Turbulence Read online

  To get to the office in the city, I had to take the very crowded tube, the world’s first underground train. Being claustrophobic, and feeling quite panicky so far down, I was impressed with the ultracool demeanor of the Brits. They would fold their Financial Times into a minuscule strip, respecting their neighbor’s five square inches of private space. And they wouldn’t flinch—or talk—when the tube stalled, not even after half an hour. When it was hot in the summer, sweat pouring down their stoic faces, they would rather leave their jackets on than reveal the damp patches on their tailored shirts.

  Our general manager was a caricature, an Oxford-educated stiff upper lip in a tailored, striped suit. When talking to me, he would often lift one eyebrow. Once, in great stress, I ran into his office to ask him for an immediate increase in my trading line. I apologized for not knocking and stated that I needed his approval. Self-consciously, I added I knew I had runs in my “panty” (Dutch for “stockings”), but had had no time to change. I was totally unaware that in British English I had just stated I had diarrhea in my underpants. About this, he lifted both eyebrows.

  I loved my job and my independent life in London. After work, I went to the pubs with the other traders. There, over beers, we traded jokes and information, all in a competitive, but friendly manner.

  Emerging markets trading desk, London, January 1989

  My forte lay in my dealings with the Eastern European debtors. They trusted me. They trusted me because they could. They were not yet savvy with the markets, and I really had their interest at heart—more so than our bigmouthed traders in New York who wanted ever-bigger margins. It was easy to fake it and take a huge percentage. I made what I considered a reasonable profit, and that was still more than enough in those early days.

  As our market took off, so did our bonuses. We were feeling more and more entitled to the best restaurants, wines, and hotels. Our parties became more lavish. We all became wine connoisseurs, in the sense that we knew how to order the 500 quid Pomerol or Château d’Yquemn.

  With Jaime, second from left, in Hello magazine, June 1991

  Perspectives

  MARK, MY CO-TRADER: We had a great time working together in what was still—in the early 1990s—a pretty innocent market. Everyone knew everyone and we spent as much time socializing with other market participants as trading with them.

  There was a very warm and friendly atmosphere in our small office, and I remember the kindness that I received. For example, Annette used to cover for me when I was late. If our boss had a meeting, he would often leave the office before I arrived. If I still wasn’t there when he returned, Annette would put cigarette stubs in my ashtray as if I’d been in but had gone out for a minute.

  Annette was a charming and elegant colleague—popular, intelligent, and always laughing. Behind that carefree façade, she had a profound knowledge of our countries and securities—as well as a great feel for markets. On a number of occasions, that strong intuition got us out of trouble when things didn’t go our way.

  A few years later, I was intently watching my Bloomberg screen when Willem came out of his office to tell us that Annette’s plane had crashed. Everyone was quiet for a few seconds and then people began crying. It was very emotional.

  HELEN, MY BUDDY: Before I ever met Annette, the one person we had a common connection with was Numachi. I worked under Numachi at my first real post-college job at Mitsui Bank. He taught me about the LDC debt market, and we traded debt instruments on behalf of the bank, with counterparts from large US and foreign banks. After completing my MBA, Numachi was working at Santander Tokyo and helped get me a job at Santander in Madrid.

  I arrived in Madrid in early 1992. One of the first people I met in the investment banking division was Annette. She stood out in the trading room not just because of her striking looks and heavily Dutch-accented Spanish, but her strong personality. She carried herself with such confidence and pride—in the macho Spanish financial world. We became dear friends. We spent our free time exploring shops and tapas bars all over Madrid, many times with her trading partner Jaime.

  In the fall of 1992, Annette was off to Vietnam to celebrate her fiancé’s opening of ING’s office. I remember Annette was not looking forward to the long flight, but couldn’t wait to see him and go on vacation afterward.

