. The standing has drained me. I rest my head.

  I wake up because it is raining. It pours! So much that I hold up the rain cape with two arms to catch the water, and I literally slurp it up. Oh, vintage Veuve Clicquot!

  I watch contentedly as the insulation balls soak up the water. I congratulate myself. I did it! This will keep me going for the remaining days!

  The sun is setting. Go to sleep, I tell myself. Don’t think, just sleep. Because my new spot is brighter, I sleep even lighter. I clearly see my friend Helen emerging from the mountain. Helen grew up in New Jersey as the second of four children, and has a habit of “feeding” me in Madrid. Now she offers to bring me a Lipton Iced Tea, one of those American drinks of hers. But then I see her moving back toward the mountain.

  “Hey! Don’t leave!” I scream. I know I am sleeping and I know she could not even walk over there, but I want Helen to come back. I scream and scream her name. I want my iced tea!

  NEW YORK, AMSTERDAM, LONDON, 1987–1989

  “I am going to make you cry,” the head of least developed countries (LDC) trading told me when I was transferred to his department in New York. “I make everyone cry. Lap cried only an hour ago.” He was referring to one of the junior traders, a smart Chinese-American.

  I looked at him with incredulity. I had made it through two years of traineeship without crying. This could not possibly be any worse. I was finally where I wanted to be. In the temple of LDC trading. This was why I had chosen ING Bank in the first place. It was small, but it was at the very heart of the young market.

  The department head didn’t bite, but he had quite a powerful bark. Rightly so. He was brilliant in his enthusiasm. The LDC trading department was run by young, bright people driven by the fun of seeking solutions to the debt crisis rather than the money.

  In the liquid 1970s, the world had been flooded by petrol dollars. Chasing their margins, bankers had raced to lend the excess dollars to less-developed countries, nowadays called emerging markets. In the early 1980s, the interest rates more than doubled because of the oil crisis. This led to a massive default by less-developed countries. They had no more money to pay off the loans. A secondary market was born—an exotic, brand-new, sexy market.

  It went like this: We would buy a defaulted US loan to Brazil from, say, a bank in Germany at a discount. We would sell that loan to a company that needed local Brazilian currency for an investment. The Central Bank in Brazil—the debtor—would provide the local currency to the company, again, at a discounted rate. It was a win-win situation. We all profited. The German bank was already provisioned for more than the discount and got a free fall; the company made a cheaper investment; Brazil had less foreign debt; and we made a nice commission.

  With all these transactions in the pipeline, we began buying the debt for our own account. Then we were traders, taking positions in third world debt.

  I loved it. And I cried so little that I was sent back to Amsterdam to continue at the European least-developed countries trading desk.

  • • •

  In Amsterdam, our market was the baby of the charismatic and visionary vice chairman, Mr. T, as we called him. Everyone in our head office was hoping to please him, and looking for brilliant ideas of how and where to cancel debt. Debt for hotels, debt for ships, debt for this, and debt for that. The most imaginative debt-canceling transactions would make the news. Like the article with the headline DEBT FOR SOCCER PLAYER, which detailed the Brazilian soccer player Romário being bought by the Philips soccer club PSV (Philips Sport Vereniging).

  We felt like we were an elite team within the bank. We were more corporate than traders. We looked and acted corporate. We were educated. We were not sitting in trading rooms with suspenders on, though I was still the only one wearing a skirt. We had normal desks in real offices. We were visible.

  Prices were still quoted over the phone; we did not yet have trading screens. We had to constantly call around to see who was doing what at what price. If we were dealing with New York, we had to stay late or rush home and continue working there. The cell phone hadn’t become popular yet.

  Young, urban, and professional, we did it all. We made the calls to the banks to convince them to swap or sell their loans. We gave them ideas on how to structure both the deals and their portfolios. We structured every single transaction and prepared the endless loan documents. We stayed overnight to sit next to slow fax machines, cutting long rolls of fax paper into normal pages. Then we went to the closings in the lawyers’ offices.

  I felt like a kid in a candy store. It was so up my alley. All my interests seemed to converge: global economy, foreign debt, chatting on the phone, and taking risks. What’s more, I got to live in Amsterdam with Pasje.

  After less than a year, however, the bank decided to move our department to London. I was told there was no way they would send me there. The bank did not want
me to become a specialist in one area. They had not invested in my training “to have me buy at fifty and sell at fifty and a quarter.” I had been trained to become a manager in one of the foreign offices, not a debt trader.

  But that happened to be my calling. I was prepared to leave ING, and was already interviewing with other banks when our LDC trader in London, Hernán, suddenly died.

  Hernán had been a young, upward-moving Argentinean with a beautiful wife, Fabiana. They were as handsome a couple as they come. “Too perfect for this world,” an English secretary had said after they died. They had moved from Buenos Aires to London five months earlier. The couple had decided at the last minute to fly via New York before going home for Christmas. They flew Pan Am, and their lives were cut short over Lockerbie. Hernán’s terrible fate became my good luck. Ironically, my professional career took off because of a plane crash.

  • • •

  I was promoted and would be sent to London. The final deal took a lot of meetings and negotiations; ING Amsterdam did not want to let me go. I packed, unpacked, and packed again, waiting for the final decision. Pasje watched me do this, changing his plans along with mine with his usual good humor. In the end, I was sent under a special short contract. I was paid an allowance in addition to my Dutch salary. I got to repay all my student loans at once. Even better, Pasje and I were allowed to visit each other every other weekend, all expenses paid; for ING, we had the same status as a married couple. And I got to keep my flat in Amsterdam.

  Not only was I given Hernán’s job and contacts, but also moved into his expensive house. It was right at the intersection of Knightsbridge, Chelsea, and South Kensington. The London high life! From Chanel to Joseph. From bowler hats to foreigners. From Brits in Aston Martins to Latin playboys in Porsches, casually having brunch at the brasserie. But in the ancient grocery shop on Walton Street they would still ask me: “What will it be today, love?”