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
always in profit:
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
The Americans have learned to invest.
The middle classes no longer hide their money away:
everyone is putting it in bonds and investment funds
and in this way they double it.
Wow! Let’s make money!
Last month alone
Wall Street doubled its shares:
from 500,000 to 1,100,000!
What more can you ask?
A whole nation with money!
Arthur Lehman is beside himself:
he watches
in the street
those busy crowds of $7.21s
destined even to become $10s
and each time he cannot help but hear
a magnificent choir
chanting at the top of their voices
“THANK YOU MR. LEHMAN!”
And there again, what is Wealth (W)
if not a mathematical formula?
Arthur has worked it out like this:
Wealth is a result that depends on
the simultaneous increase of
Risk (X), Ambition (A), Productivity (Pr)
multiplied by a crucial parameter known as FC
or Favorable Conditions:
W = FC•f(X,A,Pr)
The favorable conditions in this case
would be none other than political:
what more can a bank ask for
than such a generous government?
No control on financial groups.
Taxes on capital reduced to the minimum.
Rates of interest at almost zero.
What is this if not a free ride?
Better, of course, not to talk to Herbert about it.
He, being a Democrat, with all his wild liberal ideas, doesn’t agree.
And the fact that Arthur is his brother doesn’t ease the conflict:
“Despite the fact that I don’t expect for one moment
to find flesh and blood in a banker,
if you and Philip had a minimum—and I say a minimum—of public spirit,
you would recognize that this financial anarchy cries out for revenge!”
“Why do you want to hold nature back, Herbert?
The market has always existed, and it wants freedom!”
“Freedom! Have you ever asked yourself what is the price of freedom?
Your mouths are all full of this word,
but can you possibly fail to realize
that too much freedom means the end of rights?
Is the thief free to steal? No, it’s a crime.
Is the drunkard free to go ’round swearing? No, because it’s uncivil.
And you, with all respect: if you see a pretty young girl,
do you think yourself free to squeeze her hips?”
“You confuse freedom with arrogance.”
“Exactly: that’s what it is. You financiers are arrogant.”
“We apply scientific criteria.”
“You apply them with no muzzles, no leashes.
Three citizens out of four live in poverty.
Five percent hold one-third of all the wealth in America!”
“And you’re one of them, Herbie: what are you complaining about?”
“About the fact that it’s unjust, Arthur!”
“Oh for goodness’ sake! And how many other things are unjust?
Sickness is unjust: you get sick, I don’t.
Hurricanes are unjust, earthquakes are unjust!
You want to try and stop those? You can’t.
The law of wealth is part of human society
you can’t change it, even if you don’t like it.”
“It’s pointless talking to a banker about ethics.
I’m putting you on guard, if you want to understand:
you’re creating a monstrous system
which cannot last for long.
Industry everywhere, factories all over the place:
who will they sell to if the vast majority has no money?
You pretend that America is rich
you like to say the whole world is on the road to affluence
but when will you open your eyes?
Or are you going to open them when it’s too late?
Philip Lehman
for his part
has now learned to smile at these arguments.
It’s not worth talking to Herbert:
it’s a pointless effort
all the more since everything’s under control.
Each night
Philip examines the situation
checks the problems
follows the fingers of the dwarf
concludes that
absolutely the best thing
is
to ride the wave.
Perfect.
Ride the wave.
And not just the wave: the clouds too.
For no other reason than that Lehman Brothers
has been investing now for some time
in shipping transport
but now
for some time
has launched into conquering the sky
and each time Philip hears the sound of an airplane
he is happy to look up
and think “that’s one of ours.”
This also makes Philip smile,
a smile that has never been so perfect:
Lehman controls banks everywhere
from North America to Germany
from England to Canada
and only in Russia do they keep us away
even though Mr. Leon Trotsky
has said: “All the same, in Moscow gold is gold
and we communists haven’t abolished money . . .”
So there’s plenty to smile about.
Early
each morning
like today
Philip Lehman
arrives in Wall Street
with a smile on his face.
Each morning
with a smile on his face
he buys a newspaper
from the Italian kid
who calls out at the street corner.
With a smile on his face
he drinks a coffee
served at the counter
leafing through the paper
reading the figures.
Then he wipes his lips
with his handkerchief
picks up his bag
and heads toward the entrance.
By that time
each morning
like this morning
Solomon Paprinski
is already
standing on the
taut
straight
wire.
“Good morning, Mr. Paprinski!”
“Good morning, Mr. Leh . . .”
It’s as though time
had stopped still.
At that moment.
Stop.
Halt.
Still.
Solomon Paprinski
after fifty years
for the first time
has fallen
down
has fallen
to the ground.
His ankle broken:
finished, forever.
It is Thursday October 24.
Of the year 1929.