  I will never forget the Reuters headlines—scrolling in red letters—on November 14: “Vietnam Air Crash in Mountains and Plane is Missing.” At first I did not think it could be Annette’s flight. Jaime always had his eyes glued to that Reuters screen, and when that headline hit, he came over to my desk to tell me it was the flight. We were all in shock! I looked at macho Jaime, and had never seen him that scared and vulnerable. We all felt helpless. What were we to do then? Think positive! Have hope!

  That’s what we did, especially Jaime. He had the most hope; he had no choice. Annette was his trading partner, his best friend, and his whole world at the time.

  The next days in and out of the office were very tense. Everyone wanted to keep believing Annette and her plane would be found. Jaime, Gary, and I went to Annette’s apartment one day to gather some of her precious things—jewelry, antique watches—that Jaime could bring to her parents. It was so eerie being in Annette’s big apartment without knowing where she could be. All three of us could not help feeling upset, nor could we face the possibility we would not see Annette again. But no one dared express it out loud. As tough as Jaime was in the office, I could see the deep sadness in his eyes and actions. As the days passed without much news, some coworkers began to talk about Annette in the past tense. Jaime would not stand for it, and got very angry.

  DAY FIVE

  I look at the sun’s position. What time is it? I can’t rely on my Girl Scout knowledge, but I think I can figure out when enough hours have passed to deserve a sip of water. To have one of those sponge balls. Every three hours, I have promised myself. I have an intuitive feel for numbers, anyway.

  Let’s go. I suck out some water, and savor every drop. Two or three hours pass, I think. I squeeze out another sponge ball. The water tastes fantastic, worth the wait. I enjoy the routine.

  I look at my hands. My beautiful hands—the only part of my body I am really vain about. They are enormous. So puffy and swollen that Pasje’s little ring is cutting into my finger. We had bought that golden band for twenty-five guilders in Haarlemmerstraat in Leiden thirteen years before. Still, it gives me comfort.

  I study my hands. Those bloody leeches are having a ball! My feet are also twice their normal size. Hey! I am only wearing one shoe. When did that happen? The shoeless foot is full of wounds. My toes are black, as if they were frostbitten! Ha, I do have something in common with those cannibal survivors in the Andes. I remember seeing the pictures of their blackened toes in that trashy Dutch magazine Panorama. I was reading it in the coffee bar next to my sorority house in Leiden while I was having a koffie verkeerd, what the Dutch call “café au lait”—lots of milk, little coffee. Was Pasje there? Don’t think of Pasje. Don’t look at the little golden band.

  I wait. I calculate the time and I wait. I have waited so long already! What patience! I laugh at myself. Of all things and all people! Claustrophobic and no patience! No patience for anything. I think of the tanning beds in Madrid, how I never manage to stay the whole half hour.

  Always jumping out after twenty minutes, too long already. I never have my hair blown dry when I go to have a haircut. Takes too long. No patience. And here I am, condemned to wait and stay still, so patiently.

  My claustrophobia must have something to do with my impatience. I just need to keep moving. I hate planes of any size if they don’t move when they are supposed to, when they sit on the runway. When that happened in DC, Pasje had to strike a deal with the cabin crew that I could go into the cockpit. I had to get out. Same with elevators, boats, and ski lifts. Cars even. When they don’t move, I panic. And stuck, yet not panicking. Just waiting.

  I tune in to the sounds. A cacophony. The
droning insects, the chirping crickets, the chattering birds. They sound familiar. They remind me of The Hidden Force, a drama series on Dutch TV. How old was I when I saw that? Twelve? The series was based on a classic Dutch novel, about Java, Indonesia. Where papa grew up. When it was still a colony. The Dutch Indies, they called it. There was a dark, mystical undertone to the story. Now I understand. It is in the air. In the sounds . . . It must have been quite a culture shock for Dutch men and women arriving from the cold and rational Netherlands to this mystical environment. Like my grandmother, who married by proxy. She traveled across the globe by boat for a life with a man she only knew from dance class. My grandfather-to-be. He had been working in the Dutch Indies for an oil company.

