Netherland. Joseph O’Neill
‘He’s not talking about Chinese dumplings.’
‘Our dumpling different,’ Roy said. ‘Chinese dumpling soft. We make our dumpling stiff.’
‘Callaloo,’ Chuck said wistfully.
‘We used to eat it at Maracas Bay,’ Roy said. ‘Or Las Cuevas. Maracas, the water more rough but the beach more popular. In Las Cuevas, the water calm. Easter time? Oh my Lord, it full. Sometime people walk for miles through the mountains to go there. You spend Easter Sunday and Easter Monday on the beach. You pack your bag with ingredients separate. You have your sweet drink – we call sodas sweet drink – and you pack your car and everybody take a bathing suit, and you go to the beach and spend the whole day eating, bathing. Oh my.’ He shuddered with pleasure.
‘I nearly drowned in Maracas once,’ Chuck said.
‘Them riptide there dangerous, boy,’ Roy said.
Chuck handed a card to Vinay. ‘Maybe you could come by my restaurant sometime.’
Vinay examined the card. ‘Kosher sushi?’
‘That’s what we do,’ Chuck said proudly. He leaned over to point at the card. ‘That’s where we are – Avenue Q and Coney Island.’
‘Business good?’ I asked.
‘Very good,’ he said. ‘We cater to the Jews in my neighbourhood. There are thousands and thousands of them, all observant.’ Chuck handed me a card, too. ‘I have a Jewish partner who has the confidence of the rabbi. Makes things a lot easier. But I tell you, getting kosher certification is a tough business. Tougher than the pharmaceuticals business, I like to say. You wouldn’t believe the problems that come up. Earlier this year we had some trouble with seahorses.’
‘Seahorses?’ I said.
Chuck said, ‘You know how you check nori, the seaweed you wrap the sushi in? You examine it over a light box, like an X-ray. And they found seahorse infestation in our supplier’s seaweed. And seahorses are not kosher. Neither are shrimps and eels and octopus and squid. Only fish with scales and fins are kosher. But not all fish with fins have scales,’ Chuck added. ‘And sometimes what you think are scales are in fact bony protrusions. Bony protrusions do not qualify as scales. No, sir.’ Roy and he laughed loudly at this. ‘What are we left with? Halibut, salmon, red snapper, mackerel, mahi-mahi, tuna – but only certain kinds of tuna. Which ones? Albacore, skipjack, yellowfin.’
Chuck wasn’t going to stop there. He believed in facts, in their momentousness and charm. He had no option, of course: who was going to listen to mere opinion coming from him?
‘What about fish eggs, roe?’ he said, showing off. ‘The eggs of kosher fish are generally shaped differently from non-kosher fish. Also, they tend to be red, whereas non-kosher are black. Then there are issues with rice, issues with vinegar. Sushi vinegar will often have non-kosher ingredients, or will be made using a non-kosher process. There are issues with worms in the flesh of the fish, with utensils, with storage, with filleting, with freezing, with sauces, with the broths and oils you pack the fish in. Every aspect of the process is difficult. It’s a painstaking business, I’m telling you. But that’s my opportunity, you see. I don’t mind complication. For me, complication represents an opportunity. The more something is complicated, the more potential competitors will be deterred.’
‘So you’re a restaurateur,’ I said, moving my chair to let pass two dramatically bearded and turbaned men who had risen to their feet to face up to whatever night toil awaited them.
‘I’m a businessman,’ Chuck quibbled agreeably. ‘I have several businesses. And what do you do?’
‘I work at a bank. As an equities analyst.’
‘Which bank?’ Chuck asked, filling his mouth with Vinay’s chicken. When I told him, he improbably declared, ‘I have had dealings with M——. What stocks do you analyse?’
I told him, eyeing the television: Fleming had just punched Akhtar through the covers for four runs, and a groan of disgust mixed with appreciation sounded in the restaurant.
‘Do you think there’s much left in the consolidation trend?’
I turned to give him my attention. In recent years, my sector had seen a rush of mergers and acquisitions. It was a well-known phenomenon; nevertheless, the slant of Chuck’s enquiry was exactly that of the fund managers who questioned me. ‘I think the trend is in place,’ I said, rewarding him with a term of professional wiliness.
‘And before M——you worked where?’ Chuck said. He was blithely curious.
I found myself telling him about my years in The Hague and London.
‘Give me your e-mail address,’ Chuck Ramkissoon said. ‘I have a business opportunity that might interest you.’
He handed me a second card. This read,
CHUCK CRICKET, INC.
Chuck Ramkissoon, President
He said, as I wrote down my own details, ‘I’ve started up a cricket business. Right here in the city.’
Evidently something showed in my expression, because Chuck said good-naturedly, ‘You see? You don’t believe me. You don’t think it’s possible.’
‘What kind of business?’
‘I can’t say any more.’ He was eyeing the people around us. ‘We’re at a very delicate stage. My investors wouldn’t like it. But if you’re interested, maybe I could use your expertise. We need to raise quite a lot of money. Mezzanine finance? Do you know about mezzanine finance?’ He lingered on the exotic phrase.
Vinay had stood up to leave, and I also got up.
‘So long,’ I said, mirroring Roy’s raised hand.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Chuck said.
We stepped into the night. ‘What a crazy son of a bitch,’ Vinay said.
After the passage of a week or so, I received a padded envelope at my office. When I opened the envelope, a postcard fell out.
Dear Hans,
You know that you are a member of the first tribe of New York, excepting of course the Red Indians. Here is something you might like.
Best wishes,
Chuck Ramkissoon
Smothered by the attentiveness, I put the envelope back in my briefcase without further examining it.
A few days later, I caught the Maple Leaf Express, bound for Toronto, to Albany, where a group of investors awaited. It was a brown November morning. Rain spotted my window as we pulled away into the tunnels and gorges through which the Penn Station trains secretively dribble up the West Side. At Harlem, the Hudson, flowing parallel to the track, came into view. I had taken this journey before, yet I was startled afresh by the existence of this waterside vista, which on a blurred morning such as this had the effect, once we passed under the George Washington Bridge, of cancelling out centuries. The far side of the river was a wild bank of forest. Clouds steaming on the clifftops foxed all sense of perspective, so that it seemed to me that I saw distant and fabulously high mountains. I fell asleep. When I awoke, the river had turned into an indeterminate grey lake. Three swans on the water were the white of phosphor. Then the Tappan Zee Bridge came clumsily out of the mist, and soon afterwards the far bank reappeared and the Hudson again was itself. Tarrytown, a whoosh of parking lots and ballfields, came and went. The valley slipped back into timelessness. As the morning lightened, the shadows of the purple and bronze trees became more distinct on the water. The brown river, now very still, was glossed in places, as if immense silver tyres had skidded there. Soon we were inland, amid trees. I stared queasily into their depths. Perhaps because I grew up in the Low Countries, where trees grow either out of sidewalks or in tame copses, I only have to look at New York forests to begin to feel lost in them. I drove upstate numerous times with Rachel, and I strongly associate those trips with the fauna