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Authors: Frederic C. Rich
Tags: General Fiction
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RCD&S and become a partner? This is a question only you …”
It was my turn to give him a dirty look.
“OK,” Sanjay continued. “I have enormous respect for the profession. And to have the opportunity to practice at the top of your profession would be a privilege. But yes, I do have a worry. I know you, G. You are a fine person. But you will be at the heart of Wall Street. It is a culture that does not merely accept self-interest but celebrates it. There is a tendency toward grasping and shallowness that is endemic. There is striving always and, I fear, much disappointment. Such a place could change a person.”
“San, I’m sorry. And no disrespect, but that’s yoga talking. The world is not an ashram. The economy and political system—hell, the society—is built on self-interest. Evolutionary biologists teach us that even altruism may be a form of self-interest. You know that. Wall Street is no utopia, but it’s a lot of bright people doing things that are really important. And are there sharks? Of course. But give me a little credit, San. I think I can swim with the sharks without turning into one of them.”
“Yes,” he said, “you have put your finger on the issue.”
And so went many of my conversations with Sanjay during this period. He slowly and methodically connected the dots and assembled a coherent picture of the Christian Nation to which the fundamentalists aspired. I increasingly immersed myself in my practice and slowly developed the determination to make the sacrifices required to become a partner of RCD&S. If I stayed at the firm, it would be a marathon, requiring five more years of long hours, high stress, and low odds of ultimate success.
Emilie had no doubt what I should do, and 2007 was the year I moved into her two- bedroom East Side apartment. I asked her to move into mine, but she declined.
For about six months we did not see much of Sanjay. It was actually Emilie who felt badly about it, and to my surprise one weekend she suggested that we do something with Sanjay. “Friends are precious,” she said, “and it is far too easy to let them drift away.” There were still many moments like these when I was glad I was living with this woman and was completely convinced that she was different from the bankers whom she increasingly resembled, at least superficially. And so Emilie called and invited Sanjay to the opera.
We were all guests of Emilie’s boss at Credit Suisse. He was an enthusiastic member of the Metropolitan Opera Club—a group of opera fans who maintained a dining room within the opera house and a row of boxes for the use of the members. The club maintained a strict dress code, with black tie for men and evening gowns for ladies and, in an anachronism remarkable even for New York, a requirement for white tie and tails on Monday nights. Emilie’s boss, of course, preferred Mondays.
We were seated at a large round table in the center of the gold-leafed dining room when Sanjay arrived. There was a noticeable lull in conversation when Sanjay turned the corner from the coat check and stood in the front of the room. And it was not simply the relatively rarity of a brown face. Even I was stunned. Sanjay in white tie presented a striking image. The black and white played off his brown face and ebony hair. The long line of the tailcoat emphasized his height and lean body. He could have been an Indian prince entering the court in Edwardian England.
Emilie was obviously thrilled, and I wondered momentarily if this was all about the plaudits she would earn from her mentor and his wife for bringing such a striking figure to their party. It was an unkind thought.
The partner’s wife and other women were fascinated, and Sanjay charmed them without effort. The opera that night was Massenet’s Tha ï s and the Credit Suisse partner led a spirited discussion of its plot: the monk who leaves the monastery to save the courtesan and ends up with his love for her eclipsing his love
It was my turn to give him a dirty look.
“OK,” Sanjay continued. “I have enormous respect for the profession. And to have the opportunity to practice at the top of your profession would be a privilege. But yes, I do have a worry. I know you, G. You are a fine person. But you will be at the heart of Wall Street. It is a culture that does not merely accept self-interest but celebrates it. There is a tendency toward grasping and shallowness that is endemic. There is striving always and, I fear, much disappointment. Such a place could change a person.”
“San, I’m sorry. And no disrespect, but that’s yoga talking. The world is not an ashram. The economy and political system—hell, the society—is built on self-interest. Evolutionary biologists teach us that even altruism may be a form of self-interest. You know that. Wall Street is no utopia, but it’s a lot of bright people doing things that are really important. And are there sharks? Of course. But give me a little credit, San. I think I can swim with the sharks without turning into one of them.”
“Yes,” he said, “you have put your finger on the issue.”
And so went many of my conversations with Sanjay during this period. He slowly and methodically connected the dots and assembled a coherent picture of the Christian Nation to which the fundamentalists aspired. I increasingly immersed myself in my practice and slowly developed the determination to make the sacrifices required to become a partner of RCD&S. If I stayed at the firm, it would be a marathon, requiring five more years of long hours, high stress, and low odds of ultimate success.
Emilie had no doubt what I should do, and 2007 was the year I moved into her two- bedroom East Side apartment. I asked her to move into mine, but she declined.
For about six months we did not see much of Sanjay. It was actually Emilie who felt badly about it, and to my surprise one weekend she suggested that we do something with Sanjay. “Friends are precious,” she said, “and it is far too easy to let them drift away.” There were still many moments like these when I was glad I was living with this woman and was completely convinced that she was different from the bankers whom she increasingly resembled, at least superficially. And so Emilie called and invited Sanjay to the opera.
We were all guests of Emilie’s boss at Credit Suisse. He was an enthusiastic member of the Metropolitan Opera Club—a group of opera fans who maintained a dining room within the opera house and a row of boxes for the use of the members. The club maintained a strict dress code, with black tie for men and evening gowns for ladies and, in an anachronism remarkable even for New York, a requirement for white tie and tails on Monday nights. Emilie’s boss, of course, preferred Mondays.
We were seated at a large round table in the center of the gold-leafed dining room when Sanjay arrived. There was a noticeable lull in conversation when Sanjay turned the corner from the coat check and stood in the front of the room. And it was not simply the relatively rarity of a brown face. Even I was stunned. Sanjay in white tie presented a striking image. The black and white played off his brown face and ebony hair. The long line of the tailcoat emphasized his height and lean body. He could have been an Indian prince entering the court in Edwardian England.
Emilie was obviously thrilled, and I wondered momentarily if this was all about the plaudits she would earn from her mentor and his wife for bringing such a striking figure to their party. It was an unkind thought.
The partner’s wife and other women were fascinated, and Sanjay charmed them without effort. The opera that night was Massenet’s Tha ï s and the Credit Suisse partner led a spirited discussion of its plot: the monk who leaves the monastery to save the courtesan and ends up with his love for her eclipsing his love
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