  Papa was born in the Dutch Indies. His father was a teacher. We got our union blood from him: he made all his Dutch students pay one cent to facilitate education for the local people. It made my father more aware, and allowed him to identify with the Indonesian people. He also used to tell us scary stories about the evil eye and the white hajji who could enter through locked doors—a joke, but with serious undertones. I used to pass them on to my cousin when she came to stay, and she would be hysterical with fear. A bit mean. I wasn’t scared at all. Nor am I now. So what if there is more here than meets the eye? It makes me less lonely.

  CHILE, LONDON, MADRID, 1989

  “I have a surprise for you,” Pasje said. It was a Friday night, and I was back in Amsterdam for the weekend. We were having a drink on our favorite terrace. In suits. With attaché cases. Both bankers then. “I have arranged to become an expatriate.”

  I gave him a blank look. “What?”

  “I have been thinking about a move for some time. If we really want to have a future together, I have to become more international. So I have just closed a deal with the international division.” I was speechless. “Not just any move,” Pasje continued; “a two-year assignment to Chile.” I couldn’t believe it. Pasje was moving. To the other side of the world. To Chile. My Chile. Our Chile. “It will be good,” he said. “Trust me.”

  He left in September. I went to see him in December for three weeks. It was good to be back in Chile. It was as if our love for each other was sealed by that country all over again. By its music, its language, its hospitality, its paradoxes. By its mountains, its raw countryside, and its wild ocean—its very nature.

  Our friend Noemi had been adjusting very well. She worked with poor children in the slums and organized radio workshops for a radio program about the UN’s International Rights for Children effort. She and all our friends were thrilled by Pinochet’s defeat in the 1988 plebiscite. Now Chile was truly “civilized.”

  Pasje had also invited my brother, sister, and brother-in-law. My brother had just survived a series of cancer treatments. There wasn’t much left of him, physically or mentally. We took him along on our romantic journey to the seaside, where he visibly recuperated. Apparently it was then that Pasje asked him to be his best man.

  I noticed more than once Pasje attempted to pop the question to me. “Don’t you dare!” I joked time after time. “We are in it together, and we will, for sure . . . eventually!”

  • • •

  Back in London I got a call. It was the assistant of Jaime Lupa, the big, swinging Mexican head trader of Citibank New York. “Mr. Jaime Lupa is coming to London next week to visit his counterparts. He would like to have dinner with you. Alone.” Dinner? Alone? I knew he disliked my boss, but that was not how it worked. Boss should meet boss.

  I knew Jaime well, if only by phone. Like ING, Citi was one of the biggest players in our market. I was the first one he called every morning when New York started its day, to find out what the European banks were doing, and what I had heard the night before from the other traders in the pub. Information was power, and power was information. He enjoyed talking to me. I liked his voice, his accent, his sense of humor, as well as his power. He was one of the very first traders in our market. A real trader, savoring liquidity over investment, prudence over politics, cash over corporate. The “money talks; bullshit walks” kind. So I happily accepted the dinner invitation. As I put down the phone, Jaime called me on the other line to “talk about the markets.”

  “Why so formal?” I asked. “Why have your assistant call me when you were going to call me anyway?”

  “Because that’s how we do things at Citibank,” he answered, proudly. OK, I got it. Selective conservatism and loyalties. Whatever. But I still was nervous to meet him.

  It was always strange to meet people who worked in the market in person for the first time, after having discussed vacations and weekend plans on the phone at length for months. With Jaime the conversations had even more intimacy, probably because they were forbidden, something we both enjoyed. When he wanted information he was supposed to call our New York office, as Jaime was in New York and the counterparties were geographically divided between our offices. He refused to do so. “Why should I, if she calls the shots in Eastern Europe?” he asked. And I was supposed to call my New York brothers for information on Latin American debt and US banks, but they traded away my information for their own gain, and Jaime would give me Citibank’s information directly. We spoke in Spanish, which nobody else in my office understood.

