It was almost eleven o’clock and Maserov was due to be ushered into Malcolm Torrent’s office by his inscrutable, elegantly dressed private secretary, Joan Henshaw, a woman who had been with the company so long that not only did she know where the company had buried its bodies but it was she who had signed for the acquisition of the shovels. Maserov wondered if she knew anything about the allegation he had brought to her boss concerning Aileen van der Westhuizen or about the advice the HR head had claimed to have received from Freely Savage’s Featherby. He searched her face but found nothing there but a lightweight foundation, a dab of cream blush, a schmear of concealer and a fair quantity of concealment.
Despite the fact that Torrent was still on a phone call, she led Maserov into his office. Malcolm Torrent showed no sign of interest in his arrival other than to wave him into a chair opposite him. Maserov sat in the chair and waited for the call to end. The longer he waited the more he felt as he had when waiting for Hamilton. He tried to listen to the call to discern whether it had anything to do with any of the previous day’s events but it was impossible to know what was being discussed because Malcolm Torrent was listening while the person on the other end did most of the talking. Then, after what seemed like a unit of time that had only a beginning, Malcolm Torrent uttered a sound that was part grunt, part snort and part affirmation in a language other than English before unceremoniously placing the receiver back in the cradle of his landline. Then he looked up at the separated father of two, the second-year Freely Savage lawyer who had gambled his way uncharacteristically out of the frying pan and into an office at Torrent Industry headquarters.
‘Well Maserov, I have to commend you. I took a chance on you and it’s certainly paid off.’
‘Thank you, Mr Torrent.’
‘You said you would make those sexual harassment suits disappear and you have.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
‘You’re a bright young man who could be going places.’
‘Thank you. Where . . . do you think?’
‘But do you see how your success was inimical to your needs?’
‘How?’
‘When did we first meet, mid-April?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it’s now only early July. You made the spate of sexual harassment claims go away before your twelve months were up.’
‘So?’ Maserov asked.
‘You’ve thrust yourself back to a position of weakness.’
‘That’s my default position. I’m comfortable there.’
‘You mean it’s a tactic?’
‘More a chronic condition.’
‘Don’t you see, Maserov, now that you’ve solved my problem so quickly, how are you going to ensure that you get what you wanted to get?’
‘Mr Torrent . . . we had an agreement.’
‘Which you would agree was unenforceable. You’re the lawyer here.’
‘But I did exactly what you wanted only faster than promised.’
‘Exactly, there’s your mistake right there.’
‘So I’m going to be punished for —’
‘No, no, the market doesn’t punish. That assumes moral intention. Does water punish people who bought land at the bottom of a hill?’
‘Are you the water or the hill in this?’
‘I’m the market.’
‘You’re the market?’
‘That’s right.’
‘All of it?’
‘Usually. Look closely at our current situation; you’ve taken away my incentive.’
‘To honour our agreement?’
‘Maserov, you’re hanging on to history. Look at the market now.’
‘Look at you . . . now?’
‘Yes.’
Maserov looked at Malcolm Torrent, who was smiling at him as though his apparent betrayal was a shining gift bestowed on a much-loved pupil.
‘Trust me, you’ll be better for this. You know what you have to do.’
‘Yes. I have to . . . What do I have to do?’
‘You need to look at the market as you find it now and ask yourself what you can do now.’
‘To be desirable to the market?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is you?’
‘Might be a helpful way to think of it.’
‘I have to make myself indispensable to you again?’
‘I like your thinking,’ Malcolm Torrent said, smiling.
‘Or you’ll shop me to Hamilton.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘How would I know?’
‘Exactly! Don’t take chances if you can help it.’
‘Didn’t you make your money taking chances?’
‘Yep, worked for me. Although I inherited money so . . . All risk is relative. You know, I don’t normally tutor people but I like . . . Oh, will you look at that!’ Malcolm Torrent trailed off distractedly and started reading a newly arrived email.
‘Me?’ Maserov offered.
‘What?’ Malcolm Torrent asked absently.
‘You like . . . me?’
‘More than Hamilton’, Malcolm Torrent said, still distracted by the just-arrived message.
‘You like me more than you like Hamilton or you like me more than Hamilton likes me?’
Malcolm Torrent continued reading the email. ‘Friendship’s nice but like taxation it can distort the economy. Watch out for friendship,’ Torrent volunteered. ‘And don’t trust in anything you can’t trade. Okay, lesson over for today. I’ve got work to do. I think you have too.’
There had been no talk of Aileen van der Westhuizen or of Featherby, the compromised minion of Hamilton who, at least for a moment, hated and feared his boss more than he loved his children. Now Maserov was standing outside Torrent’s office with one hand in a pocket, pretending to be fossicking for something while he tried to work out what had just happened. He’d done everything Malcolm Torrent could have wanted but too quickly.