  People you have spoken to but have never met often look very different from what you imagine. Apparently the general opinion was that I sounded like a rather heavy, short brunette. I am the opposite. When Jaime warned me last minute that he had long hair, I imagined a sleek, clean ponytail. The reality was a shock when he walked into the office. No sleekness—all bushy instead. His shoulder-length hair was cut Farrah Fawcett-style (some would say Hells Angels-style). On top of that, he had a big mustache. And he was hairy, very hairy. My boss maneuvered him quickly into a conference room while I was still sitting behind my desk with my mouth open. “No way will I have dinner with that!” I said to my chuckling colleagues. They reminded me that I was due in the conference room. I reluctantly went in and sat down next to him. Then I recognized his voice. I calmed down. By the time he was snatching cigarettes from my packet I was grinning, as I was throughout dinner that night.

  Jaime told me he had just divorced. “Kicked out,” he said, “with reason.” He looked guilty but quickly added, “I never cheated.”

  “Oh,” I said. What did I know about these things? Pictures in the wallet, I thought. Yep, there they were: his two boys, each cute as a button.

  He looked vulnerable. Not the great macho Jaime I had anticipated. The one everyone talked about and had warned me about. The ruthless, smart head trader from Citibank who “takes no prisoners.”

  He put the pictures back, tenderly and carefully, behind his credit cards. “They are the best thing that came out of it,” he said.

  • • •

  Some weeks later Jaime called me from New York. “Have you ever been to Madrid?” he asked.

  “No, why?”

  “You know Ana Botín, the daughter of the owner of Santander Bank? She has invited me over for an interview. She wants me to put Santander on the map.”

  “Nice,” I answered absentmindedly, while filling out a deal sheet.

  “I’ve told her I will not come on my own, that I have to pick someone up in London,” he said.

  Suddenly I was all ears. “You did?”

  We went to Madrid and were hired on the spot. The offer was just too good to refuse. Ana Botín would give us carte blanche. We could do whatever it took to put her bank in the emerging markets top ten. I would develop the nonexistent Eastern European side all by myself, corporate and trading. Jaime would show her traders what could be done in Latin America. We would be more or less equals, which was a giant step up for me.

  Jaime and I knew each other from talking daily on the phone. He knew I had a boyfriend, that I am Dutch. Though I had seemed genuinely friendly, he also knew I could be quite competitive. We had gone “partners” in big deals; when packages of loans were too large, we would split t
hem. More than once I had threatened to purchase a package all by myself if he would not sharpen his pricing.

  Office life was exciting and all-consuming. From our Madrid base we were covering the markets in both London and New York. From ten a.m. to eleven p.m. we worked our socks off, but we did well. We didn’t have to deal with any red tape to get what we needed, and in just six months of trading we had landed Santander in several top fives in Euromoney. The Eastern European central bankers had happily switched banks with me, and I continued to arrange buybacks for them.

  The Spanish authority-driven way of working was quite different from the Dutch consensus model, but I was relieved that I didn’t see any evidence of Spanish machismo. Contrary to ING, many women held key positions on our floor. Our boss was the daughter of the chairman and owner. Her husband also worked on our floor and played Frisbee with us. Or any other game we had lying around: darts, putting, you name it.

  Emerging markets trading desk with Jaime Lupa, Madrid, 1989

  After work, at eleven or even midnight, Jaime and I would go out for dinner. I got so thin, I suggested eating at my house at nine and putting the brokers in New York on speakerphone. In our business we were kept informed by brokers who would receive one-eighth on any resulting transaction. The eat/work arrangement worked well. I had purchased a fryer, and a whole new section at the Spanish supermarket had opened up to me. We could do business and make our own mayonnaise at the same time. In good team spirit, Jaime stirred while I poured the oil, with the brokers on the speaker commenting on the ingredients.